She found another towel and rubbed her hair dry; all it did was turn her head into a messy halo of green, moss, and emerald. The forest green like the cedars they’d cycled through earlier today, like the trees above their heads tonight. Like the Wellies she’d been painting when he found her in the garden last week.
Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the colour anymore. Back in the bathroom, she slid open the frosted glass doors on the corner cupboard. The shelves held six or seven boxes of the specialist hair colours that normally gave such vibrant results. It had her usual favourites: deep sea, magenta, tiger-orange, iris, violet…all the strong statement colours to hide the truth.
People didn’t always understand; they thought she was all about the colour. And to be sure, she loved colour. She loved her own style of clothes, the flowers planted in old rubber boots. But none of it was the essence of her.
Pierre’s free spirit was about how she lived her life. The hair dye was just the icing on the cake. But the icing was not enough. What happened when you didn’t have much of a life, only lashings and a lashing of sugary icing?
She closed the cupboard and went to find her bed. The house was quiet, too quiet to block out her thoughts.
Silence on the other side of the wall didn’t hide the fact that Gabriel slept there. With his chosen lady. That the two of them had a life.
After tossing and turning for an age, she gave up. Took her pillow and duvet over to the other room and plonked them on the sofa. It was one thing to avoid confrontation, be easy-going and get on with everyone, but she would not be easy-going with herself.
Yes, she was young, and she was single and… She swallowed the lump in her throat. Yes, she didn’t have a love in her life. But she had a job. A great job, and great friends. And a project to do for Lord M. So, she would do it properly. No more time-wasting. He was offering her a valuable chance to use his name and position to get her articles published. Others would give their right arm for such an opportunity.
The next day, she woke up late and spent a couple of hours in her room reorganising her little study and making notes. By 10 am, she was sure breakfast was over and there was no risk of running into Gabriel. Then she went down, grabbed her bike, and set off for the library. There she stayed all day, eating at the small café, and going home well after dinner in the big, warm, lively kitchen was finished.
The next day, she did the same.
And the day after.
Not that she couldn’t face Gabriel; she just needed a couple of days to recalibrate her emotions and refocus her thoughts. Hard work always helped and now that she had some background, it was easier to find the right reference books.
She found a table at the back of the reading hall with no windows to distract her. Every time her thoughts tried to stray to…to…she dragged them back to the pages in front of her.
It worked. The brain was like a muscle. It responded to exercise; already she could feel an improved mental discipline. What had Nicole called her? Half there and half in outer space?
Pierre would show them!
Soon.
Because already she’d made several exciting discoveries. What’s more, she’d solved the riddle of Margo’s Arch. Armed with a sense of achievement, and a calmer heart, she hoped breakfast tomorrow would be easy enough to face.
______
“Well, well, well, look at you!” Cook exclaimed when Pierre made it down to breakfast on time the next morning.
“You missed me?” She grinned as she took her usual place at the table.
Her green hair was mostly out of sight in a tidy braid down her back. Her clothes were positively conventional – as conventional as she could ever be – in plain jeans and clean Converse trainers.
“What colour was this when you bought it?” Cook pointed to Pierre’s red jumper.
“It was red.” Pierre popped the heel of her foot up on her seat and hugged her knee to her chest.
“The same red as now?”
“Yes.”
“Miracles will never cease.” Cook placed a plate and cup in front of Pierre. “What do you want for breakfast?”
It was only then Pierre noticed the table hadn’t been set. Where were the usual jam and marmalade jars, the bowls of seeds and dried fruit, the array of nut butters that Liam loved? In fact, where was the smell of grilling bacon and sausages? The clock on the wall said 8.35 am. Normally the kitchen was a hive of noise and laughter by now.
“Where is everybody?”
Cook wiped her hands on her apron. “Mrs B ate early; Liam and Nurse Ann have been busy with Lord M all night and all morning. He’s worse than ever.”
Cook pulled a chair by Pierre and sat down. Things must really be bad; the woman never sat down, normally.
