Five minutes later, I get a chance to test my theory. We’ve just burst through the terrace doors into the conservatory, the rain outside really coming down now.
“You truly have managed a small miracle,” Llewellyn says, peering through the glass at the now-cleared garden.
“Couldn’t have done it without Osian.” I smirk up at him.
“Shut up!” It’s not Osian who says this, but a new and slightly squawky voice.
Leonie and Llewellyn laugh.
“Who’s this?” Osian asks, leaning over a large cage.
“Johnny Cash,” Leonie answers. “He’s a Quaker parrot. Rescued from some private club in South London. My friend Sandra gave him to me because she thinks being in a beautiful place like here would help him.”
I walk over to look into the cage. The parrot is a beautiful lime green, but his wings are tipped with blue feathers. “Why’s he called Johnny Cash?”
“None of your business,” the bird shouts.
Everyone falls about laughing.
“That’s what they called him at the bird charity where he was initially taken. He keeps saying the wordcash, so they called him—”
“Cash only,” the bird interrupts, sounding exactly like a threatening gangster.
“And they hoped he’d transition to song lyrics?” Llewellyn is still laughing.
“Hours of fun,” Osian says, stepping away from the cage. “But I need a shower.”
“Me too.” I grimace at my own muddy clothes.
“And we need to talk,” Osian reminds me.
“Buy her a drink. Buy her a drink,” the bird squawks.
Even Osian laughs this time. “I can take a hint.” He looks at me. “How about the Caradoc Arms?”
The smile on my face has nothing to do with Johnny Cash.
“Half an hour!” I promise, heading towards the stairs. “Meet you by the front door.”
Chapter Twenty-one
What am I doing? Shampooing my hair and applying a generous amount of my nicest fragrant conditioner so my hair will smell nice. As if preparing for a date. As if setting myself up for a fall.
Because this isn’t a date.
The look on Osian’s face when he suggested this talk was all business.
Just business. Otherwise, he’d have suggested something slightly swankier than the village pub.
No need to dress up. In fact, better dress down so there’s no false expectation in my mind. Clean jeans, trainers and a hoodie should be adequate.
The Caradoc Arms sounded like a little workman’s pub with a dartboard and pool table. But it turns out to be a large and rather pretty pink-washed inn. Flower baskets hang by the entrance, and the mullioned windows have bullseye glass. We go through to the back room which has tables laid for dinner.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for posh nosh.” I glance down at my jeans.
“You look fine,” he says, with an irritating lack of concern.
“Why do men always say that?”
