Fran decided to use the gateway to turn in and pulled into the side of the road to see if there was any coverage. She’d just opened the window so she’d hear any traffic before getting her phone out when a car sped up the road towards her. It shot past, far too fast in Fran’s opinion and obviously went through a puddle because water jetted in through her window, soaking her and the car.
Fran shook herself like a dog and growled like one too. She then swore loudly and impotently at the driver who was probably miles away by now. She hadn’t seen the car in detail but knew that it was large and flashy. She was certain he – she’d glimpsed that the driver was male – belonged in the property with the Cotswold stone walls and equally certain she hated him. And by the time she’d got home and her dripping self inside, she was almost as certain that this was her neighbour whom Amy hated so much and had warned her against.
Righteous indignation warmed her as much as her cursory bath did. (Installing a shower was a priority, she decided, just as soon as she knew if she could afford it.)
She made herself hot chocolate and lit the fire, all the while planning a hideous end for the driver of the car who wanted to turn Hill Top into a motorbike scrambling centre or whatever. Somehowshewould make a fortune and buy his farm and turn it into grazing for rare cattle. That would serve him right!
She had just made herself a plate of pasta with chilli oil and garlic and was about to sit in front of the fire with it when she heard a knock on the door. More significantly, it was the front door. She may be pretty much 100 per cent townie but by now she had confirmed no one used the front door in the country.
She put her plate of pasta down and got up from the sofa. Should she open the door? Who would be calling at this time of night?
Rather wishing she had a dog to protect her, she opened the door. There was a tall man wearing a rain-spattered Barbour jacket and wellington boots. But although they were both items that Tig wore they were totally unlike Tig’s, in the same way that this man and Tig were both male, but totally unlike each other.
Instinct told Fran who he was. It didn’t make her like him though. And no one really wanted to meet a kind-of attractive man while wearing PJs and fluffy slippers, even if she was perfectly decent.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Ah – I’ve come to apologise. For drenching you. My name is Antony Arlingham.’
ChapterThree
A million thoughts went through Fran’s head as she stood, holding the door, looking at the man on her doorstep. The most important one being, was she safe? Having worked in London, in pubs, and in private homes as a chef, and on food-market stalls she felt she had a lot of experience of people. This, and, again, her instinct, told her she was. But it didn’t stop her being indignant.
‘How on earth did you know where I lived?’
‘Partly guesswork, I admit. But a strange car, turning in my driveway is unlikely to be local. Everyone knows that Mrs Flowers had a young relation moving into her house.’ He paused and Fran noticed that the rain was much harder now. ‘And I knew it was you when you opened the door because you’re wearing pyjamas quite early in the day so it means you must have had a shower for some reason. I hope it was hot this time,’ he added ruefully.
‘Itwas a bath. My – er – cousin hasn’t got a shower.’
‘Oh.’ He hesitated. Fran got the impression he was used to saying what he meant and being listened to and that the current situation put him out of his comfort zone. Which made two of them.
‘Your track is in a bad way,’ he said.
Fran sighed. She could hardly have overlooked it. ‘I know.’
‘Look – could I come in so we can have a proper talk? I’ve got things I could tell you that might be really useful.’ Another pause. ‘I brought a bottle of wine.’
‘I was just about to eat—’
‘I could watch you and you could have wine with it.’
Reluctantly, Fran opened the door wider. ‘OK.’ As he passed her she said, ‘Go on through. I’m sure you know your way. I’ll find some glasses.’
Fran decided not to waste time hunting in cupboards and but to settle for the tumblers she and Issi had used. While she was looking for a corkscrew and failing to find one she spotted the pasta pan. She had a chef’s tendency to over cater – there was easily another portion in it. She couldn’t possibly eat with him watching her without offering him a chance to eat too.
She went into the sitting room. ‘I hope the wine is in a screw-top bottle. I can’t find a corkscrew. And have you eaten yet?’
‘Imade up the fire. I hope you don’t mind. And I’ve got a corkscrew on my knife.’
‘And would you like some pasta? I can make mine do for two easily.’
‘Well, I haven’t eaten actually. And it smells delicious, so it would be a shame to turn down your kind offer.’
Fran wished she hadn’t been quite so kind now but, like a smile given to someone you thought was someone else, it couldn’t be taken back. ‘You deal with the wine then. I’ll be back shortly.’
She retrieved her full plate and went back into the kitchen cursing herself for not just taking the wine and sending him away. But she was proud of her cooking skills and she wanted him to stop thinking of her as the girl who was living in Mrs Flowers’ house, the girl whom he’d drenched by driving past her too fast, the girl who would probably roll over and do exactly what he said when it came to the farm. No, she wanted him to realise she was a force to be reckoned with. Having tipped her uneaten meal back in the pan, she added another drop or two of chilli oil. ‘Take that if you think you’re hard enough,’ she muttered.
Fifteen minutes later she and Antony Arlingham were sitting at the little round table in Amy’s sitting room, hastily cleared of framed photographs, mostly of ancient cattle, eating pasta with chilli oil. Fran was pleased with the result. It had been worthbringinga few special ingredients with her. There was a lot about the farmhouse that was less than perfect, but being able to produce a good meal made it all a lot better.
