Rita laughed. ‘OK, next question. Why would you want to work for the Seahaven Bay Retreat?’
Zenya’s smile widened. ‘Because I think it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.’
Rita nodded slowly. ‘Big statement, that. Care to elaborate?’
Zenya took a sip of her tea and let out a little groan of pleasure. ‘Because it wouldn’t feel like working. This place has got heart.’ She paused. ‘I can already tell that you’ve got heart. And I suppose…’ She let out a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘I could do with a bit of that myself.’
Rita felt emotion welling. ‘You realise it may not always be zen and candlelit, right? I’m new to this, but I can imagine it may also be cleaning out compost loos and guests complaining.’
‘That’s fine.’ Zenya smiled. ‘People are messy. Life’s messy. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth pouring yourself into. And I’m more than happy to muck in from the start and help you get up and running.’
Outside, a gull screeched. Rita took another sip of coffee to disguise the sting behind her eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ she murmured. ‘You’re good.’
Zenya laughed. ‘Is that a job offer, then?’
Rita lifted her mug in cheers fashion. ‘Zenya,justZenya. Welcome to the team.’
NINE
A few days later, Rita pushed open the farmhouse annexe door with her hip, arms full of folded laundry, and was immediately hit by the familiar, heady mix of Chanel No. 5, cigarette smoke, and Fisherman’s Friend lozenges.
‘Oh, there you are,’ croaked a voice from the depths of a maroon velvet recliner. ‘Close the door, will you, dear. You’re letting in all that optimism.’
Hilda Jory was neatly tucked beneath a crocheted rug, legs crossed at the ankle in satin slippers, a cigarette burning with casual menace in one hand and a champagne glass full of neat gin in the other. Her silver bob was, as usual, perfectly in place as she read the obituary section of the local newspaper.
‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get this back to you. You all right?’ Rita said as brightly as she could muster, dropping a mix of clothes and bedding on a side table.
‘Still breathing, so yes, I guess so.’ The old woman let out a rattling cough.
‘Eleven a.m. and on the sauce already; that’s even early for you, isn’t it?’ Rita started to clear glasses from the high table next to her mother-in-law’s reclinable armchair.
‘Darling girl. At eighty-six years young, I’ve earned the right tocare not what anybody thinks about what I do and when I do it. Or for any of your madcap schemes, for that matter.’
‘What do you mean? Madcap scheme.’ Rita looked at her mother-in-law in shock – was she a mind-reader?
‘I haven’t seen that glint in your eye or that brightness in your voice since I told you I was moving out of the farmhouse and into here.’ Granny Jory blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling and gestured towards a stack of packages on the sofa. ‘The Amazon man went to the wrong door. Three meditation cushions, some sort of gong, and an incense burner? Why don’t you see if you can get hold of Charles Manson? Or how about you pop out and daub the chickens with chakra symbols whilst you’re at it?’
‘Hilda, I’m not starting a cult! I’m thinking more of a retreat. And how come you know so much about that kind of stuff?’
Rita moved the packages near the door so that she didn’t forget them.
Hilda coughed again. ‘I’ve always had a secret fascination for old Charlie boy, dead now but aside from him being terrifying, there was something oddly charismatic about the man. Bit like a few of my exes back in the day.’
Rita shook her head in disbelief, walked over to the open-plan kitchen, ran water into the sink and popped the glasses in to soak.
Hilda waved her iPad in the air. ‘And this, dear daughter-in-law, is my modern-day encyclopaedia. I hope Mr Jobby was proud of his invention.’
‘It’s Jobs.’ Rita smiled.
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t Jory, was it?’ Hilda flicked her cigarette into a clam-shaped ashtray. ‘Messes with the kids’ heads – all this on tap, incessant knowledge. Me and my Ralphy, all we needed to know was what the weather was doing. And when to bring the cows down from the top field. Much simpler then.’
Hilda butted her cigarette and took a swig of her drink. ‘Let me explain something, Rita.’Here we go, Rita thought, ready for one of Hilda’s rambling stories. She was sure that her cantankerous mother-in-law had always thought her lazy and assumed that shehad all the time in the world to not only listen but be at her disposal. Whereas in reality, Rita had been the silent backbone of the farm. Fed the animals. Brought up two kids. Everything had been in such good order. Or so she had thought.
‘Before I met your Archie’s father and gave up my socialite lifestyle for a life of grain and bear it, I was a show girl in Monte Carlo and danced topless in a fountain with a Hungarian ambassador, I’ll have you know. I’ve had my heart broken, my stomach pumped, and my jewellery stolen, but do you know what healed me?’
Rita shook her head in dreaded anticipation.
‘Gin.’ The old girl took a huge sip of hers. ‘And distance.’
