‘No, you had me pegged as a sexually frustrated, spoiled baby, half-arsing a teaching job until I find a rich man to marry,’ I reminded him. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteen fifties, you chauvinistic arsehole.’
He dug his hands deep into his pockets and sucked in his cheeks as they shifted to a shade Farrow & Ball might have called ‘Mildly Ashamed Pink’.
Before either of us could go in for another jab, the conservatory doors opened and Gregory Brent strolled out of the house with my father close behind, carrying both weekend bags Joe had brought in with him.
‘Here, Mr Taylor, give me those.’
Joe rushed back up the garden to grab them, his father standing, hands on hips and a pout on his face as he surveyed the garden.
‘Call me Hugh,’ Dad said with a happy grin. ‘Very good to see you, Joseph, it’s been an age.’
‘And you call me Joe,’ he replied, smiling back. ‘Feels like yesterday to me. Running around your back garden, chasing Sophie through the sprinklers. And who could forget your famous chicken?’
‘Ahh, get on with you,’ Dad gushed. ‘Imagine remembering that.’
You could practically see the heart eyes emojis floating above his head. Complimenting my father on his barbecue skills was the quickest way to win his love. Or any man’s love, really.
‘We’re thrilled to have you.’ He patted Joe on the back like he’d just returned from the Hundred Years’ War before linking arms with me and dragging me down the garden with them. ‘The more the merrier, even if we are fully booked up. I hope you don’t mind a sofa bed.’
‘I’m sure I’ve slept on worse,’ Joe assured him as the four of us made our way down the garden.
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ I said as I realised where we were headed. The dreaded cottage. ‘The only place I’ve ever seen that’s more disgusting was my third-year uni house.’
‘She lived with three lads,’ Dad said with grim recollection. ‘Very nice, very clever, completely oblivious to the concept of bleach. I still have nightmares about that bathroom.’
I smiled in spite of myself and shook my head, same memory, different lens.
‘Strongest immune system I ever had,’ I told him, shooting a threatening look in Joe’s direction. ‘And living with the boys taught me how to take care of myself.’
No need to mention all three of them were absolute wimps and I even had to set up the internet myself.
Dad flapped his hand in my direction then pulled out a set of shiny silver keys. ‘Don’t let Sophie scare you, her bark is worse than her bite.’
‘Happy to put that to the test,’ Joe replied quietly.
‘And the cottage has had a bit of a makeover sinceshe was last here,’ Dad continued blithely as I fought the urge to beat Joe to death with my fluffy bunny slippers. ‘I’ve been working on it all year.’
‘Dad, I love you but it needed a fairy godmother, not a makeover,’ I said.
‘Just wait and see,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘You might be surprised.’
Surprised was not the word.
Shocked, maybe. Stunned. Convinced I’d passed into a parallel dimension where up was down and the sky was green. The dark, dirty, cobweb-filled shed I’d avoided like my life depended on it had been transformed. From the outside, I could just about tell it was the same cottage but the centuries-old limestone walls had to be the only thing that remained. Yellow roses grew around the brown stable door and on either side there were two new windows, square panes with white trim sparkling in the sun.
‘You did all this?’ I asked my father in amazement.
‘It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it,’ he replied, watching on as we each wiped our feet on the mat. ‘Your mum thinks I might have missed my calling.’
‘Mum might be on to something,’ I breathed. ‘Bloody hell, Dad.’
All the gardening equipment, broken bikes, stringless tennis racquets, deflated footballs and rusty pogo sticks had disappeared and in their place was the most charming country cottage I’d ever seen. A snug, cosy place with low ceilings and polished floors, the inside every bit as inviting as the flower boxes that hung outside the windows. Everything was perfect, from the kitchenette and squishy, cream-coloured sofa to the thick rugson the floor and tiny, tiled fireplace already full of chopped wood. But most impressive of all was the bed. Brass frame, fluffy duvet and gigantic marshmallows for pillows, it looked like heaven. A heavy, knitted blanket rested over the frame, begging to be wrapped around my shoulders on a chilly winter night and it took everything in me not to run across the room and divebomb under the covers. I was already in my pyjamas, after all.
‘Charlotte says it’sfolklore-coded which was apparently a compliment,’ Dad said. ‘What do you think, Soph?’
‘I think you did a deal with the devil,’ I replied, flexing my toes inside my slippers. ‘There’s no way this is the same cottage.’
‘It’s very nice,’ Joe commented even though no one asked him. ‘Have you ever thought about going into renovation professionally, Mr Taylor?’
