I can’t believe we’re still going. ‘The thin fabrics dry in no time. So long as I don’t iron it’s manageable.’ I’m trying to wind this up now. ‘So are we done here?’
‘There is one more thing…’ He hesitates. ‘If you need an eye for detail, I can have this checked through for you?’
I draw in a breath. ‘A lot of people claim they’re fabulous proofreaders when they’re not.’
‘But I have to do it all the time, for board meetings and company stuff.’ He’s standing his ground. ‘Try me. It won’t take long. You don’thaveto include the corrections if you don’t want to.’
It goes with the territory. An arrogant guy, confident in his own abilities, happy to blow his own trumpet. But he has picked up what I hadn’t even thought about; a second pair of eyes are good for spotting blunders, and I haven’t got anyone else lined up to help.
I try to sound as gracious as I can, while protecting myself at the same time. ‘Thank you. But only on the condition that you keep your judgemental comments on content entirely to yourself.’
‘It’s a deal. You never did leave me your details on a Post-it note, so I didn’t leave you mine.’
I’m shaking my head. ‘I’m still looking for the fruit bowl.’
‘Miles dot Appleton at Gmail dot com.’
‘Thanks Miles dot Appleton, check your inbox in ten.’
When I look up again, he’s gone. So much for him hanging around.
8
In Pumpkin’s field, Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Flying without a licence
Thursday
‘What the hell are you doing with that bucket?’
It’s two days later, and since Tuesday, when Miles did an unexpectedly good job of looking through the piece I finally called ‘The secret lives of fairies– how to make yours the garden they choose’, I’ve been silently congratulating myself on avoiding him.
I spent yesterday and this morning wandering round the cobbled streets of St Aidan where the shopfronts are a patchwork of colour, each with a whole new personality opening onto the pavement. I came across everything from rails of surfer T-shirts flapping in the wind gusts, to curated homewares with beautifully styled candlesticks, and plump gingham cushions piled artfully on hand-hewn tables.
By this afternoon my phone was filled with pictures, and my longhand notebook was bursting, so I came back to the sun lounger to look at what I’d gathered. But due to a seating issue I had to suspend my plans, which was why I decided that as Pumpkin’s field needed a tidy, now was as good a time as any to sort it.
I drop the latest scoopful of dung balls into my bucket and straighten up to look at Miles, who’s on the other side of the fence, blinking in the afternoon sunlight.
I bite back my smile. ‘No need to panic, I’m collecting Pumpkin’s poop.’
His face screws up in a look of total disgust. ‘You’re telling me that picking up pony shit is an actual thing?’
I need to explain this one syllable at a time. ‘Horses eat grass so it’s notthatoffensive, it’s only like mucking out a stable. If I put all Pumpkin’s dung in one corner it keeps the field clean, which is good for the pony’s health and good for the ground too.’
He couldn’t look any more appalled. ‘Well, thanks for sharing that.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He isn’t. I don’t know what he’s doing here at all when he should be at work, but his face is such a picture I’m going to milk this to the max. ‘Horse droppings make great fertiliser, but only when they’re well-rotted.’
He’s giving his usual know-it-all smirk. ‘You have no idea how much better my day is for knowing that.’
I can’t believe he’s sarcastic even over this. ‘What kind of job allows you to head home at two in the afternoon, anyway?’
He’s straight back at me. ‘The kind where I’m the boss.’
‘Of course.’ I walked into that one.
My seating problem earlier? When I came back from St Aidan, desperate to flop down and put my feet up, Scarlett’s lounger was already taken. Which is why I ended up out in the field with sweat running down my spine in a river, rather than doing the job later when the sun was down.
