He lays his arms along the bottom of the open window and rests his chin on them. ‘Oh, I’m impressed. I’ve never known anyone with quite such dedication to mixing up left and right, nor have I ever met anyone who seems to think there are three lefts, and it is honestlyinspiringthat someone can make a three-point-turn into a three-hundred-point-turn.’
He’s still grinning as he looks up at me through the hair blowing across his forehead, and it would be strange if I felt an urge to reach out and brush it back, wouldn’t it?
Instead, I reach over and extract a leaf belonging to the hedge he had to dive into to avoid being mown down. Again. I hold it up to show him, just so he doesn’t get any ideas about me being a weird stranger who thinks it’s okay to touch other strangers’ hair.
His warm fingers brush against my clammy ones as he takes it and I feel that little spark inside me. There’s something about this man that’s doing things to me.
‘Thankfully the village is within walking distance.’ He pushes himself up and throws the leaf upwards and watches it twirl to the ground. ‘And if you need anything else, we’re taking my car.’
A very good plan all round, I think.
8
After another night’s surprisingly good sleep, Reece’s positivity has got into me too, and I’m determined to redeem myself for my parking ineptitude yesterday. Iama competent adult, and if I’m going to be staying here, I need supplies and many of them. Even though I want to keep a low profile, I can risk venturing into the village for some shopping, and something for Reece to apologise for almost killing him two days in a row.
The van’s solar panel has done its job, and I wake up to gloriously hot water, a proper shower thatdoesn’tcut out halfway through, a steaming hot mug of tea, and the remaining biscuits that Reece brought when he came down to have his leg checked last night, and now I feel almost civilised again, and like I can take on the world.
As long as the world doesn’t involve driving anywhere in this monstrosity, that is.
The walk into the village takes about ten minutes down winding lanes and under leafy trees at the height of their summer greenery, which gives me time to practise what I’m going to say if anyone asks awkward questions about why I’m here. ‘Just passing through’ sounds reasonable. ‘A quick self-sufficient holiday!’ with a cheery, non-suspicious smile should work. From what I remember of childhood holidays, this is the sort of place where outsiders willnotgo unnoticed, and the last thing I want to do is attract attention.
Thimblenouth is exactly the sort of village you’d see on a biscuit tin – the kind you’d think was a painting rather than a real place. Stone cottages with arches of roses outside the doors, neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly maintained gardens, an old church that’s probably been here since there was a BC in the date and is undoubtedly still in use every Sunday.
There are no big chain shops. Each one is independently run and blends seamlessly into the village look, housed in the same stone cottages as the residential dwellings, and every shop looks like you’re about to walk into someone’s house, and I have to double-check the signage to make sure I’m not about to invite myself into someone’s kitchen and disrupt their breakfast.
The village shop is a quintessential old-fashioned place that sells everything from newspapers to wellington boots and has at least three different types of local honey on the shelves. A bell jangles as I push open the door, and the woman behind the counter looks up from arranging a display of homemade jams.
‘Ey up, dear,’ she says with a smile. ‘You must be the lass with the campervan at the Kingfisher Arms.’
I freeze halfway through reaching for a shopping basket. ‘I am?’
It comes out sounding like I don’t even know myself.AmI the lass with the campervan at the Kingfisher Arms? Even though I was expecting a bit of local curiosity, I wasn’t expecting itthissoon, and everything I’ve practised on the way immediately vacates my head, leaving me with no idea what to say.
The woman is probably in her late sixties and is wearing a floral apron and has her hair set in pretty waves. She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Bright green thing, isn’t it? Difficult to miss.’
‘Oh. Yes. That’s… me,’ I stutter. So much for keeping a low profile. ‘Dolly.’
Did I even mean to introduce myself? I briefly wonder if I should use a fake name, but I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding anything here, or anything more than I’m already hiding anyway.
‘I’m Lettie. Been running this shop for donkey’s years, or donkey’s decades, some might say.’ She beams at me. ‘And you, my dear, are the most interesting thing to happen in Thimblenouth since the vicar accidentally set fire to his cassock on one particularly exciting Sunday morning in January.’
‘That’s… lovely,’ I manage, wondering if it’s too late to back slowly towards the door. I’ve only been here for two days. How do they know me already? Is it possible that theyhaveseen the campervan on the news? Has Jared somehow tracked me down and handed out ‘have you seen this woman?’ flyers? Am I about to see a big wanted poster with my face on it plastered across the village notice board?
‘Oh, but we’re all dying to know how you managed it!’ Lettie continues, oblivious to my mounting panic.
‘Managedit?’ I echo, my mind racing through all possible meanings of ‘it’ in this context.
‘Getting permission to park there. Very mysterious, our new property owner. Very mysterious indeed.’
My stomach turns itself in an uncomfortable knot. ‘New property owner?’
‘Oh yes! Bought the whole place over two years ago. Paid the asking price without any haggling too, from what I heard at the post office.’ Lettie’s eyes light up with the gleam of someone about to share really good gossip. ‘And only started work on it this year. But here’s the thing – none of us have met him! Not a soul! Can you believe it?’
‘That’s… unusual?’ The temptation to run away makes even the out-of-date Pot Noodles seem tempting. I’m trying to think of a non-suspicious way to put my shopping basket back and leave immediately. The last thing I need is to be involved in any village gossip because, sooner or later, I am bound to be the subject of it, and not in a good way.
‘Unusual? It’s downright suspicious! What sort of person buys somewhere so special in the heart of a village like this, leaves it to fall into rack and ruin, and then sends some mysterious builder to do the dirty work and doesn’t even have the courtesy to introduce himself?’ Lettie starts coming around the counter, looking like she’s plotting something. ‘But you must have met him! He must have given you personal permission to stay there!’
‘Well, not as suc?—’
