One
SATURDAY AFTERNOON 10TH AUGUST
Claude Monet 1840–1926
Painter celebrating the beauty of nature. Loved to paint outdoors. Known for his paintings of flowers and gardens – and so much more. Teaching point: look beyond the cliché.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Callie lugged her suitcase up the steep path to the cottage and paused for a moment, looking up. Easing her motorway stiffened shoulders, she took in the view.
The house was postcard pretty. Against a brilliantly blue Dorset sky, it was painted the palest pink with a roof of deep grey slate.
Gorgeous. Her painter’s fingers twitched.
She followed the path a little further. Uphill, uneven and pebbly, it made pulling her case extra tricky. Relief that it was all as advertised, and she’d actually got here tempered the headache which a peak holiday season Saturday on the M5 had caused. The journey had taken three times as long as it should, and having to squeeze her car next to a battered Fiathadn’t improved her mood. The cottage’s tiny parking space was located at the bottom of this track and off the steep Harbour Hill.
‘Stop stressing. You’re here, you’re on holiday and the sun is shining,’ she muttered, wiping her sweaty brow with her T-shirt sleeve. ‘A hot bath and a glass of white and you’ll be fine. Who cares if Frida bailed at the last minute and swanned off to Ibiza instead. Look at what she’s missing!’
Pausing at the cottage’s white gate, she breathed in a sigh of pure happiness at the sight of the garden brimming with purple phlox and snowy Japanese anemones in between soaring palms.
Frida’s choice of holiday still rankled. The last thing Callie had wanted was a solo trip. She’d been looking forward to reconnecting with her daughter; she’d been weirdly distant recently. ‘Oh well, who needs fishbowl cocktails and foam parties?’ she muttered to the gate as she pushed it open.
The cottage’s garden and location were what had drawn her to it. Available in August too. A miracle. Teachers didn’t have much choice about when they took their holidays so she’d snapped it up. After the year she’d had, she was desperate for a break. Frida professed the same – until a mate had offered a spare room in a villa in Playa d’en Bossa.
Close up the house was even prettier, if that were possible. Stopping at the glossy front door she dug out the raft of paper with the instructions. Tongue out with concentration, she scanned down, found what she was looking for and entered the number into the key safe. She feared the worst. Technology had a habit of failing her; it was a long-running gag at school. Holding her breath, she pressed the button to release the key. As she did so, the front door swung open.
‘Hello, can I help?’ A man stood framed by the white roses which grew round the front door; they gave off a heady sweet scent.
Shocked, Callie stifled a giggle. He was a tall, dark and good-looking cliché, and about her age. She liked the touch of silver at his temples. Very distinguished. This must be the owner, although it was strange; she’d only dealt with a Miss Grosvenor when booking. ‘Hello, I was just opening the key safe to get the key.’
‘No need. I have it here.’ He held it up, dangling from a seashell key ring.
‘Great,’ Callie said with relief and held out her hand to take it. After the journey she’d had she was keen to unpack. The bottle of white wine in the food box still in her car was calling a siren song, although a mug of tea might hit the spot first.
‘Are you the housekeeper?’ he asked. ‘There was no need to come over. The place is immaculate, and I’ve found everything. Thank you for coming though.’
‘Housekeeper? No. I’ve rented the place. For three weeks.’ Callie felt the first stirrings of unease.
‘You’ve rented the cottage?’ A frown flickered across his brow. ‘There must be some mistake. I’ve booked it. I’ve just arrived. You must have the wrong house.’
Callie stiffened. ‘I can assure you I have not.’ Fishing in her handbag she drew out the sheaf of papers again. Waving them at him, she explained. ‘I booked Sea Haven House with a Miss Grosvenor beginning Saturday the tenth.’ She felt her face grow warm. ‘This is Sea Haven House. It said so on the gate, and it’s most definitely the tenth.’
The man disappeared into the house and returned with a wodge of paper. Callie’s heart sank as she recognised the distinctive heading. Hysteria bubbled up. She might have known something would go wrong. Had she booked the wrong date? Shoving her sunglasses onto the top of her head she squinted at Miss Grosvenor’s small forest of paperwork. Definitely booked for the tenth. Anxiety hollowed her stomach.
He flourished his papers at her. ‘You see, booked to J. Starling – that’s me – in the week beginning–’
‘The tenth,’ finished Callie. Her shoulders slumped. ‘This is all I need,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve been driving all day. The traffic on the M5 was terrible.’
‘I know, I came that route too.’ He paused, studying her. ‘Look, come in and we can talk about this.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ He didn’t look like an axe murderer but Callie had absolutely no intention of going into a strange house with an unknown man. She’d watched her fair share of Netflix real life crime. From Ibiza she could hear Frida laughing and saying,Get yourself in there, Mum. He’s gorg!
He held out a hand. ‘Where are my manners. Let me introduce myself. Jonathan Starling. I live in Stratford, as in Shakespeare. I drive the dilapidated Fiat you probably parked next to. I’m forty-five, currently unattached, have family staying just up the road who will vouch for me being a decent type and am as keen as you to get this mess sorted out.’
Go on,urged Frida’s voice in her head; she seemed to have a remarkable grasp on the situation from her sunbed over a thousand miles away.What have you got to lose? Live a little.
Callie glimpsed the temptingly cool interior of the cottage. With her throat begging for a cup of tea and her bladder pleading for relief, she gave in. Wiping a sweaty hand on her shorts, she shook the one Jonathan held out. ‘Calliope.’ She grimaced, embarrassed as usual about her name. ‘Bit of a mouthful. Callie for short.’
