Kit shook his head at her silence and snickered. ‘Hewassweet, then.’
Flushed and annoyed, Amy stared resolutely out of the window. ‘Sweet’ definitely wasn’t the word she’d have used, if she’d been prepared to use one.
‘All right, Perry, keep your own counsel,’ Kit said, smiling in satisfaction. ‘But let the record show that whatever you’re hiding may pertain to your secret soft centre, as discussed last weekend. You don’t fool me: you’re the human equivalent of a dark chocolate caramel. Hard, shiny and a little bitter on the outside, but sweet and squishy– maybe even a littlesalty!– beneath the surface.’
Amy sighed heavily.
They travelled for a further few minutes without talking. When they turned onto Rowton-in-Arden’s small high street, though, Kit began exclaiming again.
‘This place is STUNNING,’ he enthused. ‘First the Regency manor, and now this! It’s just like where Kate Winslet lives inThe Holiday. I can’t believe you never told me it was so pretty here.’
Amy shrugged. ‘It never came up.’
Kit scowled at her, then waved his hand at the little parade of old-fashioned shopfronts they were crawling past– most of which boasted carefully tended window boxes or hanging baskets overflowing with bright spring flowers. ‘I mean, justlookat it. It’s a delight.’
Amy observed that the village cafe had changed hands since the last time she was here; it looked cute but modern, and the delicious smell of fresh coffee was drifting through her now open window. As an avid caffeine lover, she decided this was promising.
One or two of the shops had had facelifts, too, and several were even open. Back when Amy lived here, the whole village shut down each Saturday evening– and after that only the pub and the church welcomed visitors on Sundays, which had made for a serious lack of excuses to avoid homework.
Rowton’s architecture was a ragtag mix of wattle and daub constructions with exposed wooden beams and Georgian red-brick properties. The older places had windows sunk inches-deep into thick walls sporting hundreds of years’ worth of render. Their front doors were from another era– a time when people were shorter and didn’t have to worry about getting troublesome things like three-seater sofas into their homes.
The Regency buildings dotted here and there stood taller, their elegant sash windows often bordered by traditional shutters that were visible from the roadside through their mottled panes. Vases of flowers, pot plants and the occasional cat stared out from many of them, hinting at the small worlds of contentment that existed behind the glass.
Kit drove past the clock tower at the centre of the village and stared, as if in wonder. The road widened to accommodate the tower for a few metres, with the left- and right-hand carriageways splitting around it. Wood-framed noticeboards were attached to either side of the brick structure and– as Amy recalled they’d always been– were peppered with posters, advertisements and local announcements. There was a worn stone trough at its base– presumably from a time when travellers who passed through Rowton would have had horses to water.
There was a strangled sound of excitement in Kit’s throat as he glanced left and saw the bridge that connected Amy’s side of the village to the older part they were driving through. ‘Oh my God, is that a bridge? Is that a fuckingstream?Amy, this is so picturesque I might cry.’
‘Stop being such a drama queen,’ Amy said. ‘You sound like a presenter from one of those daytime property programmes. An unusually sweary one.’
Kit ignored her. ‘This is proper chocolate-box territory,’ he ploughed on. ‘Perfect for a lovers’ weekend getaway.’
‘Take the next left and we’ll come to the road bridge,’ Amy said, exasperated. Kit nodded and flicked on the car’s indicator.
A few minutes later, they pulled up at the kerb outside Amy’s gran’s cottage. They tumbled out of the car, stretching their legs before pulling the first of many bags from the back seat onto the pavement. Kit was enchanted by the simple loveliness of the place. The front garden was neat and tidy, its lawn freshly trimmed and bordered by beds packed with softly scented bluebells.
Amy and Kit struggled up the narrow path, dragging a holdall and several sacks full of Amy’s possessions with them. Before either could ring the doorbell, a thunderous barking commenced.
‘What. The fuck. Isthat?’ Kit hissed, a line appearing between his perfectly groomed brows. ‘Has your gran got a Dobermann in there? Why the hell would you not mention the presence of aterrifying guard dogin your childhood home?’
Amy found herself laughing– properly convulsing– for the first time in days. First, she’d had no idea that Kit was scared of dogs, and his fear seemed very off-brand for a man who, in almost every situation, oozed the sort of self-confidence you’d associate with James Bond. Secondly, her grandmother absolutely didnothave a Dobermann … Far from it.
‘That’ll be Bertie,’ Amy said, wiping tears of mirth from her cheeks. ‘Gran’s very annoying, very loud, veryminiaturesausage dog.’
‘What?’ Kit burst out, just as Amy’s gran opened the front door and a small creature on extremely short legs shot through it, barrelling down the garden path and back up again at lightning speed.
The dog circled Amy and Kit, barking and jumping and wagging his tail madly. Kit froze when Bertie leapt up to place two glossy black paws on his knees, his tan-splotched nose sniffing the newcomer with enthusiasm. A moment later, it was Amy’s turn.
‘You already know me, Bertie,’ she said irritably, but the dog clearly saw her as an interloper. Amy couldn’t help feeling this reflected poorly on how regularly she visited the only living relative she knew.
‘Can we come in now, Bertie?’ Amy complained.
‘Of course you can,’ Amy’s grandmother said, smiling broadly. ‘Bertie! Come!’
The dog tipped his head to one side, as if considering whether obedience was likely to offer him any advantage. The brown patches above his deep, dark eyes looked almost like eyebrows, arched inquisitively. Again– and to her own surprise– Amy found herself laughing.
Only when Gran rustled the packet of treats in her hand did Bertie scamper back towards her, making room for Amy and Kit to follow.
As she watched the slow, ungainly shuffle of her grandmother’s feet, Amy felt her blood turn icy. While Gran looked as elegant and beautiful as ever– her white hair short and neat like Judi Dench’s, and her blue eyes quick and alert– she also looked stiff. She seemed suddenly older and less stable than she was supposed to be, and the shock of this made tears spring to Amy’s eyes.
