Grace shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks, love.’
‘We’ll see you in a bit, then,’ Amy said. Then she made her way to the front door with Kit right behind her and Bertie scrambling desperately for escape.
‘So. What was that all about?’ Kit asked as soon as he and Amy were away down the street. ‘I hung back on purpose because I thought I heard raised voices …?’
Amy inhaled a deep breath, then let it all out in a rush. A second later, she jerked forward as Bertie tugged on his lead, impatient to be trotting faster.
‘I asked Gran what’s happening with her health,’ Amy said, then recounted what Grace had just told her.
‘Wow,’ Kit muttered. ‘Do you really think she’d have gone ahead with the op and not mentioned it? I mean, not to be morbid or anything, but these procedures come with risks. Why would she go under the knife without telling you when there’d be a chance– however slim– that she might not make it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Amy said, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘Maybe she’d have thought better of keeping it to herself and told me, even if I hadn’t turned up here out of the blue. As for why … Gran and I love each other a lot, we speak every week– but I haven’t exactly spent much time here since leaving for uni. I think she didn’t want me to feel obligated to come back, which is thoughtful but also horribly misguided … And it makes me feel like an absolute shit.’
Kit took the hand that wasn’t holding onto Bertie and squeezed it.
They walked on, crossing the bridge from New Rowton into the older half of the village. Kit oohed and ahhed at the quaintness of everything in a way that didn’t require Amy to respond, and she was grateful. Only as they began strolling up the village high street towards the clock tower did he ask, ‘So what now, then?’
‘Well,’ Amy said, sighing again. ‘I think my plans to rent a cute little pied-à-terre in the Jewellery Quarter need to be iced. I can’t sod off to Birmingham and leave her alone. It seems her friends and neighbours have been helping out with the house and garden– which is the leastIshould be doing. I would have been, if I’d known what was going on.’
‘So you’re going to stay with her?’ Kit asked. ‘Amy Perry, archetypal city girl and committed Londoner, is going to live in a cottage in the country?’ He smiled.
‘I’ve done it before,’ Amy said, smiling back. ‘I can do it again. At least for a while.’ She sounded bracing– so resolute that she almost convinced herself, as well as Kit, that being back in Rowton wouldn’t drive her absolutely nuts.
Kit nodded, and as Amy looked at him, she saw his handsome face suddenly crumple in disgust. At the side of the road, Bertie was hunched over in a posture that could only mean one thing.
‘Poo bags,’ Amy groaned, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the sky as if praying for deliverance. ‘I forgot the bloody poo bags.’
‘Ah,’ Kit said gravely, then laughed. ‘Proof, if any were needed after the events of the past week, that shit really does happen.’
Chapter 7
A fortnight ago, Amy had spent her Sunday afternoon at a gastropub on the South Bank. She, Hugh and several of their mutual friends had gathered for food, drinks and chat, then settled in for the afternoon.
Replete with roast chicken and sipping from a chilled glass of Sauvignon, Amy had perused the Sunday supplements in quiet contentment when everyone was all talked out. She’d read in quiet comfort, her Veja-trainered feet tucked neatly beneath her on an artfully distressed leather couch.
It was safe to say that, two weeks later, life appeared to have changed beyond recognition. Today Amy found herself single, back in the place where she’d spent her most awkward teenage years and fishing dog faeces out of the gap between two cobblestones with a slightly ragged tissue.
Kit was still laughing.
‘This,’ Amy said, brandishing the poo-filled Kleenex in his direction when she straightened up, ‘isnotfunny!’
Kit yelped and jumped away as she advanced on him, and she cackled at the momentary terror on his face. Satisfied, she threw the offending thing into a nearby waste bin.
‘Maybe you don’t think it’s funny yet,’ Kit said, breathless from giggling, ‘but I reckon you will after a drink. Pub?’
‘Yes,please,’ Amy said with feeling. ‘You can get them in while I scrub my hands in the ladies.’
They meandered up the high street towards the Old Oak– Rowton’s only pub and the site of several hapless attempts to buy booze during Amy, Hari and Sam’s college years. Living in a village where everyone knew one another made it pretty tough to get hold of alcohol before you were supposed to; even casual acquaintances knew roughly when each other’s birthdays fell, and every adult had a vague idea of how old the local youngsters were.
Added to this was the pub landlord Jed’s fear of finding himself on the wrong side of Grace, Mrs Chauhan or– God forbid– Roger Ainsworth. The Oak, like many of the buildings on this side of the water, was part of the Viscount’s estate, so allowing his underage son and heir to get publicly hammered wasn’t something the ruddy-faced, lifelong publican– despite his generally convivial nature– could countenance.
Amy remembered the Oak as an old-fashioned boozer: the kind where the same middle-aged men propped up the bar night after night, the dartboard was always in use and the paisley-patterned carpets felt sticky under your shoes. When they reached it, though, it was clear there had been changes since she’d last set foot in the place: the formerly tired-looking exterior had been repainted a clean, soft white, and the old rickety wooden window frames scrubbed, repaired and stained an elegant, olive-y green.
They stepped inside and Amy all but gasped. Gone were the pub’s floral wallpaper and fussy pendant lights, as well as the dark-wood furniture that had seen better days. In their place were smooth walls painted a gentle shade of grey, framed prints and neatly arranged tables and chairs. They looked, fittingly, as if they were made from oak– and probably by hand. It was lighter, brighter andnicerin here than Amy had ever known it. Some sweet, tantalising aroma wafted past her as she made her way towards the toilets. A waitress was hurrying by, carrying a tray with three portions of what looked like sticky toffee pudding.Yum.
Once Amy had washed her hands several times with the lime and mandarin-scented soap in the pub’s renovated bathroom– all white metro tiles, chrome fittings and marble-topped sinks– she found Kit at a small table a few metres from the bar.
‘Nice place,’ Kit said approvingly as he pushed a large glass of wine in Amy’s direction.
