Page 118 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

She lifted her voice, keeping it light. ‘Hey, Clo, you nearly done in there?’

A muffled response: ‘Won’t be a minute.’

The water cut off at last. Pipes knocked somewhere in the wall. Sammy took a sip of her third mug of tea, too hot, and set it down again. The clock over the cooker clicked forward with a small, stubborn sound.

It’s fine. Still time.

She checked her bag – cottage keys, the folded list Magnus had given her yesterday. All in place.

The bathroom door remained shut.

Eight-thirty.

Sammy set her mug down harder than she meant to. ‘Hey, Chloe, I don’t want to be late.’

A few minutes later, the door opened and Chloe stepped out in a cloud of heat, hair wrapped in a towel turban, skin flushed. ‘I didn’t realise you needed it right now.’

Needed it right now. ‘It’s gone eight-thirty,’ she said, already jogging up the stairs.

The bathroom steam hit her like a wall – thick enough to taste; the mirror had gone completely grey, bottles shifted out of place along the sides of the sink. Sammy’s things pushed to the side, damp.

Using the heel of her hand, she wiped a circle clear on the glass, reaching for her toothbrush, already counting backwards in her head. No time to do this properly.

Sammy spat, rinsed, and reached for a towel that wasn’t quite dry. She looked at herself in the mirror – hair half-done, skin flushed from rushing, the room closing in with heat and the clock ticking behind her.

Within five minutes Sammy stomped back downstairs, buttoning her blouse. Chloe had settled at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone, the sound of it – little taps and swipes – carrying through the open door.

‘You made this cuppa strong,’ Chloe called out, as if it was a conversation worth having.

‘I wanted to be in early.’

‘You told me you were there before he even arrived yesterday.’

‘Yesterday I was.’

‘You always land on your feet, Sam.’

Sammy fumbled with the last button on her blouse. Not always.

Chloe laughed softly at something on her screen.

‘Tomorrow,’ Sammy said, not raising her voice, ‘I need the bathroom clear by eight. No later.’

Chloe paused mid-sip, the mug short of her mouth. ‘Eight?’

‘Yes. Eight.’

Twenty-eight

Sunday and the list had grown. Not wildly, but enough for Sammy to notice. A line added here. Something tucked in there in a different coloured pen. Sammy knew what he was doing. Or thought she did. Raising the bar. Seeing if she missed something.

She sailed through her morning; for her, this had become a sort of game. She worked hard finishing the last task – a deep clean of every flower vase – just as she heard the first thud of a shutter.

Sammy passed her list over; Magnus responded with another – and she caught a barely there flicker. The eyebrow.

Time to celebrate. Sammy raced out of the back door.

The last few steps to the polytunnel passed under her feet almost without notice. She nudged the polytunnel door open with her hip, the warm air folding around her.