Page 122 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Two days off evaporated; Sammy spent Monday sorting domestic chores around the cottage and ironing work blouses. More than once her thoughts drifted back to Victor’s remark in the pub the night before. Magnus hadn’t known she’d ever hear those words. Somehow, that made them mean even more.

On Tuesday – after a day on the beach with Chloe – they stopped in Prosecco & Prose for a glass of wine. One glass turned into a bottle, and it was nearly six when they walked down the lane to the cottage.

There was a car parked next to Sammy’s. As they drew closer, the driver’s door opened, and a man got out. Jimmy.

‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked, waving a bottle at them.

Grinning, Chloe jogged over, hooking her arm around Jimmy’s waist. ‘Hi there you. Let’s get this party started.’

Sammy unlocked the cottage and switched on the lights. ‘I might leave you to it Clo.’

Upstairs Sammy laid out a black skirt and white blouse – no creases. In the bathroom, she wiped off her makeup. Music thumped up through the floorboards. Laughter. A chair was dragged back. She brushed her teeth, listening to doors opening and slamming shut. Sammy climbed into bed and switched off the light. A couple of glasses of wine soon worked their magic, and she fell asleep. Briefly.

By midnight she’d stuffed cotton wool in her ears.

At one in the morning she added a scarf, wrapping it around and tying it behind her head.

Sammy gritted her teeth, staring at the clock – two o’clock. She thumped her pillows into shape and turned onto her side, then pulled one of them over her ears, but the music still seeped through.

Twenty-nine

Sammy woke as the light was pressing thinly at the curtains. She lay still, remembering the peeping ducks and the way Nate’s hand had settled under her chin. Even after two days the memory was so vivid she could almost feel his breath on her cheek. She flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

A dull thud. The wall absorbed that sound but did little to muffle Chloe’s voice.

Sammy lay still, eyes wide open.

She threw the covers back. ‘I need to decide how much of Chloe I’m willing to accept,’ she said into the quiet, as if testing the words. ‘Cos this is too much.’

Outside the bathroom, Sammy noticed lights on downstairs. She plodded down the stairs. The rooms smelled of stale beer and something sweet and burnt. Two glasses on the table, neither hers. She left them where they were.

Chloe lived here too.

The back door opened as she reached it.

‘Good morning, Miss Jenkins.’

No eyebrow. Had he heard last night’s music?

‘Good morning, Mr Magnus.’

‘Your list.’

She took it, casting her eyes over it.

‘The ducks,’ he said. Sammy followed his line of sight, suspecting she knew what would come next. ‘They must go,’ Magnus continued. ‘No pets.’

‘They’re not . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘They’ll be released.’

‘See that they are. Before they become another problem.’

Sammy began in the kitchen. She reached for the kettle, turned on the tap, thinking about the ducklings. She yawned. Cold water sloshed over her hand. She dropped the kettle into the sink with a crash, fumbling to switch off the tap.

In the cloakroom, the mirror caught her eye – there was a faint smear across the glass. She reached for a cloth, wiped it, and stepped back. Still there. She shook her muzzy head. No, that was a different mark. She wiped again, harder this time.

Behind her, the door opened.

Valerie. Still wearing that full face of makeup and that sickly sweet cloying scent. ‘Skulking in here today are you,’ said Valerie, running a finger along the side of the mirror. She held it up to the light. ‘It’s marked.’