Page 127 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I’m right, you know,’ Chloe said. ‘You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. If it’s too much, it’s too much. Walk away. You’ve done it before. Come on, let’s get back.’

Sammy’s gaze drifted to the raised beds – the order of them, the care. And, without meaning to, her thoughts slipped to Nate. The way he looked at her; the way he nearly kissed her that night by the duckling shed. That didn’t feel like something you walked away from.

That evening, after putting the ducklings away for the night, Sammy set up the ironing board in the middle of the cottage sitting room. This one needed to be right. No creases.

She ran the iron firmly along the sleeve of a white blouse. Steam puffed in soft bursts, dampening the fabric; the smell clean and sharp. She smoothed the sleeve with her palm, working it flat.

Outside, a car passed along the lane; gravel crunched beneath tyres, music spilled briefly through the open window before cutting out. A door slammed.

The cottage door opened. Chloe came in on a gust of warm air, lips glossed, hair perfect. ‘Hey there, you – let’s head to the pub.’

Sammy ran the iron along a cuff. ‘No, I’m too tired. You go if you like.’

‘Come on. It’ll cheer you up. Don’t be dull. Jimmy’s giving us a lift.’

Sammy picked up the blouse, checking for creases before setting it back down. ‘Chloe, I’ve got to finish ironing this blouse.’

‘You’ve got loads of clothes.’

‘Not like this one.’

Chloe folded her arms over her chest. ‘You’re taking it too seriously, Sam.’

Sammy pressed the iron down again, watching steam curl up. She couldn’t keep living like this. The noise, the mess, Jimmy constantly underfoot. Every decision bent around Chloe. Every problem Sammy’s to solve.

The answer was obvious – I need you to leave. Even imagining the words made her feel sick. Chloe would look wounded. Betrayed. In her head she could hear Chloe’s response.

You’re overreacting, Sam.

Sammy set the iron upright, fingers resting against the side of the board. What if it changed everything? And suddenly, Sammy was no longer certain she could say it.

‘Sam.’ Chloe stepped closer, reaching past Sammy for the plug. ‘You need a night off.’

‘Chloe . . .’

The iron clicked off, the light going dark.

Chloe had her by the shoulders, turning Sammy away from the board, spinning her lightly as if it was nothing at all. ‘Come on,’ she said, grinning. ‘Jimmy’s waiting.’

‘Chloe . . .’

‘Come on I want girly company. You don’t mind, not really, do you Sam?’

Sammy let out a breath that could have been a protest. She glanced once at the blouse, lying there half-finished, one sleeve crisp, the other still slightly creased. It would do. Wouldn’t it?

Chloe was already at the door, phone out in mirror position, fluffing out her hair.

Sammy picked up her bag, following her friend out.

Tomorrow. She’d deal with it tomorrow. She’d leave a note for Chloe. Unambiguous – please pack your bags.

The door closed behind them, the blouse still on the board, the crease settling back in.

In the morning, Sammy sat in her kitchen staring at the blank page, pen poised but unmoving. The pen clicked open. And clicked shut.

Somewhere down the lane, a car door slammed. Sammy clicked the pen open. The morning chorus seeped through the cottage windows – blackbirds first, then the sharper chatter of sparrows tucked into the eaves. The pen clicked open, she started writing.

Chloe. I think it’s best if you go back to Swansea. You need to sort things out there. I need to focus here.