Page 156 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I can’t do this anymore,’ Sammy said. ‘Not like this . . . This . . . Right here – you two. This is the problem.’

Jimmy rose slowly, picking up a bag from beside the chair. ‘If that’s how you want it.’

Chloe grabbed her coat from the back of the chair. ‘Fine. If you want us gone, we’ll go.’

No one spoke as Chloe gathered her things.

One of them knocked a plate, scattering crumbs further across the table. Chloe stomped up the stairs, Jimmy on her heels.

Sammy made herself a cup of tea, conscious of the muffled sound of heated words from upstairs. A door slammed shut. Jimmy ran down the stairs, Chloe’s hard shell case thumping behind him, followed by Chloe.

At the cottage door, Chloe paused. ‘You’ll come home,’ she said. ‘When you’ve had time to think.’

Sammy didn’t reply.

Chloe opened the door, the evening air rushed in, cooler, carrying the sound of the sea. ‘Don’t expect me to drop everything next time you decide you need me,’ said Chloe.

The door closed behind them, and Sammy didn’t move to lock it. She cleared the table, reclaiming it one plate at a time. Nothing had changed. The room still smelled of tea and toast. The job was still gone, and when it went, the cottage would go with it.

Tomorrow would be no easier, yet she felt lighter. For the first time in a very long time, the cottage felt entirely hers.

Thirty-seven

The terrace at Prosecco & Prose was already full.

Sammy sat with her back to the wall, a coffee cooling in front of her. Nate sat opposite, hands around his cup, not drinking.

A blast of Iberian warmth had brought everyone out – walkers in boots still dusty from the moor, families with sand clinging to their legs, pushchairs wedged between tables. Chairs scraped and voices overlapped without anyone quite listening to anyone else.

Beyond the terrace, the sea looked brighter today, choppier, the sun catching on the surface in sharp flashes.

For a while they said nothing.

A group passed by them, shrugging their way into rucksacks, walking poles knocking lightly together. One of them paused to check a map, turning it upside down, then back again.

Sammy traced a finger round the rim of her mug.

Ivy and Mabel appeared at the side of the table, a dog at their heels – small, scruffy, with a patch of darker fur over one eye. Sammy wondered what petition she was about to be asked to sign. ‘There you are,’ Ivy said, as if she’d been searching for Sammy all day. ‘I heard about your situation.’

Sammy managed a small smile. ‘News travels fast.’

‘It does in a village.’ Ivy rested her hands on the back of an empty chair without sitting. ‘Magnus will come round.’

Beside Ivy, Mabel’s face became grave. ‘It’s a question of principle. He’ll want to see consistency.’

‘Speak to him again,’ Ivy added. ‘Properly, this time.’ Her gaze flicked, briefly, to Nate. Then back to Sammy. ‘It just needs the right person to talk to him.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Sammy said.

‘Isn’t it?’ Ivy’s tone stayed light. ‘These things usually are.’

The dog sat on Ivy’s foot, tail sweeping across the stone.

‘You don’t get far by digging your heels in,’ Mabel said. ‘Sometimes you have to meet people halfway.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the problem,’ Sammy said.

‘Well,’ Ivy said, pulling the dog off her foot, ‘we’re all rooting for you.’