Page 22 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘That feels targeted.’

‘It might have been.’ She kicked off her shoes, the tension evaporating. ‘I let all the chickens out.’

Chloe burst out laughing. ‘Oh my God, Sammy.’

‘I fixed it,’ she said quickly. ‘Well, we fixed it. There’s a gardener . . .’

‘Is he hot?’

‘Chloe.’

‘Is. He. Hot?’

Sammy exhaled. ‘. . . yes.’

‘There we go. What’s his name?’

‘Nate. He doesn’t really talk.’

‘Even better. Mysterious.’

‘Closed,’ Sammy corrected. ‘Very closed.’

‘Project,’ Chloe said instantly.

Sammy curled her feet under her bottom. ‘Absolutely not . . . Okay, maybe a little bit.’

‘Knew it.’

Sammy let her gaze rove around the too-perfect room. ‘It’s a bit . . . impersonal,’ she admitted. ‘The cottage. I’ll need to make it feel like mine.’

‘You will,’ Chloe said easily. ‘You always do. You make everything work.’

A fragment of memory surfaced. Them aged sixteen, Sammy revising while Chloe sprawled across the bed, earphones on, feet jiggling in time to the music. Chloe, pulling her away from the books. Sammy saying yes anyway. Always yes. Twenty-five years of it. And that summer, after the exams.

No. She never thought about that summer. She rose to make herself tea. ‘How’s the flat?’ Sammy asked.

‘Fine,’ Chloe said. ‘I mean . . . the landlord’s being a bit . . . landlordy. But it’s fine.’

Sammy pressed her thumb into the edge of the counter, feeling the laminate give under the pressure. ‘And you’re okay for the rent, cos it’s my name on that contract too. Remember that at the end of the month, August’s rent will fly out of my bank account, and I’ll be at zero until I get paid.’

‘Sammy,’ Chloe said lightly, ‘I told you . . . I’ll sort it. I’ll get a job, shift your gear and find someone to rent your room and then I’ll pay you back. Promise.’

Sammy stared at the wall. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’

‘You’re the best,’ Chloe said, warmth flooding back into her voice. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Probably starve.’

‘Rude. I’d charm someone into feeding me.’

‘That sounds about right.’

They chatted a little longer, nonsense, mostly. The usual back and forth, easy as breathing.

After they hung up, Sammy lay back on the sofa, drinking her tea, staring at the ceiling. She pictured Chloe here – loud, and completely uninterested in rules. She pictured Magnus. And his eyebrows. Sammy laughed. ‘That would be . . . something,’ she murmured.

On Monday – her first day off – Sammy drove into Barnstaple with a hundred pounds in cash to buy ‘garments’; Magnus had passed that over with the calm manner of someone familiar with a never-ending supply of money.