Page 8

Two days later …

As Fliss’s flight touched down at Heathrow, she was assailed by mixture of emotions: homesickness, familiarity, uncertainty and excitement all rolled into one. It was rare that she was in the UK these days, occasionally flying in for a special event, but it was a couple of years since she had last visited properly.

Sally had arranged for a driver to pick her up, and Fliss was whisked quickly through Heathrow with the VIP concierge service, straight into a waiting Mercedes. There had been lots of time to think during the long flight. About her future, about her past … Fliss shook her head, trying to clear it, knowing that the two were about to collide.

The car journey went quickly and it wasn’t long before the grey suburbs around Heathrow gave way to glorious countryside, houses lit up with Christmas lights and inflatable Santas adorning front gardens. The early afternoon traffic was relatively quiet and before long, they were driving through quaint chocolate-box villages, passing honey-coloured cottages with thatched roofs and crossing arched stone bridges that rose over babbling rivers.

When Fliss saw the sign for Chipping Moreton, her heart lurched. The idyllic village had barely changed: there was the Hare and Hounds pub that she and Tara had tried to sneak into when they were underage – but the problem of being Lord Oliver’s daughter was that everyone knew exactly how old Tara was.

As a teenager, Fliss had always been fascinated by the Olivers’ daughter. She had been the most fun, most gregarious, most confident girl at Cranham School – not to mention that she had a family with a peerage and a country pile. For some reason, Tara had taken a shine to Fliss, taking her under her wing at school. Perhaps the vast gulf in their background meant that Tara didn’t see her as a threat, Fliss speculated, whilst she in turn was dazzled by Tara, unwittingly giving her the attention she craved. Fliss was happy to bask in her glow then. That was all such a long time ago, before she found her own glow. Fliss wondered if Tara had really changed much over the years.

Now they were passing the tiny post office, its bright red box covered with a knitted topper showing a charming winter scene with a jolly snowman and two red-breasted robins. Further along was Mrs Walker’s flower shop, with a glowing candle arch in the window and a beautiful selection of wreaths and planters outside, along with vibrant red poinsettias and pots of Christmas roses. A narrow stream wound through the centre of Chipping Moreton, past the village green where the earliest snowdrops were beginning to emerge in shoots of green and blooms of white. It was a beautiful corner of the world, and something in Fliss’s heart settled.

The Cotswolds had always been a favourite of tourists, and in recent years its popularity had exploded, with visitors from all over the globe arriving by the busload, taking selfies, trampling over people’s front gardens and staring in their windows. Somehow, Chipping Moreton had managed to remain outside all of that, retaining its charm and character. The residents were able to go about their business, largely undisturbed; the village shops were functional and for the locals, not simply endless ice cream parlours and cafes to serve an influx of summer visitors.

By the time the car arrived at Clarendon Hall, the sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky, a chill setting in. Fliss leaned across to look out of the window, her breath sending circular spools of mist onto the glass. As the driver pulled up onto the sweeping gravel driveway, Fliss was overcome with nostalgia, drinking in her first sight of the house in two decades. It was like being reunited with an old, much loved, friend.

The Hall looked as beautiful as ever in the late afternoon light. It was an expansive Arts and Crafts house, built in the late 1800s in the local, honey-coloured stone, and it consisted of three wings, each with a steeply pitched slate tiled roof and deep-set mullioned windows. A wisteria plant ran amok over a central arched doorway, and fairy lights had been woven through the leafless branches, twinkling prettily as the light faded. Despite its vast size, it appeared cosy and welcoming and Fliss, realising that she was holding her breath, exhaled slowly.

She had never forgotten the first time she had visited Clarendon Hall, and her astonishment at discovering that people really lived like this. Tara had been a generous friend, inviting Fliss to stay regularly in the school holidays, and the two of them had made some wonderful memories – racing one another through the long, empty corridors; daring each other to go up to the spooky attic in the dark; making love potions from the flowers and herbs in the kitchen garden. Fliss had learned to ride at the Hall, her adored favourite horse a chestnut gelding with a blaze of white on his face, named Apollo. She had spent every second she could out riding on him, and had thought she could never love any living thing as much as Apollo. Fliss smiled quietly at how innocent her teenage self was.

As the girls got older, they would sneak into the library to steal swigs from Lord Oliver’s finest port, or practice their rudimentary flirting skills on Bill’s friends. Tits and teeth, Tara used to say and Fliss smiled at the memory. For Fliss, Clarendon Hall was full of glamour and excitement, a tantalising world away from the small terraced house by the seaside in Kent where she had grown up.

‘We’re here, madam.’

The driver helped her with her bags and Fliss tipped him generously.

He smiled broadly. ‘Have a merry Christmas.’

‘You too.’

Fliss inhaled the fresh country air, hearing the distant whinny of the horses in the stables. She stepped up to the shiny black front door, decorated with a beautiful pine and berry wreath, and paused momentarily before ringing the doorbell. The sound echoed through the house, setting off a chorus of barking dogs. Fliss recalled the beautiful chocolate labradors the Olivers used to own – that was over twenty years ago, so these couldn’t be the same dogs, but Fliss guessed they were likely to be the descendants of the animals she had known.

Moments later, the heavy door was pulled open, revealing Sally, standing there with a beaming smile. She threw her arms around Fliss, squeezing her tightly, hugging and laughing, and Fliss felt herself begin to relax for the first time in days, some of the rigid tension she had held since that fateful meeting with Eugene Weiss finally starting to fall away.

‘God, it’s so good to see you!’ Sally exclaimed. Her hair was pulled back in a messy short ponytail, and she wore slim-fit jeans and a cosy Fair Isle sweater.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ Fliss said, finally letting go and stepping back to look at Sally, who never seemed to change, before taking in the cavernous entrance hall, and the enormous Christmas tree that almost reached to the ceiling. ‘I can’t believe I’m really here again! It’s like stepping back in time.’

‘Well, you’ve barely aged a bit since we were here as teenagers. You look incredible.’

‘I don’t feel it,’ Fliss admitted. ‘But all of that can wait. Oh, Sally, I’m so happy to see you.’

‘Ditto,’ Sally smiled, linking her arm through Fliss’s. ‘But when you do want to talk, I’m here.’

‘Thanks, darling.’ Fliss was genuinely grateful to her old friend. It felt as though the years had simply fallen away; it didn’t matter how much time the two of them spent apart, living on different continents, they could always pick up again right where they had left off.

‘You can leave your bags here, Mr Matthews will take them to your room. Let’s go down to the kitchen – Elizabeth is briefing Mrs Matthews about supper, but she wanted to see you as soon as you arrived.’

‘Is that our Fliss?’ came a shout from deeper inside the house, and Fliss recognised the voice as Lady Oliver’s.

‘Indeed it is,’ Sally beamed, as she tucked her arm through Fliss’s, and steered her along an oak-panelled corridor towards the kitchen. It was a huge room, with an enormous wooden table in the centre on which a freshly baked cake sat cooling on a rack, scenting the air with sugar and lemon. Underfoot was a well-worn flagstone floor, and in the centre of a long row of cupboards was an ancient Aga pumping out welcome heat.

‘Fliss, darling!’ Elizabeth Oliver exclaimed, getting up from one of the wooden chairs and coming over to greet her, kissing her effusively on both cheeks. Elizabeth was tall and elegant, in a calf-length skirt and silk shirt, her grey hair swept back in a chignon. ‘Now Christmas can really get started. How was the flight?’

‘Uneventful,’ Fliss said, smiling at Lady Oliver’s warm greeting. ‘The man in the seat in front of me snored the whole way but I stuck my earpods in and got lost in St Mary Mead.’

‘Miss Marple! The perfect antidote to snoring!’