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First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2018 by HarperColl‌insPublishers

Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2018

Cover design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2018.

Cover illustration © Lindsey Spinks / The Artworks

Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008225810

Version 2018-06-20

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part Two: The Lovebirds

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

Keep Reading…

Chapter 1

Also by Cressida McLaughlin

About the Publisher

Part Two

Chapter One

A bittern is a rare, beautiful bird, like a heron, only smaller and with golden-brown plumage. They hide deep among the reeds and are very shy, so when you get the chance to see one, it’s a big deal. A male bittern booms when it’s looking for a girlfriend, and it sounds really strange – a bit like someone trying to play the bassoon for the first time.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

Abby Field looked out at the courtyard garden, at the row of terracotta pots that had no soil in them and the grey, leaden sky above, and felt her mood darken. She turned away from the unforgiving sight, and back towards the room that, in contrast, was soft and warm, with cream furnishings, walls and carpets, hints of gold from the gilt-framed mirror, the subtle pattern on the cushions and shimmering lampshades.

‘You could get some bird feeders,’ she said, as her mum walked into the room carrying a tray laden with tea things. ‘They would find them.’

‘Oh Abby, I can’t be doing with all that muck – those birds carry diseases, you know. If you’re not careful you can catch something horrible, I hope you wear gloves at that place of yours.’

Caroline Payne, who had reverted to her maiden name after her divorce from Abby’s dad, was much like her living room. She was soft around the edges, her straightened hair expensively dyed platinum, her silky top and fitted trousers muted colours of beige and taupe, cream and dusky pink. Her gold earrings were almost a perfect match for the lampshades.

‘I’m as careful as I need to be,’ Abby said, self-consciously tucking a strand of her own, dark blonde hair behind her ear. ‘And you shouldn’t believe all you read, either. In terms of the world’s most dangerous species, UK birds come low down on the list. And they bring … doesn’t it make you happy, Mum, when you see a robin, or a great tit, or even a sparrow bouncing about on the bushes outside? Sparrows are in decline.’

‘I barely notice them,’ Caroline said dismissively. ‘Now, tell me what’s happening with you. How’s that husky of yours, and is he the only male you’re spending any significant time with?’ She sat back on the sofa, in it for the long haul, and Abby suppressed a sigh.

It was New Year’s Day, and Abby was at her mum’s modern house in Lavenham. Her sister, Tessa, had meant to come with her, bringing her children, Daisy and Willow, whose presence would have distracted Caroline from asking Abby pertinent questions about Meadowsweet Nature Reserve, where she worked as activity coordinator, and the state of her love life, which was currently non-existent. Their absence was down to a sickness bug – not alcohol-induced after a raucous New Year’s Eve party, but one that had started with Neil, Tessa’s husband, and was making its way steadily through the family.

It had meant that Abby was instructed to stay away and had spent New Year’s Eve at home with Raffle, the aforementioned husky, and a night of disaster movies on Film4. Not the best way to spend the last day of the year, perhaps, but certainly not the worst.

‘Raffle’s fine,’ Abby said. ‘And yes, he’s the only male I’m close to.’ She put a hand to her cheek absentmindedly.

There was no way she was going to tell her mum about Jack Westcoat, who had moved into Peacock Cottage, the snug house that stood incongruously on the approach road to Meadowsweet, in September. Initially, he had been a problem to tick off Abby’s to-do list, complaining about visitors disturbing him when Abby’s main target was to increase the number of people who spent time at the reserve.

He was an irritation. He was snobbish and entitled and scowled most of the time, and yet … she rubbed her cheek, the spot where, a few weeks earlier, he had kissed her under the mistletoe. She was behaving like a teenager, but she couldn’t help it. There was something hidden behind his blue eyes and stern, handsome face that intrigued her. She shouldn’t allow herself to get close enough to him to tease it out, but his suggestion that they meet for coffee once the festivities were out of the way hadn’t been far from her thoughts over Christmas.

‘Have a cup of Assam,’ her mother said, pouring from the china teapot. She was doing that motherly thing of watching Abby while also not spilling any tea. Abby didn’t like the look she was giving her.

‘So, Tess said she was feeling a bit better.’ Abby sat up on her haunches and added milk from a jug that matched the rest of the crockery. It was unbelievable that her mother should be using a proper tea set. Abby could remember, all too well, a time when not only did the crockery not match, but it quite often ended up being hurled against a wall of their terrace in Bury St Edmunds. Could she really have changed so much?

‘Don’t alter the subject,’ Caroline said. ‘Are you telling me the truth, Abigail Elizabeth Field?’

‘About what?’

‘About the no man business. I know a faraway look when I see one, and just now you were somewhere else altogether.’

‘I was thinking about work, Mum. I need to pull out all the stops. January and February are the hardest months to attract visitors, and if the numbers start to decline now, I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull them up again. I need to come up with something big, something that will increase our membership numbers and improve things for good. What would make you come to a nature reserve in the depths of winter, when the ground is crunchy and breathing makes your nose hurt?’

Her mum raised a single eyebrow. ‘When you put it like that, absolutely nothing. You need to market it better.’

Abby sighed. ‘I’m being realistic. That’s what it will be like. But we have some incredible wildlife at this time of year. Marsh harriers, peregrine falcons, deer, a huge flock of starlings that roost in the trees – they can be a spectacular sight before they come into land.’

‘So, talk about those things.’ Caroline waved an airy hand. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Her disinterest was maddening, and Abby clenched her hand into a fist at her side. ‘Fine won’t be good enough. With Wild Wonders sending all the attention to Reston Marsh around the corner, we’re becoming the forgotten nature reserve. And I’m sure there’s more to it than that, and that Meadowsweet – Penelope’s estate – is in more financial difficulty than she’s letting on. She’s even rented out Peacock Cottage.’

Her mother started. ‘That grand mansion that overlooks your village? I thought it was falling down.’

‘That’s Swallowtail House, Mum. That’s still empty. No, this is smaller; it must once have been the groundsman’s cottage or something. It’s still in perfect condition, at least outside. I’m sure it is inside too, considering who’s living in it now.’ She chewed her lip.

‘Oh? Who’s that then?’ Caroline sat forward, her hands clasped around her cup.

‘He’s a writer, from London. He’s … a bit challenging. He thinks that everything should be done for him, that whatever he wants, he should get. I’m sure he wouldn’t stay in the cottage if it wasn’t up to scratch, or at the very least he’d ask Penelope to give it a deep clean.’

‘And from what you’ve told me about her, she wouldn’t like being given instructions.’

‘No,’ Abby agreed. ‘She wouldn’t.’

Penelope Hardinge owned the Meadowsweet estate and had run the nature reserve singlehandedly ever since her husband, Al, had died seventeen years before. Now she was trying to keep it afloat, along with her full-time staff – Abby, Rosa in the gift shop, Stephan who ran the café, and a team of wardens – as well as several part-time staff and volunteers. But with Reston Marsh close by, run by a national charity and now with the added bonus of a popular wildlife television show hosting from there, Penelope and Meadowsweet were up against it.

Abby was an integral part of the recovery plan, and she was starting to feel the pressure. Not to mention that Jack Westcoat, the writer from London, was beginning to distract her in a way she found unforgivable. They had only met a few times, and not all of those had been particularly friendly, but she wasn’t doing him justice when she said he was challenging. Or maybe that part was true, but it didn’t give the whole picture. She was looking forward to going back to the reserve tomorrow, to walking close to the cottage and seeing if his Range Rover was outside, to firming up the coffee he’d suggested when they’d parted for Christmas. She hated herself for being so excited.

Silence settled over the room and Abby glanced at Caroline, who was staring at the fireplace, fingers pressed to her lips. For all her confidence, her cushy job as a PA for an executive in Ipswich and her full social calendar, Abby could see the cracks where old wounds hadn’t fully healed.

‘Are you happy, Mum?’ she asked, surprising herself.

‘What, darling?’

Abby hugged her knees to her chest. ‘You’re happy, right? With your life? After … Dad?’

Caroline’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s been a long time, Abigail – over half your lifetime. And I’m very happy. I have two beautiful, blossoming daughters, two grandchildren I adore – even if there’s no sign of more on the way. My weekends are booked up until early March. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s you I’m concerned about.’

‘You just said I was blossoming.’

‘And you are, I can see that. Your house, your job, your dog …’

Abby rolled her eyes. ‘How can you imply that my life is lacking because I don’t have a boyfriend, when you’re stubbornly single? Pots and kettles.’

‘Yes, but Abigail,’ her mother slipped down to join her on the carpet, ‘I’m not at the beginning of my life. I’ve been there, done it all – and not very well, as I think we’d both agree.’

Abby could only hold her gaze for a moment, before looking at the floor.

‘I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m sorry for what I – we – did to you and Tessa. I can’t reverse time and stop it all from happening; I wish I could. But I don’t want you to miss out on anything because of it. You have to take risks and see where they lead you. Don’t wrap yourself in cotton wool now because I failed to when you were young.’ She stroked Abby’s hair.

Abby swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Mum, I know you did your best, that it was Dad, mainly, and that you were … protecting us. And I’m fine. I’m not closed off to anything, I just haven’t found the right person yet. I’m only young, there’s lots of time.’ She wondered if the platitudes would work and looked up to see that her mum’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

This was not how she had planned to spend New Year’s Day. She was surprised by her mum’s openness – usually she was the opposite, doing everything she could to gloss over their less than idyllic childhood.

‘You OK, Mum?’

‘Of course I am.’ She wiped her fingers under her eyes elaborately, as if she was drawing curls in the air. ‘Now, shall we open that bottle of fizz I’ve been saving?’

‘I’m driving,’ Abby said.

‘One glass won’t hurt. And if you stay for dinner, then even better.’ She stood and picked up the tea tray, the china clattering as she went into the kitchen. Abby pulled her notebook out of her bag and made a note to buy her mum some bird feeders.

The following morning, her mum’s words – her unexpected apology – was playing on Abby’s mind. She still found it hard to reconcile the elegant, composed woman with the mum she’d had when she was a child, always on the verge of flying into a rage. She had come to see that her dad had been the catalyst, and that her mum had only been trying to stand up for herself, to protect her and Tessa, picking fight rather than flight. Despite that, Abby couldn’t seem to bridge the gap between her and her mother, still unable to see past those memories, her parents feeding off each other’s anger, and the fear and loneliness she had felt as a result. She tried not to think of those last, horrendous arguments, the comparison between them and her mother stroking her hair the day before.

Abby dressed in her winter work outfit of leggings under waterproof trousers, and a Meadowsweet fleece over a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, pulled her hair into a tight ponytail and put on some blusher and mascara. She added a slick of pink lip gloss, and then ran downstairs, wrapping her arms around Raffle as he greeted her and pointedly looked at his food bowl.

‘Nice long walk before work?’ she asked as she fed him, knowing that of course he wanted that, even though it was January and still dark outside.

The cold hit her like a wall, and she zipped her thick jacket up over her fleece and pulled her woolly hat low over her ears. They strolled through the village, Abby’s new torch compensating for the weak glow of the streetlights on the main road. ‘Want to walk round Swallowtail House?’ she asked, and Raffle looked up at her, his tongue hanging out slightly. ‘Of course you do.’

They made their way around the high, redbrick wall, and Abby paused as usual at the gate, shining her torch towards the grand house. She could hear the bark of a deer, the distant call of a tawny owl, the first fluttering of birds as they sensed dawn on the horizon. The bushes behind the house were too dense to walk through, so she took Raffle as far as she could, then turned back, wondering why she had put make-up on when she wasn’t even going into work yet.

‘What am I doing, Raffle? I haven’t seen him for weeks, and I expect he spent his time in London going to posh, glamorous parties and drinking Moët. He probably met a stunning brunette with long legs and a chalet in the south of France, who’s created her own line of intuitive make-up – or something equally mind-bending – and who kissed away all his worries, and they’re going to be blissfully happy and make the world’s most beautiful babies together. I’m sure he’s forgotten that he even asked me out for coffee.’

Raffle whined gently.

‘I know,’ Abby said. ‘I don’t really care. And if I did, it wouldn’t matter. We were standing under mistletoe and he was being a traditionalist. He strikes me as very traditional, doesn’t he you?’ Raffle panted his agreement. ‘Besides, I said he had a squashed frog car, so really, it was over before it even got started. And anyway, these feelings … they’re not real, are they?’ Raffle barked once, loudly, and Abby gave him a treat. ‘You’re a good listener, puppy, you know that?’ Her husky licked her hand in response.

She dropped Raffle at home, had breakfast and left the house for the second time that morning. By the time she got close to Peacock Cottage, she felt like a child on her first day back at school, unsure what would happen or where she’d fit in. Obviously, it wouldn’t be like that in the visitor centre; Rosa would be in the shop, Stephan would be cooking up a storm in the kitchen and Penelope would be in her office, keeping a wary eye on everything.

Abby had firmed up her list of events during her few days off and was hoping to rope Rosa into some technology testing days, where they could take the equipment to the hides and boost visitor numbers at the same time as sales of binoculars and telescopes. She had also planned several guided walks – some focusing on the birds of prey, others on signs of spring. She wanted to show her guests that even in the depths of winter, nature gave you reasons to be joyful – there would be snowdrops and wintersweet, scented and beautiful, and lots of buds that appeared earlier than people realized.

She also had an idea for a larger event in February, which to so many people was the worst time of year, when the winter seemed never-ending. She knew Penelope was expecting something groundbreaking. This one, she hoped, would attract more attention than most, and at least go some way towards putting Meadowsweet back on the map.

No, the worries about the nature reserve’s survival Abby could take in her stride – those, at least, she could do something about. The new term nerves were all centred around Jack.

She approached Peacock Cottage from the back and walked round the house until its quaint front aspect was visible, the blue front door and the hanging basket, the heather blooms long since gone. The Range Rover was parked outside and Abby’s heart jumped. He had come back. He hadn’t been whisked away to somewhere exotic by a glamorous entrepreneur after all.

She was the first one at the visitor centre, so she pulled out her keys and unlocked everything, switching on the lights in the large, airy space.

The Christmas decorations still hung throughout, shimmering in the weak January sun. Abby believed that once Christmas and New Year were done, any decorations should come down straight away, even more so in a public place. She hauled the stepladder out of the storeroom and set to work, carefully unwinding the tinsel, and plucking Octavia’s beautiful handcrafted birds from shelves.

‘Abby, Happy New Year!’ Stephan took off his coat and cycle helmet. ‘Good break?’

‘Lovely thanks, you?’

‘Not too bad. I spent it with my brother’s family, and they’re a riot when they get going. I’m exhausted. Can I get you a tea, or do you want a hand with all that?’

‘Tea would be lovely, thank you!’

‘On it.’

Rosa was the next to arrive, just as Abby had finished de-Christmassing the place.

‘Oh, it’s all come down,’ she said, kissing Abby on the cheek. ‘I’ll miss the tinsel.’

‘New year, new start,’ Abby said. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’

‘Not really. Just trying to hold onto that festive feeling as long as I can. This is always the gloomy bit of the year.’ Rosa’s black curls were loose, fanning out around her like a glossy halo. She looked happy and rested, despite her forlorn thought.

‘We’ll have to brighten it up then, won’t we? Meadowsweet to the rescue!’

Rosa laughed. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘I’m glad to be back, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t have fun?’

Abby wrinkled her nose. ‘It was a bit quiet. Tessa and her family got a sickness bug, and I ended up at Mum’s yesterday, just me and her, which is fine but not what I’d expected.’ She had never enlightened her friends in Meadowgreen about her family history, only told them that she was close to her sister, saw her mum occasionally and her dad barely ever. She wasn’t about to start over-sharing now. ‘Did you have a lovely time with your folks?’

‘Brilliant,’ Rosa confirmed. ‘I’m sorry about yours, though. No wonder you’re glad to be back. And aiming to get a sneaky kiss off someone, I see.’

‘Sorry?’ Abby’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’ Rosa pointed at the mistletoe still hanging from the ceiling.

Abby had missed the small piece of foliage that had been so significant that day, after they’d got back from her winter walk. She had held onto Jack’s fleeting kiss as long as she could, the memory becoming more distant as the days passed so that now the sensations were dulled, the feel of his lips on her skin something she tried to reach out for but couldn’t quite grasp, like a coin dropped to the bottom of a fountain.

‘I didn’t notice it,’ Abby said quickly, wishing she could reach up and yank it down, instead of having to go and get the ladder again.

Stephan brought their hot drinks over, and Abby resisted the urge to hug him.

‘How are we all?’ came a voice from the doorway. ‘Re-energized and ready to roll with the punches?’ It was such an un-Penelope like thing to say that they all froze, speechless, as their boss strode into the room, wearing a long, turquoise coat and carrying a red umbrella. Abby thought she looked like Mary Poppins.

‘Yes, Penelope,’ Stephan stuttered. ‘I—’

‘Excellent news. Because this year is not going to be easy on Meadowsweet, but I intend to fight with every fibre of my being, and I need you, my army, to be as galvanized as I am.’

‘Wow,’ Rosa murmured. ‘Rousing speech.’

‘I thought I’d start on a positive note,’ Penelope said. ‘And now, I’m going to go and open the post, and the day will undoubtedly go downhill from there. Stephan?’

‘Cappuccino?’

‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

‘Amazing,’ Rosa said once Penelope was behind the closed office door. ‘Do you think her New Year’s resolution is to be a bit more human?’

‘She’s always been human,’ Abby said, laughing. ‘She loved the Christmas tree, remember? You always forget the times she’s been kind and encouraging.’

‘That’s because they’re so outnumbered by sharp looks and reprimands that they pale into insignificance. If she’s really turning over a new leaf, then I’m all for it.’ Rosa sipped her coffee and drifted towards the shop, a perplexed look on her face.

The visitors were few and far between that morning, but Abby didn’t panic. It was only the second of January, people would still be in a post-party stupor, and going for a walk round a nature reserve was unlikely to be at the top of many people’s to-do lists. That was the kind of attitude she needed to change.

‘What about hangover walks?’ she said, to nobody in particular.

‘What are you muttering about over there?’ Rosa called, giving her a cheeky grin.

‘Why don’t we run hangover walks?’ Abby repeated, warming to her brainwave. ‘Come and clear the cobwebs away with a brisk walk down to the lagoon and back, ending with a bacon sandwich and a hot drink in the café? I can tailor the information about the wildlife, pick out the fun and grizzly facts. Why are long-tailed tits called bumbarrels? Statistics about adder bites, and the impressive way sparrowhawks kill and eat their prey. If people realize we’re not all earnest, adenoidal obsessives, we could appeal to more of them.’

‘It sounds like a grand idea,’ Stephan called, her words reaching the café due to the building being so empty. ‘And the scopes are bound to interest a few people. You could work that into it, too.’

‘I’d planned on doing that separately, but …’ Abby chewed her pen, then scribbled everything in her notebook.

The quiet lasted close to an hour before Penelope emerged from her office, looking five years older than when she had gone in.

‘What is it?’ Abby asked. ‘Are you OK, Penelope?’

The older woman waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing you need to worry about. Post rarely brings good news, does it? No, this is your concern. I’m on tenterhooks wondering if it will be another complaint, or if you’ve won him round altogether.’

‘Sorry?’

Penelope slid a white envelope onto the desk, Abby’s name written in familiar, slanted handwriting.

‘Oh.’ She didn’t touch it immediately and tried to stop the smile that was threatening.

At that moment, two young women walked through the door. Their warm coats and scarves suggested they could be here for an outdoor walk, but their high-heeled boots did not. They were heavily made-up, had perfect, preened hair, and were perhaps a couple of years younger than she was. Their overall appearance was so out of place with the surroundings that Abby swallowed the urge to laugh.

She slipped the envelope beneath the counter. ‘Hello, welcome to Meadowsweet Nature Reserve – are you here for a day pass?’

‘Yeah.’ One of the women stepped forward. ‘We were wondering about those walks you do – y’know, like the one before Christmas. Are you doing any more?’

‘I’ve got several organized over the next few weeks. They’re all up on the website.’ She swivelled the computer monitor round to face them and clicked through to the relevant page.

The woman scanned the list. ‘Great, ta. And when do I know who’s coming on them?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When do I know who else will be on the walks? Do you have a list or something?’

‘I lead most of the walks,’ Abby said, frowning. ‘Sometimes one of the wardens, Gavin or Marek, will give me a hand.’

The woman nodded. ‘So, this walk, before Christmas, yeah? I heard that … that someone …’

‘Jack Westcoat,’ Penelope finished, stepping forward, her arms folded tightly over her chest. ‘You heard that Jack Westcoat had attended one of our nature walks and are here to see if he’s likely to come on any more.’

The woman smiled, and Abby tried to hide her anger, wondering why she hadn’t worked it out sooner.

‘Yeah,’ the woman said. ‘It’s all round the Harrier estate that he was here. I’d love to glimpse him in the flesh. I’ve read all his books.’

‘Young lady.’ Penelope hardly gave her time to finish speaking. ‘This is not what Meadowsweet is for. You come to look at the wildlife, not stalk other visitors. He may have visited the reserve, but there’s no reason to suspect he will return, and even if he does, that is not information we will be sharing publicly. Do you have no concept of a fellow human’s right to privacy?’

The woman took a step back; her friend was almost at the door. ‘He’s a writer, though. Shouldn’t have written books if he didn’t want the limelight, and certainly shouldn’t have assaulted that bloke and got all over the papers. He’s fair game, as far as I’m concerned!’

‘Then I suggest you go and work out your frustrations at a hunting party, instead of coming after my— our visitors. I hear the Blasingham estate does a good grouse and pheasant shoot; you have until the end of the month before the season closes. Goodbye.’

Abby’s gaze flicked between the women, standing their ground for a moment before making a swift retreat, and Penelope, who was more riled than Abby had ever seen her. She was actually quivering.

‘Are you OK, Penelope? That was amazing.’

‘Did they honestly think they could come here to gawk at him, and that we would tell them if and when he had plans to come back? What is the world coming to? I sincerely hope that Jack isn’t leaving the cottage as they pass by, otherwise heaven knows what will happen. I’d better warn him.’ She hurried to her office and Abby was left alone, shocked by the brazenness of the young women, and wondering how close Penelope was to Jack that she could pick up the phone to him at a moment’s notice.

‘Seems the Octavia gossip tree’s made it all the way to the Harrier then,’ Rosa said, handing Abby a fresh cup of tea. ‘My neighbours haven’t said anything, but then Tim and Bob don’t seem like the kind to spread rumours.’

‘I don’t even think it’s Octavia. Remember, Jack did come on one of my walks just before Christmas. It was quite well-attended and, while nobody said anything at the time, anyone could have recognized him. He was in the visitor centre for a bit afterwards, too. He was never going to stay hidden for long, not if he’s as famous as he appears to be.’

‘He wasn’t that widely known before,’ Rosa said, resting her elbows on the counter. ‘Though he had more fame than most authors due to his first book getting so much praise, and in his twenties, too. But ever since this punching business, he’s achieved a new kind of celebrity status.’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder how much he regrets that split-second decision? Or maybe he still stands by it, who knows? From what I read, it did seem like the other guy, Eddie Markham, was behaving like a prize idiot, whatever kind of past they have together.’

Abby bit her lip. One question from her and Rosa would explain what Eddie Markham, whoever he was, had done, and then she would be able to form more of an opinion of Jack. And yet, all Rosa would know was what had been in the papers, and that couldn’t be relied upon. Abby had something much more valuable.

She waited until the coast was clear; Penelope was back in her office and Rosa and Stephan were otherwise occupied so, doing a visual check of the route from the car park to the front door and seeing no new visitors, she took the white envelope out from under the counter, and opened it.

Chapter Two

Long-tailed tits are the most beautiful of all the tits. Small and fluffy, with pinky-purple, brown, black and cream feathers and long tails, they’re very sociable and fly about in groups, spinning and bouncing like gymnasts in the trees. They’re sometimes called bumbarrels, because their nest is shaped like a barrel, with a small hole in the front for them to fly in and out of.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

Abby folded the paper out flat as she read.

Dear Abby,

Happy New Year! I hope this finds you well, and that you had a good Christmas. Thank you for the walk, which I know you would have been doing anyway, without me, but even so. I enjoyed it. I was thinking about turning up on another one, or finding something else to complain about, and then I remembered my invitation to you. Are you still prepared to give up some of your precious time to meet me for coffee?

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours, JW

Grinning, Abby put the note back into its envelope and hurried to the storeroom and her handbag. She would take it home and slide it between the thick, illustrated pages of UK Flora and Fauna that sat on the bookshelf next to her bed, along with Jack’s other note to her. Now she just had to decide when, and how, to respond.

She held out until Friday, when a particularly difficult customer turned a cold but beautiful day into an extreme test of her patience. He arrived at reception with a complaint already on his lips, about how the speed humps on the approach road had dislodged the roof rack of his car, and then moaned about the quality of his lunch when he returned from his walk.

Abby had come to Stephan’s rescue and tried to placate the man, but his refusal to back down, not to mention his final comment that Reston Marsh was much more professional, left her feeling despondent. By closing time she was in sore need of something to cheer her up and, the irony not lost on her that it was a complaint that had brought her to Jack’s door in the first place, it was him she wanted to see.

Though the hour wasn’t as late, it was as dark as it had been on her ill-fated Halloween walk home, and she kept her new torch angled towards the ground. Peacock Cottage and its lit window, visible through the swaying branches, felt like a haven. She walked up the path and knocked on the door, listening to the sound of footsteps from inside, trying not to let her nerves get the better of her.

And then the door opened and he was standing in front of her, wearing a thick, sea-blue jumper with a high collar. His hair was wild, as if he’d been tearing at it repeatedly, and he had shadows under his eyes, but he was as beautiful as ever, and Abby was struck by how much she’d missed him. As his gaze met hers he smiled, the gesture lifting his face, though not entirely banishing his obvious tiredness.

‘Abby,’ he said. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘You too,’ she replied quickly. ‘I got your note, and I was wondering about that coffee? Only if you’ve got time though. I know you must be busy.’

He stepped back. ‘Come inside, it’s freezing.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I have to get home to Raffle.’

‘Of course. Let me give you my number. We can arrange a date that way.’ He held out his hand, and Abby thought for a moment he expected her to take it, but then understanding dawned and she scrabbled in her bag for her phone, unlocked it and handed it to him. He quickly tapped in his number, then Abby heard the shrill sound of a ringtone from somewhere inside the house as he called his phone from hers.

‘Good Christmas?’ he asked, as he passed her phone back and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

‘So-so,’ Abby said. ‘You?’

‘Pretty much the same,’ he admitted, his smile fleeting. Abby thought that perhaps there had been no glamorous parties after all, that his reality was very different to what she’d been imagining. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in? We could start the coffee trend right now.’

She was sorely tempted, but if she went inside, she would never want to come back out in the cold. And Raffle was waiting for her. ‘I can’t,’ she said, gesturing in the vague direction of her house. ‘But I’d love to meet up soon. Whenever you’re free.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll call you. It’s good to see you, Abby.’

‘You too.’ She turned and walked down the path before she could change her mind, and didn’t hear his front door close until she was almost out of sight of Peacock Cottage.

‘Hangover walks, you say?’ Octavia asked, as she whizzed around the library with her trolley, putting returned books back on the shelves. ‘You think that will take off?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Abby said. ‘But I’m trying to think a bit more cleverly. If we only appeal to people who already visit us, then our footfall will never grow dramatically. I want to attract brand new visitors.’

‘You can but try, my lovely. I’m hoping to do the same with this place, but at the moment my secret weapon is a little bit too secret.’

‘What do you mean?’ Abby asked, sitting in a faded blue armchair in the reading area.

She loved the old chapel that Octavia had almost single-handedly turned into the village library, with the convenience store in what had once been the vestry. It was a tiny chapel, and yet it seemed cavernous, with several rows of bookshelves, a colourful, bean bag filled area next to the children’s books and games, and three tables with green reading lamps that passed as the reference library, alongside a tatty set of encyclopaedias. With its high roof, stained-glass windows and that cold stone smell about it despite being carpeted, Abby always felt calmer here. On this particular Tuesday afternoon, it contained only the two of them, nobody else perusing the shelves.

‘The elusive Jack Westcoat,’ Octavia said, pushing her red hair over her shoulders and hurrying to the desk to update the online catalogue.

‘Oh.’ Abby picked at a thread on the chair.

‘Not so elusive to you, it would seem. He turned up on one of your walks, I hear. And how was he?’

Gorgeous, Abby thought. Gorgeous and mysterious and, understandably, a little bit shy. And he kissed me Octavia, just on the cheek but – oh, he kissed me! And we’re going for coffee, on Friday.

‘He was nice,’ she said, noncommittally. And then, because she had already bad-mouthed him to her own mother to throw her off the scent, added, ‘he wasn’t remotely rude. He was even slightly interested in what I was saying at one point. And he thanked me afterwards.’

‘Well, my love, that gives me hope.’

‘You’re still thinking of asking him to do a talk here?’

‘I am. We cannot waste these opportunities. I picture you all striving at that reserve, doing all you can to combat the threat of Wild Wonders, and I know that I have to take my chances too. Hold that thought.’ She lifted a finger and disappeared in the direction of the convenience store, which was manned by part-time staff and volunteers, some older people from the village who liked to stay busy and sociable, many of them also covering shifts at the reserve.

‘What thought?’ Abby called, but Octavia was back in a flash, carrying two cans of coke.

‘Kettle’s on the blink,’ she said, ‘so I hope this will do.’

Abby thanked her and popped the can open.

‘So, what do you think our plan of attack should be?’ Octavia asked, sitting opposite her. ‘What will Jack warm to – flattery, directness, money? I don’t have a lot of that last one, but flattery I could give him until the cows come home.’

‘Our plan of attack? Octavia, I only came in here to, uhm, look at the books.’ Tessa had called Abby to let her know they were all fully recovered from their bug and to remind her that she still wanted the name of the erotic book Abby had conjured up after accidentally blurting out her Jack-inspired fantasy. Abby had thought she had got away with it, but now she was going to have to find a book that fitted her overactive imagination. Octavia, it seemed, had other ideas.

‘You know him better than any of us,’ she said. ‘You have to help me.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ Abby protested. ‘I’ve met him five times in four months. That could hardly be called a friendship.’

‘And you’re fully up to speed on all that happened, with his altercation?’

Abby made a noncommittal noise.

‘You mean you haven’t Googled Mr Westcoat?’ Octavia gave her an incredulous look.

‘I didn’t think it was fair, all of us knowing about him when he doesn’t have a clue what we’re like. He’s alone here, and it seemed very one-sided. Besides, you can’t trust anything they write in the press.’ She didn’t want to admit that, over Christmas, she had Googled him, but that the first headline – Is acclaimed author Jack Westcoat heading back to his bad-boy ways? – made her close down the browser then spend the next three days forcing herself not to open it again.

‘But there were eyewitness reports from credible sources,’ Octavia pressed. ‘It’s quite the thing, Abby. You shouldn’t go into this not knowing who you’re dealing with.’

‘Go into what? I’m not going into anything with Jack Westcoat!’

‘You need to be aware of the background if you’re going to help me.’ She bustled over to a large wooden cabinet with at least twenty slender drawers, like a tall map chest. She opened one and pulled out a stack of newspapers wrapped in an elastic band. As she brought them back to the reading area, Abby could see that the pile had a Post-it Note on top that read: Jack Westcoat. Abby winced as she imagined him discovering the library had a dossier about him.

‘Here we go,’ Octavia said, putting her reading glasses on. ‘No – first, tell me what you know. I’ll fill in the blanks.’

Abby sighed. She was trapped, with no way of protesting or escaping. Octavia wouldn’t let her leave until she was fully up to speed. She couldn’t even slip her hand inside her handbag and ring her phone, pretending it was someone who needed her urgently, because her neighbour would spot it in a flash.

‘I heard that he punched another author at an awards ceremony in the summer, and it’s damaged his reputation.’

‘Ah,’ Octavia said, holding up a hand. ‘The punch isn’t the worst of it; that he could have been forgiven for, it seems. It’s what led to the attack that is causing angry ripples in literary circles. Have you heard of Eddie Markham?’

‘Only because Rosa mentioned him the other day.’

‘Right. Well, it seems that Jack and Eddie were inseparable young sprogs, enduring school friends, something like that. They both went up to Oxford, had some indiscretions as sometimes happens to young men with the world at their feet, and both chose writing as their careers. They ended up publishing their debut novels six months apart. Jack’s was a psychological thriller, Eddie’s a satire. The satire flopped, but Jack’s flung him into the literary stratosphere, and he’s been a critically acclaimed, prize-winning, all-round top, talented author ever since. Until last July.’

She smiled serenely, and Abby thought that if Octavia had been a bird, she would have been ruffling her feathers by now.

‘What happened in July?’ Abby asked, playing along. She braced herself, ready to hear something she would have to explain away so that Jack didn’t fall in her estimation. Or did she want him to? Would finding out about his past banish her growing feelings, and take the unwanted complication out of her life? Maybe she should have done it at Christmas, read all the sordid details and been done with him.

‘Eddie sold his story to a national newspaper,’ Octavia said, ‘and let it be known that, all those years ago, when fame and fortune were beckoning, his first novel, the satire, had been the subject of a plagiarism claim. In the interview, he denies being guilty, explaining that at the time he was prepared to reveal the accusation and protest his innocence, but his good friend Jack Westcoat, on the verge of being an immensely successful author himself, paid for the whole thing to go away.’

Abby rubbed her forehead. ‘What? So … someone accused Eddie of copying another person’s book? And what did Jack do? He wasn’t under suspicion too, was he?’

‘No, not at all. Jack could have distanced himself from the whole thing, but according to this recent interview with Eddie he swept in like Prince Charming and paid off whichever journalist had uncovered the scandal and was threatening to go public with it. This was supposedly against Eddie’s wishes, mind. It seems that, even before he was successful, Jack’s family was fairly well off.’

Abby could believe that. He seemed more old money than new, like he was entirely comfortable with expensive cars and watches and aftershaves. ‘But if Eddie wanted to be honest about the whole thing, then why didn’t he refuse Jack’s offer?’

‘Why don’t you read the piece, Abby?’

‘No, you tell me, Octavia. It sounds kinder coming from you.’

‘Fair enough. Eddie claims that Jack was very persuasive and told him it would be much better for both of them if the whole thing disappeared. Eddie even suggests – and this is the worst of it – that Jack did more than just pay the female journalist, that there was nothing to stop her publishing her story however much cash he offered, and that he had other ways of sealing the deal.’ Octavia raised her eyebrows.

Abby had no idea what to say. Had this Eddie person honestly suggested to a national newspaper that Jack had slept with a journalist to stop a plagiarism claim being brought into the open? Despite Abby knowing very little about Jack, from what she had gleaned from their brief meetings, this seemed beyond far-fetched.

‘You’ve met him,’ Octavia said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Is he this handsome in real life?’ She held up the newspaper, the double-page spread as much images as it was words.

There was a recent, posed photo of a man about her age, with a round face and short blond hair flattened to his head with gel. His expression was smug and contrite all at once. Obviously, this was Eddie Markham. On the opposing page was a paparazzi snap showing Jack mid-stride, his hand up, ineffectually trying to hide his face. She noticed the telltale darkness of broken skin on his knuckles, and his scowl was deeper than she had ever seen it, but there was also a haunted look in his eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

She tried to process the revelation. He had covered up the plagiarism claim against this man, supposedly paid a journalist a huge amount of cash, and perhaps gone even further. No wonder his reputation was in tatters. It all felt skewed, dishonourable, despite the loyalty to his friend. She wondered if Eddie Markham had held something over him, something from the troubled past that Octavia had mentioned, that had forced Jack to behave like this. She wasn’t sure she believed any of it. But she didn’t know Jack, she reminded herself, she just didn’t want it to be true.

She looked again at the photo of him, how trapped he seemed in that instant. ‘He’s better looking in real life,’ she said quietly.

‘Good Lord, is that even possible?’ Octavia peered at the photos, the crackle of the newspaper echoing up to the high ceiling.

‘So, this all happened a long time ago,’ Abby said, ‘but Eddie chose last year to suddenly reveal it to the world. Why would he do that? And Jack didn’t respond?’

‘Except by hitting Eddie at the awards ceremony a week later. After which, he issued an apology through his agent …’ Octavia searched the pages. ‘… Leo Ravensberg. Short and sweet, but has done nothing to improve his floundering status, it would seem. Apparently, he was on the verge of being the Page Turner Foundation’s new ambassador, all sorts of accolades and responsibilities heading his way, but that’s all out of the window now, they say.’

‘And what about Eddie?’ Abby asked, feeling indignant on Jack’s behalf. ‘What about his reputation?’

‘Oh, everyone’s cooing over Eddie, the browbeaten, young and impressionable friend, trying to be honest, listening to Jack when he should have stuck to his instincts.’

‘He was the same age as Jack, though! How has he got away with it?’

Octavia eyed her over her glasses. ‘I’m sensing protectiveness again.’

Abby sat back in her chair. ‘I’ve met Jack, and although I don’t know him that well, I can’t believe … what did his apology say? The one through his agent?’

Octavia picked up a different paper and flicked through it, licking her fingers to turn the pages. ‘Here we are. Statement on behalf of Jack Westcoat: “I apologize unreservedly for my behaviour at the Page Turner awards. It was inexcusable, and I will be offering a full, private apology to Eddie Markham, Bob Stevens and the organizers of the event. There have also been recent claims about a plagiarism case in 2010. That matter is in the past, and as such I will not be making a further statement at this time. However, I will say that I believe the decisions I made were the best I could have under the circumstances, and I stand by them.” How’s that for smooth, eh?’ Octavia asked. ‘But a bit silly of him not to deny it, if it’s a load of gibberish.’

‘You think this Eddie person’s making it up?’

‘I think Eddie Markham gave the interview to tie in with the release of his new book, and was on the hunt for publicity. And he looks like a rat, if you ask me. No, on consideration, I would be delighted to have Jack Westcoat at my library. As long as we could get him to sign a disclaimer saying he wasn’t going to hit anyone.’

‘That might be a bit close to the bone,’ Abby said. ‘I’m sure we can trust him, unless Eddie Markham turns up.’

‘God save us!’ Octavia replied, and then glanced around nervously, giving a brief wave to the crucifix that was still nailed to the chapel wall. ‘Does that mean you’ll help me, love? Get Jack to take me up on my offer, once I’ve made it?’

Abby thought of the letters lying between the pages of her book, the text messages on her phone arranging their coffee date. Now she knew more about Jack’s past she was desperate to delve further, to disprove Eddie’s words. She wondered if reading one of his novels would give her insight into his personality, and then realized the easiest thing would simply be to ask him about it on Friday. The thought brought her out in goose bumps.

‘Let me see what I can do,’ she said. ‘But we might have to do it gradually. After all, while everyone in Meadowgreen is aware of him, he knows hardly anyone here.’

‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ Octavia nodded. ‘I approve of your approach. Thank you, Abby, you’re a doll.’

Chapter Three

A cuckoo’s call is instantly recognizable. It’s friendly and familiar, and makes you think of hazy summer mornings and the glittering mere. But cuckoos have a darker side; they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then when the cuckoo chicks are born, they push out the other chicks and are brought up by their new, oblivious foster parents.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

On Thursday evening, with the rain pounding against the window and Raffle lying contentedly on her feet, Abby undid the Amazon package, the perforated cardboard making a satisfying noise as she pulled it open. After leaving the library she had given in and ordered Jack’s latest novel, The Fractured Path. The story Octavia had relayed had left her unsettled, and in the absence of having Jack to talk to, she thought one of his books would be the next best thing.

She took out the glossy hardback and spent a long time staring at the dark, brooding cover, and at his name, raised in blue lettering on the front. Then she read the acknowledgements, recognizing one name from Octavia’s information-dump – his agent, Leo Ravensberg. As far as she could decipher, there was no mention of a significant other, and the tone of his thank-yous spoke of the humour that she’d seen glimmers of first-hand: dry, self-deprecating but undeniably warm.

As she turned to the prologue and read the graphic description of a body being uncovered in a London alleyway after the thawing of days-old snow, she wondered if he used darkness and irritability as a cover: something he could hide behind to stop people getting too close. Only now the barriers were beginning to recede, and Abby found she couldn’t wait to see what Jack was keeping behind them.

He picked her and Raffle up on Friday morning in his Range Rover, and drove them to a smart, cream-walled pub called the Queen’s Head. It was a few miles away, down twisting, hedge-lined roads, bare winter fields beyond.

The pub was almost deserted mid-morning, but the fire was lit, and Abby picked a table close to it, Raffle barking his appreciation before settling at her feet while Jack went to the bar to order their coffees. He returned with the drinks and a packet of three posh ginger biscuits that he opened on the table between them. He was wearing a black, round-neck jumper, dark jeans and smart tan boots. The fabric of his jumper looked impossibly soft, and Abby had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.

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