About the Author

JENNIFER JOYCE is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee’s knees typing on that. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester, with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their Jack Russell, Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, on Twitter at @writer_jenn and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

Also by Jennifer Joyce

The Single Mums’ Picnic Club

The Wedding that Changed Everything

The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

The Wedding Date

The Mince Pie Mix-Up

The Accidental Life Swap
JENNIFER JOYCE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Jennifer Joyce 2019

Jennifer Joyce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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 e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008348687

E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008348656

Version: 2019-07-22

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Jennifer Joyce

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To the Joyces –

Chris, Rianne and Isobel.

Chapter 1

He’s used my toothpaste again. The tube is flat in the middle and twisted. Twisted? What has he been doing with my Colgate? Other than using my stuff without permission – again. I’m not having it. I’m not. As soon as I’ve brushed my teeth, I’m going to march into his bedroom, without knocking, and I’m going to tell my flatmate exactly what I think of him.

Lee Williams, I’ll bark in the way my boss has perfected, the way that makes me have to cross my legs so I don’t do a little wee of fear at my desk. You are an inconsiderate, lazy, selfish pig. I regret the day I ever moved into this disgusting little flat with you. If I could afford to live anywhere else, I would. In a heartbeat. Half a heartbeat. You make me want to vomit with your rarely washed body, your farting in the kitchen and your bogey-flicking. I especially dislike the way you walk around the flat wearing nothing but a pair of crusty underpants and a look of indifference, not even registering my discomfort, never mind giving a damn about it.

Perhaps I will knock on the door before I venture into his bedroom, after all. I fear what I may encounter if I catch him unawares.

I can’t stand you, Lee. Sometimes I even despise you. And I’m a nice person. I don’t usually despise anyone, not even Sonia at work, who has lodged herself so far up Vanessa’s bum, only the tips of her knockoff Manolo Blahnik mules are visible. But I dislike you. Very much so. You are ignorant and sexist and like the sound of your own voice far too much. I am not your wife or your mother or your maid. It is not my ‘duty’ to fill the fridge with nutritious food for you to pilfer so you don’t have to go to the shops yourself. It is not my responsibility to clean the entire flat myself (and it is a pointless task anyway because no matter how much I scrub and vacuum and dust, the place is permanently grimy due to the years of neglect before I foolishly came along, and your continuous slovenliness). It is not my obligation to provide you with bloody toothpaste.

I’m working up quite a lather as I release all the pent-up frustration of living with an untrained animal for the past three years on my teeth. I’m going to tell him about his reprehensive behaviour and make it clear that it has to stop. I tried once before, about three months into our flat-share, in the form of a polite note pushed under his bedroom door. I later found the note stuck to the fridge door, with a giant penis and hairy balls scrawled across it in black marker. I don’t think my charming flatmate had taken much notice of my requests for him to buy milk every once in a while or to turn his pounding music down after 11 p.m. on worknights before he defaced the note.

Still, I’m going to put things straight now. Better three years late than never.

Popping my toothbrush into my washbag (I never leave my toothbrush unattended in communal areas, having learned the hard way when I discovered Lee’s even grubbier friend working on his molars with a toothbrush of mine back in the early days), I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin high before marching into the dimly-lit hallway and heading towards Lee’s bedroom. The door is flung open before I have the chance to reach it, revealing an almost naked Lee and a cloud of musty fug.

Right, this is it. I’m going to let rip and unleash the tirade I’ve been rehearsing in my head. He won’t know what’s hit him!

‘Morning.’ Flashing the briefest of minty-fresh smiles, I scuttle off to my own bedroom with a sense of shame so severe it makes my stomach ache.

I’m a wimp. A great big wuss. A sissy pants without a backbone.

Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I stand up to him and demand a tiny shred of respect? I’ve put up with his disregard and insolence for three years and I don’t think I can take much more of it. Either Lee has to change or I have to move on, and the only way to do that is to finally bag the promotion I deserve at work. I’ve already started to squirrel tiny amounts of money away into my savings each month for a deposit on a new flat, but if I could earn a bit more cash, I could move out of this hovel and away from my revolting flatmate much sooner. Plus, it would mean I’d finally earned the respect of my boss.

I’ve been working as the personal assistant to Vanessa Whitely at her events management company since I graduated from university three years ago, but I’m keen to take on a more creative role within the company. I have so many ideas, but I’ve yet to voice them in a way that will grab Vanessa’s attention. I need to make her listen to me. Be firm, more assertive and all the other strong, positive terms I’ve been reading about in the pile of self-help books crammed onto my bookshelf. There’s a big event coming up, an autumn festival taking place on farmland in the Yorkshire Dales, and I’ve been working on ideas for weeks, perfecting and polishing them until they’re shiny enough to present to Vanessa. This is my chance to show my boss what I’m capable of. That I have skills beyond answering the phone, making coffee and juggling her diary.

I’m going to do it. Today. Before it’s too late. I’m going to take a huge, positive leap forward in my career. I’m going to march into Vanessa’s office with the file I’ve compiled, set it on her desk and exhibit my ideas with passion and expertise. She’ll be so bowled over, she’ll add me to the team with immediate effect and I can start looking into new accommodation as soon as possible. And who knows – maybe I’ll be moving out of this dingy flat within the next month!

*

There are a couple of things I need to do before I march into Vanessa’s office. My first task is to sort out my appearance as I’m currently sporting a pair of lemon check pyjamas and the worst case of bedhead I’ve ever witnessed. I need to present myself as immaculately as my festival ideas, so that Vanessa can take one look at me and instantly see me in the role I covet. Vanessa always appears chic and professional, so I need to emulate her look as best as I can with my limited resources. While Vanessa dresses as though she’s about to step on the catwalk at London Fashion Week, I don’t have quite the same budget for clothes and accessories, but I’ll do what I can. Reaching into my wardrobe, I pull out a sleeveless black dress, cut to just below the knee, that is classic and sophisticated and definitely the sort of look Vanessa would go for. I team the dress with a gold belt and pair of lace-up peep-toe ankle boots that are similar to a pair I’ve seen Vanessa wearing (but while hers undoubtedly cost at least a month’s worth of my salary, I bought mine from the supermarket, marked down to less than twenty quid because of a scuff on the heel, which I’ve coloured in with a Sharpie pen).

My hair takes a bit more effort. It really is an unruly mop and refuses to stay in any of the styles I twist and grip it into. Vanessa favours sleek up-dos, but my hair is not playing along. In the end, because I’m running out of time, I’m forced to gather it into a messy bun and hope with every fibre of my being that it works with the overall look. I have just enough time leftover to swipe on a layer of mascara and smear on my favourite nude lip gloss before I leg it for the bus. I may be attempting to copy Vanessa’s style, but there’s no way I could get away with her bold red lipstick.

We’re advancing into late September, still technically summer, but it’s already turning chilly and I zip up my coat as I hurry along the street – not quite jogging but as close as I’m going to get in these heels. The boots may be pretty but they’re not very comfortable and my exposed toes are in danger of becoming frostbitten. Little white clouds puff into the air on each ragged exhale as I urge my body to move faster towards the main road. If I miss my bus, there’ll be a twenty-minute wait for the next and bursting into the office late is not the sort of impression I want to make on this of all days. I have my autumn festival file tucked under my arm, but it’ll be of little use if I don’t catch the 8.22 bus.

I’m almost at the main road when I hear the distant rumble of a double decker bus. Gah! Pushing myself and praying I don’t break an ankle in the stupid boots, I make a dash for it, gasping and rasping for breath as I sprint towards the bus stop. Yes! There’s a sizeable queue waiting to board, giving me a few more valuable seconds to reach the stop. This must be a good sign of things to come, surely, even if it means I’ll probably have to stand for the entire fifteen-minute journey.

I make it onto the bus, sweating despite the chill, and collapse onto the one remaining seat at the back. I take the available seat as another good sign of things to come, even if it is the seat in the middle, which means I spend the next fifteen minutes in fear of flying down the aisle of the bus every time we turn a corner or brake. I’m not catapulted from my seat (a third Good Sign) and the traffic is pretty smooth going (Good Sign #4), meaning I have plenty of time to get from the Piccadilly Gardens bus stop to the office without breaking another sweat. This is definitely a Good Day. I’m feeling so positive, I practically skip along Lever Street and offer my cheeriest of hellos to the barista as I step into my favourite independent coffee shop. I order three coffees – a gingerbread soya cappuccino, a cinnamon latte with whipped cream and brown sugar, and a salted caramel mocha. Spending my hard-earned cash on fancy coffees is a big indulgence for me, but I feel a Good Day like today deserves it, and so I barely whimper as I slot my debit card into the card reader and jab my pin into the number pad.

Carrying three hot coffees – even if they are helpfully slotted into a cardboard tray – means I can no longer skip, but my mood is still lifted as I make my way to the office. Vanessa Whitely Events is located on the third floor of a converted red-bricked Victorian terrace and while the outside has kept its historical charm, the inside is airy and modern, with exposed brickwork, shiny white desks and chrome lighting fixtures in every conceivable place. The reception area has huge tub chairs in a rainbow of colours, and I can still taste the fear of waiting to be called for my interview three years ago every time I step inside.

‘Morning.’ Emma smiles brightly from behind the reception desk, raising a hand in greeting as I elbow my way through the glass doors. ‘Need a hand?’

Emma is one of the loveliest people I know. Permanently chirpy and always willing to listen to me moan about Vanessa’s lack of faith in me, or Sonia’s latest catty remarks, or life in general, Emma is often the only thing that keeps me going at work. She isn’t just a work colleague; she’s my best friend and I’d be lost without her. I felt a bit out of place when I stepped into the big, wide world of events management alone, but Emma was like a life jacket from the moment she arrived behind the reception desk two years ago, propping me up with friendship and gin.

‘I’m okay.’ I dodge out of the way of the door, allowing it to close behind me as I right the tray of coffees that is slipping from my grasp. ‘Just about.’ I scamper towards the reception desk to relieve myself of the tray and the file that I’ve somehow managed to keep tucked under my arm. ‘Cinnamon latte?’ I de-wedge one of the coffees and hold it out to Emma, whose eyes widen as she grasps the cardboard cup.

‘You’re the best! I am so in the mood for a decent coffee.’

I give a one-shouldered shrug, as though the cost of the coffees hasn’t taken a scary chunk out of my weep-inducingly low bank balance. I really need this promotion. ‘I thought we could do with a treat.’

‘Amen to that.’ Emma raises her cup before she takes a sip, closing her eyes to savour the taste. ‘God, yes. I need this today. Vanessa’s already on the warpath and it isn’t even nine o’ clock.’

‘She is?’ My stomach churns. This information doesn’t bode well for me. I need Vanessa to be in good spirits – or at least neutral spirits – when I present my ideas to her. If she’s in a bad mood, she’s more likely to toss my file aside to ‘take a look at later’ – which never happens – or dismiss them outright.

Bugger.

‘Any idea what’s set her off?’ If I can smooth things over, I could nudge my chances of promotion back on track. Emma is the font of all knowledge when it comes to Vanessa Whitely Events; she usually knows what’s happening and when and to whom, so if you want up-to-date gossip, she’s your woman. But Emma shakes her head.

‘No idea, sorry. She stormed in here earlier, yelling into her mobile, but I couldn’t get the gist of it.’

‘Maybe this will help calm her down.’ I pick up the tray of coffees. ‘Wish me luck.’ Slipping my file of ideas under my arm, I head towards Vanessa’s office, chin held high in determination as I rap on the door.

Chapter 2

Vanessa is sitting behind her desk, her face pinched as she rests her chin on a clenched fist. Her mobile has been tossed aside, landing on the edge of a stack of paper so that it’s being propped up, face-down, on the desk. Her hair – unusually for Vanessa – is looking a bit bedraggled, as though she’s been clutching at her head in despair, disrupting her sleek up-do. Do I mention it? Earn myself a few extra brownie points for my honesty and for saving Vanessa from looking anything but flawless? Or will that put me in the firing line? Perhaps it’s best to keep quiet, just until I’ve established why Vanessa is so clearly distressed, if there is a way I can help, and if my mentioning the state of her hair will be a help or hindrance to my cause.

‘Well? What do you want?’

I’m still dithering by the door, but Vanessa’s bark spurs me into action. Stepping fully into the room, I march purposefully across the large office, noticing with alarm that a pot of pens has been swiped from the desk and is currently strewn across the polished floor. This is not good.

‘Coffee.’ My voice comes out all squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. ‘I brought you a coffee. Soya cappuccino. Gingerbread.’ I clear my throat once more and step over the scattered pens. ‘A gingerbread soya cappuccino.’

Vanessa’s shoulders rise as she heaves in a breath through flared nostrils. I suspect she’s either going to burst into tears with gratitude or roar that a gingerbread soya cappuccino is no longer her coffee of choice. I’m not sure which option I’d prefer, but it’s a third option that Vanessa plumps for, releasing her breath with a heavy, disdainful sigh. She snatches a cardboard cup from her desk and wafts it at me.

‘I already have a coffee, thank you very much.’ Although Vanessa is using pleasantries, the words are fired at me with a sneer.

‘I could tell Vanessa needed a pick-me-up this morning.’ Sonia’s voice makes me jump, and the file slips from under my arm, joining the mess of pens on the floor. I didn’t realise my colleague was in the office, skulking in the corner. She smiles sweetly – almost patronisingly – at our boss. ‘She’s having a tough time.’

‘Oh?’ Dumping the coffee tray on Vanessa’s desk, I crouch down to pick up the file. Luckily, none of the pages have come loose. ‘Anything I can help with?’

Sonia snorts, and when I steal a look behind me, she’s shaking her head at Vanessa while rolling her eyes. She emerges from her corner by the window and perches on the edge of Vanessa’s desk, as though they’re the best of buddies. Equals. Sitting in such close proximity, I realise how similar the pair look. Both have bleached white-blonde hair, stark against their defined brows and tanned skin (Vanessa’s due to three weeks in Barbados, Sonia’s courtesy of Sunny Dayz, the tanning shop she rushes to every lunchtime to keep her tan topped up). They’re even dressed alike this morning in silk shirts with pussy-bow collars, Vanessa’s a navy, long-sleeved shirt while Sonia has opted for an indigo-and-white striped sleeveless version. I attempted to emulate Vanessa’s style this morning, but Sonia has gone one better. She’s beaten me, again.

‘This problem is going to take more than a coffee run, sweetie.’ Sonia crosses her arms and her eyes flick upwards again. Snotty cow. I wish I was the kind of person who could call others out on their rudeness, but I’m not. I’m a pushover. Always have been, always will be, no matter how much it frustrates me.

Sonia and I started working at Vanessa Whitely Events on the same day. While I’d been offered the role as Vanessa’s PA, Sonia had joined the company as one of the receptionists. We’d both recently graduated, and this was our first proper job. We should have bonded, but instead battle lines were drawn as Sonia made it her mission to rise to the top as quickly as possible, trampling on anyone she had to on the way up. While she was quickly replaced by Emma on the reception desk after being promoted to event planner, I’m still Vanessa’s assistant, with no say in the events the company managed, no matter how many ideas I have whirling around my head.

‘I don’t know about that, actually.’ Vanessa sits upright, her movement so sudden and unexpected that I almost topple backwards in my crouched position. ‘Maybe you can help.’

‘She can?’ Sonia’s brow furrows as she looks from Vanessa, to me, and back again.

‘I can?’ I leap up from my squatted position and beam at my boss. Vanessa is tapping her chin with a manicured finger, her eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits.

‘Yes.’ Her lips spread out into a wide smile until her veneered teeth are displayed, hungry shark-like. ‘Yes, I think you may be the perfect solution, Becky.’

‘It’s, um, Rebecca.’ My response is mumbled – what the hell does it matter if she calls me Becky? She can call me Bogey-Face if she wants to (my flatmate certainly does, and finds it hilarious). Vanessa has just declared – with a witness – that I, Rebecca Riley, am the perfect solution to her problem. Not Sonia. Not any of the others on the team. Me.

‘Can you give us a minute to discuss the matter?’

I assume Vanessa is dismissing me, and start to back away from her desk, careful not to step on any of the pens still littering the floor, but it’s actually Sonia she’s addressing. Sonia seems as shocked as I feel, her mouth slowly forming a large ‘O’ as she blinks at Vanessa.

‘Go on.’ Vanessa wafts her hand, almost shooing Sonia away from her perched position on the desk. ‘You need to prepare for the team meeting anyway.’ Vanessa flicks her wrist to check the time on her chunky watch. ‘Shoot. We’re already running late. Give me five minutes?’

Sonia closes her gaping mouth and manages a grimace-like smile. It switches off immediately as she meets my eye. ‘Fine. I’ll make sure we’re ready to get started as soon as you’ve finished here.’

‘Thank you, Sonia.’ This time, Vanessa’s pleasantries are met with a corresponding smile. ‘What would I do without my right-hand woman?’

Usually, I’d be silently seething at those vomit-inducing words, but right now I’m floating on a cloud of pure happiness. Because while Sonia is Vanessa’s right-hand woman, I am the perfect solution to her problem. I will solve whatever hiccup has sent Vanessa into a rage. I will be the hero that saves the day, and Vanessa will finally value my contribution to the company.

Promotion, here we come.

Chapter 3

Vanessa pulls her shoulders back so she’s sitting straighter, the frown lines that were moments ago intersecting her forehead all but gone as she turns a mega-watt smile in my direction. She indicates the chair on the opposite side of her desk with an upturned hand as she reaches to align her mobile with the other.

‘Please sit, Becky. We have lots to discuss.’

I do as I’m told, but only after I’ve scooped the scattered collection of pens from the floor and arranged them in their pot, setting it in its rightful place on the desk. I really can’t help myself, but I think Vanessa appreciates the act, even if she doesn’t voice it and merely watches me with an eyebrow cocked in bemusement.

‘So, how can I help?’ I’ve finally plonked myself in the seat and Vanessa is grinning at me again from across the desk. I’m not sure I like it. I’ve worked for Vanessa Whitely for three years and I’ve never seen her beam like this. So toothily. Like a crocodile about to snap up its dinner whole. I’m unnerved, but I’m trying not to show it. I want Vanessa to see me as an equal, or as close to an equal as possible while still being the boss. I want her to see me as she sees Sonia and the others, not as the trembling imbecile I feel inside right now.

‘Is it about the Heron Farm Festival? Because I’ve been working on some ideas …’ I’m sliding my file across the desk towards Vanessa but pause as she starts to shake her head. Her hair is still askew, but we’ve gone way beyond the point where I can point it out by now.

‘This isn’t strictly work-related.’ Vanessa thrusts her chin in the air and narrows her eyes ever so slightly. ‘But it is extremely important to me.’

‘What is it?’ I lean forward, my forearms resting on the desk in front of me. I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I haven’t been catapulted straight into the autumn festival’s plans, but I am intrigued.

‘I bought a little place last year, practically in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a Waitrose for miles, which sounds hideous, I know, but also a bit romantic, don’t you think?’ Vanessa poses the question, but she doesn’t give me the chance to respond as she ploughs straight on. ‘I couldn’t live there full-time, obviously – can you imagine the commute?’ Her eyes widen momentarily, and she gives a little shake of her head. My eyes linger on her abused hairdo as a stray wisp wobbles on top of her head, and I have to drag my gaze away before I draw attention to it. ‘It’s more of a weekend getaway, a place I can escape to when I need to unwind. You know how it is.’

Vanessa and I clearly live in different worlds, but I bob my head up and down in understanding, as though I, too, am in a position where I can waltz off to a second home to chill out for the weekend.

‘The house is a bit like my sister-in-law; absolutely stunning on the outside but a big ugly mess on the inside.’ Vanessa presses her lips together and her shoulders shake with a suppressed giggle. She clears her throat and she’s back to being professional Vanessa, the bitchiness locked back inside. ‘Anyway, like I was saying, the house is in need of some major TLC. I’ve been working on it for months. My project manager has been brilliant though.’ She heaves a massive sigh and leans on the desk, jelly-like. ‘Unfortunately, she was involved in that pile up on the M60 last night?’ Vanessa’s voice goes up at the end, turning her statement into a question. Her eyebrows rise too as she awaits a response.

‘Oh my God, is she okay?’ Of course I’d heard about the accident – it was all over Granada Reports last night and splashed across the front of The Metro this morning. A haulage truck had ploughed into a car at rush hour, killing the driver and seriously injuring her two young children, and causing a major pile-up on the motorway. Three people had been airlifted to hospital, while several more had been transferred by ambulance.

‘She’s fine.’ Vanessa gives a wave of her hand and the knot that’s been tightening in my stomach starts to unwind. ‘Cuts and bruises, mostly, and a broken femur.’

Vanessa says the last bit so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it. ‘A broken femur?’ My eyes are wide, my mouth wider. I’m shocked and horrified in equal measure. But it’s a sigh of irritation that hisses from Vanessa.

‘Yes, which means hospital and surgery and casts and all that.’ Vanessa sighs again and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Which is incredibly frustrating when we’re so close to finishing the house renovations.’

The chasm that is now my mouth widens even further. Frustrating? What about the traumatic ordeal? The pain she must be in? None of that seems to be registering at all with my boss and I feel my blood start to boil as she witters on about schedules and timescales and catastrophic delays.

‘I’m throwing a housewarming party, you see, to showcase my beautiful new home.’ Vanessa reaches for her handbag, rifling inside before pulling out a cream card embossed with sparkling bronze writing. She slides it towards me, jabbing a finger on the date printed on the front. ‘That’s in one month’s time, when Nicole promised me the house would be ready.’

How inconvenient. I’m sure Nicole is as furious with her broken promise as Vanessa is.

I want to say this out loud, my tone so thick with sarcasm the words would almost get wedged in my mouth. But I don’t. I silently seethe while Vanessa spits venom about her ruined party plans.

‘And the invitations have already gone out to everybody I know!’ Vanessa snatches the invite back and shoves it into her handbag. My invitation must have been lost in the post, I suppose.

‘The thing is, I don’t have time to find another project manager to get the job finished by my tight deadline.’ Vanessa pushes herself out of her seat and strides towards the window. ‘Especially if I have to go on a waiting list.’ Vanessa shakes her head and the wayward strand of hair has a wobble. I fear she’s going to catch its reflection in the windowpane and demand to know why I haven’t warned her that she looks like she’s been on the receiving end of an electric shock.

‘You said I could help?’ I only give her the reminder so she’ll turn away from the window, but I soon wish I’d kept quiet when the crocodile smile makes a return.

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Vanessa strides away from the window and perches on the edge of her desk, looking down at me.

‘Do you want me to get in touch with everyone from your guest list and rearrange the party for a later date?’

The answer to the question is clearly a big fat no as Vanessa’s mouth gapes open in outrage. She places a hand on her chest as she gives a humourless laugh. ‘I am an events manager, Becky. I can’t postpone my party – what kind of message is that sending out? If I can’t organise my own party, what hope is there for paying clients?’

‘These are extenuating circumstances. I’m sure if you explain the situation with the accident and …’ My words tail off as Vanessa leaps from the desk and marches back towards the window. She isn’t listening to me anyway.

‘Postponing isn’t an option. The party must go ahead, and it must be spectacular.’

‘You want me to plan your party?’ I’m almost breathless. Vanessa wants me to plan her party! This is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me! Of all the event planners in this building, Vanessa has picked me to organise her housewarming celebration. This is it. My big chance to prove to Vanessa that I can be a creative asset to this company. No wonder Sonia was looking ticked off as she left the office. She must want to puke with envy.

‘No, sweetheart.’ Vanessa is giving me an odd look, as though I’ve just sprouted an extra head before her eyes, and she’s speaking to me rather slowly. ‘I want you to project manage the final stages of the house renovation.’

Chapter 4

I watch Vanessa carefully, the corners of my mouth twitching, eager to rise into a smile as soon as Vanessa bursts into the laughter I know she’s holding deep inside. Because I know she’s kidding. I’m a PA. I have a degree in events management. And I know squat about restoring houses, other than the occasional viewing of Homes Under The Hammer when I’m too hungover to reach for the remote. Let me tell you, I am no Lucy Alexander. I cannot see potential in knackered old buildings. I don’t care about original period pieces and I’m as likely to gush over Lee’s sweat-dampened socks left strewn across the bathroom floor as I am a ceiling rose.

Vanessa’s good, I’ll give her that. Her poker face is amazing as she faces me with an unwavering facade, her features as still as a mask cast in plaster.

‘You’ll need to get in touch with the head builder – Victor, I think his name is. Or maybe Vance?’ Vanessa bites her lip, and I suspect this is the moment she is going to roar with laughter. She’s trying so hard to keep the amusement in, but it has to burst out at some point. Right? ‘I haven’t got round to filling him in about Nicole, so you’ll need to update him on the situation.’ She twists her wrist to glance at her watch. ‘I really must dash off, I’m afraid. I’m so late for this meeting. Victor’s details are in my contacts and I’ll arrange to have Nicole’s paperwork couriered over to you ASAP. You’ll just have to wing it until it arrives, I’m afraid, but at least the builders won’t slack off if you’re around to keep them in check.’

She’s striding towards the door without a hint of delight at her little joke. I watch her reach for the handle, fully prepared for her to spin around and laugh at me.

Except she doesn’t. She strides straight through the door without a backwards glance. When she fails to poke her head back round the door to perform her gotcha! moment, panic starts to bubble inside. She isn’t serious about me taking over the role of project manager, is she?

I laugh to myself, but I don’t sound particularly joyful. I sound afraid and slightly manic.

‘Vanessa! Wait!’ Leaping from my seat, I tear off across the office, almost slipping on the polished floor in my stupid peep-toe boots. Yanking at the door handle, I’m relieved to see the back of Vanessa’s head, the strands of hair still sticking up, as she marches towards the meeting room. ‘Vanessa!’ I yelp as my foot slips again, but I keep going, grasping hold of a startled-looking Vanessa as I reach her. ‘I can’t do this. I’m not a project manager. I have no clue what to do.’ I spread my arms out wide. ‘No clue at all.’

Vanessa’s foot starts to tap as she observes me, one eyebrow quirked unnaturally high on her forehead. I lower my arms slowly as she continues to scrutinise me, resting them by my side as Vanessa’s other eyebrow rises to join the first in its piqued position.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Vanessa’s voice is a low growl and I suddenly realise I’m desperate for a wee.

‘I, um … the thing is, Vanessa …’ I cross my legs as a sharp pain crosses my belly. ‘While I’m absolutely flattered that you think I’m capable of overseeing the refurbishment of your new house, I don’t think I’m up to the job.’

Vanessa’s head tilts to one side and she rests a hand on her hip. ‘You don’t think you’re up to the job?’

I give a rapid shake of my head as I concentrate really hard on not wetting myself outside the meeting room.

‘You’re not up to the job an untrained monkey with a clipboard could do?’

I’m not sure what to say to that. If I answer no, I’m admitting that I’m less capable than an untrained monkey. But if I answer yes, that I am up to the job after all, then I’m landing myself with a new, albeit temporary, job description for the next few weeks.

‘Well?’ Vanessa’s foot is tapping again. I need to answer quickly, before she loses her temper for the second time this morning.

‘I guess I’m a fast learner?’ I wish my voice hadn’t come out sounding quite so weak, that it had been a strong statement of my abilities rather than a meek question.

‘Good.’ Vanessa gives a curt nod and I train my eyes on her mouth so I neither have to look into her searing eyes or watch the stray hairs wobble. ‘Because I wouldn’t want to have to find both a new project manager and a PA at such short notice.’ If I could bear to meet her gaze, I’m sure Vanessa would be piercing me with a warning look: refuse to take on this role at your peril.

‘So, we’re perfectly clear?’ The eyebrows are reaching for Vanessa’s hairline again. I feel I have no choice but to nod. ‘Fabulous. I’ll reimburse you for your petrol and other expenditures, obviously, but we’ll have to sort that out later as I’m extremely late for my meeting now.’ She gives a pointed look at the meeting room door, but I can’t let her go just yet.

‘I don’t drive, and I have no idea where this house is.’

Vanessa heaves an enormous sigh at the inconvenience of these minor details. ‘Then you’ll have to catch the train or something. You’re more than welcome to stay at the house for the duration, if it’s easier than travelling back and forth. It’s completely weatherproof, though unfurnished, I’m afraid. There’s always the guesthouse, I suppose.’ She shrugs and takes a step closer to the meeting room. ‘My set of keys are in my handbag, and you’ll find the address of the house in my diary from when I went for a viewing, around the middle of January. It’s in Little Heaton.’ She reaches for the meeting room door, but I haven’t quite managed to iron out all the details.

‘What about my job here?’ I point towards my desk, which is portioned off outside Vanessa’s office. ‘How will you manage without me?’

Vanessa gives me an indulgent smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll cope, sweetheart. And Emma can step in and help out if needed.’

Emma’s head pops up from the reception desk as she hears her name and Vanessa briefly fills her in.

‘Of course I’ll help out.’ Emma smiles at Vanessa, but the corners of her mouth droop as a frown takes over. ‘Um, what’s going on with your hair, Vanessa? It’s a bit …’ She wafts a hand above her head while Vanessa’s eyes widen. My stomach lurches as Vanessa reaches up and discovers the unruly strands. I should have told her earlier, as soon as I stepped into her office. Why couldn’t I be more like Emma? There’s no way she would have allowed Vanessa to attend a meeting looking a hot mess.

There’s a strangled cry as Vanessa scurries away from the meeting room, only pausing to glare at me before she pushes her way into the ladies’. She’s going to be super late for that meeting now.

‘Um, Rebecca?’ Emma peels a pink post-it note from the pad in front of her and waggles it in my direction. ‘Your sister called. Again.’ She flashes me an apologetic smile, knowing I’ve been avoiding Kate for the past few weeks. When I’d ignored her calls enough times, she’d changed tactic and started to badger me at work.

‘I haven’t got time for that.’ I wave away the slip of pink paper and start to back away towards Vanessa’s office. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

*

The sun is out now, shining bright in the almost cloudless sky, but it is freezing as I stand on the platform at Piccadilly train station, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my coat. I’m still wearing the ridiculous peep-toe boots and I can feel every breath of the wind that is whistling along the platform, my toes turning blue with the chill. I should have changed into more suitable footwear whilst I was at the flat, but I barely had time to shove a few essentials into the holdall before I had to jump into the taxi beeping with irritation outside. I’ve packed enough to last me until the weekend, when I’ll make the journey back home, because Vanessa can’t seriously expect me to uproot my life for a whole month – however tempting the thought had been when I’d stepped into the flat and caught the lingering whiff of my flatmate. Having a little break from Lee is the only silver lining of this whole debacle. I toyed with the idea of leaving my absence to his imagination – had I been kidnapped? Run over and left for dead on the side of the road? – but I was afraid he’d have rented out my room by the time I returned if I didn’t let him know I’d be back soon, so I’ve left him a note on the fridge.

Tugging my hands from my pockets, I rub them together to try to create a bit of warmth as I peer down the tracks, hoping to glimpse the train that was due eight minutes ago. I’d rushed to make it to the station but I needn’t have been so speedy as there’s no sign of the train. I’m half-tempted to nip to the kiosk at the top of the steps to grab a cup of coffee to warm me up but I know without a doubt that the train will have pulled up and left again by the time I’ve clattered back down the steps, probably spilling hot liquid down myself in my haste. So I’m forced to stand, teeth chattering, while I wait for a train I don’t even want to catch.

This is absurd. Why am I putting up with this change in job role? I should have been firm. Said no, I will absolutely not take on the task of project managing a house renovation in the middle of nowhere, and if you even think of firing me over the matter, I will drag you to court for unfair dismissal. But I didn’t, because I’m as firm as unset jelly, and now I’m about to board the train that is rumbling down the tracks towards me at last.

I feel a bit sick as I bend down to grab the holdall at my feet. This is it. I’m really doing this. I’m actually taking a break from my role as Vanessa’s PA, moving away from the office and my dream profession, to oversee the transformation of a house I have zero interest in. How am I supposed to earn a promotion now I’ve been shoved out of the way? I can’t impress Vanessa with my ideas from Little Heaton. This is career suicide!

Unless … Hooking the holdall onto my arm, I join the melee of people waiting to board, scanning the crowd for the end of a queue to join. Or any hint of a queue in the chaos, at least. There isn’t one and I find myself jostled out of the way as a D-bag with a briefcase barges past with his elbows out. I apologise (what the hell?) before edging my way back into the pack, earning myself a glare from a woman with a pushchair, who runs over my exposed toes before I can leap out of the way. I’m silently seething by the time I limp onto the train, shuffling along the carriage in search of an empty seat with my holdall clutched to my chest. This day sucks. I thought Lee using my toothpaste without permission had been bad enough, but the morning has been on a steady decline since I stepped into Vanessa’s office and spotted her dishevelled hairdo. So much for those good vibes I’d fooled myself into feeling on the way to work.

I make my way into the next carriage and the feeling of dread lifts ever so slightly when I spot a free seat at the end. Not only is the seat free of either body or bag, it is a window seat and it is facing forward. The positive me from this morning would have taken this as a Very Good Sign, but all the buoyancy has been sucked out of me by now so I simply slot my holdall into the luggage rack above my head and sink gratefully into the seat. The voice over the tannoy system announces the opening of the onboard kiosk, but although I’m in desperate need of a coffee for both the caffeine injection and the warmth, I’m fearful that my seat will have been appropriated by the time I get back. No, it’s safer to remain where I am, as settled as I can be whizzing past fields of sheep at a hundred miles an hour. Besides, there’s something more urgent than my need for coffee prodding at me. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s bugging me, a thought that I can’t quite grasp hold of.

My phone beeps in my pocket and I see a message from Emma when I pull it out.

Good luck with your ‘new job’ – show Vanessa what you’re made of! xxx

And that’s when it hits me. The thought that’s been niggling at me since I picked up my holdall on the platform. I need to use this as an opportunity to really impress Vanessa, to show her that I have all the skills required of a good events planner: exceptional organisation, the ability to multitask and problem-solve while working under pressure, and meeting tight deadlines while retaining a high level of attention to detail. I’m going to be the best, most efficient project manager and keep the refurbishment on track. I’m going to prove to Vanessa that I have what it takes, that I would be an asset to her team if she would only give me the opportunity to shine. I’m going to earn myself that promotion, get a foot back on the career ladder and find myself a decent flat-share so I can finally live the life I dreamed I would when I left home and moved to Manchester. This is the start of a brand new life and a brand new me.

Chapter 5

Vanessa hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Little Heaton was in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen any sign of civilisation for at least fifteen minutes as we delve further into the Cheshire countryside. Even the sheep-filled fields have given way to wild moorland and I’m starting to panic that instead of taking me to the address I’d hastily jotted down earlier and am now clutching in my hand, the taxi driver is finding the perfect spot to bury a body. My body.

I know I’m being paranoid – or at least that’s what I’m telling myself as I take deep, even breaths while watching the meter clocking up pound after pound – but I’m not the most adventurous of people. I’d felt super-sophisticated when I moved to Manchester from the tiny town I’d grown up in, though any sense of refinement diminished rapidly when I moved into the flat with Lee, obviously – but I was still proud of the leap I’d made. Now, though, I want to take a giant step backwards. I want to return to a place of safety. A place I know, even if I don’t particularly love it. My grubby little flat doesn’t seem so bad when faced with the prospect of being transported into the wilderness with a maniac.

The taxi driver hasn’t given me any hint that he’s a maniac. In fact, he’d seemed quite pleasant as he’d hefted my holdall into the boot of his car, and he’d attempted to make small talk as we’d left the town somewhere on the outskirts of Warrington behind, only giving up when it transpired it would be easier getting blood from a stone than having a two-way conversation with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him about the weather or how many weeks there are until Christmas, but I found all my attention was focused on not having an anxiety-fuelled vomit over the backseat of his car. I’d bought a bottle of water once I’d disembarked the train at Warrington and have been taking tiny sips of it ever since, but it’s doing little to ease the nausea I’ve been feeling since I stepped onto the hot, stuffy bus that eventually led me to a town I’d never even heard of until I’d Googled how to get to Little Heaton. From there, I’d managed to locate a taxi rank to take me the rest of the way. Or at least that’s what I hope is happening right now. The taxi driver is pleasant and I didn’t spot a shovel in the boot of his car earlier, but you just never know. I should ask if it’s much further, to try to gauge the driver’s intentions, but I find myself mute and clammy-handed as I sit ramrod straight in my seat, wincing as the meter continues to tick over.

‘I don’t come this far out very often.’

I jump a mile as the driver’s voice suddenly speaks over the radio, interrupting Mike and the Mechanics urging the listeners to appreciate their loved ones while they’re still with us. Seriously though, why am I worrying so much? A taxi driver who listens to Mellow Magic is hardly a threat, right?

‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ The driver nods his head, indicating the scenery surrounding us. To the left of us, the greenery curves up high, the hilltop reaching for the blue, clear sky, while to the right there is a sharp drop where we can see down into the valley, as one field merges into the next, with only the odd ramshackle outbuilding breaking up the greenery. There are no other cars on the road, no people or animals that I can see from my vantage point. Nobody to hear me scream. It is beautiful and eerie all at once.

‘So peaceful, innit?’ The taxi driver shakes his head in wonder without waiting for an answer to his original question, as though he knows I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. ‘I used to come up here a lot with the missus, back in the day. Walked for miles, we did.’ He laughs and pats his rounded stomach, accentuated by the belt tethering him to his seat. ‘Long time ago now, though. Don’t think I’d have it in me anymore.’

I nod and twitch a smile at him, though I say nothing. My mouth is dry, my tongue fat and sluggish, my mind a garbled mess unable to put together a sentence. I take a sip of my water. It’s almost gone.

‘Not much further now, love.’

‘Really?’ My voice is a rasp, despite the water. I haven’t uttered a word for miles, not since the meter was displaying below a fiver.

The driver is watching me through the rear-view mirror, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘Five minutes, I’d say. Ten, tops.’

My shoulders relax, even as the fleeting thought that he’s toying with me – all part of his sick game – flashes across my mind. I screw the lid back onto my water and slip it into my handbag before taking out my phone to text Emma. I haven’t dared to communicate with the outside world since we entered the deep depths of nowhere, in case the driver knew I was on to him and was raising the alarm.

I am an idiot, but in my defence, this has been a really weird and extremely stressful day so far.

‘You on holiday then?’ Having coaxed one little word from me, the driver is having another stab at small talk and I feel I owe him after thinking the worst of him.

‘I wish.’ A holiday would be nice. I haven’t been away since I was little, back when my parents were still together and we spent a couple of weeks in Italy. I remember the heat and the gelato and the feeling that life couldn’t get any better than this. It didn’t. My parents split up shortly afterwards and we never returned to the glory days of that summer holiday.

‘Oh?’ The driver is raising his eyebrows at me in the rear-view mirror, and I assume he isn’t enquiring about my desire to jet away to sunnier climes.

‘I’m going to Little Heaton for work.’

‘I see.’ The driver nods, his eyes back on the road. ‘What kind of work?’

I’m about to explain that I’m in events management, but that isn’t strictly true anymore. But I can’t tell him I’m in property development either, as I’d feel like a fraud.

‘I’m helping out with a house refurbishment.’ This is much closer to the truth of the situation, and luckily the driver doesn’t probe any further. Instead, he regales me with tales of his own home improvements, from DIY disasters to DIY triumphs. He’s in the middle of a story about the dodgy plumbing he discovered beneath his kitchen sink when I spot the first sign that we are indeed on the right track. We’ve wound our way down the hillside and though I have yet to see another human being, there are at least fields of sheep and cows again. And then, nestled in an overgrown bush and only just visible through the foliage, is a hand-painted sign:

Buy fresh eggs @ Little Heaton Animal Sanctuary

There’s an arrow pointing ahead and everything. We’re almost there!

A couple of minutes later, we’ve turned off the tarmacked road and onto a little lane that is barely more than a dirt track. We jiggle and bump over the loose rocks and potholes until we reach a bridge stretching over a canal. I strain to look out over the side as we drive over, the knot in my stomach loosening for the first time since Vanessa landed this gig on me. Little Heaton is beautiful. The water of the canal is sparkling in the sunshine, throwing out shades of green from the trees and hedges lining the towpath. All is still apart from the ripples following a pair of swans as they glide alongside a moored barge.

We cross the bridge, emerging fully into the village. There is so much green, from the lush, leafy trees, the beautifully presented gardens sitting proudly in front of quaint cottages, and the hills in the distance. We are a world away from the bustling city centre I’m accustomed to.

I finally spot my first human for many miles; a dog-walker in hunter green wellington boots pulled over worn jeans. He raises his hand in greeting as we pass, pulling tight on the lead to keep his dog away from the tiny lane we’re passing along.

‘Now then.’ The driver slows as he peers at the sat nav. ‘Can’t be far from here.’

We pass an assortment of houses, from squat, crumbly-looking cottages to three-storey newbuilds, until we reach the high street. There’s a small community garden in the centre, facing a terrace of shops. There’s a tanning shop, which jars against its picturesque surroundings, but it makes me think of Sonia, who is probably laughing her socks off at me back at the office. There are more houses, lots of greenery and even a castle in the distance, which makes me do a proper double-take as I catch sight of it. We pass a couple of pubs – which I fully intend to make use of during my stay – then end up back alongside the canal. The car stops and I peer out of the window, my brow creasing with confusion. There are no houses here, just the water and trees.

‘Just give me a minute, love.’ The driver is tapping at the screen of his sat nav, tutting and sighing as he jabs harder and harder.

‘Are we lost?’ Just when I thought things were looking up. Maybe this isn’t the right place after all.

‘Ah, no, nothing like that.’ The driver is still stabbing the screen with his finger. ‘It’s just this stupid thing …’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s sending us that way.’ He points across the canal. I look both ways, looking for another bridge, but there is nothing but the narrow wooden footbridge we’ve parked alongside. ‘We must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’ He jabs at the screen one last time before he spots another dog-walker heading our way. Winding down the window, he leans right out and waves a hand to catch her attention. It’s as she approaches the car that I realise she isn’t a dog-walker at all. The animal plodding behind her isn’t of the canine variety but of the woolly kind. She’s taking a sheep out for a stroll. What the …?

‘We’re looking for Arthur’s Pass, love, but the sat nav’s playing up.’ The driver thrusts a thumb at the malfunctioning equipment. ‘What’s the best way to go?’

The woman stoops to pet the sheep. She’s only young, early twenties at the most, with long blonde hair plaited to the side. She’s wearing bright red wellies over skinny jeans and a matching parka with a furry hood.

‘You’d need to go all the way back to the iron bridge.’ She pulls an apologetic face, as though she’s responsible for the balls up. ‘Arthur’s Pass is on the other side of the canal and we only have the one access across the bridge for vehicles. It’s a bit of a nightmare, actually, but you sort of get used to it.’ She shrugs and pets the sheep again. ‘Are you just dropping off?’ She’s looking at the side of the car, at the taxi’s markings. ‘Because you’d be better off jumping out here and walking the rest of the way.’ She’s peering past the driver now to address me. ‘It’s just over this footbridge and down the lane.’ She points across the canal, towards a cluster of trees. ‘I’m heading that way myself so I can show you.’

‘That would be so kind, thank you.’ As much as I appreciate the driver getting me here safely, without turning out to be a bloodthirsty maniac, I don’t fancy driving all the way back through the village. I’m still feeling a bit queasy and desperate for a bit of fresh air.

I pay the driver, fighting hard not to wince at the number of notes I’m forced to hand over, and grab my holdall from the boot. With a cheery wave goodbye with one hand and the receipt for the journey clutched in the other, I set off across the footbridge with my volunteer tour guide and her woolly friend.

Arthur’s Pass is a tiny, tree-lined lane that leads to a clearing in which stands what can only be described as a manor house. The house is made of pale stone, with wide stone steps leading up to the heavy wooden door, which is set under its own pitched roof. The house is magnificent, but it isn’t the only building on the land. Set back from the main house is a long, one-storey building, with three large windows and a smaller version of the wooden front door. Both buildings are angled so they’re facing the gorgeous, unobstructed view of the canal, and there are a couple of smaller buildings to the side. Clusters of trees surround the land, creating a barrier to the outside world.

‘Here you are.’ I’m so in awe of the building before me that I’d forgotten about my companion. She’s led me the short distance from the taxi to Vanessa’s place, chatting about the village and its amenities once she learned I was new to the area. ‘It’s such a gorgeous house, isn’t it? It’s been empty for years, though. I’m glad someone’s finally giving it the TLC it needs to bring it back to life.’ She starts to back away, whistling at the sheep so it follows. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around, but if you need anything, I’m just along the lane.’ She lifts a hand in farewell and I copy the gesture briefly before I’m drawn back to the house.

Wow. I can’t believe I’m going to be staying here for the next month. I’d already decided that I wouldn’t be making the arduous journey back and forth over the next few weeks as I allowed the paranoid thoughts to attack me during the taxi ride over, but this just seals the deal.

Welcome to your new home, Rebecca, I think – rather smugly – as I make my way towards the front door.

Chapter 6

Although the front door looks as though it’s an original feature, the lock is more modern, meaning there isn’t a rustic, easily identifiable key on the bunch I grabbed from Vanessa’s office earlier. The only way to gain entry is to try each key in turn until the lock gives and I’m able to push the heavy oak door open.

The door opens into a vast hallway, with a wide staircase opposite and light flooding in from the huge windows either side of the door. The space is bare, with exposed brick walls and stripped woodwork, but I can tell this is going to be an amazing welcoming area when it’s completed. I can picture smooth, plastered walls painted in a warm, creamy shade, a coat stand in the corner, perhaps a bench under the window with storage for shoes underneath, and there is more than enough space for a massive tree at Christmas beside the staircase, all lit up and festive. I get a warm, fuzzy feeling despite the freezing temperature inside the empty, unheated house.

My footsteps echo on the bare floorboards as I move across the room, slowly and carefully, as though I’m an intruder, which I very much feel like right now. I expect to hear noises within the house; hammering, drilling, a too-loud radio, voices at the very least. It’s already past lunchtime and there are a couple of vans outside, so I’d assumed the builders were here, but the house is eerily lifeless as I move from room to room. What was once a kitchen has been updated with bi-fold doors that look out onto the land at the back of the property, where there’s a humongous, overgrown garden lined with trees to give a feeling of seclusion, and another outbuilding that has definitely seen better days.

I back away from the sheet of glass, jumping at the sound my foot makes as it meets the concrete flooring. I tiptoe my way through the rest of the house, marvelling at the amount of space available. The ceilings are high and most of the rooms are larger than my entire flat. I make my way up to the top floor and open the door that leads to a small balcony. It’s cold outside but the view overlooking the canal is stunning, the air fresh and earthy and instantly relaxing. I can feel the stress of the surreal morning being plucked away as I close my eyes, taking deep, greedy breaths as I listen to the soundtrack of the countryside. Gone are the roars of traffic, the dozens of conversations mingling into one incessant hum, the busy lives and dramas of people packed in tight. Here, there is nothing but the mesmerising rustle of the wind tickling the leaves and the sing-song chirrups of unseen birds. A smile flashes onto my face as I take another lungful of the untainted air. Imagine living here, with all this space and beauty, instead of being stuck in a hovel with a semi-feral flatmate. I need this, or something reasonably close but still attainable. And to do that, I have to succeed with my new role as project manager.

*

‘Have you tried the pub?’

‘The pub?’ I sit down on the bottom step of the grand staircase and try to stop my teeth from chattering. It really is bloody freezing in this house.

‘Maybe they’ve gone for a skive since they’re unsupervised?’ Emma gives a throaty laugh down the phoneline. ‘I know I’d slope off for a gin if I could get away with it. Instead, I’m stuck at this reception desk as usual. I almost wish I could swap places with you.’

I’ve been in Little Heaton for over an hour and apart from the vans still parked in the driveway and a small digital radio perched on the cistern in the main bathroom on the first floor, there hasn’t been the tiniest hint of the builders.

‘Believe me, you don’t want to trade places with me.’ I rub at my nose. It’s so cold, it’s hurting. ‘It took forever to get here. I’m definitely staying here for the duration.’ If I can stand the cold, that is. Vanessa mentioned a guesthouse; I hope it has some sort of heating system installed. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and find the pub and see if they’re in there. We passed a couple on the way, so hopefully your hunch is right.’ And if not, I can at least warm up for a bit.

Pushing the phone into my pocket, I make my way out of the house, locking up even though there’s only a paint-splattered radio to nick. It actually feels a little bit warmer outside with the sunshine and the brisk walk to the nearest pub. I manage to find the Farmer’s Arms quite easily by retracing my steps over the footbridge. Being the middle of the afternoon, I expect the pub to be quiet, empty even, but I’m blasted by noise as soon as I push the door open. The jukebox is playing a George Ezra track, interrupted by the clunk of pool balls colliding, and there’s the general murmur of conversation. Emma was right. The builders are here, enjoying a day off by the looks of it as they sip pints around the pool table. There are three of them; one older, maybe mid-forties, one who must be early thirties, and a baby-faced kid who has to be late teens at the most. I obviously don’t know for sure that these are Vanessa’s builders – or builders at all – but with their heavy-duty boots and plaster-ingrained jeans, I highly suspect they are. Emma is a genius who is wasted behind that reception desk. She definitely deserves that gin.

‘Everything okay over there, duck?’

I’m still hovering by the door, but I make my way over to the barmaid, whose face breaks out into a friendly smile as I clamber onto one of the high stools at the bar.

‘What can I get you?’ The barmaid places her hands on the bar, displaying a rainbow of fingernails as each one is painted a different colour. I’m tempted to order something large and lethal, but I still have a job to do.

‘Just a diet coke please.’ I sneak a look at the builders as I reach into my bag for my purse. They’re still playing pool, ribbing each other as tricky shots are missed, completely unaware that I’m here. I should probably march up to them and demand they get back to work (after ascertaining that they are, in fact, Vanessa’s builders) but I find myself furtively observing them as I sip at my drink. The older one claps the youngest on the back before he ambles towards the bar, his hand fumbling in his pocket for change. He orders a round of pints before counting out the pound coins in his fist.

‘Won the jackpot earlier.’ He nods towards the fruit machine and my cheeks burst into flames. I hadn’t realised I’d been staring.

‘Well done.’ I offer a tiny congratulatory smile before I turn away completely, concentrating on my drink and willing my face to cool down. Just minutes ago I’d been about to succumb to frostbite and now I may as well be sunning myself on a Mexican beach in the midst of a heatwave. I should introduce myself, let him know the impromptu day off has come to an abrupt end. But I don’t. I sit and stare at my diet coke.

‘You’re new around here.’ The barmaid gives a statement rather than poses a question as she sets the first pint down. ‘Sorry.’ She gives a one-shouldered shrug and grabs another glass. ‘It’s a small place.’

‘It’s okay. I’ve only just got here.’ I sneak a look at the builder as I continue. ‘I’m here to take over as project manager for the refurbishment on Arthur’s Pass.’

If I had any doubts that these guys were my team of builders, they disappear as the eyes before me widen to unnatural proportions.

‘You’re taking over? What happened to Nic?’ He shoots a look over his shoulder, where the others are still playing pool. The younger one is swaggering towards the table, slowly chalking the end of his cue, while the other is shaking his head and telling him he doesn’t stand a chance, but in much more colourful language.

‘There was an accident.’ I hold up a hand as his eyes widen again. ‘Nicole’s okay. Hurt, but she’ll recover.’ I slide off the stool and hold out a hand. ‘I’m Vanessa Whitely’s PA.’ There’s a roar from the pool table as the never-gonna-happen shot does indeed happen. The young lad is jumping around giving a victorious cry, while the older one, still shaking his head, flails his arms around as he tries to convince his pal that it was a complete fluke (again, with more colourful language).

‘You’re Vanessa?’ The builder’s eyes are like saucers as he turns back to me after the interruption. ‘It’s so good to finally meet you after all those emails early on.’ He takes my hand and pumps it up and down, his eyes still very much rabbits-in-headlights wide. ‘You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here, right?’ He gives a chuckle while I simply frown back at him. He thinks I’m Vanessa? The bellowing from his team obviously cut off the end of my introduction, so I’ve been inadvertently upgraded from PA to the boss herself. I’m jolted by the realisation that I was supposed to get in touch with this guy to explain about the Nicole situation and how I – Rebecca – would be replacing her for the last few weeks of the project. Bugger. I never forget to carry out tasks set by Vanessa – I’d be a pretty poor PA if I did – but I did forget to do this during the panic and disorder of the morning. I need to rectify this, and fast.

The laughter dies as the builder lets go of my hand. ‘We’re not slacking off or anything. We went to the house. Waited ages. Even phoned Nic, but there was no answer. So we came here to wait for her. No key, you see. There isn’t much we can do without access.’ He chuckles again, but it’s much weaker this time and he turns towards the pool table. ‘Hey, guys. Get over here.’

‘Run out of cash already?’ The older of the two stops his tirade so he can turn to his boss with a smirk. ‘I’m skint, pal. You don’t pay me enough.’

‘Did you see that shot?’ The other builder grins, his whole face lighting up and somehow making him look even younger.

‘That was nothing.’ The smirk falls from the older builder’s face as he leans over the table with his cue. ‘Check this out.’

I reach out to touch the head builder’s arm lightly, the frown still furrowing my brow. ‘Excuse me, but there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’m not …’ My words are swallowed as another roar goes up from the pool table, but instead of victorious, this roar is of the mocking variety. The older builder is elbowed playfully in the ribs as his mate falls about laughing at his terrible shot.

‘Guys! Seriously, get over here.’ The head builder flashes me an apologetic smile. I open my mouth to try to explain who I am – or rather who I’m not – but he’s already turned back to the lads. ‘Come and meet Vanessa Whitely.’ I see his eyes bulge as he attempts to convey the importance of his words. It works like magic. The lads stop mucking about, their faces turning to stone as they stand upright and rush towards the bar, each thrusting their hand at me to shake in turn.

‘Hi Vanessa. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Harvey.’ The older of the two pool-playing builders is acting as spokesman as he points out his workmate. ‘And this is Todd.’

‘And I’m Vincent Mancini, obviously.’ The boss shakes my hand again and I see his forehead is starting to shine with sweat. ‘I should have said that earlier. Sorry. You can call me Vince. If you want to, that is.’ He chuckles, though the sound is strained rather than joyful. ‘I’ll answer to anything, really.’

I’m astonished by the reaction my mere presence has caused. Or rather, the reaction Vanessa’s presence has caused. I should clarify who I am, but I’m rather enjoying the power Vanessa clearly holds, so I keep it zipped. I’ll tell them later, obviously, but not until I’ve chivvied them along and got them back to work.

‘Shall we get going then?’ I tap my watch in a way I’ve witnessed Vanessa do many times. ‘We’ve lost half the day already.’

‘But my pint …’ Todd, the youngest builder, looks longingly at the bar. I could relent, let them finish their drinks, but I feel a surge of authority shoot through me, straightening my spine and raising my chin.

‘You can have a pint on your own time, not mine.’

I have no idea where those words came from, but I quite like the firm, assertive tone they’re accompanied by, and I get a real kick when the builders march out of the pub instead of snubbing my request. Being Vanessa is strangely satisfying.

Chapter 7

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any of Nicole’s paperwork yet and she’s too poorly for a catch up, so if you could give me a brief rundown of where we’re up to with the project?’

We’re trooping through the village, Vincent and I walking side-by-side while Harvey and Todd are just ahead, having some sort of friendly disagreement that involves a lot of nudging and an attempted wedgie. I’ve explained about Nicole’s condition as best as I can, but now we must get down to business. My career depends on keeping this project on track.

‘Once the plastering’s finished, we’re going to crack on with the fixed flooring. There’s only the hallway, kitchen and the family bathroom on the first floor to do, and we would have made a start already, but like I said, with no access …’ Vincent scratches the back of his neck as we reach the footbridge across the canal.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Having worked with Vanessa for three years, I know she wouldn’t have appreciated the lack of work, no matter the circumstances, but I really don’t see what he could have done, other than break into the property. ‘We’ve still got a few hours left of the day, so I’m sure you and the lads will do your best to catch up.’

‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’ Vincent bobs his head up and down rigorously and I realise my words came out with a vaguely threatening tone rather than the placatory one I’d been aiming for. Perhaps being Vanessa has gone to my head a bit. ‘And we’ll put in a few more hours to make up for it.’

‘There’s really no need for that,’ I say, but my words are swallowed by the griping up ahead as both Todd and Harvey put their cases across as to why that won’t be possible. Harvey, it seems, has football training (he plays five-a-side at the park at weekends if I fancy being his cheerleader – short skirt and pom-poms most definitely required) while Todd needs to take his gran to bingo.

Harvey snorts. ‘It’s the other way around, more like.’ He hooks an arm around Todd’s neck and pulls him close before running his knuckles over his scalp. ‘Didn’t your mum get you a personalised bingo dabber for your birthday?’

‘Gerroff.’ Todd wrestles himself free and tries to smooth down his ruffed-up hair. ‘And no, she didn’t. It was from my gran. She’s got one herself.’

Shaking his head, Harvey gives Todd a gentle shove. ‘You’re such a loser.’

I think it’s quite sweet, but I don’t voice my opinion as matching bingo dabbers definitely isn’t something Vanessa would appreciate.

‘You can both stay behind.’ With his shoulders thrown back, Vincent starts to stride ahead across the bridge. ‘Oliver too.’

‘Who’s Oliver?’ I quicken my step, scuttling after Vincent over the wooden boards as he overtakes Harvey and Todd. Vanessa would never scuttle after anybody but I don’t want to lag behind.

‘He’s the other builder.’ Todd waves a hand in the general direction of the house. ‘But he’s fixing his sister’s fence. Ow!’ He rubs his arm, where Harvey has just thumped him.

Vincent holds up a hand, silencing his teammates as they start to squabble. ‘He hasn’t got time to be messing around with Stacey’s fence. We need to get on with the plastering.’ He sneaks a glance at me and lifts his chin. ‘Get on the phone to him and tell him to get his butt back to the house, pronto.’

Todd is still rubbing his arm as Harvey makes the phone call, singing the nursey rhyme about a man with a dog named Bingo as he waits for the other builder to answer. They’re acting as I assume brothers would growing up. Not that I’d know. I only have one sibling, an older sister, and we were never close growing up. Kate and I barely speak even now we’re adults, and we meet up even less. Being a doctor, she has a busy life that I just can’t seem to fit into. Besides, we have nothing in common other than shared parentage.

‘Did you have a look at the house earlier?’ Vincent asks as we make our way along Arthur’s Pass. ‘I know it probably doesn’t look like much has happened since you were last here, but we’ve had to gut the place and start again.’ He’s scratching his neck again and I want to pull at his arm to stop him.

‘It looks great, honestly, and I’m sure it’ll start to look more homely soon.’

‘Absolutely.’ Vincent bobs his head up and down. ‘Once the flooring’s laid, we can start to put the house back together again. Make it look like a home rather than a shell.’

We reach the clearing and I find myself sucking in my breath at the sight of the house again. It really is magnificent.

‘I’m going to be staying on-site for the duration of the project, rather than commuting to and from Manchester every day. Less hassle.’ I study the outbuildings, trying to work out which one is the guesthouse. Hopefully it isn’t the ramshackle shed at the back. I peeped in earlier and it was less than ideal for human habitation.

‘So no more late starts and early lunches then.’ He winks at me to show he’s kidding, but he’s scratching at the back of his neck again. ‘I take it you’ll be staying in the guesthouse and not the main one. Bit bare and chilly in there at the moment. I’ll get Todd to take your luggage through, if you haven’t done so already?’ He glances across the drive and turns to me with a puzzled look. ‘Where’s your car? You haven’t parked it out on the lane, have you? Because that thing’s so narrow, you won’t have wing mirrors left by the end of the day.’

‘I didn’t drive over.’ Which sounds most unlike Vanessa, who’d drive to the corner shop. ‘I’m trying to be a bit more green, you know?’ I’m about to add that I don’t need Todd to help with my luggage as I’ve only brought a holdall before I realise Todd’s help could guide me to my accommodation. I can’t ask where the guesthouse is as Vanessa would already know and I’m enjoying being her far too much to admit who I really am at the moment. I’ll tell them later, once I’m settled in the guesthouse and they’ve made a start on the flooring.

*

The guesthouse, like most places, is bigger than my flat. It turns out I’ll be staying in the long, one-storey building and not the dilapidated shed. This outbuilding has been fully restored and furnished and I gape at the spacious dwelling as I follow Todd inside. Before us is a modern open-plan living and dining area with two huge windows overlooking the canal. There’s an L-shaped kitchen in the corner, with a breakfast bar separating the cosy seating area, complete with a massive, wall-mounted TV and a cabinet stuffed with DVDs.

‘Where shall I …?’ Todd lifts the holdall and glances around the room. I’ve been too busy gawping to take it from him.

‘Thank you for your help.’ I relieve Todd of the holdall and lead him back towards the door. ‘I’ll pop over to the house in a little while to see how you’re getting on.’ Again, my tone comes out rather menacing and Todd bolts from the guesthouse, stumbling over a large loose rock on the drive in his haste. I’ve never had this effect on anybody before and I only wish I could bottle it up to dispense on Lee when I get back to the flat.

Closing the door, I take in the room again, noticing all the little touches, from the exposed polished beams, plush carpet and log burner that give the place a snug, homely feel. I feel like weeping when I picture my flat waiting back in Manchester, with its drab, peeling wallpaper and flaky paintwork, the plumbing that likes to announce its presence by squealing every time the hot tap is turned on, and the flatmate whose idea of good hygiene practice is brushing his teeth sporadically with my toothpaste and washing his clothes when the smell starts to bother him (which is long after it’s started to bother everybody else). But no, I will not cry, because I have a whole month to enjoy the luxury of living without Lee in a beautiful home. Why did I ever think being Vanessa’s project manager was a bad idea?

Flopping onto the sofa with a contented sigh, I prop my feet up on the coffee table in front of me and spread my arms out wide. This whole sofa is mine. This whole room is mine. I can watch what I want on the TV without having to turn the volume up to its maximum to drown out Lee’s racket. I can cook without having to hunt for crockery beforehand. I can cook without replacing the ingredients that have been stolen from the fridge. What extravagance!

My feet are aching from the silly boots, so I ease them off before padding towards the door leading off the living area, the thick pile of the carpet caressing my sore, battered feet. As suspected, the door opens to reveal the bedroom. And what a bedroom it is. I actually gasp out loud when I clock the huge four-poster bed that reaches up to ceiling height. There are more beams in here, and another huge window overlooking the canal. A red and blue barge is passing slowly, decorated with painted flowers and swirls, and a little dog sits on its roof, watching the world pass by.

At the opposite end of the room is a pair of French doors that lead to what was once a small garden but is now a series of pots full of weeds and the last wilting flowers from the summer. There’s another log burner in here, and an oversized mahogany wardrobe that looks like it could lead to Narnia. Another door leads to a small but opulent bathroom, with a claw-footed bath taking centre-stage. I can have a bath without having to pluck pubes from the plughole beforehand. I can leave my washbag unattended. I can use a towel before having to give it a tentative sniff first. The indulgence!

I’m overwhelmed with the urge to fill the bath with hot, bubbly water and sink into it, but I have work to do. I need to unpack. I need to find a shop for supplies. And I need to re-introduce myself to the builders before I find myself in a super-awkward situation. But first, I need to take a few photos and send them to Emma. Hopefully she’ll show them to Sonia, who will be green with envy.

I’m in the middle of sending a bunch of smugtastic photos to Emma when I hear a knock at the front door. Todd is standing on the doorstep with a small box of PG Tips in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other. A jar of coffee and a bag of sugar is tucked under each arm.

‘I don’t suppose I could use your kettle?’ He flashes me a sheepish look as he waggles the box of teabags in my direction. ‘Nic used to let us make brews in here.’

I reach out and take the teabags from him. ‘Let me do that. I’ll bring them over to you.’ It’s the least I can do after I dragged them away from their untouched pints earlier. ‘What am I making?’

‘Three coffees – one black, no sugar, the others with milk and two sugars.’ Todd follows me into the kitchen, dumping the coffee, milk and sugar on the counter. ‘And one tea. Milk, no sugar.’

I repeat the order back to Todd, to make sure I’ve got it right in my head, before sending him back to the main house. I slip my boots back on while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, pretending I don’t feel the now familiar pinch as I hobble back to the kitchen. There’s a small collection of matching mugs in the cupboard and I find a tray tucked beside a set of saucepans. Loading it up with the drinks, I carry the tray carefully across the uneven drive to the main house, setting it down on the steps so I can open the door. The sound of upbeat music hits me as soon as I step into the hallway, and I follow the sound into what will one day be the kitchen again.

‘Tea break!’ I raise my voice to be heard over the radio and the drill with attached paddle that Vincent is using to mix up a large batch of plaster. He switches off the drill and swipes at his forehead with the back of his arm.

‘You’re a pet. You should have made this one do it.’ Vincent thrusts a thumb towards Todd before he drags himself to his feet. He grabs the black coffee and takes a tentative sip before turning to Todd again. ‘Take Oliver his tea up before it gets cold.’

Todd scrambles to his feet and reaches for the tea, but I move the tray out of the way. ‘I’ll do that. You have a break and enjoy your coffee.’ Todd shrugs and takes the remaining coffees, handing one to Harvey, who is still on the floor but now lounging, his legs spread out before him. ‘Where is Oliver?’

Vince takes another slurp of his coffee. ‘He’s making a start on the first-floor bathroom. Up the stairs, second door on your left.’

My footsteps echo loudly on the uncarpeted stairs, even as I take careful steps to avoid spilling the tea. I’d forgotten how cold it is in here and I shiver as I reach the top. I’m not surprised when I see the thick jumper the builder in the bathroom is wearing, the collar of a T-shirt visible at the neckline. I’d need a few more layers to stand working in the cold, and it’s clear why Vincent risked a scalded tongue by drinking his coffee so quickly, eager for some source of warmth.

The builder has his own radio up here – the small digital one I’d spotted earlier – and it’s currently blaring out The Bangles’ ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’. It’s so loud, he hasn’t heard my ascent up the stairs and has no idea I’m observing him from the doorway, watching as his bottom jiggles to the music. And it’s a lovely bottom; round but firm and full of rhythm, it seems. Setting the tea down carefully on the floor, I grab my phone and open the camera. Emma will never believe just how perfect a bottom this builder has, so I need photographic proof.

‘What are you doing?’

Stepping back with a yelp, I only just manage to avoid kicking the cup of tea over. ‘I, er, I was just …’ I look down at my phone and discreetly close the camera app. ‘I was just making a phone call.’ My thumb taps on the contacts app a split second before I turn the phone to show him the screen.

‘No.’ Oliver shakes his head as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘You weren’t. You were trying to take a photo of me.’

I don’t like his accusatory tone, even if the thing he’s accusing me of is absolutely spot on.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I too can adopt a shirty tone. Even if I’m in the wrong, and even if said shirty tone has been pilfered from Vanessa’s repertoire of snotty attitudes. ‘I can assure you I wasn’t taking a photo of anything, and especially not of you.’ I’m quite proud of my sneering use of the word ‘you’, and the way my lip curls in distaste.

‘Whatever.’ Oliver twists and reaches for the radio, shutting off the music. ‘Who are you, anyway? And does Vince know you’re up here snooping?’

Snooping, indeed! My mouth starts to gape before I snap it shut. Vanessa doesn’t gape. Ever.

‘Yes, Vincent does know I’m up here.’ Tilting my head to one side, I arch an eyebrow as high as I can manage. Admittedly, it isn’t very high as I haven’t had much practice in the art of snootiness. ‘And I wasn’t aware you could snoop in your own home.’

I expect Oliver to falter, to start falling over himself in his eagerness to please, like the others had in the pub earlier. Maybe he could wipe the palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans while I stand by and enjoy his slack-jawed reaction to my statement. I’m usually the flustered one, so it would make a welcome change to be the cool, calm, collected one for once.

Except this dude doesn’t give me the satisfaction of wavering. There are no sweaty palms, no slow realisation that I am The Boss. He is the cool, calm collected one as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly and looks me up and down.

‘So you’re the infamous Vanessa Whitely then.’ He gives me another full-length once-over before giving a lazy shrug. ‘You’re not what I was expecting at all.’

‘And what were you expecting?’ Cruella De Vil, I should imagine, and I smile sweetly at him, watching him through lowered lashes, to show that I’m far from the hard-nosed picture he’s built up in his head.

‘I’d thought you’d be more rottweiler than chihuahua.’

I’m not sure whether this is a compliment or not, but by the sly smile creeping onto Oliver’s face, I assume it wasn’t intended to be flattering. Instead of the fierce, don’t-mess-with-me guard dog, he sees me as a tiny, quivering pooch who’s more likely to make a puddle on the carpet than defend its property. I should unleash the Vanessa Whitely effect and put him in his place, but I’ve never been very good at confrontation. I’m definitely more chihuahua, not that I’ll tell him that.

‘I take it you’re Oliver?’ I attempt an air of indifference, to try to claw back a bit of poise.

‘Oliver Rowe.’ He holds out a hand, and I’m worried mine will be trembling as I reach out to take it. I make the handshake as swift as possible to mask any of the anxiety I’m feeling over the exchange.

‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I smile sweetly again, even though Oliver’s glowering at me. ‘And about earlier … shall we just forget that and start again?’

‘Forget that you were perving on me, you mean?’ Oliver folds his arms across his chest. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment in the workplace.’

‘I wasn’t perving on you. I was making a phone call.’ I waggle the phone at him, even though the screen is locked by now. ‘I wasn’t trying to take a photo of your bottom as you so arrogantly assumed.’

‘I never said anything about my bottom.’ A smug smile creeps onto Oliver’s face while I will the ground to open up beneath me. This is not going well at all. I need to get the upper hand back and quickly.

‘I actually meant we should forget about the fact that you accused me of snooping around my own home.’ There, take that, you smug git! ‘Now just get back to work.’ Giving him my best withering look, I march from the room, only to sneak back to pick up the cup of tea. If he wants a tea break, he can make his own bloody refreshments.

Chapter 8

I should probably head back to the guesthouse to unpack but I find myself wandering from room to room, sipping Oliver’s tea as I take my time to have a good nosy at the first floor of this magnificent house. It felt a bit creepy earlier when I was alone in the bare bones of a giant, cold house, but knowing Oliver is just along the hall and with the sound of the radio drifting from the bathroom again, I feel more at ease. I’ve counted six bedrooms so far, three with en-suite bathrooms, and I know there are more on the second floor. I’m about to head up there for another mosey around when something catches my eye out of the huge arched window at the end of the hallway. The window looks out over the land at the back of the property and there is something moving out there. I’m not sure what it is, other than non-human and far too large to be a dog. I scurry closer to the window and gasp when I realise what I’m seeing.

‘Oh my God.’ My eyebrows have all but lifted off my face as I cover my gaping mouth with my hand. I can’t believe it. Surely it isn’t …

‘What’s the matter?’

I turn at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He’s standing in the bathroom doorway with a plaster-covered trowel and board in hand.

‘Is it just me, or is there a donkey in the garden?’ I point out of the window, where the beast is ambling across the long grass, tail swishing.

Oliver joins me at the window and I’m relieved when he nods. I’m not hallucinating then.

‘That’s just Franny. She must have found the gap in the fence I was fixing earlier. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it later.’ He’s striding back towards the bathroom while I remain at the window, staring at the donkey as she bends her head to nibble at the overgrown grass. ‘I’ll take her home now and then I’ll patch up the fence as soon as I’ve finished here this evening.’ Having deposited his equipment back in the bathroom, Oliver is striding along the hallway towards the stairs. Tearing my eyes away from the donkey, I scurry after him.

‘Where does she live?’ I’m not sure why I’m so interested in this donkey – probably because it’s such an unusual sight. It isn’t as though you see donkeys wandering around in Manchester. An unleashed dog, perhaps, and plenty of pigeons, but no donkeys or other farmyard friends.

‘Just along the lane.’ Oliver has already reached the bottom of the stairs while I’m still carefully treading down each step so I don’t slip in my silly boots and break my neck.

‘Can I come and meet her? Before you take her back?’ Forgetting to channel Vanessa for a moment, a huge grin spreads across my face and I risk a tumble down the stairs as I pick up speed to join Oliver in the hallway.

‘Do what you want.’ Oliver shrugs. ‘It’s your house.’

Oliver’s words are hardly warm and welcoming, but I almost whoop out loud as a rush of pure joy erupts inside me and I’m transported back to the days of being a carefree child, of plodding along the sand on the back of a gentle donkey, of feeling content and unburdened. Of feeling so happy I could burst. I can’t recall the last time I felt so jubilant; perhaps it was when I was offered the job at Vanessa Whitely Events, back when I assumed I’d managed to get my foot through the door to my dream career. When I assumed I’d soon have a more inspired input in the business.

‘Give me a minute.’ Holding up a hand, Oliver strides into the kitchen but I tiptoe after him, catching the end of a conversation he’s having with Todd.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she was here?’

The way Oliver spits out the word ‘she’ is as though he’s just scraped it off the bottom of his shoe and caught a rank smell. Oliver Rowe, it seems, is not Vanessa’s biggest fan and I’ve done nothing to persuade him to change his perception.

Todd shrugs as he piles plaster onto his board under Vincent’s supervision. ‘You didn’t ask.’

Oliver throws his hands up in the air as Vincent shrugs. ‘I assumed he’d told you.’ He tuts at Todd. ‘You’re really as thick as mince sometimes, boy.’

I feel a bit sorry for Todd, especially as neither Harvey or Oliver jump to his defence and he simply gets on with the job of plastering the wall.

‘I could have got myself sacked up there just now.’ Oliver’s words are hissed and poor Todd flinches.

‘Why?’ Harvey sniggers. ‘What did you do? You didn’t hit on her, did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’

I feel a bit stung by Oliver’s instant dismissal at the very notion of hitting on me. The cheek!

‘You know what she’s like though. You’ve seen the emails she sent to Vince back in the beginning, and the way she treated Nic. The woman’s a Grade-A bitch.’

I don’t want to hear any more, whether it’s about me or Vanessa; I don’t think my ego could take another bruising. Creeping backwards, I make sure my heels clip-clop to their maximum as I march back towards the kitchen to announce my presence.

‘That donkey’s still out there, you know.’ With my hands on my hips, I’m projecting pure rottweiler. Oliver responds by saluting me, which isn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for, but at least he starts to move across the kitchen. Flashing poor Todd one last reproachful look, Oliver leads the way through the hallway, swinging the heavy oak door open and holding it for me to go through. It’s a gentlemanly act, but I don’t thank him for it. His words to the others are ringing in my ears on a loop.

Oliver leads me around to the back of the house without a word. Franny is still munching on the grass and seems in no hurry to leave.

‘The grass must taste better on this side of the fence.’ I’m trying to make light of the situation because the silence stretching between us is so awkward it’s making me itch.

‘Probably because she doesn’t have to share with the others over here.’ Oliver forges ahead while I tread over the damp grass as carefully as I can. My toes are already soaked and no doubt filthy. Open-toe boots are even less practical in the countryside than they are in the city.

‘The others?’ I wobble a bit, but luckily Oliver is too far ahead to notice.

‘At the sanctuary.’ Oliver slows down and for a moment I fear he’s going to try to take my arm to steady me, but luckily he moves ahead again. I don’t need his help. And I don’t need him to hit on me either, the arrogant sod.

‘There’s a donkey sanctuary here?’ I try to quash it, but there’s that joyful feeling again, bursting from the pit of my stomach and spreading into my chest. Who knew, as I stepped on the platform at Piccadilly train station this morning, that I would find such happiness with this project?

‘Not just donkeys. There’s all sorts, really. In fact, there are only two donkeys – Franny and Daisy.’ Oliver stops and turns to give me a strange look. ‘You did know you were moving in practically next door to a bunch of animals, right?’

Too late, I realise I’m supposed to be Vanessa, who more than likely would know this fact, and that actually I did know there was an animal sanctuary nearby. There was a sign on the roadside. Something about eggs?

‘I did know, obviously.’ I roll my eyes and plant the heel of my hand against my forehead. ‘But I can be such a scatterbrain sometimes.’ I roll my eyes again for good measure before moving on towards the donkey.

‘Have you been over to the sanctuary?’

I don’t know. Has Vanessa been to the sanctuary? I can’t imagine her being overly excited at the prospect of being in close proximity to any animal other than her prized pug, Angel, who has to be the most pampered pooch in the Greater Manchester area. Angel, whose miniature paws I swear have never touched the ground, is a world away from the robust-looking donkey before us. Franny is tall with spindly but sturdy-looking legs and long, twitching ears. Most of her fur is brown, but she has a creamy underside and face, which creates a stark contrast with her big brown eyes. She is beautiful.

‘No. Not yet.’ I take a punt and hope it was the right choice.

‘You haven’t met my sister, Stacey then?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer before striding ahead, which I’m grateful for as I have absolutely no idea whether Vanessa has been introduced to this woman. ‘Hello, Franny. You know you’re not supposed to wander off. Stace will be worried sick when she notices you’ve gone.’ Oliver has adopted a mock-stern tone, but he’s stroking the donkey with a gentle touch. This Oliver is a world away from the man who has just fumed at his workmate and called Vanessa a Grade-A bitch. ‘Come and meet Vanessa and then we’ll get you back before Stace has kittens.’ He pats the donkey a couple of times on the side before beckoning me to come closer. I edge my way over, suddenly wary now we’re up close. ‘It’s okay. She won’t hurt you. She’s a big softie, aren’t you, girl?’ He scratches the donkey in the space between her ears before holding a hand out to me. I take it, surprised it’s so warm after being in the chilly house, and step closer to the donkey. She barely moves, too interested in the juicy grass in front of her.

‘Hello, Franny.’ I feel a bit foolish talking to a donkey, but Oliver smiles in encouragement and I reach out to stroke her fur. It’s silky soft and warm and I find myself taking another step closer.

‘See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Franny wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Oliver stoops to plant a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Shall we get you home, girl?’

Franny is wearing a bright red harness, which Oliver takes hold of and starts to gently guide the donkey towards the house. She cooperates fully, willingly giving up her grassy snack to plod alongside us.

‘You’re really good with her.’ I can’t help but feel impressed with the confident way Oliver is handling the donkey. As docile as she seems to be, there’s no way I’d dare to even try to coax her to move, but Oliver is definitely in charge here.

‘It comes from years of experience. Plus, we’re best buddies, aren’t we, girl?’ He scratches at the space between Franny’s ears as he guides her around the side of the house. I much prefer this Oliver to the smug one in the bathroom. ‘Franny was the first animal taken into the sanctuary. In fact, she started it all off. It wasn’t even a sanctuary at all back then, just a house with an old, disused barn and a big back garden. Franny was found wandering along the track near the iron bridge. Nearly got herself run over by a tractor. The poor girl was so thin, we didn’t know if she’d survive.’

‘But she did survive.’ I cringe inwardly at my observation. Of course she survived – she’s walking beside us right now. Oliver must think I’m completely dense. Or as thick as mince, as Vincent would say.

‘That’s all down to Stace.’ We’ve reached the drive now, and Oliver pauses, his brows lowering as he nods towards the house. ‘I won’t be long and don’t worry – I’ll make the time up later.’ He seems to have reverted to the old Oliver, the Oliver who despises me. Or Vanessa. Or both of us.

‘Can I come with you?’ I’m intrigued by the animal sanctuary, and I also want to experience a bit more of the nice Oliver. If I can keep chatting to him while he’s under the influence of Franny, while he’s being cute and charming, maybe we can make up for the bad start we’ve had.

‘Whatever.’ Oliver shrugs, his tone sullen, but at least he hasn’t said no. We carry on along the drive, taking it slowly over the uneven rubble covering on the ground.

‘So what happened to Franny after she was found?’ The donkey seems to be a safe topic, so I decide to keep our focus on her as we head towards the lane.

‘Stace took Franny in, kept her warm and fed, and she got stronger and stronger. We tried to find the owner, but nobody ever came forward to claim her, so she became a permanent fixture in the barn. From there, word spread and any waif and stray was brought to Stace to look after. She loves it though and I’m so proud of the work she does for the animals. I help out when I can, but it’s Stace who does most of the hard graft.’

I quite like the way he speaks about his sister, the pride not only in his words but in the tone of his voice and the way his face has lit up. I can’t imagine Kate would ever speak about me in that way. I’m more of a disappointment than someone to aspire to.

I reach out to stroke Franny’s soft fur, trying not to picture the state she was in when she was found out on the track. It’s heartbreaking to imagine the suffering. Oliver and Stacey are good people for taking her – and many others – in and taking care of them. Oliver may not be my cup of tea in the way he speaks to his workmates, or the way he assumes people are drawn to his bottom (even if they are) and certainly not the way he dismissed me so rapidly, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. And yes, I have to admit he’s a good-looking bloke. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a confident manner (even if it sometimes nudges into arrogance) and there’s definitely a cheeky twinkle in his eye. And I do like the way his dark blond hair is just a little bit too long and is starting to wave. And have I mentioned his bottom?

We reach the lane and although it’s narrow, we’re at least on firmer ground, which is good news for both Franny and my boots. Oliver tells me more about the sanctuary as we make our way towards the next property, and how they mainly rely on fundraising and donations to keep the sanctuary running.

‘And here we are.’ Oliver stops in front of a gate between two sets of tall hedgerows and swings it open. ‘Welcome to Little Heaton’s Animal Sanctuary.’

Chapter 9

The animal sanctuary isn’t at all what I was expecting. It looks like a regular house. A very pretty house, with a cherry-red door between two large, sashed windows, but a regular house all the same. There’s a small garden to the front, with two oblong patches of manicured lawn sandwiching a cobbled path that leads from the wide iron gate to the front door. On closer inspection, I notice that the door knocker is a brass, floppy-eared rabbit, but the only other indication that this is an animal sanctuary is the small plaque proclaiming so above the letterbox.

‘Wow. This looks lovely.’

And it really does. If you told me to close my eyes and picture a countryside dwelling, this is the image I would conjure. Chuck on a bit of snow and a wreath on the door, and you’ve got yourself a classy Christmas card right here.

‘It isn’t as grand as your house, but we like it.’ Oliver closes the gate behind the three of us and leads Franny along the path. ‘It was my grandparents’ house. My gran left it to us six years ago, shortly before this little lady came to stay.’

Bypassing the front door, Oliver leads the way to a tall wooden gate to the side of the property before he hands the harness to me. My eyes widen in fear but I automatically grab hold of the strap.

‘I won’t be a minute. Just need to go and unlock the gate from the other side.’ Oliver is already backing away from me, even as I open my mouth to protest. Nothing comes out and so I stand there with a gaping mouth until he disappears around the corner. I stand stock-still, willing Franny to do the same until Oliver returns. What would I do if the donkey decided to take another stroll? Other than scuttle after her? I’m a pushover when it comes to humans and although it’s never been tested, I’m pretty sure I’ll roll over and take whatever decision this donkey makes too.

Thankfully, Franny remains calm during the short time it takes Oliver to move through the house and into the back garden, but I still heave a massive sigh of relief when I hear the sound of a lock being released on the other side of the gate. It swings open, but instead of Oliver standing on the other side, it’s the blonde woman who helped me find the house earlier. She doesn’t have the sheep with her this time but she’s still wearing the bobble hat and wellies.

‘I’m so sorry about this.’ She reaches for the harness and gives a gentle tug, and Franny responds by plodding through the gate. ‘I didn’t even realise she’d gone walkabout – I thought she was in the barn, the little tinker.’ She indicates that I should follow and locks the gate behind me. ‘We met earlier. Arthur’s Pass, right?’

Oliver is suddenly beside Stacey, his arm slung around her shoulders. ‘This is my sister, Stacey, the mastermind behind Little Heaton’s Animal Sanctuary.’ Stacey rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling at the compliment. ‘And this is your new neighbour.’ Oliver removes his arm from Stacey’s shoulder so he can hold it out towards me. ‘Vanessa Whitely.’

The smile vanishes from Stacey’s face and I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping with all my might that Stacey and the real Vanessa haven’t met previously.

‘Oh.’ There’s a flicker of a smile on Stacey’s lips as she holds a hand towards me, but it doesn’t last. ‘We finally meet.’ Her eyes are as cold as Vanessa’s barren house as we shake hands. ‘I hope Franny hasn’t caused too much trouble?’ She looks from me to Oliver, her tone rising to form a question.

‘No trouble at all.’ I stroke Franny’s head, feeling braver now I’m not in control of the harness. ‘In fact, it was lovely to meet her.’

Now we’re on the other side of the gate, the animal sanctuary is clear to see. The garden at the property is quite large, but most of it is taken up by the barn at the bottom of the plot, with two wooden sheds and a series of hutches and coops to the side. A couple of chickens are wandering around, pecking at the ground, while the sheep I met earlier is munching on a patch of grass. There are hand-painted signs indicating where each set of animals is kept, plus another to the side of the back door to the house, directing the way to the café and gift shop.

‘Well, feel free to pop over any time you like. We’re always happy for volunteers to lend a hand.’ Stacey starts to walk towards the barn at the bottom of the garden and Franny plods along beside her with little encouragement needed. ‘And don’t worry – we’ve always got plenty of spare pairs of wellies on hand.’

My gaze drops down to my feet, where I see my toes have taken on a blotchy, bluish hue, visible in patches beneath the mud I’ve accumulated along the way. These boots really aren’t suited to countryside living. Vanessa’s designer footwear won’t stand a chance.

‘I’m not sure mucking out donkeys is Vanessa’s thing.’

I’m about to agree with Oliver’s assessment of my boss until I realise with a start that he’s talking about me. Judging me. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.

‘I don’t know about that. It might be fun?’ I don’t want Oliver to be under the impression I’m some sort of dirt-averse princess. I live with an untamed flatmate who leaves his toenail clippings on the arm of the sofa; if I can cope with discovering that gruesome collection as I sit down to watch the telly, I can certainly cope with cleaning out a barn.

‘Okay then. Why don’t you come round tomorrow morning?’ Stacey twists so she’s walking backwards, the harness still loose in her hands. ‘I’ll start you off gently with the chickens and I’ll even throw in a free breakfast. How does seven o’ clock sound?’

‘You don’t have to.’ Oliver aims a dark look at his sister. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ I fold my arms across my chest and meet Stacey’s eye with a steely determination I didn’t even know I possessed. The real Vanessa wouldn’t back away from a challenge and this fake one isn’t going to either. Perhaps pretending to be Vanessa is rubbing off on me.

*

I finally sink into the claw-footed bath later that evening, once the builders have packed up their van and trundled away and I’ve had the chance to wander into the village in search of a shop. I eventually discovered a mini market on the high street, sandwiched between a tanning shop and a charity shop, and I was able to pick up a few essentials and a ready meal – I couldn’t face cooking after the day I’ve had. The warm, bubble-filled water is glorious and I allow myself to sink down until I’m almost fully submerged. I wriggle my toes to get the circulation going again as a combination of the boots and the cold have numbed them during the course of the day. My shoulders rise before I release a long, audible sigh into the steamy bathroom. I can’t tell you how comforting it is to know that Lee won’t try to shoulder his way through the door as he describes the state of his bowels two minutes into my soak.

I remain submerged until I start to shiver from the cool water and I resemble an old, wrinkly prune. I found a huge towel on the shelving unit inside the wardrobe while I was unpacking earlier, and I’ve left it warming on the radiator. Another huge sigh escapes as I wrap it around my body. I’m not sure how to light the fire, but I’m toasty warm anyway when I emerge from the bedroom encased in my fleecy onesie and fluffy dressing gown. The guesthouse is completely silent, but I break the stillness by jabbing at my ready meal with a fork and the hum from the microwave is familiar and soothing. While I wait for the microwave to zap my lasagne, I switch on the massive telly and flick through the channels until I find a repeat of Would I Lie To You. Lee Mack is tossing a teabag across the studio, aiming for a mug on the opposite desk, when the microwave pings. I turn the volume up to drown out the silence – there isn’t a sound from outside, not even the distant murmur of traffic which is pretty eerie after living in a busy town – before I grab my lasagne and settle down for an evening of watching whatever the hell I want without complaint from Lee, or competition from his too-loud music.

I wish I’d thought to buy a bottle of wine from the mini market, but I make do with a cup of coffee and the slab of Dairy Milk I did have the forethought to purchase from its prime position at the till. The novelty of being alone is already starting to wane, so I send a quick text to Emma and selfishly hope she hasn’t got such a fulfilled social life that it’ll prevent her from replying. Thankfully, Emma responds within seconds and we end up chatting until the strangest day of my life takes its toll and I can no longer keep my eyes open. I remember to set my alarm so I’ll be up and out of the guesthouse for my date with the chickens at seven the next morning, and it’s just as my brain switches from conscious to snoresville that I realise I should have come clean about my true identity, that I shouldn’t have spent the day tricking everyone into believing I’m someone I’m not. I’ll tell them tomorrow. First thing. Everyone has been so nice and welcoming to me – apart from Oliver and his ‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’ comment, and Stacey was a bit frosty – but it feels wrong to deceive them. Not that I’ve been lying per se – it’s simply a mistake I’ve been slow to rectify. That’s all.

Chapter 10

When Vanessa tasked me with the role of project manager, I assumed I’d spend a few days at a time in Little Heaton before returning home for the weekend, so I haven’t packed a great deal, and my footwear is limited. As well as the peep-toe boots, I’ve brought a pair of ballet flats with me, but neither are suitable for cleaning out chicken coops, so I hope Stacey wasn’t kidding when she said they had spare pairs of wellies at the animal sanctuary.

It’s a chilly morning again, so I zip my coat right up to my chin and shove my hands deep into my pockets as I make my way across the drive. It’s still eerily quiet and I find myself longing to hear the rumble of an approaching bus as I make my way along the lane, but there isn’t any hint of traffic at all, not even a bicycle. I find myself matching my serene surroundings, taking small, gentle steps along the narrow lane, avoiding the leaves that have already started to litter the ground in case they crunch underfoot. My ballet flats, it seems, are much more suited to creeping around the countryside than my boots.

I stand at the gate for a moment when I reach Stacey and Oliver’s house, admiring the property. It isn’t nearly as big as Vanessa’s house, but it’s charming with its yellow stone façade and red tiled roof, a small patch of ivy stretching up between the front door and the sashed window to the side. This house is a world away from the grotty flat above the takeaway I share with Lee and despite my determination to earn a promotion at work, this sort of home feels so far out of reach it makes my chest ache with longing.

The curtains have already been thrown open and I can see somebody pottering around in one of the downstairs rooms. I haven’t got a clear view from here, but I can tell it is neither Oliver nor Stacey from the short, curvy build. Deciding it’s time I stopped hovering, I push my way through the gate, jumping at the sudden sound as it clangs shut behind me. Turning to shush the inanimate object, I don’t see the front door open.

‘You came then.’

I jump again, my hand thumping against my chest as I turn around. Stacey is standing on the doorstep, eyebrow quirked as she watches me scuttle along the path towards her.

‘Of course.’ My voice is a squeak, so I clear my throat and throw my chin into the air, channelling Vanessa. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Stacey gives a lazy shrug before she opens the door wider and steps aside so I can follow her into the house. ‘Cleaning out chickens isn’t for everyone, and from what I know about you, I’d say it’s as far away from your comfort zone as you can get.’

My brow furrows as I close the front door behind me. ‘We only met briefly yesterday. What could you possibly know about me to make that judgement?’

Okay, fair enough, I’d been wandering around the countryside in a pair of unsuitable boots the previous day, but that doesn’t mean anything. I came to the village in a professional capacity. I wasn’t expecting to be volunteering at the local animal sanctuary. I’d have rocked up in my old, saggy jogging bottoms and greying trainers if I’d had an inkling.

‘This is a pretty small village.’ Stacey leads the way along the hallway, turning to make sure I’m still following. ‘There’s no such thing as a private life around here. Gossip is rife. It’s a local pastime.’

‘But there’s nothing for people to gossip about when it comes to me.’ We’ve reached the end of the passageway, which has broadened to form a small entryway. There’s a shoe rack full of wellies below a row of waterproof jackets. ‘I’m really not that interesting.’

The corner of Stacey’s mouth flickers up before she presses her lips together to stop the smirk from fully forming on her face. ‘If you say so.’ She gives another shrug before she eyes my footwear. ‘What size are you?’

‘Five.’

Stacey is wearing the cherry-red wellies again. She selects a pink pair with white hearts from the rack and hands them to me before turning towards a set of drawers and opening the top one. ‘Thick socks. Don’t worry – they’re clean. We always have plenty of spares.’ She opens the next drawer and pulls out a yellow bobble hat. ‘You might need this. It’s pretty nippy out.’ She reaches into the drawer again and hands me a pair of chunky gloves. ‘I’ll meet you outside when you’re ready.’ She points at the back door before she slips out of it. There’s a chair against the wall opposite the shoe rack, so I sit down while I pull on the socks and wellies. I’m not sure about the bright yellow bobble hat, so I wedge it into my coat pocket and make my way out into the back garden, yanking on the gloves as I go. The chickens are already out of the coop, stalking around the small lawn and scratching at the ground.

‘How many chickens have you got?’ I only saw a couple yesterday, but there are at least half a dozen out here now.

‘Eight.’ Stacey rolls her eyes. ‘We only started off with two. Ex-battery, in pretty poor condition. Bianca and Patty.’ She points out a couple of the chickens. ‘Poor girls. I didn’t have a clue how to care for them, but you learn quickly, and Oliver put together the coop for me. It helps having someone handy with wood and nails on hand, believe me. Saves a fortune.’ Stacey hands me a wicker basket and leads me towards the open coop. ‘We’ll collect any eggs first. Mrs McColl will be starting her cake baking soon, so we’d better be quick. You don’t want to get on her bad side.’ Stacey grins at me and I’m not sure whether to be reassured or not. I have no idea who Mrs McColl is but I’m keen to get the eggs in the basket ASAP.

The coop is wide, with a closed house-like structure at one end and a long, meshed run at the other. There’s a box attached to the side of the wooden house, which Stacey lifts open. Nestled in the straw are five eggs, which we gently place in the basket. I’ve never handled an egg so fresh and as long as I don’t think about where it has just come from, I’m fascinated.

‘I’ll get these inside to Mrs McColl so she can get started on her baking.’ Stacey takes the basket from me and starts to head back towards the house. ‘Can you gather the water containers and give them a quick scrub at the tap?’ Stacey has reached the back door and she points out the tap further along the building. I give a thumbs up, my smile bright and confident, but it slips as soon as Stacey disappears inside. What if one of the chickens sees me messing around their coop and comes to investigate? What if all of them suddenly become interested in the stranger on their property? I’ve never been up close and personal with a chicken (unless I’ve been sticking one in the oven) but they seem very beaky and scratchy and I don’t fancy my chances going up against one of them, let alone eight of the feathered beasts. I think about channelling Vanessa again to bolster my confidence, but there is no way Vanessa would be in this yard cleaning out chickens. For now, I will have to make do with being Rebecca Riley. She is capable. She is reliable. She is also actually quite terrified of chickens, it seems.

With a yelp, I’m across the yard, stumbling in my unfamiliar wellies. One of the chickens, a scrawny-looking, rusty-coloured one, is stalking towards me, its evil intentions clear in its small, beady eyes.

‘That’s just Chow Mein.’ Stacey steps through the door again as I reach it, a bemused look on her face. ‘She’s curious, that’s all. She won’t hurt you, will you, sweetie?’ Bending, Stacey scoops up the chicken and brandishes it towards me. I fight the urge to leap away and instead hold out a slightly trembling finger, touching it briefly to the chicken’s soft feathers. I clocked the look of bemusement on Stacey’s face as she caught me cowering by the door and I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me spooked again. For some reason, Stacey seems to be trying to push my buttons, testing me to find my limits.

‘Chow Mein?’ I take the opportunity to look away from the feathery beast and focus on Stacey instead. ‘Chicken Chow Mein?’

Stacey rolls her eyes. ‘Oliver named her. Thought it was amusing.’ She shrugs, the corners of her lips flicking briefly into a small smile. ‘Which it is. A little bit.’

‘She’s lovely, really, isn’t she?’ I don’t dare stroke Chow Mein again, but I do stoop to look her in the face. Her eyes don’t look quite so beady now she isn’t chasing me across the yard. ‘Quite cute for a chicken.’

‘She’s gorgeous. I’ve had her since she was a chick, so she’s extra special to me.’ Stacey releases the chicken and leads me back to the coop, where we gather the plastic water containers. Once they’re clean and full again, we sweep out the old bedding, replacing it with fresh handfuls. I’m warm from the exertions of cleaning out the coop but my ears feel as though they’re about to pop off through the cold. I’m itching to snatch the bobble hat from my pocket, but I’m sure Stacey would chalk that down as another victory.

Giving a satisfied nod at the clean coop, Stacey starts to wander back towards the house. ‘Let’s wash up and then Mrs McColl will make you a breakfast to die for.’

She leads me back into the house, indicating a small downstairs loo near the shoe rack. I give my hands a thorough scrub with the coconut-scented handwash before joining Stacey again, changing back into my own footwear while Stacey washes. I’m quite glad to be out of the wellies, but my feet are already mourning the thick socks as I slip on the ballet flats.

‘We run a small café for our visitors.’ Stacey emerges back into the hall and leads the way along the passage. ‘Mainly tea and cake and the odd bit of veggie soup or stew. Mrs McColl is one of our volunteers who mans the kitchen. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

‘You’d get along perfectly fine and you know it.’ The booming voice comes from within one of the rooms leading off the passageway and Stacey turns to roll her eyes at me.

‘I can barely boil an egg. Wait until you try Mrs McColl’s freshly baked bread. You’ll be in heaven.’

‘Hardly. I just throw a bit of flour and water in the oven.’ We’ve reached the café now, which I guess was once a regular dining room but is now filled with four round tables. Mrs McColl is standing by the doorway, her arms folded across her ample chest. ‘Anyway, what can I get you? I could probably stretch to a poached egg today, but only one each, mind.’

Stacey reaches for a chair at the nearest table and pulls it out. ‘We try to use our own produce as much as possible, but Mrs McColl has first dibs at the eggs for her cakes. Not that anyone complains about that. Mrs McColl puts Mary Berry to shame.’

Mrs McColl snorts and shakes her head. ‘Excuse me a moment while I climb down from that pedestal you’ve put me on. I need to go and get that to-die-for loaf out of the oven.’ She tuts as she passes by, heading across the room to another doorway and disappearing from view.

‘She isn’t a fan of compliments, no matter how deserved they are.’ Stacey sits down and grabs a menu from the middle of the table, handing it to me once I’m seated opposite. ‘I’m going to go for the toast with jam. The jam’s homemade too, using the fruit from our allotment.’

‘That sounds great.’ I pop the menu back into its little wooden holder in the middle of the table. ‘I’ll have that too.’

It turns out that Mrs McColl really does deserve all the compliments. The thickly-cut bread is divine, while the blackberry jam is the perfect balance between sweet and tart. I wolf down both wedges at lightning speed, washing them down with strong, sweet tea. I’m usually content with a small bowl of cornflakes in the morning, so it must be the fresh, country air making me so ravenous.

‘I’d better be getting back over to the house.’ I have no idea what time the builders usually start, but I’m hoping to be there before them. I reach for my purse but Stacey holds up a hand.

‘Breakfast is on me. As a thank you for helping out with the chickens.’ She takes a sip of her tea before setting it down gently on her saucer. ‘Same time tomorrow then?’ She raises an eyebrow in challenge, and although I have no idea why Stacey has decided to test my willingness to muck out chickens, I find my chin jutting out in defiance.

‘Why don’t we make it a bit earlier? That way I can help out with Franny too.’

Stacey’s mouth stretches into a wide grin while I mentally kick myself. ‘Great idea! Shall we say six-thirty?’

I must be a fan of self-flagellation because I find myself giving a curt nod. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’

Chapter 11

The silence of the lane is broken by the rumbling of an engine as I make my way back to the house, and I’m both glad of the familiar sound and afraid of the narrow track at the same time. I press myself as far into the bush running alongside the lane as I can as the van nears, somehow entangling my hair in the prickly branches. I’m trying to extricate myself when Oliver toots his horn and waves cheerily from the van’s driver’s seat. I wave back, yelping as the bush attempts to scalp me as soon as I release my grip. I resume my battle with the bush as the van turns onto Arthur’s Pass and disappears from view, but my phone ringing in my pocket pauses my endeavours again. I manage to reach into my pocket without tearing out my hair and leaving a brunette mop on the branches like a badly-crafted bird’s nest, and jab at the answer button while trying to untangle myself with my free hand.

‘Vanessa! Hi!’ I’m aiming for a bright and breezy tone, but the task of freeing myself from the badly-behaved bush is taking its toll and it comes out strained and raspy. ‘How are you?’

‘Better than you by the sounds of it. Is everything okay?’

I’m shocked by my boss’s concern; she’s never once asked after my well-being, not even the time I dragged my aching carcass to the office while in the full throes of a bout of the flu. ‘Everything is …’ I tug at a twig and hear it snap, leaving a small spike behind like a cave woman’s hair grip. ‘Fine. Great, in fact.’

‘Then why do you sound like you’re battling the crowds at a Primark Boxing Day Sale?’ Vanessa sniggers at her own little joke. The woman has never ventured a designer-clad toe inside a Primark store, so how would she know what it’s like?

I try to change position but wince in pain as my hair is pulled tighter. ‘I’m, erm …’ I move slowly back to my original position. ‘Jogging! I’m jogging. The countryside is so beautiful, I thought I’d make the most of it.’

‘Right.’ Vanessa doesn’t seem convinced but I’m too busy trying to dislodge a twig that’s doing its best to penetrate my scalp. ‘Whatever. The reason I called is to apologise for my behaviour yesterday.’

The sharp twig scrapes the palm of my hand as I finally disentangle it from my hair, but I barely feel it as I’m so shocked by Vanessa’s words. ‘You want to apologise? To me?’

Vanessa never apologises to her staff, and even when she brings herself to apologise to clients, she’s never sincere, despite the sugary tones she adopts for the purpose.

‘Yes, which I know is totally out of character.’ Vanessa gives a self-deprecating laugh while I’m thinking what an understatement that is. ‘But Ty pointed out last night that I may have been a bit … bulldozer-like in my approach.’

Wow. Tyler Johansson is one brave young man. And he is young compared to his girlfriend. While Vanessa is in her ‘early thirties’ (I’m her PA and privy to her private info. She is only just clinging onto her thirties and it’ll be a downright lie when she reaches her next birthday), Tyler is a twenty-two-year-old part-time model she met at a charity event three months ago. I’ve only met him a couple of times, when he’s dropped by the office to see Vanessa, but he seems decent enough and he’s obviously got balls of steel to go up against Vanessa Whitely.

‘I admit I may have been a bit forceful and that threatening to sack you if you didn’t take on the project manager role was wrong of me. It’s just that this project is very dear to me. You’ve seen the house – isn’t it magnificent? So just imagine how glorious it will be once the work is finished. I can’t wait to show it off!’

‘It is a beautiful house.’

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