Chapter 9
NINE
I am being buried alive, and I smell smoke.
These are the first thoughts that run through my brain as I start to slowly wake up. Well, they don’t so much ‘run through’ my brain as ‘attack it with a sub-machine gun’, and my adrenaline response kicks in. I start to flail my arms and legs, trying to fight my way out of my bonds, and let out a desperate, strangled shout.
Little by little, reality starts to take hold and I realise that I am not being buried alive after all. I am just buried in especially heavy bedding. I take a few deep breaths, slide one arm out, and begin to dismantle my cocoon jail.
Once I’ve escaped, I lie back on the pillow, reminding myself of where I am. I am in a bedroom at Bancroft Manor. I am a guest here, and seem to have accidentally become pals with a British aristocrat. Last night, after his mother attempted a citizen’s arrest, he escorted me here to this large, ornate and fairly cold room.
The bed is a four-poster, the wallpaper is red and gold fleur-de-lys, and I can actually see my breath puff out clouds in the frigid air. Charles had apologised for the temperature, explaining that they only ‘keep up’ the rooms they use, and left me with enough blankets and bedspreads to keep me cosy.
I actually slept exceptionally well by my standards, and the deepness of my sleep probably contributed to my mind getting confused and thinking I was buried alive. That primal fear has now dissolved but I realise, wrinkling up my nostrils, that I can still smell smoke.
I sit upright, shivering slightly as the cold hits my bare shoulders, and sniff the air as I look around.
It doesn’t take long – I hadn’t noticed it last night, but the room actually comes with its own balcony. The French doors leading out to it are wide open, which explains the chill, and a young woman is sitting outside with a cigarette, which explains the smell.
‘Morning!’ she says brightly, as I pull the comforter up to my chin. ‘I brought you a coffee, but then I drank it. Sorry. I’m Georgina. Everyone calls me Georgie, or sometimes George. Sometimes a few other things but we won’t go into that!’
Georgina – Charles’s daughter, I recall. She’s somewhere in her late teens, I’d say, with a lean build, long legs, and shining blonde hair that shimmers over her shoulders like a golden curtain. Her naturally wholesome good looks are a bit at odds with the Ramones T-shirt she’s wearing, peeking out from beneath a shaggy, hole-ridden cardigan.
‘Right. I’m Cassie. And could you either stub out that cigarette or close the doors, ideally both? I’m freezing.’
I wonder if I’m being rude, but decide I’m really not. I might not know much about the etiquette of the English upper classes, but I do know that it’s impolite to sneak into someone’s room, open their windows and blow smoke at them while they sleep.
‘Aye aye, Captain!’ she replies, giving me a little salute before she flicks the cigarette into a large pottery jug.
She strolls into my room and closes the doors behind her, standing at the end of my bed and biting her lip as she assesses me. She passes me my robe, then sits at the foot of the mattress. She curls her long legs up beneath her, and gives me a killer smile. I can imagine it gets her out of a lot of trouble, that smile – or possibly into it.
‘I’m sorry I possibly freaked you out a bit there,’ she says. ‘My room is actually next door, and this used to be my mother’s domain. I’ve been climbing between the two balconies for years. You weren’t awake, even at this very civilised hour, so I just… opened the doors to give you a bit of a nudge. It’s quite rude, really, I know – but as soon as Dad told me you were here, I was bursting to meet you! I’ve been home for weeks and I think I’m almost dead from boredom.’
I’m taken aback by so much of that small speech that I simply stare at her as I process it. Charles mentioned his ex-wife… but this was her room? Maybe they were sleeping separately before they divorced. Maybe that’s normal here, when you have so many rooms. Or maybe it was all super-amicable and this is where she sleeps when she visits? Maybe – in fact definitely – it’s not my business. I’m also slightly alarmed at the thought of Georgie clambering between rooms on frosty mornings, and wondering what time she considers a ‘civilised hour’.
I go with the last one, check my phone, and do a double-take when I see that it’s after ten a.m. I never sleep in this late, even when I’m on vacation. I slip on my robe and look around for my case. Everything feels strange and unfamiliar, and my body is aching in some weird places. Probably from the journey, or falling over outside Whimsy, or stumbling through the darkness with a shotgun at my back. I’m spoiled for choice.
‘Will there be more coffee downstairs?’ I ask, concentrating on the important stuff.
‘Yes! There’s always coffee. And once you’re up and about, Roberts will get the fire sorted in here, and then you won’t need so many covers, and maybe tonight you won’t have nightmares about being buried alive…’
‘Are you a mind reader?’
‘I could be, couldn’t I? Or it might be that a few seconds before you woke up, you were shouting “Help, I’m buried alive!” Would you like to come and get some breakfast with me? And would you like me to drive you around for the day – I could be your chauffeur, and take you to the village, and show you all the best places?’
Her blue eyes are shining with excitement, and her hands are so animated they’re flying around and clapping together mid-air. I notice her fingernails are painted black and chewed right down to the skin, and wonder why a girl who looks so perfect has so many bad habits.
‘Please, please, please?’ she asks, trying on a little-girl expression that makes me laugh out loud.
‘How old are you anyway? Have you actually passed your driving test?’
‘Of course I have – I wouldn’t be offering to drive you around if I hadn’t, would I?’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘Okay, fair point – I don’t suppose I’ve exactly shown myself up as Sergeant Sensible so far. But I assure you, I can drive – I’ll even show you my licence if you like. And I’m seventeen.’
‘Right. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, in school or something?’
She fidgets around, twisting her hair around her fingers, chewing her lip again before she answers: ‘Um, well, probably – but I’m dyslexic, and also a total nightmare, so I kept getting kicked out of them. The local schools, boarding school, all of them. I… uh, well, I don’t like being told what to do, you see, and that’s kind of a big deal at school.’
‘Yeah. I remember that part. I didn’t mind it – it was easier than deciding what to do by myself. I’m trying to change that.’
As I speak, I unzip my suitcase and start to unpack. I can feel her sharp eyes on me, and eventually she says: ‘Is that why you’re here? Have you run away to England to try and grow a backbone?’
‘I’m starting to see why you kept getting kicked out of places.’
‘Yeah. Sorry. I’m frightfully inappropriate, I know. Granny’s been horrified at me for years, but now she finds my lack of filter amusing – probably because of the Alzheimer’s, and the fact that she’s losing her own filter these days. We can be awful together now. Would you like me to help you unpack?’
‘No, thank you,’ I say firmly. ‘In fact, I need to get dressed now, so maybe you could scram?’
‘Scram! I love how that sounds in your accent! See you downstairs? You’ve missed cooked breakfast in the kitchen, but second breakfast will still be out in the Blue Room. We’re like hobbits, we always have second breakfast. Byeee!’
As soon as she leaves – thankfully by the door and not by the window – the room feels empty. She’s an absolute force of nature, and truth be told I already kind of adore her. As the least perfect member of my own family, I’ve developed a healthy appreciation for people with flaws. Beneath the chatter and the bravado, I suspect there’s a sensitive soul who finds the world a difficult place.
I look around the room, now swathed in sunlight pouring through the windows. Dust motes dance in the air, fluttering in the vast space between floor and ceiling. The Persian rug beneath my feet is a little threadbare, and I see no signs of recent habitation other than a few abandoned items of women’s clothing hanging in a huge closet.
By the time I’ve finished my morning necessities, I feel much better. I lie on the bed for a few minutes and message June, as promised, keeping her up to date on everything that’s happened. I send a much smaller message to my dad:
Here and settled. I’ve drunk tea, and been to a pub. Love you, say hi to Mom and sis for me – more later xoxo
As I leave the room, I notice that even the door is made to an enormous scale – everything in this house seems to have been built for giants. In the hallway outside, I am greeted with more family portraits. There’s an especially dour-looking dude with a big ruffed collar and a floppy hat at the bottom of the stairs, and I stick my tongue out at him.
‘That’s Earl William Carruthers de St George,’ Charles tells me, suddenly appearing at the foot of the staircase. ‘I don’t think he’s used to such disrespect!’
‘I can imagine – he’d probably have me burned as a witch. But come on, he looks like such a bore! You can’t tell me that when you were kids, you didn’t do exactly the same? Or slide down this shiny banister? Or try and fit inside the suit of armour and walk around pretending to be a knight?’
‘Pretending? How insulting! That’s one of my ceremonial titles! And yes – of course. Many generations of Bancroft bottoms have slid down that banister – though you have to be very careful of the carved wooden pineapple at the end, or the family line could come to an abrupt and painful halt. How are you this morning? I believe you met Georgina?’
‘I’d say “met” is too subtle a word… she’s great, isn’t she?’
I add the last few words partly because they’re true, but also because he looks concerned. He moves in different circles than me, ones that are potentially less tolerant. Georgina looks every inch the posh young English lady, but her personality and behaviour seem quite out of synch with that role. Added to that the problems with discipline, and I can guess life hasn’t always been easy for her dad.
‘She is. It’s good to have her home again, and now all I need to do is find a tutor who can tolerate her for more than a day. She’s actually very bright, and with adjustments the dyslexia shouldn’t hold her back, but I think perhaps she worries about it more than she lets on, and there have been a few family issues, and… well, that’s more than you probably want to know!’
‘Not at all. I’m super-nosy. But whatever her deal is, I’m sure she’ll be fine, Charles – being a teenage girl is never easy, and she’ll find her way through it all. Not everybody has to be perfect, do they?’
He smiles at me, and his deep green eyes meet mine. He’s dressed more casually this morning, in well-worn Levi’s and a pale blue shirt that emphasises the golden tone of his skin. He is, to channel my own inner teenage girl, totally dreamy.
‘That’s very kind of you to say. Does it come from experience? Were you an awkward teenager?’
‘I wasn’t too bad as a teen actually. I was always a good girl, always wanted to please. But these days, I’m pretty much the family loser. I had a thing happen to me – not even that serious a thing compared to other stuff that goes on in the world – but it… well, it kind of derailed me for a while. I basically lost my mojo, you know?’
He reaches out and lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. His touch is warm, his fingers firm, and I resist the urge to lean into him like a cat looking for affection.
‘I do. Mojos are rare and precious items, surprisingly easy to lose. Is that one of the reasons you’re here? Searching for it?’
‘Yeah. And to be honest, I think maybe it’s working a little? Or maybe I’ve just been busy. I definitely haven’t been thinking about the stuff that normally upsets me anywhere near as much.’
This is true – since I arrived in the Cotswolds I haven’t had a minute where I’ve felt ashamed of myself, or worried that I’m a waste of space. I’ve felt plenty of other things – angry, confused, like I’d made a mistake by coming here – but never quite the same toxic self-loathing stew.
‘Well, that’s good news. Maybe I should build it into one of my business proposals,’ he says, leading me towards the Blue Room. ‘Bancroft Manor – mojo hunting a speciality.’
‘Business proposals?’
‘Yes. I’m trying to drag this place into the 21 st century – if we’re going to survive, we need to diversify our income streams. The upkeep on this place is tremendous, and my only other alternative would be to put the rents up for the villagers, which I very much do not want to do. I was in London discussing it all with a few possible backers.’
‘Well, it’s a beautiful place, and it has a lot of potential. With a little TLC you could use it for retreats, or wellness events – people love those! You could hold special weekends for different interest groups – people who are into gardening, wildlife, whatever. You could hire in some experts to run classes – art, photography, writing, that kind of thing – and offer it with luxury accommodation packages. Cooking classes could be a hit – people love learning how to cook, and your kitchen is big enough for a masterclass. You could hold events – it would be beautiful for a wedding or a party – or even hire it out as a movie location…’
I realise that he has stopped walking, and I am talking too much. He stares down at me, frowning slightly, and says: ‘Where did all of that come from? I’ve been thinking about this for years and didn’t come up with all of those!’
‘Oh. Uh. The top of my head, I guess?’
‘What do you do, Cassie, as a job, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I’m an event planner. Once quite high level, now more of “make sure the clown is booked and don’t forget the pi?ata” kind of girl. But I can see exactly how fantastic this place could be – I’m sorry if I over-stepped.’
‘Not at all. In fact, I’d love to hear more. Maybe we can carve out a little time to chat? I know you’re on holiday so I wouldn’t want to impose, but perhaps dinner one evening?’
I feel a little rush of warmth, and know that at least some of it is spreading to my face. Sometimes being a redhead really sucks. I remind myself that he’s not asking me out on a date. Men like this do not go on dates with women like me. He’s just looking for some free business inspiration – which I am happy to provide.
‘That would be amazing, Charles. I’m sure I won’t come up with anything life-changing, but, well, glad to help.’
‘Splendid, I shall look forward to it. Now, we’d better go through – Georgie will be swinging from the chandeliers.’
We walk into the Blue Room, and actually find her lying flat out on one of the couches, giggling at her phone.
‘I’m watching a TikTok of a Great Dane getting chased around by a dachshund! It’s hilarious, he’s enormous but he’s terrified!’
She wipes tears of laughter from her cheeks, and adds: ‘How on earth did you old people pass the time before you could look at videos online?’
‘We watched black and white movies and went to tea dances,’ Charles replies. ‘And Cassie isn’t old, so don’t be rude!’
‘Soz – a thousand apologies, Cassie! I meant my dad – he’s forty-four, so definitely old. He was probably around when they built Stonehenge. Have you been to Stonehenge? Shall I take you?’
‘No I haven’t, and maybe. I’ll go for a shorter drive with you today, and see how terrifying it is first.’
The big table has been cleared of its newspapers and magazines, all of which are now in an untidy heap on one of the chairs. In their place is a gorgeous spread of breakfast food – flaky croissants, delicious-looking pastries, home-made bread, a thick slab of butter, jams and marmalades of every kind. I pour coffee and snag a cinnamon roll.
I perch in one of the window seats that line the room, and gaze outside as I eat. I’m met with a view of the gardens and the terrace at the back of the mansion. It stretches for miles, so much further than I could make out last night – a glorious landscape as far as the eye can see.
I am yet again completely awed by how beautiful it all is. Blue skies, no rain, and vivid yellow sunlight bringing the whole world to life. Everything looks so bright, so perfect. The grass is a vibrant shade of green, the terrace is perfect golden stone, the scattered statues almost seem to glitter.
I sigh out loud, and ask: ‘Who does all of this? Who takes care of it? It’s so gorgeous!’
‘It’s all me,’ announces Georgie, feigning sadness. ‘Child labour! He sends me up chimneys as well!’
‘I’m often tempted to send you up a chimney,’ says Charles, ‘when the fire’s already lit.’
He’s sitting next to his daughter, her legs now across his lap, reading a huge newspaper. I love the fact that they have actual printed newspapers.
‘But to answer your question, Cassie,’ he continues, ‘it’s a joint effort. Georgie is a talented gardener, and does indeed help. My mother, Roberts, myself, we all chip in, and a couple of men from the village come up and help out too. It’s quite an effort, but it’s important – once you start letting grounds like this go wild, you’re in trouble. We keep parts of it as natural as possible – there’s a wildflower meadow, whole sections we let go to grass. It’s better for the environment, and better for us – less time on the mower!’
It is, I can see, a mammoth job – and my mind briefly wonders if Ryan is one of the men from the village, or if the two of them avoid each other at all costs. Then I wonder what happened to make them dislike each other so much, because from what I’ve seen, neither of them is especially difficult to get along with. A mystery for another time, I guess.
‘Well, maybe the gardening classes are the way to go, Charles – you’d get free labour as well as paying guests!’ I say.
‘Indeed. I rather suspect I’ve accidentally invited a business genius into my home.’
‘Ha! Believe me, you haven’t,’ I reply. I turn to Georgie, and say: ‘Right. I’m caffeinated and now capable of functioning. Should we start our magical mystery tour? Assuming that’s all right with your father?’
‘Please, take her,’ he says, ‘for as long as you want, I beg you.’
He clearly doesn’t mean a word of it, but she playfully punches in the back of his newspaper anyway.
‘Don’t forget you have an appointment at two, though, Georgie!’ he shouts as we leave.
‘I know , Dad!’ she yells back. She leads me around the side of the house, and towards a garage. Inside I see Charles’s Jag, an ancient mud-spattered Land Rover, and a small electric Fiat 500 that is plugged in and charging.
‘I’ll give you a quick spin around the estate,’ she tells me, ‘and then we’ll take the scenic route to the village.’
‘As opposed to the ugly route?’ I say, gazing at the picture-perfect countryside around me.
As we drive she provides a commentary, telling me that as well as the house and grounds, the Bancrofts also own the village of Campton St George. There used to be farms, too, she explains, but they were sold off because the family was ‘land rich, cash poor’. It’s interesting to imagine people like these struggling for money – they seem to be so golden.
None of this seems to bother Georgie, because she is seventeen, and boring things like finances and stability rarely concern seventeen-year-olds. There’s clearly more to her than meets the eye though, and as we pass a large set of buildings all based around a yard, she goes uncharacteristically quiet.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing across her.
‘Oh. That’s the stables.’
‘Right. Do you have horses?’
Maybe it’s a stereotype, but I imagine they must. Georgina is the type of girl who should definitely have a pony.
‘We used to, but not anymore. Do you fancy going for a pint?’
It’s a very polite shutdown, but a shutdown nonetheless. I accept it, and say: ‘Well, it’s not even noon, and you’re definitely not twenty-one, so I’m going to say no.’
‘Twenty-one?’ she says, sounding shocked. ‘Do Americans have to be twenty-one before they can drink?’
‘Yep. You can get married and vote at eighteen, though – and you wouldn’t want to do either of those things when you were drunk.’
‘True. But you’re in England now, and we’re allowed to drink when we’re seventeen. We’re much better at drinking than you Yanks, obviously.’
‘That might be the case,’ I reply, as my fingers fly over my phone, ‘but us Yanks are just as capable of using google, so I know you’re lying. The legal drinking age seems to be eighteen. Maybe you forgot.’
‘Well, it was worth a try!’ she says, flashing me a dazzling grin that immediately makes me forgive her.
‘Was it hard to pass your driving test, with your dyslexia?’
‘Um, yeah. A bit harder to pass certain parts of it – there’s a thing called a theory test that was tricky. But I got some support and there are different ways I can learn. Plus, I know what all the road signs mean, so don’t worry that I’ll see one that says “no entry” and do the opposite!’
‘I wasn’t worried about that, I promise. But I am a bit worried about how fast you’re taking these turns.’
‘I do it every day. I could do it with my eyes closed!’
‘Please don’t.’
She laughs again, and carries on tour guiding. She pulls over and we follow a path to a beautiful steep-sided pond where, in summer, she comes to watch dragonflies skim the water and listen to the skylarks sing as she lies in the long grass. It sounds idyllic, and I have a flash of sadness that I won’t be here by then.
She takes me to Marshington Grange, the next village over, which is a bustling metropolis compared to ours – there are two pubs, and a place for take-out. The main street is built of mellow yellow stone, and we stop for pictures. She looks amused as she perches on a garden wall and smokes. I guess I must look like a crazy American, snapping shots of a place that she sees as mundane. I always feel the same about tourists taking selfies in Times Square.
I get shown the local school – ‘to be fair, they took over a year to kick me out’ – and the church and the farm where Ollie Kerr lives. Ollie Kerr, I learn, is the coolest boy for three counties, and has mini-raves in his barn when his parents are away. Sounds like trouble.
Eventually, we arrive back in the village of Campton St George, and she parks the car outside the inn. It’s interesting to see the village in full daylight during a working day, and the atmosphere is very different. The tea rooms are busy, the windows steamed up, and I assume that the bus brought visitors. The hair salon is also open, although it looks like no salon I’ve ever visited – it’s basically one room inside a very old, very pretty cottage.
Inside, I see Orla wielding a dryer and chatting to an older lady in the chair.
‘Huh – does Orla run the salon as well as the pub?’
‘Ah, yeah – everyone here does a bit of everything. You never know where someone’s going to pop up next. Cormac doubles up as a community police officer, and Mary Catherine does cleaning but also works as a delivery driver. Eileen just has the bakery, but she supplies loads of places. Everyone’s always very busy here, and when they’re not busy, they’re having fun.’
‘I see. And what about Ryan? Does he have more than one job?’
She grins at me, and pokes me lightly in the ribs.
‘Do you fancy him? He’s yummy, isn’t he? I didn’t notice that until a few years ago when the hormone soup kicked in, and then I was suddenly like, who is this God-like creature? Muscles in his muscles, the twinkly eyes, that accent… obviously he’s way too old for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a fine example of manhood. He’s single, too, so you wouldn’t be treading on anybody’s toes if you made a move.’
‘I am not going to be making a move on Ryan!’ I say, maybe a little too quickly. ‘Or in fact any man.’
‘Oh. Right. Are you gay? Because if you are, I can take you to some bars in the bigger towns.’
‘No, I’m not gay. I’m just not interested in men right now.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Okay,’ she says, shrugging, not at all offended. Clearly straightforward speaking is the way to proceed with Georgie. ‘Shall we go and see Eileen?’
As we cross the road, I notice that Eejit is curled up beneath the Christmas tree, where someone has placed a bowl of water. He flicks his ears backwards and forwards when he sees us approaching, then slinks to his feet, trotting over and licking my fingers. I give him a scratch behind the ears, and he follows us to the bakery.
The small storefront is laid out with baskets of bread, pies and cakes of every description – tiny cupcakes in a rainbow of colours, slabs of lemon drizzle, gooey-looking chocolate brownies, and a spectacular carrot cake that’s already down to one slice.
I love baking, and I love eating, and I love absolutely everything about this place. I must go into some kind of trance, because as I stare at the mouth-watering display before me, I hear Eileen say: ‘Earth calling Cassie – is there anybody out there?’
‘Oh! I’m so sorry! I think I temporarily slipped into an alternative universe there – 2001, a Cake Odyssey! Eileen, would it be greedy to buy one of everything?’
‘It’s been done before, so it has, but I wouldn’t recommend it! How about I put you a little taster plate together? I have spare out back – the ones that came out a wee bit wonky – so you can try a few? And your usual, Georgina?’
We both agree, and Eileen bustles away to the back. When she returns, she has a box for me, and gets a cupcake for Georgie. She slides a couple of slices of bacon in Eejit’s direction as well, and he gobbles them up. Looks like she’s feeding all the strays, and more are on their way – a group of women who probably arrived on the bus are heading in our direction.
Eileen nods at us, and quickly bags up a nice-looking pie – a smaller version of the steak and Guinness I had in the pub. She passes it to me, and says: ‘Looks like the rush is here! Be an angel and pop this round to Ryan at Whimsy Cottage for me, will you? He’s elbow deep in the work, and I know he won’t stop unless somebody makes him.’
We leave her to it, and move as a trio – woman, girl, dog – next door. It looks just as adorable as it did yesterday, and I feel surprised when I realise that I only arrived here the evening before. A lot has happened.
The door is open, and as we walk through Georgie shouts: ‘Oi! You’ve got company, put your clothes back on!’
Already, after only a morning, I can see the difference in the place. Someone – Ryan, or the mysterious Mary Catherine – has given it a thorough scrub, and it’s clear of dust and cobwebs. The musty smell has been replaced by one of lemons, and all of the furniture has been cleared out.
There’s the sound of music playing upstairs, and within seconds I hear the thud of big feet on the steps, then Ryan jumps down the last few. He’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, despite the cold weather, and a pair of paint-spattered steel-toed boots. His dark hair is wild, and he’s brandishing a cordless drill. His face breaks into a big smile when he sees us, and I can’t help it – I blush. Again. Helpless in the face of a man bearing power tools.
‘Ladies!’ he says, ushering us inside. ‘I’m giddy with excitement to see you both – and am I mistaken, or is that one of Eileen’s pies you have there?’
‘It is. I am a bringer of joy,’ replies Georgie, passing it to him. ‘Do you have anything we can sit on or should we just go to the pub?’
‘Nice try, whippersnapper,’ he answers, grinning at her. ‘But you know your da would kill me if I enabled any under-age drinking, now, don’t you? Give me a second, would you?’
He disappears out through the back, and returns with two chairs he’s clearly fetched in from outside. He wipes them down with a towel, and gestures for us to sit. I feel slightly strange with him hovering over above us, his bulk taking up so much of the room, but he solves that problem for me by simply sitting on the floor, his long legs spread out before him.
He pretty much inhales the pie, but makes sure to save a crust for Eejit. The dog settles at his side, his lean furry body snuggled into his thighs, and promptly falls asleep.
‘So, how was your night at the big house, Cassie?’ he asks.
‘Interesting,’ I say, casting a look at Georgie. ‘Especially when I woke up this morning to find a stranger in my bedroom.’
‘I’m not a stranger!’ she protests, as she nibbles her cupcake. ‘We’re old friends now!’
‘Really? We know nothing about each other!’
‘Well,’ she says, rolling her eyes, ‘I’m Georgina. I’m a Scorpio, I enjoy long walks on the beach, listening to punk music, and smoking. My favourite food is spaghetti and meatballs, and when I grow up, I want to be an astronaut.’
I laugh at her tone, and it only encourages her.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ she asks.
‘Green.’
‘Favourite flower?’
‘Um, roses. Maybe lilies.’
‘Favourite human – fictional and non-fictional?’
‘That’s a tough one. In real life, it was my Nanna Nora. Fiction? Lots of them, but possibly a mash-up between Jo March from Little Women and Joey from Friends .’
‘That would be a weird mash-up,’ she says, frowning as she tries to visualise it.
I glance over at Ryan, who winks at me and says: ‘How you doing?’
I try not to laugh, but it sneaks out anyway. It’s a terrible impression, coming out more Irish than American-Italian. I see Georgie looking between the two of us, and wonder what conclusions she’s coming to.
‘So,’ I say, deciding to move the conversation on a less flirtatious level, ‘what’s the plan then, with the cottage?’
He runs his hands through his hair, thinking. ‘Well, mainly the place is grand – it just needs a good clean and re-decorating, new furniture, a proper spruce up. That was always the plan – I’ll just be doing it a lot more quickly than expected. I’m hoping to have it sorted for you by the end of the week. Ideally, I’ll be all done by Saturday night.’
‘What happens on Saturday night?’
‘It’s Ryan’s date night,’ Georgie supplies, pointing at him in accusation. ‘It’s when our Irish lover boy turns on the charm, and no woman between here and Cornwall is safe.’
‘Ach, you’re exaggerating, Georgie – I’ve only roamed as far as Devon. What’s a man to do? I have a lot of love to give, and I don’t want the poor ladies of the county to go lonely now, do I?’
‘Ah,’ I say, remembering another of Nanna Nora’s phrases. ‘ You’re one of those feckless playboys, are ye? ’
I manage the accent well enough, and he nods enthusiastically.
‘That’s the idea, darlin’, yes. But don’t you worry, there’s plenty of me to go around, sure.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but feckless playboys aren’t my type.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ he says, grinning at me in a way that leaves me in no doubt that he’s right. I have no idea what I’m missing, because Ted is the only man I’ve ever been with. Thirty-seven years old and a born-again virgin. I know what June’s view on all this would be, but I’m not sure I’m ready – for me, sex has always been tied up with love, and that’s definitely not what Ryan is offering.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘With the cottage, I mean? I’m pretty good at manual labour.’
He nods, and looks around at the stripped-back room.
‘Maybe, if you’ve a mind to. I need to get the wallpaper off upstairs, and the bathroom needs a good scrub, and a million other jobs. It’d go all the quicker with two pairs of hands.’
I find myself strangely enthused at the thought of getting involved – of doing something useful and positive, something that has a tangible result at the end of it.
‘I’m up for it,’ I say. ‘I’ll start with a couple of hours, maybe? I’m free now.’
Georgie gets to her feet and stretches. She ducks under the beams, and walks towards the door.
‘I need to get back,’ she announces. ‘As Ryan knows, I’m too much of a lady to get my hands dirty.’
‘You’re as much of a lady as I am,’ he retorts. ‘You’re just lazy!’
‘That may very well be true – but I have an appointment with my counsellor at two. I think I’ve almost persuaded her that I’m beyond help, and am hoping for a resignation before Christmas. Ryan, will you get Cassie back to Bancroft safe and sound?’
He agrees that he will, and she gives me an unexpected hug before she leaves. Once she’s gone, Ryan stares after her, a sad look on his face.
‘She likes you,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that – I mean she doesn’t like many people. I know she seems all shiny on the surface, but the girl’s been through a lot in her life.’
‘I got that feeling. I know her mother isn’t around, and she told me about the dyslexia. I picked up on some stuff at the house as well. What happened?’
He meets my eyes, and seems to be having some kind of internal debate.
‘That’s their story to tell, Cassie, and not mine. Now come on – let’s be getting to work!’