Chapter 11
Lizzie slept all evening on one of the sofas and woke up, briefly disorientated, in the early hours of the morning. She made a picnic from the contents of the fridge and ate it in bed whilst skimming through hundreds of channels on the huge TV and wondering if Nick thought it was ridiculous that she’d booked a six-bedroomed property just for herself.
But growing up in a tiny damp basement flat in Bristol, sharing a pull-down sofa bed with her mother and gazing out of the window at the stone steps leading up to pavement level had given her a yearning for space and light that had never subsided. She could now afford to indulge herself, and it helped her to feel relaxed and at peace.
At five a.m. she showered and washed her hair.
At five thirty, wrapped in a soft white towelling robe, she made her way out onto the roof terrace and watched the sunrise, appreciating it all the more because in April here in the UK it often wasn’t visible, whereas in Los Angeles it was a daily occurrence everyone took for granted.
The sky lightened, a layer of mist hovered above the fields stretching out in front of her, and here came the sun, appearing over the hills in the distance. Lizzie sipped her coffee and took a dozen or so photos of the scene; oh yes, the sun and the sky were definitely prettier here. You didn’t get low-lying mists like this in California. Well, some people probably had machines pumping fake mist across their immaculate fake lawns . . .
She WhatsApped the best photo to her mother, her agent and several of her friends, but there were no replies. Next she skimmed a couple of showbusiness sites online and caught up with the latest scandalous escapades of an unfaithful A-lister, as well as a TV actress she knew slightly who was growing increasingly hooked on cocaine and fillers.
By six thirty, so used to being busy and having every hour of the day accounted for, she was ready to do something. But what? The initial plan had been to laze around all morning, enjoy a leisurely lunch then maybe go for a walk this afternoon. Except here she was not bored exactly, but already feeling the urge to bring the walk forward by eight hours.
That was fine; a change of plan was allowed. She could do whatever she wanted; this was what rest and recuperation was all about.
Five minutes later, now dressed in a Puffa jacket over a pink sweatshirt and purple leggings, and wearing a baseball cap with her hair tucked up inside it, Lizzie left Pine Lodge and began walking with no idea where she was going.
Up close, everything she’d viewed from the roof terrace was even more beautiful. The cool fresh scent of the air was better than any perfume in the designer stores along Rodeo Drive. The silence was absolute, apart from the sounds of her Nike trainers swishing through the still-damp grass and the occasional burst of birdsong from the line of trees over to her left. As she changed direction and headed towards them, the chirping abruptly stopped and two birds flew off. ‘Hey, wait!’ Lizzie called after them. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you . . . I only wanted to say hello!’
Not that she was lonely and craving company already, but they could at least have stayed and allowed her to introduce herself.
After another twenty or so meandering minutes, she found herself approaching the other end of the village. The church’s spire rose up beyond a cluster of yew trees, and now a clatter of rooks – she thought they were rooks? – flew up and around it, soaring overhead. Reaching an ancient-looking stone wall, she saw that on the other side was the churchyard itself.
Lizzie could never resist a cemetery; they were her weakness. The ones in LA were manicured and pristine and she enjoyed investigating them, but this was almost a fairy-tale scene, with the branches of the trees tangling overhead and great swathes of ivy trailing over the headstones and chest tombs. Longer grass filled the spaces between the tombs, dotted with wild flowers that had been allowed to grow unchecked. There were also pots of cut flowers decorating the graves, the pink, scarlet and orange blooms in bright contrast to the naturally flourishing bluebells, snowdrops and yellow crocuses.
Their beauty was enough to bring tears to Lizzie’s eyes. Tucking her phone into her bra for safe keeping, she clambered over the wall and dropped easily to the other side. Now the scent of damp earth and last season’s disintegrated leaves was stronger, and she breathed it in. She turned her head at the sound of twigs moving behind her and saw a grey squirrel bouncing across the ground before launching itself like an acrobat up into one of the trees and disappearing into the many layers of branches.
Oh, those bluebells, though, stretching out ahead of her in a vivid purply-blue carpet. Crouching down amongst them, she began to pick some – snap went their sappy pale green stems – because how could anyone resist their beauty? She would take an armful back with her to the house and keep them in a vase on the kitchen table.
For twenty minutes she carried on happily exploring the ancient churchyard, reading the inscriptions on the gravestones and imagining the lives of the people who’d lived and died here over the years. Towards the front entrance she came across an elaborate headstone decorated with gold angels, celebrating the life of Eunice Honeywell. Marvelling at the fact that Eunice had reached the impressive age of a hundred and five, Lizzie smiled at the carved inscription proudly announcing that she had Never married, never wanted to. Well done, Eunice.
So many names, so many stories, so many lives lovingly remembered with tended graves and floral tributes. There were impressive monuments to ancestors of the Peverell family, evidently the local landowners and landed gentry. Drawn further on to a gorgeous bunch of bright sunrise-orange roses, she saw that the modest headstone belonged to Vernon Hughes, dearly beloved husband of Esther, father to Geraldine and grandfather to Nella.
Next, Lizzie was intrigued by a Susanna Whaite, who had been widowed in 1942 when her husband Robert had been lost at sea, then had married a David Whaite three years later. A brother or a cousin of Robert? Who knew? But maybe if there were family members still in the village, someone would know, then she could discover the full story and find out—
‘Oh!’ Another rustle in the undergrowth, then a small brown and white dog came hurtling out of nowhere, yipping excitedly at the sight of her. He raced up the narrow overgrown path then back again, before wagging his tail and coming over to investigate the stranger in the churchyard.
‘Hello, you!’ Lizzie bent down to greet him; she loved dogs and this one was incredibly cute, almost dancing on the spot with excitement. ‘What’s your name, hey? You are gorgeous!’
The good news was they were friends by the time the little dog’s owner appeared. The bad news was the owner was a lot less friendly than his dog. The smile rapidly faded from Lizzie’s face when she saw the expression on his.
‘And yet again it happens.’ He was shaking his head in apparent disbelief, clicking his fingers at the dog so it scuttled back to his side. ‘Let me guess, you’re a visitor to the area.’
Wow, a man with a bad attitude. She stood her ground. ‘I am.’
‘Staying at one of the big new holiday homes over there?’ He tilted his head in their general direction.
‘Yes.’ Lizzie couldn’t believe he was being so unfriendly. ‘I don’t understand. Are we not allowed into the churchyard if we don’t live here?’
He was wearing a thin olive-green gilet over a grey sweater, and faded jeans tucked into green Hunter wellington boots. The collar of his checked shirt was just visible and his dark brown hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed yet. He also now appeared, much like the jogger she’d encountered that time on Laguna Beach, to be staring at her boobs. Actually, more like glaring at them.
He said coolly, ‘It helps if people who want to visit the churchyard read the notice at the front entrance.’
‘I didn’t come in that way. I climbed over the wall.’
‘It also helps,’ he continued evenly, ‘if you read the information folder provided for you in your holiday home. Because I know for a fact that everything you need to know about this place is in there.’
All Lizzie knew was that this grim-faced stranger was evidently intent on ruining what was meant to be a happy first morning in Starbourne. Even the dog had stopped wagging his tail and was no longer looking at her. She said, ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I haven’t had time to read the information folder from cover to cover just yet. Maybe you’d like to tell me what I’ve done wrong. In fact, I’m sure you’d love to do that.’
He nodded at her chest. Pervert. ‘I hope you think they’re worth five thousand pounds.’
What?
‘Now you’re just being offensive. I didn’t pay for them, they’re mine. I’ve had them my whole life.’
He blinked, then visibly exhaled. ‘Five thousand pounds. Is the amount of money you can be fined for picking bluebells.’
Fuck . Lizzie looked down, belatedly realising she was still clutching the armful of flowers to her chest. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Or you could go to prison,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Up to you.’
‘Oh my God.’ Until ten seconds ago she’d been innocent and this pig of a stranger had been the one in the wrong. Now the tables had been swiftly turned and she was the baddie. Letting go of the stems and flinging the picked bluebells to the ground, she said, ‘I didn’t know that. I swear I didn’t know.’
‘Because you didn’t bother to read the information pack. Maybe it’s about time you did.’
OK, he might not be an actual pervert, but nor was he a kind or cheerful man who understood that people were sometimes capable of making a genuine mistake. Without uttering another word, he shook his head in disgust, then turned and departed in the direction from which he’d appeared, with his little dog loyally trotting along at his heels.
Leaving Lizzie alone on a narrow path strewn with just-picked bluebells.
She knelt and collected them together, because they would undoubtedly die faster here than in a vase filled with water.
But just to be on the safe side, she kept them tucked inside her Puffa jacket for the across-the-fields walk back to Pine Lodge.
Wouldn’t do to be arrested by another overzealous citizen on day one.
As she hurried back to the safety of her new home, it occurred to her that she was off to a hell of a start. Since arriving in the UK, she’d only really spoken to three men and had managed to fall out with two of them.
Quite an achievement.
Oh well, at least she still had Nick.