Chapter 8
8
In Pumpkin’s field, Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Flying without a licence
Thursday
‘W hat the hell are you doing with that bucket?’
It’s two days later, and since Tuesday, when Miles did an unexpectedly good job of looking through the piece I finally called ‘The secret lives of fairies– how to make yours the garden they choose’, I’ve been silently congratulating myself on avoiding him.
I spent yesterday and this morning wandering round the cobbled streets of St Aidan where the shopfronts are a patchwork of colour, each with a whole new personality opening onto the pavement. I came across everything from rails of surfer T-shirts flapping in the wind gusts, to curated homewares with beautifully styled candlesticks, and plump gingham cushions piled artfully on hand-hewn tables.
By this afternoon my phone was filled with pictures, and my longhand notebook was bursting, so I came back to the sun lounger to look at what I’d gathered. But due to a seating issue I had to suspend my plans, which was why I decided that as Pumpkin’s field needed a tidy, now was as good a time as any to sort it.
I drop the latest scoopful of dung balls into my bucket and straighten up to look at Miles, who’s on the other side of the fence, blinking in the afternoon sunlight.
I bite back my smile. ‘No need to panic, I’m collecting Pumpkin’s poop.’
His face screws up in a look of total disgust. ‘You’re telling me that picking up pony shit is an actual thing?’
I need to explain this one syllable at a time. ‘Horses eat grass so it’s not that offensive, it’s only like mucking out a stable. If I put all Pumpkin’s dung in one corner it keeps the field clean, which is good for the pony’s health and good for the ground too.’
He couldn’t look any more appalled. ‘Well, thanks for sharing that.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He isn’t. I don’t know what he’s doing here at all when he should be at work, but his face is such a picture I’m going to milk this to the max. ‘Horse droppings make great fertiliser, but only when they’re well-rotted.’
He’s giving his usual know-it-all smirk. ‘You have no idea how much better my day is for knowing that.’
I can’t believe he’s sarcastic even over this. ‘What kind of job allows you to head home at two in the afternoon, anyway?’
He’s straight back at me. ‘The kind where I’m the boss.’
‘Of course.’ I walked into that one.
My seating problem earlier? When I came back from St Aidan, desperate to flop down and put my feet up, Scarlett’s lounger was already taken. Which is why I ended up out in the field with sweat running down my spine in a river, rather than doing the job later when the sun was down.
Scarlett isn’t the kind of person to deprive herself, but she only has one lounger because Tate isn’t the type to sit still, and there’s no point in wasting precious terrace space. He’s far more likely to be striding around talking on his phone, which is why it comes as a bit of a surprise that I’m having to fight his friend for the lounger.
I can’t leave it at that.
‘So when you’re bossing it, what are you in charge of?’
He shifts his foot onto the fence. ‘I grew a clothes company from a market stall to a global operation.’ He’s reacting to my blank look with a sardonic grin. ‘Now it’s worldwide, I mostly work remotely.’
It’s all remote from me. ‘So you’d really rather be on Scarlett’s chaise in St Aidan than in your executive suites in random capitals?’
‘Something like that.’ He hesitates. ‘Even multi-national tycoons face bumps in the road sometimes.’
His answer throws me. ‘Aren’t those super-expensive cars you drive designed to float over the potholes? Surely people like you can’t have ordinary problems like the rest of us?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
The twang of sympathy in my chest is unexpected. ‘Should my heart be bleeding for you?’
‘Definitely not that. I’m just less hands-on than I was. And slightly in between projects.’ Miles leans forward and rests his elbows on the fence. ‘So how’s your work going? Did that Fenella person like what you sent her? Have you uncovered lots of locals making incredible earth-friendly products that no one has heard of before?’
What’s unbelievable is that whatever he talks about, his voice always has the same mocking edge.
‘It’s Fenna not Fenella, and she is using the piece.’ As he helped, I owe it to him to tell him that much at least. She actually used the word ‘delightful’, but unlike Miles, I’d rather play my achievements down than boast about them from the rooftops. ‘I’m still compiling the list of local craftspeople.’ I haven’t uncovered as many stand-out shops as I’d hoped for, but I’m not about to share that with him.
Miles tilts his head to one side. ‘Did you see the Deck Gallery up above the bakers? That might be worth a visit.’
Funny he should say that. I walked in there twice, hoping to say ‘hi’ to Scarlett’s friend Plum who’s the owner, and came straight back out again both times when I saw him lounging with a coffee cup in front of him.
I can’t help asking. ‘Do you have an interest in local crafts?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I’m in business; for me, anything that turns a profit is worth a closer look.’
I throw a freebie out for him. ‘There’s a vegan ice cream parlour selling home-made ice cream for dogs. If you’re looking for a takeover, they do it in six delicious flavours.’
He sniffs. ‘I’d be looking for wider distribution deals, rather than making the stuff myself.’
Typical. Guys like him, who do nothing but cream off the profits, are everything I despise.
He clears his throat. ‘Talking of freezers, I think you dropped some stuff in the utility?’
Let’s get this right. ‘You mean the mud room?’
He nods.
If he’s picking on this, he’s picked on the wrong person. ‘If you’re talking about the patch of floor in front of the washing machine that was full of your clothes earlier when I went to put mine in– yes, that’s down to me.’
Come to think of it, that was my third attempt to use the washer, and every other time I tried it was in use too, which was why I finally gave up and dumped my own load on the limestone tiles instead.
He blows out his cheeks. ‘We can’t afford student squalor this early in the game. We’ll both get more out of this if we keep our standards high.’
I give a sniff. ‘My pile of clothes and damp towels isn’t squalor. It’s actually holding my place in the queue for the washing machine you’re hogging.’ He’s not the only one who can talk like he’s reading an effing thesaurus either. ‘For one small human, you do a ginormous number of wash cycles. Would you care to enlighten me with what’s going on there?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s not complicated. If I have washing, I put the washer on. It’s two loads a day, three maximum. Watch and learn, here, Betty Beth– that’s the way to avoid trip hazards spilling out across the kitchen.’
I’m staring at him. ‘You can’t be serious? Even with an eco-washer, that’s a terrible waste of water and power. Haven’t you ever heard of a laundry basket?’
Miles stares at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Every good business model actions things as they occur, and I extend that to my daily tasks too. This way I’m ready to move on to the next big thing the minute it comes up.’
It would be sensible to do our washing together, but however much I want to save the world, I’ve found the limit of my commitment here. I’m still making detours to the boat-dwellers shower block at the end of the harbour, whenever I need to ‘properly’ use the loo, so I’m not ready to risk getting my Brazilians tangled in his chinos.
He’s so up himself I despair. ‘You’re not the only housemate on this beach, mate. And I’m certain I left my laundry in a neat little heap.’
His voice rises. ‘Neat? It’s more like a volcanic eruption! The lava flow spreads right across the tranquillity zone and out to the French doors beyond the sofa.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Let’s not overreact, it’s only a few items.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘It’s total anarchy in there. It’s the same with the vegetables.’
‘Excuse me?’ I’m blinking, trying to keep up.
He drags in a very deep breath. ‘Is there a reason why they’re next to the sink and not in the fridge?’
I make up the first excuse I think of. ‘I thought it would be good to have a veggie patch on the work surface– for vegetables we want at room temperature.’
He’s straight back at me. ‘Not on my watch! This is complete disrespect for Scarlett and Tate.’
My voice rises. ‘It’s three carrots and a cucumber, Miles! I was actually intending to put them in a salad box, but if you’re being this anal, I’m definitely not. It’ll do you a world of good to live with them where they are.’
He pulls his know-it-all face. ‘I’m trying to have an open and honest discussion here, Bethy Bets. There’s no need to be obtuse.’
Whatever that means, I may as well be honest. ‘I’m trying to be as tidy as I can here, Miles. I’m a naturally messy person, if you want to see proper chaos, I can easily arrange that. You’d be surprised how far a backpack of tulle can spread once it’s unleashed. I still have four more in the car on the harbourside.’
He holds up his hand. ‘No, no! I’ll take your word for that. I just hoped we could resolve our issues calmly, without an argument, that’s all.’
We both know that means I should shut the eff up and do everything he says, where I suggest he should back the eff off and stop being an arse. I’m opening my mouth to tell him exactly that when he breaks in.
‘Is your horse giving me side eye?’
I wouldn’t blame him if he were. ‘That’s his natural way of looking, Miles. An eye on each cheek lets Pumpkin see all around him.’
‘Three hundred and sixty degree vision?’ He sounds incredulous.
As Miles likes things precise, I carry on to give him the full picture. ‘Pumpkin can see everywhere except for a narrow blind spot the width of his tail at the back and another at the front directly in front of his nose.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘If you don’t want to know, don’t ask.’ I sigh, because it’s impossible to talk about Pumpkin without softening. ‘You’re right though; you can read a lot about his mood from the expression in his eyes. He’s everyone’s friend, but he’s also very shrewd. He can be disapproving, disbelieving or suspicious as well as happy.’
Miles glances at Pumpkin, who is chewing on a mouthful of grass a few feet away. ‘If you can read him so well, what’s he thinking now?’
I take a few moments to study him. ‘He’s got his ears pointing towards us, so he’s been listening. And you might have been right the first time– from that look you’re getting now, I’d say he’s decided you’re a bit of a dickhead.’
Miles takes a step backwards. ‘You’re making it up!’
I’m laughing, because I’m not. ‘The first rule of horse management: if you want to stay in a pony’s good books, don’t diss the owner.’ I laugh more. ‘He’s a Leo; he’s fiercely loyal and hugely charismatic. He actually shares a birthday with Yves St Laurent.’
As Miles turns and heads for the house he’s muttering, ‘What the actual…? Now I’ve heard it all!’
It’s very hard to get the same impact and satisfaction of roaring away up the road when your car is silent and electric, but from the spin of Miles’s car tyres on the gravel as he leaves, Pumpkin and I get the drift.
At least that hasty exit solves my problem of where to sit to work. Two minutes later, I’m fully installed on the lounger, checking through my research notes.