Chapter Three #2
“I suppose you could say I’m retired.” It was close enough to the truth.
The redundancy payment she’d received meant she didn’t have to work, so in effect she could refer to herself as such—but she wanted to work.
What else was she going to do? Trawling antique shops looking for old perfume bottles was hardly a full-time occupation, no matter how much she enjoyed it.
And there were only so many books she could read or crosswords to complete before she grew bored.
And with Hannah now one half of a couple and wanting to spend as much time with her partner as she could (which was understandable), Eloise was already feeling her friend’s increasing absence keenly.
Bless her, Hannah did try to involve her, but…
Not for the first time, Eloise asked herself who she was, now she no longer had her job to define her.
The possibility of getting another like the one she’d lost was slim to nonexistent, so she needed to rethink her future, but she had no idea what to do.
In hindsight, she should have thought about what retirement would look like before now, but she’d assumed she had several more years yet until she faced that conundrum.
Eloise had thought she was indispensable; how wrong could she be.
“What was it you did?” Bart asked.
“I was a PA for the owner of a pharmaceutical company.”
“Sounds interesting.”
She smiled regretfully. “It was. I loved my job. I was made redundant when the company was bought out, and I’ve tried to get another, but no luck. I get the impression employers take one look at my date of birth and decide to go for someone younger.”
Why on earth had she shared that with him? For one thing, he was a complete stranger, and for another, he wouldn’t be interested. Yet she’d blurted out personal information without a second thought.
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” he replied gallantly. “Experience and skill cost money, so I bet they’ve gone for the cheaper option. It’s their loss.” His expression was earnest, and she had the feeling he wasn’t simply being polite.
“You’re very kind.”
“It’s true. So, what do you do now you’ve retired?”
“I love reading—always have done—and I’m teaching myself calligraphy. I’m not sure whether I’ll ever use it, but I enjoy it. I also collect scent bottles. Old ones.”
Bart raised his eyebrows. “Antiques?”
She nodded. “That’s right. I prefer glass to silver, but I collect porcelain ones as well.”
“Fascinating. How old is your oldest?”
“I have a Venetian glass bottle dating from around 1875. But my favourite is a French bottle in the most glorious shade of amber with a pattern of leaves.” She was about to tell him more but decided he probably wasn’t interested.
She could wax lyrical about her charity store and antique shop finds all day, but few people shared her enthusiasm.
With her cake eaten and her cup empty, Eloise got to her feet. “I’m going to have a little rest before dinner, if that’s okay? The drive was horrendous.”
“You do what you like,” he said. “Treat the guest house like your own home. Remind me to give you a key to the front door so you can come and go as you please. Don’t feel obliged to let me know what you’re doing or where you’re going. I’ll tell the others the same when they arrive.”
“The others?” She’d assumed she was going to be the sole guest.
“You’re not the only one who wants to escape Christmas,” he replied. “I’ve got a couple more booked in, but you’re the first to arrive.”
Hah! She’d started a whole new trend of get-away-from-Christmas getaways! While everyone else became more and more stressed over the big day, she’d be having a thoroughly relaxing time with like-minded people.
As she climbed the stairs to her room for a nice little rest, Eloise felt very pleased with herself.
Bart hadn’t been planning on having shepherd’s pie for dinner.
He hadn’t thought about dinner at all until he’d made the offer to provide an evening meal for his guest. It was such a nasty afternoon, and with the weather not forecast to improve until the early hours, he’d felt guilty sending her out in it to forage for herself, when it would be simple enough to rustle something up.
He used to love cooking when Penny had been alive, making tasty meals most evenings. And he cooked his fair share of the breakfasts, too. As guest-house owners, they’d prided themselves on the variety and quality of their breakfasts, which was one of the reasons they had so many repeat visitors.
While Eloise rested, Bart got to work, but before he started cooking, he put a record on the turntable.
He had a decent collection of albums, weighted solidly towards jazz although he did enjoy listening to other kinds of music, and since Penny had died, he often had a record playing in the background.
It was a habit he’d developed to drive away the silence. It was either that or the TV.
Mindful that there was another person in the house, Bart kept the volume low.
As he ferreted around in the freezer for a packet of minced lamb, his thoughts strayed to his guest. For some reason he’d expected her to be an elderly lady, but he guessed her to be younger than him.
And she was rather attractive too. Not only that, something about her drew him—her stylishly cut hair, or her muted sage-green eyes, or maybe it was the way she held herself.
Or perhaps it was because she’d confided in him about her lack of job prospects, and he’d seen in her eyes how much it hurt.
From her fleeting, shocked expression, he also got the feeling she hadn’t intended to mention it.
Whatever it was that attracted him, Bart didn’t intend to dwell on it. He had a pie to make.