Chapter 9
Tabitha
“Tabitha Millicent Amanda Balfour! We have guests, darling.”
The cut-glass vowels sliced through my doorway and seared into my throbbing head. Mum? What was she doing in my flat in London? Ugh. Why did my head feel like my parents’ llama had trodden through it? How many cocktails? So many cocktails.
I sat up, swayed, and looked around. A single bed, floral wallpaper, my grandmother’s handsewn Winnie-the-Pooh on my great-grandmother’s mahogany dresser. Oh, that was right. It was Saturday morning, and I was in the Cotswolds. And I hadn’t told my parents about the filming yet.
Mum knocked again. I checked the time—7:30 a.m. A series of clinks and thuds and unfamiliar voices intruded from downstairs. The film crew. They’d arrived already?
I dragged myself out of bed, knowing I had so many bad things to face today. Hangover, blurk, throwing myself at Tim, blurk, telling Mum and Dad about the filming.
Ughugugugh. Why had I agreed to the filming again?
Oh, right. Without that extra money, I had to keep draining my account for the renovation and the launch of the “Must Love Animals” weekends for pet-lovers who wanted to find their soulmates.
Unfortunately, the filming came with Tim needs-bigger-doorways-for-his-huge-head Langston.
I thought about Tim’s rejection last night and squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I remembered it?
What was I going to say when I saw him this morning? Hopefully, he’d just make a joke, and we could forget about it. Yes, that would be his response for sure. He made a joke of everything—he always wanted to keep things light and funny.
My bedroom door thrust open, and Mum appeared in her fifties swing dress.
She stepped to the foot of my bed, and I felt grateful for one thing.
Perry wasn’t here to remind me that I hadn’t inherited what he called my mother’s elegant, built-for-the-ballroom physique.
According to him, I was more of the dairymaid type.
Mentally, I rose from my milking stool and slammed my full bucket over his head.
“It’s me. Mummy. Your old mater,” she said as though I couldn’t see her right in front of me. She carried a bucket of chicken feed like she’d been mid-feed when everyone had arrived, and she’d been so excited that she’d headed straight up to my bedroom.
What sort of messy hell awaited me downstairs? My head pounded with the stress. Was there any way I could boycott today and start again on Monday? Nope. Better get up.
“The animals are going to be on the telly, darling. They’re all terribly excited and promise not to be naughty.
I told them, ‘Darlings, I have complete faith you’ll be on your best behavior.
’ Mostly. Apparently, you signed us up last night for appearing on the telly.
Just like that! Not like you to be so spontaneous.
Heard you crashing around last night when you came in too.
Bit blotto? Not like you either, darling. What in the dickens is going on?”
I took my hands away from my face.
“Ooh,” she said. “Golly, yes, you do look a trifle seedy.”
All this, and barely a grunt from me.
“So, wait. You’re okay with the crew being here?” I asked. “You know it’s just until the renovation is done. Two months. But it’s going to be mayhem.” Not their usual mayhem, I wanted to add, one with many additional humans.
“You know the animals and us, darling—more the merrier, and we love guests. Wonderful to have a change of pace.”
Was this my mother I was speaking with? More the merrier? Love guests? Change of pace? For some reason, her ready acceptance niggled at me. I’d been so worried about her reaction… And, really? This was it? A small curl of doubt crawled up my spine. Did I know my parents as well as I thought I did?
Still, I was fairly certain Dad would be put out.
He had endless projects that had continued for years—there were the twenty antique cars in the back paddock and as many vintage motorbikes in the barn that he was fiddling with—but he always liked to fix them solo.
Insula sum, he was fond of saying. I am an island.
The man spoke Latin as casually as he collected unending mechanical projects and financial ventures that self-combusted.
“What about Dad, though?”
“You know him, darling. Mucks in where needed. Terrifically practical man. And we’re both low-key, very much in the background.”
My head was throbbing harder from my hangover and her unexpected—delusional?—answers.
Mum hurried back downstairs, and I quickly brushed my teeth, showered, and dressed in one of my comfortable floral blouse and gathered skirt outfits. I felt a soupcon better.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, but I didn’t have the eyeball focus to slap on makeup. It was hard to ignore that niggling doubt—i.e., Perry’s voice—“suggesting” I needed to wear makeup every day. “You’re not in your twenties anymore, Tabitha.”
But today? I seriously couldn’t give a toss.
I trudged down the stairway, my gut twisting with dread and trepidation.
I mostly felt confident at work. I always had a strong vision of how I wanted the Home and Garden pages of our national newspaper to look and read, I knew what I was doing, and I liked overseeing a team.
But I had no idea about a reality show, how it worked, what was expected of me, and what I should be cautious about.
At the bottom of the stairs, I looked up, and delicious smells hit me, along with productive clangs and wheel rolls. Something in the air felt orderly and calm, and I hadn’t sensed that in this house for days, weeks, years…ever?
In the dining room, a gorgeous guy with floppy black hair and cheekbones you could rest a teacup on was wearing a white apron emblazoned with the words, Trystan’s Good Tuck, and he stood behind a beautiful table of food on a crisp white tablecloth.
Mum fluttered around him, inviting him to use anything he wanted from the house, trying to keep the dogs, cats, and goat at bay.
A huge fridge on rollers was plugged in at the corner.
The dining table was laden with an egg-making station, steaming silver chafers that smelled like heaven, bagels, smoked salmon, a huge bowl of fruit salad, all kinds of cereals and donuts, and an espresso machine already steaming with good energy.
Dad joined us. “She has risen from the dead, hallelujah!” he sang in a hymnal tone. “Got a bit sloshed last night, darling? Not like you, but I applaud. Allow me to introduce our resident culinary magician, Trystan. Aren’t we lucky?”
“Mum and Dad,” I said grumpily. “The animals must be outside. Looks like this is now a food serving area, and it’s not healthy or fair on the crew.”
Mumbling about grumpy, hungover daughters, my parents herded the animals outside.
I rolled my eyes at them and turned to Trystan. “Sorry.”
Trystan smiled gratefully. “Apparently I’m moving outside too, when the walls get bashed down.”
“Well, even when you go outside, I’ll make sure the animals keep a healthy distance.”
I sighed with relief at his mention of the walls.
The crew must already have been apprised of the two downstairs non-load-bearing walls that needed to be demolished to enlarge the kitchen.
Tim had been dragging his heels since he’d started the project three months ago.
I thought that was why he’d worked on the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms first, hoping I’d change my mind.
“Anyway, nice to meet you.” Trystan wiped his hand and held it out to me, and we shook. “Tabitha, right? Can I interest you in a latte?”
“Yes, please—could you make it a triple?” I winced at the movement my face had to make to speak.
“Coming right up. Been there, darl,” he said sympathetically, wiping his hand again before he started.
Just that second, Tim stepped in through the side door, whistling, brown hair tousled, and looking fresh and capable in his work boots, gray T-shirt, and tan work pants, a tool belt slung around his hips.
“But I’d very much like to go there,” Trystan added, focused solely on Tim.
“Oops, I didn’t say that, and you didn’t hear it. ”
Tim paused, his broad shoulders taking up most of the dining room doorframe, his brown eyes taking in the scene.
I introduced him, and Trystan waved him in and flourished a hand at the spread.
Tim held a glass of water in one hand and a packet of something in the other and gave Trystan a friendly nod.
My gaze flicked upward and connected with Tim’s dark honey irises.
He frowned and looked guarded. Shamefaced, I turned back to the table of food.
I should just make a joke. What joke? C’mon, think of a bloody joke, Tabs.
Maybe I’d wait for him to speak first. He’d probably just give me his usual shit, and all would be forgotten.
“Thought you might like this, Tabs?” Tim offered me the water and what was in his hand—a packet of ibuprofen.
A bolt of embarrassment ripped through my torso.
He was being nice.
He felt sorry for me.
Ugh.
I would have felt better if he’d teased me mercilessly for being stinking drunk and throwing myself at him. I’d explain later, because it wasn’t fair to subject Trystan to this awkwardness, though something told me he’d love to hear about my mortifying night.
Trystan turned from where he was angled at the coffee machine making my drink.
“Well look at us three in one room,” he said, as if trying to ease the tension. “Timothy, Trystan, and Tabitha! We’re like triplets in an old-fashioned book about posh kids having high jinks and carbonated drinks down on the Cornwall coast.”
I coughed out a laugh. I felt very uncomfortable about the thought of being even distantly related to Tim, especially after last night.
Trystan handed me my coffee and offered Tim his hand to shake. “Hi, nice to meet you, Tim. I think I saw you clearing the front yard as I drove in? It’s positively biblical out there.”