Chapter Two
Connor Forbes woke on Sunday morning with a parched mouth and a sore head; that last round of tequila shots was definitely not the best idea he’d ever had.
He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck.
And this sofa was not designed for sleeping on either, but then he hadn’t crashed out on it intentionally.
He knew alcohol didn’t really solve any of his present difficulties, and no doubt his big brother Patrick would lecture him if he’d been able to see the state of him this morning, but it had temporarily obliterated his problems for a few hours.
He stumbled into the small kitchen and made himself a coffee.
There was barely enough room to swing a saucepan in here, but he supposed he ought to be grateful to his brother for letting him rent the place at such short notice, particularly as his so-called friends had deserted him in his hour of need.
At least he was more likely to remain incognito round here.
Not for the first time, Connor regretted he had to be here at all, instead of at The Grange with its state-of-the-art Clive Christian kitchen, Le Creuset saucepans, six-ring range cooker and black quartz worktops.
Not that he could cook much, but he adored the unashamed luxury of the place.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he leaned against the scuffed Formica worktop that had already started to peel at the edge.
The fact that no one even wanted to believe he was innocent didn’t help one bit, and nor did all the phone calls he’d received yesterday.
Not content with berating him once, the calls had continued in a barrage for several angry hours.
The only positive was that one of those phone calls was from someone enquiring about the garden. Although it would only generate a miniscule bit of income, renting it out had the added bonus of getting the neighbours off his back.
Last week the old girl downstairs had asked yet again what he was doing about the garden and mentioned for the millionth time about weeds growing through the trellis into her garden; the way she had carried on made it sound like a set from Day of the Triffids.
Ironically, the more she’d nagged about it, the less inclined he’d felt to do anything about it, but when a letter arrived signed by all three of his neighbours, he realised he’d have to take action if he wasn’t going to tackle the problem himself, which he was disinclined to do.
With insufficient funds to pay for a regular gardener, he hoped that renting it out at a low enough price would keep everyone happy.
In his defence, the garden had been in that state when he’d moved in, but apparently someone’s kid had been badly stung by nettles which were growing into the neighbouring plots.
He couldn’t risk Patrick getting wind of the complaints; he would be horrified, and like as not, ask him to find somewhere else and get a new tenant that would actually be able to afford the full rent.
He took a sip of his coffee before pulling on some clean clothes, then mooched back to the sofa.
He picked up his phone but it had run out of charge.
At least it meant Bonnie couldn’t phone him again.
It was bad enough being kicked out amid shouting and yelling that people in the next county had probably heard, but having to endure subsequent phone calls reiterating the same message without allowing him even two seconds to proffer an explanation was frustrating.
It was a wrong-person, wrong-moment photo, but the gossip and comments had snowballed – his protestations of innocence totally ignored.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearer lunchtime than breakfast but he was hungry, and he had someone coming over to look at the garden this afternoon.
Two people had already seen it and turned it down, and the sooner he crossed that problem off his to-do list the better.