Bearded tits are small, attractive orange-and-grey birds with long tails. The males have black markings either side of their beaks like a moustache. They feed and live in reed beds, and communicate with each other in loud, short squeaks, a bit like when Mum is calling for you and you ignore her.
— Note from Abby’s notebook.
By the time she had got everyone safely back to the café, spoken to Helen Savoury for twenty minutes about the future plans for the reserve and then introduced her to Penelope, Abby was almost half an hour later than she had told Jack she would be.
As she took the short cut back to Peacock Cottage the rain began to fall again, which seemed entirely appropriate. She was already soaked through to her underwear, despite her supposedly waterproof jacket, and had begun to shiver. She wasn’t averse to a bit of rain – she had experienced much worse over the last eighteen months – but she wanted to appear professional and firm in front of Jack, which she couldn’t do if she looked like a drowned rat with chattering teeth.
She walked up the path and banged the brass knocker twice.
The door opened seconds later. Jack’s eyes widened, then the perma-scowl was back.
‘I’m very sorry about today,’ she started. ‘I had never planned for us to—’
‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Jack said. ‘I left another note at reception, but you’ve clearly not seen it yet.’
‘What?’ Abby took a deep breath. ‘But I thought that—’
‘It did seem coincidental, though, you bringing your touring party right past the front door. Almost as if you were making a point. Hang on.’ He disappeared inside, leaving Abby on the doorstep, the warmth of the snug cottage inches away, perhaps with a burning fire and a cup of cocoa on the table, a blanket on an impossibly soft, leather sofa … She snapped out of her daydream when Jack reappeared, pulling on a navy padded jacket. It was Arc’teryx. Of course it was. Ten times the price of her own reserve-issue coat. He probably went skiing twice a year at an exclusive Swiss resort.
‘Look at this.’ He walked past her and crouched next to his Range Rover, pointing at a spot above the wheel arch. Abby tried to keep her sigh silent and crouched alongside him. She peered at the glossy, rain-splattered paintwork.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘This.’ He jabbed his finger at the car. Abby peered closer, and spotted the faintest, almost non-existent white line.
‘What is it?’ she asked, her mind whirring, trying to get ahead of the game.
‘It’s a scratch,’ he said. ‘Caused by the pheasants that come stalking through here constantly, hooting like roosters.’
Abby closed her eyes, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she started to stiffen up. ‘You’re complaining about the wildlife now?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your cottage is in the countryside. Even if it wasn’t on a nature reserve, you’re going to get pheasants, deer, birds crapping on your precious Chelsea tractor.’
‘What?’ His voice was sharp. He looked more shocked than angry, as if he wasn’t used to people answering back to him.
‘I can’t do anything about the pheasants,’ she said, more gently. ‘And this scratch – I can barely see it, you need a magnifying glass. I honestly don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t close your cottage and garden off from the rest of the world, wrap it up in bubble wrap.’
Jack stood quickly, and Abby wondered how outraged he’d be if she used his shiny car to hoist herself up, envious of the fact that his knees worked better than hers. Then she looked up and found he was holding his hand out to her. She took it, and he pulled her to standing, the momentum closing the gap between them.
The raindrops were beading on his coat like pearls, and his hair was slowly losing its volume, flattening against his forehead.
‘I just need to write,’ he said. ‘How am I supposed to do that with all these distractions?’
Abby shook her head. ‘Can’t you … be inspired by them, instead? It’s an idyllic setting, the roses in the garden, the hanging basket, the birds singing, even the pheasants. There’s Swallowtail House a short walk in that direction, beautiful and mysterious. And in the spring you’ll have bees again, butterflies – can’t you use all that in your writing? And surely overhearing conversations is helpful. Isn’t people-watching a writer’s favourite pastime – after writing, obviously.’
Jack put his hands on his hips. ‘My writing doesn’t contain many butterflies. It’s usually quite dark.’
‘Oh yes, of course. But … weren’t there butterflies – or moths, at least, in The Silence of the Lambs?’ She could picture the DVD cover now, a girl’s face with a moth covering the mouth. It was a death’s-head hawkmoth, though she hadn’t known that when she’d first watched it.
‘What do you mean “of course?”’ Jack asked.
Abby frowned, trying to put herself back in the conversation. ‘I – uh.’ Her teeth chattered violently, and Jack pulled her by her sleeve until they were huddled under the half-shelter of the porch. She could smell the heather in the hanging basket, its scent enhanced by the rain, even though it was close to the end of flowering.
‘You said “of course” when I told you my writing was dark. Why did you say that?’
‘Because I … oh.’ It was common knowledge who was living next to the reserve, but news of the interest it had aroused obviously hadn’t reached the man himself yet, probably because of his self-imposed seclusion.
‘So, you know who I am, then? Who else?’
‘I didn’t know to begin with,’ Abby said. ‘I didn’t recognize you. But Rosa, who works in the reserve shop, was just … we were wondering, when you told me you were a writer, and I … she came by, and said that—’
‘Who else knows?’ Jack prompted.
Abby looked at her sodden walking boots. ‘Pretty much everyone who works on the reserve, and in the village too, I would have thought.’
‘Fuck.’ It wasn’t directed at her. Jack was staring over her shoulder, his jaw clenched, the muscles so tight Abby thought they might lock together.
‘It’s a normal village mentality,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Gossip spreads like wildfire, every arrival and departure is noticed, and especially into a cottage that’s been deserted for years. If you didn’t want to be a—’
‘A what? A talking point? A figure of fun?’ He looked at her now, his eyes blazing. ‘So, I should have figured out there’d be all this wildlife, I should have known I’d be assailed by bloody twitchers, or whatever you call them, and that I wouldn’t be left alone from the moment I arrived? Well, I’m sorry I’m not a mind reader. My agent said it was ideal, that it would give me the space I needed. That’s all I want – some peace and quiet to write my book.’ He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead and spraying Abby’s face in the process.
She would have been annoyed, except she was already too angered by what he’d said.
‘Hey. You were the one who came to me, complaining about the reserve. If you hadn’t, none of us would have knocked on this door, probably ever. You would have been left alone to moulder slowly away, moaning to the furniture about who was disturbing your precious writing time.’
‘Technically, I left the note for the reserve in general, not you specifically.’
‘Don’t be so smart! Why not talk to Penelope? She’s your landlady. Shouldn’t any complaints have gone to her? And anyone with any common sense would have realized a country cottage would come with wildlife. We can’t just turn it off, can we? Flick a switch, goodbye butterflies and deer and robins. It’s called Peacock Cottage – didn’t that give you a clue?’ Abby stepped out from under the shelter of the porch. The rain was heavier now, streaming into her eyes.
Jack folded his arms. ‘So first you’re berating me for being too smart, then you’re implying I have no common sense? Come back in, you’ll get drenched.’
‘I’m already drenched! I have been since ten o’clock this morning, and if it hadn’t been for you and your minuscule scratch on your glossy, squashed-frog car, then I would have been dry ages ago. I couldn’t be any wetter, and you didn’t even invite me inside, just under the crappy little porch, so it’s not like you’re actually bothered!’
‘Squashed-frog car?’ Jack was struggling with a smile. It made her even madder.
‘I don’t have time for this! I have to get back and start working on my next event, which I will make absolutely sure doesn’t come anywhere near your precious blue front door.’ She whipped round, skidding on the slick paving slabs, and stormed up the path. She gasped when he grabbed her arm, swallowing another mouthful of rainwater in the process.
‘Come inside for a moment,’ he said. ‘Come and dry off.’
‘I need to get back to work.’ She twisted round, and his eyes held hers. They were icy blue, cold, somehow, and yet so captivating. The dimple made him look like he was smirking.
‘I need to go,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry we know who you are, but none of my friends would use it to their advantage. They’re just intrigued. It’s not like they’d call the press or anything.’
He nodded. ‘And the wildlife?’
Abby laughed. ‘I’m not apologizing for that. It comes with the territory. Why don’t you come on one of my walks, see if you can’t learn to love it a bit more, realize there are more important things than scratches on your paintwork?’
‘Of my squashed-frog car?’
‘It looks like it’s been trampled on, OK?’ She flung her arm in the direction of his Range Rover. ‘And it’s just a car. You need to sort out your priorities.’ She shrugged out of his grasp and skidded down the path, thinking bitterly that she wouldn’t have done that if her walking boots had been £250 Arc’teryx models, and began to walk back to the reserve. When she turned, once, immediately wishing she was stronger than that, she saw that Jack was still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She almost gave him a wave, realized she couldn’t guarantee the sarcasm would be obvious, and so left it.
Let him stand in the rain and get soaked, she thought. What did she care?
Abby’s sister Tessa and her family lived in a new development in Bury St Edmunds. Quite like the Harrier estate five minutes from Meadowgreen, it was a warren of roads and closes, the houses not quite identical. Abby wasn’t sure how she didn’t get lost every time, and always felt a surge of panic when she turned onto the estate, but somehow her hands turned the wheel and found the right driveway, the pale pink front door and the cuddly Peppa Pig in the upstairs window.
She hauled her craft materials out of the boot of her aged Citroën Saxo, took Raffle by the lead and, propping her pile of paper, fabric, pens and paints under her chin, managed to press the doorbell with one, straining finger.
‘Abby!’ Her sister opened the door and took the stack off her, leading the way through to the large kitchen at the back of the house. The garden was small but neat, with beds Tessa worked hard on and an immaculate lawn. There was a wildlife area at the end, which she was slowly developing with her daughters – and Abby’s advice – and with the wall of windows and French doors, the kitchen was somehow an extension of the outside, a haven of calm. If she lived here, Abby would spend most of her time in this room.
‘What can I get you?’ Tessa asked. ‘Tea, coffee, wine? Are you staying tonight?’ Abby’s sister was older by three years, taller, and, since giving up her job as a swimming teacher to be a full-time mum, even leaner than Abby, which she attributed to running around after Willow and Daisy all day. But Abby knew she was conscious of her appearance, much more so than Abby was, and had her dark blonde hair dyed a strange violet hue that somehow made her look much younger than her thirty-four years.
‘Tea for now, thanks,’ Abby said. ‘Not decided about staying.’
‘You’re not working tomorrow, though?’
‘Nope. This is my challenge for the next two days.’ Abby settled herself at the island in the centre of the room and spread out her craft materials. Raffle did his usual slow peruse of the space, and then lay at Abby’s feet. She’d taken him for a two-hour walk this morning, knowing that he wouldn’t get as much of a run around in the evening. The following weekend was her first big event – Penelope was calling it the autumn flagship event, a term that made Abby feel slightly nauseous – and she had this weekend off to prepare. Which was what she was hoping to rope Willow into, maybe Daisy too, though a three-year old was perhaps slightly too young to design Halloween bunting.
‘Is it all going well?’ Tessa brought the teas over along with a plate of pastel-coloured fondant fancies. She had a grey jumper pulled over her hands, the thin fabric threaded through with silver, and her nails were the colour of fresh lavender.
Abby glanced down at her own outfit, a navy jersey dress. She’d rolled the sleeves up, and the fabric had started to tear at the hem where she’d walked Raffle for hours, catching it on endless twigs and bramble bushes. She pushed her hair away from her face, and Tessa reached out and pulled a strand forward again, appraising her silently in the way she often did.
‘They’re fine,’ Abby said. ‘It’s mainly been walks and school activities so far, trying to widen the reach of the reserve. We’ve sent emails out to all the schools in Suffolk, as well as some just over the border, and we’ve got the county and borough councils to link through to our website on their days out pages. Take up’s been good, and the feedback so far has been positive. Next weekend, though, that’s the biggie.’
‘Halloween,’ Tessa said. ‘Willow’s been talking about it non-stop. I think some of the other parents are really into it, having parties and all sorts. She’ll love that you want her to help with all this.’
‘Where are they?’ Abby asked.
‘Neil’s taken them to the park, making the most of it while the weather’s still good. They keep asking about your bird book, and when they’re going to get to read it.’
‘Oh God,’ Abby said. ‘I should never have mentioned it. It’s ridiculous!’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a lovely idea. Have you done any more?’
‘A few notes,’ Abby admitted. ‘We had a boy at the reserve a few weeks ago who described a mistle thrush as having a bread-and-butter pudding tummy, so I’m going to steal that.’
‘It’s perfect. See – get young people to help you create it, then they’ll definitely be able to identify with it.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Come on, then.’ Tessa picked up a packet of pumpkin-shaped confetti and wiggled it. ‘What’s the plan with all this?’
‘Bunting for the visitor centre, and I’m running a scary drawing competition. I wondered if Willow and Daisy would like to do some examples for me, so I’ve got something to show the children when they turn up. I think if we keep it light, I won’t end up with pictures full of blood and gore.’
Tessa laughed. ‘Of course you will – they’re children. No risk assessment will ever prepare you for the imaginations of small people.’
‘You think I should stick to a nature theme?’
‘I think,’ Tessa said, picking up a fondant fancy and biting into it, closing her eyes in ecstasy, then waiting until she could speak again, ‘you could theme it around kittens and you’d still end up with some unexpected drawings. Go with horror – at least it’ll be entertaining.’
‘You’re not helping to calm my nerves.’
‘What do you have to be nervous about? You’ve got this, Abby.’
Abby toyed with the yellow icing on her cake. She debated telling Tessa that she thought Penelope’s financial concerns were bigger than she was letting on, that she was beginning to feel the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, and that she had this irritating, left-field problem she was thinking about more than she should be – because how much of a risk was he, really, with his petty notes and his non-existent car damage?
‘There’s just a lot to get done,’ she settled on. ‘But if Willow and Daisy aren’t around, how good are you at drawing bats?’
That evening, once Willow, Daisy and Raffle had worn each other out running around the garden, and two of them were upstairs asleep, and the other was snoring gently in front of the fireplace, ears twitching, Abby, Tessa and Neil sat in the snug living room, a bottle of wine open on the table. Abby had relented and decided to stay over, as she often did, the thought of going back to her homely but silent terrace unappealing after spending time in her sister’s boisterous household.
‘We’ve been watching that Wild Wonders thing on the TV,’ Neil said into an easy silence, earning a slap on the arm from his wife.
‘Ssshhh, no we haven’t. Not every episode, anyway.’ Tessa looked mortified, and Abby laughed.
‘I’ve watched some of it too – I had to know what we were up against.’
‘And what do you think? Does that presenter, what’s-her-name, know anything about nature at all?’
‘Flick Hunter,’ Neil supplied.
‘The name on the tip of every Englishman’s tongue this autumn,’ Abby said. ‘I don’t know. She seems competent enough, and they’ve got a good range of experts to provide the detail. It’s well put together, and it’s a good advertisement for Suffolk nature reserves.’
‘You’re not losing customers because of it?’
Abby wrinkled her nose. A month ago, she would have said no, absolutely not. But over the last couple of weeks the footfall had dropped off, takings had dipped and Abby hadn’t found a reason for it – unless the popularity of the television show was growing, and customers who ordinarily would have taken a punt, picking either Meadowsweet or Reston Marsh for their day out, now automatically chose the latter because they’d heard of it.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Possibly. The thing is, I don’t have the answers, and Penelope won’t like that. She wants to know why we’ve lost visitors, and what I’m doing about it. The drop-off is too vague, too gradual, and I need to work on reversing it. But we’ve got a night-time wildlife walk, mask-making, apple bobbing and now, with our stunning drawing examples, who wouldn’t want to come and see us? If I can make this Halloween event successful, then the ripples will perhaps be enough to get us back on track.’
‘It seems like she’s put a lot of the responsibility on you,’ Tessa said. ‘You’re not the only member of staff.’
Abby shrugged. ‘I know, but Rosa’s got the shop and Stephan’s in charge of the café. My remit is activities, visitor numbers, memberships. It makes sense that I should be the one driving it, but everyone mucks in and comes up with ideas. I’m not on my own.’
‘That’s good,’ Tessa nodded. ‘And all this, for Halloween, is bound to be a sure-fire winner, even without leggy blonde television presenters to lure people in.’
‘I’m blonde,’ Abby said. ‘Not so much of the leggy, though.’
‘You’re gorgeous.’ Tessa drained her wine and reached for the bottle. ‘How’s lovely Ryan in the pub? What did you describe him as – a fuzzy St Bernard?’
‘Subtle, sis.’ Abby rolled her eyes. ‘Ryan’s got a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t, I’m not attracted to him. He’s a friend. They all are.’
‘Yes, I know. Gavin’s married, Marek’s not far off being a granddad and even before this girlfriend development, you couldn’t possibly date Ryan because you couldn’t get past his beard to kiss him. There are excuses for everyone, but I refuse to believe there isn’t someone at that reserve, one of the volunteers maybe, or a guy in the village, who hasn’t piqued your interest. You can’t stay single forever.’
‘Why not, Tessa? Why can’t I be happy, just Raffle and me? Why do I need someone else to complete me?’
‘I’ll open another bottle,’ Neil said quietly, slipping from the room.
‘Of course, I’m not saying that.’ Tessa scooted closer, drawing her knees up in front of her. ‘But I also know that ever since you finished with Darren you’ve stayed away from men and dating as if the mere concept could damage your health. Just because Mum and Dad’s relationship was …’ she searched for the word, ‘… volatile, doesn’t mean we’re going to turn into them. Look at me and Neil.’
‘I know that,’ Abby said, already weary at treading over well-worn ground. ‘But doesn’t it make sense to stay away from relationships that look like they could go that way? With Darren, I let it go on too long, and before that …’ She rubbed her hands over her face. ‘I get it wrong, Tessa. Every time, I go for the guys who aren’t like Neil, who aren’t kind and gentle and decent. And then, it’s as if what happened with Mum and Dad is playing out all over again, that somehow I subconsciously go looking for it.’ Her voice dipped, the pain of those memories still able to hurt her despite the time that had passed. ‘It’s easier if I just stay on my own.’
‘But you got out,’ Tessa protested. ‘You put up with Darren’s crap for far too long, but you left him. You didn’t let it get like Mum and Dad, and you are not the same as them, neither of us are. The way Dad behaved was unforgivable, and you have to give Mum credit for fighting back, even if walking away would have been better for everyone.’
‘Tessa—’
‘I understand your reservations. You haven’t made the best decisions with men in the past, but you can’t let it hamper your whole life. Not every guy is going to be like Darren, or Dad.’
‘Except they’re all I’ve experienced.’
Tessa shook her head. ‘No, Abby. Don’t let Dad’s failings stop you from having a rewarding, healthy relationship. He’s caused both of us – you, especially – enough pain. Don’t give him that satisfaction, too.’
‘But whenever Darren raised his voice, or I lost my temper with him, I thought—’
Tessa took Abby’s hand. ‘No relationship is without arguments; what matters is how you deal with them. Dad never got it right. Darren was an idiot, and those guys before … Abby, it doesn’t mean every man is like that, or they’re the only ones you’ll ever come into contact with. You can’t live your life believing that, because you’ll lose out on so much. You’ve had a bad run of things, but you’re much more settled now, with your house and your wonderful job. I don’t see why a loving relationship can’t follow.’ Tessa gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Besides, you’re going to get overheated about stuff unless you’re the Dalai Lama. You need to build up a head of steam then clear the air sometimes. It’s all part of it, and making up can be the best thing.’ Her smile turned into a cheeky grin, but it faded quickly when Abby didn’t reciprocate.
‘But what if they frustrate you every time they open their mouth?’ Abby said. ‘And you feel this rage building up inside you, and you want to scream and pummel their chest, and then every time you imagine doing that, you picture them taking hold of your arms and silencing you with this kiss, this amazing, powerful kiss, so that you don’t even feel the rain or—’ She stopped suddenly, heat going to her cheeks.
Her sister was staring at her with a look of shocked delight, and Neil was standing in the doorway, open-mouthed, holding a bottle of wine.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Tessa asked.
‘Nobody,’ Abby said hurriedly, stretching her glass out towards Neil, who had recovered and was holding the bottle aloft.
‘Bullshit is it nobody,’ Tessa whispered. ‘That is a very well-formed fantasy, and I need to know right now who the man is.’
‘It isn’t anyone real,’ Abby said. ‘It’s just … Octavia got this book for me, from the library. She clearly believes, as you do, that my sex life is somewhat lacking. Anyway, this ridiculous novel is full of—’ she glanced at Neil, who was intent on his iPhone, his nose almost pressed into the screen. She was embarrassing everyone, though in some ways that was better than continuing the depressing conversation about her parents and her own, less-than-happy relationships. ‘It’s a bit raunchy, that’s all. Not what I’m used to.’
‘With a dashing, infuriating hero who you argue with in the rain?’ Tessa hugged her knees. ‘It sounds like the Pride and Prejudice film with Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. That scene in the downpour is perfection. Whoever this author is,’ Tessa said, and Abby jolted upright, almost spilling her wine, ‘then they’ve clearly been watching that film. You’ll have to give me the details.’ She glanced at her husband then winked at Abby, and Abby felt all at once like she’d been let off the hook and dug herself a deeper hole.
She wished she’d remembered that film adaptation and pretended it was the reason for her over-excitable imagination. Now she would have to invent an author and a book title that sounded convincing – but then Tessa would look online and not be able to find it, or else she’d have to search through Octavia’s stock and see if she could pick out a book to match, which sounded like a hopeless task, and one which would no doubt result in the rumour being spread around the village that Abby Field was looking for erotic literature.
The irony was that the person who would probably be best at conjuring up novel titles was the one who was responsible for Abby’s ludicrous outburst. If only he hadn’t stood there in the rain, in his expensive jacket with his scowling, sea-blue eyes and perfect jawline, and then pulled her beneath the porch with him, she would never have let her imagination run away with her in front of her sister in the first place.
But as long as she kept it to herself and had no more slip-ups like that, then the unhelpful feelings were bound to go away and Jack Westcoat would simply be her irritating adversary, until he realized the delights of the reserve were too much for him and skulked back to London to write his dark books. She was confident that he would be a short-lived problem, and she would soon be able to tick him off her to-do list for good.