By the next day, the rumours had spread like wildfire. There wasn’t a person in Whistling who hadn’t heard the news. Emma Halloway had got her hands on Jack Allen at last.

People’s eyes followed her everywhere she went. Some gave her an encouraging sort of grin, and Harrison Brimble offered some good-natured ribbing when she popped in for that week’s groceries, but others weren’t so accepting.

Sue Redmond – the woman who’d recently got back together with her about-to-divorce husband – crossed the street quickly when she saw Emma approach, shooting her a look of fear laced with something else, like disapproval.

Steve Galway, leaning drunkenly outside the post office, wearing only his dirty grey vest despite the blistering cold, spat on the floor, and she heard him hiss, ‘Witch’, as she hurried past, bundled in her coat and thick woollen scarf.

There was an angry letter dropped through the letter box that accused her of the same.

‘People can be idiots,’ were Aggie’s words of comfort. ‘You and Jack have been fighting this thing for years, it’s good to see you finally get together.

‘Don’t let it spoil it for you,’ was her advice.

She tried as best as she could; she burned the letter, avoided the square. Tried not to think of it any more.

What did it matter if people stared and whispered? She’d been through it all before. Surely it was all worth it now that she had Jack by her side?

---

It was later that week and she’d just given her first radio presentation down at The Whistle Blower, a fun interview about the history of holiday food. Sandro had come along to offer a taste of what Christmas was like in Spain.

Now that she was mostly recovered, she knew that the time had come to make a decision about her flat in London. As a freelancer she didn’t have to be based in London; she could travel there whenever she needed to, and with the money she’d save on rent, she could make things much more comfortable at Hope Cottage – including getting it painted, doing some roof repairs and fixing the old range.

The truth was she was happier at Hope Cottage than she’d been in years. Despite the rumours and the dark looks that had escalated since she’d started dating Jack Allen, there wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be. Still, giving up her flat wasn’t an easy decision. It had represented something important in her life – an escape from everything she was going through now. Yet, in her heart she knew that really it had been the equivalent of burying your head in the sand like an ostrich – the biggest, loudest part of you was still there for all the world to see.

She travelled to London with Evie, Dot and Aggie, who’d offered to help pack up her things. It was a small flat and there wasn’t that much to take in the end, as she’d rented it furnished. Just her books and clothes and a few odds and ends.

It was a surprise to her how little she’d accumulated in the past four years. Little more than three boxes full of things. ‘This is it?’ asked Dot in surprise.

She nodded. ‘I suppose, looking at it now, I see how temporary this all was,’ she said, looking around the small flat. ‘It’s funny what you don’t see sometimes.’

‘That’s true,’ said Evie.

The boxes were driven back in Aggie’s van, which she used to cart around all her large paintings, and were placed in a corner of the Hope Cottage kitchen.

‘Sandro said he’s probably moving out soon,’ Evie said.

Emma’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘He is?’

‘Yes, well, they’re mostly done with the renovations – it still needs work but now that there’s a kitchen and a bathroom he says he can live in it while the rest is being done.’

‘When is he moving?’ she asked.

‘Next few days, I should imagine.’

Emma frowned. ‘But that’s such short notice – I mean, surely it should be at least a month’s notice, shouldn’t it?’

Evie laughed. ‘Not between friends. Anyway he’s already paid me far too much as it is – he’s so generous.’

‘But, he can’t leave.’

Evie touched her hand. ‘We’ll still see him, don’t worry.’

Emma blinked. What was she going to do at Hope Cottage without Sandro? ‘Maybe I can convince him to stay… I mean, if the farmhouse isn’t completely ready, why move? It’s like you said, we don’t need the money.’

Evie and Aggie shared a look. ‘Love,’ Evie started, ‘I think with you dating Jack now, well—’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? Sandro doesn’t need to leave just because of that.’

Aggie touched her arm. ‘I think Sandro feels differently.’

She frowned. What did that mean? He’d had enough of them – of her – perhaps? Maybe he was sick of feeling so needed. God knows, she’d relied upon him enough in the past, but she didn’t think he’d minded… unless she’d been cramping his style. All those nights when he was at home with her making her laugh, Pennywort snoring in his lap while they listened to that silly, funny book, maybe he’d just been trying to be nice when he really wanted to be out with Holly, or Sarah, or whichever one it was that week.

---

By the third week in December, Emma could be found spending her mornings in the greenhouse working on her column and the afternoons working on her weekly show for the Whistling radio station. She’d got better at typing with her injured hand, though it played up in the cold. She’d got in contact with some of her old freelance clients and was starting to take on some more work there as well.

The greenhouse was quiet, filled with the scent of soil and rosemary and the aroma of fresh coffee. She swivelled her mouse and opened up a blank page, took a sip, and for a second she thought of a pair of dark eyes, waiting for her to announce her topic.

She bit her lip, tried to shake the image out of her mind; perhaps he’d find it amusing that whenever she wrote a column now, she imagined what he’d say, though she wondered if he even read them. He’d been busy of late, and she’d barely seen him. The last time he’d come past, Jack had been sitting at the table and he’d popped in for less than the time it took for him to change his shirt and leave again, with a slightly terse, ‘Adios’, no dimpled grin; no ‘Hola, Pajarita’ either. Even Pennywort looked despondent.

Now he had officially moved out, the house was so much emptier.

When she finished for the day, she flexed the muscles in her hand. They were tight and sore. She didn’t mind the pain, not really; it was a reminder of how far she’d come.

An early night was just about the only thing on her mind when she closed her laptop and made for the warmth of the cottage, thinking of a nice warm bath as her feet sank into the snow-covered grass.

When she neared the back door however, she saw Jack waiting for her outside.

He looked slightly frazzled, his hazel eyes haunted, beneath an olive-green beanie.

‘You okay?’ she asked, opening the door.

‘Yeah, no, fine,’ he said, running a hand through his hair and giving her a kiss.

He took a seat at the table, not bothering to take off his coat. His eyes fell upon The Book, and for a second she saw a scowl darken his eyes.

‘Jack?’ she asked.

His eyes snapped to hers. He didn’t say anything for a while, then he frowned, then half-jokingly he asked, ‘I’d know if I were bewitched – right?’

Emma blinked. ‘What?’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘It was Stella, she came past my place earlier…’ His eye fell on The Book again and he gave a short laugh, though she could tell he wasn’t really joking. ‘It’s not like you made one for me, did you?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, taken aback.

He nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ he said, with a shaky kind of grin. ‘I mean it’s not like they really work… that’s what I told her – I told her you don’t believe in any of this.’ He pulled a slightly mocking face as he waved a hand around the cottage.

Emma frowned.

He looked up at her, his eyes widening with disbelief. ‘You don’t, do you?’

She stared at him for a while, and then frowned. ‘And if I do?’

He gave a half-grin. ‘What are you saying?’

She sighed. ‘I’m saying that I’ve seen too much to not believe, you know?’

He blinked, his face blanching a little. ‘So, the things you gave me… the strange things people have said that have happened to people who have eaten the things you made, like people getting back together with their exes—’

‘And you think that’s what happened to you, do you?’ she asked, folding her arms.

He looked at her. She could see the circles under his eyes. He looked tired, and unsure.

‘Well, Jack. You know what I remember?’

He shook his head.

‘That you were the one knocking on my door the first week I got back, and how in the weeks since then you’ve been here, bringing me things to eat, coming to see how I was, coming to sit next to me in that teashop with Gretchen, getting my number from Maggie… running into me, texting me, oh, and then – yes – you walked me home one night from the Tapas Hut, and we sat right here, in this kitchen and you kissed me. And yes, somewhere between the time you brought me home and the time you decided to kiss me you had one of the buns I’d made. So yeah, I guess it must all fucking be because of that.’

‘Emma—’

‘Goodnight Jack,’ she said, standing up and opening the door.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, so am I,’ she said, closing the door behind him.