Chapter 3
15th December
My stomach rumbles noisily. Surely it must be almost lunchtime. I glance at my watch. It’s only half past ten; precisely eight minutes have passed since I last looked at it. The smell of gloss paint always has this effect on me. In the couple of seconds it has taken me to check the time, a drip of grey gloss has started to form in the corner of one of the stained-glass panels of the Victorian door I’m painting, which I quickly catch with the bristles of my brush held between fingers that are slowly turning blue from the cold, despite the fingerless gloves I’m wearing. It’s not ideal weather to be painting the exterior of my front door but I have no choice if I’m going to have the downstairs of my new home finished before Christmas. At this time of year there are no guarantees that the temperature won’t fall further, or worse still it may turn wet or even snowy.
Actually, I’ve fantasised on several occasions that my first Christmas here will be white, with snow so deep that we all have to stay indoors. When I say all, I mean my family. I’ve pictured us gathered around a roaring fire, with me handing out homemade mince pies and topping up glasses of sherry after a game of Monopoly where no-one got moody because they were losing, before settling down to watch Home Alone or Miracle on 34th Street.
Who am I kidding? Firstly, I’ve never made a mince pie in my life. What’s the point when you can buy a pack of six from the supermarket with crumbly, buttery pastry for less than it would cost to make them? My stomach grumbles even louder.
Secondly, we always go to my sister’s for Christmas Day. Noella has the perfect family: a husband who worships the ground she walks on, two stunningly beautiful children – a boy and a girl, of course – and a house big enough for us all to have our own room on Christmas Eve. No-one will have to sleep on the floor on cushions from the sofa, zipped into sleeping bags that have seen their fair share of music festivals over the years and have a faint whiff of mud to prove it. At Noella’s house, the bed linen is pristine white and smells like fresh air, and there will be no queue for the bathroom on Christmas morning as every room has an en-suite.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister and her husband, and my nephew and niece, but I sometimes feel that their perfection is yet another reminder, as if one were needed, of just how imperfect my life is. I’m not unattractive, I have a good job teaching English in a private school and a wicked sense of humour but, for some reason, the sort of men I’m attracted to aren’t the settling-down type, at least not with me. The funny thing is, my last three boyfriends have all got married to the girl they dated immediately after me, making me officially ‘The One Before The One!’
The rhythmic brushstrokes are gradually turning the sludgy coloured undercoat that I applied yesterday, to cover the purple paint I had sanded down the day before that, a beautiful, sophisticated elephant grey. I ask you, who in their right mind would paint the front door of their red-brick Victorian cottage Royal Purple? Well, me, actually. It hadn’t looked that bright on the label of the tin in the DIY store and I kept hoping that it would dry a little more muted, but I had to admit it was a horrible mistake when I overheard the men delivering my new washing machine muttering about needing sunglasses.
Today, they would have needed their sunglasses for an entirely different reason. Normally I love days like this – bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds and the pale winter sun catching an occasional touch of frost causing it to sparkle like diamonds – but that’s when I’m viewing it from inside somewhere warm and toasty. Right now, my feet are like blocks of ice and I can feel my nose starting to drip. Instead of downing my paintbrush to retrieve my crumpled paper hanky from its position stuffed up the sleeve of my ancient fleece, I lazily run my sleeve across my dripping nose as the postman, who I’ve already decided would be just my type if I wasn’t on a dating break, pushes through my front gate, his arms full of brightly coloured envelopes. Great. My cheeks heat up with embarrassment so they are now the warmest part of my entire being. Maybe he didn’t notice.
‘Nice colour,’ he says.
For a moment, I think he means my cheeks before I realise he means the door.
‘By that I guess you mean, better than the hideous purple?’
‘I’m no expert, but it was a bit full-on. Where do you want these?’ he asks, wafting several letters in my direction. ‘On the step, seeing as you’ve got your hands full?’
‘Would you mind squeezing past me and popping them on the shelf in the hall? It’d be just my luck for a gust of wind to blow them on to the wet paint and I can’t face painting this door for a fourth time.’
‘No problem.’ He eases behind me, causing just a slight fluttering in my heart.
Off limits, at least for the time being, I remind myself as he heads back down the path.
‘And by the way, you’ve got a smudge of paint on your face from when you wiped your nose on your sleeve.’
Or make that for ever, I think, unless he has very low standards when it comes to personal habits, in which case I’m not interested anyway.
‘Thanks for pointing it out,’ I say to his retreating back.
He raises his hand in acknowledgement and I realise the irony is lost on him. That’s another reason I wouldn’t be interested in dating him. I need a man with a sense of humour similar to mine. It’s a shame; he really is quite a hottie.
‘Don’t go there,’ says a female voice, startling me so much that I drop the paintbrush from my frozen fingers and watch in horror as it breaks the surface of the paint with the velocity of an archer’s arrow hitting the bullseye, the handle disappearing beneath the surface before I can stop it.
‘Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say, turning to face a petite blonde woman, who looks to be about the same age as me, standing on the other side of the fence dividing the pathways of our two properties.
‘I just thought you should know that Rick, the postman, is the village lothario. Well, I say village; I think he has dated just about every single woman under the age of forty within a twenty-mile radius over the past couple of years, and one or two married ones, if the rumours are to be believed. Do you need some help fishing it out? I’m Sally, by the way. I’ve been meaning to pop round and welcome you to the village but it’s always so manic just before Christmas.’
‘Carol,’ I say in response. ‘I would shake hands but you probably don’t want paint all over you. Thanks for the heads-up about Rick.’ I contemplate telling her that it’s irrelevant as I’m on a dating break but decide that’s too much information to be sharing with my new neighbour.
‘What are you going to do about the brush?’
I consider the question. Do I fish it out? It seems a bit pointless. I wouldn’t be able to use it without cleaning it up and I would get my hands covered in paint.
‘I’ve almost finished so I think I’ll just get another brush out of the packet and retrieve it when I’m done. I started early so the door will have dried enough for me to shut tonight without sticking when I try and open it in the morning.’
‘Good thinking. Can I make you a cup of coffee or tea or something? You must be freezing out here.’
At the mere mention of refreshments my stomach rumbles again.
‘I’ll bring some cookies round too, I’ve just taken some out of the oven.’
‘That’s really kind of you. Coffee would be lovely. Milk and one sugar please,’ I say, reaching for a new paintbrush, spurred on by the promise of a sweet treat.
‘Coming right up. You know, I didn’t believe Matt when he told me the cottage had been bought by someone who bore a striking resemblance to Leanne, but he was right. He’s not usually that observant.’
I wait for her to elaborate. I have no idea who either of the people she just mentioned are.
‘Same dark hair, porcelain skin and intense blue eyes, but yours have a twinkle where hers always looked so sad. Even so, you could easily be sisters. You’re not, are you?’
‘I do have a sister but her name is Noella and funnily enough she’s as blonde as I am dark. Who’s Leanne?’
‘She was our previous neighbour. She was only here a few months and kept herself to herself, despite my attempts at making her feel welcome. Then, around this time last year, she simply disappeared. Matt and I weren’t worried at first. We thought she’d gone away on holiday or to visit family for Christmas but when she still hadn’t showed up by the end of January I rang the police to check that she hadn’t been reported missing.’
I pause mid-brushstroke. ‘Had she?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘How odd.’
‘I don’t want to give you the impression that we’re nosy neighbours, or noisy for that matter, we were just concerned is all.’
I smile, hoping that she’s telling the truth on both counts. I will probably be spending a good deal of my evenings at home now that I’m on my self-imposed dating break.
‘The police made me feel quite guilty, as if I was wasting their time, so we left it after that. Maybe she changed her mind about living in Little Whitton? I don’t think she knew anyone here and there’s not much nightlife apart from the pub and Botticelli’s, the Italian restaurant. It’s more for couples and families really, so not everyone’s cup of tea. Speaking of which, let me get you that coffee before you freeze to death.’
‘Thanks.’
For the first time since I picked up the keys to my new home a week ago, a seed of doubt has been planted in my mind. Maybe Mum and Dad were right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so hasty in signing on the dotted line and committing my foreseeable future to a village I know so little about. My little bubble of happiness has been temporarily punctured and I fervently hope that I will find more happiness in my new home than the previous occupant apparently did.