Chapter 4
I’m standing back admiring my handiwork when Sally reappears at my newly painted front door carrying a tray laden with a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven, and two mugs of milky coffee.
‘What do you think?’ I ask.
‘I’m usually a fan of purple but it was a bit garish, if I’m honest. I was wondering what colour you were planning for the gate,’ she laughs. ‘The grey is much more in keeping with the character of the cottage and you’ll have plenty of purple around your door when the wisteria flowers in May.’
‘Is that what the twiggy thing is? I’m not bad with a paintbrush but completely useless in the garden.’
‘Me too. I’ll have to give you Darren’s number. He’s been tending both of these gardens for years. He was pretty upset when the “For Sale” sign went up and the original estate agent told him not to come any more. It was a bit premature, if you ask me. No wonder the house took a while to sell with the garden so overgrown.’
I think back to my first glimpse of the cottage in August. It was almost as though it was hiding behind a mass of greenery, although someone had had the foresight to clear a path to the front door so that the estate agent and I could actually get in to view.
‘That would be really handy if he’s not too expensive.’
‘He’s such a sweetheart, he’d probably offer to do it for nothing. We give him twenty pounds, which is supposed to be for two hours’ work but he always stays at least three or until he has got everything finished. I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous by bringing my coffee round too,’ Sally says, following me into the hallway. ‘I would have invited you round to ours but I guessed you wouldn’t be happy leaving your front door wide open with nobody home.’
‘You guessed right, not that there’s much that anyone would want to steal. Go through and take a pew,’ I say, indicating the door to my front room, ‘while I stick this brush in some white spirit. I haven’t mastered the art of lighting a fire yet and I can’t work out the timer on the central heating so it’s a bit nippy in there but warmer than the kitchen. Do you want to flick the fan heater on? I’d do it but I don’t want to touch anything in the living room with paint all over my hands.’
The clean-up took slightly longer than anticipated. I retrieved the missing brush, plunging my hand into the gloopy pot of paint before wiping the excess off both it and my hand on several sheets of kitchen roll, then cleansing properly with an old rag soaked in white spirit, and washing my hands with a fancy liquid soap that Mum bought me to try and get rid of the smell.
‘I hope it’s still hot,’ Sally says, when I finally show my face. ‘I put the plate of biscuits over yours to try and keep the heat in.’
How thoughtful, I think, picking up my mug of coffee and sinking on to the chair opposite the two-seater sofa she is perched on. The room is already starting to warm up thanks to the fan heater. I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip.
‘Lovely,’ I say, savouring the sweet warm coffee, ‘and these cookies are divine. Did you make them from scratch?’
‘Yes. I like baking. These are a new recipe: spiced orange and sultana. I’m trying it out before the village Christmas fayre. You’re my guinea pig; even Matt hasn’t tasted them yet.’
It’s the second time she has mentioned Matt.
‘Matt?’
‘He’s my fiancé. We’re getting married in June.’
I must confess to feeling a slight twinge of envy.
‘A June bride,’ I manage to say with a smile. ‘Very traditional.’
‘Nothing to do with tradition. He plays football and they’re not allowed to get married during the season.’
‘Oh, right.’ I should probably ask what team he plays for but unless she says Arsenal, who my dad supports, or Manchester United, who everyone has heard of, I will be none the wiser.
‘Of course, he’s only semi-pro, the rest of the time he’s at Fellows and Webb. They’re not crazy about him having every Saturday off but they put up with it because his sales are so good.’
I’m racking my brain, trying to think why I know the name Fellows and Webb, then I get it.
‘They’re the agents I bought the house from.’
Sally gives me a strange look. ‘I know. It was Matt who sold it to you. We’re very grateful because the commission from the sale helped us reach our savings goal so that we could set the date for our wedding.’
The penny drops. Matthew, the estate agent, and Matt, Sally’s boyfriend, are the same person. No wonder he had been so confident showing me around the cottage, it’s probably a carbon copy of theirs. He even made suggestions for possible renovations, perhaps ones they have already done. And that’s when he must have noticed my similarity to Leanne. I’m quite relieved, actually, it’s better than the thought of him spying on me from behind their wooden shutters.
‘As you’ve played a part in us being able to announce the date,’ Sally was saying, ‘we’ll have to add you to the guest list, always assuming you don’t do a “Leanne” on us. Just you, or should I add a plus one?’
I know she’s fishing but I don’t really mind. She’s just trying to get to know me and I’m going to need friends in the village if I’m going to settle in.
‘Just me,’ I say, plastering a fake smile on my face.
‘Well, a lot can change in six months. We’ve got quite a few single friends that I can introduce you to.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sally, but I’m on a dating break. I’ve had enough of men for the time being.’
‘You just haven’t met the right one yet. Trust me, you’ll know when you do.’
I admire her faith in my ability to recognise ‘Mr Right’. Unfortunately, I don’t share it, and for the moment I’m determined to stick with my resolve not to go looking.
Sally is busy placing her crockery back on the tray.
‘Well, I’d better let you get on. What are you planning on painting next?’
‘I thought I’d do the hallway. I may as well while I’ve got the front door open. It may dry more quickly and it will lessen the smell.’
‘Good luck with it. I’d offer to help but I’m as hopeless at decorating as I am with gardening. It’s a good job I can cook or Matt might have second thoughts about marrying me. Anyway, I’ve stacks more baking to do for the Christmas fayre on Saturday. Two more batches of cookies, some iced snowman biscuits and four dozen mince pies.’
It sounds like my idea of hell. She stops on the doorstep.
‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to come and give me a hand on the stall, would you? Matt’s got football and I wasn’t looking forward to manning it all by myself. You could come round to ours for a casserole on Saturday night as a thank you,’ she adds, as though she has already worked out that the way to coax me to do something is to offer me food.
She has a slightly mischievous expression and I’m not sure why, although I suspect it may have something to do with introducing me to a member of the opposite sex. Despite this, I agree. I want to integrate into the community and what better way than to help out at the village Christmas fayre raising money to repair the church roof.