me and lives a life of surf and beaches. And Dick left me high and dry and he's just a stupid boy who thinks he's Jim Morrison but he doesn't even come close.
Tess left the room in a hurry and went to her child's room, chanting to herself ‘Come on Baby Light My Fire’, which was totally inappropriate but it was the only Doors song she could recall just then.
Em was sitting quietly in her cot, bashing the toy lion against a cardboard book, its bead-eye making a satisfying tap. Tess scooped her up and whispered, Emmy Emmy Emmy into her neck.
And I don't fancy Joe. I absolutely cannot fancy Joe. Not just because he can be arrogant and sharp and he takes his beautiful house for granted. But because I'm only his house-sitter. It's like having a stupid crush on the boss. Ridiculous.
‘Aren't you staying around to give me a send-off, then?’ Joe asked an hour or so later, seeing Tess preparing the dog and the child for a walk.
‘Things to do,’ Tess said, busying herself with the zip on Em's cardigan, squatting down on her heels, inadvertently giving Joe an enticing view of the small of her back and beyond. ‘Carpe diem, and all that.’
She was preoccupied but Joe sensed this wasn't caused by a child's zip or a dog in a tangle. Just then, he wanted to crouch beside her, still her hands, say, hey – you OK? But he felt he couldn't very well do that, not least because his departure was imminent.
‘I'll call – if you like,’ he said instead, ‘to let you know when I'll be back.’ He paused. ‘Or just to say hi.’
Tess stopped fiddling, though the dog and child continued with their fidgeting regardless. She looked across and her gaze came to rest at Joe's lower legs. He was standing relaxed, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking down at her. He could see the top of her knickers from here. From this advantage point, he thought to himself.
‘OK,’ she said, glancing up at him, wondering why he was smiling like that.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I'll keep in touch, then.’
She stood. ‘Bye then,’ she said but she loitered. She tickled Em under the chin. ‘Say bye bye to Joe, Em. Bye bye Joe. Say – bye bye.’
But the baby just stared at Joe.
‘Goodbye, Emmeline. Look after Wolf.’ And Joe gave her a little wave that she mimicked.
Ultimately, it was Joe giving them the send-off. He'd be gone by the time they were back.
‘Hey, Tess!’ he called down the driveway. She was just beyond the gate, just about to disappear from view. ‘I'll leave you my mobile number.’ She gave him the thumbs-up.
‘Hey, Tess!’ She turned again. ‘Shall I take yours?’
‘Don't have one,’ she called, ‘not any more.’ She paused. ‘Just call the home phone if you need me.’
Returning to the house, Joe thought he must be losing the plot for thinking how the house seemed deserted without that little lot. Then he scolded himself as a soft sod for again liking the way Tess said ‘home’. She never referred to the Resolution as the house, or your house – nor to the phone as the landline or house phone. Home was the word she always employed, whenever she could. Conversely, he chose not to use it much – the word or the place. He didn't want to hang around; he wanted to be on his way, with his London head on. But still he looked in at Tess's room and Emmeline's before he went. The doors had been closed but he left them ajar; as if inviting the new spirit those rooms now exuded to emanate through the house.
He'd miss them.
For fuck's sake, what was he thinking.
It took the rest of the day for the residual feelings from her dreams to dissipate and by the following morning, Tess felt restored. She also felt more than ready to tackle the tasks she'd set herself. One of which was to keep the doors to Joe's study and bedroom firmly shut.
It was fine and dry and Tess decided to make a start on the boot and utility rooms, taking all the old boots and coats into the garden. She pegged the jackets on the washing line, chucked onto the bonfire heap a waxed jacket so old and neglected that the fabric had cracked, shook out a dusty jumper and decided it still had life in it and just needed a wash. She thought about adding the gumboots to the bonfire pile, so ancient that the rubber had blanched and disintegrated, but she decided to dump them directly in the bin. The same fate awaited the single flip-flop. As it did the golf umbrella that, when opened, rattled and spewed its broken spokes like a science-lab skeleton that had come unscrewed. Anyway, Tess didn't think Joe was the umbrella type. He probably just turned his collar up against inclement weather. Or donned one of those yellow hard hats. She'd come across two already, had tried one on but resisted the urge to fit the straps and take a look.
With all the footwear out on the lawn either airing or awaiting their fate by fire or bin, she came across a bootjack. It was in the shape of a beetle, its antennae forming the heel grip, and she liked it so she gave it a reprieve. It would only need a clean and a lick of black gloss paint. However, the boot scraper resembling a hedgehog with a thatch of old coir as the spines was dumped without a second thought. It had turned mostly green, was covered with cobwebs, with evidence of large spiders lurking beneath. Sizeable ones had already made their displeasure known when Tess first started to clear out the utility room, putting themselves and Tess into a scuttle of panic.
On the shelves above the washing machine and tumble drier, crates were stacked; some plastic, some wood, some full, some empty. So that's where the spare light bulbs are. And batteries. Now Em's little singing tortoise could finally make music again! Jesus, how many packets of fuses does a man need? Rat poison? Meths? And what the hell is this stuff, with the skull and crossbones emblazoned all over it? Tess bagged it before she binned it.
She sorted through myriad items. Many were destined for the bin. A few would be better off living in one of the kitchen drawers. Some would stay in the utility room. Others needed to go into one of the garden sheds – but she'd have to sort those out too and they were currently padlocked. It amused her trying to correlate this Joe-of-the-Utility-Room with the Joe-of-the-Study. She wondered what Joe-in-London was doing. Then she told herself to change the subject.
As if reading her mind, Wolf scrambled up from his snooze in a barrage of barking and belted past Tess out into the garden. That mangy cat, no doubt. She was too engrossed in her sifting, and knew Wolf well enough by now, to think much of it. Into an old wooden wine crate (which she thought would scrub up nicely itself and could be re-employed elsewhere), she piled the items that were to live in the kitchen and took them through.
And there, she froze.
There was someone outside.
This time, there really was. It wasn't a shadow. It wasn't her imagination. It wasn't her reflection.
There was definitely someone out there looking in at her, and this time they weren't darting away.
So why wasn't Wolf continuing to bark?
And what could an elderly lady want? All the way up here? Was she lost?
And if she was smiling benignly, why did Tess feel rooted to the spot?
It was because something she couldn't yet decipher was oddly familiar.
The woman knocked on the window, as if unsure whether Tess had seen her
