lights and closed the plantation shutters, glancing pensively at the bed. This morning she had performed one last cleaning round of her bedsit. She could sleep for a week, offered the chance.
Except, she hadn’t given a thought to breakfast in the morning. With only a fond hope, she wandered out to the small refrigerator. Her new employer had been gone a week, yet he had stocked a few staples for her, including butter and long-life milk. She found the coffee pods needed for the machine, a canister of teabags, jam, and peanut butter in an overhead cupboard, and cornflakes and dry crackers in a storage cupboard. Without trying to locate a shop, she could make a nice unhealthy snack before having an early night.
Tomorrow morning, she hoped to mark out various areas in the garden. In the not-too-distant future, the judge would be the proud owner of a new garden more suited to the style of his stately home. His present garden had been planted twenty years ago with rows of standard iceberg roses and English box hedges. Her plan was for a softer, more casual layout. The judge had approved her budget and had signed the various contracts needed for her to go ahead. That way, she didn’t need credit with trades or suppliers, fortunately. She had none.
After plastering peanut butter thickly on the crackers, she sat back in the comfortable armchair to watch the news on television.
Her startled lurch caused the cracker to hit her nose when a yelling voice fronting a heavy rock band screeched that he would rock her. Even the thick stone walls of the cottage vibrated with the noise. The iron roof rattled in protest.
“Turn the music down,” yelled a male voice in the distance.
Wiping the brown gloop off the tip of her nose, she stood, and peered out through the shutters at the grass tennis court at the front of the cottage and the crushed granite driveway, presuming—hoping—that the noise came from the glass-breaking neighbor rather than from invaders armed with stereo equipment. No one appeared to be partying on the court, but barbeque smoke trailed in from next door. Apparently the glass-breaker had outdoor culinary plans for the evening.
With a groan of resignation, she shut the window firmly and went back to the television news. The aroma of cooking meat meandered into her living space through the air vents, apparently knowing she had nothing interesting to eat. The background rock music continued to thump, competing with outbreaks of noisy laughter and shouted conversations. Although predominately male noise, the higher pitched laughing of women pierced the chilly night air. Despite her barbeque envy, she dozed off in front of the television.
She awoke suddenly to the sound of a car engine revving.
“Goodnight. See you soon,” called a female voice.
Lower tones and more revving of engines, perhaps motorbikes, and loud conversations continued for some time. Then, after a squeaky gate finally slammed shut with a metallic rattle, she wandered into the bedroom. Now would be her chance for a peaceful night of unbroken sleep.
She had told her family she would take a short break, implying that she would be travelling. No one other than her family had the number of her new phone. Given brain space, she could work out how she had ended with such a discombobulated life.
“Poor choices,” her mother had said, but Calli had always made considered choices. She always dated suitable men who had come from her background, had approximately the same education, welcoming parents, and suitable jobs. As soon as she thought she might have found the one, he decided to find someone else. So, after two unsuccessful relationships, clearly not marriage material, she had decided to work on her career instead.
“Great idea, Calli,” her sister had said, eyeing her sideways. “Like you don’t already have a good career.”
Calli had, of course, but not an independent one. She had worked in the family business, but she thought that might have been part of her problem—always being an Allbrook and never being Calli. Taking up with Grayson in a purely business relationship seemed to be a sensible idea, killing two birds with one stone. She could be Calli, she could present the gardens she would like to do instead of the gardens her father thought suitable, and not worry about her personal life ever again. That was then. Months ago. Her life had morphed into now.
Sighing, she changed into her pajamas and slid between fresh clean sheets. Her mind drifted. Tomorrow, she would start the most beautiful garden she had ever designed—one that would cause new customers to line up begging for her services. Then, she would be hired for bigger and better projects, and she would be so famous that—
CRASH.
She leaped out of bed in her panic, and stood, trying to find her bearings. Crash. The high-pitched squeals of bottles tumbling into a plastic bin, crash, crash, with each, about a hundred. Crash. Perhaps the neighbor was throwing away his wine glasses, too. Crash, crash, crash. She rubbed her forehead.
After breaking all his bottles and glasses, he started on his outdoor furniture.
Bang. Smack. Thud. Whack. Crash.
His back door slammed after an amplified squeak of the hinges. Now that noisy neighbor had cleaned up, he would surely have to sleep. She lay awake, waiting for the next noise, but she must have been exhausted because she awoke clear-headed in the morning. And ravenous, despite a sore throat.
She ate a bowl of cornflakes, drank a cup of tea, showered, and dressed in an oversized sleeveless sweatshirt and knee-length gym pants. After tucking her hair behind her ears, she pulled on a baseball cap and donned her sunglasses as she usually did for her morning jog. She opened her door and a cat brushed her ankles as it wobbled into the house.
The dirtiest creature she had ever seen dragged itself up onto the pristine couch.
“The judge’s new furniture is not the place for you, I’m afraid.” She hawked, hoping to clear her voice, but she had a clog there that she couldn’t shift. “I must ask you to leave,” she whispered, trying to sound cross, which didn’t work without any sort of volume. She pulled the door wide open, hoping the cat would recognize that her expression looked outraged.
The scruffy dun-colored cat blinked a pair of bleary eyes at her, and subsided into a circle of matted fur.
Not wanting to touch the filthy thing, Calli stood undecided. “So, you don’t take orders, hmm?” After some thought, she filled a saucer with milk. “Have that while I’m gone, but as soon as I get home, you will have to leave.”
The cat barely acknowledged her almost inaudible mutter. Calli tucked a ten-dollar bill and the house keys into her pocket. If she spotted a supermarket while she investigated this upmarket area, she would buy cheese, fruit, and bread for herself, and a can of food to tempt the cat outside again. She had never been a cat lover, though she did feel a modicum of sympathy for the creature’s unkempt condition. When she got back, she would call the animal rescue people.
She jogged up the crushed granite driveway to the street and decided to go left to take a better look at the noisy neighbor’s property. Although she couldn’t see much more than yesterday, she had a chance to note the details of the dilapidated sight behind the low redbrick fence.
Trees hid the façade of the house with only the tallest point of the Tudor roof visible. The date of the build could have been the early 1900s, and likely was. This one in a less affluent area would divide up nicely for six new family homes. Here, not a chance. Two at the most.
A shiny new SUV sat in the street outside. A man with forearms covered in tattoos sat on the wall. He wore black from head to toe—black T-shirt,
