to make walking without boots a fool’s errand. Consequently, Barney wasn’t exactly dressed for sprinting, in wellies and an old pair of canvas gardening trousers. But, even if he’d been in Lycra and Nikes, the truth was that he had become horribly unfit. There was a lot to be said for his new life as a novelist living full time in the countryside. But it did involve a lot of sitting on one’s arse eating Jaffa Cakes. At least when he’d been a City lawyer he’d had a corporate gym membership. He’d never used it, of course, but just having the card in his wallet had probably burned off a few calories …
‘For Christ’s sake, Jeeves!’ Panting like an asthmatic pensioner, and with sweat pouring down his face, Barney rounded the crest of the hill just in time to see a ravishingly attractive blonde emerge from the woods. She was very tall and wearing a yellow sundress with wellies that served to emphasize both her slender waist and absolutely endless legs. Two immaculately groomed Irish setters trotted obediently at her heels, their bracken-red coats gleaming and rippling in the wind, as if they were auditioning for a dog-food commercial.
‘You haven’t seen …’ Barney gasped, his soft Irish brogue coming in fits and starts. ‘… a scruffy … terrier … have you? The little sod’s … run off.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ the goddess replied. She had the faintest touch of some sort of accent, and looked vaguely familiar, in an untouchably beautiful sort of way. ‘Would you like me to help you look?’
Just then, a tired but not remotely sorry-looking Jeeves dashed back to his master, hurling himself headlong into Barney’s ankles in a frenzied attempt to make himself acquainted with the Irish setters, who both kept their eyes fixed on the horizon with regal disdain. It was like watching a tramp trying to chat up a pair of movie stars. The Gabor sisters in their heyday, perhaps.
Clipping Jeeves’s lead firmly back on, Barney finally caught his breath.
‘Thanks for the offer.’ He smiled up at the goddess. ‘But he’s back.’
‘So I see.’ The goddess smiled back. ‘I’m Eva, by the way.’
Eva! Of course. The bra girl, getting married to what’s-his-chops, with the castle.
‘Barney. Barney Griffith. I’d shake your hand but I’m sweating like a racehorse.’
‘That’s all right. It’s a beautiful day for some exercise.’ Bending down, Eva ruffled Jeeves’s matted fur affectionately. Barney noticed the absolutely enormous diamond on her engagement finger. Talk about the Rock of Gibraltar. That thing must have cost more than his cottage.
‘Your dog’s terribly sweet,’ she said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jeeves. He’s yours.’ Barney offered her the lead. ‘I’m not even joking. He’s such a little sh … troublemaker. Not like your dogs.’ He looked admiringly at the setters, sitting calmly by their mistress’s side. ‘They’re perfect.’
‘Thanks. This is Whiskey and this is Soda. They’re good girls but they’re Henry’s dogs really.’
‘I like them less already.’ Barney grinned. It was odd. She really was incredibly pretty, yet for some reason he found himself talking to her like an old friend, without the usual pit-of-the-stomach nerves that usually plagued him when he fancied a girl. When he first met Maud, he’d barely been able to string a sentence together.
Why was he thinking about bloody Maud again?
Barney’s girlfriend of just over a year had recently dumped him, for good this time it seemed. By email.
‘I can’t support this charade any longer,’ Maud had written. (As if she’d supported it up till now!) ‘You’re not a novelist, Barney. You’re an unemployed corporate lawyer, fannying around on a computer. Throw away your future if you want to, but don’t expect me to come with you.’
Barney had begun at least eight different drafts in response. He wasn’t throwing away his future, he was following his heart; a concept Maud might understand better if she had a heart of her own.
‘Not everything can be measured in pounds and bloody pence!’ he started one note. But, of course, he hadn’t finished any of them.
Maud was right. How could he call himself a novelist when he couldn’t even finish a sodding email?
Turning his attention back to Eva’s dogs, he asked, ‘How do you keep them that shiny? I mean, are they even real?’
Eva giggled.
‘I’m serious. How many times a day do you have to wash them? Or I daresay you have live-in dog-washers up at the castle, do you?’
‘Not quite.’
It was nice to run into this funny, chatty Irishman. Nice to get out of Hanborough and clear her head. Eva had believed Henry earlier, about the flirty WhatsApp message. But, walking through the woods alone, doubts had already begun to creep in.
About a year ago, Henry had had a string of affairs. Well, more one-night stands really, but they’d still wounded Eva deeply. She’d just plucked up the courage to leave him when he’d broken down in tears, promised to change his ways for good, and proposed. That was the first proposal, and it had taken all Eva’s willpower to refuse. At that point, Henry’s remorse was just words. But in the months that followed he’d bought Hanborough, moved to the country (out of temptation’s way?), and proved his devotion to Eva in myriad ways, both small and large, culminating in a second proposal, complete with a mahoosive eight-carat diamond. This time Eva had said yes.
Now she was here, planning their wedding and helping Henry’s designers pick out wall colours and fabrics. She simply couldn’t face it if the cheating started again.
‘Well, I’m heading down towards Brockhurst,’ said Barney. ‘I’ll see you around, I’m sure.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ said Eva, slightly to his surprise, falling into step beside him. It occurred to Barney that perhaps she was lonely. Maybe it was true what they said about supermodels being so intimidating that nobody ever spoke to them? Then again, she lived with her hotshot, heart-throb fiancé, so maybe not.
‘I’m not really out here for the exercise,’ Barney admitted, making sure he kept Jeeves on a tight lead as they picked their way down the steep slope.
‘No?’
He shook his head. ‘I like to say I walk for inspiration. I’m a writer, you see. But I’m actually just skiving off the book.’
‘You write books?’ Eva sounded impressed.
‘Theoretically,’ said Barney. ‘I’m supposed to be writing a book.’
‘A writer and a photographer?’ Eva looked at the Nikon hanging around his neck. ‘That’s pretty cool.’
‘Oh, no.’ Barney flushed. ‘Photography’s just a hobby.’
‘Oh my goodness!’
At that moment, seemingly out of nowhere, a pack of foxhounds erupted all around them, followed by a thunderous clattering of hooves. Pulling Whiskey and Soda close, Eva flattened herself against a tree, watching awestruck as the red-coated
