the dog’s head.
‘Emily—’ Annie cut in, but Emily waved her away.
River’s eyes had gone wide, like he couldn’t handle the confrontation. Buster yelped to get down.
‘Don’t look so terrified, darling,’ Emily said, taking the dog from him and plopping him back on the floor. ‘I’m just going to say, if it feels worth it don’t bloody blow it. Yes? Buy her something that she’ll like, apologise and tell her why you did whatever it is you did.’
Matt was standing by the leopard-print stool, Buster at his feet, one hand rubbing his forehead, clearly thinking Emily was making a mistake.
But to all their surprise, River said, ‘She won’t listen.’
‘Of course she won’t seem like she’s listening,’ Emily said. ‘But she is listening, trust me.’
‘Well she doesn’t seem like she’s listening.’
‘That’s because she wants you to try harder,’ Emily said, then she paused. ‘Actually, I have no idea what I’m talking about. My relationship history is terrible.’
River sniggered.
‘But…’ she paused. An image of Jack and her on the hay bale flashed into her mind. ‘I think women want to be fought for. I think we want to know that we’re worth it. But that might just be me,’ she laughed, then did a big, dramatic sigh and said, ‘Right, people, as much as I want to show you round all the other ghastly rooms in this house, I have to love you and leave you. You’re welcome to stay and have a nose, but I am needed at a very lavish charity ball at the Dorchester and I cannot go looking like this.’ She pointed down to her red cotton shorts and bright-blue mesh T-shirt.
Half an hour later, as Matt, Annie, River and the pug were exploring the second-floor bedrooms – one of which had been turned into a mini-gym and sauna – Emily came flying down the stairs wearing a backless, full-length, slinky turquoise gown. Her hair had been plaited into a complex series of knots, her make-up was so flawless and she looked so beautiful that they were all rendered speechless for moment.
‘OK?’ she asked, doing a mini side-to-side twirl.
Annie smiled and nodded as the two men next to her just stared. ‘You look amazing,’ she said.
Emily did a little clap of excitement, then peered out the window. ‘There’s my car,’ she said. ‘See you later. Have a swim in the pool if you like,’ she called out behind her. Then she was gone. And the three of them stood there, almost in shock. It was as if, with Emily there, they had been standing an inch above ground and suddenly, with her gone, they were all back down on the floor again.
It was still light outside when Emily came home. She’d left earlier than she might normally. The paparazzi on the red carpet had put her through the ringer. It was one big club; hurt one and you hurt them all, and they’d given her a vicious verbal beating for the earlier incident at the allotment. Then they’d shouted all sorts of nonsense to get her attention, none of it good. She knew the photos from the event would have her looking startled or purposely caught at odd, unflattering angles. She’d smiled as they snapped but knew it wasn’t the right smile – tight and unfocused, lacking her usual control.
She slipped her shoes off as she stood in the hallway of the manor and breathed in the cool silence as the moonlight cast its glow through the high Georgian windows. She was positive the house she once knew was still there, underneath all the layers of paint, graffiti art and feature wallpaper.
But even just resting her hand on the stainless-steel banister, she knew she had a lot of work ahead to find it.
Upstairs, in the fading half-light of late evening, all the removals boxes in the garish master bedroom felt like a mountain looming over her. The spotlights in the ceiling glared out at full beam as she tried and failed to work out the dimmer option on the control panel. In the end she turned them all off in frustration and had to change out of her evening dress in the dark, hanging it carefully in the built-in mirrored wardrobe ready to go back to the designer in the morning. Her pyjamas were folded on her bed but it felt too early to put them on and she was too wired for sleep. So instead she pulled on a pair of grey jeans, a darker grey silk T-shirt and a pair of red leather flip flops and jogged down the stairs and out the house via the big glass kitchen doors.
Outside, the air smelt sweet, of honeysuckle and jasmine with the faint tang of chlorine from the pool. While the previous owners had mosaicked the surround of the pool and made a small trellised patio, which wasn’t that bad, they had done very little to the rest of the garden. The wide lawn, the grass yellowing from the harsh sun, still stretched out to the huge lime trees at the back. The Montmorency cherries stood in clusters on the right-hand side of the lawn, pecked to smithereens by the fat pigeons, and behind the pool some flowerbeds that her brother, Wilf, had built still stood, dominated by a massive pink fuchsia and a quince tree that had quadrupled in size.
Emily walked the edge of the garden, pausing once to glance back at the house which, from this angle, looked unchanged. The huge windows looked down at her, unblinking. She walked backwards a few more steps and then turned, knowing suddenly exactly where she was going.
At the end of the garden, where the lime trees towered overhead like sky-scrapers, was a dense network of bushes – an elderflower, some big rhododendrons and a huge purple buddleia – now all entwined with some errant brambles. It was overgrown, untended, the branches all meshed together, but Emily knew what she was looking for was there. She clambered in, pushing her way through the thicket, the branches scratching her arms, spiders’ webs catching in her hair, until finally her feet touched on the pebbles of the old path and her hands met the little wooden gate, once white, now scratched and grey. It took a couple of shoves to get it open and once through she had to contend with more brambles, an old apple tree and a bank of stinging nettles, but when she was out the other side the smell of the river hit her, tart and sharp. She heard the familiar lapping of water against the bank and the shuffle of startled ducks and she shut her eyes and breathed in.
‘Would have been easier to come round the side,’ a voice said.
‘Please don’t ruin my moment,’ Emily replied, holding a hand up to stop them saying more as she let the evening sun flicker on her face.
Jack laughed, ‘Sorry.’
Emily opened her eyes and looked at the bright fishing boat in front of her. Moored to her jetty that should have been neglected and decrepit but which had been mended, the broken posts re-carved, the white paint gleaming. The boat itself was like a mini-trawler painted various shades of turquoise and cobalt blue; bright-red buoys hung from the sides. Around the edge was a white stripe and on it at the front, written in black, was the name, That Jack Built. The cabin in the centre had been extended almost the full length of the boat and the mast had a white flag that flapped in the gentle breeze.
‘Nice boat,’ she said, shielding her eyes as she looked up to where he sat, his feet resting on the rail, slicing an apple with his penknife.
‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing up at her without lifting his head. ‘I like it.’
‘Are you going to invite me on board?’ she asked, head tilted to one side, watching him.
Jack paused mid-slice, then
