not saying she’s a nice woman, but I don’t take sides,’ said Adam. ‘Sorry.’ Tess and Francesca stared at him in disappointment. ‘Excuse me a second,’ he said, and got up and left.
By the time he came back, the pub was full to bursting with locals, and the mood was jolly if increasingly rowdy. Placards were being passed around, chairs were scraping on the floor, and at the front a sharp-faced woman was filling out forms, waggling a pencil at someone. Adam sat down.
‘What was that about?’ Tess started to say, but Adam held up his hand.
‘Hey, sorry. Sorry, T.’ He turned to her, and there was a look of desperation, almost, in his eyes. ‘Please, let’s not go on about it. It’s just the hypocrisy of it, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Francesca cried. ‘How can it be a good thing?’
‘I’ve lived here my whole life,’ Adam said with a twisted smile. ‘I’m just saying sometimes there are ulterior motives to things. I’m not exempt, but it’s not as simple as it seems, is all I’m saying. That development would give people jobs, it’d increase tourism. It might not be such a terrible thing.’
‘But the water meadows,’ Tess said, a catch in her voice. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Yes, and do you really want more tourism?’ said Francesca, curiously. ‘Don’t you want to find other ways of sustaining the town?’
Tess loved her then, for not being a pushover. Adam looked at her, and nodded slowly. He scratched the back of his neck.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Just—anyway.’ He cleared his throat. ‘T, how’s the hunt for a flatmate going?’
‘It’s not,’ said Tess. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Where do you live?’ Francesca asked politely.
‘Just past the church, towards the old hall.’ Tess turned to her. ‘I’ve got to find someone to share the rent, otherwise I’ll have to move out.’
‘What’s the house?’ Francesca said.
‘It’s a cottage really. It’s tiny, but it’s so sweet. It’s called Easter Cottage.’
‘How many bedrooms?’
‘Two,’ said Tess. ‘In fact I—’ Their eyes met across the table.
‘Can I come round tomorrow?’ said Francesca.
Tess looked at her. ‘Francesca—you mean—’
‘And if you find someone long-term, I’ll move out straight away, we can put it in my lease. Promise.’
‘Go on then.’ Tess’s shoulders slumped, and she breathed out, smiling at Francesca.
‘Are you—sure?’
Tess looked at the beautiful girl opposite her, and ran over the evening thus far in her head. Then she looked at Adam, who winked gently at her, holding her gaze. She smiled at him, then back at Francesca, as the noise from the bar grew louder. She raised her voice.
‘Never been surer about anything.’
One week later, Tess nodded at the portrait of Jane Austen, as she had taken to doing before she went anywhere, and stepped out of the front door of Easter Cottage. She looked gingerly about her, and then up at the sky. It had rained for the last five days, rained as she and Francesca lugged sodden cardboard box after box into the tiny little house which was now Francesca’s home, rained all that evening as they hopefully opened the back door onto the tiny little garden, where Tess had fantasized that they’d have drinks; it rained the next day, when they stocked up on food, the day after, when Francesca bought a DVD player and huge flat-screen TV without telling Tess and Tess told her she’d have to take them back; the day after that, when they sat on the sofa all afternoon and evening, made mojitos, ate Pringles and watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding (great), 27 Dresses (crap), You, Me and Dupree (which they thought was possibly the worst film ever made) and Pan’s Labyrinth—well, the first five minutes, before agreeing that yes, it was probably a masterpiece, now was not the right contextual time to dive into said labyrinth, but they should definitely keep the DVD player and the huge flat-screen TV and watch Talladega Nights instead. And it was still raining the next day, when Adam took them to the pub on Easter Sunday for lunch.
Tess had the house. She had the housemate, she had some friends. It was spring. All she had to do now was start her job. Start the process of living her life here, in this town, seeing some sort of vista stretch out ahead of her. But still, on this, her first day in her new job, it was raining.
‘Byee!’ called Francesca, from inside the cottage. Tess turned round and looked back through the front door, which opened directly onto the cosy sitting room. There, lounging on the sofa, in an embroidered silk Chinese dressing gown, watching TV and munching on toast, was her new flatmate who, this time just over a week ago, she’d never met. Tess smiled.
‘Byeee!’ she called back. ‘Francesca, remember to call BT again about the broadband, will you?’
‘Sure, sure,’ Francesca said reassuringly. ‘Good luck! Have a great time!’
A great time. Tess shut the door behind her and opened up her umbrella. She wasn’t sure about that. Her heart was in her mouth and she was tired, not having slept at all the previous night. She fingered the brochure in her bag, already heavy with textbooks and notes. Langford College had three components: year-long intensive A-level courses, in languages, History of Art, Classical Civilization, English and so on; the shorter options, intensive bursts devoted to one specialized area, anything from cookery to flower arranging to Roman Poetry, usually over a period of a few weeks; and then finally there were visiting professors who gave one-off lectures, an open-air private theatre down by the lake, lovely accommodation—all in the dramatic surroundings of Langford Hall, one of the best and earliest examples of neo-Gothic Victorian architecture, predating even Pugin.
It was a five-minute walk away, standing at the edge of the town in its own grounds. Her first class wasn’t till three. ‘The Splendour That Was Rome’, a two-month course of four classes a week, culminating in a trip to Rome where she, Tess Tennant, would be leading ten people on a tour of the ancient city. And here she stood, on a wet, grey street, shaking with nerves, wishing she could run back inside her nice new cosy home and stay on the sofa with Francesca, watching DVDs all day.
No, she said firmly. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Who could she be today, to get her through this? Maria singing ‘I Have Confidence’ in The Sound of Music? Too chirpy. Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman? Too…prostitutey. Lizzy Bennet. Yes, when in doubt, think of J. Austen on the wall and Lizzy Bennet. Calm, funny, her own person. Tess set off down the street with something approximating a spring in her step; if Lizzy Bennet was alive today, she reasoned, she could easily be Tess, setting off to teach Roman history to a group of retired posh people. Actually, she was more convinced Lizzy Bennet would be an ethical trader at KPMG, storing up a handful of assets in advance of any impending market collapse which she would then redistribute to deserving causes, but never mind. Twirling her umbrella,
