did as he was told for once and soon they were driving through country lanes.
She was too tired to ask. Nick was going to do what he wanted to do, whether she minded or not, so she might as well save her breath.
After about fifteen minutes they turned down a driveway and he brought the car to a halt. They were parked outside a city-dweller’s fantasy cottage: leaded windows, gabled roof, a pretty fence enclosing a half-tamed garden that looked spectacular, even at this time of year.
Nick let out a sharp blast on the horn and Adele winced.
Moments later a man in his thirties came bounding out of the cottage and grinned at Nick as he emerged from the car.
‘Nick! Glad you managed to make it after all. Have you got that washing-machine motor you promised me?’
‘Sure have. It’s in the car, but before I let you have it you have to keep up your end of the bargain—a hearty lunch for two weary travellers.’
The man grinned. ‘Phoebe’s made one of her famous soups. If you’re not careful she’ll make you drink a whole vat of it before she lets you continue on your way. Women, huh?’
Adele opened the door and stretched her journey-stiffened legs.
‘And talking of women, this must be your missus,’ he added. And before Adele could say ‘How do you do’ he’d ignored the hand she offered and pulled her into a bear hug. She sent Nick a pleading look over the man’s shoulder, but all he did was grin back.
‘Adele, this is Andy—we’ve worked on a few projects together.’
Well, that explained the fascination for odd bits of junk and anything mechanical.
Andy finally let her out of his grasp and she gave him a shaky smile.
‘Nice to meet you, Adele. I’ve heard a lot about you. Nick never stops going on about his beautiful, successful wife. I think he’s secretly hoping he can give up messing about on film sets and that you’ll keep him in the style to which he’d like to become accustomed.’
‘Oh.’
Eloquent, Adele. Very impressive. That’s a wonderful way to live up to the picture Nick’s painted of you.
But Andy didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy chatting to Nick as he led them into the cottage. Adele trudged along behind them, forgotten. She let out a large breath and ran her hand through her hair. Thanks to Nick’s build-up, Super Adele was going to have to stay for lunch. And, at this precise moment, her alter ego’s super powers were glaringly absent.
She watched the two men as she followed them inside and into a cosy lounge complete with inglenook fireplace. Andy dressed like Nick: worn jeans and tops with funky logos or slogans on them. He even had that same mischievous glint in his eye. There had to be a special-effects designers’ code or something: must never grow up and must always be obsessed with green goo and rubber latex body parts. A whole organisation of Peter Pans. Now, there was a scary thought.
She heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see a woman enter the room. Nick was instantly off his feet and squeezing the life out of her—much the same kind of greeting that Andy had blessed her with.
‘Phoebe! It’s great to see you again. How’s it going?’
Phoebe laughed and smiled as Nick hugged even tighter and rocked her from side to side until she began to lose her balance. A stabbing feeling in her tummy caught Adele by surprise. It didn’t ease up, not even when Phoebe whacked Nick on the arm and told him to let her go.
Phoebe wrestled herself away from Nick and turned to face her, still beaming.
‘You must be the famous Adele.’
Adele rose from the sofa she was sitting on, her arms and legs suddenly feeling stiff and brittle. She held out a hand. Phoebe raised an eyebrow just a fraction, but shook it anyway.
Words of greeting failed to form an orderly queue in her head. What could she say? These people seemed to know all about her but, until five minutes ago, she’d not even known of their existence. Why? Had she really tuned Nick out every time he’d talked about the fine details of his work? Had she really been that self-absorbed?
‘Hello,’ she said, trying to smile, but feeling like a cardboard cut-out.
Phoebe smiled back. A proper smile. She’d obviously decided to give her guest the benefit of the doubt. Adele felt as if she’d shrunk an inch or two. If only there were a telephone box somewhere around where she could do a twirl and come out as her.
‘Come out to the barn, Nick. I want your input on something I’m building. I’m supposed to be making a crazed tennis-ball machine for an ad I’m working on, but it’s just refusing to be as diabolical as I want it to be.’
‘If you want diabolical, I’m your man,’ Nick answered, already starting towards the door.
Phoebe shook her head.
‘Lunch will be ready in about twenty minutes, you two. Don’t make me come and fetch you, OK?’ She turned to Adele and gave her a wink. ‘Boys and their toys, right? Our two are worse than most, I suspect. Why don’t you come through to the kitchen and we can chat while the men start pulling that machine to bits?’
‘Sure.’
She wanted to be bright and sparkling and charming—Super Adele—but her super powers seemed well and truly buried under a whole heap of other junk. Out of order. Please try again later.
Phoebe seemed really nice. She would go into the kitchen and make small talk and be as pleasant as she knew how to be and ignore the unsettled feeling fluttering in her stomach.
Suddenly, being stuck in the little hatchback with Nick seemed like an attractive prospect. Being here, watching Phoebe potter round the kitchen, was like watching a horror movie. Only this movie had a difference: instead of everything being much, much worse, it was far, far better—what her life should be like, but wasn’t.
It was like having her worst failure served up for her so she could choke on every mouthful.
They had it all: the home, the happy marriage. They had roots. Despite herself, she was insanely jealous.
More than anything, Adele wanted roots.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHATEVER Phoebe was stirring in that pot smelled utterly fantastic.
‘I hope you like soup. It’s broccoli and Stilton.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ Adele sat down at the breakfast bar and stared blankly at Phoebe’s back as she stirred. Then she remembered her resolve to make polite conversation, but it was a bit like when she’d first learned to drive. Nothing came naturally. Every word had to be planned and mentally rehearsed. It took all her concentration.
‘How long have you lived
