had driven straight back to her hotel and telephoned the agents, and by the end of the week she had committed herself to the purchase of the cottage.
The agent had warned her of its many defects: its loneliness, its lack of mains drainage, its unkempt, overgrown garden, and its need for a complete overhaul of the electrical and plumbing installations, but nothing could put her off. She was in love, and like anyone else in that dangerous state, she refused to admit to any flaws in the appearance of her beloved.
Nevertheless she had a full survey done on the house. Built of stone, small and squat with tiny windows and low-beamed rooms, it was surprisingly free of any structural problems.
The buoyancy of the London property market enabled her to sell her own house immediately for what seemed an enormous sum of money, most of which she intended to invest to bring herself in a small ‘security net’ income. This would keep her going while she discovered if she could actually earn her living as a writer, or if her first success had been merely a fluke.
Her headmaster, when she had told him her plans, had pursed his lips and frowned, pointing out to her the risks she was taking. Teaching jobs were not easily come by where she was going. She was in line for promotion…
Harriet refused to listen. All her life she had been cautious and careful; all her adult life she had been burdened with the necessity of putting others first.
She was almost thirty-five years old and she had had no real freedom, no real opportunity to express herself as an individual. Now fate had handed her this golden chance; if she refused to take it…but she wasn’t going to refuse.
She felt happier than she could ever remember feeling in her life; and yet nervous at the same time.
Via the agent, contractors were employed to put right the defects in the plumbing and wiring; a new kitchen was installed in the cottage; and a new bathroom, plus central heating; and now, as autumn set in, Harriet was driving north to begin her new life.
As a final gesture of defiance, she had bundled up all the neat plain skirts and blouses she had worn for school and given them away; and in a final splurge of madness had gone out and re-equipped herself with jeans and thick woollen sweaters bearing funny motifs and in brilliantly bright colours.
She had discarded the serviceable green Hunter wellingtons suggested by the saleswoman when she explained her new lifestyle, and instead had opted for a pair of bright, shiny red moon boots that matched almost exactly the bright red of her hooded duffel coat. Not for her the sombre and correct green of the county fraternity. From now on she was going to be her own person and not conform to anyone else’s ideas.
She smiled a little grimly to herself as she drove north. Surely almost thirty-five was rather old to start rebelling against society? Even if that rebellion was only a very small one…Anyway, remote in her small cottage, she doubted if she would see many people to disapprove of her vivid choice of colours.
Of course, it would be nice to make friends, she admitted wistfully. In London there had never seemed to be the opportunity. The other teachers were either younger than she and intent on having a good time when they weren’t at work, or older and involved with their families. Louise had sulked every time she had tried to point out that she had a right to her own free time, and in the end it had proved so difficult to have a life of her own, independent of those of the twins and her sister, that she had given up.
She felt guilty at how little she missed them. Louise had left without making any attempt to suggest that her sister visit them. She only hoped that this time Louise stayed married, Harriet reflected. The cottage only had one large bedroom now, the two smaller rooms having been knocked into one and the third bedroom having been converted into a bathroom.
Yes, she was free for the first time since her parents’ death. Free to write…to daydream…to enjoy the countryside…to do all those things she had wanted to do for so long…to…
Her thoughts sheered off abruptly, and she braked instinctively, feeling her small VW protest as it squealed to a halt, only just missing the man who had so unexpectedly emerged from the trees shadowing the road and who was even now bearing down on her.
She reacted instinctively to his totally unexpected appearance as any driver would, braking to avoid him, but now as he came towards her she realised two disturbing things simultaneously.
The first was that she had been very foolish to stop the car in the first place, and the second and even more frightening was that the man appeared to be totally naked, apart from a pair of extremely brief briefs.
As far as she could see in the gathering dusk he was also extremely wet, and extremely angry.
Too late she reached out to lock the car door, but he was already wrenching it open, his voice hard and furious as he said bitingly, ‘Trixie, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You’ve had your little joke, and now if you wouldn’t mind giving me my clothes—’
Two strong hands reached for her, grasping her arms unceremoniously. She gasped and tensed, fear flicking through her, and then almost immediately the hands were withdrawn and an icy male voice was apologising curtly.
‘I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone else. She drives the same model and colour car. Trixie, I could murder you!’
He stopped abruptly, almost visibly forcing back his anger, his forehead creasing into a frown.
He was a tall man, over six feet and powerfully built, as Harriet had every opportunity to see, and probably very good-looking when he wasn’t so angry.
He had dark hair, at present almost plastered to his skull as though he had just been swimming, which would explain the moisture dripping from his skin and his almost nude state—but what man in his senses would be swimming out here alone in the dark?
Lost in her own thoughts, Harriet suddenly realised that he was apologising to her, though rather brusquely, explaining that he had mistaken her for someone else. Someone else who drove the same make and colour of car.
She focused on him, uncomfortably aware of her own heightened colour as her brain made the automatic connections between his unclothed body, and his reference to believing her to be someone else. Someone else who was surely his lover, and had obviously been with him and then driven off leaving him.
Suddenly feeling hot and flustered, she was aware of an odd bleakness inside her, an uncomfortable and unwanted realisation that for her there never had been, and now probably never would be, the kind of interlude that might lead to a passionate quarrel such as had obviously provoked her companion’s present ire.
She judged him to be three or four years her senior, despite the hard leanness of his body, and wondered idly what his lover was like…attractive most certainly, sophisticated. How old? Mid-twenties? And then realised that he was asking her if she would give him a lift.
A lifetime of caution screeched loud warning bells in her brain urging her to refuse. He seemed safe enough, but…
‘I’m sorry,’ she began uncomfortably, wishing she had not allowed him to open the car door, and then trying to soften her refusal by adding, ‘I’m sure that your…your girlfriend will soon be back.’
Only she spoiled her attempt at assured sophistication by stammering a little over the words, and, far from having a palliative effect on him, to her trepidation they brought the anger back to his mouth as it tightened into a hard line.
He
