by Rosie Blake
Chapter 2
Clara had always got up early. She could see sunshine straining at the thin red cloth of the curtain over the small window set into the eaves. Kneeling on the bed, she drew back the material.
Blinking at the winter sunlight, a slow smile crept over her face as she took in the view. She pushed the catch, feeling the nip in the air as the window opened. There was frost glistening on the grass of the pub garden, the benches speckled in white. Beyond the hedge at the back was an uninterrupted view over fields, some churned up in uniform lines, some patches of green hidden beneath the thin layer of diamonds sparkling in the morning sunshine. The sky was streaked with pinks and pale blues and Clara felt the familiar thrill of a new day in a different place.
Ignoring her box of cereal and the trickle of the en suite shower, she rummaged through her rucksack, pulling on her jeans and a thick woollen jumper, unearthing a knitted hat, which she pulled on over her hair, hiding the dull blonde in need of a wash. Leaving the rest of her things in the room, she crept down the wooden staircase into the bar area and through the kitchen, letting herself out of the back door.
She knew the shops would be shut at this time but she had a faint hope that she might stumble across some kind-hearted baker who would open his door just for her. She could almost taste the thick warm dough, sniffed the air for a telltale whiff of it. There didn’t appear to be a bakery in the village at all. Or a café. In fact, as she moved down the high street she was shocked to see so many ‘For Sale’ signs, shops with nothing in the windows but a few chairs or rolls of carpet. Other windows were boarded up, even the graffiti half-hearted, illegible squiggles in spray paint, dull colours. There was faded writing drawn into the dust on one window, a notice promising an end-of-stock clearance sale in another.
She tucked her hands into her pockets, the breeze picking up as she continued to take in the deserted high street. She imagined it bustling in the summer months, window boxes bursting with colour, the cobbled side streets holding treasures, secret shops, antiques piled high outside, cafés making up smoothies and juices, people ambling through the village before heading off to walk across the fields, take in the views. What had happened?
It never failed to surprise her, even after all these years of living in England, how quaint the villages could look, all the cottages squeezed together, so different to the city in Denmark that she’d grown up in. As ever, when she thought of home she felt a lump in her throat; she swallowed it back down.
Across the way she stopped, taking in the brightest shop, a burgundy façade, golden letters spelling ‘Alden Toys’, kitsch but eye-catching, and she frowned as she realised that this was clearly the shop shutting its doors. It seemed terribly sad that in the next few weeks, as people geared up for Christmas, it would remain closed, the dark interior at odds with the cheerful shopfront.
She reached the end of the street, the road disappearing around a tree-lined bend. Opposite stood a small church, entry through a lychgate, fields beyond. The village was a stunning, romantic place, but in that moment Clara felt as though she might be the only person living there. She looked back down the street, closing her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath.
‘’Gain, ’gain.’
Her eyes snapped open at the sound behind her.
‘Really? OK.’
Singing soared out of the side street: ‘Five little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mama duck said quack, quack, quack, quack, but only four little ducks came back…’
‘Why?’ came the younger voice.
‘I’ve told you why,’ the female voice said. ‘Because a duck ran off, darling. Hence there are now only four ducks left.’
‘What happened to the duck who ran away?’
‘Nothing too nasty.’
‘Did he die?’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘Did he break his leg?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so, he comes back at the end.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was probably missing his mama, like you would miss me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean, maybe? Of course you’d miss me. Who would make you pancakes?’
‘Daddy.’
‘OK, that’s a fair point. Who would give you juice?’
‘Nana.’
‘Rubbish, Nana never gives you juice, she thinks it’s got too much sugar.’
‘I like sugar.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘’Gain, ’gain.’
A sigh followed. ‘OK, but I’ll start when there’s only one duck left, because your attention span is… RORY.’
Suddenly a toddler burst out from the side street, stopping short to stare up at Clara before his eyes widened in panic and he spun on his heel to dive behind his mother’s legs.
‘What is it? I told you not to ru – Oh, hello.’ It was the woman from the pub last night – Lauren, the strawberry-blonde lady who had comforted Louisa. ‘Sorry, we’re disrupting the peace.’
Clara looked at her, at her impossibly straight hair, her camel-coloured coat, the freckles on her nose the only sense of disorder about her. ‘It’s fine. I thought it was a very cheerful song.’
Lauren hid her head in her leather-gloved hands. ‘Oh God, how embarrassing.’
Clara laughed. ‘No, honestly, it was wonderful. I’d never heard it before, actually,’ she admitted. ‘We don’t have that one at home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Denmark. We’re more about fish than ducks really.’
‘You’re a long way from home,’ Lauren commented.
Clara nodded, unwilling to add more.
Not noticing Clara’s change in tone, Lauren explained, ‘Well, it’s about five ducks who run away and then all come back. There’s not much of a narrative to it. Rory was right to have some questions.’
‘Rory right, Rory right.’ The little boy started helicoptering round his mother.
‘The ducks are really not very safety-conscious, but you do have to question the mother’s competence – I mean, after losing three of them, you’d think she’d think twice about sending the other two out on their own.’
Clara laughed, the sound seeming to reverberate around the street. ‘She does sound quite irresponsible.’
‘I can’t judge, though, I can barely control one,’ Lauren said, watching Rory dangle off the end of a bench. ‘Rory, careful.’
‘Cafful, cafful, cafful,’ he said, letting one arm go, his bobble hat dropping to the ground, his light brown hair falling down in a curtain.
‘We never really see anyone at this time, but he goes stir crazy if he doesn’t get out, and frankly, I hate sitting in the house being reminded that I have a pile of ironing to do and pans to wash up.’ Lauren held out a hand as Rory toddled back over on uncertain legs. ‘Sorry, I’m Laur – RORY, NO!’ she said, the hand she was holding out whipping down to stop Rory picking up an empty chocolate wrapper. ‘Lauren,’ she finished, scooping up her son. ‘And this, as you’ve heard, is Rory.’
‘I’m Clara.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Lauren said as Rory started kicking his legs, wanting to be released. ‘Stay on the bench,’ Lauren said as Rory roared away in the opposite direction. ‘Wow, it’s almost like he doesn’t listen,’ she laughed. ‘Sorry. Kids are not great at social niceties. Last week he went straight up to an old man in the supermarket and told him to punch his willy. I literally died in the cereal aisle.’
Clara made a face, unable to stop marvelling at Lauren’s energy. ‘Do you know anywhere I can get something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I was hoping for a pain au chocolat or a muffin, or… well, just a coffee would do.’
Lauren shrugged, her smile fading. ‘Only online now, or the big supermarket in the next town if you have a car. There’s a good farm shop, but that’s a decent drive too.’
Clara shook her head. ‘I haven’t got a car.’
‘How
very environmentally friendly.’
‘No, I just never learnt to drive. Cars cost a fortune back home and I used to walk everywhere in…’ Clara faded off, not wanting to say the name of her home town, not even wanting to think about it. ‘So there’s nowhere?’
Lauren sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘There used to be Bertie’s – an amazing restaurant that did incredible breakfasts, which were so wrong but so right: basically French toast, banana, a heap of bacon topped with maple syrup. I miss Bertie,’ she said wistfully.
‘Where did he go?’
‘Opened up in the next-door village about six months ago; he was one of the last to leave. And now…’ Lauren pointed at Alden Toys opposite. ‘Although do not tell you-know-who unless you want to see a small person’s world end before eight a.m.; it really won’t be pretty.’
Clara nodded, knowing that Lauren was trying to make light of things but aware of her sad smile.
‘It’s horrible,’ Lauren said, looking around. ‘When we moved here five years ago, it was this gorgeous corner of the world, independent shops, people saying hello in the high street, but now, so many of the familiar faces have gone and the shops, well,’ – she indicated the boarded-up windows – ‘you’ve seen. Now it’s just the pub left. And Roz sells milk and things from the post office but there are funny opening times and I never seem to get them right. You could try there.’
Rory had run back over, his mittened hand creeping up into Lauren’s.
‘Roz,’ Clara repeated, picturing red hair and thick eyeliner, ‘wasn’t she in the pub last night?’
Lauren nodded. ‘Ah, you were there for that. God, that was pure drama. She and Louisa don’t see eye to eye. They’re neighbours, but not very neighbourly to each other. There’s history,’ – she waved a hand – ‘I think it dates back to the late eighties. And then there was the saga at the fete, but you really don’t want to know about that.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Clara said.
‘Let’s just say they didn’t have the coconut shy back the year after…’
‘Noconut, noconut,’ Rory chanted, spinning in a circle, cutting off Clara’s questions.
Lauren was rummaging in her handbag. ‘I genuinely thought I might have to act as referee last night. Literally nothing that dramatic has happened here in forever.’ She pulled out a tissue and tried to wipe at a mark on Rory’s face. ‘We go out about once a month, so it was deeply exciting that it happened on date night; it stopped me talking in detail about Rory’s vaccinations and his intense bromance with George.’
‘George?’ Clara queried.
‘Peppa Pig,’ Lauren explained. ‘Which is basically my world now…’
At the mention of Peppa Pig, Rory had looked up, almost head-butting his mother, who had given up with the tissue. ‘George, watch George. Home, George.’
‘Oh God, what have I started?’ Lauren said as he tugged on her hand. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ Clara said, bending down. ‘You too, Rory,’ she added, which made him squeal and hide behind Lauren’s coat.
‘Are you staying here long?’ Lauren asked, resisting Rory’s urgings.
‘I was planning to head to Cambridge,’ Clara said.
Lauren nodded. ‘That’s a nice place. Good for punting. It’s a shame you’re not sticking around – I could have done with a new friend.’
‘I’m friend,’ Rory said, tugging at the bottom of her impeccable coat.
‘Hmm, you are,’ Lauren said, ruffling his hair. ‘I actually meant a friend who can drink wine and bitch about my other friends,’ she muttered to Clara.
‘Ditch?’ Rory repeated. His hearing was obviously pretty good.
Lauren grimaced.
Clara looked at her, a slow smile creeping over her face. ‘It is a shame,’ she repeated, suddenly knowing exactly where she was headed next.
Chapter 3
Joe was standing with his back to the door, brushing at the sleeve of his suit. He had them tailor-made and the fabric was straining slightly between his shoulders. He knew he needed to get back into the gym. He stood taller, studying his reflection in the window.
Beyond the glass, London was sprawled below. He could make out the dirty grey of the Thames as it snaked around the corner, the top of the London Eye in the distance. The sun had yet to fully rise, so half the city still seemed shadowy, the glow only hitting the offices above him. He stared down at the rooftops of east London, the mishmash of streets beyond, the tops of people’s heads as they moved beneath him. What would they see if they looked up? Just the sleek outside of the office building, all chrome and steel and floor-to-ceiling windows. He was too far away for anyone to see him standing there in his navy pinstripe suit, his polished shoes, his tie in a Windsor knot. It made him feel taller, the fact that they moved around below, unaware that they were being watched.
He saw the thin strip of light in the reflection, the shadow of someone entering the room, and he swallowed, ready for action. Turning into the room, he thanked Pam with a curt nod of the head as she went to leave, briefed already that he did not want her to offer them coffee. She took one last look at the man who’d just walked in, biting her lip as she turned to shut the door behind her.
‘Joe, morning,’ the man said, striding across the room. There was a dirty mark on the shoulder of his well-cut Armani suit; it gave Joe a renewed confidence as he shook his hand.
‘Matt, thank you for joining me.’
Matt raised an eyebrow, ‘It’s all very cloak-and-dagger. Pam was waiting for me as I got in, whisked me away before I could even turn on the computer.’ He stifled a yawn with his hand.
Joe looked away. ‘Yes, she had to wait half an hour for you.’
Matt didn’t react, eyes on Joe’s half-eaten croissant on the desk across the room. He licked his lips, which annoyed Joe further. ‘Pam was telling me about her new grandson, same age as my Nancy. I told her we could have them betrothed…’ His voice tailed off, the first frown settling on his face.
Joe stared at him, head cocked to one side. He’d had no idea Pam had any grandchildren. He launched into his planned spiel. ‘I expect you know why I’ve asked you here?’
Matt’s frown deepened, the normally smooth olive skin between his eyebrows puckered. ‘Not to tell me about this year’s squash ladder, I assume.’ His voice had dropped, becoming duller with each word.
Joe didn’t raise a smile. ‘Your team, they’ve been carrying you. Jules has brought in two new clients in as many months, Paddy is getting into the office at four thirty to make up for the slack you’re creating…’
Matt stepped back as if he’d been slapped. His mouth opened, no words coming out.
‘The bosses upstairs’ – Joe glanced up – ‘have had enough excuses from your team. You used to be a producer but you haven’t brought in any new business for months. And the screw-up over Anderson was the final straw.’
‘I told Karen: my associate – he messed up the pitch book. Our figures were out.’
Joe cut him off, one hand raised. ‘And in the old days you would have spotted that.’
Matt fell silent. Joe looked away, not enjoying himself, suddenly remembering one day last year when Matt had covered for him. They were taking an important new client out for lunch and Joe had overslept, arrived over dessert. Matt had made a joke out of it, hadn’t told anyone. Other guys would have used it to stab him in the back. He shook his head, dismissing the memory.