‘Yep, meet Mabel. Mabel, meet your servant for the next week.’ Mabel grinned, and waggled bushy eyebrows that gave her the look of an unkempt old man. And slobbered.
‘That’s not a dog.’ When Daisy had said she had a dog, a big dog, she’d been thinking Spaniel, or at a stretch Retriever. People tended to exaggerate. It should be illegal to call something this big a dog.
‘She’s an Irish Wolfhound. Daisy forgot to mention that bit, did she? Here,’ he wiggled his fingers and she realised she’d been hanging on. Embarrassing. She let go and he reversed Mabel back inside the cottage, ‘she’s a softie really. You just need to be firm, oh and don’t leave the door open, it’s surprising how much ground a dog like that can cover in half an hour. I’m Hugo by the way.’
‘Flo.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘You said. Before.’
She frowned. ‘Oh, yes, well sorry. Don’t let me keep you.’
‘You’re not. I’ve not had so much fun in weeks.’ He laughed again, a rich, deep laugh that would have actually been pleasant in other circumstances. ‘Actually, there’s another reason I came back,’ he paused, ‘Flo.’ He seemed to savour her name, rolling it round in his mouth. He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth cocked up in imitation. ‘Flo, Florence.’
It was starting to get annoying. ‘Don’t wear it out.’
‘You’ve not changed much, apart from,’ his lazy gaze drifted up from her feet back to her eyes, ‘growing a bit.’ He was amused. Still.
‘Are you going to share the joke, Mr Funny?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
She knew him?
He folded his arms. ‘Little Florence Nightingale.’
Oh God, she knew him. Rude, nasty little know-it-all James, who was too posh for the likes of them. ‘You used to scare the horses so I’d fall off.’ During a brief infatuation with horses, before she moved onto a longer infatuation with pop stars, then an even longer one with boys, she’d spent her time helping out Billy Brinkley, the village show-jumping hero, with his horses. In return for riding lessons. And James – who would never lower himself to helping anybody – used to swan in, dressed immaculately, ride some of Billy’s toughest horses with effortless ease, then swan out again. In between he guffawed loudly (for attention, she was sure), and flicked bits of rubber off the riding-school floor at passing horses (making sure Billy didn’t see). She’d hated him. And he’d had his nose (which wasn’t crooked in those days) so high in the air she was surprised he even remembered her. She’d just been a target for his sarcasm, not a real person.
He grinned. ‘That’s a bit unfair.’
‘And you’re called James.’
‘That’s my surname, he used to bellow out surnames.’ Ahh yes, after Hugo had nicknamed her Nightingale (he’d caught her singing when she tacked his horse up for him), Billy had adopted it. Which Hugo had found hilarious.
She’d not known him that well, which was why she hadn’t recognised him straight away, but now the slightly cruel twist to his full lips, the sardonic stare looked familiar. As was the mocking laugh.
‘You don’t seem to have changed much either. Now if I’ve provided enough humour for the day I’ll go and unpack.’
‘I hope you’ve brought a spare pair of jeans.’ Then, with another laugh, he headed back down the path.
Hugo had made moving Mabel look easy. Shoving her far enough in so she could shut the door was like trying to push a car with the handbrake on.
Shattered, Flo dropped her bag on the floor and leant back against the door, spotting a note that was pinned to the wall at the side. It had an arrow pointing up.
Front door key. I’ve fed Mabel and she’s had a run, so she’ll be fine. Hmm, fine was a matter of opinion. Chickens fed and fastened up for the night. Chickens? Since when had chickens been part of the equation? Barney was in the field shelter when I last checked, with a pile of hay. Don’t panic if he’s not, he doesn’t go far, talk to Hugo next door. Cheers, Jimmy.
Ahh, so Daisy’s fiancé-in-waiting had come in to prepare the way, as promised. A shame it wasn’t easy-going Jimmy instead of aristocratic Hugo living next door.
Not that she was going to take that last bit of advice and ask Hugo for help. Hugo had already categorised her as ‘useless but hilarious’ (it looked like he’d done that years ago) and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being proved right. If Daisy could cope with her horse, dog and a few chickens, then so could she. But she might need a drink first.
Mabel gave her a nudge then blundered down the narrow hallway and through a doorway, so she followed, straight into the cutest, comfiest room she’d ever seen. Now this was what she’d expected. It wasn’t exactly the tidiest room she’d ever seen, and some of the furniture was more shabby than chic, but it was gorgeous. Flo gasped, and Mabel wagged her tail as though pleased with the reaction, then her nails tip-tapped over the floorboards as she wandered through an archway and into the kitchen.
She laughed out loud. It was even more adorable.
There was the sweetest little window and she ran over to see what was outside. And then just had to open the back door and get out there.
The back garden made her forget all about her damp bum. When Flo and her mother had lived in Tippermere, they’d been in the centre of the village, on a small modern housing estate, and she’d eyed up the chocolate-box cottages that surrounded the village green and were scattered along the lanes, wishing she had the same. And now, for a short time, she would have.
The garden was far more cottage-like than the front, and exactly what all her flicking through glossy country magazines in the airport had set her expectation levels at. The borders were cram-packed with evergreen shrubs and an assortment of twiggy bits that she was sure meant it would be a mass of colour in the spring. A narrow path made up of stepping stones embedded in the grass wound its way between the plants and, with the reassuring mass of Mabel at her side, she followed it. Nestled at the end was what had to be the chicken coop and run.
Flo ducked down and tried to peer into the hen house, then sneezed as Mabel copied and her whiskers brushed against Flo’s nose. They both jumped as a there was a squawk and a sharp beak and two beady eyes emerged from the hut. The chicken looked at her accusingly, as though it was her fault it had been put to bed early – and then five more bedraggled and very indignant looking hens joined it. One of them flapped at Mabel, and she looked up at Flo for reassurance.
‘You’re kidding me? You cannot be afraid of a hen?’
Mabel waggled her eyebrows, snorted, and then rocked back on her haunches and sat down.
‘You big wuss,’ Flo giggled, and dared to stroke the wiry head, which actually was soft beneath her fingertips. Mabel tilted her head and leaned in, demanding her ears be rubbed as well. ‘Don’t push your luck now.’
Beyond the chicken run was a fence, with a gate padlocked rather firmly shut. It seemed a bit extreme, Flo decided, to leave the front door of the house unlocked and then put a heavy chain round a garden gate, but what did she know? She looked down at the keys that were still in her hand, and couldn’t see a single one that looked small enough for the padlock.
‘What do you think, Mabel?’
Mabel whined, and she glanced up to see a mud-covered horse surveying her from a safe distance. His head low he ambled closer, leaned over the gate to touch noses with Mabel, then snorted at her.
‘So I guess you are Barney?’ At least he wasn’t a giant, which was what she’d half- expected after meeting Mabel. He looked a pretty normal size for a cob, and just like the photo Daisy had shown her. Shaggy and dirty.
And he was still in his field, which was good and meant she didn’t have to go running to Hugo.
He nudged her hand. ‘Sorry sweetie, no carrots tonight.’ His nose was velvet-soft beneath the tip of her fingers, and when she reached up and scratched under his forelock he stretched forward and sighed. ‘Oh
Barney, that’s just how I feel.’
From the moment she’d stepped out of the taxi she’d felt like a weight had been lifted from her, that for a short time she was free to go back to how she used to be. No expectations, no fear of being judged or found short. She grinned. Apart from with Hugo, now there was a man who needed a ‘handle with care’ sign on him.
Except she felt instinctively that Hugo wouldn’t judge her like Oli always had – he’d tease her maybe, laugh at her, maybe even tantalise her. A delicious shiver ran down her arms. ‘He’s grown up to be quite a hunk, hasn’t he, Barney, but don’t you go telling him I said that will you?’ Barney gave the closest sound to a groan of pleasure that she’d ever heard from a horse. ‘Hopefully he’s a bit nicer than he used to be. Though I suppose if I’ve got any sense I’ll steer clear of him, won’t I? What do you think?’
She leaned against the gate so that the familiar horsey scent took her straight back to her childhood. The good days. Right now she was a million metaphoric miles from Oli. He had no connection to this place; there were no memories of him tied up here. He didn’t exist. Even if Hugo wasn’t any kinder than he used to be, it didn’t matter, she would keep her distance and chill, remember what it was like to make her own decisions, do her own thing.
‘This is going to be a perfect Christmas holiday, isn’t it guys? And we’re not going to even think about Oli, are we?’ Barney snorted down his nostrils and Mabel waggled her eyebrows. ‘No we’re not. You know, since I got here I haven’t even felt like crying, or sticking pins in a doll and pretending it’s him. So that’s excellent, isn’t it?’ Looking after Daisy’s place was going to be easy, and fun. Roll on the marshmallows and wine, and tomorrow she’d get her horse ride – providing it didn’t snow.
***
Flo stared at the fireplace. When they did this in the movies it looked simple. Except normally it was all set up and all they had to do was strike a match.
She had thought that Daisy’s instructions had been a bit over the top, and had even felt a bit patronised when she’d insisted on explaining how to build a fire – and emailed her the details (just to be on the safe side, in case she forgot). But that was just Daisy, ultra-practical Daisy.
Which she was glad of now. Because getting a barbecue going and lighting a fire didn’t seem to be the same at all. And when she looked at the yawning hole beneath the chimney she couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d been told to do. So now all she had to do was get on to the internet so she could read her email.
Daisy had warned her that the Wi-Fi could be slow. But she hadn’t been prepared for this. She went in search of a wine glass while the internet bravely tried to download her instructions on what to do with wood and paper.
The wine Jimmy had left on the table was warming, but she was still freezing cold. Maybe the damp bum wasn’t helping. A change of clothes was needed – after she’d got the fire going.
‘Bingo!’ Mabel looked up in surprise. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’ve unlocked the secret to fire-building. Come on. We’ll get this place warm in no time, and you can share my marshmallows. Do dogs eat marshmallows?’ Mabel put her chin back on her paws, looking unimpressed. ‘Maybe not.’
The instructions worked. Who knew a pile of newspaper was so important? Within seconds the newspaper was curling around the kindling, which had been stacked in one small basket, and she prodded the two logs already in the fireplace, and added a third. ‘Right. Time to get dry clothes on. You’re impressed, aren’t you?’ Mabel crept forward, closer to the fire, which she took as a sign of approval. She was talking to a dog. Which was one step up from talking to the furniture, or plants.
But at least nobody could hear her. So that was fine. Probably.
Lugging her suitcase up the narrow staircase wasn’t the easiest thing to do. The landing was tiny and there were three doors off it.
The first bedroom looked out onto the front of the house, and had a desk and single bed in. She poked her head round the second door. A small but adorable bathroom, with a tiny tub complete with claw feet, and an old-fashioned basin and toilet (she hoped the plumbing wasn’t old-fashioned too). She really could do with a long soak, maybe if she filled it with bubbles and brought her glass of wine up she’d be warmed up in no time. But she needed food as well, and marshmallows beckoned. Reluctantly she backed out and examined the final room.
A heavy counterpane covered the small double bed, rose-smattered curtains framed the small window and an old-fashioned water jug and bowl were sitting on the tall, wood chest of drawers. In the far corner, close to the window, was a rocking chair and everywhere she looked there were pretty touches that shouted out ‘Daisy’. Photographs of the animals vied for space on the chest of drawers and on the walls, rugs covered the dark old-wood floorboards, and cushions competed for attention on the bed. Gorgeous was the only word.
She hugged herself and grinned. It was perfect. Apart from the chill in the air, but once the fire had got going she was sure it would warm the whole cottage. Which had to be the main benefit of a place this size. She dragged her suitcase in, stripped her damp clothes off, and grabbed her pyjamas. It was too late to go anywhere and she wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.
She had to be hearing things, Flo decided, when there was what sounded like a rap on the front door. Mabel gave a loud bark that nearly made her topple over, one leg half in her pyjama bottoms, then there was frantic banging.
‘Ouch.’ She’d not even noticed the very low beam at the bottom of the stairs on the way up (she’d been bent double trying to manhandle her suitcase), but she certainly noticed it on the way down. Or rather her head did. Rubbing the sore spot, she wrestled with Mabel with her other hand, trying to get to the front door. Which was still being assaulted from the other size. Jeez, you’d think there was a fire.
‘You’re on fire.’
She stared at Hugo, who was on her doorstep and forcing his way in between her and Mabel as he spoke.
‘I’m what?’ She glanced down; she didn’t even look lukewarm in these pyjamas, let alone on-fire hot. But he wasn’t listening, he’d pushed his way into the house and was already in the small front room.
It was then she noticed the distinct smell of smoke.
‘Jesus Christ, woman, what have you been doing?’ Hugo was waving his arms about (and rather muscled and attractive they were, thought Flo, now they were only covered by the short sleeves of a polo top, rather than a jacket), and wafting smoke her way.
She looked down at the fire, which was still safely encased in the fireplace and heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment there she was worried she’d set her home for the holidays on fire. ‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.’ What was the matter with the man?
He shook his head, then marching over to the window, threw it open. ‘You’d normally use dry wood.’ He coughed, which she thought was a bit melodramatic and unnecessary.
‘I just topped up the pile with some from the back. It was slightly damp, but fine.’ She shrugged. Why on earth did men have to make such a fuss?
‘You don’t use the new stuff from outside, you use the stuff from the shed that’s been drying for at least twelve months.’
Oops. ‘Oh, well, nobody told me,’ she was about to look an idiot again, ‘nobody said that was the new pile.’
He stopped to look at her properly then, as the smoke cleared. There was a strange look on his face, but for once he didn’t seem to have a comeback. Fab, she’d outfoxed him.
‘You,’ one elegant eyebrow was raised, ‘appear to have a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.’ She did like that upper-class very English drawl, even if its owner was a bit pompous.
But, malfunction? His gaze had dropped, so she did likewise. Shit, how the hell (especially in the frozen cottage) had she not noticed that she’d not got round to buttoning up her pyjama top? Jeez. This time though, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of winning. She looked up, straight into those clear grey ey
es – that were actually surprisingly darker than she remembered.
‘You hammered on the door as though there was a fire or something so I thought I’d better get down as quick as I could.’ Now did she cross her arms over her chest, or brazen it out?
He glared back. ‘I thought there was.’
Oh Christ, he was only inches away and she’d gone red hot all over. If her chest had gone its normal red-blotchy I’m-turned-on then she was in trouble. And she daren’t look down and check.
Instead she looked at his square chin, at his mouth, cupid-bow lips that were still masculine, but surprisingly attractive, half-open as though he was going to kiss…
Oh God, she had never in her life wanted anybody to grab her so much. And she did mean grab, and kiss. Thoroughly. There were bits of her that were hot, and bits that were goose-bumpy, and bits that were just desperate to feel his hands on them. He was still gazing at her with a look that seemed more lust than anger. But that was probably just her imagination. And her hormones, and the fact that all of a sudden she felt sex-starved – and was sure going to bed with this man would be like nothing she had ever experienced before. Bits of her body were humming before he’d even touched her, not that he was going to touch her. She couldn’t ever remember feeling like this when she’d first known Oli, or even after she’d known Oli for years. Being with Oli had been civilised, measured, this felt like it would spin dangerously out of control.
He swallowed and she stared dry-mouthed at his throat, her gaze latched onto his Adam’s apple.
‘I can’t.’ She couldn’t, she really couldn’t. ‘I mean you shouldn’t.’ Oh hell, her brain had abandoned her. ‘There isn’t. No fire here. Not at all, I’m not even remotely on fire, hot.’ She held a hand up and took a step back, staggering over Mabel, who had rather helpfully positioned herself in a back-up position. ‘So you can go.’ Go, go she wanted to scream, before I make the biggest fool of myself yet. ‘Now.’
Without another word he brushed past her and was out of the house, banging the door behind him.
Flo glared at Mabel. ‘You,’ the dog lifted her head and gave her a doleful look, ‘are supposed to stop people coming in and protect my modesty, not trip me up.’ Mabel groaned and put her head down, which just about summed up how she felt herself.
The Holiday Swap Page 10