by Liz Fielding
‘My father had a black Labrador,’he said, in a bid to wipe that look from her eyes. ‘I had a golden retriever and an assortment of mongrels. And there was a red setter, too, that Adele brought home from a rescue centre. You put me in mind of her.’
‘Adele?’
‘The setter.’
Her brows dived in a puzzled frown. ‘But I don’t have red hair.’
‘Then it must be the temperament. Boisterous. Feather-brained. Never knows when to stop.’
‘Feather-brained?’
She had the same eyes, too. Large, expressive, the colour of warm treacle. Nothing was hidden. Every thought laid bare.
‘That’s a little harsh,’ she said. Then, having thought about it for a moment, she twitched her shoulder in the smallest of shrugs and said, ‘Or maybe not.’ Then, ‘No cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters?’ she pressed, as if determined on proving his point. ‘What about mice? Surely you had mice? All boys have mice.’
‘Then you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you? Are you done here?’he asked, with a gesture at the pens.
‘Yes.’ She put the rabbit back. Stood watching it for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t have come over here,’ she said with a sigh, as they headed for the checkout. ‘It was okay when I was a kid. It never occurred to me to empathise with a rabbit when I was six. Twenty years on, I won’t be able to stop thinking about him.’
They had almost reached the checkout when she stopped. ‘Hold on.’
‘Ellie!’ he warned.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ she called back. True to her word, she returned a few moments later with a large terracotta pot shaped like an old-fashioned flowerpot. ‘I’ll take this, too,’ she said.
‘Thank heavens for that. I was afraid you’d gone back for the rabbit,’ he said, as she put it on the trolley.
‘Listen, feather-brained I may be. Plain stupid I’m not.’ She fished her purse out of her bag and took out a twenty-pound note.
‘Put your money away, Ellie.’
‘Oh, but-’
‘My trough. I buy the compost.’
‘But the pot…’
‘Will be in my garden.’
‘I might want to take it when I leave.’
‘Don’t tease me with empty threats. We both know you’re not going anywhere.’ Then, ‘It’s up to you, Ellie, but if you want to pay for it, you’re going to have to come back and fetch it on your bike.’
She lifted it onto the counter without another word. Mouth zipped. Restraint personified.
‘Damn it!’
‘What?’ she asked, startled, as he put the pot back on the trolley and pulled out of the queue. ‘What did I do?’
Nothing. She didn’t have to do anything. She was exactly like that damn setter; she wore her heart in her eyes. Right now, while the rest of her face was doing its best to be on its best behaviour, they betrayed her.
‘Go and get the blasted rabbit!’
Delight and disappointment chased each other over her face, warring for supremacy. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’
‘It’s not that easy.’ Seeing his obvious bafflement, she said, ‘It’s my turn to play the responsible mother, Ben. Where will it live?’
‘They sell those flat-pack A-frame animal houses here, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘They do.’ Her shoulders twitched in another little shrug.
‘But?’
‘But he’ll need a wire enclosure so he has somewhere to run.’
He wasn’t being pushed to provide a rabbit palace. Ellie was giving him a chance to have second thoughts, he realised. Back off. Common sense suggested that it would be the wise option.
‘There’s a DIY place next door,’he said. ‘We can call in and pick up some posts and chicken wire.’
‘Do you mean that?’
Yes. No. ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.’
She shook her head. ‘This is weird. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Is that a fact?’ An unbidden smile broke out, reaching every corner of his face. ‘And all it took was a rabbit? Unbelievable!’
Ellie’s laugh was a joyous sound. ‘You won’t regret it,’ she promised, speech not a problem after all, apparently.
‘Oh, I’m sure I will,’ he warned. ‘I’d advise you not to waste any time.’
‘I’ll, um, need a hand. With the hutch. And stuff.’
‘I’ll sort out the hutch. You sort out the “stuff”.’
‘Something tall enough,’ she insisted. ‘Rabbits need to be able to keep their ears upright.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No! I’m buying his house and I want him to have plenty of room.’ She suddenly caught on to the fact that he was kidding and pulled a face. ‘And he’ll need straw. And sawdust.’
How had he seen only the soft eyes, missed that determined chin? How on earth did he come to be buying rabbit bedding instead of sitting in the peace of his study, deciphering a recently discovered early form of Devanagari? How had he somehow committed himself to building a rabbit run for a woman who had no right to be living in his house in the first place?
‘It’s a good thing we brought Adele’s car,’ she said, as he picked up a vacuum-packed bale of straw. ‘We’d never have got all this into your sports car.’
‘My mistake,’ he said.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘You put on a good act, Ben, but you’re not the grouch you pretend to be.’
‘I am,’he said to her retreating back. ‘Truly.’ She just waved his words away without even turning around.
When she returned, she had a cardboard carrying box in each hand. Behind her was an assistant, carrying food, feeders, a water container. ‘Rabbits are gregarious creatures,’ she said, undeterred by his horrified expression. ‘Roger will need company.’
‘Not another rabbit,’ he said, with what he hoped was unarguable firmness.
‘Oh, please. I’m not that dumb.’ He gave her a look that suggested the jury was out on that one. ‘Really. This,’ she said, holding up the smaller box, ‘is Nigel. He’s a guinea pig. And you,’ she said, standing on tiptoe and, before he realised what was coming, kissing his cheek, ‘are a very kind man.’
For a moment, with both hands full, she wobbled, and he reached out to steady her, a hand on each arm. Her skin was golden, silky smooth, warm to his palms, her eyes, mouth, her entire face lit up like a kid on her birthday. For a moment he longed to kiss her laughing mouth, tap into that simple pleasure in every moment well lived.
How had she managed that? Turned her life around from such tragedy to such joy?
Ben, wearing jeans so soft and thin with wear that the cloth had split under the strain to expose a glimpse of knee and thigh, was swinging a mallet to hammer posts into a shady patch of lawn. Ellie, bringing him coffee, paused for moment on the edge of the lawn to indulge herself in the pleasure of watching him.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asked, as he stopped, straightened, wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt and glanced at her, apparently sensing her presence despite the fact that she’d done nothing to attract his attention.
‘I think you’ve done quite enough for one day.’
‘Me? This was your idea.’
‘Of course it was. When I offered to run you to the garden centre for a bag of compost, it was my firm intention to return with a menagerie.’
‘We’re very grateful.’
‘We?’
‘Roger, Nigel and me.’ Then, ‘Actually, we all think you should get a dog. For yourself.’
‘The cat doesn’t have a say in this?’ He stopped her before she could answer, took the mug she was offering him, and said, ‘No dog.’ Then, ‘It’s possible I’ll be returning to Kirbeckistan in the near future.’
‘I’ll be here to take care of it.’ Then, ‘It’ll be here to take care of me.’
‘In other words you want a dog.’
‘The house would like a dog.’
‘No dog.’
‘Okay,’ she said, turning away, walking back to the house.
‘I mean it, Ellie.’
She lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He was not reassured.
CHAPTER SIX
A SECOND batch of letters had arrived from the Milady offices, and Ellie spent an entire afternoon answering them, using the heavy cream stationery supplied for this purpose.
Her column rambled over her impressions of the garden centre, described the small black rabbit and the honey-coloured guinea pig that had joined the family menagerie. How ‘Daddy’ had built a fox-proof house for them-with the hindrance of the children, who had been eager to help-and an extensive run on the shady side of the daisy-strewn lawn.
She drew little sketches of both rabbit and guinea pig, as well as her giant flowerpot overflowing with pansies. Under advice from Laura, she’d replanted the ones she’d dug up, trimmed off the lank growth and stood them in some semi-shade where, maybe, with a bit of luck, they’d eventually match her imagination.
Mrs Cochrane had offered reserved approval, said that a staff reporter was already working on a photo feature on the playhouses, and made it clear that next month she wanted food.
Ellie was a bit miffed about the feature, and as for food-well, for heaven’s sake, it was her life she was writing about. When food happened, she’d write about it.
Then, realistically, she decided that probably wasn’t going to work. Food didn’t happen in her life. She was going to have to make an effort. Maybe she could cook something for Ben. A special thank-you. There would be some point to that.
Enthused, she asked one of her clients-a serious cook-for advice. Armed with a menu and a shopping list, she shopped on the way home. Once there, she updated her diary, and then dug out her rejected book.
She’d been putting off sending it to the next name on her list. Was there any point? Maybe Ben was right. Instead of emulating her idols, maybe she should be writing what she knew. Feather-brained girl doing the unpleasant jobs that the well-heeled, the useless-that would be the men-or just plain desperate, were prepared to pay someone else to do.
Like that would sell, she thought. Then began to leaf back through her diary, reliving some of the blush-making incidents, the stuff that made her laugh out loud, the horrors.
Maybe there was something. Leaving it to stew in the back of her mind, she went out to take Roger and Nigel a carrot and a few dandelion leaves. Then, because in the war between the grass and the dandelions the dandelions were winning, she got out the ride-on mower. Ben had said to leave it, that he’d do it, but there was something about doing mindless, repetitive jobs that untangled her thoughts, made everything seem simpler.
And just lately things had become very complicated.
Milady. Ben. Ben. Milady. Ben…
She’d been working for about twenty minutes when she turned and saw one of her complications walking round the corner of the house. He’d gone into the university first thing that morning, and for a moment she was transfixed by how utterly gorgeous he looked in a dark shirt, well-cut stone-coloured trousers, his hair flopping untidily over his forehead.
‘Stop!’
Belatedly realising that she was running out of lawn, she hunted for the brake with her foot, then, when she couldn’t find it, looked down.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
That was promising. The last time he’d asked that, Roger and Nigel had moved in. Maybe this was going to be a good day for some poor mutt who needed a home…
‘What’s up, Doc?’ she asked, as she finally managed to bring the thing to a halt before she cut a swathe through a bed filled with a riot of perennials.
Ben, who’d had to move sharply to avoid being mown down, ignored the Bugs Bunny routine and said, ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve just given me a very close demonstration of your lack of hand/eye co-ordination skills.’
She grinned up at him. ‘Aw, shucks. I never touched you.’
True. But somehow the way she said it made it a matter for regret rather than congratulation.
‘You’re a menace.’
‘Relax. I’m cutting grass, not driving round the ring-road. There’s no one to bump into-well, no one but you, and you’re pretty nifty on your feet when you see the danger coming.’
Not nearly nifty enough, he thought, or he wouldn’t be stuck with Ellie March and her growing menagerie as his own personal live-in torment.
‘What is your sport?’ she asked.
‘I really think you should leave this to me, Ellie,’ he replied, ignoring her attempt to change the subject.
‘I’ll bet it’s rugby. On the wing, right?’
‘Off the mower. Now.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ She sat back. ‘This is a “boy’s toy”.’ She gestured broadly at the machine she was sitting astride. ‘Girls are supposed to stick to the boring stuff, like sweeping up the bits of grass that get sprayed onto the path.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad used to be just the same. Kept all the good stuff to do himself, then wondered why we didn’t want to play.’ With that, she swung one leg high over the steering wheel, offering a heart-stopping display of leg, before sliding off the seat. ‘I’m nearly done, anyway. There’s just that bit down there by the treehouse.’
He looked in the direction of the old oak. ‘What treehouse? There was never a treehouse.’
‘Wasn’t there?’ Her face was flushed pink by the sun, but even so he could have sworn she blushed. ‘Well, there should have been. The way the branches spread out to make the perfect platform is just begging for one. I can’t believe your dad didn’t build you some kind of den up there when you were a kid.’
‘My father was in his fifties when I was born. Climbing trees was a bit beyond him by the time I was old enough to want such a thing.’
‘Oh, right. I didn’t think-’
‘I was right about you, Ellie. You’re exactly like Adele’s idiotic red setter. You just leap in, say the first thing that comes into your head, and you don’t know when to quit.’
‘Some people think that’s a good quality,’ she said, then added, ‘The not quitting thing.’
‘Clearly they haven’t been on the receiving end of one of your inquisitions.’ Then, in an attempt to turn the tables, he said, ‘What about you?’
‘Me? You want to know about my family? Mum’s a great cook, she’s a member of the Women’s Institute, helps out at a charity shop three times a week. Dad is a civil servant. Taxes.’ She shook her head. ‘We don’t talk about that outside the family. My sister takes after him. You’d like her. She’s the sensible one with brains-’
‘I’m not interested in them. I said I’d do this when I got home, so why are you out here cutting my grass when you should be devoting all your time to writing? That is what this alternative lifestyle is in aid of? The reason you gave up your legitimate career? Your life? So that you can write?’
‘I needed thinking time, and I can think and mow the lawn at the same time,’ she said. ‘And I haven’t given up my life.’
‘No? I share a house with you, and I haven’t seen any signs of one. When was the last time you went out on a date?’
‘Good question,’ she said without hesitation. ‘When did you?’ Then, before he could answer, ‘Do you want to come to dinner tonight? I’m trying out a recipe and I need someone who’ll give me an honest opinion. I know I can rely on you for that.’
‘You’re evading the question.’
‘And you aren’t?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not ready to date. What’s your excuse?’
For a moment neither of them spoke, giving him plenty of time to regret that he’d followed the sound of the mower. To wish that he’d gone straight inside.
‘I haven’t given up my life, Doc, I’m going for it.’ She stood, hands on hips, looking as if she was about to take on th
e world. ‘I’ve done all the sensible stuff, made all the compromises. Never again.’
‘You’re taking the balloon ride?’
‘As far as hot air and a following wind will take me.’
‘You’re sure you’re not just running away?’
She stared at him, shocked for a moment into silence. Then, ‘No!’
‘No?’ He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, except suddenly he wasn’t as convinced by this cheerful, go-for-it exterior as he should be. Ellie had suffered a terrible loss, and instead of rebuilding her life she appeared to be running blindly into the future, doing her best to escape it. ‘So why, when you decided to fly, didn’t you go back to your first love and enrol in art school?’
She took a breath as if to speak. Didn’t. Couldn’t. Opened her mouth. Closed it.
‘Well?’ he pressed, certain now in every fibre of his being that he’d got beneath the outer shell to touch something soft, raw at her centre.
‘It was too late,’ she finally managed. Her arms had dropped to her sides and she was no longer quite as self-assured, in-your-face-confident. ‘I’m a different person.’
‘People don’t change.’
‘Maybe I didn’t want it badly enough in the first place.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you were always too scared to go for it. Maybe that’s why you didn’t push for it in the first place. Override your father’s objections.’
Her father? When had she said it was her father who’d talked her out of it? She shook her head. It didn’t matter.
‘What’s this? Psychology Central? You’re not exactly living life to the full yourself. You get plenty of invitations. I empty the bin you toss them in. So who messed up your life, Doc?’
And it was his turn to do the fish impression.
She shook her head, just once, said, ‘Life isn’t a rehearsal, it’s one long first night.’
‘Maybe I don’t like the script.’
‘Then change it. You get dumped on the stage, but the moves are up to you. The important thing is to keep moving.’
Then, as if to show him how it was done, she turned and began to walk away from him. The cut-offs were the same ones she’d worn on the day they went to the garden centre, clinging to her hips, accentuating her bottom which, as she walked, swung in the opposite direction to her heavy dark ponytail. The effect was hypnotic.