"Thank goodness you decided to have a midnight feast when you did, lass, or we would never have caught the bleeder." George grinned, and I was flooded with relief.
"Did you find out how he got in?" I asked, tactically directing the topic away from my little escapade.
"There's a recording of Catty, our receptionist, letting him in," Mary said sadly. "After all we've done for the lass. But she and that fellow of hers, him what you clouted to the floor earlier, are just a pair of good-for-nothing rascals." Mary sighed and shook her head. I then realised the reason behind Catty's ungracious behaviour the previous evening. She was obviously in a total state of jitters over the planned robbery of her employers.
"What gets me," George continued, "is that if they are first-time offenders they'll both walk away from this with just a fine. Which is less than I can say for the hammering my artificial heart valve has been under. And it's just as well that Catty's not as bright as she makes out, silly lass, she'd completely forgotten about all the video cameras we have installed."
Personally, my shoulders and back weren't faring too well either after that early morning exertion, and after breakfast I half-hobbled out of the Inn to carry on with my plans to buy the cottage. After several minutes of letting my Mini's engine warm up, spitting out puffs of black smoke as it did so, I slowly chugged into town and headed for the Estate Agents.
The local village was one of those quaint hamlets where all the main shops and commercial buildings were on the one main high street. The Estate Agent was three-quarters of the way down. A bell chimed as I pushed the door open.
"Hello," I called out into the subdued and gloomy interior. There was no reply.
"Hello," I called out a second time. "Is anyone there?"
Whilst I waited patiently for a response I glanced around the room. Several pin boards were hanging up, with photos of property for sale. I scanned the pictures seeing if any showed the cottage I'd so set my heart on. There was a comfy-looking sofa settled against the left wall and on the far side of the office was a wooden burgundy desk and leather office chair. Papers littered the bureau. As I moved over to the desk, wondering if I might find details of the cottage amongst the stack of papers, a door opened in the far wall and a middle-aged lady appeared. The business was obviously run from the family home, the front room being set up as the office.
"May I help you?" enquired the kindly-voiced lady.
"I'm interested in the cottage for sale that's located about ten miles from here. If you could give me some more details about the property and the selling price. It's the one that you come across just before the nature reserve and the—"
"River," the lady finished for me. "Yes, I know which one you mean. You're the lass that helped George and Mary out this morning, aren't you? My, you are brave," she added in awe, whilst I thought, Gosh doesn't word fly fast in this neighbourhood? And how on earth did she know it had been me? Surely I wasn't the only new face in town.
Well, at least she didn't say, "You're the one that stole their apple pie," or (just as shameful) "You're the lass that got stuck in the mud some months back…"
"My son isn't here right now,” she went on, “and he's the one who visits the property with each interested client. But as you know where it is I can give you the key and you can go and take a look for yourself. It needs a touch of work done, but nothing dramatic. And the asking price is very reasonable: only two hundred and twenty thousand."
That is quite cheap, I thought. I was tempted to write a cheque out straightaway and not even bother with the preliminary visit, but not wanting to seem too keen I accepted her offer of a key and an unhurried look around the cottage.
As the lady bent forward to the desk drawers to search for the key, a necklace she'd kept tucked into her blouse fell forward – and I had to lean heavily on the desk to stop from falling over in surprise. Glinting before me, hanging from a delicate silver chain, was a diamond stone, cut to exactly the same unique design as those in the diamond chandelier earrings Lionel had offered me. That, I realised with a jolt, had been just four days ago, though it felt more like four decades. I remained gazing at the precious stone and as the lady handed me the key, my eyes still fixed on her necklace, I murmured, "What an unusual diamond. Where did you get it from, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Not at all," the woman replied. "I'm very proud of this jewellery. I never take it off. But it's not actually mine, I'm just safeguarding it until the rightful owner, my adopted son, claims it back from me. I think he will probably want to give it to his wife – when he finds Miss Right, that is. And she'll be a lucky girl, too. He's a wonderful boy – well, man – even if I do say so myself. I'll be heartbroken to give back the necklace. But it's his, after all. And I know he'll make the right choice. I adopted him when he was just one year old. My husband was from Oregon, and we lived there for a while before we moved back to England. The US government gave us a really hard time about taking the boy out of the country, but that’s another story. My son's biological mother sadly passed away when he was barely two months old and she left him this precious stone.”
She paused for a minute, a sad smile played on her lips as she seemed to reminisce about something. I started to feel a bit faint as the pieces started to fall into place. But it was too much of a coincidence, surely. I leaned heavily on the desk to stop myself from swaying.
“It's a reminder to me,” she went on, “that you have to treasure life, like this jewel, and that life can be as fleeting as the rays that dance through it.” I’d noticed that she had used the past tense when talking about her husband, and I imagined that she was thinking of him. She went on, “You may have met my son already. He’s called—"
"Robbie?" I whispered, overwhelmed by the realisation that it had to be. They were so similar, but that similar? They had the same early childhood story; they both had the same unique diamonds. Their looks, their build. It was such a coincidence, but there could be no other explanation.
Lionel and Robbie were twin brothers.
***
Robbie’s mum held out the key and I shakily reached out to take it. I looked into her kind brown eyes and promised to return the key that afternoon. She must have thought I was slightly peculiar, as I remained some moments longer, positively hypnotised by her necklace, before turning to leave. Somehow, in a complete daze, I lumbered out of the agency.
Zombie-like, I returned to my parked car and sat motionless, trying to gather my wits about me. I wasn't sure if it was my duty or not to inform each brother of the other’s existence. Maybe things would probably be best left as they were. Morally though, they had a right to be told. I found it incredible that they had been split up when their mother died; obviously something crucial must have happened for this to have occurred. The mother had precious jewellery, but no family members to keep the boys together? I was sure that the authorities wouldn’t – or shouldn’t – have let this happen, but, incredibly, it had.
In a stupor I drove out to the cottage. This was not a wise move, as, in my trancelike state, I almost managed to hit a fully-grown cow and her calf. By the time I pulled up outside the cottage gate I'd decided that, at least for the moment, I would leave things be and try to ignore the fact that Lionel and Robbie were twins.
No wonder I fancied the pants off both of them…
Chapter Fourteen
Kitted out in jeans rather than a flimsy skirt, my clamber over the garden gate was a piece of cake this time. Excitedly I skittered up the pathway to the front door and placed the key in the lock. Surprisingly the key turned with ease and the door opened with just a minimal squeak. It was dark and gloomy inside, and I went to the windows to draw the curtains open. A cloud of dust swirled up around the first set, and the second lot just disintegrated in my hands. I comforted myself that I wasn't too keen on the strawberry-patterned cloth anyway, and turned to view the living room.
There was a huge stone fireplace built into the far wall, wooden floorboards covered the flo
or, and the low ceiling still had the original timber beams. The furniture was sparse: just one rather large oak bookstand, complete with several mammoth cobwebs. I'd calculated that everything would have to be replaced in any case, and by the looks of things I wasn't only going to have to get a good bonfire going, but would also have to fumigate the whole house to boot. The sight of so many cobwebs was starting to make me itch all over.
The living room led, through a large archway, to the kitchen. This was what I'd been able to glimpse the previous day as I'd peered through the glass doors from the garden. It was spacious, and despite the grime-covered windows it was a lovely bright room, though sadly lacking all kitchen appliances. There were the tell-tale gaps under the kitchen sink where I imagined that the washing machine, dryer, dishwasher had been. There was a built-in larder that smelled really dire, and I didn't dare venture past the doorway. I had visions of dead rats or rotting cheese. I held my breath and slammed the door closed.
I made my way back to the living room. Beside the archway was a hallway that led to a flight of stairs and, in front, a wooden door. I turned the key that was in the lock and with a squeak pushed it open. I was charmed to see a quaint little bathroom. Surprise surprise, it was in need of some repair, but the tiling was exquisite: rustic cream with a frieze of blue flowers. Leaving the door ajar I made my way up the winding stairway. I just prayed that nothing would give under my weight, and it was a relief I wasn't allergic to dust. With each trudge upwards, a pall of powdery filth filled the air.
Up on the first landing there were three doors. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, trying to decide which of the doors to open first. Which would lead to the least dire room? I ventured to open the door to the right of the stairway. This appeared to be the master bedroom, with a huge double bed, another item to add to the bonfire. Judging from the state of the rest of the house, I imagined the bed was probably filled with lice and God knows what else. A window overlooked the garden. From this raised view I could see what looked like a garage below. I tried to open the window to get a better peek, but it seemed wedged closed. I could also make out a greenhouse at the far side of the grounds. This would be ideal to convert into a garden room for reading during those sunny autumn afternoons.
Room number two overlooked the undergrowth that had sprouted up in the front garden. The third door led to another charming bathroom, the same tiling as the one below.
As I wandered through each room, my mind went into overdrive, imagining the changes I would make to rejuvenate the place. Despite the dust and grime and the peeling wallpaper, all I could see was the potential behind each room. I made my way to the second floor I was already colour co-ordinating everything in my mind: shades of peach and soft rose; fairy-light curtains to frame each window; fresh varnish along each wooden rail to bring out the coppice gleam.
Despite Robbie’s warnings, I was going to make a winner out of this cottage.
The rooms on the second landing were very much a copy of the ones below. The roof, however, slanted lower, and natural sunlight shone through skylights and filled each room.
I carefully made my way down the stairs, mentally running through each and every item, idea, change, that would be necessary. I was going to give the cottage a facelift that any Hollywood Queen would be proud of.
By the time I clambered once more over the garden gate to the safety of my Mini I was happily humming away to myself My Girl. Of all the melodies in the world to choose from…
My loyal though totally ancient Mini was another of the items that was going to be added to my “must replace” list. Just as I was about to hop into the driver's seat I noticed a slip of paper tucked under the right windscreen wiper. I tugged the paper free and unfolded it.
My elation over the cottage vanished in a flash as I read and re-read the note. It was just seven words long, but each made me shiver. Cut-out newspaper letters had been strung together to form the message:
HOLLYWOOD BITCH, YOU ARE NOT WANTED HERE.
My legs wobbled slightly as I glanced around me, wondering if the sender was watching me from the dense woods. Despite my thumping heart, I had to pretend I was calm. Despite tears of fright welling up inside, I had to pretend that I wasn't on the verge of breaking down and crying. Pulling myself together, I opened the car door, which I'd left unlocked, and before I got in I held my right arm high and stuck-up my middle finger, swinging it around in a clear gesture of FUCK YOU. I hoped that if the crazed stalker was still lurking around, he or she would get a clear view of my cool, unimpressed and bravo attitude.
Boy, was I scared. I whammed the door of my Mini shut so forcefully that the whole vehicle vibrated. I punched down the lock on the door and mumbled over and over as I fumbled for the car keys.
“Please, please, please God, let the car start first time... Mum, I know you've probably gone and disowned me from up above, but I promise not to do any more nude scenes if you just help me get out of here!!”
Then it dawned on me, with a wave of pure and utter dread, that I'd left the car keys on the windowsill in the master bedroom on the first floor as I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to open the window.
“Thanks Mum!!” I wryly muttered under my breath.
I peered through the car window at the surrounding woods. I really didn't fancy going back into the house, or even getting out of the car. I'd a good chance of getting attacked by the lunatic who'd followed me out here.
Where was my showy spunk now? So much for sticking my finger up in the air in a bravado pretence that I didn't care.
I took several deep breaths and braced myself. This is when I see what I'm made of! With that I swung the car door open and pelted up the driveway towards the house, practically hurdled the gate and took the doorsteps in one flying leap. My hands shook uncontrollably as I let myself into what I now began to think of as a dark and sinister house. I shot across the living room like a bullet and took the stairs two at a time. I swerved into the master bedroom and drew a deep sigh of relief on seeing my car keys glinting in the sunlight. I pounced on them and as I was about to turn to leave I heard a distinct noise from down below. At least I thought I did, but my heart was pounding so hard that I could hardly hear anything except the thump-thump, thump-thump as blood pulsed through my veins.
Then I heard a voice.
"Chantelle? Where are you?"
Christ! I had indeed been followed inside. In reflex motion, I sped back to the windowsill and pushed hard on the pane. It didn't budge. In a panic, I picked up the mouldy pillow from the bed, placed it against the window and punched my fist right through the glass. The noise would have alerted whoever was below that I was making my escape from above, so without a second to lose I clambered through the now shattered window, amazingly without ripping my jeans or injuring my bare arms. I lowered myself onto the flat garage roof below, free-falling the last two metres like Sandy at her best. I slipped and stumbled to my knees. As I did so I glanced up to the broken window above just as a dark head leaned out and looked down at me.
"Robbie!!" I exclaimed, half in shock and half in relief. I wouldn't have put it past anyone at this point, but I doubted Robbie was behind the hateful, scary note that had been left on my car.
"Girl," he said, totally baffled (and I didn't blame him), "what on earth are you doing?!"
And with that there was a large moan below me as the garage roof gave way, and I fell through.
Lady Luck was on my side, which was about time considering all the persecution and trauma I'd suffered that day. The garage I’d plummeted into was, in fact, a hayloft, and my landing was cushioned by stacks of straw. I remained motionless, sprawled out on the yielding but itchy surface, until Robbie poked his head through the entrance.
"Are you alright?" he enquired, obviously concerned. I just nodded my head in response. I was so exhausted by my attempt to escape, and so utterly relieved that my body was still intact, that I didn't even feel the slightest bit embarrassed, though I was aware that Robbie was looking
at me in astonishment.
"I was under the impression," continued Robbie slowly, as if conversing with a simple-minded child, "that you were planning to buy this place, not wreck it to bits."
"I am planning to buy it," I answered. And I was. The stalker could go to hell. "I was just testing the fire escape possibilities!"
Chapter Fifteen
That evening I met up with Robbie down at the local for a couple of pints to celebrate my house purchase. I'd signed the paperwork and had handed over the deposit in exchange for the keys. The deeds would be signed on my return, but in my books I was officially the owner of a rather run-down rural cottage in the middle of nowhere, but even said like that I was thrilled. Everyone seemed in high spirits at the Head in Arms. All and sundry seemed to be crowded into the place, and, being the small hamlet that it was, where word flies around faster than a nuclear missile, everyone congratulated me on my act of bravery that morning which had felled the burglar.
As it turned out, Robbie, among his many accomplishments, was the town's handyman, so I arranged to leave him a list the following day of what I wanted done first, regarding bringing the cottage back to life. In the meantime I planned to return to London for a day or two, to sort out bank transfers and buy a new car.
By the end of the evening I was rather pissed, and Robbie had to escort me back to the Inn.
Not surprisingly, I awoke the following day with a stinking headache. I faintly recalled Robbie shepherding me to my room the night before, gently settling me on the bed and easing my shoes off before tucking me in. I then quite clearly recalled that he kissed me on the lips and I, disgracefully, had put up no resistance whatsoever.
Well, I wasn't going to worry my little head over that now. What did concern me was that I wasn't too sure if I'd actually received a phone call from Lionel at some point during the night, or had just dreamed it. But even more worrying was that I could recall saying in my dream-like and drunken state, "Hi Robbie honey…"
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 13