by Jenny Kane
Abi’s Neighbour
Jenny Kane
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Jenny Kane 2017
The right of Jenny Kane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN 9781682996140
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays, St Ives Ltd
Dedication
For my wonderful parents
Chapter One
Cassandra stared at the ‘For Sale’ sign in the front garden. A fresh slogan had been pasted proudly across it, proclaiming Another House Sold!
She frowned. The estate agents must have made a mistake. Justin had talked about renting the cottage, this poky little two-bed terrace in some Cornish backwater, but he’d never once suggested buying it.
Sitting on the low stone wall that ran in front of the row of cottages, with her back to the sold sign, she let out a string of vehemently whispered expletives. Resisting the temptation to throw a pebble at the seagulls which were squawking their hearts out on the roof behind her, she steadied her breathing, like she did when faced with a particularly demanding client.
Shrugging off her suit jacket in deference to the early summer sunshine that poured from a cloud-free sky, Cassandra tried to focus, but doubts continued to assail her. She hadn’t misunderstood Justin, had she?
They’d been laughing over the breakfast table at one of the most exclusive hotels in London when the subject of Cornwall had first come up. Making plans for their future life together, they’d celebrated in grand style the fact that Justin had, after six years of secret trysts and stolen nights together, decided to leave his wife, the dreadful Jacinta.
Excitedly they’d plotted and planned over plates of eggs Benedict and smoked salmon, raising their glasses of Buck’s Fizz to Justin’s promotion to senior partner at the law firm. A promotion which meant that, providing they merged their finances, Justin could afford to get a divorce without being catapulted into penury.
There was only one snag.
The legal company Justin now worked for, Family Values, prided itself on its moral integrity. There was no way he could risk a scandal after securing the promotion he’d coveted for so long. It would be bad enough when he explained to his colleagues that he was getting a divorce – suddenly producing a long-term mistress would be too much for them to accept in one go.
So Justin had asked Cassandra to move away for a while. He’d suggested they use this short diplomatic period of separation to their advantage, and rent a property to later sublet – at a vast profit – to exhausted executives seeking a spot of relaxation. Cassandra, who could run her own business from anywhere via the Internet, would go and make sure the property was up to date, arrange any decorating that was required, and then rejoin Justin in London once things had died down.
Thinking back, Cassandra realised she should have asked a lot more questions about exactly how much research Justin had already done into this move. But under the influence of the early-morning alcohol, not to mention the triumph she felt at having finally succeeded in persuading Justin to leave his wife, she had suppressed all her instincts and agreed to everything he’d said.
The untidy, clipboard-wielding woman started talking as soon as she climbed out of her Mini. ‘Hello, my name’s Maggie, and I’m from –’
Cassandra cut impatiently across the formalities. ‘Sennen Agents, obviously. It’s written across your car.’
‘Oh, yes. So it is.’ Maggie paused. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late, I got stuck behind a tractor down the lane.’ She jingled a keyring in front of her. ‘I have your keys, Miss Pinkerton.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I don’t?’ The estate agent frowned, looking away from the woman that stood before her in expensive couture with crossed arms and a far from happy expression. Flicking through the papers on her clipboard, Maggie said, ‘I was instructed by a Mr Justin Smythe that you would be accepting the keys on his behalf?’
‘I meant, no, my name is not Miss Pinkerton. It is Ms Henley-Pinkerton.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Maggie refrained from further comment as she clutched the keys a little tighter.
Determined to make sure the situation was clearly understood, Cassandra pulled her jacket on, turning herself back into the sharp-suited businesswoman she was. ‘In addition to your error regarding my name, there appears to have been a further mistake.’
‘There has?’
‘Mr Smythe has not purchased this property. He has merely rented it, with an additional agreement to sublet it as a holiday home. I am here for two months to make the place suitable.’ Cassandra ran a disdainful eye over the beautiful exterior stonework. ‘It would seem that my work is going to be well and truly cut out.’
‘This is a much sought-after street, Ms Henley-Pinkerton. And this particular property is in excellent period condition.’ Feeling defensive on behalf of the old miner’s cottage, Maggie bit her tongue and flicked through her paperwork faster. Extracting a copy of the bill of sale, she passed it to the slim, angular blonde. ‘I think the misunderstanding must be yours. Mr Smythe has purchased number two Miners Row outright. It was a cash sale.’
Snatching the papers from Maggie’s fingers, Cassandra’s shoulders tensed into painful knots. Why hadn’t Justin told her he’d done this? She was convinced she was right. And anyway, he’d never deliberately make her appear foolish in front of a country bumpkin estate agent…
Yet as Cassandra scanned the document before her, she could see there’d been no mistake. Closing her eyes, she counted to ten, before opening them again to regard the badly dressed woman before her, who was once again holding out the offending set of keys.
Failing to take them, Cassandra gestured towards the little house. ‘Perhaps you would show me around, after I’ve made a call to Mr Smythe?’
Maggie, already feeling sorry for this unpleasant woman’s future neighbours, took unprofessional pleasure in saying, ‘Good luck with that call. The phone signal here is unpredictable to say the least.’
It had taken a ten-minute walk towards Sennen village to get a decent reception on her mobile phone, and then, when she’d been able to connect the call, Justin’s line was engaged. When she’d finally got through, she was more than ready to explode.
‘Justin! How could you have done this to me without a word? You’ve made me look a total idiot.’
Clearly thrilled that he’d managed to buy the terrace for a knock-down price – which, he’d claimed, was a far more economic use of their funds, an investment that would make them a fortune to enjoy in their retirement – he’d sounded so excited about what it meant for their future together that Cassandra had found it hard to remain cross.
Assuring her that the situation remained the same, and that she was still only expected to stay in Cornwall while he secured his new position and got the wheels of the divorce in motion, Justin told Cassandra he loved her and would be with her very soon.
Returning to the terrace reassured, if lacking some of her earlier dignity, Cassandra swallowed back all the words she’d have liked to say as she opened the door and the gloom of the dark and narrow hallway enveloped her. She was sure that awful
Maggie woman had been laughing at her. The agent had taken clear pleasure in telling her that if she hadn’t stormed off so quickly she’d have found out that the phone reception was excellent if you sat on the bench in the back garden.
Vowing to never drink champagne in any form ever again, as it clearly caused her to agree to things far too readily, Cassandra saw the next two months stretching out before her like a lifetime.
Letting out some of the tension which had been simmering inside her since she’d first seen the for sale sign, she picked up a stone and threw it at the back fence, hard.
Maggie had gone, leaving her reluctant client sitting on an old weathered bench in the narrow rectangular plot at the back of the house. Playing her phone through her fingers, Cassandra saw that there was enough reception to make calls if she sat in this spot – but only in this spot. One step in either direction killed the signal dead, which was probably why the previous owners had placed a bench here. And probably why they left this Godforsaken place!
The Internet simply didn’t exist here. When she’d swallowed her pride and asked Maggie about the strength of the local broadband coverage, the agent had actually had the audacity to laugh, before informing Cassandra with obvious satisfaction that people came to Sennen for their holidays to leave the world of emails and work behind them.
In short, there was Wi-Fi in the village – but only sometimes. It was becoming clearer to Cassandra by the minute why Justin had secured this place for such a bargain price.
Breathing slowly, she pulled her shoulders back, pushed her long, perfectly straight blonde hair behind her ears, and took a pen and paper out of her bag. It looked as if she was going to have to tackle this, old school. First she would make a list of what she considered necessary to make the house habitable for holidaymakers, then she would locate the nearest library or Internet café so she could source decorators and builders to get the work underway. The sooner she got everything done, and herself back to the hustle and bustle of London, the better.
Deciding there was no way she could sleep in this house, which Maggie had proudly described as ‘comfortable’, ‘sought-after’, and ‘ready to be made absolutely perfect’, Cassandra hooked her handbag onto her shoulder and headed back into the whitewashed stone house. Shivering in the chill of the hallway, despite the heat of the June day, she jumped in the silence when the doorbell rang just as she bent to pick up her overnight bag.
For a second she froze. It had been years since she’d heard a doorbell ring. In her block of flats back home she buzzed people in via an intercom, and anyway, people never just dropped by. She hoped it wasn’t that dreadful Maggie back with some other piece of unwanted advice.
It wasn’t Maggie. It was a petite woman in paint-spattered clothes, with a large shaggy dog at her side. Cassandra’s unwanted visitor wore a wide smile and held a bunch of flowers in one hand and some bedding in the other.
‘Hello. My name’s Abi, I live next door. Welcome to Miners Row. I hope you’ll be very happy here.’
Gesturing to the contents of her hands, the woman continued, ‘I picked you up a little something to brighten the house up before you get your own things in place, and I thought some fresh bedclothes could be handy if you haven’t got any unpacked yet. I know how damp these places can get if they’re left empty for long!’
Chapter Two
‘What happened next?’
Abi took a mug of tea from Beth’s outstretched hand. ‘She looked me straight in the eye, pushed away the flowers, and told me, in no uncertain terms, that the idea that a mere bunch of flowers could brighten that hideous place up enough to make someone happy was unthinkable. Especially in a ropey little backwater like this.’
‘You have got to be joking.’
Abi sighed. ‘I wish I was. Then she ripped into Maggie for having told other people her business.’
‘But surely Maggie was being kind? She probably thought a friendly face might cheer up her client, as she obviously didn’t want to be there.’
Abi shrugged in her best friend’s direction. ‘I don’t think the woman I encountered is the type of person who would ever admit to needing help. Unless she was paying for it, maybe. And even that would only be help from the very best professionals, of course.’
After a few seconds spent statue-still on the doorstep of number two Miners Row, staring in disbelief at her new neighbour’s rapidly disappearing back, Abi had left to put the flowers in a vase in her own kitchen. She couldn’t believe how unnerved she’d felt when she’d been left holding her welcome gift in one hand, and the evidence of her thoughtfulness in the other. Her head had suddenly been full of images of her late husband, Luke, who’d treated her in a similarly dismissive way for the majority of their married life.
Glad that it was nearly half past three, which meant that Beth would be home from the village school where she worked as the nursery teacher, Abi set off for her friend’s flat. She badly needed Beth to put her fears into perspective. Could the depressing London life she’d escaped just under a year ago have followed her all the way to Cornwall?
Beth’s flat was the top floor of her grandfather’s old shop, and sat above her gallery, where Abi also worked, as resident artist and general helper-out. Now, lounging back against the sofa, Abi took a sustaining gulp of tea.
‘Women like my new neighbour made my life in London miserable. I thought I’d left them all behind after Luke died, and now one’s moved in next door – or at least sort of has. I think it was the linen that offended her the most. She went on about “how dare I think she’d come so unprepared”, then with a tiny overnight holdall in her hand, which can’t possibly have contained any bedding, she slammed the door and marched towards the village to find a hotel room.’
Incensed on Abi’s behalf, Beth said, ‘Well, I hope she can’t find one, and ends up back at the cottage sleeping on damp sheets!’
‘The cottage has been empty and unaired for so long that the sheets could well be damp and mildewed too. Especially after such a cold winter.’ Abi took a biscuit from the tin that Beth was holding out to her. ‘Half of me hopes she can’t find one as well, but the other half hopes she does. The less time she spends next door, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
Beth sank down onto the sofa next to her friend. Putting the open biscuit tin between them, she proceeded to munch her way through a cookie as she said, ‘If she’s as high-powered as you suspect, then she’ll probably get a taxi to take her to one of the big hotels in Penzance.’
‘Possibly. When I spoke to Maggie, she said she couldn’t say much because her boss was listening, but from what I gathered it’s not so weird that she doesn’t seem keen to live there. She’s been sent by someone else to get the place ready as a holiday let. So at least I’ll be spared her actually moving in permanently.’
Abi sighed again. ‘I honestly can’t decide if that’s better or worse. The last thing I want is a constant stream of City types moving in and out, all thinking they want to escape the pressures of London while simultaneously complaining that the Internet doesn’t work.’ She grabbed another biscuit. ‘Although I suppose that’s better than having a woman who reminds me of that dreadful local wives’ group Luke forced me to join. They were all perfect and sterile and made me feel inadequate with just one pursing of their expensively glossed lips.’
Crunching her ginger nut, Beth was thoughtful. ‘It does sound a bit strange though. You said Maggie told you the woman was under the impression that the house had been rented, not bought.’
‘She didn’t come across as the sort of woman who makes mistakes.’ Abi put her mug on the table in front of them. ‘Come to think of it, she didn’t come across like the sort of person you’d send to do up a house either. I can’t imagine her rolling up her sleeves and grabbing the soda crystals and a pair of rubber gloves.’
‘She could be the sort of person to write a list, though, and then get other people in to scrub the walls and repaint the ceilings.’
<
br /> ‘You may well be right.’
‘Talking of decorating, how’s Max? I haven’t seen him this week.’
Abi’s frown instantly gave way to a smile as she thought about her boyfriend. ‘He’s great, thanks. Working on a bathroom over in St Ives. The guy employing him is on a deadline to get his place done up before the summer season, so Max is working long hours, and then crashing out in one of the guest rooms there until he’s finished. It’s saving him a fortune in petrol, but the phone signal is crap. It’s weird not talking to him all the time, but he’ll be back in Sennen soon. How’s Jacob? Any luck finding a new studio?’
Beth’s partner, Jacob, had been searching for a suitable new pottery studio ever since he’d officially moved in with her four months earlier, although he had more or less lived in Beth’s flat since the day they’d got together the previous August.
Pulling a face, Beth fished for a second biscuit. ‘Not so far. We’ve seen a few, but they’re all too far away. He might as well keep using the one in Hayle until the lease is up in October. Ideally we want to find a place around here before then.’
‘I’ll keep asking the artists that are booked into the gallery, not to mention those who phone up for future bookings. You never know, someone might know of somewhere suitable.’
‘Thanks, Abi.’ Beth stood up and brushed her crumb-covered fingers down her jeans. ‘Fancy a pizza? I’m starving.’
‘It’s only 4.30!’
‘I know. It’s end-of-term syndrome. The kids are either hyper at the thought of moving on to big school after the holidays, or they’re totally knackered after a term of preparing for the same thing. Jollying them along, calming them down, and reassuring them all at once can take it out of me sometimes – and makes me hungry!’
‘I bet!’ Abi pushed herself off the comfort of the sofa. ‘I can’t stay, though. I’m having dinner with Stan tonight. It’s time for our fortnightly dinner date.’