Kitabı oku: «The House of Birds and Butterflies», sayfa 3

‘Why?’

Abby shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good name. Robin, Bob. And he does bob quite a bit, he’s very inquisitive.’

‘Inquisi—’ Evan tried, stumbling over the word.

‘He wants to know what’s going on with everything, like you do with the birds.’

‘So I’m inqui-si-tive? Is that a good thing?’

‘A very good thing,’ Abby said. ‘The best, in fact. I’ll leave you to your walk, but if you spot anything else and you don’t know what it is, write down a description and when you come back to the centre for some of Stephan’s chocolate cake, which I’m sure you will,’ she glanced at Evan’s parents and they smiled, ‘I can try and help you identify it. And the more you come, the better you’ll get. Soon, you’ll be helping me identify the birds.’ She pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket – she always kept one on her, in case she needed to make notes or take down a comment from a visitor – and handed it to him, along with a biro.

‘Thank you, miss.’ Evan held out his hand again, this time for her to shake.

‘You’re very welcome.’ She shook it. ‘I’m Abby.’

‘Thank you, Abby.’ He grabbed his dad’s hand, and began pulling him further down the path, deeper into the woods. ‘There’s a hide down here, Dad, let’s go and see.’

‘That was very kind of you,’ Evan’s mum said. ‘I saw how busy you were.’

‘Busy is good, and so is inspiring people like Evan. If everyone loves their local wildlife they’ll want to protect it, and that’s all we can hope for.’

By the time she got back to the centre, the queue had diminished. As she took her place, relieving Penelope, the older woman patted her hand and Abby felt a surge of pleasure that this stern, proud woman was happy with what she was doing.

She went back to welcoming customers, directing them to different areas of the reserve, talking about the highlights – the kingfisher, the pair of marsh harriers soaring close to the heron hide – as if they had been put on specially. It was only when it got to five o’clock, and they began closing down computers and shutters, that she realized Evan and his family hadn’t come back with a list for her to look at. She was surprised by how disappointed she felt, how much she’d looked forward to firing his enthusiasm even more.

She said goodbye to Stephan and Rosa, stayed behind for a few minutes to tidy up the reception desk, then called goodnight to Penelope and stepped outside.

The sun was still warm, but it had begun to sink below the trees. Abby could hear at least two blackbirds, and a tree creeper somewhere in the distance, and the reserve felt peaceful now that most of the visitors had gone. Taking her usual shortcut, she registered that one of the downstairs windows of Peacock Cottage was golden with a soft, welcoming light, and not only was the Range Rover parked outside, but there was another car, a silver Mercedes, pulled up onto the side of the road, blocking it in. Abby found herself slowing, wondering who was inside. As she’d almost passed the cottage, she heard the echo of an opening latch in the quiet and, before she’d realized what she was doing, had slipped behind one of the older, sturdier trees and was peering out at the doorway.

A man stepped onto the path, and then turned and called back into the house. ‘OK then, don’t work too hard. Actually, I shouldn’t be saying that, should I? Work your socks off. It’s not like you’ll have any distractions here.’

There was a response from inside that Abby couldn’t hear, to which the man threw his head back and laughed, an open, unselfconscious gesture. He looked to be in his late forties, slender, with close-cropped dark hair, his navy trousers and grey jumper somehow too smart for a Saturday evening. Abby watched as he unlocked the Mercedes, climbed in and started the engine, then spent several moments turning the car round in the narrow space. Abby moved further behind the tree as he passed with the windows down, the sonorous sounds of the radio slipping out into the still evening air.

She stayed where she was, waiting for something else to happen. Were there two new occupants of Peacock Cottage? But the man’s words had made it sound as if he wasn’t staying: It’s not like you’ll have any distractions here. Was this a friend, lover, brother? Had a woman or a man moved into the idyllic cottage? Briefly she entertained the idea that this was Flick Hunter’s older boyfriend, and then pushed the thought aside. The presenter would surely be staying in an upmarket hotel, or somewhere less remote, at least.

After her WhatsApp to Rosa, Stephan and the reserve wardens the evening before, there had been a flurry of interest about her discovery, but she hadn’t had a chance to follow up with them today.

I saw someone leaving Peacock Cottage tonight! She sent to the group as she walked. NOT the owner of the Range Rover – whoever it is has visitors already! The plot thickens!

As she picked up her pace, she wondered what the new resident of Peacock Cottage was working on, and why their friend was so keen for them to get on with it.

When Abby returned from lunch on Monday afternoon, Gavin was leaning on the reception desk, intent on a piece of paper that Penelope and Rosa were also poring over.

She had sat outside on one of the picnic benches, staring at the memorial wall Penelope had installed as a feature of the new visitor centre. It was metal, with space for bronze, bird-shaped memorial plaques that people could purchase. In the middle was a plaque to Al, which had been the first. If questioned, Abby was sure she would be able to list all the names and dates that were up there now, she had spent so much time eating her lunch alongside it.

Today, the breeze was strong, the freshness autumnal, the sun and wind conspiring to create glistening ripples on the surface of the water, making her squint as she had walked back inside. The reserve was busy, despite Wild Wonders premiering that evening, and she was starting to wonder if Penelope had been over-cautious.

Now, though, Gavin looked up at her, raised his dark eyebrows and said, ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Abby asked.

‘This.’ Rosa handed her the piece of paper they had been looking at.

The first thing Abby noticed was that it wasn’t actually a piece of paper, but a large Post-it Note with an illustration of a honeybee in the top corner. Rosa sold them in packs in the shop, the drawings alternating between bee, ladybird, toadstool and dormouse.

Abby peered closely at the handwriting filling the note. It was narrow, slanted to the right as if it was teetering, on the verge of toppling, but also neat, elegant, beautiful. The words, however, were not:

Dear Meadowsweet Nature Reserve,

Is it customary for people to tramp through the garden of Peacock Cottage on their way to, or from, your front door? The incessant cars I can just about put up with, but surely the boundaries of the cottage itself are sacrosanct? How am I supposed to concentrate when there is constant chatter outside my windows? Not to mention the blatant invasion of privacy. If you would address this issue then I would be most grateful.

Yours, JW

As Abby read it, her hands clenched into fists. ‘What the fuck?’ she whispered. ‘This is the new tenant of Peacock Cottage? Moaning because people are daring to walk near the house?’ She thought of the man she’d seen laughing as he climbed into his car, and his assertion that whoever was inside would have no distractions. Clearly, they didn’t agree with their friend.

‘The letter does seem to suggest that they’re walking through the garden,’ Rosa said.

‘So why doesn’t he or she tell them not to? And how do they expect us to stop them? And what’s with the flipping sacrosanct business? Penelope …’ she said, ‘… isn’t this sort of your business? It’s your lodger.’

Penelope’s sigh was almost imperceptible. She was wearing a thin black jumper and a necklace of large red beads that glinted in the sunshine. Abby was struck by how beautiful she still was, how imposing.

‘Abigail,’ Penelope said, ‘he is complaining about the reserve, the impact it has on the cottage – not anything to do with the cottage itself. I’ve tasked you with increasing footfall, encouraging visitors, and this man is against that. I see it as your responsibility to remove this disturbance before it becomes more serious. Placate him, tell him that the cottage boundaries are sacrosanct. Do what you need to do to make this go away.’

Abby stared. ‘Seriously?’

‘I’d pop on the charming face instead of that one, though,’ Gavin said. ‘You’ll scare him off. Mind you, under the circs, that might not be a bad thing.’

‘Do you know who he is?’ Rosa asked Penelope.

‘Of course I do,’ Penelope said. ‘I believe he is a very suitable candidate for the cottage, once this wrinkle has been ironed out. Something, Abby, I know you will do with the utmost professionalism.’

Abby gripped the desk. ‘Right. Sure. No problem. I’ve just got to—’

‘Now, Abby,’ Penelope said. ‘I’m sure you’d agree that it’s best we nip this in the bud immediately.’

‘Of course,’ Abby replied. Catching Rosa’s eye, she turned and walked outside, a blue tit abandoning a feeder as she stomped past.

This was not her job. Mollifying Penelope’s personal tenants was not part of the role of activity coordinator, even if the cottage was on reserve land. What was the activity – damage limitation? She took her usual shortcut, gritting her teeth as she saw the squat, overpriced Range Rover in the driveway. It looked smug. Whoever JW was, she was sure he was smug, too.

She walked up the path and knocked on the front door. A late, lazy bee drifted off the purple heather in the hanging basket and droned towards the garden that was the object of so much consternation. She listened, hearing no sounds inside, and so followed the path of the bee, round the side of the cottage and to the back garden.

It wasn’t really fenced off from the surrounding land, she had to concede that. There were no wooden posts, no wire mesh, no walls, but then she supposed that if it had once been the groundsman’s cottage on the Meadowsweet estate, it wouldn’t necessarily have needed them. Still, there was a small patio and a square of well-manicured grass, surrounded by beds that looked like they would be full of flowers in the spring. Beyond that, the grass became unkempt, rough, full of the bindweed Gavin had mentioned, before dissipating as the ash, beech and birch trees took over.

Abby knew people hiked through the woodland, the more experienced walkers not wanting to stick solely to the reserve’s trails, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would walk purposefully on the lawn behind the cottage or come up to the patio. JW was clearly just agitated that he could hear people outside the house. Where had he come from, a hermitage?

Walking round to the front door again, Abby pulled her trusty notebook out of her pocket – she had replaced the one she’d given Evan on Saturday – and leaned it against the white wall to write.

Dear JW,

I am sorry to hear of your dissatisfaction with the nature reserve, and its impact on your wellbeing. If you’d like to discuss it further, you can find me at the visitor centre, or call me and I will happily return to see you. We would like you and our visitors to live in harmony while you are staying at Peacock Cottage. Anything within my power I can do to make that happen, I will.

Kind regards,

Abby Field.

She had almost signed it off with her own initials, and then remembered that Gavin liked to remind her that AF could stand for As Fuck. She didn’t want Mr High-and-Mighty JW to get the impression she was angry with him – Kind regards, angry AF – although as she stood there and read her letter back, noting at least three cars passing in the short space of time she took, she wondered if it was a little on the passive-aggressive side.

Sighing, she ripped the page out of the notebook, folded it and shoved it through the letterbox, then made her way back down the path, peering into the passenger window of the Range Rover as she went. It was all cream leather seats and a dizzyingly busy, glossy dashboard.

She had reached the end of the path and was waiting for a Volvo to pass before she could cross the road, when she heard the door of Peacock Cottage open behind her, and a voice call her name.

‘Abby? Abby Field?’

She closed her eyes, summoning up some inner patience, ready to be as charming to the mysterious, already irritating JW as she could manage.

Then she turned, took a step towards him and found that, while at least her anger disappeared in an instant, she couldn’t actually speak at all.

Chapter Four

The mistle thrush is a large brown bird with a spotty tummy like a bread-and-butter pudding. It got its name because it likes to eat mistletoe berries from the plant people kiss beneath at Christmas. Its song is a bit like a high-pitched recorder – it’s pretty, but can be quite repetitive.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

‘You are Abby Field, aren’t you?’ the man asked. ‘You left me this?’ He waved the piece of paper she had pushed through his letterbox, and she felt her neck heat with embarrassment.

‘Yes, I – we got your note, at the reserve.’ It was a coherent sentence, which she was thankful for. She wasn’t sure who she’d imagined JW would be – someone more obviously curmudgeonly, perhaps a contemporary of Penelope or a similar age to the man she’d seen leaving the cottage a couple of days before. But he wasn’t, and neither was he Red Riding Hood’s grandma, or the witch who ate children.

He was, quite simply, gorgeous.

About her age, she thought, tall and slim built, but with wide shoulders and a suggestion from the definition of his arms under a navy, cotton jumper, that he kept himself fit. His nose was straight, his jaw firm, defined, and beneath the thick wavy mane of chocolate-coloured hair and matching brows, he had blue eyes. They were looking at her sternly, her notepaper scissored between the ends of two fingers, held with disdain, on the verge of being discarded.

‘And this is your response?’ he asked. His voice was deep; every word enunciated perfectly, no hint of a Suffolk accent. He could easily, she decided, be Penelope’s son. He had that same air of entitlement about him, the same chiselled features, a frown that was probably etched in permanently.

She took two steps forward. ‘You didn’t answer when I knocked, and I didn’t want to go away without responding. We don’t want you to be unhappy here, far from it, Mr—’ she stopped, realizing she had no idea what his name was.

‘I’m Jack,’ he supplied. He held out his hand, and she took it.

His skin was warm and dry, the shake firm. Closer to him, she could see the faintest hint of stubble, and a dink on the left side of his jaw – a friendly dimple that he probably despised. He smelt expensive. Of citrus and bergamot, like a posh cup of the Earl Grey you only got with champagne afternoon tea in fancy hotels.

‘So, you’re going to do something about it, are you?’ His voice had softened, questioning rather than accusatory when Abby continued to be tongue-tied, and she relaxed a fraction. ‘Only I don’t know if living in harmony is achievable, as nice an idea as it is.’

His expression was neutral, but was his eyebrow raised a millimetre? Was he making fun of her? She took a deep breath. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I am terribly sorry you feel so aggrieved by visitors to the nature reserve passing your cottage, both in their vehicles and on foot, and if there is anything you think I can practicably do to help reduce the stress it is causing you, without closing the reserve down, then please let me know what that is. I’ve had a look at the garden, and I think it’s very unlikely that walkers are actually crossing your lawn, and the woodland around it is accessible to all. The reserve has been open for decades, and you – well, you’ve been here a couple of days.’

Jack looked down at her, and Abby felt scrutinized in a way she hadn’t been before. She fidgeted, pulling her short ponytail tighter, widening her feet to give the impression of being steadfast and unwavering.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘How am I supposed to get any writing done when there’s a constant thrum of chatter outside the windows, walking boots pounding the gravel, cars groaning past at four miles an hour, every three minutes? I had thought this property was secluded.’

‘It’s not exactly Piccadilly Circus, is it?’ Abby shot back. ‘If you wanted to be completely undisturbed, why didn’t you rent out an island in the Hebrides?’

Jack folded his arms. ‘None were available at the time of asking.’

‘Right, well then. Not much more I can say, is there?’

‘So that’s it, you’re not going to do anything about it?’

Abby inhaled, waiting for her lungs to fill. ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what I can do. I can’t stop people walking and driving past, the reserve’s in trouble as it is, and my job is to encourage more visitors, not send them away. I can’t afford to soundproof your cottage, and while Penelope probably could, I’m not sure it would be a priority, and other than that I’m at a loss. Can’t you put on some really loud classical music or something, to drown them out?’

‘I can’t write to music. It needs to be quiet.’

‘Where did you write before this, then?’ Abby couldn’t help it; she was intrigued.

‘I have a flat in London, but—’

‘London?’ Abby laughed. ‘And you’re complaining about a sleepy Suffolk nature reserve?’

‘I went to libraries, clubs – there were always places to go in London where I could think straight.’

‘So, go back there then,’ Abby said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She bit her lip.

Jack rewarded her with a humourless smile. ‘Point taken. If you do think of anything, I’d be keen to hear your ideas. I’m tearing my hair out here.’ He stepped back, one hand on the open door, and Abby knew it was her cue to leave.

‘Sure,’ she said, because she was feeling bad about her last comment. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.’

Jack nodded once, and then gently closed the door. Abby turned and walked back to the reserve, the blackbirds’ song drowned out by her clamouring thoughts.

‘So, come on then, what is this fucker like?’ Gavin flicked ash off his cigarette, shoulders hunched against the chill. Rosa wrapped her cream wool duffel coat more tightly around her.

The temperature had dipped that afternoon, the clouds barrelling over like they were late for an important engagement, and by closing time the reserve was chilly and grey. The three of them were standing at the far end of the car park, where the designated smoking area was. Rosa and Abby were ready to go home, while Gavin had said he needed to stay and finish clearing an area of scrubland but couldn’t wait any longer to hear about Abby’s unsuccessful visit.

‘He’s … he’s a bit posh,’ she settled on. No way was she going to tell Gavin she found their new neighbour physically attractive, even if his personality left a lot to be desired.

‘And? Come on Abby, spit it out.’

‘He’s tall, untidy dark hair, blue eyes, cross face. He genuinely wanted me to send all the visitors away and seemed very disgruntled when I couldn’t. Then I told him to go away.’

Rosa gasped. ‘You did what? I thought you said to Penelope you’d placated him?’

‘He wasn’t shouting at me by the end, which is a good sign, and that comment was a mistake. He said there were loads of places he could write in peace in London, so I told him to go back there. I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated.’

‘Hang on a moment,’ Rosa grabbed her arm. ‘He’s a writer? What’s his name?’

Abby grinned. Rosa was the biggest bookworm she knew, and probably, along with Octavia, was the reason the community library managed to stay open. ‘He won’t be well known.’

‘How do you know that? How many authors would you recognize if you bumped into them in the street?’

‘J.K. Rowling,’ Abby said, raising a finger, and then hesitated.

‘Exactly!’ Rosa clapped her hands. ‘So, we know he’s called Jack, and he’s tall with dark hair. Age?’

‘My age, probably, maybe a couple of years older.’ Abby pictured him again, surprised how easily she could conjure up Jack’s face in her mind, and then felt a prickle of something, as if a shadow was passing through her thoughts. ‘Maybe I did …? No.’

‘Did what?’ Rosa asked, excitement threading through her words.

‘Perhaps – I mean, maybe I’d seen him somewhere before. But I think that’s just because you’re suggesting he might be famous. It wasn’t like – wham – there’s Al Pacino or anything. He was … he acted like he was owed everything, though. Like it was his right to have all the peace and quiet in the world, because he’d moved into the cottage.’

‘Snooty sod,’ Gavin said. ‘Not inclined to sort out the bindweed now.’

‘I will!’ Rosa said. ‘Not sort out the bindweed, but I’m going to have to go and see if he is a well-known writer. Just imagine if he was?’

‘What difference would it make?’ Abby asked. ‘We can’t exactly advertise him as a feature of the reserve, in the same way Flick Hunter’s going to draw the crowds to Reston Marsh. He’s already made it clear he wants no distractions.’

‘It’ll be exciting for us, though,’ Rosa said. ‘A real live celebrity in the vicinity.’

‘A real live, pain in the ass celebrity,’ Gavin added.

‘We don’t even know that he is,’ Abby said. ‘He could write medical textbooks, history magazines, dull business reports – anything. Just because he said he was a writer, doesn’t mean he’s Stephen King’s hot nephew.’

‘Oh, so he’s hot, is he?’ Gavin asked.

Abby cursed inwardly.

‘Tomorrow,’ Rosa said, clasping her hands together. ‘I’ll find an excuse to go there tomorrow. See how he’s getting on, that kind of thing.’

‘Poor guy’s not going to know what’s hit him, with all this interest and fluttering about.’ Gavin waggled his fingers and shook his head.

‘Two minutes ago you were calling him a snooty sod,’ Abby protested.

‘Yeah, well … maybe I’ve changed my mind. Us guys have to stick together.’

The following day began with a short, and somewhat depressing, debrief. Wild Wonders had started the previous evening, and Abby – along with all the other staff at Meadowsweet – had tuned in to see what they were up against. The resounding conclusion was that it was professional, interesting, and made nature accessible to people in a way Abby managed to on a much smaller scale.

The female presenter, Flick Hunter, was the perfect anchor. Undeniably beautiful, she treated the camera as if it was a close friend, speaking to her unseen viewers with warmth and passion about the wildlife being uncovered, day-by-day, at nearby Reston Marsh. Grudgingly, they all admitted that, while it might not be ideal in some respects, promoting nature could never be a bad thing.

Later that morning, Jonny was hovering by the binoculars. He looked friendly and cosy in a cornflower-blue jumper, his fair hair neater than usual. The reception desk was momentarily quiet, and so Abby left Maureen, one of the volunteers who was working alongside her, to cover it and went over to say hello.

‘How’s it going, Jonny? Any closer to making a decision? You could always get Rosa to go over the specifications of a few pairs with you.’

‘Oh, err, no thanks. I’m fine. I’ll get there in the end. Good of you to offer, though. Where is Rosa, by the way?’

‘Funny story,’ Abby said. ‘She’s gone to spy on the guy who’s moved into Peacock Cottage, you know that white house on the approach road to the car park? Thinks he might be some famous author or something.’

Jonny frowned, and Abby wondered why until a hand landed on her shoulder. Looking down, she saw it had talon-like red nails.

‘Octavia,’ she said, turning. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just dropping these off for Rosa. Where is she, my love?’

Octavia held up a wicker basket full of the crocheted birds that she made for the reserve’s gift shop. Abby loved them. She already had four on her bedroom windowsill – a puffin, wren, blue tit and greenfinch – and from a quick glance, could see that she would be buying half of Rosa’s new stock before she’d even put it on display.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ Abby said, picking up a robin that was fat, round and utterly desirable.

Octavia gave her a kind smile, slowly took the robin back and popped it in her handbag. ‘I’ll take this one home with me, and you can come and pick him up later. I’ll bring Rosa a new one next week.’

‘Octavia, you don’t have to give me the robin!’

‘What robin?’ She winked, her eyelid a shimmering green, which went well with her dyed, carroty curls. Slightly shorter than Abby, with a large bosom always clad in bright clothing, Octavia was a good-natured whirlwind in Meadowgreen. Her vantage point in the chapel library and convenience store was the ideal spot from which to gather and circulate her gossip. Abby loved her, though didn’t always feel in the mood for her outgoing, inquisitive nature. She was equally blessed and cursed living next door to her.

‘That’s so kind of you,’ Abby said. ‘And Rosa will be back in a moment, she’s just nipped over to Peacock Cottage.’

‘Oh yes,’ Octavia said. ‘This new resident. What do you know about him? Is he a personal friend of Penelope’s?’

Abby glanced at the office door before replying. ‘He’s already complained about reserve visitors trampling through his garden. He seems—’

She didn’t get to finish her sentence because Rosa burst through the door, emitted a high-pitched squeak, and gestured to Abby to follow her into the centre’s airy café.

‘Will you be OK here for a bit?’ Abby asked Maureen.

‘Of course, chuck,’ Maureen replied, her glasses chain shaking. ‘Take as long as you need.’

Abby arrived at Rosa’s table in the café to find that Jonny and Octavia were already there. She felt a spark of sympathy for Jack, who was clearly the object of this impromptu huddle, and thought how ironic that the complaint about his invasion of privacy had, in only a day, sent everyone digging deeper.

‘Come on then,’ Stephan said, bringing over a tray of hot drinks and doling them out before sitting down. ‘Tell us all.’

‘OK.’ Rosa took a deep breath, and then jiggled excitedly, her curls bouncing. ‘Oh my God, guys, the man living in Peacock Cottage is Jack Westcoat!’

Abby frowned, trying to dredge the name from her memory, and found she couldn’t. Stephan and Jonny looked as perplexed as she felt.

But Octavia clapped her hands over her mouth, and Abby wondered if she was about to burst into tears. Then, she exploded.

‘Jack Westcoat?’ she screeched. ‘As in, acclaimed thriller writer, puncher of fellow author at recent awards ceremony, once-glowing reputation now in tatters, all-round literary bad boy Jack Westcoat?’

‘That,’ Rosa said, ‘is exactly right. And wow, is he smouldering in real life too.’

Abby’s frown deepened. She had perhaps seen something in one of the café copies of the Daily Mail about some scandal involving two famous authors, but there was nothing concrete to hold onto.

‘This is incredible,’ Octavia was saying, her eyes flitting between them as the cogs worked. ‘Think what he could do to raise the profile of the library.’

‘I’m not sure he wants the publicity,’ Abby said slowly. ‘He seemed quite keen on maintaining his privacy when I met him.’

‘And not after what happened,’ Rosa said. ‘I mean, the story is crazy, like something from a soap opera. But he was polite to me, if not exactly delighted, when I turned up on his doorstep to see how he was getting on. Like you, Abby, I’m not sure what he expects us to do. He’s probably just venting his frustration.’

‘He must have a lot of it if he goes around punching people,’ Stephan said, sipping his coffee.

‘That was just the once,’ Octavia said. ‘Before that, he was one of the country’s up-and-coming author superstars. Granted, he’d put a murky past behind him – university high jinks that got out of hand, apparently, but he’d become a true golden boy by all accounts, until this latest incident. I’ll have to find out what happened now, why the punch got thrown. Goodness me, it’s really him?’

‘I recognized him from the photographs I’d seen in the paper when it happened.’ Rosa hugged her mug to her chest. ‘He must be hiding out here, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Writing his new book, staying out of the limelight.’

‘I wonder if Penelope knows who she has staying in her house,’ Stephan said. ‘It’s not exactly got the same kudos as Wild Wonders, has it?’

‘But he’s not going to be involved in the reserve, is he?’ Abby pressed. ‘There’s no reason anyone else should know that he’s here.’

‘Do I sense some protectiveness there, my love?’ Octavia asked.

Abby shrugged. After his initial priggish note and their less than friendly encounter, she suddenly felt sorry for their new neighbour. Everyone had areas of their past they’d rather keep quiet about, and it must be worse if everything you did played out under a media spotlight. Stephan clearly thought there was no excuse for him hitting someone, and maybe it was unforgivable and Jack was a world-class dick, but nothing, Abby knew, was ever as simple as it seemed.

‘I just don’t know if we should go spreading it about,’ she said. ‘Especially as he’s so adamant he doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Ah, Abby, you always were the sensible one.’ Octavia patted her hand. ‘Still, no harm in asking, a few months down the line once he’s integrated himself a bit more in village life, if he’d fancy giving a talk at the library. I expect I could rustle up my biggest-ever crowd.’