Rose clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘You obviously need the money,’ Art continued almost gently, as the outskirts of the village loomed into view. ‘You rent rooms out and the place, from all accounts, is falling apart at the seams...’
‘Very well.’ She kept her eyes firmly focused on the road ahead. ‘In which case, I’ll accept your dinner invitation on the proviso that I cook dinner for you.’
‘Deal,’ Art drawled, relaxing back into the passenger seat. Could he have hoped for a better outcome than this? No.
He was looking forward to this evening. The thorny business of going undercover to talk some sense into his opposition wasn’t going to be the annoying uphill trek he had originally foreseen after all...
In fact...hand on heart, Art could honestly say that he was looking forward to this little break in his routine.
CHAPTER THREE
BYTHETIMEthey were back at the house the clatter of people had been replaced by the peace of silence. The gardening club crew had departed, as had whoever else was renting one of the downstairs rooms. Phil popped out and Art watched as he and Rose huddled in a brief discussion.
While they talked in low voices, he took the opportunity to look around him.
It was a big house but crying out for attention. The paint was tired, the carpet on the stairs threadbare and the woodwork, in places, cracked or missing altogether.
He made himself at home peering into the now empty rooms and saw that they were sizeable and cluttered with hastily packed away bits and pieces.
It was impossible to get any real idea of what the house might once have looked like in grander times because every nook and cranny had been put to use. Work desks fitted into spaces where once sofas and chaises longues might have resided, and in the office where she worked books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
‘Finished looking around?’
Art turned to find that she had broken off from talking to Phil, who was heading out of the front door, briefcase in hand and a crumpled linen jacket shoved under his arm.
‘Which of the rooms needs the paint job?’ was his response.
‘It’s actually upstairs,’ Rose said, steering him away from the hall and back towards the kitchen where, he noted, no one had seen fit to tidy the paraphernalia of protest. ‘Now—’ she stood, arms folded, head tilted to one side ‘—tell me what you thought of our little band of insurgents.’
‘Well organised.’ Art strolled towards one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. ‘But I’m curious—how long do they intend to stay there and what is the end objective?’
‘That’s an odd question,’ Rose mused thoughtfully. ‘Does your contribution to the cause depend on an answer to that?’
‘I have a strong streak of practicality.’ Art wasn’t lying when he said that. ‘I’m interested in trying to find out if there’s any real chance of you winning with your protests.’
Rose sighed. ‘Perhaps not entirely,’ she admitted, ‘but I really hope we can make some kind of difference, perhaps get the company to rethink the scale of their project. They’re eating up a lot of open land and there’s no question that the end result will be a massive eyesore on the landscape.’
‘Have you seen the plans?’ Art asked curiously.
‘Of course I have. It’s all about houses for wealthy commuters.’
‘The rail link, I suppose...’
‘You’re the only person who has actually taken time out to think this through,’ Rose admitted. ‘And you’re not even from round here. I think everyone somehow hopes that this is a problem that will just go away if we can all just provide a united front. It’s a relief to talk to someone who can see the pitfalls. Just strange that you should care so much, considering this has never been your home.’
‘I have general concerns about the...er...countryside.’ Art had the grace to flush. Yes, all was fair in love and war, and it wasn’t as though this little deception was actually harming anyone, but the prick of his conscience was an uneasy reminder that playing fast and loose with the truth was a lie by any other name.
‘Does that extend to other concerns?’ Rose asked with interest.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Problems on a larger scale. Climate change. Damage to the rainforests. Fracking and the impact on the green belt.’
Art was used to women who were either career-driven—those with whom he came into contact in the course of his working life—or else women he dated. On the one hand, he conversed with his counterparts with absolute detachment, regardless of whether he picked up any vibes from them, any undercurrent of sexual interest. And then, when it came to the women he dated...well, that was sex, relaxation and pleasure, and in-depth conversations were not the name of the game. Quite honestly, he thought that the majority of them would have been bored rigid were he ever to sit them down and initiate a conversation about world affairs. If there was a world out there of smart, sassy women who had what it took to turn him on, then he’d passed them by.
Until now...
