‘I don’t think I can do any more today, but tomorrow I’ll tackle the fridge and the oven. That is, if it’s okay for me to stay on for another couple of days.’ I picked up the knife and focused on chopping the rest of the onion. ‘I kind of feel like this is something I can do for Charlie. Does that make sense?’
‘If you feel like sorting the rest of the house then you can stay as long as you like.’
I finished chopping and put the knife down. Daniel was leaning against one of the newly cleaned and tidied worktops. He wore a white shirt with the top button undone, and suit trousers. They both needed a good iron. I again took in the tired creases around his eyes and mouth, the hair long overdue a decent cut, and the weary sag to his shoulders. It was abundantly clear that Daniel didn’t have any kind of help around the house. He was a single dad with some sort of job that required smart shirts, and in between nappy-changing and bath-time and meetings, he had the burden of preventing his family’s 250-year-old farm from falling apart.
This house had centuries of peace and goodwill soaked into the rafters and oozing from every crack and crevice, but its owner was clearly struggling to find any peace of his own.
And I knew that I could help. That I could really do something positive and worthwhile, for the first time in longer than I wanted to admit. And not only could I prove useful here, not only did Daniel and Damson Farm need me, but I understood, in a moment of clarity that I really could have done with about ten years ago, that I needed this just as much. Skulking back to hide at the Tufted Duck was not the answer. I couldn’t bear having to explain to my family why I’d chucked in my glittering career in the big city. And what if whoever was out to ruin my life, and had done a fairly good job of it so far, was able to trace me back to the B & B? Looking over my own shoulder twenty-four hours a day was bad enough. Putting my parents and grandma in danger wasn’t even an option.
I felt a bittersweet stab between my ribs as I thought about what Charlie would say at the prospect of me staying at the farmhouse, helping out her brother and spending more time snuggling with her daughter. And that was all the answer I needed.
‘Okay. I think I can adjust my schedule to include returning this house to its former glory.’
‘Oh, you have a spare year or two?’ Daniel raised his eyebrows at me. I attempted a wry, nonchalant smile that broke into a full-on laugh.
‘Yes. As it happens. I do.’
At least I would have, once I’d sorted out a few things…
* * *
Riding on the momentum of a stunningly successful morning, I called Lucy. She’d called me twice, and sent numerous increasingly anxious texts asking what was going on. I left another message apologising for the lack of contact, explaining that I’d been dealing with a personal situation, and asking her to call me back as soon as possible. I then called my editor.
‘Nora! What can I do for you, darling?’
‘Stop calling me darling, given that I’m your most highly bankable writer, not some strumpet on the side.’ See? Nora was fierce.
Miles wasn’t fazed. He was used to her. ‘Writer andfriend, I hope. But fair enough, I’ll re-edit. Wouldn’t want to end up portrayed as the sleazy boss in your autobiography one day. How can I be of service to you, Ms Sharp?’
‘Miles, you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. The support and guidance, not to mention the incredible opportunity in the first place.’
‘Your success is my success, Nora. You know that. You fly, and I’m riding on your tail feathers. The paper wouldn’t be the same without you.’
‘Yes. Well. It’s going to be without me. I’m calling to hand in my resignation.’
‘Youarekidding me.’
Miles then spent the next ten minutes interrogating me about why, and who had lured me away, and if it was TV then we could probably work something out, and if it was more money then how much would convince me to stay and so on and so on. It was rather flattering, actually. I expected a half-hearted sorry-you’re-leaving and a token gesture of a pay rise. I replied with some random waffle about taking the reviews as far as I could, being famous for being nasty was wearing thin and it was time to try something new…
‘Well. I’d never have guessed all that from this week’s submission. It seemed as though Nora had got her old fire back. Only, one editorial note, and please hear me on this, but while upping the bitch-factor is super, and precisely what we wanted, I don’t want it at the expense of great writing. Anyone can be mean but it takes wit and charm to get away with it. Felt like this one lost that rather.’
‘Um. I didn’t submit anything for this week. I was going to come on to that.’ I had my whole car accident, friend died, personal emergency excuses all ready.
‘Well, somebody certainly submitted something. Let me see… Ah, here it is. Appetito, just off Baker Street. You had the lobster thingummy.’
No. I didn’t. I was lying in a creaky old bed stewing in my own self-pity. I fudged a non-committal reply, promised to let Miles know when I was back in London so he could arrange a proper send-off (‘I’d love to read a review of your leaving bash!’) and agreed that I would submit two more reviews to see the month out, then that would be that. I also promised, several times, that if I ever did write an autobiography I’d be nice about him and not mention the incident with the newsreader’s son on the yacht.
I also had several months’ worth of non-newspaper events and engagements scheduled in my diary. Fortunately, Nora Sharp rarely confirmed her attendance in advance, so there were only one or two that I needed to cancel and apologise to. Not that they would make a fuss if I pulled out. This was the fickle world of celebrity, after all.
I called Lucy again but it went through to voicemail.
Ten seconds later, a message from her pinged through:
Sorry am in a meeting. Is everything OK? All under control here, no need to rush back, but I’ve been SO WORRIED about you!
I replied straightaway:
I’m fine, but you submitted an Appetito review? Without talking to me about it 1st??
