I looked at his face, pleading with me to not give away the truth that they only had four plates in the house, all of which were already in use, hence the saucepan lid.
‘In my last house, we ended up using paper plates half the time,’ Elsa said. ‘At the risk of sounding like a cavewoman, I’m impressed you’ve got baking equipment!’
Arthur tucked his chin into the collar of hisFortniteT-shirt. ‘Well, you know, profiteroles don’t turn up on your doorstep fully formed.’
‘They do when you order them from Asda,’ Elsa said. ‘Honestly, the only baking I’ve ever done is at school, and I got a D for forgetting the flour. I’m in awe of you guys. Whoever dares call millennials snowflakes needs to meet you four.’
I genuinely had no answer to that. Neither, it seemed, did Arthur. He merely stared at the new rug, blinking in wonder as if he’d just witnessed a miracle.
26
On Sunday, I headed back to the Barn to join the picnic. The late May weather was glorious, and it seemed like almost the whole village had turned up to sprawl on blankets, play boules or squeeze chairs around the tables on the terrace. I had spent an immodest amount of time pondering Elsa’s revelations about how much my housemates had wanted me to move in, but given how questionable the other views she shared were (starting with worrying about being not good enough for Arthur) I tried not to dwell on it.
Knowing Isaac wanted me at Chimney Cottage was nice, if not a total surprise. Why Arthur would share in that hope was a question to file alongside all the other mysteries about how his brain worked. But knowing that Elliot had wanted me to move into his cottage added yet more feelings to those already sprouting inside me. None of them sensible.
However, I was soon distracted by an even more scandalous topic, zipping around the Barn gardens faster than the frisbee.
‘Have you seen it?’ Mum asked, nudging me into a corner of the terrace as soon as I’d placed the bowl of coleslaw I’d brought onto the food table.
‘I’m presuming not, given that I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Veronica’s scalp!’ she said, eyes wide with alarm.
‘Well, yes, I saw it on Friday. Didn’t Dad tell you I was there?’
‘No! Not her actual scalp. Veronica’s scalp!’
She yanked her phone out of her red shorts, found the right screen and then thrust it at me.
‘Ah.’
I couldn’t not smile.
Veronica’s Scalp was an Instagram page. It already had a few hundred followers. The close-up pictures of her knobbly, green head covered in spikes showcased it encircled in a bandana, decorated with tiny daisies, wearing back-to-front sunglasses and other pointless, not-particularly-imaginative accessories.
‘What’s Viv done?’
‘Viv’s Brows.’
I found the page almost instantly. The snaps of her red and blue eyebrows wearing different googly eyes, stick-on antennae and in one photo tiny moustaches had earned more fans than her sister.
‘Everybody’s talking about it,’ Mum whispered.
‘How do they all know?’
‘Because Vivienne and Veronica have been telling everyone!’ She sighed. ‘So much for keeping this quiet. I honestly don’t know if our reputation can stand much more.’
‘Mum, the Barn is thriving. The Outlaws love it. Who cares what people think?’
‘I’ve had non-stop calls all weekend from family members, residential care home staff, local busybodies pretending to be “concerned neighbours”. As if I don’t recognise that journalist Joel Robertson’s number, all the times he’s called sniffing for a scandal for theSherwood Times.If people think we can’t keep those we’re caring for safe…’ She looked at me, eyes shining with tears. ‘Your dad thinks we might have to ban Ada and May. At the very least shut down the Lavender Beauty Parlour.’
‘Well, if we do then I’m sure I can find a replacement.’
‘Oh, I know you can,’ she said, voice watery. ‘But I’m not at all sure Ada and May will be able to do without the Barn. They’d be lost without us.’
‘Right.’ The Barn was a family. We couldn’t kick two eighty-nine-year-olds out without sending a clear signal to every other community group that they couldn’t be trusted.
‘It’s either their reputation, or ours.’
