‘Um, no, it’s… I mean…’
‘No!’ She held up one hand. ‘I’m counting on us spending a lot of time together over the next few weeks. Sharing a home. I’ll be trusting you with precious memories and the objects that hold them. Family secrets. Private information. If this is going to work, we need to be honest with each other. I don’t expect you to tell me anything more than the job requires. But I do ask that what you tell me is the truth. If that’s too much, then let’s enjoy a lovely meal and you can be on your way first thing in the morning.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But I liked you the moment I saw you. And Iloveyour dog. I’m very much hoping you’ll stay.’
I had to admit that I liked Hattie, too. Honesty was a crucial element to my work, and I was intrigued by her, and her project. Her house was idyllic. And while some might interpret being asked to cook the dinner you’d been invited to as rude, I was very short on people who treated me as one of the family. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the nagging whisper that never letting anyone really get to know me outside Ezra’s family, always moving on before I risked growing attached to a place – or its people – maybe wasn’t so perfect for me after all.
I took another sip of gin, then turned to face her, forcing my shoulders straight and my chin up.
‘I don’t mind cooking. I usually live in a motorhome so this kitchen is my idea of heaven. But while I can keep what I saw earlier to myself, I am wondering exactly what it was, and whether I’m likely to stumble across anything else like it, if I do stay here.’
Hattie’s eyes glinted. ‘What do you think it was?’
‘I’m guessing –hoping –some sort of art class? Although that wouldn’t explain why it’s so private and confidential.’
‘Apart from the fact that most of those women were wearing nothing more than their underwear?’
‘They were wearing underwear?’ The smallest of smiles tugged at my mouth. ‘Well, that already makes me feel better.’
‘Really?’ Hattie peered down her pert nose at me. ‘They’re grown women. It’s only bums and boobs. All of us have them. We’ve spent weeks creating a safe space to be open and vulnerable. To go beyond the surface. I was disappointed how many of them kept their knickers on.’
‘So, not art, then?’
She pulled her chin back in surprise. ‘You didn’t think that was art?’
‘Honestly?’
‘I already said, I’m insisting upon it.’
‘I’ve had a long day. A difficult few weeks. At this point, I barely know my own name.’
Hattie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh my. This is why I have Lizzie. I’m a terrible host at the best of times, and it’s only going to get worse. Please, sit down. I’ll serve up dinner, and while you eat, I’ll tell you all about it and me. And why I asked you to help me. Then if you have any more questions, you can fire away.’
She shooed me towards the enormous table, grabbing plates from a rose-pink dresser and serving dishes from an orange shelf. Once we’d helped ourselves to tortilla wraps and the chicken mix, added sour cream, guacamole and a generous sprinkling of cheese, I felt brave enough to ask another question.
‘Why did you tell the women that a publisher had sent me?’
Hattie put her wrap down. ‘I will come to that. But it would be easier if I started at the beginning.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you ready, or do you want to finish eating first?’
‘I’ll eat, you tell me everything,’ I said, my echo of her earlier words producing a smile.
‘Right. I’m Harriet Langford.’
I nodded. That was about the one piece of information I already knew.
‘Otherwise known as Hattie Hood.’
I sat back. ‘The artist?’
She nodded, unable to hide her pleasure at me knowing the name.
‘I love your designs.’
Hattie Hood was well known for her forest prints used in high-quality homeware and soft furnishings – including the duvet and pillow cases in my motorhome that were covered in tiny monochrome deer. Other designs included acorns, berries and woodpeckers.
‘Thank you. I love them, too. As well as creating the design, and having input into the merchandise, I also work as an art therapist. This includes individual clients, and group sessions. I work with recovering addicts, people struggling with mental illness, grief or other traumas. The group you met today have called themselves the Changelings. I won’t go into any more details but let’s just say they’re all around fifty and have a tendency to sweat a lot. They also feel stuck, stressed out and at times so angry, they could decapitate their loved ones for breathing too loud. We’re arting out the feeling like a drab old has-been. Replacing it with some fierce and fabulous.’
