We stood there, for endless seconds, until the stranger suddenly snapped back to reality, dropping both my hands and taking a swift few steps back until he bumped against the rhododendron.
‘I’m so sorry… the dog… you’re covered…’ He waved one hand at my legs.
I glanced down before looking up again, but didn’t need to confirm that I was, indeed, covered from the waist down in freezing cold, filthy water. It had already seeped through my jeans and, if I wasn’t mistaken, soaked right on through my knickers. I took in his dark, slightly reddish hair, short at the sides but long enough on top to form thick waves. He looked a few years older than me, perhaps late thirties, and his face bore rugged features that gave the impression he’d spent his whole life up and down this river. He wasn’t blandly handsome, at least in the classical sense, but the curve of his mouth and the creases framing his eyes were kind. It was a gentle face. I could have stood there staring at it for hours.
‘You haven’t come off much better.’ I nodded to his own legs, almost black up to the knees, and it was his turn to glance at the splotches all over his dark-green jacket and his dirt-streaked hands.
‘Besides, I think we started it. Muffin must have caught Flapjack’s scent and gone to find him.’ I turned to where both dogs now sat watching us, their heads cocked in curiosity. ‘This is Flapjack from Riverbend? Hattie’s dog?’
A slightly daft question, considering the likelihood of two giant, curly-haired dogs having the same name.
He nodded. ‘And you must be Sophie?’
For a fraction of a moment, I half wondered if he knew my name by some sort of divine destiny, before rationality reasserted itself and I realised that if he was with Flapjack, then Hattie must have told him about me.
‘Yes.’ I tried to smile, but the discomfort of an ice-cold backside meant it turned into more of a grimace.
‘You’re the historian, come to help Hattie write a book?’ he asked, sounding genuinely interested. I was managing to maintain a smidgin of composure by avoiding his eyes, but his voice was almost as bad – or should I say, as good. Deep and mellow, it was a story-teller’s voice. A lullaby voice that lapped over me like a warm bath.
I didn’t want to lie to that voice, those eyes. I might never see this man again, but I didn’t want a single word I said to him to be marred by deception.
‘We’re going to look at Riverbend’s history together, yes.’
Before he could reply, my phone rang. Wiping a hand on my jumper, I retrieved it from the tiny shoulder bag I used on dog walks. It was Ezra. I was tempted to let it ring, but the man smiled, nodded goodbye and started walking away, so I figured I might as well answer, rather than leave my friend worrying.
‘You’re still alive, then?’ he asked, with a hint of grumpiness because I hadn’t messaged him yet, and it was nearly midday.
‘Just about.’
‘What? What does that mean?’
‘Hang on.’ I sent a quick selfie, focussing on my waist down.
‘We met Hattie’s dog Flapjack on our walk along the river. He’s like an overenthusiastic grizzly bear, and I happened to be in the middle of a puddle when he decided to say hello.’
‘I hope she was suitably apologetic!’ Ezra, who was understandably protective towards me, didn’t see the funny side. ‘And will replace the clothes if you can’t get them clean.’
‘Oh no, Hattie wasn’t with him. It was… a man.’
‘What man?’
‘Um…’
My stomach concertinaed as I realised I didn’t know who he was. That was better, though. I’d carefully curated my whole life around not developing strong feelings for anyone beyond Ezra and his family, who it was too late not to love. Seeing that man again, getting to know him, could only complicate things in the worst possible way. I was happy to go on the odd date or three if I met someone I found fun and attractive. But if there was even a hint that things could end up deeper than a casual fling, I stayed well away. It was too risky. My battered heart simply couldn’t take it.
‘Anyway, the house is amazing, and in the most incredible setting. It’s so tranquil. Exactly what I need after three weeks in the Dumble warzone.’
‘And the client, Harriet, she’s okay?’
I gestured to Muffin and we started walking back towards the house, my jeans squelching with every step. ‘She’s Hattie Hood!’
‘Hattie who?’
‘The artist who makes all those expensive designs for pottery and things. Ask Naomi – you’ve got a Hattie Hood teapot. She seems really nice, though. Very open and friendly.’
I went on to describe how Hattie wanted to get her affairs and possessions in order, in case anything happened to her, that she was conscious of her mother’s early death and didn’t have any family apart from an elderly aunt and her son, so preferred to use someone impartial.
Reassured, Ezra made me promise for the millionth time to keep in touch.
