‘Let me know when you find out who that man is.’
‘Excuse me?’
I could hear him laughing down the line. ‘And whether he’s single. I’ve not heard that tone in your voice for a long time.’
‘Oh, go away. You’re not my dad.’
‘I prefer older and much cooler brother.’
‘Fine. I’ll speak to you soon, then, bro.’
‘You do that, little sis. Take care.’
I hurried up to the house as fast as was possible when caked in mud, and opted for the boot-room entrance, rather than the front door. Slipping off my walking boots, I hovered for a second, wondering if I dared remove my trousers as well, but as my hand drifted to the jean button, the door to the main hallway whipped open, revealing a young woman brandishing a stapler.
‘Who are you?’ she barked. ‘And what are you doing in here?’
While I took an instinctive step backwards at the sight of her fierce glare and aggressive stapler snapping, Muffin had no such qualms. The woman couldn’t help but be seduced by the soggy ball of fluff bestowing her the honour of a full-body wag. Once she’d lowered her weapon and given Muffin’s floppy ears a good scratch, I’d recovered my composure.
‘I’m Sophie. I’m staying here at the moment.’
‘Sophie!’ The woman’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Hattie said you’d be here at five-thirty. I thought you were a deranged fan. We get them from time to time, but Hattie refuses to fix the main gates, because at least then we can see them coming. She thinks that otherwise they’ll sneak through the garden. Which did happen once, to be fair. Gideon wants her to get a proper fence all the way around, but apparently that would block the view and stifle her creativity. And at the end of the day, that’s what pays our salaries, so we can’t argue.’
‘Right.’
‘I thought you’d be older, to be honest. I was imagining that woman who does history on the telly. The one with long, grey hair.’
‘I don’t have a television.’
‘She’s a lot… frumpier. You’re…’ she paused, as if seeing me properly for the first time ‘…in a right state. Did you fall in the river?’
‘Flapjack knocked me into a puddle.’
She gave a loud huff, rolling her eyes. ‘That dog! Hattie’s arty-farty, “be wild and free” philosophy is all very well when it comes to people, but dogs need discipline. If you wait, I’ll fetch a robe and we can stick your clothes straight in the wash. There’ll be a towel in here somewhere for this gorgeous girl, who I’m sure is far better behaved than our wildebeest.’
‘Are you Lizzie?’ I dared to ask as she took a faded towel out of a cupboard and started rubbing Muffin’s coat, my dog nuzzling closer in ecstasy.
‘The one and only.’ Lizzie grinned up at me.
‘To be honest, I’d assumed you’d be older, too.’
‘What, like one of those old-school, busybody secretaries that keep everything running behind the scenes, and know far more than their boss does?’ Lizzie was anything but frumpy. Her jet-black hair was cut in a blunt bowl chop, so bad it must be ultra-fashionable. She wore a tiny, leather skirt, a furry, pink jumper revealing a bellybutton piercing in the shape of a spider, and fishnet knee-socks. I’d guess her age to be about twenty-five.
‘I just got the impression you’d been around forever.’
‘I’ve been around since I was fourteen, so nearly half my life.’ Her vigorous rubbing eased to a gentle pat. ‘I got sent here for art therapy, with the full intention of raising hell so Hattie would be forced to give up on me, just like everyone else had. I spent weeks trying to fight her, but she refused to engage, simply turned every attack into an opportunity to “art it out” as she calls it. By the end of the course I was back in school, off drugs and almost managing to keep out of trouble. She offered me a job, helping her with social media and stuff like that.’ She shrugged. ‘It turns out I was awesome at organising, so the rest is history. And yes, I am like one of those secretaries. I know Hattie Hood better than she does.’ Lizzie straightened up, her eyes sharpening with a look that appeared far more perceptive than her chattering implied. ‘Harriet Langford is a whole other matter. Which is why you’re here, I suppose.’
‘She said you were too busy to help with the house project.’
‘That’s true. She could have told me about it before this morning, though. Anyway.’ She shook her head, her smile returning as quickly as it had vanished. ‘You’re shivering. I’ll get you that robe.’
4
Once I was clean and dry, I joined Lizzie for giant Hattie Hood mugs of butterbean soup and crusty bread. She talked about her husband, Joss, who she lived with in Middlebeck, and their rescue hens, Cher, Celine and Whitney. I didn’t mind her stream of chatter. It avoided too many questions about me. Some of them I might be willing to answer. Most of them I definitely wouldn’t. I might be living here for the next few weeks, but this was business, not a holiday or friends hanging out, and, as always, I would keep things professional.
After lunch, I spent half the afternoon researching both Harriet Langford and Hattie Hood on the Internet, and reading the forms she emailed over. The other half was an unplanned nap thanks to conducting the research on my ridiculously comfy bed.
At five twenty-five, I hurried downstairs to meet Hattie in the living room. Passing the open kitchen door, I couldn’t help pausing for a second when I thought I saw the man from this morning in there. I’d be lying if I said he’d not been loitering in my head. A swift second look revealed that I hadn’t imagined it – he was leaning against the worktop, talking to Lizzie. Our eyes met, and it happened again. A zap of electricity that locked our gaze into place while those blue eyes dived into the very depths of my being.
