Btw, I take issue with the phrase ‘easy out’, given I’m stuck editing romance novels, bleurrrgh
Kit: I’m pretty confident Carolyn can take care of herself. And at least you still HAVE a job.
Back to the point: H took his scare tactics too far. A month in, he’s realised you’re not coming back with your tail between your legs because life outside London is too awful to bear. So he’s changed tack– decided to remind you of the luxe life you could be leading with him down in the Big Smoke. You get the carrot now, not the stick.
She surveyed the contents of her gift box again and sighed. It was some carrot.
Alone after Grace’s departure for a catch-up with Barbara, Amy spent the morning looking through a stack of manuscripts she’d been sent by the various literary agents who were aware of Carolyn’s plans for the new imprint. Despite her avowed aversion to romantic fiction, a few of them seemed promising– the prose sharp and the plotting unexpectedly twisty.
All the while, Hugh’s gift stared at her from the corner of the room. Not sure what else to do, she’d stashed it there first thing and resolved to deal with it later– though she wasn’t at all sure what she’d really meant by that.
Amy had been uncomfortable about this stuff being lavished on her before she’d sought Kit’s view on the matter, but now she felt worse– and her disquiet was growing. Keeping the present felt like tacit acceptance of Hugh’s machinations; maybe it even signalled that she would ultimately be taken in by them. That idea made her chest tighten with indignation and stiffened her resolve.
Without thinking too hard about what she was doing, Amy got to her feet and crossed the kitchen to open what Gran called her ‘useful junk’ drawer. She fished around inside it in search of an envelope and something she could write on, eventually finding a box of note cards adorned with cutesy drawings of sausage dogs. They weren’t exactly her style, and nor would the image of a doe-eyed miniature dachshund with a ball in its mouth do much to convey the seriousness with which she hoped her words would be taken … But sod it. This would have to do.
She grabbed a pen from the drawer, too, then leaned on the kitchen worktop and began to write.
Hugh,
It was very kind of you to send me some things to enjoy while I’m away from London, and I appreciate the thought. However, I’m sure you understand why I can’t accept them.
Now that you and I are no longer in a relationship, I think it’s important for us to try and rebuild a professional rapport– and that means keeping things as businesslike as possible. This is such an elaborate gift that I feel like it muddies the waters a little.
I hope you’re well, and that everyone else at HQ is, too. Perhaps I’ll see you if I’m ever in London for meetings.
All the best, and thank you again for the gesture.
Amy
There. That was polite but firm, and she’d explained herself as well as she could. She sealed the card inside its envelope and placed it inside the gift box. With what she considered impressive resolve, she then plonked the present back into its original packaging, covered the address label with a giant orange Post-it note and redirected the whole thing to Hugh’s flat.
Before she could change her mind, Amy pulled on her trainers and jacket and picked up her handbag to head straight to the village post office. There was no time like the present for getting rid ofthispresent. Bertie whined as she made for the door and Amy felt her heart squeeze. She really was weakening when it came to this mutt.
‘Fine,’ she sighed theatrically, snatching his lead from its hook and fastening him into his harness. ‘You can come along for the walk.’ Bertie wagged his tail and pressed his cool, wet little nose to hers as she clipped the lead into place. She couldn’t help smiling and kissing the top of his head.
Just over half an hour later, the deed was done. Amy had messaged Kit an image of the parcel while in the post office queue. She’d captioned it with a string of woebegone, sobbing emojis and the words:Tell me I’m doing the right thing before I rip this box open, run back to Gran’s and commence an evening of Self Care for Millionaires.
She’d held her nerve and paid for return postage on the box despite his lack of reply, but as she and Bertie rounded the corner onto Grace’s street, she felt her phone buzz.
Kit: WHOA. You sent it back? That’s bold– fair play.
Wonder what his next move will be …
This was a question Amy hadn’t considered.
Before she could contemplate whether returning Hugh’s gift might have been stupid– whether, in fact, simplyignoringit would have been a better way to handle his attempt to reach out to her– she stopped in her tracks.
The unmistakable sound of a lawnmower was drifting over the back garden fence. Surely Gran wasn’t out there, pushing it? Had she come back from Barbara’s and started mowing before Amy could prevent her?
Slightly panicked, Amy opened the front door of the cottage and strode through to the kitchen, then dropped her phone in shock as she looked through the window.
Sam Ainsworth–Sam bloody Ainsworth– was slowly and methodically directing Gran’s ancient orange Flymo around the little rectangle of grass beyond the patio. He was wearing sun-bleached, dusty jeans, a thin, ancient-looking T-shirt that clung to his torso and a pair of gardening gloves. The name ‘Oliver Mellors’ flashed through Amy’s mind like a firework, lighting it up before crackling away to nothing.
Stupid,she chided herself.He’s the snooty lord of the manor, not Lady Chatterley’s hot gardener. Yet here he was, gardening. Looking hot. This last fact was one Amy decided to ignore in favour of wondering what the hell he was playing at.
She shook herself and bent down to pick up her phone from the floor. As she straightened again, new pieces of the ‘Gran’s cottage looks perfect’ puzzle fell into place. What was it Barbara had said?Grace is well-loved in this village. Dave and I aren’t the only ones pitching in.
As a person who enjoyed a nice bouquet but could barely keep cacti alive, Amy hadn’t given much thought to who might be tending Gran’s garden while she was less mobile than usual. Now it seemed clear that Sam was the person responsible for keeping the grass neat and Grace’s prized plants in bloom. She tried to unpick his motivation for this apparently selfless support and rapidly discovered she couldn’t make sense of it. Showing up at litter picks and bake sales was an easy way to virtue-signal an interest in village life, but this was something else– something Amy couldn’t explain away, and which made her feel irritated. Prickly with discomfort.
