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Was it her fault if she preferred country pursuits and a country life-style? Was it her fault that she lived at home and enjoyed living there? Was it her fault that she was not by nature independent? And yet, hadn’t there been more and more occasions over the last couple of years when she had chafed, if only momentarily, at her parents’ loving concern?
A frown touched her forehead as she remembered one of her dates challenging her to deny that she lived with and worked for her parents because she was frightened of the risks of going it alone.
Was she? Her chin tilted proudly. No, she wasn’t. In fact, already a tiny part of her was actively looking forward to the challenge of working for Kyle. If she was honest with herself, the job he was offering her was exactly the sort of thing she had always dreamed of doing. He would be exhaustingly demanding to work for, his standards almost impossibly high; she knew that, and yet he was offering her an opportunity to show what she could really do, given the chance.
If only this awareness of him as a man wasn’t there to disturb her hard-won maturity. She shivered, and then braked to avoid a cyclist, her concentration switching back to her driving.
* * *
On impulse, the day before her father’s operation, the day when she should have been packing her bags ready to move them into Kyle’s guest suite, she got on a train for London instead, and spent the best part of the day wandering around the capital’s more exclusive shopping venues, her artist’s eye noting the wealth of detail.
Travelling home, she ached to get down to work; already she was imagining just what she would be able to achieve given a sensible budget and a free hand.
There was a nostalgia for the past that was evident in shops as diverse as Laura Ashley through to the very up-market Ralph Lauren. Bath, with its elegant Georgian terraces, Nash terraces and Georgian squares, was almost custom-made for a haunting echo of other eras, in a way that Heather was determined would have nothing about it that was remotely chocolate-boxy, or overdone.
No, her nostalgia would be discreet and subtle.
Full of ideas, she dug deep into her bag for her notebook and pen and started to scribble.
She’d worked all day without a break, and now already it was growing dark.
A cold, silent house greeted her. Meg was being looked after for the day by a neighbour and the cats were fast asleep. Heather realised the moment she walked in that the temperamental heating boiler had gone into a terminal sulk.
Half an hour later, ready to concede defeat, she shivered in the coldness of the empty house. Outside, the first fine flakes of snow were starting to fall. The long threatened snow had arrived.
Having rung the hospital and checked on her father, she put down the phone and sighed. Her mother had been concerned that she wasn’t already installed at Kyle’s.
Staying in an empty cold house had less and less appeal, and besides, there were so many ideas she wanted to discuss with Kyle. It was amazing how easy it was to push aside her past dislike and resentment once she had accepted that they sprang from within her own personality and, once or twice, as she hurried with her packing, she was amazed to discover a sensation bubbling up inside her that was almost akin to excited anticipation.
The very last thing she did was to pop the cats into their travelling boxes, and then go round the house, checking that all was secure.
She was picking Meg up on the way, and only hoped that Kyle knew what he was letting himself in for in opening his home to the four of them.
Her neighbour insisted on making her a cup of tea, and of course she wanted to know all about the state of her father’s health, in addition to expressing a very natural curiosity as to where Heather herself was going to stay.
At length, Heather got up to go. Meg, who loved travelling, couldn’t wait to jump into the van, and the four of them set off.
She felt rather like a character from an Edward Lear poem, Heather reflected, as the headlights of the van picked out the winding ribbon of road, now whitened by the still falling snow. She had decided to use the quiet back roads into and out of Bath, all too conscious of the van’s rather shaky physical state, and not wanting to risk the danger of the motorway with its high-powered and sometimes reckless drivers. Common sense and necessity both made her keep her speed down, and she had no desire to have some impatient and foolhardy driver sitting on her tail, desperate to get past her.
She kept the radio on to check on the weather bulletins, eyeing the thickening flakes of snow with unease. The van hated cold weather at the best of times, and she just prayed it would get her to Kyle’s home without breaking down.
She was unlucky. Less than ten miles from Kyle’s house, the van’s engine coughed, spluttered and then abruptly died.
Cursing under her breath, Heather tried to restart it, but the dull, ominous whine it gave warned her that her task was hopeless.
She had no idea where she was; the countryside was pitch-black, even the stars and moon obscured by the low cloud. She was on a back road, and the chances of being able to flag down another motorist were extremely slim, not to mention potentially dangerous.
Slipping on Meg’s lead, she patted the cats’ box, and said quietly to the dog, ‘You and I are going to have to find ourselves a garage, Meg, old girl. I think we’re fairly close to a village…let’s hope that I’m not wrong.’
Once outside the van, she shivered beneath the icy sting of the wind. It was colder than she had thought, the snowflakes stinging her exposed face and hands. Meg whined and made to get back in the van, but Heather tugged gently on the lead. She didn’t relish the thought of her lonely dark walk, and Meg would be company, as well as a deterrent to…well… anything.
She had walked less than a hundred yards when she heard a vehicle coming towards her. Meg froze, trapped in the headlights of a mud-splattered Land Rover, which rattled to an abrupt stop.
‘Hello…having problems?’ a cheerful male voice called out. Before Heather could urge Meg away, the driver of the vehicle was climbing out and coming towards her.
She eyed him warily, relieved to discover that he looked quite normal and harmless. He was about her own age, with untidy fair hair, his face weathered and drawn into a grimace against the driving snow. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, and wearing well-padded winter clothes.
He looked like a farmer, Heather thought, pleased to have her guess confirmed when he added, ‘I’ve just been dropping off some fodder for the sheep, and I saw your headlights.’
