Page 126 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Beyond the low wall, the sea stretched out in that bright, shifting blue, the tide pulling back enough to leave dark bands of rock glistening. Gulls wheeled overhead, their calls sharp above the steady shush of the water.

Opposite her, Chloe was checking her reflection in her phone. Chloe – hair arranged artfully, makeup flawless. She dabbed a thumb at the corner of her lip before setting the phone down. ‘You look shattered,’ Chloe said, not unkindly.

‘I am.’

‘Well, there you go then.’ Chloe leaned back, a satisfied expression on her face. ‘That place is too much for you.’

Sammy picked up her glass of iced coffee. ‘It’s been a long week.’

‘Exactly.’ Chloe gestured with her straw. ‘And look at you. You’re running yourself into the ground for what? Someone else’s house?’

Sammy glanced past her friend, towards the café’s raised beds where herbs spilled over the sides, and aubergines had been staked upright, the fruit glossy. Someone had taken care with them. Nate would have noticed that.

‘It’s not just a house,’ she said.

Chloe gave a small laugh. ‘It is, Sam. A big one, yeah, but it’s still not yours. You’re not meant for places like that.’

That stung. ‘Magnus thinks I can do it,’ she said.

Quick as a flash Chloe shot back. ‘Magnus isn’t the one watching you fall asleep on your feet. I am.’

Whose fault was that? She thought.

Chloe took a long sip of her drink, then added, lighter now, ‘Anyway, you’ve always done better when you’re not boxed in. You need a bit of life, not all these . . . rules.’

‘You still seeing Jimmy?’ Sammy asked.

Chloe’s mouth curved. ‘I might be.’

‘Chloe.’

‘What?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s fun.’

Sammy concentrated on the ring of water spreading on the table under her glass. ‘He’s got a gun,’ she said.

Chloe snorted. ‘Oh, come on. It’s a shotgun. Plenty of people have those – you know that, even in Swansea, let alone Devon.’

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘Yeah,’ Chloe said. ‘So? He shoots a few birds now and then. Keeps the freezer stocked.’ She took a sip. ‘Before you start, yes, technically you might call it poaching, but honestly . . .’

Sammy wasn’t listening anymore.

Birds. She went still, the thought forming. ‘What kind of birds?’

Chloe frowned. ‘Whatever’s about. Pheasant. Partridge. Pigeon. Duck. Why?’

Ducks. The lake. The reeds. Thyme sitting on those eggs; the way Bay and Juniper flew so slowly over the lake – there was a reason for that saying: like shooting at sitting ducks. Sammy took a drink she didn’t want, setting the glass down harder than she meant to.

‘What’s wrong Sam?’

Sammy shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. But it wasn’t nothing.

A shadow moved across the table as someone passed.

Chloe was still talking. ‘You worry too much about what people think. Honestly, Sam, if it’s making you this tired, it’s not worth it. Simple as that.’

A group at the next table burst out laughing, then settled down again. Somewhere behind her, a dog barked once and fell quiet.