Page 71 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘The COUPLE,’ Chloe said, the capital letters audible. ‘They’ve got systems, Sammy. Systems. There’s a rota for the bins. A shared spreadsheet for cleaning. I opened the fridge this morning and my yoghurts have been – repositioned.’

‘Repositioned.’

‘Aligned,’ Chloe said darkly. ‘With labels facing forward. Like a supermarket. I’m being curated in my own home.’

Sammy pressed her lips together.

‘And they keep having these . . . check-ins,’ Chloe went on. ‘“How are we all feeling about the space?” I’m not feeling about the space, I’m trying to live in it.’

Nate pushed a hand through his hair. The shed door slammed shut. Sammy couldn’t decide if it was a gust of wind.

‘Honestly, I can’t possibly do interviews. How am I supposed to present as a competent adult when I’m being managed by people who own colour-coded storage boxes.’

‘It sounds challenging.’

‘I could come to yours for a bit,’ Chloe went on. ‘I need to get out. We need a night. Properly. Come on, Sam. We haven’t done anything fun in ages.’

Sammy’s mind spiralled. ‘I should probably ask.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Chloe cut in. ‘You live there now, don’t you? It’s not a prison.’

Sammy imagined sitting on the terrace at Prosecco & Prose sharing a bottle of bubbly with Chloe, watching the sun sink over the sea. ‘Yeah, go on then, come and see me for a bit,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Chloe said. ‘We’ll have such fun.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We will.’

‘I’ll check on train fares; we might need to put our heads together on that. You know what my finances are like. Bye for now.’

Sammy slipped the phone back into her pocket.

The chickens had drifted further out now, pecking at the corners of the beds, one making a bold attempt at something it absolutely shouldn’t have been eating.

Sammy stepped in, gently redirecting it. ‘Not that,’ she said. ‘Definitely not that.’

The chicken ignored her.

‘They don’t listen,’ Nate said, ‘they don’t want to learn.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I keep trying.’

She picked up the empty bucket. The warmth of the shared time was still there. So was the uneasy feeling that Nate hadn’t been talking entirely about chickens.

Nate drove the shovel hard into the soil, turning the earth in a clean line.

That friend of Sammy’s, Chloe – her voice carried; women like that always spoke loudly, always wanted to be noticed. He’d heard her type before. Different voice. Same expectations. ‘I could come to yours for a bit . . . we need a night . . .’ He rammed his foot hard against the shovel. ‘It’ll be fine . . .’

He hoped Sammy spoke to Magnus about this Chloe woman visiting; and that it was a very short trip.

Nate pushed his foot against the shovel again, the handle pressing into his palm. He knew how it went.

Further along, Sammy was back with the chickens, patient, coaxing one away from the beds as if it might listen at last.

Nate dug the shovel deep; Magnus was right – best to keep your distance, keep things professional.

Sammy had been looking forward to a napkin folding lesson with Magnus.

But when he opened the door for her, Valerie was already there, halfway down the dining room table with a stack of linen napkins beside her. Valerie’s fingers moved quickly. Fold, tuck. Her hands barely seemed to pause. Without looking up, she said, ‘Mind the chairs. They’ve just been polished.’