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It wasn’t exactly a weekend break, she still had a lot of work to do if she was to wow the board in a week’s time, but she could do it at home either in the little sunshine-drenched study at the back of the cottage or in the timber-beamed, book-lined sitting room. Away from the office.
Usually her office was a sanctuary but right now it felt alien. Gabe seemed to fill every corner of it. His gym gear in her cloakroom, a variety of equally disgusting smoothies on the table and, worst of all, Gabe himself.
He was so active, always on the phone, pacing round, chatting to every member of staff as if they were his long-lost best friend.
Even his typing was a loud, banging, flamboyant display. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate when he was in the room.
But, although he had been living in Hopeford, in her house, for several weeks there was no trace of Gabe in the living areas of the cottage; his few possessions were kept neatly put away in the guest bedroom. Not that she’d snooped, obviously, but she had felt a need to reacquaint herself with her home, visiting every room, reminding herself of its quirks and corners.
It was odd being back after such a long absence. The cottage was clean, aired and well stocked, the rambling garden weeded and watered all thanks to the concierge service she employed to take care of her home. Mr Simpkins, the handsome ginger cat she’d inherited when she’d bought the house, was plump and sleek and bearing no discernible grudge after their time apart. But everything felt smaller, more claustrophobic.
For three months she had been someone else. Someone with no purpose, no expectations. It had been disconcerting and yet so freeing.
But that was over. She was home now and she had a lot to do. Friday night usually meant her laptop, a glass of wine and a takeaway. Polly put her hand to her stomach and swallowed hard; maybe she’d forego the latter two this week.
And think about a doctor’s appointment if the tiredness and nausea didn’t go away soon.
Hang on a second, what was that? Polly had visitors so rarely that it took another sharp decisive peal of the doorbell before she moved. Probably Gabe.
‘If he can’t keep hold of his keys how can I trust him with Rafferty’s online strategy?’ she asked Mr Simpkins. He merely yawned and turned over, stretching out in a patch of early evening sunshine.
Walking down the wide stairs towards the hallway, she took a moment to look around; at the polished, oiled beams, the old flagstoned floor, the gilt mirror by the hat stand, the fresh flowers on the antique table. It had all been chosen, placed and cared for by someone else. She lived here but was it really hers?
The doorbell rang again, impatiently. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was hardly her fault that he had forgotten his keys. Unlocking the door, she pulled it open.
It wasn’t Gabe.
Tall, broad, hair the same colour as hers and eyes the exact same shade of dark blue. A face she knew as well as she knew her own. A face she hadn’t seen in four years. Polly clung onto the door frame, disbelief flooding through her. ‘Raff?’
‘I still have a key.’ He held it up. ‘But I didn’t think you’d want me just walking in.’
‘But, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Jordan. Or Australia?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. Can I come in?’
‘Sorry?’ Polly gaped at him as his words sank in. ‘Yes, of course.’
She stepped back, her mind still grasping for a reason her twin brother was here in her sleepy home town, not trying to save the world, one war zone at a time.
Raff faced her, the love and warmth in his eyes bringing a lump to her throat. How on earth had four years gone by since she had last seen him? ‘Come here.’ He took her in his arms. It had been so long since he had held her, since she had allowed herself to lean on him.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said into her hair. Polly tightened her grip.
It wasn’t Raff’s fault their grandfather had favoured him, wanted him to take over the store. Yet somehow it had been easier to hold him culpable.
‘Hi, heavenly twin,’ she murmured and took comfort in his low rumble of laughter. They had been named for the Heavenly Twins, Castor and Pollux, but Polly had escaped with a feminine version of her name. Her brother had been less lucky; nobody, apart from their grandparents, used it—Raff preferred a shorter version of their surname.
‘Thanks for looking after everything.’ She disentangled herself slowly, although the temptation to lean in and not let go was overwhelming. She led him down the wide hallway towards the kitchen. ‘Looking after the house, Mr Simpkins.’ She swallowed, hard and painful. ‘Taking over at Rafferty’s.’
