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‘I see you have come prepared for a day out at the beach instead of a journey through the snowbound countryside? What’s the matter? Didn’t anyone tell you it was December? Is that your luggage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s your coat?’
Zach’s eyes rested on her sequinned Converse trainers for a few beats before flicking back up to her face, his jaw loose with incredulity. His expression couldn’t have been more amazed if she was stood before him naked.
‘Erm, I didn’t bring a coat. It wasn’t snowing when I left London, and anyway, I plan on spending most of my time in the hi-techcentrally-heatedkitchen of Stonelea Manor,’ retorted Millie, aware of the defensive note that had crept into her voice, a familiar occurrence when speaking to super-sensible Zach. ‘I’ll be fine. Just point me in the direction of your car and I’ll make a run for it.’
‘You’ve got to be joking? It’s minus two out there! Here, take my jacket and channel your inner Usain Bolt. Come on!’
And before she could refuse, Zach had handed her his coat, grabbed the handle of her suitcase, and jogged from the waiting room towards the car park. She rushed in his wake, slotting her arms into his still-warm jacket, revelling in the familiar fragrance of his cologne that lingered on the fabric.
When they reached Zach’s car, the meteorological Gods decided to go for broke and fling everything in their armoury at them. With snowflakes lashing angrily at the windscreen like an icy carwash, Millie heaved a sigh of relief when she slammed the door and leaned her head back against the headrest.
‘Urgh! I hate the snow!’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Don’t you think it has a certain aesthetic beauty? Erasing all the sharp edges and angular gables of the ugly architecture to produce a minimalist simplicity? Oh, no, sorry I forgot, I’m talking to Amelia Harper, the Queen of Clutter and Chaos!’ chuckled Zach as he struggled to steer the vehicle deeper into the countryside through the ever-increasing snow drifts.
Millie had grown accustomed to Zach’s unique line in playful banter and chose not to rise to the bait. Anyway, she could see from the twinkle in his eyes and the turn of his lips that he was happy to see her.
‘How far is it to Berryford?’
In reply, Zach took a sharp right-hand turn and came to an abrupt halt outside an attractive stone lodge next to a pair of magnificent carved pillars that Millie recognised from her google search as the entrance to Stonelea Manor. Visibility had improved just enough for her to get a glimpse through the windscreen of the handsome manor house nestled amidst a cotton wool wonderland. It was as though the property had been transported from the pages of a fairy tale and was even more beautiful than the photographs on the internet had indicated.
Apart from the honeyed stone and matching rooftiles, the building presented a pleasing symmetry, with dual mullioned windows on either side of the grand front entrance, all set against a backdrop of quite sinister woodland, a living labyrinth that could conceal a myriad of dangers. A necklace of wrought-iron lampposts meandered from the entrance gate to the front steps, but it was impossible to ascertain the precise route of the driveway.
‘Why have we stopped here?’ she asked, trying to ignore the squirm of apprehension agitating at her chest.
‘Because, as you can see, the snow is over a foot deep and there’s no way this battered old VW will make it to the manor.’
‘So how are you proposing we get there?’
‘We need to transfer to a more appropriate means of transport. Forward planning – ever heard of it?’ Zach teased as he swung his legs out of the driver’s seat and jogged around the back of the vehicle to open the boot, calling through to where Millie was still clinging to the warmth of the passenger seat. ‘However, even I hadn’t anticipated that you’d turn up dressed for a tropical cocktail party in the Caribbean.’
‘I’m not dressed for—’
‘Here, you’d better put these on,’ said Zach, tossing a jumble of cloth into her arms.
Millie scrunched up her nose in revulsion as a whiff of dead ferret, mingled with a soupçon of ammonia, invaded her nostrils.
‘I’m not wearing these!’
‘You will if you don’t want to die of hyperthermia.’
‘I think I’ll risk it!’ she snapped, as she unfolded the garment to reveal an ancient brown wax jacket with a dung-coloured fleece hand-sewn into the lining. It was so long the hem would probably skim her ankles.
‘It wasn’t a request, Millie. Put it on. The sooner we get down to the manor the better.’
She reconsidered her initial diagnosis of the origins of the pungent aroma. The smell wasn’t ammonia – it was linseed oil interspersed with horse manure and something else a little earthier. A hint of nausea scratched at the back of her throat.
‘The hat and gloves are in the pockets.’
‘Is this a wind-up? Because if it is, I don’t think it’s very funny.’
Knowing Zach’s quirky sense of humour and the mischievous way he had coaxed her to experience new and exhilarating experiences in the past, Millie wouldn’t have put it past him to whip out a camera as soon as she stood before him in the stupid get-up and to upload the image to his Twitter account. She scrutinised his face, a face that had frequented her dreams more often than she cared to admit, and watched him remove his hat and run his fingers through his spiky black hair then scratch at his unshaven chin; a sure sign of anxiety.
‘It’s not a wind-up, Millie. We’ve got to go – now. The weather guys are predicting one of the most severe snowstorms for ten years and they’re warning against all non-essential travel. We’re lucky to have got this far.’
