neatly on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The room also had a pine wardrobe, a dressing table and a chair, with enough space left over to hold a tea dance. There were no pictures on the walls, but I would have fun searching around the local markets and antique shops for suitable prints. A second door led from the bedroom to the en suite toilet, washbasin and glassed-in shower unit.
One of the front windows had a small padded seat, from which I could see over the garden trees to the opposite daleside, the beck, the folly and the woods beyond. It seemed a pleasant little nook in which to curl up and read. From the side windows, I had a view back along the dale where I had just driven. I could see that, even though it was only four o’clock, the afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Without even bothering to make the bed, I stretched out on the mattress and felt it adjust and mould to my shape. I rested my head on the pillow – the sort that was thicker at one end than the other, and reminded me of an executioner’s block – and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I could have sworn I heard the piano in the distance. Schubert’s third Impromptu. It sounded beautiful, ethereal, and I soon drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew someone was knocking at the front door, and the room was in darkness. When I got up, found a light switch and checked my watch, I saw that it was six o’clock.
‘Mr Lowndes, I assume?’ said the woman standing at the door. ‘Mr Christopher Lowndes?’
‘Chris, please,’ I said, running my hand over my hair. ‘You must excuse me. I’m afraid I fell asleep and lost track of the time.’
A little smile blossomed on her face. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Heather Barlow.’
We shook hands, then I stood aside and asked her to come in. She was carrying a shopping bag, which she set down on the sideboard. I hung her coat in the small cloakroom beside the door, and we stood awkwardly in the large vestibule, the grandfather clock’s heavy ticking echoing in the cavernous space.
‘So what do you think now you’re here?’ Mrs Barlow asked.
‘I’m impressed. It’s everything you told me it would be. I’d invite you into the den or the living room for a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid I haven’t explored downstairs yet. And I don’t have any tea. I do have some duty-free whisky, mind you.’
‘That’s all right. I know my way around. I ought to do. I’ve been here often enough over the past few weeks. Why don’t we go into the kitchen?’ She picked up the shopping bag and raised it in the air. ‘I took the liberty of nipping into Tesco’s and picking up some basics, just in case you forgot, or didn’t get the chance. Bread, butter, tea, coffee, biscuits, eggs, bacon, milk, cheese, cereal, toothpaste, soap, paracetamol. I took a rather scattershot approach. I’m afraid I have no idea what you eat, whether you’re a vegetarian, vegan, whatever.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, Mrs Barlow,’ I told her. ‘Food completely slipped my mind. And I’ll eat anything. Sushi. Warthog carpaccio. As long as it’s not still moving around too much.’
She laughed. ‘Call me Heather. Mrs Barlow makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy. And I don’t think you’ll find much sushi or warthog in Richmond.’ She led me through the door to the left and switched on the lights. The kitchen, along with its pantries and larders, ran along the western side of the house and it was the most modern room I had seen so far. It certainly appeared well appointed, with brushed-steel oven, dishwasher, fridge and freezer units built in, a granite-topped island, nice pine-fronted cupboards, and a matching breakfast nook by one of the windows. All I could see was darkness outside, though I knew I must be facing towards the end of dale, where it dwindled into a tangle of woods beyond the drystone wall. The cooker was gas, I noticed, which I much preferred to electric because it gave me more control. There was also a beautiful old black-leaded fireplace – though I doubt, these days, that it was real lead – with hooks and nooks and crannies for kettles, soup pots, roasting dishes and witches’ cauldrons, for all I knew.
Heather started to unload her shopping bag on the island, putting those items that needed to be kept cool into the fridge. ‘Oh, and I know it’s very impertinent of me, but I also brought you this,’ she said, pulling out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. ‘I don’t even know if you drink.’
‘In moderation,’ I said. ‘And I love champagne. I rarely drink a full bottle on my own, though. Shall I open it now?’
‘No, please, I can’t. I have to drive. Besides, it needs chilling. It would be criminal to drink warm champagne. But thanks, all the same.’ She put the Veuve in the fridge and glanced around at me. ‘I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you’d be alone, or perhaps with someone. You never mentioned anything personal in our conversations or emails, such as children, a wife or… you know, a partner. Only, it’s such a large house.’
‘I’m not gay,’ I told her, ‘and I’m quite alone. My wife died almost a year ago. I also have two grown-up children.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I mean, about your wife.’
‘Yes. She would have loved it here.’ I clapped my hands. ‘Tea, then?’
‘Excellent. You sit down over there and let me take care of it.’
I sat and watched while Heather filled the electric kettle and flicked the switch. She was a joy to behold, and a long way from being an old fuddy-duddy. An attractive woman in her early forties, I guessed, tall and slim, with curves in all the right places, and looking very elegant in a figure-hugging olive dress and mid-calf brown leather boots. She was almost as tall as me, and I’m six foot two in my stockinged feet. She also had a nice smile, sexy dimples, sea-green eyes with laugh lines crinkling their edges, high cheekbones, a smattering of freckles over her nose and forehead, and beautiful silky red hair that parted in the centre and cascaded over her shoulders. Her movements were graceful and economic.
‘How much do I owe you for the groceries?’ I asked her.
‘All part of the service,’ Heather said. ‘Consider them a welcome-home present.’ She dropped two teabags from a box of Yorkshire Gold into a blue and white Delft teapot and poured on the boiling water, then she turned to me. ‘England is your home, isn’t it? Only you were never entirely clear.’
Sometimes I wasn’t too sure, myself, but I said, ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m a local lad. Leeds, at any rate.’
‘Well I never. My mother came from Bradford. Small world.’
She pronounced it ‘Brad-ford’. Everybody from Leeds pronounces it ‘ Brat -ford’. ‘Isn’t it, just?’
‘But you’ve been living in America for a long time, haven’t you? Los Angeles?’
‘Thirty-five years, for my sins.’
‘What did you do over there, if it’s not a rude question?’
‘Not at all. I wrote film scores. I still do. I just plan on doing more of my work over here from now on. After I’ve taken a bit of time off, that is.’ I didn’t tell her what I hoped to do during my time off. Talking about a creative project can kill it before it gets off the ground.
‘Film music? You mean like Chicago and Grease?’
‘No. Not quite. They’re musicals. I write the scores. The soundtracks.’
She frowned. ‘The music that nobody listens to?’
I laughed. ‘That’s probably a good way of putting it.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I am sorry. That was so rude of me. I mean, I…’
‘Not at all. Don’t bother to apologise. It’s what everybody thinks. You’d miss it if it wasn’t there, though.’
‘I’m sure I would. Might I have heard any of your music?’
‘Not if it’s the kind you don’t listen to.’
‘I mean… you know…’ She blushed. ‘Don’t tease. Now you’re embarrassing me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I named a couple of the more famous recent films I’d scored, one a huge box-office hit.
‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘Did you do that? Really?’
I nodded.
‘You worked with him? What’s he like?’
‘I don’t actually spend much time with the director, but Mr Spielberg is a man who knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it.’
‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘Pinch me. I’m talking to someone really famous, and I didn’t even know it.’
‘Not me. That’s one of the advantages of what I do. I don’t get famous. People in Hollywood, in the business, know my name, and you see it in the credits. But nobody recognises me in the street. It’s sort of like being a writer. You know the old joke about the actress who was so dumb she slept with the writer?’
Heather smiled. The dimples appeared. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I do now.’
