And organise a massive fundraiser in the next three months, as well? And get to know an entire village’s worth of people when she was just about the world’s most antisocial person?
“You have a lot of confidence in my abilities,” Emily finally said, and Henry nodded in firm agreement.
“Absolutely. I thought you’d relish this kind of challenge.”
Emily suspected Henry just hadn’t wanted to bother with the mess, but as she said her goodbyes a short while later, she realised she didn’t actually mind as much as she might have. She’d been afraid this position wouldn’t provide her with the activity and stimulation her work at Ellis Investments had, but if the mess of the room and the promise of the fundraiser were anything to go by, her fears were entirely unfounded. She looked forward to being busy, starting with a massive clear-out of her office.
As she put on her coat, Henry offered to walk her back to Willoughby Close, but Emily insisted she could do it on her own. She did most things on her own, after all, and she was looking forward to a quiet walk in the darkness to clear her head.
“Numbers two and three are currently vacant,” Alice called as she headed down the drive. “But Olivia is in number four. Do pop in and say hello. She’ll be thrilled to have a neighbour.”
It was something Emily couldn’t see herself doing, and yet she felt that unsettling mix of excitement and melancholy as she walked down the sweeping drive, illuminated only by a pearly, luminous half-moon, back to Willoughby Close. This was certainly a far better commute than thirty minutes on a crowded, smelly train where she was compelled to spritz sanitiser on her hands half a dozen times. And the quiet, which had felt so eerie at first, now seemed rather peaceful.
And yet…Emily knew she wasn’t ready for nosy neighbours, well-meaning employers, or working closely with a woman who seemed to be hoping to be her BFF. After years of deliberate self-isolation, hiding in crowds, keeping herself apart, the empty space around her felt alarming. Exposing. But right now, with the darkness so soft, the air possessing a chill but also a hint of spring, Emily felt…not quite hopeful, not happy either, but…something. That was as much as she knew.
Willoughby Close was cloaked in darkness as she walked across the courtyard to number one. Number four, residence of the unknown Olivia, was dark and silent.
Emily let herself into the cottage, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of the place—even the cleaning spray Alice had lent her had a different smell than the one she normally used. It wasn’t home, not yet, and she wasn’t sure if it ever would be, if she even knew what home was anymore.
She slipped her mobile out of her pocket to check if her mother had called, even though she knew she hadn’t. Worry nibbled at the edges of her mind, but she’d had too much wine to let it take over, and she was desperately tired after the day of moving and then the evening up at the manor. She’d think about her mother tomorrow…and she’d certainly ring.
Leaving her phone on the table, Emily headed upstairs to bed.
Chapter Three
Emily woke early to an unfamiliar dawn chorus of birds and bright sunlight slanting through her curtain-less windows. She’d forgotten to draw the blind before flopping into bed last night, most unlike her.
Usually her bedtime routine was carefully orchestrated—slippers lined up by the bed, blind drawn, door closed, clothes put away, outfit for the next day selected and hanging neatly on the wardrobe door.
Last night she’d had the presence of mind—or rather the necessary compulsion—to put her clothes away, although she hadn’t bothered picking something out to wear today, for her first day of work. It was Monday, so she always wore a white blouse and navy pencil skirt. At least she had at Ellis Investments.
But what was the dress code for working alone at Willoughby Manor, in a space that looked more like the local tip than an office? Henry certainly didn’t seem bothered by formalities any longer, although he’d once been such a stickler for them, but even so Emily didn’t like the thought of going to work in jeans, not that she even owned any. She was strictly a power suit type of girl, or at the least a smart skirt and blouse.
Feeling a bit groggy from last night’s unaccustomed indulgences, she reached for her dressing gown and belted it tightly around her waist before thrusting her feet into slippers. Her flatmate in uni had joked she had the soul of a middle-aged man, and Emily supposed there was some truth to that friendly aspersion. She certainly liked her dressing gown and slippers.
Downstairs, sunlight spilled through the French windows, bathing the room in gold. Outside a thrush hopped in the dew-spangled grass and a skylark sang sweetly. It was all so perfectly pastoral, it was hard not to stop and savour the moment, as unfamiliar as it was.
From the courtyard Emily heard a car start, and she inched up the blind to see a battered-looking sedan reversing out of the parking space in front of number four. The mysterious Olivia got up early, it seemed. It wasn’t quite half six.
Emily moved back to the kitchen and began to make her coffee—two perfectly heaped teaspoonfuls of Illy coffee, never any other brand—in the little cafetière, and then plunged and poured the liquid into her usual white ceramic mug with a pleasingly chunky handle. The normality of the routine soothed her, despite the strangeness of the kitchen, the birdsong
