‘I thought you must have recognised him. You were staring.’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Ruth felt wrong-footed – her cheeks burned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Caroline continued with a small laugh. ‘He’s a bit of a head-turner. I’m used to it.’
Ruth held her smile, but desperately wanted to hide her face. She certainly couldn’t recall seeing Jackson on TV, but there was no doubting he had the kind of look people noticed, the kind of eyes – green with flecks of hazel – that could ignite a fire inside you – something that hadn’t happened to Ruth in a very long while.
Caroline picked up a pen. ‘So where do I sign?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Ruth, as though taking her in.
‘If you could write your name in the register please, and the names of your party, and their relationship to you.’ Ruth didn’t need all that information, but it helped her get to know her guests better. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned her cardigan as she watched Caroline write, her handwriting distinctive, flamboyant swirling and curling on the page:
Caroline Taylor
Jackson Cromwell (partner)
Robert Taylor (ex-husband)
Amelia Taylor (daughter)
Lark Taylor (daughter)
Thomas Taylor (son)
Maddie Jenkins (son’s carer)
Ruth couldn’t help but notice what a complicated setup it was, with Caroline’s ex-husband being with them, and a fizz of excitement ran through her. This could get interesting.
Caroline placed the pen on the register, and straightened her back, letting out a little gasp, as though the job had exhausted her.
‘Thank you.’ Ruth picked up the pen, put it in a wooden pot, and closed the register. ‘You have the weather on your side. Eighteen degrees in late November is almost unheard of around these parts. We normally have snow by now.’
‘Yes, it’s beautiful out there,’ Jackson agreed, as Ruth reached behind her and unhooked two sets of keys from a small rack. ‘It’s so peaceful too. I’m sure we’ll have a relaxing stay.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Ruth glanced at Caroline, who had moved towards the window, and now had her back to her.
‘Bluebell Cottage, the largest dwelling, is next to the ruins,’ Ruth continued. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage is on the far side, backing onto the forest. There are some lovely walks down to the sea, with stunning views you’ll love.’ She placed the keys in Jackson’s outstretched hand and smiled. ‘But do be careful if you go into the woods after dark. It’s easy to get lost and end up on the cliff edge.’
‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, once Ruth had told him dinner would be served in the conservatory at seven, and breakfast at eight the following morning.
‘The electric gates are the only way in or out of the site. They open automatically if you want to leave, and there’s a wee code on the key ring to get you back in again after dark.’
‘Great. We saw a quaint little pub about ten miles down the road, didn’t we, Caroline? We might head there one evening.’
‘It all sounds lovely, Ruth,’ Caroline said, turning from the window. ‘I can’t think of a better place to be.’
‘Have a good day,’ Jackson said, and Caroline gripped hold of his arm as they made their way through the door and out into the bright afternoon.
‘Shall I get your wheelchair from the car, darling?’ he asked her.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, as the door closed behind them.
Through the window, Ruth watched as the family met up again. And as they chattered, she studied their faces, wondering who they all were. She suspected the tall man in his fifties was probably the ex-husband as he looked moody and out of place. The young man in the wheelchair was perhaps the son, Thomas Taylor, and the pretty woman with shiny black hair pushing him, was perhaps his carer, Maddie. She studied the pretty teenage girl dressed in black – unsmiling – her arms wrapped around herself, as though if she let go she would fall apart. She reminded Ruth of Kyla, and she wanted to take the girl in her arms and squeeze.
The door leading to the back of the cottage opened, and Ruth startled. She spun round. ‘Finn.’
His light brown hair, parted in the middle, hung limply to his shoulders. His grey tracksuit bottoms were misshapen at the knees, and his black AC/DC sweatshirt stretched too tightly across his chest. She had to admit he’d lost his looks since he returned home. But he was better off without her. Better at home with his mother. Better away from his wicked wife. And now Ruth was dependent on his company again – she could turn to him when black moods invaded – when memories flooded in. It was good to have him home where he belonged.
She glanced back at the window. Jackson and his group were walking across the grass towards the cottages – she wished they would use the path.
‘The big group has just checked in,’ she told Finn. ‘Three more guests are arriving tomorrow from the same party.’ She placed her hands flat on the counter – hands she felt gave her age away. Despite her ritual of applying hand cream night and morning, these hands – her hands – told the world she was in her late fifties. That she’d had a difficult life. Maybe if she kept them tucked in her cardigan pockets she could pass for fifty. She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how old she was, not really. She could never get back what she’d lost. ‘We’ll meet them all at dinner,’ she said.
Finn opened the door to the back of the house once more, and the aroma of the pork joint sizzling in the oven hit Ruth’s
