Hidden Cottage (6 page)

When he turned and spotted the house, complete with a twist of smoke coming out of one of the chimneys, a sense of wonder and mystery crept over him. Staring up at the windows, their frames painted green to match the door, he imagined for a moment that he could hear the house’s heartbeat, that it was a living and breathing thing and was beckoning him towards it.

As if led by the hand, he moved forward and the heartbeat grew louder and more insistent. He held his breath and suddenly realized that the heartbeat he could hear was his own. He almost laughed aloud at his stupidity. It was then that he heard music coming from the house through the open French windows. It was piano music and unlike anything he’d ever heard before.

He had no idea what he would say if someone came out of the house and asked what he thought he was doing there, but he was prepared to risk that. But for some reason, he didn’t think that was going to happen. He was meant to be here. He was meant to see this place for himself. And whoever lived here would understand that. What’s more it would be their secret. To his nine-year-old self, his reasoning made perfect sense, but to any parent it would have had every alarm bell ringing.

Nobody did appear that day, nor the next time he went, nor the next. It wasn’t until he’d been there five times – and always just to sit by the water to watch the moorhens fossicking about in the bank and the dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, but mostly to hear the extraordinary music that poured out from the house – that he saw a flicker of movement at a downstairs window, and plucking up the courage, he went and knocked on the door. He did it because, if he had been seen, he thought it a matter of politeness to explain why he was there; he didn’t want the owner of the house to think badly of him.

Also he was curious now. Who really did live here?

He knocked on the door in what he hoped was a polite manner. Not too loudly, but loud enough.

The first knock went unanswered.

As did the second.

Then determined to get an answer, if only to satisfy his curiosity, he tried again. This time the music came to an abrupt end and in the sudden and complete silence he heard the sound of a lock being turned. All at once, he began to doubt the wisdom of what he was doing, and what he’d done in coming here. What if the person who opened the door was the sort of man his mother had warned him never to speak to? The sort who kidnapped children. The sort who hid them away never to be found again. The sort who—

The door slowly opened and with his legs trembling and his brain telling him to run, he took a wobbly step back . . .

A rustling sound in the bushes had Owen glancing sharply to his right. A fox appeared on the lawn and bathed in the moon’s soft radiance; it looked directly at Owen as if querying his right to be there. It then trotted off towards the lake and melted away into the darkness.

Time for me to melt away as well, thought Owen. He drank what was left in his wineglass, and went back inside the house. He wondered if it was too late to ring Nicole. He really should have called her earlier, but to be honest, he wasn’t that sure how well his call would be received. He wasn’t exactly his girlfriend’s favourite person right now.

They’d met in Chamonix in January. He’d been skiing alone and had shared a chairlift with her. When she said that she’d got separated from her group of friends and was on her way back to the hotel where they were staying, but didn’t know the way, he’d offered to ski her to the door. To thank him, she invited him to join her for a drink. The next day he met up with her and her friends for lunch and then spent the afternoon skiing with her.

From there things just snowballed, as he’d joked when reporting back to Rich. A fortnight after the end of her holiday, she returned to Chamonix to stay with him for a long weekend, and did so again twice more before he returned to the UK and to the apartment he was renting in Marylebone, only a stone’s throw from where Rich lived. Since Nicole also lived and worked in London they were able to spend a lot more time together and all was going well until he told her about The Hidden Cottage.

‘You’ve done what?’ she’d said, her face incredulous.

‘I’ve bought a house in the country,’ he’d explained, ‘a very special house.’ He’d tried to explain why but all she’d cared about was why he hadn’t told her about it before.

‘I haven’t told anyone,’ he’d said. ‘You’re the first to know.’

Her expression still incredulous, she said, ‘But I’m your girlfriend; didn’t you think I’d be interested?’

It was a fair comment – she was his girlfriend and it was something he should have discussed with her, but he hadn’t. He was guilty of precisely the kind of autonomous behaviour he had always strongly disapproved of and he had no defence other than to say he’d acted instinctively and, yes, selfishly.

‘Apparently I’m not important to you,’ she’d gone on, ‘not important enough at any rate for you to share something like this with me.’

Disbelief had now been replaced on her face with what he recognized as the beginnings of a sulky pout. At thirty-six she was perhaps too old to play that card, but he knew he’d upset her and putting his arms around her, he’d said, ‘Of course you’re important to me.’

She’d looked into his eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely.’

One of the things that had surprised him about Nicole was her constant need for reassurance. In all other respects, she was outgoing and hugely confident, but when it came to their relationship she seemed to want his perpetual reassurance that he cared about her. With hindsight, his buying The Hidden Cottage without telling her didn’t really help matters.

Trouble was, just as he’d smoothed things over and she said that she was looking forward to seeing the house, she then realized she’d misunderstood him. She had assumed The Hidden Cottage was a weekend retreat, somewhere they could slip away to, just the two of them. ‘You mean you’re moving there?’ she’d said. ‘You’re actually going to
live
there? But what about us?’

It was a good question and one they had yet to resolve.

Inside the house, despite how late it was, he rang Nicole on his mobile. But all he got was her voicemail telling him to leave a message. Which he did.

Trying not to read too much into Nicole’s continued silence – she hadn’t returned any of his calls for the last two days – he went in search of the sleeping bag he’d brought with him. Such was the extent of his good mood at being here that nothing – not even a sulking girlfriend or a night of sleeping on the floor – could dampen his spirits.

Chapter Eight

By the time Mia had finished in the bathroom, Jeff was already fast asleep, his breathing heavy, his body restless. He’d never been a peaceful sleeper. But then he wasn’t a peaceful sort of man.

Standing by the side of the bed, Mia felt a pang of pity for him. He’d been so very upset at Daisy’s outburst earlier that evening; nothing could have hurt him more. Bad enough that Daisy had announced she wanted to move to the other side of the world, but to say she had to do it to get away from him must have been unbearable.

Too wound up to sleep or to read, Mia went quietly back downstairs, anxious not to disturb Daisy and Eliza, who were sleeping in their old rooms. Jensen and Tattie hadn’t stayed the night; they’d driven home to London.

In the kitchen she filled the kettle, put it on the Aga and wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. It was the end of May, but the nights were still quite chilly. The kettle soon boiled and after dunking a teabag in a mug and adding milk, she drew up a chair and inevitably thought again of Daisy. After she had rushed from the room, Jensen had gone to look for her. She didn’t know what he’d said to his sister to bring her round, but minutes later, they reappeared and nothing more was said on the subject. Everyone, even Jeff, tactfully concentrated on Jensen’s birthday cake and him blowing out the candles, all thirty of them.

Jensen, Mia thought fondly, thirty years old. How was that possible and where had the time gone?

She and Jeff had met when she was in her first year at Bristol University. A shy and somewhat naive girl, she had been drawn to him by his charm and maturity and his extraordinary belief in his own worth and capabilities. He also made her laugh. He was the first person who made her feel that she took life just a little too seriously, that actually there was a world of fun out there. Six years his junior, she was in awe of his confidence and being with him made her believe she could be like him, that she could do anything she wanted, that the skies really were the limit.

Having left school at sixteen Jeff Channing was a world away from the man her parents had in mind for her and, of course, that only increased the attraction. The more they disapproved, the more independent and liberated she felt, elevating herself above their appalling narrow-mindedness. With hindsight, she was behaving as a perfectly ordinary rebellious nineteen-year-old girl, hell-bent on flouting convention and all the rules her parents had laid down.

Jeff came into her life in the middle of her first term and such was the effect he had on her, the newly made friendships with her fellow students were all but forgotten in her eagerness to be with him. Their paths crossed in an off-licence; she was there to buy a bottle of cheap wine to take to a party, but when she tried to pay for it, the man behind the till refused to believe she was old enough to be served. She had produced her student union card but he’d waved it away without even bothering to look at it, dismissing it as a fake. She’d explained that it most certainly wasn’t, that she wasn’t a liar or a cheat, and that if he’d just take the time to look at the card he’d see that it was genuine. Reluctantly he had. ‘Doesn’t look anything like you,’ he said of the photo.

‘That’s because I’ve got my hair done differently; I’m going to a party. That’s why I need the wine.’

‘You can go empty-handed for all I care. I’m not selling you any alcohol. And that’s that. So on your way and let me serve the rest of my customers.’

She’d had no choice but to swallow back her humiliation and leave. She was a few yards down the road when she heard her name being called. She turned to see a smartly dressed man in a suit coming towards her. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

‘Not yet you don’t,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘Then how do you know my name?’

‘I was standing behind you in the off-licence just now and saw it on your student union card. Here, this is for you.’

She continued to frown, not sure what was going on. Who was this man?

He smiled. ‘Take it, it’s the bottle of wine you wanted.’

‘But . . . but why would you do that?’

‘Because I felt sorry for you, for the way that idiot treated you. Anyone can see that you’re a bona fide student, and not a liar or a cheat.’

‘Are you teasing me?’

His smile widened. ‘Just a little. What time is the party?’

‘It’s started already. I’m late. I was trying to finish an essay and lost track of the time.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘French.’

‘I’m impressed.’

She dug around in her bag for her purse. ‘I must pay you.’

‘Must you? Why not pay me in kind by having a drink with me?’

‘But the party . . . I’m already late.’

‘Then why not give it a miss altogether and have dinner with me instead?’

‘Dinner?’

‘I know a particularly good French restaurant in Clifton. You could help me with the menu.’

‘I don’t think you need help with anything.’

‘Now
you’re
teasing
me
. Come on, have dinner with me. You look like you could do with feeding up. No wonder the man in the off-licence thought you were underage – there’s not a spare ounce on you.’

‘But I don’t know you. I can’t have dinner with a total stranger.’

‘I promise you, I’m not a danger to you. I’ll be the perfect gentleman at all times, and what’s more I’ll drive you back to wherever you live afterwards. Come on, live a little. Have some fun.’

How could she refuse such a gauntlet? Especially as she hadn’t really been looking forward to the party. Dinner at a French restaurant in Clifton sounded a much better evening.

His car – a burgundy-coloured sports car – was parked a few yards up the road and after he’d helped her in and he was behind the steering wheel, she thought of her father’s Volvo Estate and said, ‘I’ve never been in a car like this before. What is it?’

‘It’s a Jensen Interceptor. A classic.’

‘Are you rich?’

He laughed. ‘No. But I fully intend to be.’

He kept his promise that evening; he behaved impeccably and asked if he could take her out for dinner again when he was back from a business trip up north. She agreed and found herself counting the days until she saw him next. From then on she saw him as often as she could.

He was a man of grand romantic gestures, but lacked what she would later discern as any romantic sensibility. He took her to London, to expensive restaurants. He bought her clothes. Grown-up clothes, he called them. She started wearing make-up, something she had never done before. Her studies suffered. But she didn’t care. She was happy. Happier than she’d ever been. She felt so alive. And in love. In love with a man who in all truth wasn’t exactly handsome, but his attraction lay in his ceaseless energy and absolute certainty that he knew exactly where he was going. When he agreed to meet her parents – their prejudice against him was subsequently confirmed on sight and he was dismissed as brash and too full of himself – she knew that he was as committed to her as she was to him.

Six months after meeting she was pregnant, and that’s when she realized he wasn’t as committed as she’d believed. ‘You can’t keep the baby,’ he’d said matter-of-factly. ‘You have to get rid of it. You’re much too young to have a child. And what about your degree?’

‘I don’t care about my degree. I want to have your baby. I love you, Jeff. I want us to be together.’

‘I love you too, Mia, but this is all wrong. I can’t be a father yet. I’m not ready.’

And to prove it, he left her. He gave her money, promised to send her money regularly in the post, but she couldn’t expect any more than that from him.