The Faerie Tree (34 page)

All I wanted to do was run away. My friends told me I was nuts to cut myself off from them and hide at the other end of the country, but to be honest I was frightened I might need them too much. They have their own lives; they don't really want a bad tempered divorcee hanging around their necks, however much they protested otherwise.

The escape route was ready. Three years earlier Neil had inherited some money and we'd bought New Cottage; we were such smug marrieds we'd bought our retirement home in our early thirties, but in the great property carve up that comes with the end of a relationship I told him I wanted the cottage and he could keep the house in Reading. I think he was surprised but he was in so much of a hurry to have everything sorted out before the baby arrived he would have agreed to anything.

Maybe it was guilt too; but whatever it was I pressed home my advantage and walked away with most of our savings. Not just for the hell of it; I have to eat, after all. Plus the house needs a small fortune spending on it. That's my plan: do it up – including the barn, which would make a fab holiday let, and if I don't like living in Yorkshire then I can sell it and move on.

I rouse myself and shake the newspaper – that's why I bought it, after all – to look for a builder. As I flick to the small ads I sink my teeth into the caramel slice. It is still a little warm and the shortbread crumbles deliciously over my tongue, sweet but somehow not over sickly; it has bite to it. I could get fat as a mole if I keep coming here and I'm not going to let that happen – the best bit of divorcing is the weight dropping off and now I'm an ever-so-slightly top heavy size 10 I have every intention of staying that way.

The guy from behind the counter pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down. At close quarters I am treated to a studied gaze
from the darkest blue eyes I have ever seen and goosebumps tingle on the back of my arms. I'm glad I bothered to put on a bit of make-up.

“More coffee?” he asks.

“Have I outstayed my welcome on just one cup?”

“No, not at all.” He indicates the empty café. “We don't exactly need the table.”

“You should be packed, with those wonderful cakes.”

“Oh, we are some of the time, but then we haven't long opened,” he says, pushing his hair back from his face and running his long fingers over the top of his head. “Look, what I really came over to say is that we have seen each other before, I've worked it out.”

I am about to die of embarrassment when he continues “It was in church last Sunday – St Andrew's at Great Fencote.” I sink back into my chair. He is right, I did go to church, but I've tried to blank the visit from my mind.

“I noticed you when I was reading the lesson – we don't often get new people. But didn't you leave before the end?”

“Err, yes. I…I had a frog in my throat and I didn't want to cough all through the sermon.”

The truth of the matter is that the second hymn had been one we'd sung at my wedding and I'd started to well up. My intention had been to go outside, take a walk around the church to control myself then go back to the service. But in the far corner of the graveyard was a young woman kneeling by a freshly covered grave and that had upset me even more so I just went home.

“That was nice and considerate of you.” He reaches his hand across the table to shake mine. “I'm Owen Maltby, by the way.”

“Alice Hart. I've just moved into New Cottage.”

For a fraction of a second it feels as though he is going to drop my outstretched hand but I must have imagined it because he continues smoothly: “Nice property.”

“It needs a bit of work doing to it though.”

“Is that why you're looking at the builders' ads?”

“Got it in one.”

“Look, I don't want to stick my oar in, but most of the builders who are any good don't need to advertise in the paper. There's a guy I went to school with who's OK…I could give you his number?”

“Would you? That would be very kind.”

“No, not kind – ulterior motive. I want you to settle in here if you're going to come to church – there's precious few of us under forty and we could do with bringing the average age down a bit.”

Before I can answer the café door opens again.

“Be back in a tick,” says Owen, and flies behind the counter.