One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December

But then it had also been the room where the ugly end scenes of her marriage had played out too; the traded insults, the wall that had needed repainting after Alice hurled a cup of coffee at Brad and only just missed. She liked to tell herself that she’d intended to miss, but he sure had gone from bringing out the best in her to the worst in her in a very short space of time.

If this were a movie, Alice could see herself sitting alone at this table, a solitary figure as the end credits rolled and cinema goers were left bereft of their happy ending. Maybe it was melodramatic to cast herself as the crazy cat lady already given that she was still shy of her thirtieth birthday, but some days she really did just want to give it all up and go and sit in the attic in her wedding dress until the cobwebs choked her.

Picking listlessly at the pasta, Alice’s gaze slid to the unopened pile of bills. Ignoring them wasn’t helping, she knew that. She’d eat this cardboard dinner, and then she’d be brave and open them, because just the sight of them was making her feel ill and that was no way to go on. Flicking the TV on for dinner company proved little solace. EastEnders blared from BBC1, all garish lipstick and shouty arguments in the Queen Vic, and Alice had a self-imposed ban on Central in case Brad and Felicity unexpectedly appeared and scorched her eyeballs out with their passionate on-screen clinches. That left her with a straight choice between a nature documentary about hedgehogs or yet another re-run of The Good Life. She went for the latter, and ended up thinking how lovely Tom was to Barbara even though they didn’t have two pennies to rub together, and remembering how much happier she and Brad had been before he got famous and switched his wellington boots for Armani ones.

Pushing her dinner away and pulling her wine towards her, Alice laid her head on the table and allowed herself to indulge in a few tears. And then she poured a second glass of wine and cried some more; bigger, snottier, shoulder-shaking sobs that made her knock her drink back too quickly and refill her glass for a third, ill-advised time. Within the hour she was at her own pity party for one, which frankly beat the pants off her lonely, sober dinner for one, or at least it did for the glorious half an hour when she turned the radio up loud and wailed along to any sad song she could find on the dial.

When the bottle was finally as empty as her stomach, Alice flopped back into the chair again, her cheek on the dining table, her eyes closed because all she could see when they were open was that humungous, frightening pile of bills again. If I close my eyes, it might disappear, she thought. She’d heard all about positive thinking from Hazel down at the cottages. Maybe if she wished really, really hard, they’d be gone when she opened her eyes. Alice tried. She really did give it her very best shot, which only served to make it an all crushing blow when she opened her eyes and found the pile of bills still there, even bigger than when she’d closed her eyes, if that was even possible.

Any traces of wine-fuelled high spirits abandoned her there on her kitchen table, as did her resolution that she could find a way to hold onto her beloved manor.

As she fell into a heavy, troubled sleep she thought for the second time that day of the Airstream in the garden. Only this time, she saw herself living in it on a muddy campsite like a scene from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, and all of her new gypsy friends coming out with sticks and big growly dogs to defend her whenever Brad the terrible turned up in his Range Rover and poncey Armani boots.

‘I’m going to live in the caravan.’

Niamh looked at Alice as if she’d just said she was planning to fly to the moon and should be back in time for lunch. Alice just nodded, her eyes trained on the edge of the woodland and the caravan that lay beyond.

‘It came to me yesterday after you left.’

Niamh frowned. ‘I only cancelled your newspapers, Alice, not your whole life. Have you had a knock on the head?’

‘I’m serious, Niamh. I thought about it all day yesterday and it might just work.’

It was more of an economy with the truth than an actual lie. She hadn’t thought of it yesterday, she’d thought of it at about four o’ clock that morning as she’d peeled her cheek from the dining table and made her way blearily up to bed. Her dreams had been full of the Airstream, muddled and messed up, but they’d sown the seed of a more plausible idea that had gripped her from the moment she’d properly woken up.

Pluto dropped his ball at Niamh’s feet and she picked it up and hurled it across the grass. ‘You’re going to have to spell this out. I’m not seeing how you moving into the caravan will help.’

‘Because if I live in the caravan, I can rent the house out to someone else to pay the mortgage.’

Niamh paused. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’

A frown creased Alice’s brow. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I don’t know … I just thought there were rules around that sort of stuff.’

Alice chewed her lip. ‘Then I’ll get it sorted so I can. I mean it, Niamh. This is the only way I can think of not to let Borne Manor go completely, or at least until I’m ready to leave on my own terms, rather than because of Felicity bloody Shaw.’

Niamh fell silent for a moment and then reached down and felt around on the ground behind the bench. When she straightened she held a half-empty bottle of rum in her hand, the emergency supply they kept there for extra cold winter mornings or moments of dire need. Moving from the grandeur and luxury of Borne Manor into a caravan that probably wasn’t even watertight definitely fell into the latter category. Tipping a good snifter into each of their coffee mugs, she clanked her cup against Alice’s.

‘Let’s drink these then and go and view your new home.’

‘It’s … it’s …’ Niamh paused, stepping into the caravan behind Alice ten minutes later. It had taken almost five minutes to prise the door open, and the first thing that hit them was the pungent smell of damp when a hard tug had finally wrenched it from its seal.

‘It’s kind of cute?’ Alice finished for her, seeing the same battered wooden interior as Niamh, though through more rose-tinted glasses. ‘Let’s open the windows, get rid of the damp smell. It’ll be fine once it’s aired.’

‘You think?’ Niamh’s gaze swept from the lumpy double bed at one end of the caravan to the threadbare seating at the other, taking in the tatty kitchenette and holey lino on the way. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

Alice stepped along the central aisle and they both reached for a wall to steady themselves as the caravan lurched downwards at one end.

‘Oops! Legs must need putting down.’ Alice smiled nervously. ‘The bathroom’s in there,’ she added, waving an expansive hand towards a slim door beside the bed. ‘There’s a loo and everything.’

She looked back over her shoulder at her friend’s doubtful expression. ‘Don’t pull that face. Work with me here, I need your vision. You’re an artist; can’t you see it as a blank canvas ready to be made gorgeous?’ She ran her hand over the faded wooden kitchen cupboard. ‘A rub down here, a lick of varnish there … some pretty curtains maybe?’

Alice watched Niamh study the interior, silently willing her to see beyond the shabbiness. Slowly, her friend began to nod.

‘Yes? You see it?’ Alice took Niamh’s fledgling encouragement and ran with it. ‘I looked on the net today, you should see some of the vintage Airstream makeovers I’ve found. It might be a bit of an ugly duckling now, but it’s got potential, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ Alice needed Niamh to share her vision; not least because she couldn’t sew so much as a button on while Niamh could operate her state of the art sewing machine with her eyes closed.

‘It’s an old girl, but she’s got good bone structure, so just maybe,’ Niamh said, ever cautious.

Alice nodded. ‘She’s Greta bloody Garbo!’

‘Steady on. Let’s start at Dot Cotton and work our way up.’

Suitably sobered, Alice ran through the basics she could remember from the eBay seller she’d bought it from. ‘Everything works. The water, gas, electrics, everything should be fine once it’s had a spruce up.’

‘Heating?’ Niamh pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her fingers as she spoke.

Alice nodded again, even though she couldn’t precisely remember the heating being mentioned. ‘I’ll be snug as a bug.’

‘A bed bug, probably,’ Niamh said, casting a glance over the tired-looking mattress. Alice followed suit and then breathed in deeply.

‘I’ll just bring my mattress topper down from the house. It’ll be fine.’

They both turned as Pluto appeared in the doorway, a heavy breathing thud of paws as he dropped his damp ball on the grubby floor and rolled his good eye at them hopefully.

‘Not on Alice’s new carpet, Plute!’ Niamh scolded, earning herself a nudge in the ribs for her sarcasm as they headed out of the caravan and back to normality. It didn’t escape Alice’s notice that it was a degree or two warmer outside than it was inside the caravan, despite the early morning frost. She made a mental note to order the highest possible tog-rated quilt later. Was arctic-tog even a thing? Dithering as they crunched back over the lawns towards the house, she really hoped so.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Robinson Duff frowned out of the passenger window of the taxi as it slowed to a halt outside Borne Manor. Set well back from the road along a sweeping drive, the house was nothing like Robinson’s sister had led him to believe. She’d used words like modern and cutting edge, he distinctly remembered their telephone conversation when she’d raved about having found him the perfect place on the internet.

This place wasn’t modern. As soon as he was settled they’d be having another conversation, one that began with something distinctly like ‘why the hell have you posted me out to Middle Earth for six months? What do you think I am, a fucking hobbit?’

Lounging splendidly in the watery afternoon sunshine, it was cute on a grand scale, the kind of house you might see on the English Tourism website alongside rolling green countryside and adverts for Shakespeare.

Robinson didn’t do cute. Jesus, the mellow stone walls were practically pink, and was that wisteria winding its way around the huge, old, wooden front door? It made him think of fairy stories and afternoon tea, not usual or welcome thoughts for a man more accustomed to packed stadiums and the technicalities of a recording studio. Who the hell lived in a place like this? Goldilocks, maybe?

‘This is definitely you,’ the driver confirmed, glancing at the satnav app on his iPhone clipped to the dashboard. ‘I’ll get your bags out of the boot, shall I?’

Robinson unhooked his seatbelt with a resigned sigh. ‘Looks that way.’

Inside Borne Manor, Alice paced barefoot across the cool flagstones of the square entrance hall. She’d fallen for the house as soon as she’d first set foot on those flagstones, picturing the grand stone fireplace alive with flames in winter and a cheery jug of flowers on the central table in springtime. The sound of car doors slamming had her heart bumping around behind her ribs. The new tenant must have arrived. Her heart didn’t know whether to soar or sink.

One of the benefits of being with Brad had been access to decent legal advice, and this had served her well over the last couple of weeks when she’d decided to rent the house out. Brad hadn’t been bothered; as long as he didn’t have to cover the mortgage payments, he was fine with whatever Alice wanted to do where the manor was concerned – or so the message came back from the solicitor who’d also been responsible for making the switch from mortgage payer to landlady a relatively easy one. Alice herself hadn’t needed to be involved in the legal ins and outs, so she’d spent her days clearing out her personal effects in order to prepare the house for its new inhabitants.

It had all happened with quite indecent speed once the ball was rolling; from ‘on the market’ to ‘six-month rental secured’ within a few days of being on the agent’s books.

It was mildly surprising that the new people hadn’t even bothered to come and view the house before signing on the dotted line, but Alice was just relieved to know that she was still the legal owner of Borne Manor, even if she didn’t get the joy of living in it, for the next few months at least.

Three raps on the doorknocker. It was time to meet the lucky new people who’d get to call the manor home, and then it would be time for Alice to move into her own new home too. She took a deep, calming breath, arranged her smile, and then reached out for the door handle.

Robinson watched the taxi disappear off down the drive and then knocked the huge blacked doorknocker three times and waited. It struck him as weird that the homeowners had insisted on meeting him here themselves rather than arranging for a key to be waiting.

In truth he’d have preferred to skip the tea, biscuits and guided tour, but then he was in England now, the homeland of, well, tea, biscuits and guided tours, so he steeled himself to suck it up and get rid of them as soon as he possibly could.

Setting his Goldilocks fantasy aside, he laid himself a private bet that the door would be opened by an elderly guy in tweed or his equally elderly wife in a woollen twinset and pearls. Or a butler, maybe? He’d seen enough movies about big English houses, there was an outside possibility of staff in a place like this.

Maybe living here for a while wouldn’t be so bad if there was someone around to help keep the fridge stocked with beer. Maybe he’d get really lucky and land up with a guy who liked to shoot pool, too … Robinson’s daydream came to a halt as he heard the catch on the inside of the door move, and a second or so later it swung wide.

Well, hell. Maybe there was something to those fairy stories after all, because it seemed that he’d been right first time around. This house was straight out of the pages of a beautifully illustrated children’s book, and even odder still, it appeared very much as if Goldilocks actually did live here.

Okay, so maybe she’d switched the pinafore dress for ripped jeans and a sweater that slid off one shoulder, but her hair was bang on the money. Golden ripples that fell past her elbows, and nervous, startlingly blue eyes that looked into his as her lips curved into a slow, uncertain smile.

‘Mr Duff? I’m Alice McBride.’

She stuck her hand out and Robinson dropped his bags onto the wide stone step so he could take it. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the three bears weren’t anywhere in sight behind her, he slid his hand into hers.

She glanced over his too, and then managed to frown and keep that fixed little smile in place all at the same time.

She had a surprisingly strong handshake for a girl who appeared so delicate on first glance.

‘Come in, come in,’ she said, letting go of his fingers at last and stepping aside to allow him entry into the hall. More fairytale stuff. The hallway was big enough to count as a room in its own right, and the fire crackling in the hearth took the chill from the air. His hostess glanced around outside in the empty driveway for a moment and then banged the front door shut and turned to him.

‘Will the rest of your family be joining you later?’

‘My family?’ he frowned, nonplussed.

Alice faltered.

‘I’m sorry, I just assumed, given the size of the house and all …’ she trailed off, and a rose-petal warmth tinted her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth from the fireplace.

‘Maybe later. It’s just me for now.’

Robinson didn’t elaborate, and found himself irritated by her automatic assumption. The last thing he planned on doing was sharing his domestic arrangements with strangers. He’d come here to get away from prying eyes and nosy neighbours, not hurl himself headlong into the middle of village gossip.

Alice recovered herself well, switching that polite smile of hers straight back on.

‘Shall I show you around, or would you like a cup of tea? You must be exhausted after all the travelling.’

How very English. Welcoming as she was clearly trying to be, what Robinson really needed her to do was to leave him alone to get his head together.

‘Actually, you’re right. I am exhausted. Maybe we could take a rain check on the grand tour until tomorrow? I’m sure I can find somewhere to lay my head.’

He noticed how Alice blinked two or three times as she deciphered the request to leave hidden behind his polite words.

‘Right. Right, yes, of course.’

She spoke haltingly, that smile still there but no longer touching her eyes. She seemed momentarily stuck, wiping her palms on her jeans as if she wasn’t sure which way to go. He looked down at her bare feet and hoped she wasn’t planning to tackle the gravel driveway without shoes.

‘Okay, so I’ll leave you to it then,’ she said eventually, and then, oddly, she added, ‘it’s just this way,’ and turned and disappeared through one of the wide doorways that led off the hall.

Curious, he followed her and found himself heading into the kitchen.

‘This is the kitchen,’ she said, redundantly. He watched as she trailed her fingers over the central island as she passed it, almost an affectionate stroke. ‘The oven can be a bit temperamental, I can show you how to coax it, if you like.’

‘I’m not much of a chef,’ he murmured. An understatement. He’d barely cooked more than bacon and eggs in his life.

‘Right.’

She reached the backdoor, and then turned with her hand on the latch.

‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, her eyes moving from him to sweep slowly around the room.

Was it an English thing to leave by the back door? If it was he’d never heard of it. He watched as she stepped outside and pulled on a pair of bright red rain boots from beside a bench by the door, her curtain of hair swishing around her shoulders as she straightened. That resolved the shoe issue, at least.

‘Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

He nodded, and then realised he had no idea where she lived.

‘How do I find you?’

She glanced away from him across the gardens. ‘Easy. I’m over there.’

Turning away, she started to tramp across the damp grass.

He watched her go for a few seconds, confused.

‘You live in my garden?’ he called after her. She paused, then turned back around.

‘Well, no, not exactly,’ she said, holding up her finger. ‘If you check the lease you’ll see that you get the house and the top lawn. I’ve got the rest of the land.’

He frowned, lost.

‘My place is just the other side of the trees,’ she said. ‘I can have a fence put in to divide the garden more clearly, if you like?’ She looked at him testily. ‘I didn’t because it seemed a bit unnecessary, but maybe I was wrong.’

Robinson realised that he hadn’t just been being polite when he’d said he was tired. He was exhausted all the way down to his bones, and try as he might he couldn’t work out what the hell was going on here. He needed a bath, a beer, and his bed, wherever that was.

‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he said, and she gave him the smallest of perfunctory waves and set off again across the grass.

In the caravan a couple of hours later, Alice went into battle with the archaic heater and lost. She wasn’t altogether surprised; disappointed, but not especially surprised given that it was a game of luck to get the gas rings on the cooker to work and the water pump was distinctly dodgy. The eBay seller who’d sold her the caravan had certainly added a gloss of efficiency to the advert that wasn’t strictly true, but Alice wasn’t to be deterred. This was home now. She was just relieved to have a roof over her head, even if it was made of tin and not one hundred per cent draught proof.

Making herself a sandwich as she warmed the kettle to fill two hot water bottles, Alice considered her new neighbour. The last thing she’d expected when she opened the door to Borne Manor that afternoon was a six-foot-two cowboy, much less a cowboy with broad shoulders, clear green eyes and something about his guarded manner that rendered her mildly speechless. He was … interesting.

Climbing into the huge bed, Alice set herself up for the evening. The memory foam mattress from the house had been a pain in the ass to lug down to the caravan, but boy was she glad of it now. She was equally glad of the myriad pillows and the cloud of quilts, and especially thankful for the luxury fur throw she’d given to Brad for Christmas that he hadn’t bothered to take. The rest of the caravan might be lacking in amenities, but the bed was hotel luxurious with her five-hundred-thread-count bed linen thrown into the mix.

Warm and fed, Alice lay back and pulled the quilt up to her nose. Through the trees she could just about make out the honey glow of lights in the kitchen up at the house, and she could imagine standing by the Aga to warm her bum as the underfloor heating warmed her toes.

Bah. Who needed all that jazz anyway? She wiggled her toes on the hot water bottle and switched her Kindle on, the only light inside the dark caravan. Clicking through to the internet to browse for something new to read, Alice scrawled through the recommendations and huffed softly as a scorching cowboy romance appeared on the screen. The blurb promised a hot Texan bad boy who could do a lot more than play the guitar with his wicked hands. Her index finger hovered over the buy button for a second, and then she thought better of it and scrolled forward to the next recommendation. Cowboys might make good romance novel fodder, but she’d had her fill of romance for at least the next twenty years. All that romance had got her lately was a broken heart, a dodgy heater and a no-fixed-abode address. Resolute, she clicked buy on the latest gory thriller to hit the top of the charts and settled down to read.

Up at the manor, Robinson picked up the coffee he’d just made and turned out the kitchen lights. Beyond the windows he could see only evening darkness, no sign of any lights or life beyond the tree line. This really was turning into the strangest of days. Bizarre as it was, it would seem that he’d flown straight out of Nashville and become the lord of his very own English manor, complete with fairies at the bottom of the garden.

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