The House of Birds and Butterflies

Sighing, she ripped the page out of the notebook, folded it and shoved it through the letterbox, then made her way back down the path, peering into the passenger window of the Range Rover as she went. It was all cream leather seats and a dizzyingly busy, glossy dashboard.

She had reached the end of the path and was waiting for a Volvo to pass before she could cross the road, when she heard the door of Peacock Cottage open behind her, and a voice call her name.

‘Abby? Abby Field?’

She closed her eyes, summoning up some inner patience, ready to be as charming to the mysterious, already irritating JW as she could manage.

Then she turned, took a step towards him and found that, while at least her anger disappeared in an instant, she couldn’t actually speak at all.

Chapter Four

The mistle thrush is a large brown bird with a spotty tummy like a bread-and-butter pudding. It got its name because it likes to eat mistletoe berries from the plant people kiss beneath at Christmas. Its song is a bit like a high-pitched recorder – it’s pretty, but can be quite repetitive.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

‘You are Abby Field, aren’t you?’ the man asked. ‘You left me this?’ He waved the piece of paper she had pushed through his letterbox, and she felt her neck heat with embarrassment.

‘Yes, I – we got your note, at the reserve.’ It was a coherent sentence, which she was thankful for. She wasn’t sure who she’d imagined JW would be – someone more obviously curmudgeonly, perhaps a contemporary of Penelope or a similar age to the man she’d seen leaving the cottage a couple of days before. But he wasn’t, and neither was he Red Riding Hood’s grandma, or the witch who ate children.

He was, quite simply, gorgeous.

About her age, she thought, tall and slim built, but with wide shoulders and a suggestion from the definition of his arms under a navy, cotton jumper, that he kept himself fit. His nose was straight, his jaw firm, defined, and beneath the thick wavy mane of chocolate-coloured hair and matching brows, he had blue eyes. They were looking at her sternly, her notepaper scissored between the ends of two fingers, held with disdain, on the verge of being discarded.

‘And this is your response?’ he asked. His voice was deep; every word enunciated perfectly, no hint of a Suffolk accent. He could easily, she decided, be Penelope’s son. He had that same air of entitlement about him, the same chiselled features, a frown that was probably etched in permanently.

She took two steps forward. ‘You didn’t answer when I knocked, and I didn’t want to go away without responding. We don’t want you to be unhappy here, far from it, Mr—’ she stopped, realizing she had no idea what his name was.

‘I’m Jack,’ he supplied. He held out his hand, and she took it.

His skin was warm and dry, the shake firm. Closer to him, she could see the faintest hint of stubble, and a dink on the left side of his jaw – a friendly dimple that he probably despised. He smelt expensive. Of citrus and bergamot, like a posh cup of the Earl Grey you only got with champagne afternoon tea in fancy hotels.

‘So, you’re going to do something about it, are you?’ His voice had softened, questioning rather than accusatory when Abby continued to be tongue-tied, and she relaxed a fraction. ‘Only I don’t know if living in harmony is achievable, as nice an idea as it is.’

His expression was neutral, but was his eyebrow raised a millimetre? Was he making fun of her? She took a deep breath. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I am terribly sorry you feel so aggrieved by visitors to the nature reserve passing your cottage, both in their vehicles and on foot, and if there is anything you think I can practicably do to help reduce the stress it is causing you, without closing the reserve down, then please let me know what that is. I’ve had a look at the garden, and I think it’s very unlikely that walkers are actually crossing your lawn, and the woodland around it is accessible to all. The reserve has been open for decades, and you – well, you’ve been here a couple of days.’

Jack looked down at her, and Abby felt scrutinized in a way she hadn’t been before. She fidgeted, pulling her short ponytail tighter, widening her feet to give the impression of being steadfast and unwavering.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘How am I supposed to get any writing done when there’s a constant thrum of chatter outside the windows, walking boots pounding the gravel, cars groaning past at four miles an hour, every three minutes? I had thought this property was secluded.’

‘It’s not exactly Piccadilly Circus, is it?’ Abby shot back. ‘If you wanted to be completely undisturbed, why didn’t you rent out an island in the Hebrides?’

Jack folded his arms. ‘None were available at the time of asking.’

‘Right, well then. Not much more I can say, is there?’

‘So that’s it, you’re not going to do anything about it?’

Abby inhaled, waiting for her lungs to fill. ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what I can do. I can’t stop people walking and driving past, the reserve’s in trouble as it is, and my job is to encourage more visitors, not send them away. I can’t afford to soundproof your cottage, and while Penelope probably could, I’m not sure it would be a priority, and other than that I’m at a loss. Can’t you put on some really loud classical music or something, to drown them out?’

‘I can’t write to music. It needs to be quiet.’

‘Where did you write before this, then?’ Abby couldn’t help it; she was intrigued.

‘I have a flat in London, but—’

‘London?’ Abby laughed. ‘And you’re complaining about a sleepy Suffolk nature reserve?’

‘I went to libraries, clubs – there were always places to go in London where I could think straight.’

‘So, go back there then,’ Abby said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She bit her lip.

Jack rewarded her with a humourless smile. ‘Point taken. If you do think of anything, I’d be keen to hear your ideas. I’m tearing my hair out here.’ He stepped back, one hand on the open door, and Abby knew it was her cue to leave.

‘Sure,’ she said, because she was feeling bad about her last comment. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.’

Jack nodded once, and then gently closed the door. Abby turned and walked back to the reserve, the blackbirds’ song drowned out by her clamouring thoughts.

‘So, come on then, what is this fucker like?’ Gavin flicked ash off his cigarette, shoulders hunched against the chill. Rosa wrapped her cream wool duffel coat more tightly around her.

The temperature had dipped that afternoon, the clouds barrelling over like they were late for an important engagement, and by closing time the reserve was chilly and grey. The three of them were standing at the far end of the car park, where the designated smoking area was. Rosa and Abby were ready to go home, while Gavin had said he needed to stay and finish clearing an area of scrubland but couldn’t wait any longer to hear about Abby’s unsuccessful visit.

‘He’s … he’s a bit posh,’ she settled on. No way was she going to tell Gavin she found their new neighbour physically attractive, even if his personality left a lot to be desired.

‘And? Come on Abby, spit it out.’

‘He’s tall, untidy dark hair, blue eyes, cross face. He genuinely wanted me to send all the visitors away and seemed very disgruntled when I couldn’t. Then I told him to go away.’

Rosa gasped. ‘You did what? I thought you said to Penelope you’d placated him?’

‘He wasn’t shouting at me by the end, which is a good sign, and that comment was a mistake. He said there were loads of places he could write in peace in London, so I told him to go back there. I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated.’

‘Hang on a moment,’ Rosa grabbed her arm. ‘He’s a writer? What’s his name?’

Abby grinned. Rosa was the biggest bookworm she knew, and probably, along with Octavia, was the reason the community library managed to stay open. ‘He won’t be well known.’

‘How do you know that? How many authors would you recognize if you bumped into them in the street?’

‘J.K. Rowling,’ Abby said, raising a finger, and then hesitated.

‘Exactly!’ Rosa clapped her hands. ‘So, we know he’s called Jack, and he’s tall with dark hair. Age?’

‘My age, probably, maybe a couple of years older.’ Abby pictured him again, surprised how easily she could conjure up Jack’s face in her mind, and then felt a prickle of something, as if a shadow was passing through her thoughts. ‘Maybe I did …? No.’

‘Did what?’ Rosa asked, excitement threading through her words.

‘Perhaps – I mean, maybe I’d seen him somewhere before. But I think that’s just because you’re suggesting he might be famous. It wasn’t like – wham – there’s Al Pacino or anything. He was … he acted like he was owed everything, though. Like it was his right to have all the peace and quiet in the world, because he’d moved into the cottage.’

‘Snooty sod,’ Gavin said. ‘Not inclined to sort out the bindweed now.’

‘I will!’ Rosa said. ‘Not sort out the bindweed, but I’m going to have to go and see if he is a well-known writer. Just imagine if he was?’

‘What difference would it make?’ Abby asked. ‘We can’t exactly advertise him as a feature of the reserve, in the same way Flick Hunter’s going to draw the crowds to Reston Marsh. He’s already made it clear he wants no distractions.’

‘It’ll be exciting for us, though,’ Rosa said. ‘A real live celebrity in the vicinity.’

‘A real live, pain in the ass celebrity,’ Gavin added.

‘We don’t even know that he is,’ Abby said. ‘He could write medical textbooks, history magazines, dull business reports – anything. Just because he said he was a writer, doesn’t mean he’s Stephen King’s hot nephew.’

‘Oh, so he’s hot, is he?’ Gavin asked.

Abby cursed inwardly.

‘Tomorrow,’ Rosa said, clasping her hands together. ‘I’ll find an excuse to go there tomorrow. See how he’s getting on, that kind of thing.’

‘Poor guy’s not going to know what’s hit him, with all this interest and fluttering about.’ Gavin waggled his fingers and shook his head.

‘Two minutes ago you were calling him a snooty sod,’ Abby protested.

‘Yeah, well … maybe I’ve changed my mind. Us guys have to stick together.’

The following day began with a short, and somewhat depressing, debrief. Wild Wonders had started the previous evening, and Abby – along with all the other staff at Meadowsweet – had tuned in to see what they were up against. The resounding conclusion was that it was professional, interesting, and made nature accessible to people in a way Abby managed to on a much smaller scale.

The female presenter, Flick Hunter, was the perfect anchor. Undeniably beautiful, she treated the camera as if it was a close friend, speaking to her unseen viewers with warmth and passion about the wildlife being uncovered, day-by-day, at nearby Reston Marsh. Grudgingly, they all admitted that, while it might not be ideal in some respects, promoting nature could never be a bad thing.

Later that morning, Jonny was hovering by the binoculars. He looked friendly and cosy in a cornflower-blue jumper, his fair hair neater than usual. The reception desk was momentarily quiet, and so Abby left Maureen, one of the volunteers who was working alongside her, to cover it and went over to say hello.

‘How’s it going, Jonny? Any closer to making a decision? You could always get Rosa to go over the specifications of a few pairs with you.’

‘Oh, err, no thanks. I’m fine. I’ll get there in the end. Good of you to offer, though. Where is Rosa, by the way?’

‘Funny story,’ Abby said. ‘She’s gone to spy on the guy who’s moved into Peacock Cottage, you know that white house on the approach road to the car park? Thinks he might be some famous author or something.’

Jonny frowned, and Abby wondered why until a hand landed on her shoulder. Looking down, she saw it had talon-like red nails.

‘Octavia,’ she said, turning. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just dropping these off for Rosa. Where is she, my love?’

Octavia held up a wicker basket full of the crocheted birds that she made for the reserve’s gift shop. Abby loved them. She already had four on her bedroom windowsill – a puffin, wren, blue tit and greenfinch – and from a quick glance, could see that she would be buying half of Rosa’s new stock before she’d even put it on display.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ Abby said, picking up a robin that was fat, round and utterly desirable.

Octavia gave her a kind smile, slowly took the robin back and popped it in her handbag. ‘I’ll take this one home with me, and you can come and pick him up later. I’ll bring Rosa a new one next week.’

‘Octavia, you don’t have to give me the robin!’

‘What robin?’ She winked, her eyelid a shimmering green, which went well with her dyed, carroty curls. Slightly shorter than Abby, with a large bosom always clad in bright clothing, Octavia was a good-natured whirlwind in Meadowgreen. Her vantage point in the chapel library and convenience store was the ideal spot from which to gather and circulate her gossip. Abby loved her, though didn’t always feel in the mood for her outgoing, inquisitive nature. She was equally blessed and cursed living next door to her.

‘That’s so kind of you,’ Abby said. ‘And Rosa will be back in a moment, she’s just nipped over to Peacock Cottage.’

‘Oh yes,’ Octavia said. ‘This new resident. What do you know about him? Is he a personal friend of Penelope’s?’

Abby glanced at the office door before replying. ‘He’s already complained about reserve visitors trampling through his garden. He seems—’

She didn’t get to finish her sentence because Rosa burst through the door, emitted a high-pitched squeak, and gestured to Abby to follow her into the centre’s airy café.

‘Will you be OK here for a bit?’ Abby asked Maureen.

‘Of course, chuck,’ Maureen replied, her glasses chain shaking. ‘Take as long as you need.’

Abby arrived at Rosa’s table in the café to find that Jonny and Octavia were already there. She felt a spark of sympathy for Jack, who was clearly the object of this impromptu huddle, and thought how ironic that the complaint about his invasion of privacy had, in only a day, sent everyone digging deeper.

‘Come on then,’ Stephan said, bringing over a tray of hot drinks and doling them out before sitting down. ‘Tell us all.’

‘OK.’ Rosa took a deep breath, and then jiggled excitedly, her curls bouncing. ‘Oh my God, guys, the man living in Peacock Cottage is Jack Westcoat!’

Abby frowned, trying to dredge the name from her memory, and found she couldn’t. Stephan and Jonny looked as perplexed as she felt.

But Octavia clapped her hands over her mouth, and Abby wondered if she was about to burst into tears. Then, she exploded.

‘Jack Westcoat?’ she screeched. ‘As in, acclaimed thriller writer, puncher of fellow author at recent awards ceremony, once-glowing reputation now in tatters, all-round literary bad boy Jack Westcoat?’

‘That,’ Rosa said, ‘is exactly right. And wow, is he smouldering in real life too.’

Abby’s frown deepened. She had perhaps seen something in one of the café copies of the Daily Mail about some scandal involving two famous authors, but there was nothing concrete to hold onto.

‘This is incredible,’ Octavia was saying, her eyes flitting between them as the cogs worked. ‘Think what he could do to raise the profile of the library.’

‘I’m not sure he wants the publicity,’ Abby said slowly. ‘He seemed quite keen on maintaining his privacy when I met him.’

‘And not after what happened,’ Rosa said. ‘I mean, the story is crazy, like something from a soap opera. But he was polite to me, if not exactly delighted, when I turned up on his doorstep to see how he was getting on. Like you, Abby, I’m not sure what he expects us to do. He’s probably just venting his frustration.’

‘He must have a lot of it if he goes around punching people,’ Stephan said, sipping his coffee.

‘That was just the once,’ Octavia said. ‘Before that, he was one of the country’s up-and-coming author superstars. Granted, he’d put a murky past behind him – university high jinks that got out of hand, apparently, but he’d become a true golden boy by all accounts, until this latest incident. I’ll have to find out what happened now, why the punch got thrown. Goodness me, it’s really him?’

‘I recognized him from the photographs I’d seen in the paper when it happened.’ Rosa hugged her mug to her chest. ‘He must be hiding out here, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Writing his new book, staying out of the limelight.’

‘I wonder if Penelope knows who she has staying in her house,’ Stephan said. ‘It’s not exactly got the same kudos as Wild Wonders, has it?’

‘But he’s not going to be involved in the reserve, is he?’ Abby pressed. ‘There’s no reason anyone else should know that he’s here.’

‘Do I sense some protectiveness there, my love?’ Octavia asked.

Abby shrugged. After his initial priggish note and their less than friendly encounter, she suddenly felt sorry for their new neighbour. Everyone had areas of their past they’d rather keep quiet about, and it must be worse if everything you did played out under a media spotlight. Stephan clearly thought there was no excuse for him hitting someone, and maybe it was unforgivable and Jack was a world-class dick, but nothing, Abby knew, was ever as simple as it seemed.

‘I just don’t know if we should go spreading it about,’ she said. ‘Especially as he’s so adamant he doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Ah, Abby, you always were the sensible one.’ Octavia patted her hand. ‘Still, no harm in asking, a few months down the line once he’s integrated himself a bit more in village life, if he’d fancy giving a talk at the library. I expect I could rustle up my biggest-ever crowd.’

‘Octavia,’ Stephan said, ‘he punched someone at a very public event, and now he’s taken up residence in a secluded cottage on Penelope’s estate. He’s unlikely to want to advertise his presence by coming to talk to the great and good of Meadowgreen.’

‘In a couple of months, I said. I’m not that much of a dragon.’

Abby sipped her tea. She couldn’t help but think that having Jack Westcoat here, with all the interest and scandal he seemed to have brought with him, was going to complicate things.

She had to focus on bringing visitors to the reserve for all the right reasons, and now not only did the new resident of Peacock Cottage seem averse to other human beings, but he might draw unwanted attention all of his own. Did authors get paparazzi appearing on their doorsteps like actors? The man in the Mercedes had clearly been Jack’s friend – the words she’d overheard were much friendlier than her encounter with him. But was he really that much of a celebrity? If he was, then she couldn’t imagine anyone – the press, regulars, holidaymakers – being interested in the nightingales on the reserve when there was a real-life, disgraced superstar author in their midst. And – Abby thought ruefully as Jonny, who hadn’t said a word the whole time, quietly excused himself – an incredibly attractive, disgraced superstar author to boot.

As the weeks passed, the Indian summer they had been enjoying slipped slowly out of sight, like a shy guest leaving a party, and autumnal weather took over with full force. Abby noticed there was a new vibrancy about the reserve, not necessarily because it was busier, but because there was suddenly a whole lot to talk about. Wild Wonders had been an instant ratings hit according to Stephan, who was watching every episode. Gavin and Marek were also unashamedly regular viewers, and Abby was finding their conversations on the subject more and more juvenile.

‘Did you see what Flick Hunter was wearing last night?’

‘Bit low cut, wasn’t it?’

‘Is anyone complaining, though?’ Marek said thoughtfully, leaning on his rake handle like something out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Penelope even weighed in on the discussions occasionally, much to everyone’s surprise.

‘How are our figures?’ she asked one Friday afternoon, when Abby was rolling her neck, thinking about the weekend and a visit to see Tessa. ‘It seems those television bods may not have sunk us, after all.’

‘Didn’t I say?’ Stephan said, walking over. ‘It’s not the world’s most competitive market, is it, nature? Enough to go around.’

‘There may be enough nature to go around, but are there enough visitors? That’s what we need to determine.’

Abby looked through the figures on the computer. ‘We’re down fractionally on last week, but the weather’s been much greyer over the last few days, which would account for this small a drop. It’s pretty consistent.’ She smiled, hoping her positivity would rub off on her boss.

‘Consistency is a start,’ Penelope said, ‘but what we want is to be aiming higher, scaling that mountain, not strolling through the foothills. How are your walks going?’

‘They’re quite successful. I’ve got one next Tuesday that’s fully booked.’

‘Keep it up. Well done. Good work.’ She addressed them each in turn, Rosa’s eyes widening at the unexpected encouragement.

‘Dear God,’ Stephan whispered once Penelope had retreated. ‘What’s got into her?’

‘Maybe she’s been on a social skills course,’ Rosa said. ‘What about Monday, when she was in London? What was that about?’

‘Who knows?’ Abby shrugged. ‘It’s not like she’s going to come back with goody bags for us all and share her escapades over a hot chocolate.’ The image made them laugh, Penelope’s good mood infecting them.

‘Seen any more of our literary antihero recently?’ Stephan asked as he wheeled the mop back towards the café.

‘Nope,’ Rosa said. ‘Not a peep. He’s backed down easily.’ She raised an eyebrow at Abby.

She was wearing a denim shirt that would have looked outdated on anyone else, but Rosa, with her beautiful colouring, her bold Jamaican hair and dark eyes, was always stylish. Sometimes Abby wished she had her friend’s elegance, but as lots of her time was spent out on the reserve, helping the wardens, running walks and messy activities, jeans or cargo trousers paired with a reserve-brand T-shirt or fleece were ideal for her, if not exactly eye-catching.

‘I’ve not heard from him either,’ Abby said, though she’d heard enough from everyone else about their new neighbour.

That was the other talking point adding to the buzz on the reserve. The fact that Octavia had been here when Rosa returned from her trip to establish Jack’s identity was the undoing of everything. Abby had noticed more familiar faces at Meadowsweet than she ever had before, people who she said hello to in the Skylark in the evenings, or bumped into at the chapel store, and who wouldn’t be able to tell a blackbird from a bullfinch. She just hoped the buzz stayed within Meadowgreen, and no journalists got hold of the news. She’d had to rub The lesser-spotted Jack Westcoat off the sightings blackboard on two occasions over the past couple of weeks.

She didn’t know how she felt about her encounter with Jack. He had been stubborn, certainly, and unreasonable to begin with, and finding out about his recent fall from grace should have been enough to cement her dislike of him.

But the truth was, her mind had returned to those few minutes on the pathway of Peacock Cottage more often than she would have liked, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone. She had enough to deal with – her booked-out walk for one thing. It was only a few days away now and the weather looked like it would be dry but cold. The thing she hadn’t told Penelope was that there were a couple of names on the list of attendees that she recognized.