'Then I'll stay at Mrs Delancey's. She said I was welcome to her spare room, if I didn't mind a bit of chaos. They've had an unexpected vacancy, apparently.'
Isabel Delancey's house? 'But why would you want to stay there?' The very idea had almost felled her.
'Because she doesn't give everyone a hard time,' her son had replied. He was wearing his woollen hat, even though it was almost twenty-six degrees Celsius outside. 'She just gets on with stuff. Doesn't hassle Kitty. She lives her own life.'
If it was meant to wound, it had worked. And Laura knew now how much she hated that woman. She had effortlessly stolen not just her husband but also her son.
'You do know she's been sleeping with your father?' she had spluttered, when she could not take the unfairness any more.
His derision had been devastating. 'Oh, don't be stupid,' he scoffed. 'You were there. You heard what he's been doing to her house. She hates Dad.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'You could say he's been shafting her, perhaps.'
'Anthony!'
'You know, I always felt bad when Dad said you were paranoid,' he had said. 'Now I think maybe he was right.' He had held up a hand at her protest, squeezed past her and let himself out. 'Ring me when you're next popping up this way. I don't think I'll be headed to London any time soon.'
She had heard his footsteps fade down the gravel drive, and tried to redirect the sob that had risen to her chest.
He would come round, she told herself firmly, straightening the remaining photographs on the hall table. A couple of weeks of living between his grandmother and his father, and he would come round. She couldn't think of him living in the Spanish House. If she had, she would have hurled her suitcase into the woods and run screaming after him.
The dog lifted his head when the bell rang. She opened the door, trying not to let Nicholas see the redness of her eyes. 'Are you ready?' He kissed her, then glanced down at the suitcase. 'That it?'
'For now,' she said. 'And . . . the dog. If you don't mind. I know we haven't discussed him.'
'Bring the horses, if you like,' he said lightly. 'I reckon we can squeeze two on to the patio if we try hard enough.'
She started to laugh, but it turned into a sob. She dropped her head into her hands.
'Hey . . . hey . . . I'm sorry. It's okay.'
'No,' she said, into his chest. 'It's not. My son hates me. He's going to live with that woman. I can't believe he's going to live with that woman.'
Nicholas's arms went round her. 'Well, it won't be for long,' he said, eventually.
'What do you mean?'
'Hopefully, in a very short time, we'll own that house. So in theory he'll still be living under your roof. Our roof.' He proffered a handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes. 'Linen . . . the same one?'
'My lucky one.'
She folded it neatly. Tried to keep her voice steady. 'Has she said yes, then?'
'Not exactly . . .' He studied her face. 'But I spoke to her this morning and when I said I was coming here she asked me to go round to talk to her.'
'And you think she wants to sell?'
'I can't imagine any other reason for her wanting to talk, can you?'
'She probably wants to seduce you too.' She sniffed.
Nicholas smoothed her hair away from her face. 'Oh, I think I'm immune to her particular charms. You can come with me, if you like. Make sure I behave myself.'
He lifted her suitcase and put it into the back of the car. Laura closed the door behind her, trying not to think of what it meant. She encouraged Bernie on to the back seat, then climbed into the front. It was a different car from the battered one he used to have, smarter. The doors closed with an expensively muted clunk.
'Actually, I won't,' she said.
'Won't what?'
'Get out of the car. I don't want to see her. I don't want to see them. I don't even want to see the bloody house.' She stared miserably at the dashboard. 'You talk to her. I'll wait in the car.'
Nicholas took her hand. He looked, she thought, as if nothing could discomfit him. 'It will be all right, you know,' he said, kissing her fingers. 'Today was always going to be the worst day. But Anthony will come round.'
Her other hand was in her pocket, closed round the piece of paper that had scorched through her sense of what was right, of who she was.
Laura bit her lip as the car headed down the drive towards the turning to the Spanish House. She was grateful for Nicholas's certainty. But that didn't mean he was right.
Who would have thought there was such simple pleasure to be found in making coffee in your own kitchen? Byron took a mug from the cupboard, then looked around the mobile home with satisfaction; it was far from luxurious, but it was not cramped. It was light and clean and, most importantly, it was his. His clothes in the drawers, his washing things in the bathroom. His newspaper left out to be retrieved from exactly the same place when he returned. It was somewhere he could call his own, if only for a while.
His dogs were lying, exhausted, on their sides. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force away his own tiredness by will-power. He had considered taking a short nap, but knew from experience that waking up could be so arduous that it was almost easier to go without sleep.
Two spoonfuls of coffee should do it. He needed as much caffeine as he could get into himself. He added plenty of sugar for good measure.
As he was about to sit down, there was a bad-tempered rapping at the door. He stood up wearily and opened it. Frank was waving a piece of paper, his ruddy face purple with anger. 'What's this, then?'
'I didn't want to disturb you,' said Byron. 'You said you were doing your accounts.'
'You've only been here five minutes. What the hell do you think you're doing buggering off already?'
'Frank--'
'Don't you Frank me. I gives you a chance, somewhere to live, sits you down at my dinner table and you's already taking advantage. I wasn't born yesterday, Byron Firth.'
'Listen--'
'No, you listen. I employed you to coppice that whole wood as fast as possible. You think you's going to muck me about, running backwards and forwards to see girls and whatnot, you can forget it.'
He turned away and shoved his hat back on his head. 'Mebbe I should have listened to what everyone said. "Oh, no," says Muriel. "Give the boy a chance. He was always such a good lad before . . ." Well. Plenty more where you came from,' he muttered, and strode away angrily.
'But I've done it,' Byron said.
'Done what?'
'The wood.'
Frank stopped in his tracks. 'The whole fourteen acres?'
'Yes. The hazel's stacked behind the Dutch barn. As we discussed.'
Frank wore the same duster coat whether it was minus ten or thirty degrees, and now the worn shoulders rose with disbelief. 'But--'
'I worked through the night.' He gestured at the piece of paper. 'You didn't read to the end. I've promised someone I'd be there for their birthday, and the only way I could do it was to work through. I went back out after dinner last night.'
'You done it all last night? What, in the dark?'
Byron grinned.
Frank reread the note, a slow smile spreading across his face. 'Well, blow me. You allus was a rum bugger, Byron Firth. And you ain't changed none. Bloody hell. Worked through the night.' He let out a great 'Hah!'
'So you're all right if I go, then? I'll be back Monday morning, if that's okay. To start on the twenty-three-acre plot.' Byron took a swig of his coffee.
'Your time's your own, son. Long as you ain't expecting me to keep you in torch batteries. Hah! Working through the night, eh? Wait till I tell Muriel. I reckon she must have put something in the Bakewell.'
They turned up early, as Kitty had guessed they would. Her new friends, disgorged from cars that spun in the driveway, or walking in giggling clumps through the trees to emerge at the end of the lane. She waved them in, pleased, finally, to belong. No longer embarrassed by the state of the house now that she knew everyone's focus was on the lake and ho
w quickly they could jump into it. Her mum had told her the previous evening that they would probably be moving again. When she had added that they would stay in the village, that Kitty would not have to change school, Kitty had felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She belonged here now. It was home.
'You all right?' she said to Anthony, who was pushing listlessly at a rubber dinghy, his face hidden.
'I bet she'll be back,' she said, laying an arm across his shoulders. 'She won't be able to leave you.'
'I saw her,' he said. 'She had her bag packed in the hall.'
Kitty knew about losing a parent. But she didn't know how it might feel to have one leave you voluntarily, and Anthony was so miserable she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.
They sat for some minutes, dangling their feet in the water. Around them, cabbage white butterflies fluttered on an invisible breeze, and an iridescent dragonfly hovered just inches from their feet, its bulbous eyes registering every detail of the two people on the bank.
As it darted away, she turned to him. 'It gets better,' she said, and he looked up at her from under his woollen hat. 'Life. Sometimes it can be really, really crap, and just as you think it's going to be like that for ever, it changes.'
'What's this?' he said. 'The Little House on the Prairie?'
'This time last year,' she said, 'I thought me and Mum and Thierry would never be happy again.'
He glanced in the direction of her eyes - to her mother chatting with the man in the suit, a necklace of daisies wilting round her neck, to her brother, who was throwing sticks into the lake for the puppy to fetch.
Then she put her arms round his waist, feeling his misery lessen at a human touch. She smiled, and eventually he smiled back - as if she was making him do something he didn't want to. She laughed then. She could make him smile. She was sixteen. She could do anything.
'Come on,' she said, breaking away from him and pulling off his hat. 'Let's go swimming.'
It was a little like being with Mr Cartwright all over again, Isabel thought. She was sitting quietly while a man explained things patiently as if he didn't expect her to understand.
'The new development would be very much in keeping with the surroundings. Ideally I'd like to retain the walled garden, have the houses facing the lake. It would be a sympathetic new build.'
'But you would want to buy the house and the land outright. We'd have to leave completely.'
'Not necessarily. If you were interested in one of the houses on the development we could build that into the deal at a preferential rate.' The pad with the figures lay on the old table in front of her as she sat beside Mr Trent, his pale linen suit oddly out of place next to the decrepit deck-chairs and rusting scaffolding. He thrust a hand into a pocket. 'I'm not sure how familiar you are with the local property market, so I looked up some other development sites to give you an idea of the ballpark amounts involved.' He handed her another piece of paper.
'And this is what the land was worth in each case?' she asked.
'In effect, yes. That's what the owners would have been paid for the house and land, and in most instances the buildings that stood there were demolished.'
'But if this place is unique, as you say, then it isn't a good guide.'
'It's hard to provide meaningful comparisons.'
'And you think there would be demand for houses in a place like this? A spot so isolated?'
'The Bartons and the surrounding area are becoming desirable commuter territory. Because of the lake, second-home buyers might be interested too. I consider this a calculated risk.'
Isabel glanced round at the house, which sat benignly behind its scaffolding, the red brick glowing in the mid-morning heat. Around them, a thrush sang a lazy scale and ducks scrabbled for something behind the reeds. On the lawn, teenagers were changing into swimwear or exclaiming over Kitty's presents. It was possible that he saw hesitation, perhaps even regret, in her face because he laid a hand on her elbow and spoke urgently.
'Mrs Delancey, I'll be frank in a way that is not necessarily wise for someone in my position. This place, this setting, is really special to me.' He seemed awkward now, as if honesty were new to him. 'I haven't been able to think of anything else since I saw it. But I don't think it's worth your while to put any more money into this house as it stands.'
'And why should I believe you, Mr Trent, when I seem to have been unwise in believing anyone else?'
He hesitated a beat. 'Because money talks. And if you sell to me, I will guarantee that financially you will be secure and also have the option to continue to live in this setting, if that's what you wish.'
'Mr Trent, you will understand that as a . . . single parent I have to do my best to provide for my children.'
'Of course.' He smiled.
'So I was thinking a figure along these lines.' Isabel scribbled on the pad, then sat back, as Mr Trent stared at it.
'That . . . that's quite a sum.'
'That's my asking price. As you say, Mr Trent, it's a very special setting.'
He was taken aback, but she didn't care.
Thierry appeared at her shoulder. 'Mum?'
'Just a minute, T.'
'Can I set up a den in the house?'
She pulled him to her. Over the last few days he had tried to replicate Byron's presence in the house. He had been 'coppicing', collecting bundles of twigs, had gathered food and firewood, and now, of course, the den. She understood. She felt Byron's absence too. 'You don't want to swim with the others?'
'I will afterwards.'
'Go on, then,' she said. 'But if you're going to make one in the boiler room, don't leave my good cups and plates in there, okay?'
As he ran off, she turned back to Mr Trent. 'That's it, Mr Trent. That's what I need in order to leave. That's the price of uprooting my children again.'
He began to bluster: 'Mrs Delancey, you do realise this house will cost you a fortune to renovate?'
'We've been living comfortably in chaos for several months. It no longer bothers us.' She thought of the bath, which she had finished installing that morning. She had tightened the last nut, turned on the taps, then watched the initially brackish water clear and run gurgling down the plughole. It had given her as much satisfaction as the completion of a complicated symphony.
He stared at the paper. 'That's significantly higher than the market value.'
'As I understand it, market value is simply what someone is prepared to pay.'
She could see he was wrongfooted. But he wanted the house. And she had done her sums. She had worked out the bare minimum she needed to buy a decent place, and to provide her family with a financial cushion.
And then she had added some.
'That's the figure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to help with the party.'
It really was like Mr Cartwright all over again, she thought, except this time she had understood what was going on. Better than anyone could have imagined.
'I'll have one last look round, if that's okay,' Nicholas Trent said, blowing out his cheeks as he gathered up his papers. 'Then I'll come back and let you know.'
Kitty had barely believed it when Mum had told her what she'd done.
'You did it yourself? And it really works?'
Isabel had held up her hands. 'Plumber's hands,' she had said, then hugged her daughter, who, streaked with pondweed, was wrapped in an old towel. She didn't tell her about the hours she had spent swearing at the incomprehensible diagrams, wrenching at too-tight nuts, the frequent sprays of escaping water that had drenched her. 'Happy birthday, darling. I've bought you some nice bubble bath too.'
'Oh, my God. A proper bath. Can I have one now? Have we got hot water and everything?'
'Now?' said Isabel. 'But you've got a party going on.'
Shivering, Kitty jerked her head towards her friends, who were busy pushing each other out of dinghies. 'They won't care if I'm gone for half an hour. And I could wash off all this green gunk. Oh, my God, a bath! A proper bath!' She ju
mped up and down with glee, her sixteen-year-old self unable to contain childish joy.
'Go on, then,' said Isabel. 'I'll set up lunch for you.'
Kitty tore into the house, taking the steps two at a time. She would have a quick bubble bath, wash her hair, then be scented and gorgeous at lunch when everyone climbed out of the water. She opened the bathroom door, and smiled when she saw what her mother had done. There were brand-new bottles of her favourite expensive shampoo and conditioner on the side of the bath. They had been using supermarket stuff for months. On the floor, wrapped in a red ribbon, was French moisturising bubble bath, and on the side a soft white towel. A bathmat lay neatly on the floor. Kitty picked up the bottle, removed the lid and breathed in, allowing the expensive perfume to fill her nostrils.
Then she put the shiny brass plug in its hole, and turned on the taps. The water came out, in a thunderous rush, prompting an immediate bloom of steam on the mirrored cabinet above it. Kitty bolted the bathroom door, then removed her swimming costume and draped herself in the towel she had brought with her from the garden. She didn't want the new one covered with green slime. While she waited for the bath to fill, she padded to the window.
Outside, her mother was putting plates on the trestle table, chatting to Asad, who was making a salad. Henry was sipping a glass of wine and shouting something to a group of girls in the water, which made them all laugh. He threw in a ball, then murmured something to her mother, who laughed too. A proper head-back laugh, the kind she used to do when Kitty's father was alive.
Kitty felt the familiar prickle of tears and wiped them away. It would be okay. For the first time since her father had died, she sensed they would be okay. Mum took charge, these days, so Kitty could be sixteen. Just sixteen.
She saw Thierry sneaking a plate of food, then walking towards the boiler room and banged on the windowpane to attract his attention. She made a face to show him she knew what he was doing. He stuck out his tongue and she laughed, the sound just audible above the rush of water.
And then she leaped backwards as she heard a wrenching noise.
Kitty turned in time to see the white sheet behind the bath flutter as a crash sounded behind it. She yelped as Matt McCarthy appeared, pushing the sheet to one side.
'What - what are you doing?' she shrieked, pulling the towel tightly round her.
He stooped to clamber through the gap, and then, in the bathroom, rubbed a dusty hand over his head. 'I'm going to fix this hole,' he announced calmly. He was unshaven, his tool-belt skewed round his waist.