The Lovebirds

‘Jack Westcoat,’ Penelope finished, stepping forward, her arms folded tightly over her chest. ‘You heard that Jack Westcoat had attended one of our nature walks and are here to see if he’s likely to come on any more.’

The woman smiled, and Abby tried to hide her anger, wondering why she hadn’t worked it out sooner.

‘Yeah,’ the woman said. ‘It’s all round the Harrier estate that he was here. I’d love to glimpse him in the flesh. I’ve read all his books.’

‘Young lady.’ Penelope hardly gave her time to finish speaking. ‘This is not what Meadowsweet is for. You come to look at the wildlife, not stalk other visitors. He may have visited the reserve, but there’s no reason to suspect he will return, and even if he does, that is not information we will be sharing publicly. Do you have no concept of a fellow human’s right to privacy?’

The woman took a step back; her friend was almost at the door. ‘He’s a writer, though. Shouldn’t have written books if he didn’t want the limelight, and certainly shouldn’t have assaulted that bloke and got all over the papers. He’s fair game, as far as I’m concerned!’

‘Then I suggest you go and work out your frustrations at a hunting party, instead of coming after my— our visitors. I hear the Blasingham estate does a good grouse and pheasant shoot; you have until the end of the month before the season closes. Goodbye.’

Abby’s gaze flicked between the women, standing their ground for a moment before making a swift retreat, and Penelope, who was more riled than Abby had ever seen her. She was actually quivering.

‘Are you OK, Penelope? That was amazing.’

‘Did they honestly think they could come here to gawk at him, and that we would tell them if and when he had plans to come back? What is the world coming to? I sincerely hope that Jack isn’t leaving the cottage as they pass by, otherwise heaven knows what will happen. I’d better warn him.’ She hurried to her office and Abby was left alone, shocked by the brazenness of the young women, and wondering how close Penelope was to Jack that she could pick up the phone to him at a moment’s notice.

‘Seems the Octavia gossip tree’s made it all the way to the Harrier then,’ Rosa said, handing Abby a fresh cup of tea. ‘My neighbours haven’t said anything, but then Tim and Bob don’t seem like the kind to spread rumours.’

‘I don’t even think it’s Octavia. Remember, Jack did come on one of my walks just before Christmas. It was quite well-attended and, while nobody said anything at the time, anyone could have recognized him. He was in the visitor centre for a bit afterwards, too. He was never going to stay hidden for long, not if he’s as famous as he appears to be.’

‘He wasn’t that widely known before,’ Rosa said, resting her elbows on the counter. ‘Though he had more fame than most authors due to his first book getting so much praise, and in his twenties, too. But ever since this punching business, he’s achieved a new kind of celebrity status.’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder how much he regrets that split-second decision? Or maybe he still stands by it, who knows? From what I read, it did seem like the other guy, Eddie Markham, was behaving like a prize idiot, whatever kind of past they have together.’

Abby bit her lip. One question from her and Rosa would explain what Eddie Markham, whoever he was, had done, and then she would be able to form more of an opinion of Jack. And yet, all Rosa would know was what had been in the papers, and that couldn’t be relied upon. Abby had something much more valuable.

She waited until the coast was clear; Penelope was back in her office and Rosa and Stephan were otherwise occupied so, doing a visual check of the route from the car park to the front door and seeing no new visitors, she took the white envelope out from under the counter, and opened it.

Chapter Two (#u89356b35-4fad-5ab7-85d6-5f2fc5dad2e5)

Long-tailed tits are the most beautiful of all the tits. Small and fluffy, with pinky-purple, brown, black and cream feathers and long tails, they’re very sociable and fly about in groups, spinning and bouncing like gymnasts in the trees. They’re sometimes called bumbarrels, because their nest is shaped like a barrel, with a small hole in the front for them to fly in and out of.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

Abby folded the paper out flat as she read.

Dear Abby,

Happy New Year! I hope this finds you well, and that you had a good Christmas. Thank you for the walk, which I know you would have been doing anyway, without me, but even so. I enjoyed it. I was thinking about turning up on another one, or finding something else to complain about, and then I remembered my invitation to you. Are you still prepared to give up some of your precious time to meet me for coffee?

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours, JW

Grinning, Abby put the note back into its envelope and hurried to the storeroom and her handbag. She would take it home and slide it between the thick, illustrated pages of UK Flora and Fauna that sat on the bookshelf next to her bed, along with Jack’s other note to her. Now she just had to decide when, and how, to respond.

She held out until Friday, when a particularly difficult customer turned a cold but beautiful day into an extreme test of her patience. He arrived at reception with a complaint already on his lips, about how the speed humps on the approach road had dislodged the roof rack of his car, and then moaned about the quality of his lunch when he returned from his walk.

Abby had come to Stephan’s rescue and tried to placate the man, but his refusal to back down, not to mention his final comment that Reston Marsh was much more professional, left her feeling despondent. By closing time she was in sore need of something to cheer her up and, the irony not lost on her that it was a complaint that had brought her to Jack’s door in the first place, it was him she wanted to see.

Though the hour wasn’t as late, it was as dark as it had been on her ill-fated Halloween walk home, and she kept her new torch angled towards the ground. Peacock Cottage and its lit window, visible through the swaying branches, felt like a haven. She walked up the path and knocked on the door, listening to the sound of footsteps from inside, trying not to let her nerves get the better of her.

And then the door opened and he was standing in front of her, wearing a thick, sea-blue jumper with a high collar. His hair was wild, as if he’d been tearing at it repeatedly, and he had shadows under his eyes, but he was as beautiful as ever, and Abby was struck by how much she’d missed him. As his gaze met hers he smiled, the gesture lifting his face, though not entirely banishing his obvious tiredness.

‘Abby,’ he said. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘You too,’ she replied quickly. ‘I got your note, and I was wondering about that coffee? Only if you’ve got time though. I know you must be busy.’

He stepped back. ‘Come inside, it’s freezing.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I have to get home to Raffle.’

‘Of course. Let me give you my number. We can arrange a date that way.’ He held out his hand, and Abby thought for a moment he expected her to take it, but then understanding dawned and she scrabbled in her bag for her phone, unlocked it and handed it to him. He quickly tapped in his number, then Abby heard the shrill sound of a ringtone from somewhere inside the house as he called his phone from hers.

‘Good Christmas?’ he asked, as he passed her phone back and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

‘So-so,’ Abby said. ‘You?’

‘Pretty much the same,’ he admitted, his smile fleeting. Abby thought that perhaps there had been no glamorous parties after all, that his reality was very different to what she’d been imagining. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in? We could start the coffee trend right now.’

She was sorely tempted, but if she went inside, she would never want to come back out in the cold. And Raffle was waiting for her. ‘I can’t,’ she said, gesturing in the vague direction of her house. ‘But I’d love to meet up soon. Whenever you’re free.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll call you. It’s good to see you, Abby.’

‘You too.’ She turned and walked down the path before she could change her mind, and didn’t hear his front door close until she was almost out of sight of Peacock Cottage.

‘Hangover walks, you say?’ Octavia asked, as she whizzed around the library with her trolley, putting returned books back on the shelves. ‘You think that will take off?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Abby said. ‘But I’m trying to think a bit more cleverly. If we only appeal to people who already visit us, then our footfall will never grow dramatically. I want to attract brand new visitors.’

‘You can but try, my lovely. I’m hoping to do the same with this place, but at the moment my secret weapon is a little bit too secret.’

‘What do you mean?’ Abby asked, sitting in a faded blue armchair in the reading area.

She loved the old chapel that Octavia had almost single-handedly turned into the village library, with the convenience store in what had once been the vestry. It was a tiny chapel, and yet it seemed cavernous, with several rows of bookshelves, a colourful, bean bag filled area next to the children’s books and games, and three tables with green reading lamps that passed as the reference library, alongside a tatty set of encyclopaedias. With its high roof, stained-glass windows and that cold stone smell about it despite being carpeted, Abby always felt calmer here. On this particular Tuesday afternoon, it contained only the two of them, nobody else perusing the shelves.

‘The elusive Jack Westcoat,’ Octavia said, pushing her red hair over her shoulders and hurrying to the desk to update the online catalogue.

‘Oh.’ Abby picked at a thread on the chair.

‘Not so elusive to you, it would seem. He turned up on one of your walks, I hear. And how was he?’

Gorgeous, Abby thought. Gorgeous and mysterious and, understandably, a little bit shy. And he kissed me Octavia, just on the cheek but – oh, he kissed me! And we’re going for coffee, on Friday.

‘He was nice,’ she said, noncommittally. And then, because she had already bad-mouthed him to her own mother to throw her off the scent, added, ‘he wasn’t remotely rude. He was even slightly interested in what I was saying at one point. And he thanked me afterwards.’

‘Well, my love, that gives me hope.’

‘You’re still thinking of asking him to do a talk here?’