Waking up the next morning, it took me a moment to remember why the usual feeling of ugh had been replaced with a flutter of anticipation: oh yes! I was going to make Charlie’s dream come true and transform a ramshackle, rickety farm into an exquisite getaway venue. I was going to atone for at least some of the awfulness that I’d contributed to the world by spending the foreseeable future helping restore and build people up instead of smashing them down. Hope would have a beautiful place to live, and Daniel might even be able to take a day off once in a while. I’d cook, and clean, and for the first time enjoy the far more challenging and noble craft of being a creator, not a critic.
I couldn’t undo what I’d done, but here at Damson Farm, I had the tiny twinkle of hope that I could at least, from this point forth do better. Time for my fresh start to commence.
I spent the day planning, plotting, poking my nose in the other bedrooms and making a list of what would need to be dumped, upcycled or stay as it was, and researching similar venues on the internet.
Then Lucy messaged:
I forgive you for firing me via a voicemail because I know something must be really up for you to walk away from Nora without even talking to me about it 1st, but honestly, WTF!?!?! I thought we were a team, not to mention friends! I can’t believe that after everything you care so little about Nora, or me. I can’t do that. I won’t put Nora ‘ON PAUSE’ and I won’t give up on her. I’ve spoken to Miles, and he isn’t going to, either. I wish you all the best with whatever the hell it is you’re doing, but, like I said: WTF!!!
I tapped out a quick reply, begging her to take the threats seriously and contact me, and then, with no small sense of trepidation, I looked at Nora’s media accounts. Wow. Lucy had not been slow in adopting her new role. There were various images of her here, there and everywhere, entwined with random semi-celebrities and according to her captions having the time of her life:
#NewNora and #LetsGetThisPartySharp-ed and other gibberish about how from now on she was taking no crap and loving herself as she deserved, and not going to waste her shot.
I also quickly discovered that she’d changed all the passwords so I could no longer access any of the accounts. ‘Well, Lucy,’ I muttered while simultaneously deleting all the accounts from my phone and laptop. ‘She’s all yours from now on.’ I didn’t bother reminding her that at some point Nora Sharp probably ought to mention something about food.
I whipped up a tray of caramel brownies and raised a mug of peppermint tea in a toast of farewell to a friendship, a career and an imaginary woman who had been both the making and the breaking of me.
As usual, once Hope was in bed gently snoozing down the baby monitor, Daniel and I convened for dinner at the kitchen table.
‘So, are you still set on turning my family home into a rescue home for stray city-slickers?’ he asked, after we’d loaded our plates with butternut squash lasagne and squares of crispy focaccia.
‘Only if you want me to,’ I replied. ‘It’s totally up to you if I save your family home from crumbling into ruins while simultaneously creating Charlie’s legacy, and securing a future for Hope. I’m easy either way.’
He let out a bark of laughter. ‘I get the feeling you’ve never been easy about anything. I was half expecting to emerge from my study and find our first guests settling into minty cocktails and sourdough canapés.’
‘Oooh, sourdough canapés. I’ll add that to the list.’
Daniel stopped eating, serious now. ‘Eleanor, this is a huge undertaking. A massive commitment. You can’t decide this overnight.’
‘How long did it take you to decide to keep Hope?’
He frowned, shaking his head. ‘That’s completely different!’
‘Well, it is and it isn’t. Sometimes someone or something needs taking care of. Needs someone else to say I’m going to make this work. And if it happens to be something you have the skills, experience and the time to do, why would you need a whole night to decide?’
‘What about the money and resources? I don’t have a lot I can invest in this. All the will in the world won’t be enough to even get started.’
‘I know we need to, like, do a million spreadsheets and look at costings and projections and expenditure and business plans, but I grew up doing this. I won’t spend a penny on the retreat until you’re happy we can see it through. But in the meantime, I have some savings. Not masses, but enough for paint, some new bedding and towels, toiletries, some other bits and bobs. I know what’s worth spending on now and what can wait. To start with, why not let me just get the place looking nice again, a lovely place for Hope – and you – to live in? Then you can decide about opening it up to other people.’
Daniel rubbed his scar. ‘Can I be honest?’
‘There’s no point us talking about this if you can’t.’
‘Okay.’ He took a sip of water. ‘I’m concerned that you’re doing this out of some sort of tribute to Charlie. Because you feel like you let her down by not responding to her invitations sooner. This is making it up to her. That’s the last thing she’d want. She’d want you to be living your dream, not hers.’
I shook my head, vigorously. But he hadn’t finished.
‘Also, you can’t start a project like this as some sort of therapy. Then, once you feel better move on, leaving me with it. I work with spreadsheets, not bed sheets.’
My instinct was to instantly brush off his concerns as preposterous, insulting. But this was his home, his life, and I owed him the respect of at least addressing his fears, so I took my time before I replied.
‘I’m not a quitter. I stayed in a job that was wrong for me for years, because I’d been raised to be so responsible that I’d stick with something even if it half-killed me.’
‘You hated your blog?’
‘No! Not that job… Anyway. Hospitality is in my blood. I know what this will take. And, while we’re being honest, where do you think Charlie got all those romantic ideas about providing a warm welcome to a weary traveller?’
‘Um… Pinterest?’ He winked, his open eye fixed right on mine. I disguised how it caused my stomach to backflip by pulling a face at him.
‘I’ve been lost, for a long time now. The first day I hobbled in here, bashed up and beside myself, I could still feel the peace oozing out of these walls. This place is a priceless treasure, buried underneath the grot of neglect and… and heartbreak. It would be an honour, the best thing I’ve ever done, to do this. If you don’t want it, can’t face the disruption or the mess or the strangers, then I’ll close the notebook and move on. But don’t not do it because you think I’m following a whim, or a guilty conscience. Honestly, I think if you say no then I’m just going to start looking for some other falling down farmhouse and buy that instead.’
Daniel looked at me for a long moment. I tried not to worry about what he really saw. ‘Okay.’
I think my whole face was beaming.
‘To the first step!’ Daniel clarified. ‘Sorting out the place to make it nice for Hope. Then we can rethink what to do next.’
I held up my glass in a toast. ‘The first step.’
Daniel shook his head as he raised his glass, but his eyes were smiling.
The logical place to start was the main living room. A large, L-shaped room with wooden French doors at one end, and enough seating for at least ten people, if you didn’t mind threadbare, sagging armchairs or a couple of dubious looking stains. As well as the seating, there were built in floor-to-ceiling shelves either side of a fireplace with a paint-chipped mantlepiece, various mismatched side tables, a scuffed bureau and a TV cabinet containing an old video player and even older TV.
The clutter wasn’t terrible, it was more the general air of tired neglect, reinforced by cobwebs in every corner and dust so thick it felt almost greasy.
Daniel had given me free rein to do what I liked with it all, as long as I didn’t get rid of the photographs, books and any other personal items I happened upon. I spent a day sorting the ornaments and other smaller items into stay, go or upcycle. I dusted what felt like hundreds of books, resisting the temptation to sit and read the whole lot while putting a few to one side for later. The moth-eaten curtains were unsalvageable, but after a good wash some of the sofa covers came up okay. The following day, Hope and I visited a discount interior warehouse and picked up a load of brightly coloured cushions and matching throws, along with new lampshades, drawer handles and plain cream curtains to avoid detracting from the incredible view beyond the window. By Friday, I had scrubbed away the filth, swept up the insect carcasses, and to my delight when Daniel helped me roll up the grubby carpet, we discovered solid oak floorboards underneath. I nipped back to the warehouse and splashed out on a couple of rugs.
Saturday and Sunday, we painted the walls a soft, buttery yellow, and then came the fun bit – putting everything back again. I used the furniture to create two separate areas, one focused on the fire, the other around the French doors. I finished off with fresh flowers in a pair of stunning vases I’d found in the kitchen, along with a few candles, plus I replaced the faded oil paintings of shire horses and farm implements with photographs of the family and what appeared to be an old map of the farmland that I found in the bureau. The overall effect was bright, tranquil and scrumptiously cosy. Given time, and a bigger budget, I’d replace the fireplace with a log burner, and repaint some of the furniture, get the sofas professionally re-covered. But for step one, Daniel and I had to agree, while celebrating with takeaway pizza and a couple of beers, it was not half bad.
Monday, I decided to stick to paperwork and planning while my muscles recovered. I had just sat down at the kitchen table with a panini when a discordant clanging sound rang out so loudly that Hope dropped her bread stick.
‘Eleanor, can you get that?’ Daniel shouted through from the study. ‘I’m three calculations away from a coffee break.’
‘I don’t know!’ I called back. ‘What is it?’
‘Front doorbell!’
‘You have a doorbell?’ I raised my eyebrows at Hope, who simply stared back expectantly. ‘You have a front door?’
It took another minute to wrench back the bolt and unjam the lock on the front door, which up until that point I’d presumed to be purely ornamental. Moving a cardboard box and an umbrella stand out of the way, I managed to heave the door open with an ear-splitting creak.
‘Oh, hi!’ I huffed, breathless from the exertion. It was Becky, Dr Ziva’s daughter who I’d met in the orchard.
‘Hi.’ Becky gave an awkward wave. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to go to all that trouble. Should I have used a different door?’
‘No, it’s fine!’ I opened the door wider. ‘Sorry to keep you standing about waiting in the freezing cold.’
‘No problem!’ It looked like it might have been a problem. Becky was wearing navy leggings, mud-encrusted boots and a huge brown fleece. Even with a stripy bobble hat perched on top of her curls, she looked frozen stiff.
We looked at each other expectantly for a few moments, as if not sure whose turn it was to speak next. ‘When we met in the orchard, you said to pop round, if I was at a loose end?’ Becky said, eventually. ‘To be honest, I’m at a loose end most of the time at the moment, but I wanted to leave it long enough to avoid seeming like I currently have no life. Or friends.’
‘Right, yes, of course! Come in.’ I stood back to let her in.
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean now, I wouldn’t just turn up and expect you to drop what you’re doing. Only I haven’t got your number, so I thought we could either swap numbers, or arrange a time when you’re free, and I’ll come back then.’
I stood back to let her in. ‘I’m free now. Please, come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Are you sure?’ Becky’s nose wrinkled up.
‘You’re not the only one who currently has no life. Or friends.’ I turned and strode as confidently as I could down the corridor.
Becky followed me into the kitchen. ‘Wow, this is nice! Looking a lot better than last time I came here. Which was years ago, to be fair.’ She went to coo over Hope, now smearing the soggy remains of her breadstick across the tray of her highchair, while I made us a pot of tea.
After a few minutes of stilted small talk, Becky put her mug down. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t not say anything.’
‘Um… about what?’
‘That’s your lunch, isn’t it?’ She nodded at the now cold panini. ‘I was going to pretend I hadn’t noticed, but one of the reasons I gave up my job was because I’m fed up with putting on a polite face and pretending all the time. And now you think it’s rude to eat your sandwich in front of me, when I’m the one who was rude for turning up here out of the blue and interrupting your lunch.’
‘Um… it’s fine.’
‘Please, eat your sandwich.’
Deciding that was probably the least awkward thing to do at that point, I took a token nibble.
‘Okay, so while I seem to be on an honesty roll, I’m going to take a risk and lay it out there.’
I reminded myself that Daniel thought Becky was a nice, normal person, and tried not to visibly brace myself.
‘I like you, Eleanor. I know this is a bit primary school, but I’ve spent too many years schmoozing and charming people and I’m done with being fake. I sort of felt like we clicked. Friends at first sight. Is it too weird for me to ask if you’d like to skip all the faffing about and just be friends? Friends who can say, yeah, come in, but make your own cuppa because I’m in the middle of a panini. Without the need to be polite or worry about what the other one’s thinking?’
I took a long, slow breath. Not because I wasn’t sure what to say – because I wanted to savour the moment. I was done with being fake, too. And I wanted to eat my panini.
‘That would be lovely.’
My business plan shoved to one side, we spent the next couple of hours doing the general getting to know you thing. I explained how I knew Charlie, and the tentative plans for the farmhouse, both of us weeping as we shared our memories of someone who had been a friend to both of us. I did skim over my previous job situation, but that was because we were ‘done with being fake’, and Nora Sharp was nothing to do with the real me. Becky filled me in on her old job, and how she left because she couldn’t bear the loneliness any more.
‘I pretended I felt lonely because I travelled around so much, but the truth is I was a big, fat fraud who couldn’t trust the drivelling hogwash that came out of her own mouth. How could anyone get close to me, when there was no real me any more?’
I nearly told her, then. I would have told her, only Hope started crying because she was long overdue a nap, and by the time I’d settled her the moment had passed.
‘So, you and Daniel,’ Becky pronounced. I waited for her to expand, but no, that was it.
‘What about me and my friend’s brother who is also my landlord?’ I asked, eventually, just to stop her from smirking.
‘Your landlord who rescued you from the side of the road, invited you to move in and also happens to be both single, a really nice person and have a devastatingly sexy scar?’ She shrugged. ‘Just wondering how you were getting on. The two of you. All those cosy nights in together.’
‘Sounds like you should be the one cosying up with him if you think he’s that great,’ I retorted back, in a vain attempt to pretend I didn’t agree.
She flapped one hand in dismissal. ‘Nah. He’s not my type.’
I resisted the urge to ask if pie and pint loving tradesmen were her type.
‘So, how about you? Any sparks flying over the breakfast table? Are you like, spending your evenings hanging out together or what?’
‘Wow. This really is a no-holds-barred, right from the get-go friendship, isn’t it?’
Becky grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no one to gossip to. Well, apart from Mum, and I’m not about to feed that beast.’
I coughed. Straightened my mug on its coaster and cleared my throat again. ‘Daniel is clearly a really nice guy. And yes, while we have spent some time together in between him working and looking after Hope, it would be far too complicated for me to entertain any notions of a spark. I love it here, and want to make a go of Charlie’s dream. Developing feelings for her brother, who is, as you said, my live-in-landlord, would be a catastrophic move. So, in answer to your question, we’re friends.’ I smiled. ‘Although I haven’t officially asked him.’
‘Okay, so to clarify, you fancy the pants off him but don’t know if he feels the same way and don’t want to make a fool of yourself?’
Before I could clarify her clarification by fudging something about how yes, of course I fancied him but I was hiding a horrible, shameful secret identity so couldn’t do anything about it even if he hadn’t been Charlie’s brother, my landlord and possible future business partner, another clang rang out.
‘What the hell?’ Becky made as if about to duck under the table.
‘It’s the doorbell.’
‘Wow. Sounds more like an intruder alarm.’
Which, it turned out, it might as well have been. Damson Farm was about to be invaded.