Page 7 of Love Thief

I’ve even made arrangements for Nikki, my house chef, to use the Farm Cottage kitchen today to make dinner for the men from Greystones. I know we’ll be down in Coulters Fields for the day. He’s set up tents and trellis tables at the bottom of Farm Cottage gardens, backing onto the fields, and we’re all set for 6:30 p.m.

The nights are lighter longer, not getting dark until after nine these days, but I’ve made sure my lights are all working well anyway. I intend to finish all the fields, regardless of the time. I don’t want a bloody Ferrari stopping my day.

I sit with my hand on my horn and blast it at the house in general for a good five minutes solid. No one comes out to see what the noise is all about.

It’s a scorcher, the day getting hotter, and I’m in a strange eclectic mix of clothes, including a bikini top, as it gets really hot under glass. A plaid shirt wrapped around my waist, cut off denim shorts, knee length socks and my favourite Blundstone boots complete my ensemble. To top off my look, my hair is up in a messy bun held in place with my favourite pair of vintage World War II flying goggles that are slightly tinted blue. They stop the flies and midges, and I adore them. I feel a bit steam punk when I wear them, but they always draw a crowd, and cause much hilarity with the lads.

After sitting for fifteen minutes—I timed it—I spot a woman coming out of the front door to pick up a bag that had been dumped there, and shout at her, asking her to move the car. She doesn’t even acknowledge me, just disappears back into the house and doesn’t come back. I’ve been simmering since yesterday and their shitty attitude. It’s my house, they should be moving the damn car.

I clamber out of my tractor—it’s a huge beast and high for a short person like me—ring the bell for what seems like forever, and ask yet another woman who finally comes to the door to move the car. I even add a please. She looks at me disinterestedly, and says, “Sure. I’ll get someone on it.” But I know that ‘someone’ is not coming. Interesting. She sounds American. The agents must have been advertising worldwide again.

I haven’t had a chance to speak to James to see if he knows who the agent rented to, but whoever they are, they’re pissing me off.

Third time a charm. I wait, and still no one has turned up to move the monstrosity. My patience running dry, I ring the bell again. Ages goes by with my finger practically white on the bell from pressing it that hard. When yet another woman answers the door, I demand she shift the car or I’ll run over it.

“Okay, well feel free. It’s over there.” She points imperiously at the bright red Ferrari. Clearly she thinks I’m joking. Pausing for a second, she adds, “Are you an actual farmer?” Taking in my crazy clothing, and my oversized tractor, she shakes her head in confusion and goes back inside.

“What the hell!” I bang on the door, and no one comes.

I’m now beyond angry at how rude they are. I can see Ian coming up the lane with a three tractor team and trailers. I need to sort this or we will never be done. Bollocks to it. I need to move the Ferrari, whatever that looks like.

I check the car and there’s nothing in it, and it’s locked. So I climb back in my tractor and rev the engine. I set off at a fast pace and instead of stopping, I run right over the top of it. The roof caves in like a tin can being squeezed. I reverse backwards and forwards, running over it again and again, getting a lot of satisfaction at how flat it looks.

I run over it three more times as the other tractors turn onto the long tree-lined drive. Waving at Ian, I radio him to run over the car in the drive and I’ll see them in Coulters Field.

Move it now, suckers!

Laughing my head off, I set off past the house, sticking my middle finger up as I go. Lambo does Rari every day of the week. I can hear on the radio all the lads killing themselves with laughter over the car.

“What car?” I ask innocently.

“The one that looks like a pancake,” they shout down the radio.

“Never saw it. Let’s get cracking, boys.”

We work all day, and as tea time looms, the lads are talking on the radio about what we’re having. I’m teasing them with guessing games of the food. I know Nikki has done a hot buffet and has been cooking all day. I’m hoping once they’re fed we can work on towards midnight.

Pete turns up with Jake, leaving a truck for Ian to use to get off quick as he has a new baby and needs to be home by 10 p.m.

I call time at 6:15 p.m. and we all pull up by the hedge that backs onto Farm Cottage. Walking through the cut out gap in the hedge and towards the tents, I can see Nikki and, to be honest, not much else.

“What’s going on?” I ask him, arriving at empty trellis tables.

“They’ve taken it. I asked them not to, but they will not listen. I’ve told them I am not their chef, but they won’t believe me.” He’s virtually in tears. My hackles are rising, no one speaks to Nikki like that.

“Whoa, Nikki, who’s taken it? And what have they taken?” All the guys look around, well annoyed. There’s no food, and they’ve been looking forward to this tea all day. Working fucking hard to get it too.

“The women in the house,” he cries. “I told them it was for the farm workers, but they said I work for them, they were paying ‘top dollar’ for the house and food. But I haven’t been asked to do food for the house.” He looks really upset, and my anger notches higher.

“Evie, leave it, we’ll go to the pub,” Ian says, coming over to me as I pull down my goggles to cover my eyes. “Don’t do it. You’ve already totaled a Ferrari today.”

I look at him steadily, tamping down my growing anger so he can’t see it. “What? I’m not going to let someone upset Nikki and nick our food. We’ve worked all day for that. And they haven’t paid for it. But fair enough, ring Ollie in the pub and get the truck, we’ll go down there. I’m just going to pop into the house to let them know how I feel. Don’t worry, Ian, nothing major.” He looks relieved as I march up the garden and the guys get the truck.

“Pick me up at the side of the house,” I shout back to them as I duck under a gazebo where the boys keep bits of sports gear for outdoor games. Croquet mallets, tennis rackets… Ah, just what I want: a baseball bat.

I swing it up over my shoulder and carry on. I hear Ian shout from behind me, but no way am I stopping now.

Nikki’s running to catch up. “Evie, Evie, no, no!” he begs me.

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