Page 96 of Fundamentals in Flirting

“If you’re sure you don’t mind waiting?”

“Of course, that’s fine. I’ll stay with her and make sure none of them eats it. Goats will be goats, after all. But if one of them swallows it, that’s not going to help you snag the sexy architect.”

Bending down and folding my arms around Agnes’s thin shoulders, I gave her a little squeeze.

“You’re my people, Agnes. I hope you know that.”

“Silly goose,” she murmured, but couldn’t hide the flush that bloomed over her cheekbones. “Now get on with it. He’ll likely be back any moment and you need to get home and put on a peephole bra and crotchless knickers.”

“Agnes!” I coughed. “I will absolutely not be doing that!”

She tutted. “Some prize you are.” But she was chuckling to herself and waved me away. “Go on, leave this old woman in peace with her goats.”

I headed back to the house and up the stairs, via the back passage where a bucket and the plaster mixing drill had been stored. Still unable to suppress the bubbly snigger when I thought of that epically disastrous plastering session (and not at all thinking about the Mr Darcy-esque climbing-out-of-the-pond moment), I placed these items by the bedroom door, the next note stuck to the handle of the drill.

I’m prickly and spiky and grumpy as hell, but fundamentals in flirting have treated me well. What am I?

In the bedroom, I assessed my attempt at a vegetable animal again. I wasn’t too proud to admit that it wasn’t a patch on the one Oliver, aged four, had made for the village fayre, but it still looked vaguely like a hedgehog, so it would have to do. I snuggled it down happily amongst the bedclothes and alongside the next note.

I glitter and shimmer and I’m crap in a tree, but you love her, I know it, when she’s down on her knees. What am I?

On the windowsill, I placed the silver sandals that I wore to the garden party, tucking the next note inside and wistfully thinking back to the treehouse – the first time he’d really let me see him, and see into his heart – regretful that I’d not had the right words to say to him then, or since. I hoped he’d give me the chance to make this right.

Oh, would you look, in the car park no less? An arrow, a marker, what does it confess?

Leaving the house, and locking the door behind me, I trotted along to the surgery, conscious that Henry and Teddy would be arriving back here soon, when a text pinged in my phone.

Clara: They’re heading back, he’s pissed off and has had a massive row with Henry outside the office. ETA 20 min. Brace yourself.

Excellent. Well, this might turn into a monumental shower of shit after all. But I was committed and there was a whole load of people involved – not least of which was Agnes who was still sitting in the shed and making sure that none of the goats ate my note. So, no turning back now.

In the car park, I organised some sawdust into a large arrow in the gravel, pointing towards the door of my flat, and placed the penultimate note on the ground at the head of the arrow with a rock on top.

Follow this arrow to find a tool of this vet, and I’m honestly (possibly) never meant as a threat. What am I?

With a large, fortifying breath, I hung my last prop on the door handle, with the final note, before heading inside to await my fate.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

Ipaced about my flat for about twenty minutes until I saw Teddy’s Land Rover pull into the drive of The Old Rectory, closely followed by Henry’s red Jaguar. I wanted to look away, to step back from the window, but it was like some kind of car crash television show that I couldn’t not watch, even though my brain was yelling at me to go and sit down, to wait and try to act cool. But I was too entranced, inextricably drawn to this, mesmerised and helpless to look away.

Teddy marched up the front steps, his pace hurried. He was clearly irritated, but he stopped short of the door, clocking the note stuck there before turning to Henry, who shrugged, hands in his pockets, attempting nonchalance. My heart was in my mouth as he read it, and when they both glanced up at my window, I reflexively dropped to the floor like a fainting goat, hoping that neither of them had seen my illicit voyeurism.

Lying on the carpet and staring at the circular patterns on the Artex ceiling, I pictured in my mind Teddy walking through his house and finding all my notes and props. I hoped he got the clues. I tried to imagine how he would react, and what his face would look like. Would he laugh? Would he be annoyed that I had been in his house without permission? Would he feel that same dull ache behind his ribs that I felt when I thought of him? Or the fluttering of butterflies when he smiled because of something I’d said? It was hard to let go of the niggling feeling that he was playing a game and stringing me along.

Perhaps he was just very good at luring women in and would still turn tail and dump me when he’d finally got his end away?

Shaking this from my mind, I tried my best to believe the good in him that I knew was there. I focussed on my breathing, letting the anxiety flow out in cathartic waves, attempting to manage the tempest that putting my vulnerability on show had created.

I had started to calm down – ten minutes or so of deep breathing had definitely helped – when through the open window, I heard the distinctive rumble of men’s voices in the surgery car park below. My pulse peaked and sweat beaded on my palms, undoing all my attempts at mindfulness in one quick swipe.

Excellent.

“Look, we’re here now, right at her door, and she’s gone to a lot of trouble, so just stop being a dick, Ted, and go and talk to her,” Henry grumbled, his voice wafting in through my open kitchen window.

“Why don’t you talk to her?” Teddy’s voice was petulant, but I could sense that he was wavering. His resolve was weakening, that maybe he didn’t quite have the conviction in this line of thought anymore.

“It’s not me she wants to talk to,” Henry said. There was a pregnant pause. “Look, here’s another note. Read it.”

---