I wander through into the living room. The front window looks out onto the pretty high street, and the back looks out onto the courtyard garden that was so appealing to me online. It’s October now, so it looks different– but still gorgeous. I see a little wrought-iron table and chair set covered in windblown leaves, deep autumnal red ivy climbing up the whitewashed walls, a small herb garden currently in retreat. A scattering of terracotta plant holders, and a gorgeous potted tree, which is now evergreen but I know is gloriously lilac in summer. Big enough for me to sit out and work, or do a little yoga when the weather is good, but small enough to make me feel safe behind its walls.
I put my hand to the glass and smile as I look outside. It’s a clear, bright day, and a tiny black and white wagtail is hopping around out there, pecking at the ground. A robin is perched in the branches of the California lilac, and suddenly all feels well with the world. Even in London, we had these familiar feathered friends, and I used to love sitting in my little roof garden watching them come and go. I will buy some feeders and a bath, and there will be some continuity from the new to the old at least.
‘Hi! Where do you want the sofa?’ someone asks me from behind. I whirl around, and see two strange men carrying my couch. I blink in confusion– these are definitely not the guysfrom the moving lorry. Has there been some kind of weird rupture in the space-time continuum?
I gesture to the space where I think I’d like the sofa to be, and they place it down for me. One of them is tall and blond, with a big smile and floppy hair that gives him a surfer vibe. The other is older, closer to me in age, and more serious-looking. He reminds me of Harrison Ford, which instantly makes me want to start quoting Star Wars scenes. I bite it back. It won’t be amusing for anyone but me.
‘I’m Sam,’ the blond says. ‘I live a couple of doors away, with my partner Becca and our daughter, Little Edie.’
‘Is there a Big Edie?’ I ask.
‘There is, she also lives a few doors away. She’s actually pretty small though. And ninety-nine. We had a huge birthday party for her over the summer. She rode through the village in a horse-drawn carriage waving like the queen! She liked that a bit too much, think it went to her head…’
The other man smiles at the memory, and nods. ‘I’m Matt,’ is all he says. A man of few words, which I always appreciate.
‘Welcome to Budbury,’ Sam adds. ‘You’ll find out everything about everyone sooner than you could possibly imagine.’
I feel a flash of alarm at that statement. I mean, I’m absolutely fine with finding out everything about everyone else– I am very curious about people and their lives, given that my job is basically making stuff up– but I’m not quite as keen on reciprocating. I like being an observer, not a participant. I should probably get that printed on a T-shirt, or have it on my gravestone.
Matt clocks my reaction, and I immediately get that he is a lot more sensitive than he looks. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says quietly. ‘They banned waterboarding last year.’
I’m not sure who ‘they’ are, and I have a few moments of Wicker Man worry. ‘Are my fingernails safe?’ I ask.
‘Totally. They’re sneakier than that. They’ll woo you with cake. As long as you don’t eat the cake, you’ll be fine.’
Don’t eat the cake, I repeat mentally. Don’t eat the cake. That’s definitely like the start of a good horror story– a quaint little village where the smiling locals ply the innocent new arrival with Victoria sponge, fattening her up for the sacrificial ritual…
Another man pops his head around the door, tall, brawny, blond, good-looking in an outdoorsy way. What is it with this place? This village is tiny– why are there so many attractive men? This one, I realise as he introduces himself as Cal, is actually Australian. He looks at me with a slight frown, and asks if we’ve met before. When I say definitely not– because frankly I’d remember– he laughs it off, and asks which room I want the double bed in.
The actual removal men that I have paid to do this job are currently taking a tea break, perched on the back of the open-doored truck, with a huge flask, blowing steam from their cups and watching as the others carry on working. To be fair they have driven from London, and I wouldn’t mind a brew myself.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, a woman with wild curly hair walks towards the house carrying a cardboard holder with two cups, and a picnic basket. This is terrifying. Telepathy? Mind control? Or just a happy coincidence? She knocks on the doorframe and walks right in. She’s slightly round, super-pretty, and actually blushes when she sees all three men hefting furniture around.
‘Oooh,’ she says, grinning at me, ‘it’s like one of my fantasies come to life!’
Matt puts down the box he was carrying and comes over to kiss her. ‘Go easy on her,’ he says. ‘She’s new.’
‘I don’t know what you mean! Now shoo, get back to work. Maybe take your top off.’
She looks at me, and her eyes are sparkling. ‘That’s my husband, Matt. He’s a dreamboat. Anyway, I heard you’d arrived– Katie sent a smoke signal from the pharmacy– so I thought I’d bring you some refreshments. I’m Laura, and I work at the Comfort Food Café. It’s just down the hill– follow the road, you can’t miss it. If you walk into the sea or fall off a cliff, you’ve gone too far. Call in any time, we’re all very excited to meet you!’
Those words strike a new level of fear in my heart. I suppose I hadn’t really thought about the flip side of living somewhere small. In London, nobody gives a damn who you are, and for sure nobody wants to talk to you. It’s clearly going to be different here.
I keep my face neutral and manage a thank-you smile as I follow her through to the kitchen. She opens up the wicker picnic basket she brought with her, and the smell immediately hits me. Vanilla, sugar, cinnamon… Oh God, it’s the cake! They’ve come for me!
She gestures towards the drinks, saying: ‘We had no clue if you were a coffee person or a tea person or a tequila-in-the-day kind of person– no judgement if you are– so I brought both. Not the tequila, sadly. There are some basics here for you: milk, butter, some sourdough I baked this morning. Plus a special treat, our brand-new Autumn range!’
She pulls out a whole smorgasbord of baked goods, and arranges them on pretty lilac plates. As she swipes her hair back behind her ears, I notice that her cheek is smeared with flour. I get the feeling that it might be a permanent state of affairs. Like a birthmark she grew in later life.
‘So, there’s pumpkin spice cupcakes,’ she says, pointing to the appropriate plate, ‘and this is plum and ginger pudding– don’t worry, I brought custard!’
I hadn’t been worried, but she says this very seriously, in a reassuring tone. I smile, slightly overwhelmed by it all. ‘And this is Dorset apple cake. Perfect for the season, and a local speciality. Lots of brown sugar and nutmeg and cinnamon, it’s totally delish. What’s your name?’
She segues into the question seamlessly, and I start to understand what Matt meant. Cake is the gateway drug to complete assimilation. Still, it would be churlish to be rude when the nice lady has walked all the way up a hill with a basket full of sin for me.
‘I’m Sarah,’ I say, adding a ‘nice to meet you’ as I stare at the pudding, my nostrils flaring at the smell.
‘Are you talking to me or my cake?’ she asks. ‘Never mind, we’re pretty much the same thing. Anyway. Welcome to Budbury. We’re very friendly, and we don’t bite. I have to get off to collect my girls from school, but please, pop into the café any time, and if there’s anything you need at all, just let one of us know.’
