Page 2 of Coming Home to Roseford Villas
Rory leaned over and hugged Alex. ‘I don’t. You enjoy the alone time with Luca. It’ll all be fine, I’m sure.’ She got off the sofa and bade Alex goodnight. She might have sounded cheery when she’d reassured her friend, but as she got into bed a bit later, she couldn’t help wondering what she was going to be getting into the next day.
2
The next morning, Rory checked her packed bags for the fifteenth time and dithered. She’d not slept particularly well but couldn’t work out if that was through nerves or disappointment. She’d never been away from home for this long before, except for when she’d been at university, and the thought of being three hundred-odd miles away in a strange place for such an extended period of time was making her anxious all of a sudden. She berated herself for her daftness: people her age, and younger, travelled the world, for goodness’ sake! They set off with a backpack and a passport and disappeared for months, years even. She was talking about a few weeks in the West Country; it was hardly the other side of the world.
‘Are you all set?’ Alex’s voice broke into her reverie.
Rory nodded. ‘I think so.’ She resisted the urge to check her bags and her backpack, where her newish MacBook Air laptop was securely stashed.
‘Well, I’m heading out to the supermarket, so I’ll say goodbye now.’
The two friends hugged, and, ridiculously, Rory fought the urge to cry. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said rather shakily.
‘Not too soon, I hope!’ Alex smiled as they released each other. ‘I hope you love every minute of your solitude. Make the most of it.’
‘I will.’ Even though she and Alex were close, Rory hadn’t confided her plan to begin her novel during her time away. She wanted to keep it to herself, as her own special, secret thing, at least until she’d made some progress.
As Alex left her room once more, Rory unzipped her backpack again and, almost compulsively, checked to see if the ziplock bag she’d put right at the back of it was still in place. She felt a frisson of excitement as her fingers touched the spines of the four A5 notebooks that were inside. Those were what she’d hoped to seek inspiration from during these next few weeks: they were vital to her plot. She’d shied away from looking at them after she’d uncovered them at her parents’ place, for fear of losing her enthusiasm, but she was now itching to crack the spines open and immerse herself in their contents. But not yet. Not until she was in Somerset and away from her ‘normal’ life.
Zipping up the backpack once more, she began shifting her bags down to her car, and in a little more time she was on the road. The journey, long as it was, would be fairly straightforward, but she needed to get going. She only hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed with the change of accommodation when she arrived.
After a brief stop halfway, Rory finally reached Roseford mid-afternoon. It was too late for lunch, but too early for dinner, and her stomach growled. She’d had a coffee and a Danish pastry at the services, but that seemed a long time ago now. She suppressed a flare of irritation that she should be cooking herown dinner in the beautifully cosy kitchen she’d been looking forward to at Hyacinth Cottage but decided that she needed to stop dwelling on it. The alternative accommodation did, at least, have cooking facilities, so it wasn’t as if she couldn’t whip something up.
Roseford was beautiful in any weather, but in the late days of July it looked at its best. The shortbread-coloured stone buildings that lined either side of the main street gave off their own warmth in the strong summer sun, and were a perfect foil for the hanging baskets of petunias that tumbled and showed off their vibrant pinks, purples and reds. The entrance to Roseford Hall, the stately home that had been taken over by the British Heritage Fund a few years back, had its wrought-iron gates open, and a quick glance as she passed told Rory that it was busy. The car park was rammed, and there were tourists ambling both in the village and around the house itself.
As she drove down the main street, eyes peeled for the accommodation that she’d been booked into, Rory noticed a charming café, perfect for sipping on a latte while tapping away at her laptop, she thought, a pub, the Treloar Arms, and various other charming independent stores, including a clothing shop, Roseford Reloved, and a general store. There certainly would be plenty to look at during her stay, and lots of time to experience it all.
But where was this place she was looking for? Feeling crosser by the second, Rory slowed down, worried that she might have missed it. The annoying ping of Google Maps repeating ‘you have reached your destination’ grated on her after such a long journey, especially when she was sure she hadn’t already passed it. Reaching the end of the main street, she slowed down to take the corner, which would eventually lead out of the village, and a brisk hoot from the car behind her made her jump. Holding up a hand in apology, Rory pulled the car over so they could get pasther, and then looked more closely at the sat nav on her phone. Wherewasit?
Just as she was about to give the contact number a ring, she caught sight of a tiny little lane, shooting off to the right of the main street. Could that be where it was? Taking a chance, and hoping against hope, she swung the car out and meandered up the lane, looking left and right as she did so. Then, giving a sigh of relief, she noticed a white sign with black lettering swinging slightly in the summer breeze, right at the top of the lane. Thatmustbe it.
‘At last,’ Rory muttered, praying the place had off-street parking. She didn’t fancy lugging her cases and bags all the way up the hill if she had to park in the village.
Thankfully, as she drew closer, she saw that the road widened, and there was indeed a driveway that looked as though she could park on it. And as she turned in, she had to admit, rather reluctantly, that it looked lovely. It might not be Hyacinth Cottage, but Roseford Villas looked friendly and inviting, with its light stone frontage, mullioned windows and well-kept front garden.
Rory tucked her car as close to the front wall as she could, and then decided that she’d get inside before she unpacked. Stretching wearily as she got out of the car, she headed up to the dark blue-painted front door and pushed the bell. She was looking forward to getting to her accommodation and setting herself up, and hopefully having a cup of tea and relaxing for an hour or two before making plans for the next few days.
For a minute or two, no one answered. Feeling slightly impatient, and her need for a cuppa beginning to become more insistent, Rory pushed the bell again, wondering if it wasn’t working and she ought to knock instead. She sighed. She just wanted to get in now. Standing on the doorstep like a lemon after travelling for most of the day hadn’t been part of the plan.But then Roseford Villas hadn’t been part of the plan until late yesterday, either. Despite herself, the exasperation crept up on her again.
Rory pushed the bell a third time. This was getting stupid. She was about to look the contact number back up and give them an assertive phone call when the door finally opened. And there, standing on the other side of it, was someone she’d once have given anything to see in front of her, but now, twenty years later, was the last person in the world she’d ever have expected to see again.
3
To say that Leo McKendrick wasn’t having a good day was an understatement. In fairness, this whole year had been a bit of a car crash, and he didn’t make that comparison lightly. A warning twinge in his back as he headed towards the front door of Roseford Villas was more than a reminder.
‘I’m coming,’ Leo muttered. He knew there was a last-minute guest – the Airbnb app had pinged yesterday afternoon to signal the acceptance of alternative accommodation by a Rory Dean, whoever they were, and he’d been working ever since to spruce up what had been offered and accepted. Just when he’d thought he was going to have a few days free, his plans for a quiet time had been thwarted.
He knew it wasn’t the guest’s fault: cancellations happened all the time, as did last-minute bookings. It was a benefit and also an irritation of the internet, and, while he was in charge of Roseford Villas, he’d had to learn very quickly how it all worked. It wasn’t as if custodianship of a guest house in the back end of Somerset had been in the plan, after all. But did they have to keep ringing the bloody doorbell? Rory Dean was probably yet another London tourist, he assumed, coming down to theSouth West for a change of scene and a so-called ‘slower pace’. Swanning around the pretty village of Roseford like they owned it; imagining it all to be some Cath Kidston-decorated rural idyll…
He stopped himself, yet again, from going down that ranting avenue. He was hardly a dyed-in-the-wool local, he reminded himself. He’d been co-opted into Roseford Villas as a favour, and he himself had desperately needed the change of scene after the events of the past year. Maybe he needed to cool his head a bit.
At thirty-seven years old, Leo was, even putting it charitably, in the grip of a mid-life crisis. He’d come to Roseford four months ago after relocating from Melbourne’s sunnier climes. But missing the British weather that he’d grown up with wasn’t the reason he’d ended up back in the UK. Melbourne had been home for the best part of two decades, but he could quite conclusively say there was nothing to call home about it now. His career was over, and his personal life… well, now he was just back to car crash analogies.
He was also self-aware enough to know that he wasn’t a natural B&B host. He’d struggled to adapt to the precision and dedication that running a smart establishment in a tourist village entailed and had often been exasperated by the huge binder of instructions that his aunt and uncle had left him, with tips, tricks and procedures for every last damned thing. But, over time, he’d begun to adapt and get into a routine, and had even played host to a few visitors since his aunt and uncle had departed on their ‘pre-retirement recce’ of desirable residences in Spain. He’d promised them he’d look after Roseford Villas in their absence, and he was determined to do just that.
With that more positive thought in mind, he clicked the lock on the front door and pulled it open. He’d get this guest settled and then try to get his head around the job offer he’d been sentby the London firm. London was his future, when all was said and done. Roseford was just a convenient stop-gap.
‘Hi,’ he said, forcing a note of cheer into his voice. ‘How was your trip?’
