12 Days At Silver Bells House by Jennie Jones

the bench where she’d placed it next to the breadboard and the bread she’d unfrozen and warmed in the heating stove. The aroma of dough hitting her nostrils created an overwhelming hunger within her the like of which she’d never given into before.
    Fat Jacques Burch, the ID told her.
    She put the phone down, unanswered, her appetite waning fast. She didn’t want the scumbag disturbing the peace and happy-go-lucky enjoyment she’d eventually found today as she sauntered through Jamie’s house, tidying up and feeling like a real, ever-present, ever-loving country householder.
    However, after the conversation with Grandy, the fun evening playing games with Jamie, and the initial chalkboard sort-out of the goals she needed to achieve, Kate had dreamed all night. One dream after the other and each as abstract and absurd as a dragon with two heads breathing fire in her face.
    Jacques’ and Sahra’s faces had loomed at her within the psychedelic world of her dreams. Shouting demands, screaming for business recognition in the world Kate no longer felt she belonged to. Voices admonished her about lost goals and financial wreckage if she didn’t sign the paperwork and help lead Sensations into the future. A future that she’d accepted in her dreams. Signing the documents that saw Jacques take control and relinquishing her personal endeavours to remain sassy and creative, and foreclosing any chance for her young designers to stay true to themselves and what they created.
    She’d woken soaked in terror, with a pounding headache. So much for the lie-in. Two extra hours sleep had wrung her emotions through a mangle.
    She’d devoted herself to the art of fashion and helping young designers, beginning her career as a fashion artist, just like the job she’d hired her friend Sammy for, and leading herself forwards to a damned remarkably good position and an industry presence. She’d brought Jacques into the business as a co-partner only last year, and only because she’d been at a point where she’d needed a financial bump-up in order to keep her desire to be straight and sincere in the fashion world going. To keep her designers employed. But Jacques had turned her business into an industry-gossip, celebrity-kow-towing nightmare. He’d already fired six of her designers and brought in what he termed were fresh talent with avant-garde flair.
    Sensational bullshit. No truth. No eye for what women wanted or needed in order to remain feminine yet functional. Just money-making nonsense. Fashion no woman on today’s street would dream of wearing, let alone be able to afford.
    And then, in New York, a mere week ago, he’d hit her with his bombshell. Bastard.
    She switched on the timer sitting to one side of the oven range and set it for one hour. Then chewed on her thumb. Decide or stew.
    Difficult to believe she was hesitating by taking a huge twelve-day break. But this was the dilemma that had found her wishing on a shooting star.
    Twelve days. Deals were made and broke in twelve minutes but here she was, in the country. Looking for…something. Thank God for Chardonnay.
    She’d had another nap this afternoon. Had lain on the Chesterfield, closed her eyes and waited for more sleep to cover up the lack of decision making. What was it with the air around here ? She’d never felt more exhausted in her life.
    But eventually she’d risen, showered the smell of cleaning fluids and dust from her body and assembled the sensible parts of Kate.
    And here she was making dinner and planning on a fruit platter for dessert. Outside, on the patio maybe. Kate — under the stars with nothing to do but relax. How cute. How so not Kate Singleton. Would she ever fit in here? Probably not. But it was a nice picture. For those who wanted that sort of thing.
    Every way she looked at it, Kate wasn’t in that country picture.
    She pulled her shoulders back and her thoughts