we ideally want to pay and would mean a huge mortgage. But it’ll be a brilliant investment. And just think how happy Bethany will be there. Plus, the school has a fantastic Ofsted rating.’
‘Hmmm. I’m not sure,’ Rich mused. ‘I don’t know if I’d like living in a village like that.’
‘Of course you will. I’ll phone the agent this morning.’
Six weeks later they became Buttersley’s newest residents. And despite Rich’s initial reservations, he had to admit Alison had been right. Not only had the price of their property risen significantly since they’d moved in, but the school – despite its themed dressing-up days – was excellent, and village life, although sometimes verging on middle-class claustrophobia, was bearable. There were certainly a lot worse places he could be living. And one thing Rich absolutely loved was the drive to and from the showroom. Especially on a lovely sunny evening like this one, with the stunning countryside bathed in golden rays. The balmy conditions adding to his already good mood, he’d decided to break the news about Candi to Alison that evening. Just as soon as Bethany had gone to bed.
‘How are my two favourite girls?’ he asked, the moment he arrived home. Bethany and Alison were in the kitchen, Bethany kneeling on a chair at the table, sporting a striped apron and a red stain around her tiny mouth.
‘We made pavlova,’ she informed him. ‘And I’m going to decorate it with masses of cream and strawberries.’
Rich wrinkled his brow. ‘Is there something you two aren’t telling me? We only ever have pavlova when there’s something to celebrate.’
‘There is something to celebrate,’ announced Alison, turning round to face him from her position at the kitchen sink. ‘Something that has come as a bit of a surprise.’
Rich’s heart skipped a beat. Surely not. She couldn’t be. And if she was, the timing, given Candi’s appearance, would be off-the-scale weird. ‘You’re not … you know?’ He cast a meaningful look at her flat stomach.
Alison burst out laughing. ‘Nothing like that, no. But you’d better get your tux cleaned, Mr Stevens, because, on the fourteenth, we have been invited to the North’s Businesswoman of the Year Awards in Newcastle.’
Phew. Thank God that’s all it was. But an awards ceremony. Ugh. Rich would rather spend the night in a vat of piccalilli. ‘Oh, God, Al, do we really have to go? You know I can’t stand those things.’
Alison giggled. ‘I know you can’t
normally
. But when your wife’s one of the nominees, I thought you might make a bit of an effort.’
***
The sound of exploding bombs blasted through the air, followed by the clatter of flying debris.
With a thundering heart, Portia jack-knifed up in bed, sweat teaming from every pore. It took several seconds for her to realise where she was.
The gatehouse cottage in Buttersley.
She was safe.
Flopping back on the sweat-soaked pillows, she gulped in large breaths of air and attempted to calm down. Exactly as she’d done every day in the weeks since her narrow escape from death. The old adage of time being a great healer definitely did not apply here.
Fingers of dawn snaking around the edge of the curtains, she reached for her mobile on the bedside cabinet. 4.57 am beamed back at her. Strange how the nightmare seemed to occur at roughly the same time. Oh, well, as experience had taught her that the chances of falling back to sleep hovered around nil to minus sixteen, she might as well get up.
Forty minutes later, showered and breakfasted, Portia dug out the key to Buttersley Manor and made her way up the gravelled path that cut across the lawn separating the two properties. The day had dawned glorious: sun beaming, birds trilling, dew glistening. The heart-warming combination caused a tiny flame of optimism to flicker in her stomach. The first she’d experienced in months. It lasted the few short minutes it took her to reach the
‘Hmmm. I’m not sure,’ Rich mused. ‘I don’t know if I’d like living in a village like that.’
‘Of course you will. I’ll phone the agent this morning.’
Six weeks later they became Buttersley’s newest residents. And despite Rich’s initial reservations, he had to admit Alison had been right. Not only had the price of their property risen significantly since they’d moved in, but the school – despite its themed dressing-up days – was excellent, and village life, although sometimes verging on middle-class claustrophobia, was bearable. There were certainly a lot worse places he could be living. And one thing Rich absolutely loved was the drive to and from the showroom. Especially on a lovely sunny evening like this one, with the stunning countryside bathed in golden rays. The balmy conditions adding to his already good mood, he’d decided to break the news about Candi to Alison that evening. Just as soon as Bethany had gone to bed.
‘How are my two favourite girls?’ he asked, the moment he arrived home. Bethany and Alison were in the kitchen, Bethany kneeling on a chair at the table, sporting a striped apron and a red stain around her tiny mouth.
‘We made pavlova,’ she informed him. ‘And I’m going to decorate it with masses of cream and strawberries.’
Rich wrinkled his brow. ‘Is there something you two aren’t telling me? We only ever have pavlova when there’s something to celebrate.’
‘There is something to celebrate,’ announced Alison, turning round to face him from her position at the kitchen sink. ‘Something that has come as a bit of a surprise.’
Rich’s heart skipped a beat. Surely not. She couldn’t be. And if she was, the timing, given Candi’s appearance, would be off-the-scale weird. ‘You’re not … you know?’ He cast a meaningful look at her flat stomach.
Alison burst out laughing. ‘Nothing like that, no. But you’d better get your tux cleaned, Mr Stevens, because, on the fourteenth, we have been invited to the North’s Businesswoman of the Year Awards in Newcastle.’
Phew. Thank God that’s all it was. But an awards ceremony. Ugh. Rich would rather spend the night in a vat of piccalilli. ‘Oh, God, Al, do we really have to go? You know I can’t stand those things.’
Alison giggled. ‘I know you can’t
normally
. But when your wife’s one of the nominees, I thought you might make a bit of an effort.’
***
The sound of exploding bombs blasted through the air, followed by the clatter of flying debris.
With a thundering heart, Portia jack-knifed up in bed, sweat teaming from every pore. It took several seconds for her to realise where she was.
The gatehouse cottage in Buttersley.
She was safe.
Flopping back on the sweat-soaked pillows, she gulped in large breaths of air and attempted to calm down. Exactly as she’d done every day in the weeks since her narrow escape from death. The old adage of time being a great healer definitely did not apply here.
Fingers of dawn snaking around the edge of the curtains, she reached for her mobile on the bedside cabinet. 4.57 am beamed back at her. Strange how the nightmare seemed to occur at roughly the same time. Oh, well, as experience had taught her that the chances of falling back to sleep hovered around nil to minus sixteen, she might as well get up.
Forty minutes later, showered and breakfasted, Portia dug out the key to Buttersley Manor and made her way up the gravelled path that cut across the lawn separating the two properties. The day had dawned glorious: sun beaming, birds trilling, dew glistening. The heart-warming combination caused a tiny flame of optimism to flicker in her stomach. The first she’d experienced in months. It lasted the few short minutes it took her to reach the
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