Bella. "Sounds like a ghastly disease."
"Where Mark and I are buying our dream cottage, we hope. Isn't that what you're talking about?"
"No, darling, I'm talking about the Insider piece on that Basia Briggs house. You know, darling, the one you helped me style. It's been spotted by a mystery megastar—rumor Lady Gaga—who's buying it for gazillions, apparently." She paused triumphantly. "Unbelievable, n'est-ce pas ?"
"It is unbelievable," Rosie said, appalled. "That house was absolutely disgusting." As were its owners, she added silently, as the memory of Samantha Villiers's mean little eyes and purple lips pressed tightly together loomed suddenly and unpleasantly before her. Rosie shuddered. Still, if all went according to plan, she need never clap eyes on her again.
"Well, it needn't bother you anymore darling," said Bella, reading her thoughts. "Not now you've found your dream cottage. I must say, I really rather envy you. In some ways," sh e added immediately.
"You do ?"
"Well, quite frankly, darling, Islington's going awfully downhill. Simon was in bed last night and heard our car being broken into. He shot out of bed, completely starkers, to give whoever it was a piece of his mind."
"How terrible," said Rosie, trying not to smile as she imagined the car thief peaceably going about his business and then being confronted by a very angry, very red-faced, and very naked Simon. "What happened?"
"Well, they ended up having the most dreadful fight. I looked out of the window and saw them rolling down the pavement together. Had to take Si to the hospital this morning to have all the windshield glass picked out of his bottom."
As an image of a nurse patiently attending to Simon's large red rump floated irresistibly to mind, Rosie tried again not to smile. "Oh, dear."
"Well, Simon insists he gave the thief a left hook," said Bella, sighing. "Says that all the time he was in the hospital he knew the thief was also in one. But I'm not so sure. Anyway, darling, I was thinking we might have to move somewhere a bit, well, greener."
"Come with us," said Rosie immediately. "There's the most wonderful manor house for sale in the village."
"Oh, no, darling," said Bella, sounding horrified. "I was thinking more of Regent's Park."
***
According to Kane, Birch & Spankie Ltd., Number 2 Cinder Lane was "an atmospheric former coal-miner's cottage situated in the oldest part of the historic village of Eight Mile Bottom, near the church." Rosie registered, but chose not to dwell on, the fact that, in her experience, "atmospheric" generally heralded a pervading smell of damp and "near the church" probably meant distantly glimpsed if you stood on a chair in the attic.
Number 2 proved to be the second in a terrace of small cottages running up a lane. "Sixteen forty-nine!" Mark pointed at the date stone above the door. "Three hundred and fifty years old!"
Rosie thrilled to the romance of the wonkily carved numbers, their edges smoothed and blackened with age. How many people had passed under that very lintel since 1649? People, in general, seemed scarce; the row of cottages going up the lane was as silent as the graves in the churchyard at the bottom of it.
For, much to Rosie's amazement, Number 2 Cinder Lane was, in fact, very near the church. The tower of pink-tinged stone stood peacefully amid its trees mere feet from the cottage door. She looked admiringly at the timeless scene.
Except that it wasn't completely timeless—an old, gold-figured clock face was mounted on the side of the church tower. As they closed the car doors, it struck.
"Twelve o'clock," said Mark, looking at his watch.
"Sixteen o'clock." Rosie grinned, listening to the bells ringing on inside the pink tower.
"Crunch time," said Mark, swinging the keys.
They started, slowly, to move toward the
"Where Mark and I are buying our dream cottage, we hope. Isn't that what you're talking about?"
"No, darling, I'm talking about the Insider piece on that Basia Briggs house. You know, darling, the one you helped me style. It's been spotted by a mystery megastar—rumor Lady Gaga—who's buying it for gazillions, apparently." She paused triumphantly. "Unbelievable, n'est-ce pas ?"
"It is unbelievable," Rosie said, appalled. "That house was absolutely disgusting." As were its owners, she added silently, as the memory of Samantha Villiers's mean little eyes and purple lips pressed tightly together loomed suddenly and unpleasantly before her. Rosie shuddered. Still, if all went according to plan, she need never clap eyes on her again.
"Well, it needn't bother you anymore darling," said Bella, reading her thoughts. "Not now you've found your dream cottage. I must say, I really rather envy you. In some ways," sh e added immediately.
"You do ?"
"Well, quite frankly, darling, Islington's going awfully downhill. Simon was in bed last night and heard our car being broken into. He shot out of bed, completely starkers, to give whoever it was a piece of his mind."
"How terrible," said Rosie, trying not to smile as she imagined the car thief peaceably going about his business and then being confronted by a very angry, very red-faced, and very naked Simon. "What happened?"
"Well, they ended up having the most dreadful fight. I looked out of the window and saw them rolling down the pavement together. Had to take Si to the hospital this morning to have all the windshield glass picked out of his bottom."
As an image of a nurse patiently attending to Simon's large red rump floated irresistibly to mind, Rosie tried again not to smile. "Oh, dear."
"Well, Simon insists he gave the thief a left hook," said Bella, sighing. "Says that all the time he was in the hospital he knew the thief was also in one. But I'm not so sure. Anyway, darling, I was thinking we might have to move somewhere a bit, well, greener."
"Come with us," said Rosie immediately. "There's the most wonderful manor house for sale in the village."
"Oh, no, darling," said Bella, sounding horrified. "I was thinking more of Regent's Park."
***
According to Kane, Birch & Spankie Ltd., Number 2 Cinder Lane was "an atmospheric former coal-miner's cottage situated in the oldest part of the historic village of Eight Mile Bottom, near the church." Rosie registered, but chose not to dwell on, the fact that, in her experience, "atmospheric" generally heralded a pervading smell of damp and "near the church" probably meant distantly glimpsed if you stood on a chair in the attic.
Number 2 proved to be the second in a terrace of small cottages running up a lane. "Sixteen forty-nine!" Mark pointed at the date stone above the door. "Three hundred and fifty years old!"
Rosie thrilled to the romance of the wonkily carved numbers, their edges smoothed and blackened with age. How many people had passed under that very lintel since 1649? People, in general, seemed scarce; the row of cottages going up the lane was as silent as the graves in the churchyard at the bottom of it.
For, much to Rosie's amazement, Number 2 Cinder Lane was, in fact, very near the church. The tower of pink-tinged stone stood peacefully amid its trees mere feet from the cottage door. She looked admiringly at the timeless scene.
Except that it wasn't completely timeless—an old, gold-figured clock face was mounted on the side of the church tower. As they closed the car doors, it struck.
"Twelve o'clock," said Mark, looking at his watch.
"Sixteen o'clock." Rosie grinned, listening to the bells ringing on inside the pink tower.
"Crunch time," said Mark, swinging the keys.
They started, slowly, to move toward the
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