Page 35 of All Summer Long

The gypsy caravan looked spectacular down at the far end of the meadow behind the woods.

It had been home to an ecstatic Banjo for the last couple of weeks, too.

The first time Alice had opened the door and glimpsed inside the caravan was a moment she’d never forget.

She’d expected to find it dated, a bit of a renovation project, but what she got was something so unexpectedly perfect that she’d actually welled up.

The double bed sat raised over polished cherry-wood cupboards across the far end, and its heavy velvet side curtains turned it into a stage for those inclined to put on an all-star performance between the crisp white sheets topped with a colourful patchwork quilt.

Gilt and deep green leather ran amok all around the interior, every bit original and obviously cherished by Starling Loveridge when it had been her marital home.

Mother-of-pearl flowers had been intricately inlaid into all of the gleaming woodwork, and the graceful curve of the roof had been painted all over with the most marvellous fresco of cherubs and angels.

It was utterly, unashamedly kitsch, and Alice felt more like its fortunate caretaker and custodian that its owner.

‘Morning, Alice,’ Dessy called out across the meadow, resplendent in neon jogging attire.

Alice stepped out of the caravan, clean sheets over her arm. ‘You do know you’re jogging on private property,’ she grinned.

‘And here’s me doing you a favour.’ He popped his earbuds out and handed her a bundle of mail. ‘Saw the postman by the gate and offered to bring this up for him.’

‘I don’t suppose you were hoping to bump into a certain easy on the eyes cowboy while you were up here,’ she teased, on to him.

‘He’s a damn sight more charming than that evil little sour puss we’ve got the pleasure of at The Siren,’ Dessy grumbled. Marsh had been left with no choice but to check in at the only B&B in the village after missing his flight home and Robinson’s refusal to book new tickets.

‘I leave when you do,’ Marsh had said, digging his heels and fully expecting luxury full bed and board at the manor in the meantime.

He’d been disappointed. The last thing Robinson needed was his manager around as a perpetual and extremely loud reminder that the clock was ticking for him to return home.

‘He’s allergic to so many things that it’s a wonder the man isn’t living inside an oxygen tent,’ Dessy went on. ‘Honestly, Alice, he’s a nightmare.’

Alice flicked through the mail. Ominous-looking brown ones, and official-looking white ones. They all made her nerves jangle.

‘Can you sing, Alice?’

She looked up, confused by Dessy’s sudden change of tack. ‘Umm, a bit, I suppose? Why?’

‘Karaoke at The Siren next Friday night. Bring Niamh.’ He glanced slyly over his shoulder in the direction of the manor. ‘And anyone else you might know who can sing.’

Alice started to laugh. ‘You don’t have a hope in hell of Robinson coming, if that’s what you’re angling after.’

Dessy sighed. ‘Worth a try.’

Alice lifted her camera and shot off a volley of images of Dessy as he jogged away towards the woods, a bright flash of pink as he disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her shire horse, and a handful of unwelcome mail.

‘I’ve got an appointment with the bank in three weeks’ time,’ Alice said, full of nerves. ‘It came this morning.’

Robinson gathered small, early apples that had fallen from the trees for Banjo. ‘That’s a good thing, right?’

Alice rolled her shoulders. ‘I suppose so. It just means I need to try to write a convincing business plan. I don’t know what I’ll do if they say no.’

‘My offer still stands, Goldilocks.’

She shook her head as they walked across the meadow, just as he’d known she would.

He’d offered more than once over the last couple of months to act as her unofficial banker for the project and she’d refused him every time.

He didn’t push it. He knew her well enough by now to know that her independence mattered a great deal to her, more and more so, and it was one of her many qualities he’d grown to admire.

To look at Alice it would be easy to make lazy assumptions that she might be fragile and need taking care of, but to believe appearances would be to woefully underestimate the girl.

She was fragile, but she was also iron willed, and much as sheltering her under his protection fed his caveman soul, she soared highest and happiest unfettered.

Banjo ambled across the meadow as they approached him and pushed his nose into the bag Robinson held.

‘Easy there, big fella,’ Robinson laughed, feeding him his haul and giving Banjo’s ears a good scratch. ‘He’s looking well, isn’t he?’

Alice nodded. ‘In rude health.’

She hadn’t the first clue about horses, and Robinson had delighted in taking complete charge of Banjo when he arrived in Borne.

She’d watched as he washed the horse’s legs down and brushed his heavy mane, and listened as he’d ordered supplies of food and kit to settle him in.

A brand new stable had been erected at the side of the meadow within days, a cute building fashioned by Robinson from reclaimed wood to sit happily in its surroundings, the perfect shelter for the village’s new gentle giant.

‘I’ll teach you to ride him, if you want,’ Robinson said. ‘It’s easy enough. Kinda like dancin’, you just need to feel the rhythm and go with it. You couldn’t ask for a better first ride than this old boy.’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. Horse riding wasn’t something that she’d ever tried, but watching Robinson with Banjo over the last week made it look appealing.

Caring for Banjo as a method of payment for something as glorious as the caravan seemed almost like robbery, because he was a gentle joy to be around and added rather than detracted from the glampsite.

Looking at him, Alice had fanciful notions of wedding parties coming to stay, and of the bride riding Banjo to church with flowers twined in his mane.

She could even rent out rooms in the house as well as in the gardens for bigger parties.

Robinson dropped down on the uncut grass of the meadow and lay flat on his back.

‘I don’t believe a word they say about British weather being awful,’ he said, peeling off his t-shirt and tucking it beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. He squinted up at her and patted the ground for her to lie down beside him.

Alice flopped down and propped herself up on one elbow to study his profile. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, and a smile hovered around the corners of his lips as if he were having the most delicious of dreams.

‘You sure brought your cowboy sunshine with you,’ she said softly, plucking a long blade of grass and using it to tickle Robinson’s bare chest.

‘I’ll leave it behind for you when I go,’ he said, a promise they both knew he couldn’t keep. He opened his eyes and looked at her when she brushed the frond of grass slowly across the skin above the waistband of his jeans.

‘I can always take them off if they’re in your way.’

She laughed lightly and shook her head.

‘Don’t want to startle Banjo.’

She looked towards the huge horse happily grazing at the far end of the meadow.

‘I think he’s happy here,’ she said, dropping back flat onto the grass.

Robinson rolled onto his side and took the slender blade of grass from her fingers.

‘Of course he is. He’s with you.’

Alice let his compliment settle over her, warmer than the sun’s rays. She jumped a little when he drew the grass along her arm from fingertip to shoulder.

‘Sunshine suits you,’ he said. ‘You look as if someone dipped you in gold dust.’

No one had ever made Alice feel the way Robinson could with a few uncensored words. He wore his unavailable heart on his sleeve and was always generous with his compliments. As confidence boosters went, he was right up there with losing a stone and pillar-box-red Chanel lipstick.

She laughed as he traced an intricate pattern from shoulder to shoulder across her body with the strand of grass.

‘What did you draw?’

Robinson flicked the grass out of his fingers and slid his hand up her thigh until he reached her cut-off shorts.

‘I didn’t draw. I wrote,’ he said.

Alice turned her head to look at him, shading her eyes from the sun.

‘What did you write?’

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth.

‘My name,’ he said.

She wistfully wished he’d tattooed it in ink instead of invisible, blow-away-on-the-breeze letters.

‘I should probably pay you for your autograph then,’ she said, making light of it.

‘Only if you let me write it again in indelible ink,’ he murmured, his words too close to her own thoughts for comfort.

‘I think it probably breaks the rules of holiday romances to leave a permanent mark.’

‘Bit late for that,’ he said, sliding his hand up inside her vest, warm and sure on her skin. ‘You’ve already left your mark on me, Goldilocks.’

And then he kissed her for a good, long time under the heat of the afternoon sun, a slow, lazy smooch, a holding card for later.

‘I’ll do it, you know,’ she said, looking towards the gypsy caravan as she laid her head down on his chest. ‘I’m going to make this glampsite happen, and it’s going to be brilliant.’

Robinson tightened his arm around her shoulders. ‘Darlin’, I don’t doubt you for one minute. If you told me that you were gonna fly to the moon and back I’d believe you. You’re just that kind of girl.’

Alice glowed with pleasure and pride under Robinson’s praise. They said that it took a village to raise a child. In Alice’s case, it took a village and a hot cowboy to turn that child into a woman to be reckoned with.