Page 5

Chapter One

Henry

The horn toots outside the house, and I look down at Bertie. “Is it too late to hide?”

He’s balanced on the top of a teetering pile of clothes like a canine circus performer. As usual, he has nothing useful to add. Instead, he leaps down and goes to the front door, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

The horn sounds again, and I hear my other half bellow, “Henry?”

Shaking my head, I open the door. “There is no need to shout that loudly. I’m in the house, not in another country.”

Ivo grins at me. “I know where you are. It’s in a land called A Severe Case of Denial. Get in.”

On any other day, I would have admired how his blond hair—which has grown a little longer—falls around his sharp face and highlights his cheekbones and full, pouty lips. I might even have catalogued how his old denim shirt makes his golden eyes look lighter than usual. However, I can’t do any of that because my horrified attention is all on the camper van where he sits behind the wheel.

“Is this it?”

He must mistake my horror for admiration because he leaps out and lopes around to me. “Yeah. Isn’t it great?”

“That’s not the word I’d have used.”

I examine the Volkswagen camper van. It’s painted a rather jaunty-looking blue-and-white colour, like something from the seaside.

Ivo slides open the side door with a theatrical flourish, and I peek inside. “Oh, it’s like a little ice cream parlour,” I say, charmed. The floor is covered with black-and-white chequered linoleum, and the cupboards are all painted sky blue.

“And look at all these little cupboards.” Ivo climbs in and, in the manner of a game show host, starts to open them. I’ve seen a cupboard before, so I’m not quite as entertained as him and find my attention straying to his behind, displayed like a work of art in those old jeans.

“And the bed is up here.”

“Pardon?” My attention is drawn back with a screech. “Where?”

He chuckles, his eyes full of an unholy amusement. “Up here, Henry. We put the roof up and then sleep here on a board.”

“On a… on a board ?” I splutter.

He bites his lip to stop his laughter from erupting, but it sparkles all over his face. “With a duvet and proper pillows, though. Not in sleeping bags, darling. I know how you feel about them.”

“Like a caterpillar being suffocated?—”

“—by its own skin. Yes, I do seem to remember those words.”

He pulls out his phone from his jeans and points it at me.

“What are you doing?”

“Cataloguing the trip for Gabe. I promised. This is picture one.” He examines it. “I’m going to title it ‘The Face of Doom’.”

“Oh, shut up.” He starts to laugh, and I shake my head. “Such a twat.”

That makes him laugh harder.

“Are you parking that thing there permanently?”

The querulous query comes from behind me, and I sigh and turn to see Mr Singleton, the head of the neighbourhood watch. I’m pretty sure he’s burnt rubber getting outside this quickly.

“No, of course not, Mr Singleton.”

“Because we cannot have vehicles like this spoiling the natural beauty of the mews.”

“It’s a camper van. Not a rusty old Cortina.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not thinking of letting someone live in it, are you?”

“Someone could live in it?” I say incredulously. “It’s stretching my imagination to even stay in it overnight.” I hear a muffled snort from behind me and roll my eyes. “No, we are not renting it out. We are not letting a family of Borrowers move in. We are merely packing it up to go away for the weekend.”

“ You ?”

Another muffled snort sounds softly, and I narrow my eyes. “Yes, me. Is there something wrong with that?”

He looks me up and down dubiously, noting my outfit of tight, checked trousers that I’ve paired with a T-shirt and a cashmere cardigan. I was going for smart casual, but Mr Singleton doesn’t seem to share my sartorial joy.

“No, it just doesn’t seem your sort of thing,” he finally says.

“Well, I’m sure it will be,” I say in the tone of forced jollity that I last employed during the street party for the platinum jubilee. “Now, we must get on with our trip before the van starts to rust.”

He blanches, examining the van as if giant weeds are going to spring up immediately under the wheels, trapping it here for eternity. “As you were,” he says. He waves a careless hand and marches back into his cottage.

I spin around and pop my head back into the van. Ivo is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the seat with his long legs stretched out. His eyes are twinkling. “So, this is your sort of thing, Henry? This is news to me.”

“That would be like axe throwing being on Anne Boleyn’s bucket list.” He starts to laugh, and I shake my head in dismay. “Now we’ve got to go.”

His eyes narrow. “Weren’t we going anyway?”

“Oh yes,” I say hurriedly. “Don’t listen to me.”

“I do try that,” he says in a solemn voice. “But some of it still sinks in.”

An hour later, I settle back in my seat. The motorway is busy, but Ivo is as relaxed as ever, his hands loose on the wheel but his eyes alert. I sneak a look at Bertie, who’s sleeping happily. He’s like a little tortoise, and his basket is his shell. He’ll sleep anywhere as long as we bring his basket.

“So, this is Seb’s van, then?” I ask Ivo. “When did he buy it?”

Seb is a journalist mate of Ivo and Max from the old days. He’s loud and brash and could drink all the members of Guns N’ Roses under the table. He’s also the source of all embarrassing stories about Ivo and Max, so I love him.

“A few months ago.”

“Why?”

He chuckles. “Beyond a love of the great outdoors and seeing the country he was born in?”

I wave a dismissive hand. “He thinks the great outdoors is a pub beer garden. That’s why I get on with him.”

“It’s not his ability to recite that ridiculous story of Max losing his trousers, then? He’s embellished that one more than Enid Blyton with her magic tree.”

I laugh. “Oh, okay. It just rang rather true, given that Max lost his jeans at Glastonbury last month.”

“The least said about that weekend, the better.”

“True. So why did Seb buy the van?”

“He said it was so he could get some quiet and write his book.”

“Is he actually writing one?”

“Well, I’m sure he will at some point.”

I snort. “So, why the van?”

“He and Jimmy aren’t getting on. Seb says this is his getaway car.”

“Aren’t escape cars usually sleek and fast?”

“Well, we are talking about Seb. He once did thirty miles an hour while we were trying to escape a war zone. Miss Daisy would have got cross.”

“I’m sorry he and Jimmy aren’t getting on.” I like Seb’s quieter partner, who has a wicked sense of humour and shares a love of sharp suits with me.

He shrugs. “It’s the way of the world.”

“Not our world.”

He looks at me, suddenly serious. “No, never ,” he says fervently.

I smile at him. “So, what are we doing this weekend?”

“Didn’t we already discuss that?”

“Yes, but my brain froze on the word ‘camping’ and never rebooted.”

“I knew it.” He takes a sip from his Starbucks coffee cup and makes a face of pleasure that I usually only see when we’re between the sheets. “We’re going to the Chatsworth International Horse Trials.”

I blink. “Why? We don’t own a horse, do we?”

“That might drive Mr Singleton into madness.”

“He’s only a few steps away from that on a good day.”

“We’re going because Ralph is riding there.”

Ralph is one of Ivo’s friends. I’m not entirely sure how they got to know each other, but he’s a very famous equestrian who won gold at last summer’s Olympics.

“Are we going to cheer him on?”

“Not like he needs it. He’ll have the Roupies for that.”

“What?”

“Ralph’s groupies.”

“Horse riders have those?”

“Oh god, yes. He’s like Elvis on a horse.”

“Good grief. You have expanded my world, Ivo.”

“I have rocked your world.”

“If you say so.” I dodge away from his pinch and settle back in my seat. “I remember now. You’re photographing him.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Ivo doesn’t do much photography anymore because he’s so busy with his painting.

“It’s a favour for him. Vanity Fair wanted to do a spread on him, and he asked for me to do the photographs. Said it’d make it easier.”

“Surely, he’s used to all that by now. He’s been famous for a while.”

He shrugs. “Maybe that’s why. Sometimes it’s nice to have a good mate around instead of strangers.”

I eye him as an idea suddenly occurs to me. “Did you shag him?”

“ No .” His denial is adorably indignant. “I don’t fuck all my friends.”

“Okay, Pinocchio. I’m just amazed it took us so long to actually sleep together, given you were cutting a sexual swathe through your entire friendship group.”

He catches my hand and raises it to his mouth, dropping a gentle, almost courtly kiss on my fingers. “You are my exception in everything, Henry.”

I don’t even try to repress my smile. He’s far too charming for his own good.

Derbyshire is beautiful, with green, rolling hills dotted with sheep and cows. We drive along narrow, winding roads, often getting caught behind caravans, which usually drives Ivo demented. However, he seems remarkably serene today.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I say in what hopefully isn’t too accusatory a tone.

He gives me a lazy smile. “Yes. Jimmy is good to drive.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what Seb named the van.”

“He named his van after his boyfriend ?”

“When he bought it, he said it was because it would take him to places he’d never dreamed about. Now, he just says it’s because it’s expensive and difficult to drive.”

“Maybe they’ll get it together,” I say hopefully. “They do love each other. That’s very clear.”

“Love has never been the problem. Living together is the thing that causes the trouble.”

I look at Ivo affectionately. I’m so lucky. Living with him is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s my lover, my co-conspirator, and my best friend all rolled together.

He signals to turn into a lane, and I look around. “Where are we?”

“About ten minutes’ walk from Chatsworth. This is the road to the site.”

“Really? How wonderful .”

He snorts. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever sounded more insincere, but now I’m remembering you meeting Eric Phillips.”

“A dreadful man who was made slightly less odious by the fact that he was dropping thousands on one of your paintings.”

He chuckles. “Anyway, the site butts onto the old wall around Chatsworth. Apparently, we get a key.”

“To the house? That’s extraordinarily generous of the Duke of Devonshire.”

“No, the grounds. We can go through at any time. A lot of reviews mention how serene it is at night.”

“Unlike myself. Have you forgotten my distaste for soft ground?” I shake my head as he bursts into laughter. “Ivo, it’s a phobia.”

“It is not. It is an aversion to walking anywhere that isn’t within easy reach of some shops and a Starbucks.”

“You mean there isn’t a Starbucks ?” I say, aghast, and that sets him off again, so I ignore him, looking around as he comes to a stop. We’re in a cobbled yard next to a building labelled Reception. I see the sign for a shop and brighten, but after closer inspection, it seems to just stock cans and packets of food—none of which will be of any use to me and Ivo.

“I’ll check in,” he says, climbing out of the van.

I watch him move away, appreciating the sight of him, and then sigh. “The last time he mentioned checking in, it was to a five-star hotel in New York,” I say sadly to Bertie, who’s risen from his coma to perch in Ivo’s seat and look regally around as if he owns the site.

For a few minutes, I’m distracted by some rather spectacular memories, most of which involve being in bed. My reverie is interrupted when Ivo climbs back in.

“Are they full? Should we find a hotel?” I ask hopefully.

“Bad luck, darling. We’ve got a spot.”

He starts the van and drives away slowly. The site is small, with a winding road and pitches for caravans and motorhomes. It’s actually rather charming, with mature trees and pretty flowered bushes breaking up the pitches. It’s also very busy, with shiny motorhomes seemingly everywhere.

“There are so many people camping,” I marvel. “Who knew this was a thing?”

“Presumably, the caravan and motorhome clubs. Did you think I’d hired out the entire site for us, Monsieur Moneybags?”

“No, but it might have been nice. We could have changed pitch every five minutes.”

“I wouldn’t be too cocky. We haven’t actually set up a pitch at all yet. Still, a site just for us would have meant the loos would have been private.”

I go still. “ Pardon ?” I squeak.

He seems to try hard to repress it for a few seconds, but a snort escapes him. “We have shared bathroom blocks with showers and toilets.”

“Ivo, I thought I’d been a pretty amazing partner to you so far, but I’ve obviously done something wrong because you appear to be trying to kill me. We share a bathroom? With other people ?”

He nods, biting his lip.

“But I haven’t done that since the Scouts!”

“Henry, you make it sound like you had an illustrious career with the Scouts rather than leaving after an hour.”

“We met outside. No one alerted me to that possibility. Plus, the colour of the uniform wasn’t made for my hair.” I shake my head. “Sharing a bathroom. That was only acceptable in my single, clubbing days.”

“We do not need to mention that again.”

I hide my smile. His jealousy never gets old.

“Here it is,” he says. “This is our pitch.”

He parks neatly on a patch of gravel and gets out. I follow him, putting Bertie on his lead so he doesn’t try to run away back to London and civilisation.

The site he’s picked is actually very pretty. It has a grassy area set next to an old brick wall. An oak tree stoops over us, its leaves rustling in the breeze mysteriously.

“This is nice,” I say in a rallying tone, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s standing by the back of the van with his hands on his hips. “Alright?” I ask.

“Hmm? Oh yes, perfectly fine.”

With wonder, it dawns on me that Ivo hasn’t got a clue what to do now.

“I’ll just stay here with Bertie,” I say earnestly. “We’ll let you sort everything out. We’re in good hands, Bertie,” I tell the dog in a loud enough voice to rattle my beloved.

We stand in silence for a long few seconds, and then he grimaces and makes a gallic gesture that I’ve only ever seen his mother make. I’d observed her doing this at the end of her marriages, so it’s rather alarming.

“Pah,” he says. “We need the hook-up.”

I stare at him. “ Really ? This holiday is sounding positively scandalous. But I thought we didn’t do that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not a casual sexual encounter. No, it’s a lead that we plug into something and—” He gestures like a magician looking for his rabbit. “Poof! We will have electricity and light.”

“Oh well, we’d better definitely have that. I need to charge my phone so I can look at the best places to hitch back to London.”

He snorts. “You are no help at all, Henry.”

“Ivo, the closest I’ve come to this sort of situation was reading Five Go Off to Camp . I don’t think Enid Blyton prepared me properly for camping.”

“Did she mention hook-up lines?”

“No, but they were usually too busy solving some mystery or other caused by strange scientists.”

“I hope we’re not called on for mystery solving this weekend. Those jeans of yours are far too tight for you to carry your notebook and pencil to note down the clues.”

“Did you mean that to sound as lecherous as it did?”

“Yes.”

“I think we’d have got on well with the Famous Five,” I say contemplatively. “Their guardians showed a flagrant disregard for parental norms too. Letting them trot off around the British countryside on their own, prey to all the criminals hiding behind bushes.”

“Ah, but did they have to lie under a bed while my mother and your father shagged?”

“Ivo, you’re far too competitive.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think that cropped up between foiling foreigners’ dastardly plans and eating tomatoes and drinking ginger beer.”

“Excuse me, are you looking for the hook-up?”

Our eyes meet for a delicious second of laughter, and then we turn to find an old man looking kindly at us.

“Yes, we are,” Ivo says quickly. “I’d be eternally grateful if you’d point the way.”

“Ah, first time?”

“And last,” I offer sweetly, but they’ve vanished around the van, talking loudly about points and other things I don’t care to understand.

I open the van door and look inside. Our overnight bags sit neatly on one side. Ivo had made noises about sharing one bag but had subsided at the look on my face. I suppose I could unpack. I open a few little doors and find what I presume is the wardrobe cupboard. It’s the size of a coat rack, so I shut the door and look for something else to do.

When Ivo comes back, I’m sitting in one of the camp chairs I’d retrieved from the van and tilting my face to the sun.

“Working on your tan?” he says.

“Well, my freckles. At this stage of the summer, they’ve all joined up, so I look tanned. Did you get it done?”

He nods. “It’s quite simple, really. What are you drinking?”

I hold up my glass. “Gin and tonic. I made you one.”

“Did you unpack?”

“I thought about it.”

His lip twitches. “And?”

“Then I saw the size of the closet, so I made us drinks instead. If we have enough of them, I can ignore creased clothes.”

“Henry, you lie .”

I laugh and watch him climb into the van. He emerges with his drink and settles into the chair I set up next to me. He tangles his feet with mine, and we lapse into a comfortable silence. The sun is warm on our faces, and the air is full of the sound of birdsong. It’s actually rather pleasant, and I’m just relaxing when a shrill scream sounds.

I jerk, spilling my drink. “What the fuck ?”

Ivo peers around the van. “It’s just some kids.”

“Oh, do they have them here too?”

“It seems like they’re fairly ubiquitous.” The child screams again, and he winces. “It’s either a child or a drunken banshee. The jury is still out.” He peers around the van again. “There are some ducks over there.”

“Does that child have to announce it like it’s the onset of Armageddon?” Then his words sink in, and I sit up. “Oh my god. Real ducks?”

“No, rubber ones.” I raise my middle finger at him, and he laughs. “Yes, they’re real. What’s the problem?”

“They’re not heading this way, are they?”

“No, the kids have got some bread.”

“I hope they’ve got a bloody bakery.”

“They won’t hurt you.”

“Ivo, they have funny webbed feet, and they move in an odd way. Not to mention, if they decide to attack, they can walk and fly, so it’s a two-pronged attack.”

“You’ve been watching The Birds again, haven’t you?”

I shudder. “Once was enough, when we live in London with all the pigeons.”

“I’ll protect you, my love.”

“From the ducks or the pigeons?”

“The ducks. You’re on your own with the other.” He takes a sip of his drink. “You do make a good gin and tonic.”

“I make a lot of nice drinks. It’s the cooking side that I still can’t get my head around.”

“Nor me. Do you think we should try to learn again?”

“Aren’t we too old for that?”

“We’re in our thirties. Not approaching a hundred.” He jumps up. “Another one?”

I hand him my glass. “I thought you’d never ask.”

An hour later, we have a pleasant buzz on. The sun is low now with that special light of late summer making everything golden. Ivo stirs in his chair. “I wonder what we should do for food?” he says idly.

I eye him. “Didn’t we bring anything to cook?”

“Pah. What would be the point? We might just as well have brought ashes from the fire at home. It’s the same outcome.”

I point my glass at him. “Exactly. I love that we’re the same.”

He grins, and it’s his killer smile — the one only I see. It’s lazy and heated, making his eyes gleam. “I don’t think it’s quite as good as you’re implying. We’ll starve to death.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t bring any food because you presumed there would be something nearby. You’re as citified as me, Ivo, despite your current attempt to role-play country boy.”

“Henry, we grew up in the country.”

“We had a housekeeper and servants.”

He snorts and then looks at the van contemplatively. “I’m sure there are some crisps somewhere.”

“There’s definitely more gin.”

He clinks my glass. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Thank you, Hannibal.”