Page 11 of We Live Here Now

10

Emily

The Lamb and Shepherd is a proper old-fashioned pub with beams overhead and brass horseshoes on the walls, and the whole building is a rabbit warren of overheated spaces.

I’ve had a glass of wine, which has gone straight to my head, and I’m on the verge of feeling entirely disoriented on the way to the bathroom when I peer into one alcove, and there she is, looking back. The woman from the lane.

She’s animated, midconversation with two men, one an elderly vicar, a dog collar tucked into his blue shirt, and the other a very handsome man of about her age, casually dressed in a loose white shirt, open at the neck against tanned skin, his thick hair cut slightly long. There’s bright paint on his trousers, a dash of blue and a small smear of red. Artist’s paint, not decorator paint. He reminds me of the year-rounders we met in the bars in the quieter spots of Ibiza. Free. Easy. He says something, a wry smile on his face and a hand on the woman’s thigh, and the other two laugh. That’s when she looks up and sees me. Their conversation stops and I become the focus of their attention.

“Sorry.” I’m suddenly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just—I saw you this morning. Outside Larkin Lodge.”

“Oh, yes.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I remember now. The new owner. I passed by on my walk.”

“The new owner?” The vicar is immediately on his feet, one hand stretched out, beaming cheerfully. “How lovely to meet you. So glad the old place has people in it again. It’s been empty too long. I’m Paul Bradley Carr—not to be confused with the other Paul Carr, who owns the liquor store on the high street and is known to drink all his profits. I’m the vicar at St. Olaf’s.” His grin is infectious, although I’m still curious about the woman and the man she’s with. It didn’t seem like she’d passed by this morning. It felt like her visit was intentional.

“I’m Emily Bennett. My husband, Freddie, and I just moved in.”

“Always nice to have fresh blood in the village,” the handsome man says, and I swear to god I start to blush. He bleeds a sexual charisma that gives him the air of some movie star. A natural charm. He’s hot, really hot, and even after everything, I feel a rush of attraction.

“I’m Joe Carter. And this is my wife, Sally.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Sally says, before adding, looking at me thoughtfully, “You’re very beautiful.”

It’s an unexpected and odd compliment, and I’m not sure how to respond. “Oh. Thank you,” I settle on. “And so are you.”

“Isn’t she, Joe?” She looks over at her husband. “You should paint her.”

“Maybe give her time to settle in first.” Joe smiles at me. “My wife is my manager. Every new face is a potential masterpiece to Sally. I’m an artist.”

“And a very sought-after one,” the vicar interjects. “All the London galleries want work from him.”

“We lived in the Lodge for a while about twenty years ago. Sally got quite attached to it but it’s too big for us, and then we saw the cottage in Wiveliscoombe and the studio space and we haven’t looked back. Train into London in three hours. Perfect.”

“I hadn’t thought about the Lodge for years,” Sally says. “And then there you were. Bringing it back to life.”

“Welcome to Wiveliscoombe, Emily,” Paul says. “Heart of Dartmoor.”

“Is that a niche Conrad joke?”

“Oh, you’re a bookworm? What perfect timing. We’ve just wrapped up our book club.” He holds up a volume. “The collected short stories of Edgar Allan Poe. A little too horror for me, but interesting. We’ve just done ‘The Raven.’ Poem rather than story.”

“Ravens are drawn to death,” Sally says softly. “Did you know that?”

“Where my imagination goes onto canvas, Sally loves books. This is her thing, not mine.” Joe gets to his feet. “And I still have work to get done tonight, darling, so let’s go.”

“My husband isn’t much of a reader either.”

“Well, maybe you should join our club.” The vicar holds out the book. “Take it and have a read. We meet in here every third Thursday.”

“Maybe.” I take the book, although I’m not sure I’m ready for some middle-aged book group in the country yet. “And thank you.”

I watch them leave together, Joe’s hand gently resting on the small of Sally’s back, his movements fluid like a cat and her beauty almost ethereal, and I’m momentarily too fascinated by them to move until my bladder twinges and I’m reminded of what sent me this way in the first place.

“You had me worried.” Freddie’s waiting for me by the door. “Thought maybe you’d been sick. Too much rich food too soon.” He holds the door open for me but doesn’t rest his hand protectively on the small of my back as I hobble out.

“I asked at the bar about local workmen for the garden,” he continues. “Ones with good reputations. He’s going to speak to a couple of people. Thinks we should be able to get someone to start pretty soon if the weather breaks. I think one was someone called Pete Watkins? I’ve given him my number to pass on.”

“Great. Sounds good.”

I can just about make out Sally’s and Joe’s faces as a low classic racing-green sports car pulls out of the car park. I smile and wave, but they either don’t see me or are too deep in their own conversation to wave back. Neither of them is smiling, their expressions intense, so different from the mood in which they left. I lower my hand, and then they’re gone.