It’s Saturday. I have nothing to do.
No contracts to go over, no e-mails to reply to, no emergency meetings at the office. Nothing.
I try to remember the last time I had nothing to do. But I’m not sure I can. It seems like I’ve never had nothing to do, ever since I was about seven. I get out of bed, walk to the window, and stare out at the early morning translucent blue sky, trying to get my head around my situation. It’s my day off. No one has any hold over me. No one can call me up and demand my presence. This is my own time. My own time.
As I stand there at the window, contemplating this fact, I start to feel an odd feeling inside. Light and giddy, like a helium balloon. I’m free. A smile of exhilaration spreads across my face. For the first time ever, I can do whatever I like.
I check the time—and it’s only 7:15 a.m. The whole day stretches before me like a fresh sheet of paper. What shall I do? Where do I start?
I’m already sketching out a timetable for the day in my head. Forget six-minute segments. Forget hurrying. I’m going to start measuring time in hours. An hour for wallowing in the bath and getting dressed. An hour for lingering over breakfast. An hour for reading the paper, cover to cover. I’m going to have the laziest, most indolent, most enjoyable morning I’ve ever had in my adult life.
As I head into the bathroom, I can feel muscles twinging with pain all over my body. They really should market housecleaning as a workout. I run a deep warm bath and slosh in some of Trish’s bath oil, then step into the scented water and lie back happily.
Delicious. I’m just going to stay here for hours and hours and hours.
I close my eyes, letting the water lap my shoulders, and time wafts past in great swathes. I think I even fall asleep for a while. I have never spent so long in a bath in my entire life.
At last I open my eyes, reach for a towel, and get out. As I’m starting to dry myself off I reach for my watch, just out of curiosity.
7:30 a.m.
What?
I was only fifteen minutes?
How can I have only taken fifteen minutes? I stand, dripping, in indecision for a moment, wondering if I should get back in and do it all again, more slowly.
But no. That would be too weird. It doesn’t matter. So I had my bath too quickly. I’ll just make sure I take my time properly over breakfast.
At least I have some clothes to put on. Trish took me out last night to a shopping center a few miles away so I could stock up on underwear and shorts and summer dresses. She told me she’d leave me to it—then ended up bossing me about and picking everything out for me … and somehow I ended up with not a single item in black.
I cautiously put on a pink slip dress and a pair of sandals and look at myself. I’ve never worn pink before in my life. My entire closet at home is filled with black suits for work—and I’ve got into the habit of wearing black at the weekends too. It just makes life easy. But to my amazement I don’t look too bad! Apart from the huge streak of bleach in my hair.
As I make my way along the corridor, there’s no sound from the Geigers’ bedroom. I move silently past the door, feeling suddenly awkward. It’ll be a bit strange, spending all weekend in their house, with nothing to do. I’d better go out later. Get out of their way.
The kitchen is as silent and gleamy as ever, but it’s starting to feel slightly less intimidating. I know my way around the kettle and the toaster, if nothing else. I’ll have toast for breakfast, with orange and ginger marmalade, and a nice cup of coffee. And I’ll read the paper from cover to cover. That’ll take me to about eleven o’clock and then I can think about what else to do.…
I wonder how the Fallons deal is progressing.
The thought pops into my mind with no warning. I can’t help picturing my last scribbled amendments on the draft agreement—all my work, left half done. And Ketterman’s due diligence report. I never finished that.
My grip on the kettle tightens as I remember all the projects I’ve left behind. I wonder who’s taken over all my unfinished deals. Edward Faulkner, maybe? He’s a year or two younger than me, but pretty sharp. With a wince I imagine him taking the files off my desk, flipping through all my work, introducing himself to the Fallons people. The team could be there right now, finishing up an all-nighter—sitting around the table, Edward Faulkner in my place …
Stop.
Just stop. I mustn’t think about it. I’ve left Carter Spink. It’s nothing to do with me anymore. I’m going to relax and enjoy my free time, like any normal person.
Forcing the images out of my mind, I head out into the hall, where I find a copy of the Times on the doormat. I bring it back to the kitchen just as my toast is popping up.
This is the life.
I sit by the window, crunching toast, sipping coffee, and leafing through the paper in a leisurely way. At last, after devouring three slices, two cups of coffee, and all the Saturday sections, I stretch my arms in a big yawn and glance at the clock.
I don’t believe it. It’s only seven fifty-six.
What is wrong with me? I was supposed to take hours over breakfast. I was supposed to be sitting there all morning. Not get everything finished in twenty minutes flat.
OK … never mind. I’ll soon get the hang of it.
I put my crockery away in the dishwasher and wipe away my toast crumbs. Then I sit down at the table again and look about. I wonder what to do next.
Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table with my fingernails. I stop myself and survey my hands for a moment. This is ridiculous. I’m having my first true day off in about ten years. I should be relaxed. Come on, I can think of something nice to do, surely.
What do people do on days off? My mind scrolls through a series of images from TV. I could make another cup of coffee, but I’ve already had two. I could read the paper again, but I have an almost photographic memory. So rereading things I already know is a bit pointless.
My gaze drifts to the garden, where a squirrel is perched on a stone pillar, looking around with bright eyes. Maybe I’ll go outside. Enjoy the garden and the wildlife and the early morning dew. Good idea.
Except the trouble with early morning dew is it gets all over your feet. As I pick my way over the damp grass, I’m already wishing I hadn’t put on open-toed sandals. Or that I’d waited till later for my little stroll.
The garden is a lot bigger than I’d appreciated. I walk down the lawn toward an ornamental hedge where the land seems to finish, only to realize there’s a whole section beyond it, with an orchard at the end and some sort of walled garden to my left.
It’s a stunning garden. Even I can see that. The flowers are vivid without being garish; every wall is covered with some beautiful creeper or vine. As I walk toward the orchard I can see little golden pears hanging from the branches of trees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual pear growing on a tree before in my life. I grew up in a town house with a small paved courtyard containing nothing but a few nondescript shrubs.
I walk through the fruit trees toward a huge, square, brown patch of earth with vegetation growing in serried rows. These must be the vegetables. I prod one of them cautiously with my foot. It could be a cabbage or a lettuce. Or the leaves of something growing underground, maybe.
To be honest, it could be an alien. I have no idea.
I sit down on a mossy wooden bench and look at a nearby bush covered in white flowers. Mm. Pretty.
Now what? What do people do in their gardens?
I feel I should have something to read. Or someone to call. My fingers are itching to move. I look at my watch. Still only eight sixteen. Oh, God.
Come on, I can’t give up yet. I’ll just sit here for a bit and enjoy the peace. I lean back and watch a little speckled bird pecking the ground nearby for a while.
Then I look at my watch again: eight seventeen.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do nothing all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll have to go and buy another paper from the villa
ge shop. If they’ve got War and Peace, I’ll buy that too. I get up and head briskly back across the lawn when a bleep from my pocket makes me stop still.
It’s my mobile. It’s received a text. Someone’s just texted me, early on a Saturday morning. I pull out my mobile, feeling edgy. I haven’t had any contact with the outside world for two days. Is it from Carter Spink?
I know there are other texts in my phone—but I haven’t read any of them. I know there are messages in my voice mail—but I haven’t listened to a single one. I don’t want to know.
I finger my mobile, telling myself to put it away. But now my curiosity has been sparked. Someone texted me a few seconds ago. Someone, somewhere, has been holding a mobile phone, punching in a message to me. I have a sudden vision of Guy, in his off-duty chinos and blue shirt. Sitting at his desk, frowning as he texts. Apologizing. Or giving me some news. Some kind of development I couldn’t have guessed at yesterday—
I can’t help it. Despite all, I feel a sudden flicker of hope. As I stand there on the early morning lawn, I can feel my mental self being dragged out of this garden, back to London, back to the office. Two whole days have gone on there without me. A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. Things can change for the better.
Or … become even worse. They’re suing me. They’re prosecuting me. There’s some obscure piece of negligence law I don’t know about.…
I’m gripping my phone more and more tightly. I have to know. Good or bad. I flip open the phone and find the text. It’s from a number I don’t even recognize.
Who? Who on earth is texting me?
Feeling a little sick, I press ok to read.
hi samantha, nathaniel here.
Nathaniel?
Nathaniel?
My relief is so huge, I laugh out loud. Of course! I gave him my mobile number yesterday for his mother. I scroll down to read the rest of the message.
if you’re interested, mum could start cooking lessons today. nat
Cooking lessons. I feel a spark of delight. What a perfect way to fill the day! I press reply and quickly text:
would love to. thanks. sam
I send it with a little smile. This is fun. A minute or two later, the phone bleeps again.
what time? is 11 too early? nat
I look at my watch. Eleven o’clock is still two and a half hours away.
Two and a half hours with nothing to do except avoid Trish and Eddie. I press reply.
shall we make it 10? sam
At five to ten I’m ready in the hall. Nathaniel’s mother’s house is nearby but apparently tricky to find, so the plan is to meet here and he’ll walk me over. I check my reflection in the hall mirror and wince. The streak of bleach in my hair is as obvious as ever. Am I really going out in public like this? I push my hair backward and forward a few times—but I can’t hide it. Maybe I could walk along with my hand carelessly positioned at my head, as if I’m thinking hard. I attempt a few casual, pensive poses in the mirror.
“Is your head all right?”
I swivel round in shock to see Nathaniel at the open door, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans.
“Er … fine,” I say, my hand still glued to my head. “I was just …”
Oh, there’s no point. I bring my hand down from my hair and Nathaniel regards the streak for a moment.
“It looks nice,” he says. “Like a badger.”
“A badger?” I say, affronted. “I don’t look like a badger.”
“Badgers are beautiful creatures,” says Nathaniel with a shrug. “I’d rather look like a badger than a stoat.”
Hang on. Since when was my choice between badger and stoat? How did we get onto this subject, anyway?
“Perhaps we should go,” I say with dignity, then pick up my bag and give one last glance in the mirror.
OK. Maybe I look a little bit like a badger.
The summer air is already warming up outside, and as we walk down the gravel drive I sniff appreciatively. There’s some sort of nice flowery smell that I definitely recognize.…
“Honeysuckle and jasmine!” I exclaim in sudden recognition. I have the Jo Malone bath oil at home.
“Honeysuckle on the wall.” Nathaniel points to a tangle of tiny pale-yellow flowers on the old stone wall bordering the drive. “Put it in a year ago.”
I peer up at the delicate flowers with interest. That’s what real honeysuckle looks like?
“There’s no jasmine around here, though,” he says, curiously. “Can you smell it?”
“Er …” I spread my hands vaguely. “Maybe not.”
I don’t think I’ll mention my Jo Malone bath oil at this point. Or, in fact, at any point.
As we turn out of the drive I realize this is the first time I’ve been out of the Geigers’ grounds since I arrived here—apart from the shopping trip with Trish, when we turned in the opposite direction. And anyway, I was too busy scrabbling for her Celine Dion CD to notice my surroundings. Nathaniel has turned left and is striding easily along the road—but I can’t move. I’m gazing at the sight in front of me, my jaw wide open. This village is absolutely stunning.
I had no idea.
I look around, taking in the old, honey-colored stone walls, the rows of ancient cottages with steeply pitched roofs, the little river lined with willow trees. Up ahead is the pub I noticed on the first night, decorated with hanging baskets. I can hear the distant clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Nothing jars. Everything is soft and mellow and feels like it’s been here for hundreds of years.
“Samantha?”
Nathaniel has finally noticed I’m pinned to the spot.
“I’m sorry.” I hurry to join him. “It’s just such a beautiful place!”
“It’s nice.” I can hear a note of pride in his voice. “Gets too many tourists, but …”
“I had no idea!” We continue to walk along the street, but I can’t stop looking around, wide-eyed. “Look at the river! Look at the little church!”
I feel like a child discovering a new toy. I’ve hardly ever been to the English countryside, I suddenly realize. We always stayed in London or went abroad. I’ve been to Tuscany more times than I can remember, and I once spent six months in New York when Mum was working there. But I’ve never been to the Cotswolds in my life.
We walk over the river on an old arched stone bridge. At the top I stop to look at the ducks and swans.
“It’s just … gorgeous.” I exhale. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“Didn’t you see any of this as you arrived?” Nathaniel looks amused. “Did you just appear in a bubble?”
I think back to that panicked, dazed, desperate journey.
“Kind of,” I say at last. “I didn’t really notice where I was going.”
We both watch as a pair of swans sail regally under the little bridge. Then I glance at my watch. It’s already five past ten.
“We should get going,” I say with a little start. “Your mother will be waiting.”
“There’s no rush,” Nathaniel calls as I hasten down the other side of the bridge. “We’ve got all day.” He lopes down the bridge. “It’s OK. You can slow down.”
I try to match his relaxed pace. But I’m not used to this easy rhythm. I’m used to striding along crowded pavements, fighting my way, pushing and elbowing.
“So, did you grow up here?” I ask.
“Yup.” He swings into a little cobbled lane. “I came back when my dad got ill. Then he died and I had to sort things out. Take care of Mum. It’s been tough on her. The finances were in a mess—everything was in a mess.”
“I’m … sorry,” I say awkwardly. “Do you have any other family?”
“My brother, Jake. He came back for a week.” Nathaniel hesitates. “He runs his own computer business. Very successful.”
“Didn’t you mind?” I say. “That he only stayed a week?”
“Jake’s a busy man. He has other priorities.”
Nathaniel’s voice is as easy as ever, but I can detect a
thread of … something. Maybe I won’t ask any more about his family.
“Well, I’d live here,” I say with enthusiasm.
“You do live here,” he reminds me.
I feel a tweak of surprise. I suppose he’s right. Technically, I do.
I try to process this new thought. I’ve never lived anywhere except London before, apart from my three years at Cambridge and those six months in New York when I was eight. I’m a city person. That’s who I am. That’s who I … was.
But already the old me is feeling more distant. When I think back to myself even last week, it’s as if I’m seeing myself through tracing paper. Everything I once prized has been destroyed. I’m still feeling sore and bruised. But at the same time … my rib cage expands widely as I breathe in the country air, and I suddenly feel a wave of optimism. On impulse, I stop by a huge tree and gaze up into the green-laden branches. As I do so, a memory from English A Level suddenly comes into my mind.
“There’s a wonderful Walt Whitman poem about an oak tree.” I lift a hand and tenderly stroke the cool, rough bark. “I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing. All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches.”
I glance over at Nathaniel, half-expecting him to look impressed.
“That’s a beech,” he says, nodding at the tree.
Oh. Right.
I don’t know any poems about beeches.
“Here we are.” Nathaniel pushes open an old iron gate and gestures me to go up a stone path toward a little cottage with blue flowered curtains at the windows. “Come and meet your cooking teacher.”
Nathaniel’s mother is nothing like I expected. I was picturing some cozy Mrs. Tiggywinkle character with gray hair in a bun and half-moon spectacles. Instead, I’m looking at a wiry woman with a vivid, pretty face. Her eyes are bright blue, and her graying hair is in plaits on either side of her face. She’s wearing an apron over jeans, T-shirt, and espadrilles, and is vigorously kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen table.
“Mum.” Nathaniel grins and pushes me forward into the kitchen. “Here she is. This is Samantha. Samantha—my mum. Iris.”