‘You’ve never heard of John James? Biggest rock act this decade. Fifty million album sales, the most downloaded artist in the history of downloading. You don’t get out much,’ he chided.
‘I just don’t really listen to music’
‘What about MTV?’
She looked at him. He must be mid to late thirties. Clearly a Peter Pan.
‘Until a few weeks ago, until I came to Milford, I didn’t have a television.’
‘What? Why? Are you Amish?’
For a moment she thought he was flirting with her.
He was looking at her through thin, curious eyes.
‘Not Amish. Just busy,’ she replied quickly. ‘When you work 18 hours a day there’s no time for TV or music’ She had a vision of him lounging all over Peony House with MTV blaring in the name of work, surrounded by beer cans and pizza boxes and wondered what Mr and Mrs Parker would think of it all.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s always time for music’
The sun was beating down now on the common.
In the background she could hear the church bells pealing.
‘I’m late. I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait up,’ he said grabbing her arm.
They both stood up from the tree and began walking back to the village.
‘I wanted to talk to you today. That’s why I’m here. Let me buy you lunch in the pub.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘I didn’t have your phone number and anyway, I wanted to talk to you face to face. I noticed you come running every weekend and I thought it might be the only opportunity to speak to you,’ he said, shaking his shoulders.
‘You followed me!’ she gasped.
He looked sheepish.
‘You take the same route. Not wise by the way. Any weirdo could be lying in wait for you.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she replied flatly.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Winterfold. I haven’t got a clue if you planned to stay there. Make it your home. I know it’s not for sale yet, but I heard talk in t
he village that you thought it might be too big for you. I can pay top dollar. If you would consider renting it out on a long-term lease I’m open to that too.’
She stared at him open-mouthed. The cheek of him. Following her here. Suggesting the house was too big for her as if she was some sort of mouse.
‘You couldn’t afford it,’ she said, still angry at being monitored.
‘Sweetheart. That’s my problem,’ he said coolly.
Of course he could afford it, she thought quickly. She didn’t suppose record company executives made a great deal of money. Therefore it was definitely family money. The worst sort she thought, remembering the boys at Harvard with their sports cars and their country club memberships.
She started to walk away from him and then broke into a slow jog.
‘Won’t you at least think about it?’