It was raining sincerely, and Lucy had pulled the curtains against the gathering gloom when a flare of rounded light shone through the patterned calico. A car headlamp. She put down her mug and hurried to the front door, peering out of the porch, avoiding the heavy drips from the roof.
It wasn’t Richard’s Mercedes, but that wasn’t really the right car to be driving around here, anyway. It was a large, expensive-looking Range Rover, powering through the mud on the drive until it came to a halt in the side yard. Luckily the resident chickens
were all sheltering in the coops, so this didn’t cause a problem.
Richard jumped out, dressed for the countryside in waxed jacket and waterproof trousers, and took his bags from the boot.
The rain flattened his dark hair and dripped off the end of his rather prominent nose, but he was smiling as he approached Lucy.
‘You were expecting this weather?’ she said, watching him pull off wellington boots and put them in a rack on the porch. His feet were cocooned in thick woollen socks. He had to duck to get through the front door, and he filled the tiny front room of the cottage like a giant, making all the furniture look miniature.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s Wales.’ He looked around the room. ‘Cosy,’ he said with a laugh.
‘I don’t suppose it compares with your country estate, my Lord. I hope you didn’t forget your shooting stick.’
‘Don’t cheek me, or it’ll be a different kind of stick for you.’
He put down his bags, which occupied most of the floor.
‘No sign of our friend yet?’ he asked, peering through the open door to the kitchen.
‘No, not yet. I hope he’s OK. His car’s more or less clapped-out. I did offer to give him a lift but he said he wanted to drive himself. In case he needed a quick getaway, I think. I’d try and phone him but there’s no signal here.’
‘No landline?’
‘No. Look, you’re soaked through. Take your coat off and I’ll get a towel.’
Lucy ran up the wooden stairs to the big bedroom with its huge four-post bed. Not for the first time, she wondered about sleeping arrangements. There was only one other bedroom, more like a box room, tiny and narrow with a candlewick-covered single divan. They could, in theory, all fit into the four-poster, but would that be acceptable to all parties? Lucy rather hoped so.
Her phone bleeped and she took it out of her pocket, bemused.
It seemed that a weak signal was available in the upstairs rooms.
Rob had texted her.
‘Punto wdnt start, abandoned at mway services, have caught train from Swindon. Can u pick up from rway station? Prob won’t get there till 10/half past.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucy out loud.
‘What’s up?’ shouted Richard from downstairs. The cottage was too small for secrets, apparently.
‘Rob’s having to take the train,’ she called down. ‘We’ll have to get him from the station. But he’s going to be at least another three hours.’
She texted him back, ‘OK c u l8r xxx’ and headed back down with the towel.
‘Three hours?’ Richard had shed his waterproofs and sat on the sofa in a chunky jumper and jeans. It seemed so wrong to see him out of his suits. Well, obviously she had seen him naked, too, but this casual, informal Richard was alien to her. ‘What are we going to do until then?’
‘Eat, I guess. The owners left us some ingredients – all locally sourced, I think. Some lamb shanks, potatoes, onions, garlic, veg. Kind of an emergency ration. Just as well. I’m not sure takeaways would deliver all the way down here. There’s an Aga in the kitchen, so it’ll probably take three hours to cook it. And a wood-burner. You and Rob will have to chop logs. Mmm. Preferably without shirts.’
Richard chuckled. ‘Rustic porn, eh?’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ll give you a hand in the kitchen.’
‘Can you cook?’
‘Yes. You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘You’ve never cooked for me.’
‘We usually have other things on our minds, don’t we?’