Page 54 of A Change of Location
Jess, who had left a message on Martin’s answering machine at the Latimer House flat.
As they proceeded along a wooded footpath that led to the river, Poppy continued, “The jolly hockey-sticks type—very sporty. Not a brain in her head. Teddibly, teddibly tedious. She made the fatal error of introducing him to Natalie.” She stopped so Millie could relieve herself. “An effing nightmare. Hatefully gorgeous. Hard eyes.”
Hannah ran her hand over the marbled bark of a silver birch. Jess had mentioned Natalie during her telephone call.
“How she got those shiny red claws into him, I’ll never understand. They were quite the item. She dragged him to parties and premieres and charity auctions. He put up with it. As daffy as he can often be, at heart he’s a traditionalist. I have no doubt whatsoever that he plans to get married. Become a dad. Create the kind of family he didn’t have. Natalie was in no way a likely candidate for a Somerset landowner’s wife.”
“Did his mother get on with her?”
“We never had the chance to find out. Late last year, that pesky virus put Mart out of commission for a fortnight. Natalie refused to give up her holiday on the Alpine slopes. As a souvenir of the trip, she brought back an Italian duke. Whirlwind romance. They married on Valentine’s Day.”
Her kissable marquess with the impressive bedroom technique wasn’t exactly the lady-killer she’d imagined him to be. Poppy had identified only two exes.
“Mart gives the impression of being confident, able to handle anything life pitches at him. God knows, he’s had his share of hard blows. Losing his dad so young. Isobel’s illness. Natalie’s treachery. Don’t hurt him, Hannah.”
“He asked me to stay,” she admitted. “And work for him. Or with him.”
“Doing what?”
“I haven’t heard the specifics.”
“He’s an idea-man. Unlike a lot of dreamers, he’s got the determination—and the stubbornness—to make a success of whatever he sets out to do. In the process, he drives the rest of us bonkers. But it’s worth it. As you’ll discover, if you do stick around.”
***
Martin was pleased to find that shortly before closing-up time, the shops of Milverston Magna were filled with people scanning the shelves and queuing at the tills. The elders moved slowly, supported by a cane or Zimmer frame. Children dragged their mothers to the sweets aisle clamoring for a treat. Teens clustered in front of the drinks cabinet.
Entering the pet emporium, he noted the pervasive aroma of bagged kibble and the wood shavings in the rodent cages. He located a right-sized bed for Jewel, a round cushion, amply stuffed, with a tartan outer cover. Among the array of harnesses, he found the type Susan the dog trainer preferred. Unable to decide between a leather or nylon collar, he purchased both, and an identification tag. A machine at the ironmonger’s engraved Jewel’s name and his mobile number and that of the estate office on the brass disk.
He paused at the edge of the village green to inspect the community notice board. The Milver Beekeepers Society flyer offered an apiary tour in the orchard across from Stanwell’s Home Farm. He glanced at the summer schedule for the Pre-School Playgroup, which met in the morning at the cricket pavilion. Below it, surrounded by colorful and informative clutter, he spied a timely notice: Susan’s Agility Class, presented by Milverston Clever Dogs Club.
Andy Riddell ambled by, mobile at his ear and vape cigarette in his other hand. Observing Martin’s struggle to raise the car boot without dropping his purchases, he offered to help.
“Thanks, mate. On work break?”
“Nah. Jack needs a rubber gasket and plumbing tape. Kitchen sink’s leaking.”
“What’s tonight’s special?”
“Fish pie.”
“Can I reserve the table by the big mullion window?”
“It’s yours. What time?”
“Half seven. Eight. Something like that.”
No better place than The Peacock to make public the fact that he and Hannah were a couple. His mother and Poppy had already guessed that he’d found his dream girl, and now he wanted his whole world to know.
***
Contrary to Hannah’s expectations, the interior of Emotional Rescue was spacious and comfortable. Martin, just over six feet tall, didn’t need to hunch over as he moved about. He was placing loose items in a box while she rinsed their lunch plates in the narrowboat’s galley. Green tiles lined the work surface and backsplash. Ash wood cabinetry provided ample storage. A window faced the sun-dappled bank and drooping willow trees.
In a flash of pure blue and bright orange, a kingfisher darted from a ferny clump and dove into the river. It quickly surfaced and skimmed over a reed bed. Perching on a branch, it fluttered its wings to shake off the water.
“You’re sure you want to sell this treasure of yours?” she asked Martin, sweeping her cloth over the stainless-steel sink and worktop.
“Positive. Em was perfect for me, during the confusing, carefree time before I hared off from London’s Little Venice to the original Venice.” His head emerged from the cabinet he was excavating. “Where did you experience your greatest happiness?”
