Читать книгу The Happy Home for Ladies: A heartwarming,uplifting novel about friendship and love - Michele Gorman - Страница 9

Three months later…

We’ve lost Laney at work. That’s no euphemism, though I can see why you might think so, what with me recently ‘losing’ my mother, plus us being in a care home and all. I’m sorry, madam, we did everything we could, but we’ve lost Laney.

We actually can’t find her.

It’s not the first time, but it is the longest that she’s been missing. Even June is starting to get nervous. Not that anyone but me would be able to tell. She’s the most famously unflappable person here. The worse things are, the calmer she gets. That’s how I know she’s worried, when she starts speaking like she’s convincing someone to put down the knife. But I would never let on. Everyone’s got their coping mechanisms.

Laney was last seen at breakfast, sitting with her usual friends at their usual table. Not the one directly next to the big sash windows in the dining room, because Laney doesn’t like to squint when it’s sunny, and besides, Sophie thinks the light fades her hair colour. Which is already the colour of wholemeal bread, so I don’t know why she’s so worried. Sophie says she and Laney were going to do Zumba together, but Laney didn’t turn up for it.

That wouldn’t normally raise any alarm bells, since Laney isn’t much of an exerciser. She is a joiner-inner, though, who doesn’t like to disappoint people. Plus, she doesn’t usually go off on her own, so we’re getting worried.

‘I didn’t think much of it,’ Sophie continues, pulling her navy-blue legwarmers back up over her sturdy calves. ‘It’s not the first time she’s stood me up. She will skimp on her exercise.’ Her deep brown eyes are huge behind her thick glasses. I can never look at her without thinking of a barn owl. Now I’m tempted to say ‘She whoo?’ It’s as much because she’s owl-shaped and has a beakish nose as because she powders her round flat face with a shade that’s so light that we could use her as a road-marker post at night.

Sophie has been a Jane Fonda workout devotee since 1982, as she reminds us every chance she gets. Hence the legwarmers. She also makes everyone feel guilty for eating donuts, so she’s that kind of person and we do try to overlook her faults.

If we weren’t so chronically understaffed and overworked, we might not have lost Laney. It’s a wonder we don’t lose more residents. Max will be furious. He’s edgy about his business as it is.

Nobody would call him a good boss, except in the sense that he’s not generally around to bother us. When he does visit, he always rings first as a warning. That’s because he knows he’s not popular.

Not like his mother, the founder and previous owner of the Jane Austen Home for Ladies. That’s its official name now, though everyone in the village calls it Friendship House, because of the plaque beside the front door, from when people named their houses instead of numbering them. That must have been a nightmare for the postie.

We all call it the Happy Home for Ladies though. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It was Max who made his mother drop the Happy, in case anyone ever sued us for false or misleading advertising. It’s not, though, because the residents are happy. Plus, they’re women. Max was just being his usual miserable self.

‘He’s here,’ June calls out, speaking of the devil as she glances out the window. ‘Everyone, act normal. It’s not like he’s about to do a headcount.’

But this is the biggest kerfuffle the residents have seen since Dot fell out her bedroom window. They’re all gathered in the dining room making plans for Laney’s rescue, wherever she may be. Fat chance of acting normal.

‘Has anyone checked the greenhouse?’ Nick wonders. ‘I could go look.’

Nick is the only one who ever goes in there, and then only to get out the lawnmower. I can’t see Laney suddenly wanting to become a garden expert, but you never know with her. Any throwaway comment can send her mind skittering off on some obscure trail. Then, down the rabbit hole she goes.

‘Let me go with you,’ I tell Nick. ‘I mean, if she’s there, she could be hurt. There should be two of us.’

That sends the residents into another flap. I should know better than to mention getting hurt to residents in a care home. Now I feel bad for upsetting them for my own selfish ends.

And they are totally selfish. I’ll latch onto any excuse to be with Nick, even if it’s only in a draughty old greenhouse that stinks of fertiliser.

I’m sure my feelings would be easier to ignore if we didn’t have so much fun together. If only he’d get grumpy once in a while, or develop an annoying habit or at least a bad case of halitosis. But he remains stubbornly fanciable. There isn’t even any hint now of the awful weirdness that almost ruined our friendship. Those were terrible weeks, but at least if they’d gone on then I wouldn’t still be pining for him. Maybe I’d be satisfied with never sharing anything more than a friendly laugh in the shed together.

When Sophie puts her arm around Dot’s bony shoulders, I say, ‘I’m sorry, Dot, I’m sure she’s not hurt!’

If Sophie is a sturdy barn owl then Dot is a sparrow, reed-thin and restless. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d say boo to a goose.

She waves away my protest, sending her bracelets tinkling merrily. ‘It’s all right. There’s no need to fuss over me.’

How thoughtless can I be, when Dot’s only been off crutches for a few weeks?

We thought we’d lost her a few months ago. And I do mean that in the scary sense of the phrase.

Thank goodness for the rhododendrons that cushioned Dot’s landing when she tumbled from her window. Otherwise she might have broken a lot more than her leg and her arm.

I still don’t know what made her think she should try washing her own windows. Granted, we’ve had storms lately and they’re not as crystal clear as they might be. But she could have asked for someone to give them a wipe. Nick would have been the first one up that ladder.

Dot’s independent streak is a mile wide, though. Plus, she’s super polite and hates to put anybody out. Which was why she climbed out her window with a roll of kitchen towel and a squirty bottle of Windolene.

‘I didn’t think anything of it,’ she’d said, once the plaster casts had set and she was safely back from A&E, resting at ground level in one of the wing-backed chairs in the lounge. ‘I’ve always washed my own windows. Though I did live in a bungalow then.’

She bought that bungalow herself by saving every bit possible from her teacher’s salary – whatever was left over after paying the rent and the bills and single-handedly raising her two sons.

This place is full of very capable women like Dot, there’s no doubt about that. But some aren’t as agile as they once were. If Dot – who’s got all her marbles and then some – thinks nothing of freestyle window cleaning, then I’m afraid to think where Laney might be right now.

‘I’m sure Laney’s not hurt!’ I tell everyone again.

‘We’ll just check the greenhouse,’ Nick adds, flashing me a smile that sends my downstairs aflutter. ‘Meanwhile, maybe someone could check out front? Look at that sun. She might have put her bikini on to work on her tan.’

This launches the women into hysterics, but Nick manages to keep a straight face. That’s more than I can say for myself. I’m such an easy audience.

‘That’ll keep them occupied for a few minutes,’ he says as the entire room clears. He holds open one of the French doors leading off the lounge. ‘After you,’ he says as I step onto the wide patio that runs along the entire back of the house.

It’s a big house, with nearly thirty bedrooms. Proper Downton Abbey proportions. It rambles off on both sides from a three-storey central building where the grand entrance, dining room and lounges are. There’s even room in the middle of the entrance hall for a pedestal table with a giant urn of lilies or sunflowers or that curly bamboo. A wide oak staircase winds up one side of the hall to the bedrooms upstairs and further on into the eaves, where the staff would have lived in olden times. More bedrooms pack the wing on one side, with my kitchen on the ground floor of the other and bedrooms above.

Max, our boss, didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth, despite living in this place. His father, Terrible Terence, worked in accounting and his mum, Mrs Greene, was the town’s librarian. It was her family who passed down the house from days of yore, but she moved herself, Max and Terence out to the cottage at the back – which is still the size of a normal house – when she opened the care home.

That was nearly two decades ago. June says that applications have been pretty sporadic these past few years, and that’s got Max worried. He has tried advertising outside the area but, unless their parents are like Terence, most people want to keep their family nearby.

I glance over at Terence’s cottage as Nick and I walk towards the greenhouse. There’s no sign of him. Good. The residents are worried enough without him stirring the pot.

Nick is walking slightly ahead of me. Not because he’s rude. He’s just worried about Laney being out here, though I doubt she is. Laney might be daft most of the time, but she knows what she likes, and she likes her creature comforts. She wouldn’t sit in a draughty greenhouse full of spiders. She’s in the house. Somewhere.

Nick’s keenness gives me the chance to watch him as he strides across the lawn. I haven’t passed up that chance once since he started work here six months ago. You’d think I’d have him memorised by now.

Who am I kidding? I do.

I’m still amazed that Nick is working here. June would normally handle all our hiring, but Max was the one who found Nick for us. Our old occupational therapist left when her husband got sent to Germany for work. Unsurprisingly, June didn’t get a huge queue of candidates looking to work for a care home in a little market town in Suffolk.

That’s where we are, in Framlingham. We’re not that far from Norwich or Ipswich, but it feels a million miles away. It’s pretty and it’s home, but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘career opportunity’ to many people.

Also, because Max never passes up the chance to stretch his staff’s duties where he can, the job wasn’t strictly related to occupational therapy. You should have seen the brief June had to work with. The job description read like a holiday camp brochure. Our boss reasoned that OT wasn’t miles different from physical therapy (it is), and physical therapy includes exercising and stretching – which may as well be aerobics and yoga – as well as brain-sharpening activities. Scrabble uses the brain, so he wanted his new hire to run games nights too.

June didn’t waste any time ringing Nick for an interview when Max gave her his CV.

‘Wow, he’s fit,’ I’d whispered when he turned up. I was glad June was doing the interview. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. My unprofessionalism was boundless from day one.

‘Plus, he’s got a first,’ she answered. ‘Plus, the perfect qualifications.’

Plus, look at him, I’d thought.

You know those adverts where the tanned, shirtless guy tantalisingly licks the yogurt pot lid and makes you want to eat Bifidus activertium, or whatever it’s called, every day? That. Only he didn’t need any props to lick.

He’d strode right up to us. Blimey, what confidence he seemed to have. It was a bluff. Best foot forward for an interview and all that. He’s no peacock, but a shy bird like me. ‘I’m Nick Parsons. I have an eleven o’clock interview?’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Sorry, I’m early. That’s annoying, isn’t it. I did wait outside for a bit, but it started raining.’

When he smiled apologetically, I wanted to hug him.

‘How long have you been out there?’ June asked. Nick’s hair was soaked. Even so, it was a thick wavy mop.

‘About an hour. Hour and a half, tops.’ Then he laughed at himself. ‘I nearly camped overnight in your garden. My own sad little Glastonbury, without the music.’

‘And not even Portaloos,’ I said. ‘I’m glad it didn’t come to that.’

‘I wanted to make sure I wasn’t late. I’m… keen for this job.’

June hired him in the interview. She got her perfect employee, and I got a blinding crush that I still haven’t recovered from.

Within about a week it seemed like Nick had always been here. He’s so easy-going that he’s doing everything in Max’s unreasonable job description, and then some. Aside from being the occupational therapist, Scrabble organiser, exercise and yoga instructor, he’s also the part-time gardener, driver and handyman. No matter what Max asks him to do, Nick throws himself into it without a grumble.

This is great for me, since we haven’t got a dedicated games table, therapy room or exercise studio. There are TVs in each of the two lounges, and woe betide anyone who disrupts the viewing schedules, so Nick uses the large dining room that’s just off my kitchen. Which means we spend most of our days together. Or at least separated by only a wall.

To say we don’t get much eye candy around here would be an understatement. Aside from our boss, Max (mid-fifties, not bad-looking if paunchy baldness turns you on), and his horrid father who lives in the cottage at the back of the property, and Davey, the Morrison’s delivery bloke, we’re all women here. Even the half-dozen carers who are on hand to help everyone with their day-to-day needs. The residents like it that way. That is why they live in a women-only home.

They love Nick, though. Who wouldn’t? He’s fifty per cent Greek and one hundred per cent Greek god. He is well over six feet tall and built like a swimmer, and somehow his features combine into the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen in real life. They shouldn’t, really. He might have a finely chiselled jaw and high cheekbones, with a smile that’s absolutely impossible not to return when you see it, plus heart-meltingly deep brown eyes. But his eyebrows are caterpillar-thick and his nose is definitely Grecian so, objectively, I know he’s not really perfect.

Just perfect to me.

What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through his silky-looking nearly black hair, preferably while we’re in a passionate clinch and he’s telling me how gorgeous I am.

If only he were dim, or mean or boring. Then my life would be loads easier.

But he’s not, and it isn’t. Nick hit me like a triple shot of ouzo, with all the fire in my tummy but none of the nasty after-effects… well, at least not right away. Let’s just say it was a delayed hangover.

The sad fact is, I love him and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about that.

‘You don’t really think she’s out here, do you?’ Nick says accusingly as he slows down for me to catch up.

Of course he knows this is just another attempt to be near him. ‘She could be.’

‘Uh-huh. When was the last time Laney went outside for anything other than tea on the lawn? Admit it, this is just an excuse.’

I’m admitting nothing. ‘Mmm?’ I should have expected this. I’ve been about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

‘It’s too nice to be inside,’ he goes on with a sly smile. ‘Look at that sky. How can we not want to enjoy it? You’ve got spring fever.’

‘This is August.’

‘It’s overdue, then. This is my favourite month.’

‘You said that in March when the clocks went forward. And in June when the roses came out.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m easy when it comes to my calendar affections. Let’s get outside for lunch today. Even for half an hour or so. It’s supposed to rain all weekend. What do you say? I don’t have yoga till two.’

I nearly laugh with the relief. ‘Right, yes, great idea. I’ll put together some bits. There’s leftover quiche, and I can do that smoked aubergine dip. It doesn’t take long. And the sourdough will be out of the oven in half an hour.’

When he grins, the laugh lines crinkle from the corners of his eyes. ‘You know the way to a man’s heart.’

If only that were true.

‘I’m sure Laney will turn up,’ I tell him as we near the greenhouse. ‘If she’s not in there, we can have another look through the house together.’

I told you I was shameless.

And just to show that no evil deed goes unpunished, my tummy twists as Nick opens the glass door.

‘Ooh.’ That hurts.

He turns back to me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Just my tummy. I’ll be fine.’

Leave it to my ulcer to ruin the moment. Not that standing around in a dirty shed is much of a moment, but I’m working with what I can get. ‘She’s not in here,’ I say, peering at the compost bags like she could be hiding in one. ‘I think we should check inside again.’

What did I expect to happen here, anyway? That overcome with emotion and the smell of damp, Nick would leap over the strimmer and declare his love?

That ship sailed months ago.

June catches my eye as I hurtle down the hall towards the kitchen and my medicine. Her look is pure sympathy.

When it first started happening, I assumed it was just indigestion. That can be an occupational hazard as a cook. But eventually, when the pain went on and on, I had to look for another diagnosis.

I found it, but not before I’d humiliated myself in front of Nick and ruined any chance of him ever asking me out again.

‘Feeling better?’ June asks when I get back to find that Laney still hasn’t turned up. ‘Max left. He didn’t notice anything amiss.’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Or at least I will be in a few minutes, once the pain relief kicks in. To be fair to Mum, she didn’t really give me an ulcer, as much as I like to claim otherwise. Doctors used to think that stress and hot food cause them, but they don’t. They just aggravate ones that are already there thanks to too many anti-inflammatory drugs or, in my case, a weasely little bugger of a bacteria. Helicobacter pylori, to give it its official name. It’s supposed to clear up now that I’m on antibiotics.

‘Have we checked everyone’s room?’ I ask June. ‘Maybe Laney is upstairs.’

She nods. ‘I sent everyone back to their room to look for her. They’ve all come back now and still no sign.’

Nick had set up the Scrabble boards before we noticed Laney’s disappearance, and some of the residents have started their games.

As we scan the large dining room, June says, ‘What about Maggie?!’

Of course. Maggie’s not down here. Hers is the only room that hasn’t been checked. ‘I don’t suppose you want to go look?’ I ask June.

When she shakes her head, her blonde curls bob around her face. Growing up, I wanted her corkscrews. Unlike the rest of us, she never played the I-hate-my-hair-I’ll-trade-for-yours game. She knew she got lucky there.

‘Draw straws for it?’ I offer.

‘I was the one who brought up her bill yesterday.’ She rubs her bicep like she’s been punched.

As if Maggie would deign to actually touch another person. ‘Fine. Coward. I’ll go.’

‘Nick?’ June calls over, innocent as you please. ‘We think Laney might be in Maggie’s room. Do you want to go with Phoebe to check?’

She flashes me a smile as the residents fall in behind us. No one wants to miss an excuse to see Maggie.

She’s going to love this.

Maggie lives in the only occupied room at the top of the house. None of the others want to trudge up all those stairs every day.

There is a lift – Max’s mother had it installed – but it’s tiny, slow and makes a worrying jolt when it stops, so nobody goes in it unless they have to.

‘Maggie won’t like the invasion,’ I murmur to Nick as we lead the senior parade up the stairs. ‘I wish she’d use her mobile like everyone else.’ It’s no use ringing ahead to warn her.

We try to keep everyone connected by mobile. Most of the residents love their phones and a few of them are better at text-speak LOLs and LMFAOs than I am. They’re no substitute for face-to-face friendships, but they do mean that no one has to be isolated if she’s not feeling well enough to be downstairs with everyone else.

Maggie’s not interested in being with everyone else. She lives in her room. Which is why the women are creeping towards it like they’re about to spot a unicorn.

Nick knocks gently on the door. ‘Maggie? It’s only Nick. May I come in?’

When he puts a steadying hand on my shoulder, I want to lean into him. Of course, I don’t do that. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. It’s just not appropriate anymore.

‘Come!’ Maggie orders.

With the ladies so keen to get a good look at Maggie, we all nearly fall through the door.

‘To what do I owe this… visit?’ she asks from her deep blue velvet sofa. Though her voice isn’t loud, it won’t be ignored. She holds herself so upright that she could be wearing a back brace. Her narrow, regal face barely moves when she speaks. It’s unnerving, like suddenly having a marble statue demand what you think you’re doing in its museum.

She’s dressed as usual in swingy black wide-legged trousers, like they used to wear in the seventies. As a rare fashion concession to Mum, I once tried on a pair of M&S ones. I looked like an extra-wide loft board standing on end, but Maggie has the tall, slender figure to pull them off. They swirl around her legs as she re-crosses them. Her blouse is perfectly pressed, white and stiff. Much like the woman herself. Everything about Maggie seems metallic, from her short iron-grey hair to her steely blue eyes to her cold, imperious voice that can cut you in half.

The only hint that she might have a softer side – possibly only seen under a microscope – is the selection of long, flowy brightly patterned silk cardigans that she always wears over her trousers and top, with the most gorgeous floral lapis lazuli brooch pinned on. It’s always the same blue one.

Laney is sitting in the stiff reading chair facing the sofa. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says. When she smiles, a few of the women wave back at her.

‘Maybe you should wait outside?’ I suggest, gently pushing them back over the threshold. Maggie’s fridge face has turned to deep freeze. ‘We were just looking for Laney,’ I say to Maggie.

‘I’m here!’ Laney sings, grinning and squeezing her shoulders to her ears. Her tawny brown eyes are creased in a smile, as usual, as if she’s eager to hear the most hilarious punchline. She and Maggie couldn’t be more opposite. Where Maggie is sharp-edged, Laney is soft, though she’s not fat. Everything about her oozes warmth, from the top of her head – she wears her hair in short wavy golden-brown layers – to the tips of her toes, poking out from the bottoms of her frayed jeans and shod in shiny blue Converse high-tops.

‘You’ve got your mobile off, Laney,’ says Nick. ‘We were getting worried. We thought you might have run away.’

Her smile disappears. ‘Oh, is my phone off? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I’d never run away from here! Not in a million years.’

The women behind us, who are still jostling in the doorway for a good look, all start murmuring.

‘Run away from here? Who’d want to do that?’

‘All my friends… Love you—’

‘I can’t imagine—’

‘They’ll take me away from here in a box—’

‘I was just…’ Laney’s eyes search the ceiling for the answer. ‘I guess I got distracted. I am sorry.’

‘But why would you…’ want to be with Maggie? I start to ask. I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice, but Maggie is tetchy enough without hinting that it would take wild horses to drag me to her room, so I don’t finish. ‘As long as you’re okay,’ I say instead. ‘We’ll leave you to your visit.’

‘I’m quite tired, actually,’ Maggie says, as something catches her eye out the tall sash window beside her. ‘That man! You!’ She raps on the window. ‘You there, stop it!’

I go to see what’s wrong, even though I think I know. ‘Terence!’ I fling open the window. ‘Terence, we see you.’

‘Not again,’ Nick says.

‘In the rhododendron bushes this time,’ I say. ‘We’ve warned you, Terence. I’m telling Max! That’s not hygienic.’

‘I was going to give those a trim today too,’ Nick grumps.

Terence flips me two fingers from where he’s standing in the border. He doesn’t even bother doing up his flies first. Then, relieved, he saunters back to his cottage. His thick, beige button-up cardigan hangs loose from his shoulders and goes nearly to his knees. I often wonder whether it originally belonged to his wife. He’s always in rumpled beige cotton trousers, one of those checked shooting shirts and scruffy trainers. A casual observer (who hadn’t just seen him wee into the bushes) might mistake him for a kindly grandad.

‘That man needs to be put down,’ Maggie says. ‘It would be the kindest thing.’ Then she rubs her temples. ‘Laney can go back downstairs with you now.’

Just like that. I’d like to tell Maggie where to get off, dismissing Laney like the dog she just called Terence. But Laney isn’t offended, so I keep my mouth shut. ‘Oh, right, well, Maggie, I’ll see you later.’

‘Cook,’ Maggie says as I turn to leave. She knows my name perfectly well. But no, I’m just the domestic help to her. She calls June ‘Manageress’ and Nick is simply ‘you’. ‘Don’t bother with supper tonight,’ she continues. ‘I won’t be hungry. I’ll have breakfast as usual tomorrow. One hard-boiled egg, please.’

I bob my usual curtsy. It’s completely ironic, but it doesn’t faze her.

Everyone sucks up to Maggie around here. That’s because she’s the only resident who pays full price. That also means she gets the biggest room, since the servants’ quarters were turned into suites before I started work here. Although in an old house like this, all the bedrooms are spacious enough for a bed and a little seating area. Maggie also gets to have her meals in her room instead of down in the dining room with everyone else. We’d kick up a fuss about it, but that would only backfire. Then we’d have to spend more time with her. This way, everyone is reasonably happy. Max gets his money, Maggie remains a recluse, and the residents don’t have the Ice Queen with them at mealtimes.

We might never know what made Laney want to go see Maggie when, for everyone else, facing her means drawing the short straw. Laney’s mind works in very mysterious ways.

It’s not dementia or Alzheimer’s. Otherwise Laney might have to go to a nursing home, where they’ve got specialist medical care. We’re more of a tea-and-sympathy type set-up around here. There is round-the-clock help with cleaning, dressing and that sort of thing for those who need it, and the carers keep track of everyone’s medication. Though personal care assistants aren’t exactly sought-after well-paid jobs, so there’s a high turnover amongst the staff. It’s June, Nick and I who really try to make it feel stable and homely here.

At first glance we probably look like an ordinary care home. We’ve got handrails, call buttons and shower seats, but the residents don’t all need care in the traditional, council-approved sense of the word. The women range in age between a sprightly sixty-eight (Laney) to around ninety. I’m pretty sure that’s how old Maggie is, though she wouldn’t let June put her age in her file. Some, like Dot and Sophie, moved in because they wanted the company. That’s a big reason that Mrs Greene, the founder, set up the home. She understood that some women, having raised their children and buried or divorced their spouses, or not having had children or spouses (buried or otherwise), might get lonely as they got older.

It’s much more fun being here as part of a community. Plus, they don’t have to cook or clean.

Nick’s carrying a couple of yoga mats under one arm when he comes into the kitchen to get me for lunch. His other hand is behind his back. ‘These are just in case the grass is wet,’ he says, hoisting the mats.

‘Why, sir, you are so gallant,’ I say in an atrocious southern belle accent, ‘to think of my comfort.’

He laughs. ‘But of course, madam, that’s what gentlemen are for. I’d even strip off and throw my shirt over a puddle to keep your delicate feet dry, should the need arise.’

‘… or you could just use the yoga mats and save your shirt,’ I say, distracted by the idea of Nick stripping off.

‘Oh, right.’

Way to kill a flirty mood, Phoebe.

Then he hands me the three huge white pompom hydrangeas he’s been hiding behind his back. ‘Thanks for doing this. I know I’ve made more work for you. Though I did cut these off the bush out back, so technically I’m thanking you with stolen property.’

‘It’s very pretty stolen property, though, I’ll take it!’ I squeak. I know he’s not trying to be romantic and I’d love to sound calm, like I get flowers from gorgeous blokes every day. I’m not so sad that I’ll save them forever. I am thinking ahead to how I can dry them so they don’t turn brown when they die, though. I’ll probably keep them for a little while – a year or two, definitely not longer than a decade – and then toss them when they’ve all but turned to dust.

‘Get a tall vase from the cabinet, will you please?’ I say. There’s a full cupboard to choose from. Our residents usually get celebration flowers for their birthdays and Mother’s Day, and sometimes guilty ones when their children skip a visit. ‘No worries about the lunch. It is what I do.’

Grabbing the bag that’s already packed with the food and plates – I’ve been ready for an hour –we start for the back garden. It was thoughtful of Nick to bring the yoga mats for the grass, but I’ve got my eye on the wooden bench right at the far edge of the lawn. Not only will it save my legs going numb from sitting cross-legged, it’s not too close to Terence’s cottage, and it’s tucked away from the house down a gentle hill.

Not that we need seclusion to have lunch. I know this isn’t a date. I’d just like to pretend, so I’ll have a double helping of delusion with my quiche, thank you very much.

‘This was a great idea,’ he says, following me towards the bench.

I laugh. ‘You’re not supposed to compliment your own idea!’

‘Then let’s say it was your great idea. I do appreciate it. I know you don’t usually cook extra for your lunchtime. If there’s anything I can do in return…’

I catch his eye, but I can’t tell if he means anything by that. He’s not so much as cracking a smile or raising an eyebrow to give me a clue.

I can’t take the chance. It would be too mortifying to proposition him when he’s only being nice. Instead, I say, ‘If I ever want to brush up on my professional yoga certification, then I know who to ask. That’s right, kill yourself laughing.’ Just because Nick could run a marathon before breakfast and not even break a sweat.

‘Sorry. Sorry. You could exercise if you wanted to,’ he says.

That’s a big if.

He notices my look. ‘I only mean for health reasons.’ He knows how annoying it is to come off as fit and preachy. ‘You look great.’

The sun peeks out from behind a fluffy cloud just as we get to the bench. ‘I very much appreciate your compliment.’

‘No, Phoebe, I’m completely serious. You shouldn’t put yourself down. You do look great.’

My face goes warm. He’s mistaking my comment. I think I look just fine. Do I not? ‘I wasn’t putting myself down. I’m saying thank you. Some people might be built for speed. Some are built for endurance. I’m built for comfort.’

‘And beauty,’ he adds.

How am I supposed to get over him when he keeps saying nice things like that?