Loe raamatut: «Christmas at the Little Clock House on the Green», lehekülg 4
Chapter 7
Making Cow Eyes
Emma
Emma adjusted her grey wool beanie to a more attractive angle and wrapped her dusky-pink pashmina more securely around her shoulders as she wrenched open the front door of Wren Cottage.
She was late.
So very late for her first day at The Clock House.
She hated being late. Stupid jet lag. Now she was going to feel on the back-foot all day as well as feeling nauseous from the butterflies hurling hand-grenades at the walls of her insides.
Quickly she bent down and shoved her feet into the pair of boots sat outside the front door.
Holy moley, they were beyond freezing. Why in God’s name did people in this country leave perfectly good footwear outside? It was barbaric.
Honestly, mid-November in Whispers Wood could not be more different to mid-November in LA.
That was it, she thought, her toes curling and clenching inside the boots. When she got in tonight she was bringing these puppies inside and shoving them by the fire – once she’d plucked up the courage to ask again how to switch the fire on, that was.
Quite sure her toes were going to drop off if she didn’t get moving, she half-shlepped, half-slid along the icy path and came to an abrupt halt at the front gate.
‘Wow. Cow.’
Master of the understatement. That was her all over. Because, excuse me, but what the hell was an actual four-legged, real-life, black and white, farm animal doing standing in front of her, plain as day?
Emma closed her eyes and then opened them again.
It was still there.
And it wasn’t moving.
Oh God. Why wasn’t it moving?
Was it dead? Did cows die standing up?
And why was it staring at her, with those … cow eyes?
Slowly, Emma reached out and unlatched the little wrought-iron gate separating her from the cow and tugging it over the frosted tufts of grass, pulled it open enough to slip through.
The cow looked at her as if to say, ‘Hi there, it’s all good. Wanna chew the cud with me?’
Emma shook her head because, you know, Day! As in, she had one. Had places to be and people to meet and she really didn’t fancy her first phone call to Kate to be along the lines of a sickie that went, ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to work today, I’m trapped in my house by a cow.’
‘Shoo,’ she whispered, watching her breath turn misty as it left her mouth. When nothing happened she mustered her courage and, feeling brave, flung a hand out from under her shawl to make a shooing motion.
Her actions had zero effect.
‘Hey, you? Mr Moo? Please shoo,’ she tried again a little louder, totally wishing she was eating Moo Shu pork, or doing anything that felt in any way familiar to her old life in LA.
She wasn’t sure this really fulfilled the ‘adventure’ brief she’d sold herself on when packing her case to make the move back to the UK, although, she’d only been here one whole night and one whole day so perhaps she should give it more time.
Or maybe the jet lag was screwing with her reasoning?
She blinked again in case it really was jet lag that had her imagining a cow had come to visit the tiny cottage Kate had helped her settle into when she’d arrived in Whispers Wood.
No. It wasn’t her imagination.
The cow was still there. Filling up her entire view because, as it turned out, cows were genuinely fear-for-your-life enormous close-up.
As an antidote to not getting her dream role, not being able to get out of the wrought-iron starting gate wasn’t quite the look she’d been going for.
Wisps of frosty fog wrapped themselves around her, and as the damp air seeped deep into her bones she was closer to admitting she may have misjudged this opportunity. What would Rudy think if he could see her now?
She’d thought this would all be so very quaint, hadn’t she?
How could you have been this wrong, Ems? This, So. Completely. Wrong.
All it was, was freezing, she thought, wondering if she could get out of the back garden of the cottage and find her way to The Clock House, thus avoiding the cow-staring scary start to her rural adventure.
Emma looked around helplessly and then, leaning closer, risked cricking her neck permanently to check out the pair of feet she could see approaching.
‘Is someone there?’ she asked.
‘Whack it on its arse,’ said a male voice.
‘What it on what?’ Emma asked.
There was a sigh, and then, ‘Give it a good slap on its hind rear and it’ll move right on by.’
Emma stared suspiciously at the cow’s rear-end. The instruction sounded a bit Fifty Shades Darker.
‘Thank you but I’m not into that,’ she said, not quite under-her-breath enough.
‘Look, do you want it to move, or not?’
She did. She really did. It was time to swap out her What Would Bridget Jones Do for a more kick-ass What Would JLaw Do? She licked her lips and stared again at the cow. ‘So … just sort of … hit it?’
‘Sometime today would be appreciated.’
‘And you know to hit it because?’
‘It’s Gertrude.’
‘Well.’ Emma folded her arms. ‘I have to tell you that I am none the wiser.’
‘But you are getting older. And so am I.’
A head popped around the rear of the cow and to Emma’s surprise it had a face belonging to it that stopped the breath in her lungs.
Maybe it was the fact that she faced imminent death by cow, but Emma’s powers of observation all narrowed down to one impressive: Valhalla-lujah.
The man was all dark and dangerous with Viking hair and beard and eyes the colour of the pints of Guinness that Bar Brand served up on Paddy’s night.
Eyes that, despite being framed by lashes that could compete with Gertrude’s, she could see were now drawn into a deep scowl.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘Hold these will you and I’ll move her on.’
Without thinking, Emma held open her arms and allowed Mr Heart-Wrecking Handsome to deposit a weighty pile of magazines, what looked like rolled-up plans, a laptop and a tape-measure the size of a dinner plate in them.
The next thing she knew she was staggering against the sudden weight, her feet sliding across the ice in opposite and modesty-mocking directions.
She hit the ground with an audible bump.
Oh, my, God.
Years of yoga, Pilates and dance and who knew all it was going to take for her to finally be able to do the splits was a British country lane, a cow, and a Viking!
She blew a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes and looked up just in time to watch Gertrude walking off down the road, bovine hips swinging like Jessica Rabbit.
‘Sorry. Are you all right? Here, let me help you up.’
Emma righted her beanie so that she could get an even better look at the Viking. ‘Oh, I think you’ve done more than enough under the circumstances,’ she harrumphed and then thought that on the bright side at least the heat in her face was bound to trickle down to her toes.
‘It’s not often these days that a man gets to rescue a woman from the perils of nature.’
Was he kidding?
‘It’s not often these days that a man expects a woman to hold his papers for him while he wades into danger,’ she muttered.
‘Quite. Well,’ he muttered all very Mark Darcy. ‘As it happens they’re important papers and I didn’t see you getting it done.’
Emma felt her bottom lip protrude. ‘So I did a little cow-ering. Excuse me for being surprised to find I was trapped in my own home by the bovine beast of Whispers Wood. I’m sure I’d have worked out how to get her to move—’
‘Eventually,’ he replied with a slight twitch of his lips.
Her gaze stalled on his lips. Until she saw him notice. Then, with another rush of red to her head, she glanced at her watch and stammered, ‘Oh. Help me up will you, I need to get to The Clock House.’
‘The Clock House? Really?’ He hauled her to her feet as if she was as light as a leaf floating in the breeze and she tried unsuccessfully not to be impressed.
‘Yes. Really.’
‘That’s where I’m off to. We might as well walk together, I suppose.’
Don’t do me any favours, she thought and then tried to remember how to get to the village green. As compasses went, she had an excellent moral one. As for working out which direction to take to get, well, anywhere … not so much.
‘So you must be the famous Holly Wood,’ came the rich dark-roasted coffee voice.
‘Huh? Oh. No, my name is Emma Danes.’
‘Not Holly Wood? I could have sworn—’
‘No. I’m over from Hollywood, and I’m definitely not famous,’ she replied feeling a little funny that she might have been talked about before she had even landed. ‘I’m here to help Kate open Cocktails & Chai @ The Clock House. And you must be… ?’ Apart from a rural Viking God with super-sexy British accent, appearing out of nowhere to save me from cows named, Gertrude, that was.
For one awkie mo she worried she’d said rural Viking God with super-sexy British accent out loud because there was another quirk of his lips into a smile that made her heart sort of descend into her stomach like someone had snapped its strings.
And then he was introducing himself Bond-style, with a, ‘My name is Knightley. Jake Knightley.’
Chapter 8
The Art of Conversation
Emma
‘So if your name’s Knightley, have you come from Knightley Hall, then?’ Emma said, as she set off down the country lane beside him.
When he didn’t answer she thought he hadn’t heard her all the way up there where the tall people hung out, so she said a little louder, ‘That huge black and white building surrounded by all that precision-cut hedging on the other side of the village?’
‘Topiary,’ he murmured.
‘Huh?’
‘The hedging you’re referring to is called topiary,’ he corrected helpfully.
Ignoring the dictionary lesson, she said, ‘I thought it said it was called Knightley Hall when I passed it yesterday on my walk. That’s where you live?’
‘I do.’ He increased his speed as if he hoped she wouldn’t have enough breath left to chat.
Which bugged her because it was him who’d invited her along on the journey, not the other way around. ‘And your name is Knightley?’ she asked, trying to keep pace with him in boots that were at least two sizes too big for her.
‘It is.’
‘But your first name is Jake, not—’ Oh, God, don’t say George, Emma. Or My Mister Knightley. He probably gets that all the time. ‘Not … George, then?’ Damn, she’d said it.
‘George was my ancestor.’
‘Well, of course he was,’ she answered as if that made the most perfect sense in the world.
They walked together in silence until she decided that the best way to take her mind off the nerves that had reappeared was to engage in chit-chat, and the only person around to do that with was him, her reluctant Knight-ley. ‘With a name like Knightley, I’m guessing someone was a real Jane Austen fan, huh?’
‘Or Jane Austen was a real Knightley, fan,’ he answered.
Ha. Cute.
‘So, what are you, like, the owner of that huge estate?’
This time when he shot her a quick look she swore she could see the edge of caution in his frown. ‘I am,’ he stated.
‘But you’re quite sure you’re not Succinct of the world-renowned Succincts?’ she asked, puffing out a breath.
Jake turned to look at her again and then shrugged. ‘I talk. When it’s warranted.’
‘But do you make conversation?’ she quipped back and felt him doing the staring thing again.
‘Rescuing you wasn’t enough? You want conversation from me now as well? Interesting.’
‘It could be, yes. If you had anything to say, that is. Is there some sort of law that prevents us from—’ Emma came to an abrupt stop as a sudden thought occurred. ‘Oh, shit. I mean, sugar.’ Knightley Hall had looked all huge and stately, hadn’t it? All landed gentry, heritage-old. ‘Am I supposed to address you as Sir Jake or Sir Knightley, or something?’
Jake stopped and regarded her for a heartbeat before, with yet another shrug, saying, ‘Either is fine.’
There was that heart-spiking lift of his lips again before he resumed walking along the path and Emma realised he might possibly be playing with her. But on the off-chance she’d be causing some sort of international incident on her first full day as manager of Cocktails & Chai, she decided not to call him out on it, and really, how hard could it be to have a conversation without observing the traditional naming conventions?
As she scurried after him, layers of wool flapping in the wind, she tried to think of something to say but all she could come up with was, ‘I’d love to look around your home sometime.’
‘Really? And why is that?’
Um … Good one, Ems, invite yourself over to the gorgeous stranger’s house, why don’t you? Scrabbling around for something to add, she tried, ‘Because when I walked past it yesterday I thought that it looked absolutely beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’
The white plasterwork separated with a grid of black wooden beams and the brown twisted fairytale vines running all over it, which she fancied was wisteria that would look stunning in the summer, was maybe more imposing as a structure than beautiful.
‘Handsome, then,’ she amended.
He cocked his head as if to weigh up her description and as they entered a wooded area, deigned to slow his pace a little. ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ he told her softly. ‘Trust me the inside of Knightley Hall is neither beautiful nor handsome.’
‘And it’s what’s inside that counts, right?’
He gave her an assessing look as if she’d surprised him and then nodded. ‘Not a polished concrete surface or a cinema room to be seen.’
‘I guess if your taste runs more to modern, then you probably can’t class it as beautiful, then, but surely it gets extra points for standing the test of time? There’s a beauty in that, isn’t there? Or is it not actually old at all? Maybe it’s one of those clever kit houses, that come flat-packed, and take only a team of four ten-year-olds to erect?’
‘What the… ?’ Jake offered her a horrified look. ‘No it is not a kit house,’ he said with a derision that had her wondering if he was channelling the late and great Alan Rickman.
‘When was it built, then?’
‘The original Tudor frame probably goes back to early sixteenth century.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘I guess the oldest houses in Hollywood were probably built around 1870.’
‘That’s close to when my family took over the Hall.’
His family had been in Knightley Hall since the 1870s? Emma couldn’t even imagine a family home existing since the 1970s. Her experience of family was that they often crumbled at the simplest of hurdles.
She snuck a look at her walking companion. All that time, one family, living in one place. Making history. Generation after generation. Maybe he was entitled to the slight odour of smugness that wafted off of him.
Oh, who was she kidding? The scent wasn’t smugness so much as it was cedar wood mixed with a hint of lemon and trying to ignore the way it kept teasing at her, making her want to keep pace and move in a little closer, she looked about the woods.
The smooth white bark on some of the trees had her wanting to reach out and rub her hand over the surface. They looked magical against the milky blue sky. She would have if she was alone, but she didn’t want Jake to think she was some weird tree-hugger.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m guessing you were in Hollywood for the same reason every other beautiful woman is there?’
‘Hark,’ she exclaimed to the woods, ‘for he initiates conversation,’ and then with a grin and a flutter of her eyelashes, looked up at him and said, ‘You think I’m beautiful?’
The eyelash fluttering didn’t go down quite as hilariously as she’d hoped, but she decided to think of the dull flush across his cheekbones as a blush rather than a rush of annoyance.
‘What I meant was, you’re obviously an actress?’
‘I am,’ she answered finding pleasure in being able to mimic his short, closed answers of earlier.
‘So then what are you doing here?’
Good question. ‘Resting?’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
Emma glanced down at her borrowed boots. ‘No, I don’t, do I?’ Why on earth had she said she was an actress when the whole reason she’d travelled thousands of miles was to prove she was capable of doing something she secretly suspected was far more difficult: managing a tearoom and bar? ‘I guess I need to see how this is going to work out first.’
‘Hedging your bets,’ Jake said with a grim nod.
‘You make that sound like a bad thing?’ It felt sensible to her. She’d put all her eggs into one basket before and hadn’t eggsactly got hit with the success stick.
‘Pardon me for hoping for Kate’s sake that you make it work out. I guess it’s too much to expect people will actually commit to something these days.’
‘Hey. I resent that. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Apart from that you just admitted you had commitment issues.’
Emma stopped in her tracks. Her hands went to her hips in full-on umbrage-taken mode and she could feel the heat of embarrassment form two huge circles on her cheeks, making her wonder if she could look any more of a cliché. ‘Kate knew exactly what she was doing when she invited me here. I appreciate her faith in me and you can bet your “arse”,’ she added, swapping to full British accent, ‘I’m going to work hard. I intend to give this my all. I certainly don’t believe in only giving pieces of myself.’
‘Wow. When you use a British accent like that you sound so much more believable,’ he said, turning on his heel and walking away, his pace brisk.
Emma’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a guppy coming up for air. Thank God he had his hands full with all his ‘stuff’ because otherwise she was pretty sure he’d have added a slow hand clap.
‘Again, you don’t know me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me like I’m some sort of flight risk. What?’ she called after him, ‘I have to have done something since the sixteenth century to be considered committed to a cause? You know what,’ she said scurrying to keep up with him again when he simply carried on walking, ‘maybe we shouldn’t speak to each other. Let’s flout society’s rules about polite conversation and not converse.’
‘Works for me.’
Emma started muttering under her breath about people who copped-out when a conversation wasn’t going their way.
‘Call me an idiot,’ he huffed out.
‘Idiot,’ she shot back and got a roll of his eyes for her effort.
‘But I assumed that your plan for not talking would actually involve less of this,’ he held up his hand and opened and closed his fingers to mimic a mouth talking, ‘and more of this,’ he said, finishing with keeping his fingers closed.
‘Oh, believe me,’ she hissed out, unwilling to let him have the last word, ‘the thought of respite from your incredible smug-self is definite motivation to stop talking.’
‘And yet …’
She delivered her most fierce death-glare and strode ahead of him.
He caught up with her in five steps and thank goodness, because she could see they were nearing the end of the woods and was she supposed to turn left or right at the end of them? He had her so flustered she couldn’t even think.
They’d taken maybe twenty steps in silence before he shocked her by saying, ‘You know if you really want to see something beautiful while you’re in Whispers Wood, you should take a look around Knightley Hall’s gardens.’
‘Really?’ She glanced up at him. ‘I’d be allowed to do that? What are your opening times?’ Darn. So much for not speaking to him.
‘The gardens aren’t open to the public – well not yet, anyway. I suppose I could give you a tour though. When I have time,’ he added, making it sound like he actually wouldn’t have the time any time soon.
She was just contemplating this when they cleared the woods and stepped out onto the village green. Without thinking she reached out and laid her hand on his arm to stay him and was quietly charmed when he instantly moved protectively in front of her.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his gaze wandering across the village green.
With a sigh she stepped around him. ‘Nothing. This is my first real look at The Clock House, is all.’
And, oh, it was wonderful.
Three storeys of red brick house standing in regal Georgian fashion, its sparkly clean windows glinting invitingly, beckoning her closer.
She could almost hear the horse and carriages of old, driving up the gravel path.
‘It’s like something out of a regency romance,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe I get to work here.’ She couldn’t help herself. Feet no longer as cold as they had been, she went straight into a Happy Dance.
Jake stared at her. ‘You were first in line the day they held auditions for Pharell Williams’ Happy video, weren’t you?’
‘Ha-ha. And I suppose you’ve never busted out a few moves, have you? Or is rolling your eyes at the world your signature move?’
Instead of looking at the huge great big clock, he glanced at his watch and then back at her pointedly, ‘Are you going to celebrate the outside all day, or might you eventually want to go inside?’
‘Oh, I can’t wait to get inside. If it’s half as beautiful as the outside,’ she slid her gaze sideways to his, ‘and it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? Well, then prepare for more dancing.’
‘I’m pretty sure Kate’s going to frown at you salivating all over the parquet flooring.’
‘I’m embarrassing you? Simply for gushing a bit about a building? Not a romantic bone in your body, is there?’
Those full lips of his pinched tight. ‘To coin a phrase I recently heard: Hey, I resent that. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know enthusiasm is anathema to you.’
‘Not at all. But not everything has to produce a larger than life and slap-you-about-the-face instantaneous Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, reaction, either.’
She realised he didn’t believe or trust her reactions were real and opened her mouth so that the flames she so badly needed to shoot him down with could come out, but all that came out was a huffy-hoity, ‘Your American accent is atrocious.’
His hand went to his heart. ‘You wound me to the core,’ he said in a way that left her in no doubt that she couldn’t possibly. ‘Now are you coming or not? I’m not sure Whispers Wood is ready for you to dab your way across the village green, so you might want to save the celebrations for when you get inside the building.’
‘Hey, you know what would be great?’ she muttered, in hot pursuit as he set off across the village green.
‘What?’
‘If you didn’t provide a sarcastic voiceover in my ear as soon as I voice any kind of pleasure.’
‘Fine.’
And suddenly they were at the front doors and Jake was gallantly gesturing for her to precede him into the entryway.
Emma strode through the double doors and gasped, a huge grin forming as she took in the polished parquet flooring, the sweeping staircase, with the elegant antique writing desk tucked underneath, forming a welcoming reception area. As she lifted her head she took in the balustrade balcony area that must lead to the spa treatment rooms and co-working office space. Looking to her right two double doors had had their wood panels replaced with glass that had ‘Hair @ The Clock House’ etched in swirling white and gold lettering across them. Through the doors she got a brief, delightful, glimpse of chandeliers hanging over ornately framed floor to ceiling mirrors with elegant tables in front of them. The room was obviously still in the stages of being finished but, oh, wow.
‘It’s like out of a film set,’ she said, turning again in a slow circle.
She saw Jake shake his head at her. ‘Could you be more awe-struck?’
American, she thought he meant, but she was too happy to be offended. ‘Probably not. Oh, I love it. It’s like I’m in an actual real-life Regency Pump Room.’
And then she was turning her head to the left because that was where the tearoom had to be…
Oh, shoot! The double doors were closed so that she couldn’t see in.
‘All you need is an empire-line dress and you’ll be all set,’ he murmured. ‘It’s like you’ve found your people, only they’re not people, they’re old things.’
‘Hey, you said you’d be quiet.’
‘Did you know when you’re piqued you get this little wrinkle on the bridge of your nose? Maybe they have a treatment for that here?’
Her hand instantly came up to brush at her nose and she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
Honestly, either he had her speaking like something out of a turn of century – the last century – novel or, he was making her feel like she needed the safety-net of a script to follow.
She clicked her fingers and said, ‘Oh my God, I’ve just realised who it is you remind me of.’
He looked at her as if he expected her to say some famous actor.
So her smile was extra-wide when she nodded and said, ‘Yep. Also lives in a wood. The Hundred Acre Wood.’
When he frowned she made an uncanny braying noise.
‘You are referring to Eeyore?’ he spluttered.
‘Well, what do you know, not just a hat-rack,’ she said pointing to his head.
She watched with satisfaction as his jaw dropped open and then in the next moment he was pulling in a breath and announcing loudly in a voice full of boredom, ‘Hello? If anyone cares I brought Hollywood with me,’ and just like that he was walking away from her.
Unbelievable!
Insufferable!
‘My name is Emma,’ she called out to his retreating back. ‘And thanks for the asinine conversation.’ With a mock curtsey and an embarrassed look around to check no one had seen her so easily dismissed, she headed off in the complete opposite direction to Sir bloody Mr Knightley.
