Rules for a Perfect Life Page 12

  ‘Saffy looks a little better, don’t you think?’ Edward leans over the pony’s stable door and gently strokes her nose. She nuzzles happily into his hand.

  ‘I think so,’ I say, leaning on my pitchfork for support. I feel like I might keel over any second. I had no idea when I started here that, as well as being a disgustingly smelly job, mucking out is so physically demanding it can make me weak. I’ve been sweating in places I never knew I could – it’s positively vile. My beloved Juicy tracksuit is now a shadow of its former self and I’ve given up trying to protect it. I’ve packed away my best city clothes and am now rotating my oldest jeans and my destroyed tracksuit bottoms every day – all sense of style and fashion has gone out the window.

  ‘Still, I might get the vet back to check on her again.’ Edward fondles Saffy’s ears. ‘We don’t want her to get any worse. Were the rest OK today?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I wheeze. I never thought it would happen, but even though I find the work exhausting, I’ve actually become less nervous in just a few days here. Edward was right: the trick is to act confident with the ponies. If I concentrate on doing that it seems to go smoothly enough. I haven’t been kicked or bitten yet in any case: all of them are well behaved and let me lead them out and tie them to the wall without trampling me to death, if I pretend I’m not quaking inside. Thankfully, I still haven’t needed to go near Drya – I hear her stamping and harrumphing in her stall every morning and I’m terrified even by that.

  ‘Great. So, what are you going to do with the rest of your day?’

  Lie down and die? The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. That would sound really pathetic. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say, pushing my hair from my eyes.

  It feels like I have dirt in every single crevice. It’ll take ages to get it all off, just like it does every day – I’ve already worked my way through two very expensive Jo Malone shower gels trying to scrub the smell from my skin. Once that’s done, I have no idea what I’ll do with my time. There’s no TV or even Internet access in the cottage – it’s like being stuck in some kind of time warp. Most days I’ve just flicked through the collection of Vogue magazines I brought with me from the city. It’s almost painful to do that, of course – not because seeing all the high-fashion shots reminds me of how far from the real world I am, but because my hands are now a puzzle of calluses, broken nails and split skin. No matter how much intensive moisturizer I apply, nothing can improve them – not even the special cotton gloves I wear at night to help the salve sink in. I’m beginning to have farmhand fingers – it’s very depressing.

  ‘Isn’t the light amazing today?’ Edward says softly, gazing at the sky.

  I look to where he’s pointing and see the dappled pinks and oranges that linger among the clouds. He’s right – the light is amazing today. I hadn’t noticed.

  A vision of sitting in front of my easel, paintbrush in hand, suddenly pops into my mind. That sky would be such a treat to capture on paper – even the idea of it sends a delicious shiver of anticipation up my spine. Ever since Claire reminded me of how much I used to love it, the idea of trying to paint again has been swirling about in my head.

  ‘So, how’s Claire getting on in India?’ Edward asks, and I snap back to the stable yard.

  ‘Fine, I think,’ I reply. I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. If only I could call her – it’s so strange not to be able to talk to her when I want to. Claire always used to pride herself on being available 24/7 when she worked with the hedge fund – her BlackBerry used to be welded to her hand. How is she getting on without constant access to the rest of the world? She must be going through serious cold turkey, even if she did wean herself off texting before she left, along with caffeine and cigarettes. It has to be weird to be so far away from civilization. Then again, I haven’t exactly been keeping up to date with current events either – it’s almost as if I’m inhabiting a parallel universe. I have no idea what’s been happening in the world since I got here.

  ‘She told me she’s hoping to set up a holistic therapy practice when she gets back,’ Edward goes on.

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ I nod. ‘Do you think the villagers will like that sort of thing?’ I can’t imagine they will. After all, these country bumpkins probably don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo – they’ll run a mile. Maybe I should tell Claire that. Drop a gentle hint that her grand plan is probably a waste of time and that the villagers will never take to it. Perhaps then she’ll go back to the city and we can do the Working Girl thing. The more I think about this idea, the more appealing it is.

  ‘I think they will, actually,’ Edward says unexpectedly. ‘There’s a reiki healer in the next village – he’s very popular. There’s a three-week waiting list for an appointment.’

  ‘A reiki healer?’ I’m gobsmacked. ‘In the middle of the country?’

  ‘Yes.’ Edward laughs. ‘Are you surprised, Maggie?’

  ‘Well, I am a little,’ I confess.

  ‘Why? Do you think we’re a bunch of inbred ignoramuses?’

  His tone is teasing but he’s hit the nail on the head and I think he knows it. ‘Of course not,’ I say, lowering my chin so he can’t see the guilty expression on my face.

  ‘So, what do you do for a living, then? Claire told me all about her plans, but she never said why you’re here.’

  He sounds curious – damn. I’ve been waiting for this question – in fact, if I was him I would have insisted on finding out my occupation far earlier. For all he knows I could be some sort of drug-dealer – I could be planning to turn Rose Cottage into a crack den. He never even asked to see references – nothing. He just accepted me on face value. That was incredibly trusting of him. And incredibly naïve.

  ‘Um …’ I search for something to say. I don’t want to say I’m an unemployed estate agent – that doesn’t sound very impressive. Not that I need to impress him, of course.

  ‘Dad!’

  Edward swivels from me to the sound of this shrill cry and I exhale. Saved by the bell.

  Matilda, his teenage tearaway, prances into the yard, a smaller, mousy-looking girl in tow. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our encounter in the cottage.

  ‘Matilda, come and say hello,’ Edward calls. ‘This is Maggie – you two haven’t met yet, have you? Maggie is renting Rose Cottage and helping out in the yard while she’s here – I told you, remember?’

  There’s no edge to Edward’s voice, which is a big surprise. Surely they had a huge argument about me. After all, Matilda was so angry when she stormed out, I was positive she’d have marched straight to her father to demand an explanation. I haven’t broached it with him – his family affairs are his business – but by the calm tone of his introduction now, it seems that Matilda didn’t confront him at all.

  She glares at me, her eyes hard. Now it clicks into place. She didn’t tell her father about our argument because that would have meant confessing to being alone in the cottage with her boyfriend. Clearly, this isn’t something she wants Edward to know. She obviously thought twice about saying anything.

  By the expression on her face now, she’s weighing up her options again. Should she admit that she’s met me before? Or should she pretend this is the first time she’s clapped eyes on me? ‘Tell my dad,’ her eyes flash for an instant, ‘tell him that you found me in the cottage with a boy – let’s see what he’ll say.’

  I’m being challenged, I’m sure of it. I can inform Edward that I’ve already met his charming daughter making out with her spotty boyfriend in the cottage – or I can pretend I’ve never seen her before. It doesn’t take me long to make up my mind: it’s really none of my business. Matilda isn’t my daughter and the way she behaves isn’t my concern. ‘Hello, Matilda.’ I smile sweetly. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Matilda clamps her lips together and says nothing. It’s almost as if she’s disappointed. As if she’d been sure I was going to out her.

  ‘Matilda!’ Edward says,
his voice a little strained. ‘Please say hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ she mutters, then turns her back to me. The message is loud and clear – just because I didn’t snitch doesn’t mean she’s going to be any nicer to me.

  ‘Dad, Chloë and I want to hack out. I’m taking Drya.’

  ‘Matilda,’ Edward’s tone is stern now, ‘I’ve told you before. No one rides Drya.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her – you can’t keep her locked up all the time, it’s not fair.’ Matilda pouts, her face suddenly very much like her younger sister’s. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘Drya is a very disturbed animal. She’s not safe to ride – you know that.’

  ‘I can handle her.’

  ‘No. You can’t.’

  ‘You think I can’t. Just because –’

  ‘Matilda,’ Edward’s voice shakes with anger, ‘I said no, and that’s final.’

  This is embarrassing and I suddenly want the ground to open up and swallow me whole – unlike the mousy Chloë, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying every second of the argument: she’s drinking in every detail with relish.

  The air between Edward and his daughter crackles with tension for what seems like for ever and then Matilda turns. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she spits. ‘You won’t let your own daughter ride her favourite horse, but you’ll let a complete stranger work in the stables. An amateur.’ She glares at me.

  ‘That’s enough, Matilda!’ Edward is furious. ‘Why must you act like this?’

  I hang my head. Matilda doesn’t think I’m good enough even to muck out. She’s probably right – what do I know about horses? Nothing.

  ‘Saddle up Pedlar and Romeo,’ Edward says, ‘and make sure you rub them down when you get back – I don’t want either of them getting a chill.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Matilda grunts, and her friend giggles nervously as they disappear into the tack room.

  ‘That was major!’ I hear Chloë hiss with excitement to Matilda as they leave. ‘Your family is so dramatic – it’s better than watching EastEnders!’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Edward rubs his hand across his brow in agitation. ‘Drya was her mother’s horse. Matilda has been … Anyway, you don’t need to know our family history.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘Go and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’

  He was about to talk about his dead wife, I’m sure of it. Should I mention that I know all about it? That I’ve already met his mother-in-law? That I mortally offended her? Maybe not. This probably isn’t the right time and I don’t want the day to turn into an episode of a TV soap for real – there’s been enough drama already.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I am a bit tired.’

  ‘Yes, mucking out is hard work. Still, you’re so fit – that must be really standing to you.’

  ‘Fit?’ I laugh cynically. ‘Hardly!’ Where did he get that idea?

  Edward looks momentarily confused. ‘But what about the running?’

  Crap. Of course – I told him I run a stupid number of kilometres every week. Whatever possessed me to do that? ‘Ah, yes,’ I say, racking my brain for some sort of plausible theory. ‘But you use different muscle groups when you’re mucking out, of course. It takes some getting used to.’

  ‘Right.’ He doesn’t look too convinced, probably because he’s a real runner himself. He knows I’m bullshitting.

  ‘But I am aerobically fit,’ I bluff, ‘so that helps.’ I hope he can’t see the sweat dripping down my neck – it’d be a dead giveaway that I’m actually totally knackered.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, glancing at his phone and moving away as it begins to ring in his hand. ‘It’s the vet and I have to talk to her about Saffy.’

  Once he’s out of sight I collapse on the stone steps, exhausted. It’s funny, but even though I’m totally shattered, there is a perverse pleasure in knowing that all the ponies are clean and content. Manual labour can be quite satisfying in a strange sort of way.

  ‘Tired, are you?’ Matilda trots by on Pedlar, a large yellow pony, her friend Chloë in her wake on Romeo.

  ‘I guess I am,’ I reply, squinting up at her. The sun is high in the sky, blinding me.

  ‘Serves you right,’ she sneers, adjusting her hard hat. ‘You have no business being here. Anyone could tell that you haven’t a clue what you’re doing.’

  ‘Your dad doesn’t seem to think I’ve done too badly,’ I say. God, what a piece of work Matilda is.

  ‘He’s lying,’ she snipes. ‘He thinks you’re hopeless as well.’

  ‘Actually, he told me I’d done quite a good job.’ I look her in the eye. I’m not going to let her get away with talking to me like that.

  ‘You didn’t really –’ She throws her head back and laughs. ‘You didn’t really believe him, did you? Chloë, listen to this! Maggie here thinks she’s doing a good job! Isn’t that hilarious?’

  Chloë giggles, hiding her freckled face behind her hand.

  ‘The truth is,’ Matilda goes on, ‘Dad doesn’t think anything of the sort. He told me you were hopeless, but he has to put up with you because he’s no other choice. He needs cheap labour to do the yard work and you’re his only option. He said a monkey could do it too, if it was trained properly.’

  I feel the colour rise to my cheeks. Edward said he was really happy with my work. That I was a natural. ‘That’s not true,’ I reply.

  ‘You think not?’ Matilda sneers. ‘You think he would really tolerate you here unless you were paying rent and working for nothing? Walk on, Pedlar,’ she commands, and her horse obediently sashays out of the yard, just before Edward reappears.

  ‘I’m going into the village later,’ he says to me, snapping his phone shut. ‘Would you like me to pick up some supplies for you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I reply frostily. If he’s been talking about me behind my back, I’m not going to bother trying to be friendly any more. I’ll do my bit working in the stables to keep the cottage safe for Claire but that’s it. No more chit-chat.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He smiles at me, a look of confusion on his face. He has no idea why I’m suddenly so chilly towards him and I’m certainly not going to fill him in. If he’s devious enough to be nice to my face and laugh at me behind my back he doesn’t deserve to know. Let him try to figure it out for himself. Or let his darling daughter tell him.

  ‘I do need some provisions,’ I sniff in response, ‘but I’ll go into the village and get them for myself.’

  I haul myself off the step and try to stalk away with dignity. It’s difficult because every muscle in my body is screaming in vicious agony, but I manage it. That’ll show him – this is a professional agreement, nothing more. There’ll be no more friendly conversation. Not one word.

  Rule Ten: When in Rome, do as the Romans do

  ‘A pint of milk, please.’

  ‘Right you are.’ The shopkeeper reaches under the counter and hands me the milk from some invisible fridge, smiling all the while.

  From the look of this tiny shop, I’m not convinced it’s exactly safe to buy anything here – there’s a hodgepodge of biscuits, mixed with dusty tins of peas and boxes of crisps on the shelves, next to what look like cartons of nails. And thread. And what might be a hammer. Although it could be some sort of ornament.

  But I don’t have much choice: I’ve already wandered up and down the street a few times, just to make sure I haven’t missed anything, but apart from a butcher, a pub and a petrol station with sacks of coal heaped outside, there doesn’t seem to be much else to the village.

  There’s certainly no supermarket so this little shop, with the old-fashioned sign that says ‘Village Store’, will have to do.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile back at him.

  With his striped apron and bushy handlebar moustache, the shopkeeper looks as if he’s been transported straight from the 1920s and plonked into the twenty-first century.

  ‘Like Rose Cottage, do you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask, pausing from counting the money from
my purse on to the counter for him. I don’t want to check whether the milk is still in date until I leave the shop. Even I know that would be rude.

  ‘The cottage? Like it, do you?’

  He must know who I am – word obviously travels fast in this part of the country.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine, thanks,’ I answer politely.

  There’s no point in telling him that mucking out ponies isn’t my idea of a good time. Or that I seem to be making enemies everywhere I go. Country life certainly isn’t the bed of roses Claire believed it would be.

  ‘Edward is a nice fella,’ the man continues. ‘Of course it’s been hard for him – you know … since his wife passed on.’ He shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘Awful, that was.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say. I just want to pay for the milk and go. I don’t want to talk about Edward or his life. It’s really nothing to do with me. I’m here to do a job, that’s all. Besides, I don’t need reminding of how badly I put my foot in it with June.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve met his girls by now – that little Polly’s a right ’un, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes …’

  Why all the conversation? You don’t get this in the city. There you can just hand over the money, get your goods and go. You don’t even have to meet the eye of the person who serves you if you don’t want to and no one thinks anything of it. It’s a far simpler system – all this small-talk is exhausting.

  ‘I remember,’ he leans back and crosses his arms, as if he’s going to recount a long story, ‘I remember one day she came in here looking for ice cream. But she didn’t just want one – oh, no, she wanted two.’

  ‘Really?’

  I flick my eyes across the shelves to see if there’s any wine in here – I’m starting to feel the need for a serious drink. I can’t spot any. Maybe they have it out the back. There’s a shabby red curtain on the wall – it could be behind there.