Page 2 of One Last Try

“Maybe thirty with bad traffic.”

“Pub nearby?”

“Literally across the road.”

“Then it’s a no-brainer,” I’d boomed. “Get off this phone and sign me up before someone else snatches it.”

Simone sighed. “You’re the boss,” she’d said. Which is what she always says when I behave . . . somewhat petulantly. But I’m a pro athlete—fly-half and kicker for Cardiff Bengals for eight years and Wales for three. Admittedly, I’d failed to make either team this season, but haven’t I earned the right to be a little diva-inclined now and then?

In hindsight, perhaps Sim’d been trying to warn me of the extreme concussion risk Fernbank Cottage came with.

The place was cute, though. She’d sent me some photos. The most postcard-perfect-looking cottage I think I’ve ever seen. Thatched roof, thatched porch, plants growing up the render, pretty gardens with a spindly pink painted bench, a greenhouse, a massive gravel drive, and a top-of-the-range inbuilt BBQ grill and separate pizza oven. I mean, come on, how’s a man supposed to resist that?

Since the property came fully furnished, I only had to rent a short wheelbase to take my things over the bridge into Wiltshire. Mainly clothes and shoes, my duvet, towels and bathroom shit, some books, my NutriBullet, my laptop, my PlayStation 5, and my gadgets. A lot of gadgets, to be fair. I didn’t bring any food. The market town of Hookborough’s nearby, and Google informs me there’s a big Waitrose on the high street. I’ll stock up tomorrow.

I only have another four or five runs to the van before all my boxes are inside—

THWACK!

My head hits the beam once again.

“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT DOOR!” I yell, dropping my box to the ground and cradling my poor, poor cranium.

If this had been midgame, I’d’ve been stretchered off the pitch. Luckily the box hitting the deck contains only towels and not my drone or telescope.

There’s a sound like metal smashing against metal—loud, quick, and percussive—and it’s coming from the vicinity of my new micro-porch. It takes me a few moments to figure out it’s my door knocker. Cute. Never had a door knocker before. I guess that comes with the whole three-hundred-year-old chocolate-box charm.

I answer it, rubbing my forehead.

The girl standing on the top step is somewhere between sixteen and twenty-two—difficult to be more precise with all this frontal lobe damage. She’s young in any case, and has long strawberry-blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a pink-and-orange-striped rugby shirt.

Good sign for my new neighbours, I guess.

“Ooh, you got got by the kitchen door!” she says, flicking her ponytail back and pointing to my newly scalped head. “How many times?”

The girl has a familiar-looking face, like someone you know from a past life, or perhaps it’s just one of those generic white-girl faces. Big blue eyes, plasticky Barbie-doll skin, makeup that probably took all morning plus several hundred hours of YouTube tutorial training to apply.

“I’m Daisy,” she says, obviously assuming the whacks to my head have robbed me of the ability to speak. “I’ve brought your keys.” She holds out her hand and opens her palm. In the centre sits a house key with a pewter rugby ball keychain. An eerily personal touch from an estate agent. “And supplies.” She lifts her other hand to show me a white plastic grocery bag. I make out the shape of a milk bottle, a box of eggs, a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and something else at the bottom I can’t be certain of.

Please be chocolate. Please be chocolate.

“Are you from Boonies Estate Agents?”

AWTFlook passes over her face before she puts all the puzzle pieces together. “No, I’m from the pub.”

I lean out the door. Daisy bends back like a circus acrobat to glance at said pub. The Little Thatch. As picture pretty as Fernbank Cottage with its matching thatched roof and climbing roses, or whatever the fuck those plants are. They don’t have any flowers yet, but they look spiky as hell. There’s an old red phone box near the entrance. At some point, the phone had been replaced by a defibrillator.

“You work at the pub?” I ask. That makes so much more sense. I’ve moved around a lot in my twenty-nine years, and estate agents do not generally offer this level of personalised service. Especially the English ones, and especially,especiallyto tenants.

“Wow, you must have hit your head harder than I first thought. I left you a note.” With that, Daisy barges into my new house and marches through the living room into the tiny dining space.

There’s a letter on the table, nestled in the fruit bowl. On the envelope, my name is scribbled.

M. Jones.

Daisy snatches it up before I have a chance to duck into the dining room.

“Hey, give me that.” I make to grab the letter, but think better of it. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old, six-foot-five man, alone in an unfamiliar property with a very young woman. I know my gender and size can be intimidating as fuck. I shouldn’t be grabbing anything from her.

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