Page 4 of Take Me Home
‘Well?’ she demanded, taking a few steps closer, hands on her rainbow hips.
‘I’m not the journalist.’
‘You’re not? Are you sure?’
‘Very sure.’
‘Well, then what are you doing here, in a private, confidential group?’
Trying to leave?
‘I was told to let myself into the studio. The sign pointed up here.’
‘Well, who on earth would tell you to do that, given that this is personal invitation only?’
Panic started rising up my throat.
‘I did,’ a rich, warm voice answered through an open doorway at the back of the room. ‘Sophie?’
‘Yes,’ I breathed in relief. ‘Harriet?’
‘Hattie, to my friends.’ She strode into the middle of the room, carrying a large pot of paint in each hand. Her tiny frame was dressed in faded, patched-up jeans and a simple, grey T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair was a mass of salt and pepper curls, eyes shining the same turquoise as the paint decorating the door and signs. Despite her diminutive size, she radiated vibrant energy. I’d never seen anyone look so alive.
‘I’m so sorry, I got my timings a little mixed up. Morag’s right, this is a private group. I thought it would be over before you arrived. Everyone, please accept my sincerest apologies for inviting a stranger to intrude upon your session. I know Sophie will keep your identities confidential. If you can start finishing up, I’ll show her to the main house and be right back.’
‘Who is she, then?’ a woman covered in black feathers asked.
‘Yeah, you’ve put us in a vulnerable position here, Hattie. We have the right to know who she is,’ someone painted in caterpillars on one side, butterflies the other, said.
Hattie glanced at me, faltering for a split second like a light bulb flickering. ‘Sophie’s a historian. A publisher asked me to write a book about Riverbend, and I thought it was a brilliant idea, but I haven’t got the time or the brains for that, so they sent Sophie to help me out.’
‘So she’s writing a book, not an article? Does that mean the journalist isn’t coming?’
‘Ooh, are we going in the book, Sophie? Will it have pictures? Can we have some warning before you take them, so I can get my wings just right?’ The black-feathered woman flapped her arms like a crow.
‘Um… I’m not writing the book.’ Hattie’s eyes flashed in panic until I pressed on. ‘It’s Hattie’s book. I’m merely helping her decide what to put in it. And it’s going to be a history book. None of you look ready to be confined to history just yet.’
‘Too right we’re not!’ The chorus of jokes and giggles continued as Hattie whistled for the dogs and ushered me back outside, not breaking her stride until we’d hurried around the house, through the front door and into the kitchen.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll explain everything. Give me half an hour to clear up and shoo them out. Oh, and if you can cook fajitas, the ingredients are in the fridge. I think Lizzie left instructions.’
* * *
For want of anything else to do except jangle with nervous energy, once I’d given the enormous kitchen – including a gigantic range oven, professional coffee maker and walk-in pantry – a good ogle, I found a stack of plastic containers in the fridge with a recipe stuck to the lid, and cooked a meal in a strange kitchen for a woman I’d only just met, trying not to completely freak out about what on earth I’d got myself into.
I was mashing an avocado when Hattie returned. Muffin shared none of my qualms, having curled up with her new best friend on a giant dog bed in front of an old fireplace.
‘I’m mortified.’ Hattie whipped open a forest-green cabinet and took out two glasses, adding a generous slosh of gin and some tonic before handing me one, not bothering to ask if I wanted a drink, or even whether I drank at all.
‘It’s taken over a month to get this group relaxed enough for the body session, and now I’ve blown their trust with one mistimed judgement. When will I learn to lock the studio door? If anyone blabs, it’ll make it so much harder with the next lot.’ She held her glass up in my direction. ‘Ifyoublab, it’ll be just as bad. But I’m hoping to woo you into working with me, in which case you’ll need to sign a non-disclosure form.’
I took a large sip of my drink.
Hattie broke into a grin, reminding me of the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ‘How am I doing so far? Am I wooing you well?’
I gave the pan of chicken and vegetables a feeble poke. ‘Umm…’
‘Oh, my goodness.’ My host gave a startled laugh as her bright eyes widened in horror. ‘Here you are, having been suddenly exposed to six semi-naked women decorated like toddlers let loose in a craft shop, and now you’re cooking dinner while I stand here rambling on about my reputation! You must think I’m crackers.’
