Page 21 of Beyond Her Manner
“Yes, running this place. Organising all the village events. You have big shoes to fill.”
Viola gulped. “I’m beginning to realise that.” How had she signed up for a job by buying a house? It was a job she most definitely didn’t want.
“Are you on your own? No husband or family?”
Viola looked at her blankly. The question always came as a surprise to her; she’d been outed as a lesbian after a relationship went sour in her twenties. It also pissed her off every time she was asked if she had a husband. Not only did a woman not need a husband, but some also didn’t need or want men at all. She despised the insinuation that a husband was the norm. Why couldn’t people say “partner” and stop excluding others? It wasn’t difficult.
Perhaps the woman didn’t know who she was, though; that would make a welcome change. She’d encountered enough obsessive fans to last several lifetimes.
“It’s just I need an idea of how many will be living here,” Mrs Johnson prompted her. “It makes a difference when you are clearing up after them, especially the young’uns.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course. It’s only me.”
Mrs Johnson lifted an eyebrow. “Big house for one.”
“Yes, it is.” She inhaled deeply, “It wasn’t meant to be that way.”
“So rarely it is.”
“I bought the house for my mum.” Viola took in a deep breath. “She passed away recently.”
Mrs Johnson’s no-nonsense demeanour deflated. “Sorry to hear that, dear. I lost my mum last year. Doesn’t get easier, only different. A bit like raising children, I say.”
Feeling her eyes beginning to moisten, Viola walked over to the window, minding not to trip on some of the workmen’s equipment, which was scattered on the floor. She wasn’t expecting it to get easier, but the reminder of the emptiness inside her from her mum’s death, not to mention how it was unlikely to leave, sat heavily in her stomach. She needed a distraction. Was a housewarming party the answer?
“I assume you can cater for parties,” Viola asked her guest.
“Is the pope Catholic?” Mrs Johnson replied with a laugh.
Viola smiled.
“I’ll pop in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday if you’re happy with that, and I can leave you something in the fridge to reheat if you want. Leave a note for Monday if there’s anything you particularly like or don’t like, and let me know if you need me for anything else.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” Viola replied, slightly taken aback by the woman. She was sure she was the one who was supposed to be setting terms, not that she was about to argue.
“I won’t keep you. I’ll see myself out, and don’t worry — I’ve still got my key.”
Viola blinked. Should she have changed the locks? What if Gillian still possessed a key too? Would she be letting herself in like her cat was? She wouldn’t put it past the woman to do a bit of snooping; she looked the type.
Mrs Johnson, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and agreeable. She was the sort of woman you knew you could rely on to run a house, which left Viola with a feeling of inadequacy.There was no question of wearing Gillian’s shoes, let alone filling them. She wasn’t respectful whatsoever; she’d met children with better manners. Was the grief making her unpleasant? It did strange things to people; Viola knew that much herself.
But she had a party fixed in her mind now; planning it would give her something to focus on other than her lacking as lady of the manor. With any luck, she’d be able to piss off Saint Gillian at the same time.
CHAPTER 7
Gillian glared out of her bedroom window at the garish disco lights spilling out from inside the manor. They stood out like beacons against the darkness, pulsating in rhythm with the beat of the music — if the cacophony emanating from within could be described as music.
For thirty-five years, every party at the manor had been meticulously planned and overseen by Gillian herself. Hearing laughter from outside — laughter she had no part in — sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She pressed a hand to her stomach, steadying herself against the bitter reminder of how much had changed.
Glancing at the clock by her bedside, she noted it was two in the morning. Its faint glow illuminated the glass of water beside it. Small ripples moved through the water, mirroring the vibrations she was beginning to feel in her own body.
The sensation intensified, accompanied by a sound overhead — a helicopter, she suspected, a thought which was confirmed by a bright glow of light passing above. She watched as it flew around to the back of the manor and descended behind it. Hopeful it was collecting guests and signified the end of the party, Gillian returned to her bed exhausted, jealous, and alone.
Shoving earplugs into her ears, she fell back onto her pillow and closed her eyes, pushing all thoughts of Viola Berkley aside. With her eyes shut, she could imagine herself being anywhere in the world, but there was only one place she imagined herself to be — her old bedroom.
A few hours later she wrenched her eyes open at the muffled sound of her alarm. She noticed Agatha at the bottom of the bed as she silenced it.
“Was it too noisy over there for you, too, Agatha?” she asked the cat through a yawn as she removed her earplugs.
