Page 96 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
She rolled out of bed, impatiently brushing a tear from her eye. Maybe she was the one moving too quickly. But would he really have dumped her like that, without a word? Even if she had just been a stopgap, a temporary bandage over the wound in his heart inflicted by the beautiful Nyree Donovan?
Surely he would have been upfront about it, told her honestly... wouldn’t he? She didn’t know — she really didn’t know him that well.
In the bathroom she gazed bleakly at her reflection in the mirror. She’d watched some more episodes of that detective series. It was a stupid thing to do, but they had taunted her, sitting there on her screen, prompting her to ‘continue watching’ the box set every time she opened it.
As Debbie had said, Nyree was stunning — flawless features, the loveliest smile, laughing blue eyes. And though it might be just the role she was playing, she seemed to be sweet-natured and charming.
How could she follow that?
Well, if it was over, it was over. She’d been in relationships before that had ended, and she’d survived — she’d survive this time.
But first she’d sit down on the edge of the bath and let herself have a really good cry.
* * *
An hour later she was on her way to Exeter. She wasn’t going to hang around waiting for Tom Cullen to deign to drop by — that would just be pathetic. Anyway she needed to pick up a few things for the cottage — new curtains for the spare bedroom, a good office chair for her workroom. Some perfumed candles.
She had lunch in the sunshine on the pavement beside Cathedral Green, browsed in a bookshop, thought about treating herself to a pretty necklace in a quaint little jewellers near the art gallery.
But when she got home there was still no sign of Tom. No missed calls. No messages. Just a long, empty silence.
Why?Had she done something wrong? Said the wrong thing? Almost obsessively she picked over the memories of their last time together, but she couldn’t find anything that might account for him ending things like this.
Could he be ill, maybe had an accident? No — he would have let her know, or his mum would. At the least, Debbie would certainly have known.
Oh for goodness’ sake — why couldn’t she work up the courage to just call him? This was the twenty-first century. Women didn’t have to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring.
Had he seen Jeremy’s car parked outside and jumped to the wrong conclusion? Without even giving her a chance to explain? If that was it, then she’d be damned if she’d go running to him, begging, apologising.
She’d done too much apologising with Jeremy — for putting the cutlery the wrong way up in the dishwasher or not ironing his shirts exactly as he liked them. No more.
She made herself toast for dinner — she didn’t feel like eating much. There was nothing on television she wanted to watch, and she had come to the conclusion that the novel she was trying to write was the most boring rubbish anyone had ever committed to print.
She went to bed early, but lay awake, alternately staring at the ceiling and sobbing into her pillow. There was no denying it — she’d been dumped in the most unceremonious way since the demise of the fax machine.
* * *
The days passed in a cloud of dull misery. Even the news from the auction house of the date of the sale of Molly’s portrait couldn’t lighten her mood. She avoided going down to Debbie’s, afraid her friend would be sympathetic and she’d end up crying in public.
It was made far worse when she was out weeding around the roses in the front garden, and saw Tom drive past in his silver-grey SUV. He didn’t even glance in her direction. So — not ill, not in an accident. Just very clearly not interested.
Ambling up the hill after work on Friday evening, she was even beginning to wonder if she should sell the cottage after all, move away, start again somewhere else. But the thought was painful. She had been happy here, before she had been stupid enough to fall in love with Tom Cullen. She loved the village, she had friends...
Turning in through her front gate, she was startled by a blast of excited barking and Rufus hurtling towards her.
“Well, hello, you.” She laughed, bending to tickle his ear. “Have you run away again?”
The little dog raced off to zoom round the garden at top speed, then came back to her for another ear-tickle.
“You’d better go home. Your master will be looking for you.”
His response was to roll on his back, suggesting that she might like to tickle his pink tummy.
“Go on, go home.” She pointed towards the farm. “Go! Shoo!”
A pair of liquid brown eyes regarded her, filled with canine mischief, then a flea was found, which required immediate attention from a flicking paw. A passing bumblebee had to be chased, and there was a very interesting smell to be investigated behind the water-butt.
Vicky sighed. “Am I going to have to catch you and drag you home?”
