Page 10 of Knots About You
It was just one crazy night. Back to business as usual come morning.
‘Night, Claire,’ I said.
Only the swish of the wipers responded.
five
CLAIRE
I awoketo a square of sunlight hitting me smack bang between the eyes. Even the fogged windows couldn’t dull its glow. After the previous night’s storm, I wholly welcomed the intrusion. Gold filtered in as I pulled myself out of the comfy double bed, eternally thankful someone had at least left it with clean covers.
Owen’s jumper squished beneath my arms as I crossed them, the autumn morning bright but cold. While Owen had started up the log burner the previous night, it had long burned out by morning. With a shiver, I promised myself I’d figure out where the heating was as soon as I dosed myself with caffeine. I’d seen at least two radiators in the place. Fingers crossed they worked.
I shuffled to the tiny kitchen, and knocked the kettle switch to on. The fridge was reflective enough to mimic a blurred version of me. Looking part woman, but a whole lot bigger part scarecrow.
Oh, God.
Had I appeared that dishevelled in front of the handsome Scot with the muscular arms? I’d expected the cottage to be in a mess, but moving from Marty’s sleek penthouse to this chaotic home was quite a shock. Furniture was gathered in the middle of rooms under white sheets, resembling ghosts from someone else’s life that I was intruding upon. Tape marked the skirting boards, and an abandoned paint roller leaned against a wall the colour of an old pub’s smoke stained ceiling. The windows were covered with a chalky substance, making the outside world look as ghostly as the cottage interior. It at least made up for the complete lack of curtains.
Coffee.
I rummaged with that singular thought thrumming through my fuzzy head and found a jar of instant coffee, along with a lone mug that said 'Granny'. It had a dozen poorly printed images of a white-haired woman who looked miserable.
Locating a teaspoon, I dumped the granules in the mug and topped it up with steaming water, inhaling the addictive fumes.
I could have cried when I opened the fridge.
No milk.
Of course, there wasn’t any bloody milk. All that lingered on the shelves was the stew Owen had left there, and some worse-for-wear, half-consumed jars of pickles.Multiplehalf-used jars of pickles.
I raised an eyebrow at grumpy mug granny. ‘These pickles belong to you?’
Needless to say, she didn’t respond.
There was nothing for it; I had to brave thevillage.
Another snag in my not-at-all-thought-through plan. I’d shoved my suitcase’s soggy contents into the washing machine before collapsing into bed. All I had was a drum full of sopping fabric. Without a dryer in sight. Only a clothesline in the tiny back garden.
Dammit.
The thought of going out in Owen’s massive clothes, where people might actually see me, made me shudder. I’d spent far too many of my paychecks on clothes for people’s first impression of me to be so unkempt. Builders’ brew it was. I took a sip of black coffee and tried to pretend I liked it that way. But there was no fighting the way it made me wince. Nope. It was too bitter to be an acceptable start to the day.
A sharp knock on the door had my black coffee sloshing over the counter. Two more knocks followed in quick succession. I froze until warmth hit my toes.
‘Oh crap,’ I muttered, snatching my foot away from the coffee waterfall, sending drops of brown onto my, well, Owen’s, sock.
I waddled to the door, shaking my foot with every other step as the unpleasantness of a wet foot made me frown.
By the time I unlocked the door and yanked it open, I was met with space. Peeking my head out, I spied a grumbling 4x4 whisking away. More green than it had appeared in the dark, but I was pretty sure that it belonged to the stoic whisky man who’d rescued me and endured my breakdown.
The village spread out in an array of cobbled streets and stone buildings, hanging flower baskets, and adorable shop fronts. For the first time since my rushed arrival, a serenity settled over me. It was like looking at my nan’s old sewing tin, which had once held chocolates given to her by my grandfather. I’d spent hours tinkering with the box and its colourful goodies inside. A pang hit me. I hadn’t been able to open the box since her passing, setting my focus on the future instead of the pain that lingered in the past.
Otterleigh Bay certainly scrubbed up well when it wasn’t pouring.
On the step by my feet lay two packages, one large and brown, tied with a string and featuring an intriguing-lookingknot. The other small and pink, with 'Coffee & Crumbs' emblazoned in black.
A coffee shop? In the village? I sent up a little prayer to the heavens that there was decent coffee within walking distance.
