course I knew it. And I knew the story too. Old, pretty, not exactly derelict, but crumbling. And tenanted, because the owner, who no one had ever met, lived in America. Except recently he’d returned, minus his beautiful American wife, who some years ago had left him. Even more recently he’d given up the London house and returned to the one he’d grown up in, in the country. Ditched his City career to work locally, have a different sort of life. He was a lawyer, Angie thought. But no one really knew, as I say, much about him. Besides the fact that he kept horses. I took a deep breath; let it out shakily. The reality that was Sam Hetherington’s life paraded before me in glorious technicolor, like an Easter Parade, with decorated floats, marching girls twirling batons, whistles and drums: an American tradition, of course, but how appropriate. A glorious spectacle. This wasn’t a faintly shambolic solicitor in a chaotic office at the top of some creaky stairs, one that, in a secret corner of my heart, I’d looked at, liked instantly, recognized almost, and thought: I could have a tiny chance with that. This was a very different screenplay to the one I’d dreamily created in my head. The one where he returned to his lonely rented bedsit every night, above a shop maybe, and thought wistfully of the young widow he’d advised that day. This one spelled out in bright, sparkling, neon lights: Out of your league!
This was a man who got on famously with Chad and Hope, the new pin-up couple in our village. Who knew Simon Devereux – no doubt they were family friends in that local, big-house sort of way – and who would soon, no doubt, be introduced to Emma, Simon’s wife. Within a twinkling they’d be having dinner parties. Chad and Hope, Simon and Emma, Sam and – ooh, let’s see … Emma’s best friend, um, Lucinda. Worthington-Squiggle. Squiggs, for short. A leggy, horse-mad beauty, who would take one look at Sam across the dinner table, his easy smile, his relaxed manner, would glimpse his beautiful house which everyone said was heavenly but unloved and surely needed a woman’s touch, and before you knew it I’d be singing the Gloria at yet another wedding. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, me and Molly – no doubt with a carer apiece – before toddling back to my cottage to cook liver and bacon.
‘Right. Well, sorry to have bothered you, Sam,’ I said, breathing very shallowly. Very unevenly. ‘I’ll, um, wait to hear. Should you decide there’s anything in it for the wronged wife,’ I couldn’t resist adding.
‘I’ll let you know,’ he assured me, no doubt steadying his impatient steed, keen to catch up with the others, and not, therefore, catching my tone; which was just as well, for what was it, Poppy? Sarcastic? Bitter? But he needed to get on. The Armitages were doubtless even now galloping across his immaculate parkland, down by the lake, the grand house perched on the hill: Hope, riding side-saddle, in a full-length black habit; Chad, bareheaded in breeches; Sam, in a dripping-wet white shirt, clinging and faintly ruffled.
We said goodbye. I sat in my coat, on my goose-poo sofa, knees and hands pressed tightly together, cold and knowing. I should light the fire now, get some lunch. Go rally the troops in the kitchen. Not leave my under fives at the table, albeit safely strapped in Archie’s case, but be in there making biscuits, ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on the CD, being effortlessly cheerful. But my life didn’t feel cheerful. I gazed at the damp wall. I thought I’d spotted in Sam someone a bit like me, who needed a stitch or two on his shirt sleeve, a few patches on his life where it had come unravelled. I’d been attracted by that; had perhaps looked forward to some cosy comparisons, some mutual sharing of sob stories. But his life wasn’t like mine. It was in much more shape. Of course, he didn’t appear to have children, which helped, but men were generally more baggage-free anyway, weren’t they? Look at Angie’s Tom. He had two children but was carefree – although according to Peggy that relationship wasn’t without its problems. A liking for extreme sports, which Tom didn’t share, had raised its head, bungee jumping, in particular. Well, Tom didn’t have to bungee jump all day, did he? I hope the fucking rope breaks, Angie had hissed. And even if it