‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, reaching for it.

He stepped in her way. ‘Who are you?’ asked the gruff voice.

‘I live here. More importantly, who are you, creeping about the place in the dead of night?’ she countered, wishing she hadn’t used the word ‘dead’ in case it gave him any ideas. ‘Get that torch out of my face and explain yourself,’ she said, trying to make herself as tall as possible.

The light swung to one side and a face loomed in front of her out of the darkness. ‘Heavens, not you again,’ he said.

Darla was baffled. She didn’t know this bloke, did she? She blinked a number of times but still, all she could see was the bright white blob the torch had left on her vision, but the face in front of her was vaguely familiar. Then it all clicked into place. He was the guy who had stopped the day Spindle had run into the road and if she remembered correctly he’d been quite rude to her. ‘You!’ At that moment she also noticed he was holding the pretty grey cat. ‘Hey! You can’t steal my cat.’ Darla went to take the feline but the man stepped back.

‘Definitely not your cat.’

‘Erm, I think you’ll find it comes with the house.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m confused. There’s no way you’ve bought this already. Horace only died a few days ago and I’m pretty sure he didn’t have any family.’

‘There’s a distant relative in New Zealand apparently. Everything is being dealt with through a solicitor. I’m house-sitting. And I’m looking after all the animals including the cat.’ Darla held her hands out.

‘The cat doesn’t live here. He’s mine but he is a cheeky bugger who would come up here to stare at the chickens and try and cadge some tuna off of Horace.’

Darla wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘You don’t. Just like I don’t know if you’re lying or not. You might be a squatter for all I know. But this cat won’t let just anyone pick him up.’

‘He let me,’ said Darla.

‘Huh. Well, usually he’s picky.’

‘Rude! If he’s yours what’s his name?’

‘Winston,’ he said, and Darla noted the cat look up at the sound of the name. Perhaps this bloke was telling the truth.

‘I don’t suppose the birds and goats are yours by any chance, are they? That would save me a job.’

‘Nope, they’re all Horace’s, along with about two hundred sheep over the way.’ He tipped his head behind him.

‘What?!’ Darla’s mind was racing. How on earth was she going to look after sheep? ‘B . . . but . . .’

‘I’m joking; the sheep are mine.’ He freed up a hand for her to shake. ‘I’m Elliott. I live over there at Nettle Bank Farm.’ He gave another nod behind him. ‘My land joins Horace’s.’

‘That makes us neighbours,’ she said with a big grin. She was feeling hugely relieved she wasn’t looking after umpteen sheep and was always happy to make a new friend.

He frowned at her. ‘I suppose it does,’ he said.

***

On Sunday morning Ros decided it was best that she and Cameron arrived separately at her dad’s. Mainly because she usually got there just after ten so they could have coffees and a chat while making the dinner at a leisurely pace. That was far too much time for questioning so she’d told Cameron to get there between half twelve and one ready for a one o’clock lunch. She wasn’t so sure that had been the best plan because now she was worrying about what time he would arrive. Too early and she would be busy in the kitchen, which would allow her dad an opportunity to interrogate Cameron alone. Too late and her dad would likely judge him for his tardiness. Or worse still, what if he was a no-show?

‘That’s a lot of pepper you’re putting in the gravy,’ commented Barry, leaning over her shoulder.

Ros stopped grinding. ‘I wasn’t concentrating,’ she said, throwing the dry gravy mix in the bin and starting again with the Bisto tin.

‘You seem out of sorts. Is there anything about this Cameron I should know beforehand?’ asked her dad as he whisked his Yorkshire pudding mix.

‘No. It’s best that you just meet him.’ Ros nodded more to herself than her father. She needed to stay focused and keep calm. They had done all the prep work, and they were going to keep the duration as short as possible by offering to walk Gazza after lunch, which would tick the job off Ros’s to-do list as well as give them an opportunity to debrief and regroup.

‘He’s not got two heads then?’ asked Barry with a smile. ‘Or worse still a Portsmouth fan?’ The smile changed to a flat line.

‘No to both. And I thought we agreed you wouldn’t turn this into an interrogation.’ The timer went off for Ros to turn the roast potatoes over.

‘I’ll be on my best behaviour. I promise.’

Gazza barked and ran to the front door a moment before the doorbell sounded.

‘I’ll go,’ said Barry, moving faster than Ros had seen him do in a while. As she already had the oven gloves on she had to concede and turn the roasties as quick as humanly possible whilst trying to keep an eye on the hallway.

Barry opened the front door. ‘You must be Cameron.’

‘Hello, Mr Foster. It’s lovely to meet you.’

‘Come in, lad. Mind the dog – he can be a bit funny with strangers.’

Cameron crouched down and the little dog went bananas. ‘You must be Gazza. Hello, mate. Aren’t you a handsome fella?’

‘Bugger!’ said Ros as she went to grab a potato with the tongs and missed because she wasn’t paying full attention and the potato shot off the tray and bounced across the kitchen floor.

‘Everything okay?’ called Barry.

‘Errant roast potato,’ said Ros, slinging the tray back in the oven, shutting the door and binning the escapee roastie as she dashed to join them in the hallway still wearing the oven gloves.

Cameron stood up from greeting the dog and for the first time that day Ros got a good look at him. He was wearing a white polo shirt and jeans, thankfully without any holes in them, but the most noticeable thing about him was that he’d had a haircut and a shave, which made him look quite different. He appeared far less studenty and more than presentable.

‘Hi, hon,’ said Cameron casually, leaning in and kissing her cheek.

Ros froze. And then realised her dad was watching them both closely. ‘Hello, Cameron.’

‘This is for you,’ said Cameron, handing Barry a bottle of white wine. ‘I’m hoping you drink the same as your daughter.’

Barry admired the bottle. ‘Pinot Grigio. Nice. Thank you, Cameron. You didn’t have to do that. Ros has got dinner under control so how about you come through to the living room?’

‘Actually I could do with a hand in here,’ said Ros in a panic, raising her oven-gloved hand.

‘What with?’ asked Barry.

‘Err . . . gravy boat. I don’t know where the gravy boat is.’ Ros headed back to the kitchen, checking over her shoulder that they were following her.

Barry started looking in cupboards, which gave Cameron a chance to mouth ‘Are you okay?’ to Ros.

Ros mimed her head exploding and he grinned. He looked very different. So much smarter than he usually did. ‘I like your hair,’ she mouthed. ‘Thank you for . . .’ She mimed scissors in the air.