The Little Clock House on the Green. Eve Devon

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СКАЧАТЬ gaze slide interestingly over him from head to toe. He took an awkward step backwards. Was she… hitting on him? Surely not. She was at least twice his age.

      ‘I guess you probably don’t get a lot of newcomers to the village?’ he asked, attempting to stretch the conversation and prove he wasn’t feeling the pressure of small talk.

      ‘Too true, sweetie. But you mustn’t mind me – I’m always on the lookout, that’s all.’

      The lookout? He was just wondering if there was any tactful way of telling her he wasn’t interested but that he could show her how to set up a Tinder account when he saw her.

      It was the third time he’d spotted her in two days.

      The first time, she’d been hauling case out of the back of that taxi and Monroe hadn’t exactly shown herself in her best light. The second time, she’d been pacing back and forth across the small front garden of the cottage the taxi had pulled up outside of. The last time he’d seen her had been a few moments before – talking to the woman now standing in front of him. He’d spotted the boots first before lifting his gaze to notice the legs were out again. By the time he’d reached the daisy-dukes he’d been so distracted he’d nearly run into a tree. Righting himself and concerned he might end up doing something else embarrassing, like tripping over a leaf and face-planting right in front of her, he’d elected to pretend he hadn’t seen her and concentrate on getting the rest of his run in.

      ‘I have to be on the lookout,’ the woman in pink told him, ‘I’m casting for A Midsummer Night’s Dream and really want us in rehearsals by the end of this month.’

      Daniel wasn’t listening. He was too interested in watching the gorgeous brunette with the dynamite legs hop over the low brick wall in front of the building at the end of the village green and… wait, had she just kicked that For Sale sign?

      He grinned as he watched her give it a second kick before she disappeared into the building.

      ‘…and I’m always on the lookout for fresh talent. I don’t suppose you can act, sing or dance as well as you look?’

      Daniel whipped his attention back to the woman in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, cast members?’

      ‘Oh, sweetie, don’t worry, I can see your mind is elsewhere,’ she said, with a chuckle, as she turned in the direction of his gaze.

      She wasn’t wrong. With a nod of his head towards the building in front of them, he found himself asking, ‘Is The Clock House a private residence?’ Maybe she kicked the sign because she lived there and didn’t want to move.

      ‘I guess technically it is. Old Man Isaac – that’s the owner, moved out a few years ago when he turned eighty. Got a bit much for him,’ the woman confided. ‘Moved into one of the cottages opposite,’ she explained, pointing in the direction of the charming stone cottages at the other end of the green. ‘He never did get married nor have any children, so he sort of keeps the building open for the village to use it. You know, for toddler groups and the local flower-arranging class, that sort of thing. It’s a fabulous space. My am-dram group meets there every week.’

      ‘I see. So if the door was open I would be free to go in and take a look around?’

      ‘Of course. On a Thursday morning it should be empty. I’m going to need your name, though.’

      ‘My name?’

      ‘And a few other details,’ she said, grinning from ear to ear.

      Oh, she was good. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Daniel Westlake. And you already know I’m in the village because my car broke down and I’m waiting for Ted to get the part he needs and then fit it.’

      ‘And where are you staying while you’re here?’

      ‘At the little B&B on the other side of the village. Sheila Somersby’s place?’

      ‘I know it. Sheila has a lovely place.’ And apparently deciding he was harmless, she finished with, ‘Well, Daniel Westlake, it’s been lovely to meet you. Enjoy your visit at The Clock House. I’m Trudie McTravers. It’s a small place, so no doubt we’ll run into each other again.’

      ‘Don’t forget to stretch and cool-down properly before you leave the green.’

      She smiled and in a flurry of pink and red, jogged back across the green.

      Daniel walked towards The Clock House and bypassing hopping over the wall, opted for the perfectly accessible gated entrance. Three strides across the gravel and he was poking his head inside the front doors.

      ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered as he stepped across the threshold into the large foyer that was so much more grand than he had been expecting.

      He turned in a circle, blowing out a long whistle when he saw the beautiful sweeping staircase which curved up to the next floor. The stick balusters were painted in thick creamy gloss, and the handrail and stair-treads had been left in their original dark wood, though stained with a clear protective varnish. All the walls were painted in a watery green, right up to the cornicing, which was painted in simple white.

      Daniel couldn’t believe the owner, this Old Man Isaac fellow, had let the village use such a stately place for meetings and what-not. Or that the villagers had kept it so lovingly maintained. Said something about the people of Whispers Wood, didn’t it?

      As he crossed the parquet floor he wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this one. He’d spent most of his childhood in a crowded semi in Stevenage with his mum, his aunt and uncle, and their two kids, because his father was away such a lot. It hadn’t been a bad upbringing, but he’d rather have been on the road with his dad. At least in those early years, Daniel reflected, before automatically shutting his thoughts down.

      Taken with the welcoming ambience, he stole up the staircase to explore, forgetting he was supposed to be looking out for a glimpse of his ‘wonder woman’.

      He guessed once upon a time the rooms on the second floor would have been one-room deep, in keeping with the traditional Georgian layout. Reaching out, he knocked against one of the walls in the same way he’d seen the woman with all the scarves do in that property programme – and concluded that most of the walls were partition. If it was up to him he’d keep some of them divided and open some out.

      To use as what, though?

      And that’s when it hit him.

      If it was him he’d open this place up as office space… conference facilities… something that would bring people who worked in isolation together.

      Within minutes, the creative side of his brain, held in check for far too long, was firing like a Nerf gun at a seven-year-olds birthday party. Inspiration flexed back to life like an old and wasted muscle and as he continued his tour he focused on the fact that the place was for sale and how he needed something to do.

      What would it be like to get to come to work in a space like this every day?

      Hadn’t he been looking for a fresh start?

      Maybe Monroe breaking down was fate. Daniel came to a sudden halt halfway back down the stairs to the ground floor. He wasn’t sure he believed in fate. Believing in fate would surely render СКАЧАТЬ