The Little Clock House on the Green. Eve Devon

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      It occurred to her she couldn’t remember the last time she’d held a mug of tea in her hands or felt the comforting sting of a strong, sweet brew against her tongue and palate.

      A strange little pang hit beneath her breastbone, surprising her. Who in their right mind would swap sherbet coloured drinks, in happy bulbous shaped glasses, complete with cute little umbrellas rammed in at jaunty angles, for mugs of builder’s tea?

      At the main building she walked into reception, the piercing bright sunshine of the day immediately giving way to the darker, cooler tones of the interior.

      The blast of air-conditioning had her shivering in delight; the man-made chill wrapping itself around her and freezing that unsettling pang for home in its tracks.

      Shoving her sunglasses high into her hair, Kate made her way across the huge expanse of marble flooring to reception and smiled. ‘Hi, any messages for 103?’

      The receptionist glanced briefly at the transparency of Kate’s top before adopting a neutral expression and turned to check a wall of numbered pigeon-holes. Kate wished she had the same kind of game-face that the staff at the resort had, but unfortunately emotion tended to use her face like it was under spotlights and centre stage in a one-woman show. With a mortified look down at her top, she pulled the material so that it wasn’t plastered to her curves and rested her forearms against the polished surface of the desk. Her fingers tapped out a silent tune. Her left foot came out of her flip-flop to rub against her calf. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

      She was fidgety.

      Restless.

      Which was disconcerting because since when did the prospect of checking out a hotel’s facilities make her fidgety? Granted, she didn’t usually get offered the honeymoon destinations, but after four years’ reviewing all kinds of venues, she was up to the challenge. Plenty of people would love to have her job. If she hadn’t found it quite so fulfilling lately, well, she was almost certain she could avoid dwelling on that this evening, with the aid of a Planter’s Punch and a good book.

      Popping her foot back into its flip-flop she forced her hands to still on the countertop. Beside her was a stack of glossy white leaflets advertising the hotel spa services. She had a handful of them already tucked in a folder back in her room. She even knew which treatments she was scheduled to have the next day. But concentrating on reading the leaflet would stop her fidgeting. Maybe halt the whisper of anxiety accompanying the restlessness – the loneliness. Definitely stop that pang for home from darting unexpectedly through her again.

      ‘Here you go, Ms Somersby,’ the receptionist said with a broad grin as he held out the hotel’s blush-pink letterhead paper containing a reminder that the fire-alarms would be tested at 11am the following day, together with a postcard.

      A postcard? Wasn’t the sending of postcards supposed to be the other way around?

      Kate smiled her thanks and looked down at the picture of quintessential rolling English countryside. With shaking hands she turned the card over.

      Kate’s sunglasses slipped back down her head as she stared at her cousin’s handwriting.

      Old Man Isaac was selling…?

      A horrible tilting sensation had her reaching out to grab a hold of the edge of the reception desk.

       Wow.

       Okay.

      And Juliet thought she needed to know because…?

      Before memories could swirl into focus and the charming old brick building could fully form in her mind, Kate shoved the postcard into the darkest, deepest recess of her bag and headed off in the direction of her room, one clear thought making its way to the top of the jumble in her head: she was absolutely, positively, going to ask the bartender how to make the most alcoholic cocktail on the bar’s menu. And then she was going to drink it. Stat.

       Chapter 2

       Logos and Gossip

       Kate

      In the cramped window seat of the plane, Kate was oblivious to the fact that if she looked out of the window, past the thin layer of cloud, she’d be able to make out the Atlantic Ocean below. Instead, she was completely focused on her laptop screen. Using the tracker-pad, she dropped the image of the little friendly looking bee over the letter ‘e’ in the word ‘Beauty’.

       Hmmm.

      It didn’t look quite right.

      Maybe she should change the word ‘at’ for the ‘at’ sign?

      Making the change, she tipped her head to the side and re-read: Beauty @ The Clock House.

      That looked much better. Simple and contemporary. Although… maybe she should work on a tagline to explain the bees?

      ‘Clever,’ declared the passenger in the seat beside her. ‘Do you design logos for a living, then?’

      Dragged from her state of intense concentration, Kate turned towards the woman sitting next to her. ‘I’m sorry?’

      The woman nodded her head towards Kate’s laptop screen and turning a little red, said, ‘It’s me who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have been looking.’

      Kate swung her gaze back to her laptop screen.

      Caught red-handed.

      Darn it!

      She was supposed to be working. On coming up with the last three points of her ‘Travel Hacks’ article for The World’s Your Oyster travel blog. She certainly wasn’t supposed to be designing logos for a pipe dream she’d thought she’d successfully buried four years before.

      It was all Juliet’s fault.

      Six weeks after receiving the first postcard, she’d received another.

      Two postcards in and Kate had an inkling these things were going to find her wherever she was. Honest to goodness, it was like being on the Dursley end of receiving owl post.

      After the first one, she’d emailed Juliet and explained she wasn’t interested in hearing about the clock house, but clearly her words had been lost in translation. Admittedly they’d been shoved into the middle paragraphs about how beautiful Tobago was and all about the stunning humming-birds and the tranquillity of the rainforest areas and this gorgeous callaloo soup she’d tried because obviously she didn’t want to appear too weirded-out about The Clock House being up for sale.

      But maybe she was going to have to stop sending Juliet postcards, e-cards or any other kind of card that kept her in touch with where she was and how СКАЧАТЬ