The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin

Abby laughed. ‘And you’re complaining about a sleepy Suffolk nature reserve?’

      ‘I went to libraries, clubs – there were always places to go in London where I could think straight.’

      ‘So, go back there then,’ Abby said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She bit her lip.

      Jack rewarded her with a humourless smile. ‘Point taken. If you do think of anything, I’d be keen to hear your ideas. I’m tearing my hair out here.’ He stepped back, one hand on the open door, and Abby knew it was her cue to leave.

      ‘Sure,’ she said, because she was feeling bad about her last comment. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.’

      Jack nodded once, and then gently closed the door. Abby turned and walked back to the reserve, the blackbirds’ song drowned out by her clamouring thoughts.

      ‘So, come on then, what is this fucker like?’ Gavin flicked ash off his cigarette, shoulders hunched against the chill. Rosa wrapped her cream wool duffel coat more tightly around her.

      The temperature had dipped that afternoon, the clouds barrelling over like they were late for an important engagement, and by closing time the reserve was chilly and grey. The three of them were standing at the far end of the car park, where the designated smoking area was. Rosa and Abby were ready to go home, while Gavin had said he needed to stay and finish clearing an area of scrubland but couldn’t wait any longer to hear about Abby’s unsuccessful visit.

      ‘He’s … he’s a bit posh,’ she settled on. No way was she going to tell Gavin she found their new neighbour physically attractive, even if his personality left a lot to be desired.

      ‘And? Come on Abby, spit it out.’

      ‘He’s tall, untidy dark hair, blue eyes, cross face. He genuinely wanted me to send all the visitors away and seemed very disgruntled when I couldn’t. Then I told him to go away.’

      Rosa gasped. ‘You did what? I thought you said to Penelope you’d placated him?’

      ‘He wasn’t shouting at me by the end, which is a good sign, and that comment was a mistake. He said there were loads of places he could write in peace in London, so I told him to go back there. I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated.’

      ‘Hang on a moment,’ Rosa grabbed her arm. ‘He’s a writer? What’s his name?’

      Abby grinned. Rosa was the biggest bookworm she knew, and probably, along with Octavia, was the reason the community library managed to stay open. ‘He won’t be well known.’

      ‘How do you know that? How many authors would you recognize if you bumped into them in the street?’

      ‘J.K. Rowling,’ Abby said, raising a finger, and then hesitated.

      ‘Exactly!’ Rosa clapped her hands. ‘So, we know he’s called Jack, and he’s tall with dark hair. Age?’

      ‘My age, probably, maybe a couple of years older.’ Abby pictured him again, surprised how easily she could conjure up Jack’s face in her mind, and then felt a prickle of something, as if a shadow was passing through her thoughts. ‘Maybe I did …? No.’

      ‘Did what?’ Rosa asked, excitement threading through her words.

      ‘Perhaps – I mean, maybe I’d seen him somewhere before. But I think that’s just because you’re suggesting he might be famous. It wasn’t like – wham – there’s Al Pacino or anything. He was … he acted like he was owed everything, though. Like it was his right to have all the peace and quiet in the world, because he’d moved into the cottage.’

      ‘Snooty sod,’ Gavin said. ‘Not inclined to sort out the bindweed now.’

      ‘I will!’ Rosa said. ‘Not sort out the bindweed, but I’m going to have to go and see if he is a well-known writer. Just imagine if he was?’

      ‘What difference would it make?’ Abby asked. ‘We can’t exactly advertise him as a feature of the reserve, in the same way Flick Hunter’s going to draw the crowds to Reston Marsh. He’s already made it clear he wants no distractions.’

      ‘It’ll be exciting for us, though,’ Rosa said. ‘A real live celebrity in the vicinity.’

      ‘A real live, pain in the ass celebrity,’ Gavin added.

      ‘We don’t even know that he is,’ Abby said. ‘He could write medical textbooks, history magazines, dull business reports – anything. Just because he said he was a writer, doesn’t mean he’s Stephen King’s hot nephew.’

      ‘Oh, so he’s hot, is he?’ Gavin asked.

      Abby cursed inwardly.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ Rosa said, clasping her hands together. ‘I’ll find an excuse to go there tomorrow. See how he’s getting on, that kind of thing.’

      ‘Poor guy’s not going to know what’s hit him, with all this interest and fluttering about.’ Gavin waggled his fingers and shook his head.

      ‘Two minutes ago you were calling him a snooty sod,’ Abby protested.

      ‘Yeah, well … maybe I’ve changed my mind. Us guys have to stick together.’

      The following day began with a short, and somewhat depressing, debrief. Wild Wonders had started the previous evening, and Abby – along with all the other staff at Meadowsweet – had tuned in to see what they were up against. The resounding conclusion was that it was professional, interesting, and made nature accessible to people in a way Abby managed to on a much smaller scale.

      The female presenter, Flick Hunter, was the perfect anchor. Undeniably beautiful, she treated the camera as if it was a close friend, speaking to her unseen viewers with warmth and passion about the wildlife being uncovered, day-by-day, at nearby Reston Marsh. Grudgingly, they all admitted that, while it might not be ideal in some respects, promoting nature could never be a bad thing.

      Later that morning, Jonny was hovering by the binoculars. He looked friendly and cosy in a cornflower-blue jumper, his fair hair neater than usual. The reception desk was momentarily quiet, and so Abby left Maureen, one of the volunteers who was working alongside her, to cover it and went over to say hello.

      ‘How’s it going, Jonny? Any closer to making a decision? You could always get Rosa to go over the specifications of a few pairs with you.’

      ‘Oh, err, no thanks. I’m fine. I’ll get there in the end. Good of you to offer, though. Where is Rosa, by the way?’

      ‘Funny story,’ Abby said. ‘She’s gone to spy on the guy who’s moved into Peacock Cottage, you know that white house on the approach road to the car park? Thinks he might be some famous author or something.’

      Jonny frowned, and Abby wondered why until a hand landed on her shoulder. Looking down, she saw it had talon-like red nails.

      ‘Octavia,’ she said, turning. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Just dropping these off for Rosa. Where is she, my love?’

      Octavia held up a wicker basket full of the crocheted birds that she made for the reserve’s gift shop. Abby loved them. She already had four on her bedroom windowsill – a puffin, wren, blue tit and greenfinch – and from a quick glance, could see that she would be buying half of Rosa’s new stock before she’d even put it on display.

      ‘They’re gorgeous,’ Abby said, picking up a robin that was fat, round and utterly desirable.

      Octavia gave her a kind smile, slowly took the robin back and popped it in her handbag. ‘I’ll take this one home with me, and you can come and pick him up later. I’ll bring Rosa a new one next week.’

      ‘Octavia, you don’t have to give me the robin!’

      ‘What robin?’ She winked, her eyelid a shimmering green, which