The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin

do you mean “of course”?’ Jack asked.

      Abby frowned, trying to put herself back in the conversation. ‘I – uh.’ Her teeth chattered violently, and Jack pulled her by her sleeve until they were huddled under the half-shelter of the porch. She could smell the heather in the hanging basket, its scent enhanced by the rain, even though it was close to the end of flowering.

      ‘You said “of course” when I told you my writing was dark. Why did you say that?’

      ‘Because I … oh.’ It was common knowledge who was living next to the reserve, but news of the interest it had aroused obviously hadn’t reached the man himself yet, probably because of his self-imposed seclusion.

      ‘So, you know who I am, then? Who else?’

      ‘I didn’t know to begin with,’ Abby said. ‘I didn’t recognize you. But Rosa, who works in the reserve shop, was just … we were wondering, when you told me you were a writer, and I … she came by, and said that—’

      ‘Who else knows?’ Jack prompted.

      Abby looked at her sodden walking boots. ‘Pretty much everyone who works on the reserve, and in the village too, I would have thought.’

      ‘Fuck.’ It wasn’t directed at her. Jack was staring over her shoulder, his jaw clenched, the muscles so tight Abby thought they might lock together.

      ‘It’s a normal village mentality,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Gossip spreads like wildfire, every arrival and departure is noticed, and especially into a cottage that’s been deserted for years. If you didn’t want to be a—’

      ‘A what? A talking point? A figure of fun?’ He looked at her now, his eyes blazing. ‘So, I should have figured out there’d be all this wildlife, I should have known I’d be assailed by bloody twitchers, or whatever you call them, and that I wouldn’t be left alone from the moment I arrived? Well, I’m sorry I’m not psychic. My agent said it was ideal, that it would give me the space I needed. That’s all I want – some peace and quiet to write my book.’ He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead and spraying Abby’s face in the process.

      She would have been annoyed, except she was already too angered by what he’d said.

      ‘Hey. You were the one who came to me, complaining about the reserve. If you hadn’t, none of us would have knocked on this door, probably ever. You would have been left alone to moulder slowly away, moaning to the furniture about who was disturbing your precious writing time.’

      ‘Technically, I left the note for the reserve in general, not you specifically.’

      ‘Don’t be so smart! Why not talk to Penelope? She’s your landlady. Shouldn’t any complaints have gone to her? And anyone with any common sense would have realized a country cottage would come with wildlife. We can’t just turn it off, can we? Flick a switch, goodbye butterflies and deer and robins. It’s called Peacock Cottage – didn’t that give you a clue?’ Abby stepped out from under the shelter of the porch. The rain was heavier now, streaming into her eyes.

      Jack folded his arms. ‘So first you’re berating me for being too smart, then you’re implying I have no common sense? Come back in, you’ll get drenched.’

      ‘I’m already drenched! I have been since ten o’clock this morning, and if it hadn’t been for you and your minuscule scratch on your glossy, squashed-frog car, then I would have been dry ages ago. I couldn’t be any wetter, and you didn’t even invite me inside, just under the crappy little porch, so it’s not like you’re actually bothered!’

      ‘Squashed-frog car?’ Jack was struggling with a smile. It made her even madder.

      ‘I don’t have time for this! I have to get back and start working on my next event, which I will make absolutely sure doesn’t come anywhere near your precious blue front door.’ She whipped round, skidding on the slick paving slabs, and stormed up the path. She gasped when he grabbed her arm, swallowing another mouthful of rainwater in the process.

      ‘Come inside for a moment,’ he said. ‘Come and dry off.’

      ‘I need to get back to work.’ She twisted round, and his eyes held hers. They were icy blue, cold, somehow, and yet so captivating. The dimple made him look like he was smirking.

      ‘I need to go,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry we know who you are, but none of my friends would use it to their advantage. They’re just intrigued. It’s not like they’d call the press or anything.’

      He nodded. ‘And the wildlife?’

      Abby laughed. ‘I’m not apologizing for that. It comes with the territory. Why don’t you come on one of my walks, see if you can’t learn to love it a bit more, realize there are more important things than scratches on your paintwork?’

      ‘Of my squashed-frog car?’

      ‘It looks like it’s been trampled on, OK?’ She flung her arm in the direction of his Range Rover. ‘And it’s just a car. You need to sort out your priorities.’ She shrugged out of his grasp and skidded down the path, thinking bitterly that she wouldn’t have done that if her walking boots had been £250 Arc’teryx models, and began to walk back to the reserve. When she turned, once, immediately wishing she was stronger than that, she saw that Jack was still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She almost gave him a wave, realized she couldn’t guarantee the sarcasm would be obvious, and so left it.

      Let him stand in the rain and get soaked, she thought. What did she care?

      Abby’s sister Tessa and her family lived in a new development in Bury St Edmunds. Quite like the Harrier estate five minutes from Meadowgreen, it was a warren of roads and closes, the houses not quite identical. Abby wasn’t sure how she didn’t get lost every time, and always felt a surge of panic when she turned onto the estate, but somehow her hands turned the wheel and found the right driveway, the pale-pink front door and the cuddly Peppa Pig in the upstairs window.

      She hauled her craft materials out of the boot of her aged Citroën Saxo, took Raffle by the lead and, propping her pile of paper, fabric, pens and paints under her chin, managed to press the doorbell with one, straining finger.

      ‘Abby!’ Her sister opened the door and took the stack off her, leading the way through to the large kitchen at the back of the house. The garden was small but neat, with beds Tessa worked hard on and an immaculate lawn. There was a wildlife area at the end, which she was slowly developing with her daughters – and Abby’s advice – and with the wall of windows and French doors, the kitchen was somehow an extension of the outside, a haven of calm. If she lived here, Abby would spend most of her time in this room.

      ‘What can I get you?’ Tessa asked. ‘Tea, coffee, wine? Are you staying tonight?’ Abby’s sister was older by three years, taller, and, since giving up her job as a swimming teacher to be a full-time mum, even leaner than Abby, which she attributed to running around after Willow and Daisy all day. But Abby knew she was conscious of her appearance, much more so than Abby was, and had her dark-blonde hair dyed a strange violet hue that somehow made her look much younger than her thirty-four years.

      ‘Tea for now, thanks,’ Abby said. ‘Not decided about staying.’

      ‘You’re not working tomorrow, though?’

      ‘Nope. This is my challenge for the next two days.’ Abby settled herself at the island in the centre of the room and spread out her craft materials. Raffle did his usual slow peruse of the space, and then lay at Abby’s feet. She’d taken him for a two-hour walk this morning, knowing that he wouldn’t get as much of a run around in the evening. The following weekend was her first big event – Penelope was calling it the autumn flagship event, a term that made Abby feel slightly nauseous – and she had this weekend off to prepare. Which was what she was hoping to rope Willow into, maybe Daisy too, though a three-year-old was perhaps slightly too young to design Halloween bunting.

      ‘Are