Lessons in Love. Kate Lawson

snapped Miranda.

      ‘Number seven.’ He peered myopically at her name badge. ‘Miranda? Oh, right. You’re the bird in the brochure; you don’t look nuffin’ like yer photo,’ he said, catching hold of her fingers in his great hairy paw. ‘“Our well-trained staff will be only too happy to answer any questions.” Pleased to meet you, darling.’

      Alongside him Lil nodded. ‘Likewise. It’s lovely, isn’t it? We saw this place on the Internet. And I says to Tone, I says, “you know I’d love a little place like that,” I says. Little place in the country—nothing flash, so’s we can pop over from España. Didn’t I, Tony? I says—’

      ‘Number seven,’ Miranda managed as Tony continued to pump her hand.

      He nodded affably. ‘That’s right. Six beds, three baths, master bedroom, with spa-pool bath en suite. We’ve come to pick up the keys, but there weren’t nobody over in the show house. We wanted to have a little butchers before the furniture van gets here tomorrow. We’re staying at a hotel in town tonight. The Metropole, booked the honeymoon suite, didn’t we, Lil?’ He winked salaciously and when Miranda didn’t instantly react continued, ‘Tony and Lily Butler. Pleased to meet you.’

      Miranda almost choked.

      ‘Seven’s Lil’s lucky number.’

      But not apparently Miranda’s. ‘Anthony and Elizabeth Butler?’ Miranda said slowly, her face a picture.

      ‘That’s right. See, there y’are, you’ve got us now,’ said Tony.

      ‘We’ve got a lovely place in Spain,’ said Lil, to no one in particular, while pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag and from it, with impossibly long acrylic French-manicured nails, produced a cigarette that had to be six inches long. ‘Great big pool, Jacuzzi, loads of land. I says to Tone, I says, “I reckon there’s room round the back for a pool and a hot tub here.” What do you reckon?’ She lit up, then, looking at Miranda through a rolling boil of cigarette smoke, said, ‘Oh my God, sorry—what am I like?’ And offered her the packet. ‘What must you think?’

      Jane didn’t hang around to hear what Miranda thought. Instead she turned the key in the ignition and pulled away, heading through the open front gates up the drive to number 9, her spirits lifted by the encounter.

      Number 9 had a dark green wooden door under the lee of an elegant little portico, with brass door furniture and a bell push like a big white chocolate button, set on one side of the wall in a silver and ceramic bowl. Jane rang and waited. She couldn’t hear the bell ring but then maybe the bell was quiet, or the walls were thick, or—she thought about Barry’s natural versatility—maybe it didn’t work at all. She waited a minute more and then pressed the button again. She couldn’t just post the letters and leave them—after all, they were all open. She needed the chance to explain. Across the road Miranda was heading back towards the show house, flanked by Tony and Lil.

      Lil was telling Miranda about her plastic surgeon, and asking Miranda if she’d ever thought about having a little lift.

      Jane looked away. Maybe she should just write Ms Mills a note and pop the post through the letter box.

      Jane glanced at the door again and wondered if she might have more luck round the back, or maybe knocking. She lifted the brass knocker and, as she did, the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

      Jane took a step back in surprise. This wasn’t meant to happen. This was the sort of thing that happened in horror films. People who lived in houses like number 9 Creswell Close most certainly did not leave their doors open. Actually, looking back over her shoulder it struck her as odd that the gates were open too.

      The front door opened directly into a large hallway with a wooden floor, a long cream runner emphasising the elegant proportions. A curved staircase rose from the centre of the room to a galleried landing above. There were half-glazed double doors each side of the hall and a corridor heading towards the back of the house. The huge hall was panelled to waist height and, above, the off-white walls were hung with modern abstracts, which looked as if they might be originals. Jane felt her pulse flutter. No, this wasn’t right at all. This kind of house should have alarms and locks and CCTV, not open front doors.

      Jane glanced back over her shoulder again, this time to see if she was being watched. Miranda had vanished into the show house.

      ‘Hello?’ she called self-consciously. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Jane leaned inside. ‘Hello. Is there anybody in? Hellooooo?’

      Zilch. Zip. Nada.

      The long hellooooo echoed down past the handsome hall table and the perfectly arranged white lilies, flowing unheard over the floor-length cream drapes and the beautifully designed lighting.

      Jane bit her lip. How bad did it look to be standing by the open door of a house that didn’t belong to you, with a handful of opened post that didn’t belong to you either? What the hell was she supposed to do now? Jane looked round and considered her options.

      Across the road Tone and Lily were respectively ambling and teetering out of the show house brandishing their keys. Any minute now they would drive up to number 7 and see her standing there on the threshold, maybe Miranda too. Should she get in her car and go? Come back another time? Shut the door behind her and head home?

      Jane hesitated. Then again, what if Ms J. Mills was in trouble? What if she had fallen over, slipped while checking the showerhead in the guest room and knocked herself out cold? What if…Before she had really thought about the repercussions Jane stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind her and called hello again as she walked deeper into the house.

      The place was fabulous, a handsome modern reinterpretation of Georgian proportions, a mix of English oak, cream walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view from every one of them. The hallway opened up on the right into an airy sitting room with wooden floors and exquisite rugs, a long navy-blue sofa pulled up in front of a marble fireplace, flanked by matching chairs. French windows overlooked the park. To the left was a dining room with antique furniture and a handsome gilt-framed mirror above an open fireplace. There was a TV and music room, another sitting room and a garden room, again with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that was a state-of-the-art kitchen that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Homes and Gardens,-but there was one thing that was missing. There was no sense at all that this was anyone’s home. Everywhere looked and smelled brand new. Jane had no idea when Ms I. Mills had moved in but surely even after a week there ought to be a cushion or two out of place, or a jacket slung casually over the back of a kitchen chair, a mug on a table or a dirty plate in the sink. Surely there had to be something, anything, to suggest that real people lived real lives there.

      Beyond the kitchen was a utility room that adjoined the garage. Inside was a black Mercedes convertible, a silver BMW and a nippy little black 4x4. Nervously, Jane peered inside the cars, half afraid she might come face to face with the other Ms J. Mills, cold and stiff and far from well. But, no—still nothing. The house was like the Marie Celeste with down-lighters and expensive furniture.

      Even so, empty or not, with every passing moment Jane was getting more nervous about being discovered exploring, and anxious to find out what the hell was going on—but also aware that the longer she stayed in the house the more suspicious she looked.

      In her head an imaginary police officer, with the face of the imaginary Post Office clerk, was saying, ‘So, Ms Mills, you spent ten minutes in the property. Did it never occur to you at any time that you had unlawfully entered the premises and that you were in fact trespassing?

      Grimly Jane went on, ignoring her inner policeman. Through the windows she could see the garden rolling gently down towards the lake, the way marked by a gravel path edged with flowerbeds, shrubs and a trail of lights. As Jane looked again she saw that there was a little pagoda, a white wooden summerhouse affair tucked into the lee of the hedge—and the doors were open. Maybe she had finally found Ms J. Mills.

      Jane pushed open the door and headed out across the lawn towards