‘Is it really corny if I go and make some egg-nog?’ asked Tom, shoving a poker into the fire. ‘It’s a big house and it’s a spooky night outside,’ he said, looking at the full moon shining down through the windows. ‘But we’ve got friends and a roaring fire; it’s just crying out for some egg-nog! Hang on, what is egg-nog?’ he asked, looking at Cate, his brow furrowed. ‘Milk, whisky and cinnamon?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ replied Cate, laughing. ‘I’m more of a Martini girl.’
‘Uh-oh, prepare for an alcoholic disaster,’ smiled Nick lazily.
‘Well, I lived in New York for three years,’ announced Rebecca, walking towards the kitchen. ‘I know how to make a great egg-nog. I’ll come and help you.’
Cate and Nick settled into two big red armchairs at either side of the fireplace, Cate curling her feet up into the squishy cushions contentedly. ‘What would you do for a place like this?’ said Nick softly, looking around the room and up into the high-beamed ceiling. ‘Oh sorry!’ he said, teasing a little, ‘I forgot: you do have a house like this.’
‘Oh stop it,’ grinned Cate, ‘it’s the family house – and anyway, you obviously haven’t been. It’s not half as cosy and delicious as this place.’
‘Are you staying over?’ he asked, immediately looking embarrassed. ‘I mean, it’s a great house, you just want to stay in it as long as possible,’ he added quickly. ‘You should see my room, it’s got a bloody Jacuzzi at the bottom of the bed!’
‘My room?’ queried Cate. ‘Sleeping solo tonight then?’
‘Well, no …’ mumbled Nick.
‘Well, you’ll enjoy that then,’ said Cate, instantly regretting sounding as peevish as she felt. ‘Make up for not being with Rebecca in Milan.’
Nick looked at her, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Anyway …’ gushed Cate, suddenly nervous to be alone with him.
He looked at her as if he was examining her face and she felt her heart lurch.
‘… at least I haven’t been put in the stables,’ she blustered nervously. ‘I’m up in the attic, it’s absolutely gorgeous – loads of beams, wooden floors, and the view is fantastic: you can see all the way over to Stow on the Wold.’
‘Cate –’
Tom and Rebecca came back into the room, Tom carrying a huge terracotta pitcher of steaming drink. ‘Is egg-nog supposed to be hot?’ asked Tom. ‘Seemed like it would be better if it was hot, anyway.’
Cate glanced up at Rebecca and noted that somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, Rebecca had lost her jacket. She was now just wearing a tiny, spaghetti-strapped vest.
‘Come on, Tom, confess,’ laughed Nick, who didn’t seem to have noticed the change. ‘How are you enjoying it out here in the wilds all on your own?’
Tom perched on the edge of Cate’s armchair and lay his arm along the back of the headrest. Cate was surprised to find herself enjoying Tom’s protective presence, but she also noted that Rebecca was now looking over at her with a questioning expression.
‘Actually, I love it,’ said Tom. ‘I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that it gets a bit lonely at times, but I just love having some time to myself to do the things I want to do. Can you believe that the Women’s Institute even invited me to give them a talk on creative writing?’
‘Does your agent know about this?’ said Rebecca in a voice so serious that nobody in the room knew whether she was joking or not.
‘I suspect the fee will be in pots of gooseberry jam,’ said Tom, sipping his egg-nog. ‘I’m not sure my agent will be interested in a percentage of that. But no, I love it. And I don’t think I’ll be coming back any time soon.’
‘But what about your acting career? How can you give that up?’ asked Rebecca solemnly.
There was an awkward silence as Tom looked at Cate again, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Oh, I think Hollywood will wait,’ said Tom finally. ‘At least until I finish this egg-nog.’
As the evening wore on, they talked and laughed and played Pictionary, after which Tom took them on a torch-lit tour of the house, telling them tales of ghosts and spirits that he’d heard from the village gossips over the past few weeks. ‘Apparently there’s a ghost of a one-armed servant that lives down here,’ he said as they stumbled around the dusty wine cellar. ‘Oh my God!’ squealed Rebecca. ‘Aren’t you terrified?’
‘Not quite sure I want to be all the way up in the attic tonight,’ laughed Cate.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Tom, putting a hand on Cate’s arm. ‘I haven’t seen anything since I’ve been here. The only spirits in this house are in that drink.’
That wasn’t so painful, thought Cate, climbing into her cotton pyjamas and creeping in between the Pratesi sheets and thick down duvet – a relic from his old life with Serena, thought Cate with a smile. As long as they had not been left alone, Nick was not awkward and shy; in fact he had been totally on form. It had been great to see Tom too. She still wasn’t sure whether he was genuinely happy out here in the country, or whether he was trying to convince himself that the sadness he felt was not there. It must be so hard, she thought, moving from a whirlwind life of nonstop parties and socializing – and she knew from her teenage years that Serena was a loud and domineering person to live with – to Tom’s splendid isolation with just a few rumoured ghosts for company. But no, her worries about the men had been unfounded.
And she had met Rebecca and in some ways she was relieved. Now she was real at least and she could no longer just dismiss the idea of Nick having a girlfriend. After Milan she had still harboured a glimmer of hope that there was something between her and Nick, but now she had seen him as half of a couple, she knew that there was nothing there. The cocktail of gin and tonic, red wine and egg-nog was making her drowsy now. Feeling just a little scared about the ghosts, she pulled the duvet right up to her chin, tucked her head deep into the pillows so they surrounded her ears, and tried her best to fall asleep.
The Cotswold countryside is full of noises at night: barn owls hooting in the distance, leaves swooshing as the evening wind tickles their branches and the clanking of pipes and cisterns throughout the ancient brickwork. It was something Tom had learnt to sleep through. But at three o’clock in the morning, he was suddenly disturbed by a sound he didn’t quite recognize: a long creak coming from the dark area over by his bedroom door. Still semi-conscious, he dismissed it, turning over and flinging the duvet away from him as he turned. Suddenly he froze. No, this time there was someone else there. The covers moved and he felt another body slip under the sheets beside him.
‘What the –?’
Feeling a dart of terror shoot up his spine, he slowly turned to face the intruder. A long French-manicured finger brushed the hair from his forehead. ‘Shhh,’ whispered a voice. As Tom’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape beside him began to take on a form he recognized.
‘Rebecca,’ he hissed, as she pushed herself up against him and he realized in the dark-greyness that she was naked.
‘Rebecca,