Alice clicked on the first link that came up. ‘Robinson Duff.’
‘The country music star?’
It was hard to decide between looking at the screen and looking back up at Niamh. She chose the latter.
‘You’ve heard of him?’
Niamh blew her dark fringe out of her eyes. ‘Heard of him? Jesus, yes. Hasn’t everyone?’
Alice scanned the screen, her eyes slowly widening. ‘Everyone but me, it seems.’ Image after image of Robinson filled her screen; publicity shots, paparazzi shots, and fan pictures of him on stage playing to packed stadiums. Wow. Her mouth formed the word, even though no sound came out. ‘He’s pretty famous, isn’t he?’
‘I have his latest stuff on Spotify.’ Niamh reached for the TV remote and clicked through the on screen apps. ‘Just a sec …’
Music filled the room, followed by a voice that Alice recognised easily as that of the man she’d drunk rum with last night. It was a song she was vaguely familiar with from the radio, just as she’d been vaguely familiar with his name when he’d first said it. He must think her totally clueless to have not known precisely who he was from the get go. She certainly felt it now.
‘He’s the cowboy.’
Niamh nodded, humming along to the track. ‘Cowboy through and through.’
‘No, Niamh. He’s THE cowboy. The one who’s living in my house.’
To say Niamh looked shocked would be an understatement. She stopped humming abruptly, her brown eyes rounding to at least twice the size they usually were. ‘Robinson Duff is living in Borne Manor?’
Alice nodded. ‘Right this very minute, and for the foreseeable future.’
‘Have you heard him sing yet?’ Niamh’s fingers curled around Alice’s forearm. It was difficult to tell if she was actually breathing.
‘Not a dickie bird.’ It felt somehow disloyal to tell anyone, even Niamh, what Robinson had said about his career. She hadn’t realised last night quite how big a deal it was for him to give up on singing.
‘What the hell is Robinson Duff doing here in Borne?’ Niamh whispered, shaking her head in childlike wonder.
‘Beats me, but I’m pretty sure he wants to fly under the radar, so don’t tell anyone else, okay?’
Niamh drew a dainty cross on her red polka dot PJ top with her fingertip. ‘Cross my heart.’
By lunchtime, it was apparent that Niamh’s crossed heart wasn’t to be entirely trusted. Alice returned from the supermarket to find most of the residents of Borne cottages clustered on deckchairs and upturned buckets outside her caravan, and Pluto darting excitedly in and out of the trees.
‘Darling girl, you’re back!’ Stewie boomed from his fully reclined deckchair as she got out of the car and opened the boot. ‘Let me help you with those bags.’ He nudged the skinny goth teenager to his left in the ribs with his blue suede cowboy boot hard enough to shake him off his bucket onto the grass. ‘Hop to it, Ewan, there’s a lad.’
Ewan shot Stewie daggers as he clambered to his feet, wiping wet grass from his behind as he slouched over towards Alice.
‘Err, I’m okay, actually, thank you, Ewan, there’s not much,’ Alice murmured, looking at Niamh through narrowed eyes. ‘What are you all doing here?’
‘It’s your caravan warming!’ Niamh jumped to her feet and threw her arms wide, an equally wide and unconvincing da-da! smile on her face. ‘Surprise!’
Stewie followed her lead and offered up jazz hands, and Hazel, Ewan’s mother, nodded vigorously. Ewan, for his part, slumped back down onto his bucket and nodded once, lifting one shoulder in a half-assed way. For him, that counted as a show of enthusiasm.
‘Right,’ Alice said slowly, looking from one to the other. ‘So you’re all here to see me, yes?’
Three pairs of eyes flickered guiltily towards Borne Manor and its newly resident superstar, and then resolutely back to Alice. Hazel stood up from the caravan step, a jingle of bangles and beads as she shook out her floor-length skirt, the tiny mirrors around the hem clicking like a belly dancer’s hip scarf.
‘I thought you might like me to perform a blessing ritual,’ she said, rolling her shoulders gamely and closing her eyes.
Alice cleared her throat. ‘Err, I’m good, thanks, Hazel.’
Hazel opened one eye. ‘You’re sure?’
Alice unlocked the Airstream and opened the door. ‘Well, it’s not much, but you’re all welcome to come in,’ she said, knowing full well that none of her guests were remotely interested in seeing inside her new home. Niamh knew it well enough already, and the other three could barely drag their eyes away from Borne Manor in the distance.
‘Tea?’ Alice called out of the window when none of them moved to come inside.
‘Whisky?’ Stewie suggested instead, straightening his jet-black Elvis-style wig.
‘Out of luck, I’m afraid,’ Alice said, noticing the stonkingly huge John Wayne-style gold belt buckle he’d added to his outfit. Cowboy boots. Elvis wig. Country buckle. It was perfectly clear that Stewie’s attire had been chosen to make an impression on someone, and it sure wasn’t Alice. Hmm.
‘I hope no one takes sugar, I’m all out,’ she said, opening the overhead mug cupboard.
‘Shall I pop over to the manor and grab some?’ Hazel said, leaping up, only to find herself rugby tackled back down onto the step by Niamh.
‘I’ll go, I know where it is.’ Niamh smiled through gritted teeth, locked in battle trying to hold Hazel down.
Alice stepped into the doorway and watched her neighbours as they had what a fair number of people might term an actual fight on the Airstream step. After a minute or two she cleared her throat pointedly.
‘Err, ladies?’
Niamh and Hazel both looked up, panting and out of breath. Alice raised her eyebrows at Niamh and then drew a telltale X over her heart with her fingertip.
‘Cross your heart, eh?’
Niamh looked sheepish. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Alice. After you left I was so excited that I blasted out a few of Robinson’s best tracks and Rambo hopped along the sill into my living room.’
Hazel nodded, instantly back in cahoots with Niamh. ‘He did, Alice. I had to go round and get him, you know how Niamh isn’t a fan of birds. Not that my Rambo would hurt a fly, mind.’
‘He bloody swore at me,’ Niamh said, indignant.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Hazel puffed up like a peacock, back to being offended again. ‘That bird’s got better manners than bonny Prince Charlie himself. If he swore he was only repeating whatever you’d said to him.’
Alice caught Ewan’s eye behind his mother’s back and shared a disbelieving look. Everyone in Borne knew Rambo, Hazel’s beloved mynah bird. He spent most of his days perched on Hazel’s open windowsill shouting obscenities at passersby, cackling with wild laughter if he managed to make someone jump. Hazel always alluded to a shady gypsy past if she was quizzed on how Rambo had come to be her glossy black familiar, dropping her voice an octave and drawing a veil over the exact details. She knew perfectly well that he swore like a sailor yet chose to defend his honour whenever anyone dared mention it.
‘Anyway,’ Niamh said, rolling her eyes. ‘Hazel came round to fetch Rambo back and happened to mention that Robinson Duff was her