She flicked through the TV channels, but she hadn’t watched a British television programme in years. She selected an apple from the fruit bowl she had replenished in the hope of tempting her father with a healthy snack rather than a packet of crisps, and checked her watch. The archery shoot usually finished around eight when the light started to fade, and he would then retire with his fellow archer, Mike Sanderson, to The Pear Tree for a few pints and a discussion about their respective scores – that meant she had a couple of hours to kill.
Gabbie wondered briefly whether she should call Clara instead of spending her evening hunched over rows and rows of figures. The longer she put it off, the harder it would be to explain to her friend why she hadn’t told her she was home. She yearned to hear Clara’s soft West Country burr that had caused tears of homesickness to fall in the early days as she had struggled to settle into her tiny studio in Grasse. Over the two years she had been away, their phone calls had dwindled, yet every time they spoke, Gabbie felt as though she’d just seen her yesterday. A sharp spasm of guilt shot through her when she realised that, because of the recent frenzied work schedule at House of Gasnier, she hadn’t spoken to her childhood partner-in-crime for a couple of months.
She sauntered over to the kitchen sink. Through the window she inadvertently caught a glimpse of the summerhouse and sadness seeped into her veins. She knew that unless she kept herself busy she would be overcome by an avalanche of painful memories. If she didn’t yet have the courage to ring Clara and spill out every detail of what had happened over the last few weeks, she would need to find something else to occupy her thoughts.
She returned to the garage workshop, so calm and peaceful in the evening. A perfect image of that room had been imprinted on the inside of her eyelids, an image she could call up whenever she craved a slice of home. But the picture was now totally distorted by the jumble of random objects scattered everywhere, not least the huge pyramid of cardboard blocking the office window. She reached up to remove the box balanced precariously on the top and was surprised to find it was empty.
That was the start of it. By the time she saw the headlights of her father’s ancient Volvo swing onto the driveway in front of the house, the garage looked exactly like it always had; clean, uncluttered and, more to the point, smelling amazing, even if the chosen bouquet did include a top note of disinfectant.
Gabbie decided the makeover would have greater impact if she revealed it in all its glory the next morning, so she hustled out of the garage, locked the connecting door and slid into a kitchen chair, feigning nonchalance as the front door opened.
‘Hi, Dad! How was Mike?’
‘Fine, fine. He sends his love.’
‘And how was the meeting at the bank this afternoon?’
‘Oh, that was fine too,’ Jeff said far too breezily as he hung his coat on the peg, his back to Gabbie for just a second longer than necessary.
Gabbie knew immediately he was avoiding the subject.
‘Dad…’
‘Not now, sweetheart. I’m shattered, what with the trip to town, the shoot tonight and our favourite seats in the Pear being commandeered by a bunch of inebriated tourists down from London for a week of team building! I think I’ll grab an early night, if you don’t mind? New day tomorrow, though, so how about I take you with me to see an MG one of Mike’s friends is looking to offload? It’s a V8. You’ll love it.’
Gabbie was about to press him on the outcome of the bank visit but his haggard expression and the weary slump of his shoulders forced her to agree that getting some rest was a priority.
‘Sounds great. I’d love to come with you. Night, Dad. I love you.’
She hugged him a little tighter than she usually did, enjoying the affectionate squeeze he gave her in return, before stomping up the stairs behind him and surrendering to the safe hands of sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
‘For God’s sake! Where is she?’
Gabbie heard the angry exclamation clearly from the workshop, followed by a sharp rap on the connecting door as she was busy spooning instant coffee into a mug.
‘Come in. Do you want a…’
‘What the hell’s the matter with you? What were you thinking? Okay, sort out the office – I get that. But the garage? Where are all my tools? My own personal belongings that I saved up to buy with my hard-earned cash? I told you yesterday, the place might be a little disorganised, messy even, but I know where everything is. Wil and I have a system. You might not recognise it, or approve of it, but it is our system and it works for us. I’ve come in extra early this morning to work on the Jag and I can’t find anything. It’s all hidden away…’
‘Max…’
‘And what on earth is that smell?’
Gabbie abandoned the coffee and followed Max onto the forecourt, unsure how to deal with the onslaught of indignation. She had assumed he would be grateful for her intervention in the car chaos.
‘It’s elderflower and passionfruit.’
‘Passionfruit? Passionfruit?’ Max ran his fingers through the quiff at his forehead, his eyes skimming every corner of the garage. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Andrews Autos is a car-maintenance garage, not a French tart’s boudoir. What on earth possessed you? What made you think you could march in and organise our lives in accordance with your own vision? You might be the proprietor’s fragrantly doused daughter, but you don’t work here – Wil and I do, and we can’t do our jobs when all our tools are filed away in alphabetical order! Every day would be like embarking on a treasure hunt. I thought you understood how busy we were?’
‘Hey, wind back a bit. You might not know this but Andrews Autos has been in business for three generations and throughout that time we have prided ourselves on efficient repairs at a fair price, timely MOTs and services, but also on providing a spotless, and safe, working environment…’
‘Arggh!’
Gabbie swung her eyes over her shoulder towards a silver Peugeot behind which the sharp grunt of agony had come, followed by a clattering of metal tools falling to the floor and spinning in all directions.
‘What was that?’
‘Not sure.’
Max sprinted the few yards to the other side of the car with Gabbie only seconds behind him.
‘Jeff!’
‘Dad! Are you okay? Dad?’
Gabbie rushed to her father’s side to help him up from the tangle of spanners and old rusty paint tins in which he was sprawled, his face as grey as an overused dishcloth. Max took his other arm and together they guided him to a chair at the kitchen table. With her heart pounding out a medley of anxiety, Gabbie asked if he’d hurt himself and made sure he was comfortable, while Max set the kettle to boil.
‘I’m fine, really, I’m fine, darling. No need to fuss.’
‘But what happened?’
‘Seems I inadvertently stumbled over a leaning tower of paint pots!’
Jeff patted Gabbie’s hand reassuringly, then smiled his thanks to Max for the proffered coffee, adding a spoonful of sugar to his mug and taking a sip before letting out a long sigh of relief.
‘Ahh, that’s better. No one should even attempt to start the day without a cup of coffee – and maybe some of those delicious scrambled eggs on toast of yours. Sorry for alarming you, Gabbie, but as you can see, I’m right as rain now.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Gabbie scrutinised the face she loved more than any other in the world.