Eventually, Tom – who is silly rich because he invents things I don’t understand and have no interest in – decided to get someone in to manage the place. And the people who lived there.
I was involved in the interviewing process, mainly because I insisted, and Finn got the job. That was months ago, and we’ve been together for two of them. Two whole months, and so far, not a single crack has started to show – which is all the proof you need that Finn Jensen is indeed some kind of superior life form. If he’s put up with me for this long, he’s possibly eligible for sainthood.
I set off on what I know will be a long walk – Briarwood is outside the village, at the top of a hill, surrounded by the kind of wilderness Bear Grylls would find a challenge. I can’t drive though, due to my alcohol intake, and anyway the trek will do me good.
I repeat this to myself over and over again during the next half an hour, as the warm sunshine gets warmer, and the booze wears off, and I start to yearn for a glass of cold water. By the time I finally arrive at Briarwood, I’m hot and bothered and also starting to realise something: I have to tell Finn about Seb.
I should have told him about Seb ages ago, but I didn’t tell anyone about Seb. Now the cat is not only out of the bag but probably having kittens back at the café – it’ll only be a matter of time before someone else casually mentions it to him, which would be unfair and crap and also embarrassing for both of us.
I bypass the main room of the building, which is vibrating with death metal music as I approach. Them crazy kids sure do like their death metal. I glance at the big bay windows, and see them at work: skinny jeans, bright hair, rock T-shirts, piercings, glasses, a life-size replica of ET. That’s a new one, and it makes me smile as I walk through the entrance into the hallway.
The house itself is probably Victorian, and was once the home of local landed gentry who fell on hard times. It later became a children’s home – a kind of posh private orphanage – where Tom himself spent a few key years after his parents died. That’s where he first met Willow, when we were all kids – Lynnie, in her pre-Alzheimer days, used to work here, doing yoga and art workshops with the young people.
It fell into disrepair after that, until Tom came back and did CPR on it. Now it’s lively and loud and full of energy and that makes me so happy. I walk down to Finn’s office, where he also has living quarters, and where he will also have one of those lovely water coolers that make that nice glugging sound as it fills your glass. Bliss.
I pause outside his door, and quickly swipe some of my hair out of my face. My hair is long and straight and deep red, which is where I got my name. All of us siblings got given names that suited our appearance when we were born – Willow long and lean; Van with a funny ear; Angel a little cherub.
It’s also, right now, a bit sticky and glued to my cheeks. Not a good look. Once I’m satisfied that I’m as tidy as I’m going to get, I knock on the door to warn him and go inside.
Finn is sitting behind his desk, looking god-like. He’s tall and big and broad and thanks to his Danish grandfather, has silky blond hair that he keeps a bit long, crystal blue eyes, and today, like most days, golden stubble. His face is dominated by high, wide cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose, and, the minute he sees me, a smile that immediately sends a tingle down my spine.
‘God dag, Mein Herr,’ I say, blending Danish and German on purpose because I know it exasperates him.
‘Guten morgen, mon petit chou-fleur,’ he replies quickly, leaning back in his chair.
‘I love it when you call me a vegetable,’ I say, perching myself on the corner of the desk and looking around the room. I spy some weird booty in the corner, with the word ACME scrawled on the side in marker pen, and ask: ‘Is that a box full of dynamite?’
‘Almost. It’s a box full of fireworks. Confiscated from a particularly explosive member of the brains trust.’
This kind of thing happens a lot here. It’s one of the reasons Finn was brought in in the first place. Fireworks. Huh. How stupid. How juvenile.
‘What time does it get dark these days?’ I ask, my mind filling with Catherine wheels and rockets.
‘No,’ he says simply, grinning at me. ‘You can’t have them. You’re explosive enough without the fireworks. What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, but I thought you were at Laura’s do?’
He pauses, looks me up and down, and says sadly: ‘I can’t believe you were at a party at the café and didn’t bring me any cake.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I genuinely am. It’s kind of a sin, that, coming back empty-handed from a visit to Comfort Food heaven. Cherie has done her usual trick of figuring out his particular favourite – some mad Danish rice pudding with almonds and cherry sauce – and serves it up to him so often he should be the size of a sumo wrestler.
He’s not, though. He’s just about perfect, especially today. He does a lot of rugged things like surfing and sailing and hiking, and it’s not an enormous stretch to imagine him at the helm of a longboat planning a raid on the unsuspecting turnip farmers. As a result of all this outdoorsy-ness, he has one of those year-round touch-of-gold tans that makes his eyes pop and his stubble glow. Yowsers.
He’s sitting there, wearing a white shirt with the top few buttons open, which always gets me going. There’s no dress code at Briarwood, but he wears these semi-formal shirts when he’s working, saying it differentiates him from the others and makes them treat him more like a grown-up.
He definitely looks like a grown-up, and I’m already wondering if he has time for a quick trip into the adjoining boudoir for some adult time. I remind myself of why I’m here, and shake it off. Almost.
He’s holding a letter which he’s obviously been reading, and I stall for time by asking: ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an invitation. To a conference.’
‘Oooh! A conference! How exciting – can I come? Will there be a swanky hotel suite and rude movies? Will there be free pastries and name tags so I can pretend I’m someone else? What’s it about? I love conferences!’
He quirks one eyebrow, amused, and replies very deliberately: ‘It’s about Institutional Financial Processes for Non-Accountancy Qualified Managers, and I’m staying in a Travelodge.’
‘Oh … maybe not then. I think I’ll leave you to it. When is it?’
‘Few weeks away. Are you all right?
‘Sort of. I’ve been better. Okay,’ I say, rallying my thoughts. ‘I kind of have something important to tell you. Not bad, but important. But I also kind of really fancy you right now, and am hoping that I can get you naked some time very soon. So the choice is yours – talk or sex?’
He taps his long fingers on the desk surface, and gives me a feralgrin that does nothing at all to help me calm my reckless libido.
‘Well, that sounds intriguing,’ he says, and I can tell from the readjustment of his sitting position that I’ve definitely piqued his interest in more ways than one.
‘On the one hand,’ he continues, ‘I’m a man, so every instinct I have says sex first, talk later.’
I’m hoping he goes for that option, but something tells me he won’t. He’s too darned clever to fall into my evil trap like that.
‘On the other … I might feel cheap if I let you have your wicked way with me, and then you tell me something unpleasant afterwards. So, reluctantly, I have to go for talk first. And, depending on what it is you want to talk about, maybe sex later.’
I nod my head, and bite my lip, and realise that there isn’t a simple way to do this – other than to just do it.
‘Right. Well. The thing is, I should have told you this earlier, I realise that, but the thing is …’