‘Great shoot.’ Jules’ electric window slides downwards. ‘Thanks for some amazing locations.’
‘Any time.’ Rafe backs away with a shrug. Two words and he’s reached the limit of his engagement.
‘I don’t suppose …’ Jules is trying his luck here. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have an inside space we could borrow for ten minutes?’ Seemingly oblivious to Rafe’s dismissal, Jules switches his gaze pointedly to the farmhouse.
As Rafe pauses, a pained look passes across his face. ‘The house won’t be suitable, it’s empty and mostly falling apart.’
Jules is straight in there. ‘It sounds perfect, thanks, we won’t bother you for long I promise. Come on guys.’ He’s already out of the car, grabbing his cameras, and striding past a stormy-faced Rafe, towards the front door. Rafe shakes his head, but all the same he goes to open up from inside.
Why didn’t I think of acting like an over enthusiastic dog to get Rafe to roll over?
‘In we go …’ Jules loses no time, ushering us all into the hall the moment Rafe opens the front door a crack.
Beneath the glow of a bare bulb, it takes a second for my eyes to get used to the gloom as I step in out of the wind. Despite the shredded wallpaper, and bare floorboards, it’s the broad staircase with its beautiful swooping handrail that has us all gazing. It could have come straight from a shabby chic magazine, which is probably why Jules’ grin has turned from triumphant to ecstatic.
‘Great stuff, we can definitely work with this …’ Dust rises, as Jules drops his bag and turns to Rafe. ‘Is there anywhere Lara can go to slip her dress on?’
I’m holding my breath. This free pass into Rafe’s private domain is an unexpected bonus. I’d imagined him climbing into a king sized bed with a smart new painted brass bedstead, but that doesn’t fit with the patina. Shocked that I’ve imagined his bedroom? Me too, to be honest, but cake icing can be a repetitive business. There’s plenty of time for your mind wander to places you had no intention of visiting. There’s nothing more to it than that.
‘Sure, she can change in here.’ Rafe sighs loudly, pushing on the nearest door, and clicking a bank of switches. ‘You can take pictures here too, if you must.’
We follow him into a big empty room, where the floor is flecked with flakes of distemper that has fallen off the walls. There’s a clatter as he moves down the room, opening shutters as he goes, letting the last of the afternoon light seep in through four tall, small-paned sash windows.
‘What a fantastic fireplace.’ Jules breaks the stunned silence, and says what we’re all thinking. ‘And a fabulous room.’ And he’s seriously understating it here. The fireplace is huge and square with the most intricate carvings in the pale stone surround. My head is doing a quick reshuffle, and flashing up images of Rafe’s huge Jacobean four poster.
Rafe gives a grunt, and breaks the dream. ‘It’s a bit big for a farmhouse, my Georgian ancestors obviously had delusions of grandeur.’
‘And delightfully empty …’ More positive spin from Jules, overlooking the dust sheet covered piles around the room.
Before we have time to take it in, Rafe has pushed through some double doors in the central wall which open into yet another room. Tentatively we follow him into an ancient conservatory, with glass so misted and cobweb covered, it’s hard to see through.
‘This is the orangerie, which like the rest has seen better days. It opens onto a walled garden behind the house.’ Rafe says, with a nod towards the glass structure. ‘Not sure how many oranges it’s seen, certainly none in my time.’
‘A truly fabulous place to live.’ Jules is gushing now. Not surprising given the locations Rafe has just handed him.
In the interests of fairness, and to prove there’s no favouritism going on, I force myself to picture Jules’ bedroom. Definitely in a loft apartment, with chunky wood hewn furniture. I hastily add in a massive wardrobe, and a bright coloured quilt with a chunky knit throw.
Then, back in the farmhouse again, I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets as I suppress a shiver. Lara’s going to be almost as cold in here as outside, but they’ll get some great shots. Let’s hope they’re quick.
‘This is no place for me on my own, and anyway, I prefer modern. I keep to the end wing, hence the cobwebs here.’ Rafe shrugs again, as he backs away towards the hall. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it, knock yourselves out. Give me a shout when you’re done.’
Which leaves the Rafe in my head bouncing on a retro fifties ash bed from Habitat, while he shouts about ancestors and house wings. I mean, what planet does this guy live on? Certainly not the same one as the rest of us.
‘Bloody hell …’ Ben is shaking his head, gazing up at the sagging ceiling.
My thoughts exactly.
Jules rubs his hands together, and they’re slightly less pristine than earlier. ‘Right Lara, pop next door and get your dress on. Five minutes of freezing at most, I promise the pictures will be fab.’ He turns his smile on me. ‘Poppy, tea would be awesome, biscuits or cake would be a big bonus, we’ll be with you before the kettle boils.’
I’m reeling at the way he tells it as he wants it, but the way he half closes one eye softens the dazzle of his smile to something much more personal and intimate. Anyone in a more susceptible place than me might have swooned on the spot. As it is, when I rush to fill the kettle in the office kitchen and catch sight of myself in the mirror on the door, there’s a distinct red patch on each of my cheeks. Almost like I’m burning up, not freezing cold.
I just hope Immie doesn’t walk in and spot the afterglow.
Meanwhile, I’m whizzing around the office waiting for the kettle to heat up, still in my tent coat, grabbing mugs from the shelves, and sneaking a cheeky chocolate shortbread out of my drawer when I come face to face with Henrietta. Or more aptly, beady eye to beady eye with Henrietta. If hens roosting on the filing cabinet was beyond the pale, a chicken sitting on the biscuit barrel and snuggling up next to the clean cups is a million miles off the scale of what’s acceptable. And sorry to disappoint Jules, but cake’s off today.
Which reminds me that somehow I’ve got to get down off my cloud, and address my Monday list. Much more pressing than the problem of unwelcome livestock in the office, there’s my biggest burning question of the week.
How the hell am I going to get Rafe on a work night out?
In the office at Daisy Hill Farm: Light bulbs and snowballs in hell
I’m not sure this hot desking idea of Rafe’s is working. As I walk into the farm office the desk is stacked so high with Farming magazines, I can barely see the man himself behind them.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rafe looks up from the letter he’s reading, making what sounds more like a complaint than a welcome.
‘Delivery in the next village,’ I explain. Taking in his glazed stare, on balance I decide not to tell him about the three tier silver-wedding cake I’ve been slaving over. Or that it’s left my fingers tingling from hours of squeezing icing out of piping bags.
‘I thought I’d pop in and put some text together for the website as I was passing.’ Good thing I have too, another day out of the office and I get the feeling I might have been re-located into the yard.
Rafe carries on flicking through the pages of the letter he’s reading. It’s only as he reaches behind the stack of magazines for a pen that a flash of russet coloured feathers makes me gasp.
‘Omigod,