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Epub ISBN: 9781473551374
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Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Ebury Press is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © Sheila Norton, 2018
Extract from The Pets at Primrose Cottage: Part Three © Sheila Norton, 2018
Cover design and illustration: Head Design
Sheila Norton has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in the UK in 2018 by Ebury Press
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785034213
Sheila Norton lives near Chelmsford in Essex with her husband, and worked for most of her life as a medical secretary, before retiring early to concentrate on her writing. Sheila is the award-winning writer of numerous women’s fiction novels and over 100 short stories, published in women’s magazines.
She has three married daughters, six little grandchildren, and over the years has enjoyed the companionship of three cats and two dogs. She derived lots of inspiration for her animal books from remembering the pleasure and fun of sharing life with her own pets.
When not working on her writing Sheila enjoys spending time with her family and friends, as well as reading, walking, swimming, photography and travel. For more information please see www.sheilanorton.com
All Emma wants is a quiet life in sleepy Crickleford, away from the prying eyes of the press who are obsessed with the life she used to lead.
She is enjoying her new vocation: the town’s most in-demand pet-sitter. But her journalist friend and fellow animal lover Matt is desperate for a big story to make his career – such as Emma’s true identity …
Emma doesn’t want the spotlight, but it keeps finding her anyway. Can she keep her past a secret and live the life she’s dreamed of?
The Vets at Hope Green
Oliver the Cat Who Saved Christmas
Charlie the Kitten That Saved a Life
For all my friends and readers in my adopted county of Devon. Crickleford isn’t a real place, of course – but I think it should be!
With grateful thanks once again to Sharon Whelan, this time for her advice about rescuing a pony. And to Sue Viney for her first-hand knowledge about keeping house rabbits! And as always, to everyone at Ebury for all their hard work in bringing my stories to the readers.
As soon as I got back to my little blue bedroom in Primrose Cottage, I started packing my bags. I was so upset it was hard to keep from crying, but it seemed I had absolutely no alternative but to give up my new life here in Crickleford and start again somewhere else. I hadn’t yet decided where. I thought perhaps I’d just get the morning bus back to Newton Abbott the next day, jump on the first train that came along and see where I ended up. I grabbed the last few of my tops off their hangers, chucked them into the suitcase and pulled open the first drawer of the chest. And then I paused, staring at a parcel wrapped in bright red and yellow paper with an elephant design.
It was my birthday present for Holly: the new book by her favourite author, Julia Donaldson. I’d picked it out from the Crickle Bookshop just a few days ago, and I’d been looking forward to seeing the smile on her face when she opened it, together with the elephant-themed birthday card I’d chosen, with its bright red ‘I AM 4’ badge pinned on the front. I took the parcel out and held it against my heart, blinking back tears. I’d already become so fond of little Holly, and her parents. How could I even consider leaving before her birthday? But how could I stay, when there was now a local journalist pursuing me? It was only going to get worse.
To give myself a few minutes to think, I put the parcel back in the drawer and slammed it shut – only just in time, as Holly suddenly appeared in my doorway, frowning at the suitcase and general mess in my room.
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘Are you going on holiday?’
‘Um … possibly,’ I said, with a sigh.
‘Where to?’
‘I haven’t quite decided yet.’
She put her head on one side, considering this.
‘But you can’t go until after my birthday. You said you were going to come to my party.’
I managed a smile. ‘Of course I’m going to come,’ I said, and held out my arms to her for a hug. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Holly trotted off happily to her bedroom to play with her toys, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Her birthday was this Monday, and the party was going to be in the afternoon, straight after preschool: her little friends were coming for lunch. Three more days. I’d finished looking after Pongo, and I had no more definite bookings yet – just a list of people who were going to give me their holiday dates. If I stayed at home as much as possible, perhaps the fuss would start to die down. I could use the time to make my excuses to Lauren and Jon, and cancel all my other pet-sitting bookings. Matt Sorrentino wouldn’t give up easily – journalists never did, I knew that from past experience – so I’d still have to move away if I didn’t want to be found out. But at least I wouldn’t be leaving in such a hurry.
Decision made, I unpacked my bags again and went down for dinner. Afterwards, I tried to catch Lauren on her own in the kitchen so I could tell her I was going to have to leave after Holly’s birthday, but every time I started trying to bring up the subject, I got cold feet and couldn’t go through with it. I told myself it could wait until the morning, but when the morning came, I felt even more reluctant to start the conversation.
‘No pets to look after today, Emma?’ she asked me cheerfully as I helped her clear away the breakfast things. It was Saturday, and Jon had already gone out somewhere with Holly.
‘No, nothing booked for this week.’
I felt a twinge of guilt for not going to Pat’s house for the last time. Poor Pongo had been on his own all night – was he missing me? Was he barking his head off again? Pat had told me she’d be getting home early this morning, and I’d been too nervous to go back there, in case Matt came hanging around outside again. How long before he found out where I was living? It would be awful if he turned up here.
‘Are you all right?’ Lauren asked me a little later, giving me a concerned look. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Sorry, I’m fine, thanks.’ I forced a smile. Now was my opportunity: I should tell her now about leaving. I cleared my throat, took a breath – but the words stuck in my throat. ‘Perhaps I could give you a hand with some housework or something?’ I said, instead. Anything to keep my mind off my worries.
‘There’s no need for you to do that,’ she laughed.
‘I’d like to, honestly. You’re always so busy, and I’m free today, so give me a job I can take over from you.’
‘Well …’ She hesitated. ‘OK, I’ll tell you what would be very helpful. Could you possibly pop into town for me, post a letter and pick up some icing sugar and a pack of butter? Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Oh.’ I felt the smile freeze on my face. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer me to do the Hoovering? Or clean the bathroom, or something like that?’
‘I did all that yesterday, thanks, Emma. I want to make Holly’s birthday cake, while I’ve got the opportunity – Jon’s taken her to the park this morning and promised to keep her out of the way for a few hours. That’s why I need the icing sugar,’ she added with a smile. ‘If I get the cake baked this morning, I can ice it while she’s in bed tonight.’
Well, I obviously wouldn’t be able to do that for her. I had about as much idea of how to bake or ice anything, as I knew how to fly. And I sensed Lauren was looking forward to having the house to herself while she concentrated on the birthday cake.
‘OK,’ I said, trying not to sound reluctant. ‘I’ll go.’
In fact it was good to be outside in the weak March sunshine, despite the fact that I was looking around me and behind me with almost every step along the road. The little town was busy with Saturday shoppers, and although I tried to keep my eyes down as I hurried along, every now and then someone recognised me and gave me a wave or a nod. I rushed on, anxious not to give anyone a chance to come and talk to me. I realised now that I’d made a big mistake by letting so many people here get to know me. Wherever I chose to go to next, I’d hide myself away in a cave if necessary, and avoid all human contact.
I’d posted Lauren’s letter, bought the icing sugar and the butter, and I was just starting to head back home when, just my luck, I saw him. Matt Sorrentino, the one person I’d wanted to avoid above all others. He was walking towards me with the jaunty stride that had caught my eye the first time I saw him, up on Castle Hill, his dark, floppy hair falling forward over his forehead, his hands in his pockets, his eyes bright with the confidence of someone who knows what they want and how to get it. I immediately tried to turn around, to cross the road, to break into a run – but it was too late. He’d already seen me.
‘Emma!’ he shouted.
I kept going, away from him, but within seconds he’d caught me up.
‘Please leave me alone,’ I muttered, trying to shake off the hand he’d put on my arm to stop me.
‘But I wanted to apologise,’ he said, keeping pace with me as I kept on walking, fast, in the wrong direction, wanting only to get rid of him. ‘I obviously said something to upset you the other day. I don’t know what, but whatever it was, I’m sorry!’
I stopped abruptly, turning to face him.
‘You’re a journalist. I don’t want to talk to you, OK? Now, please, leave me alone.’
I strode off again, faster still, but again he walked with me, silently at first, and then, just as I thought I’d actually have to give him a shove to make him clear off, he said, panting slightly:
‘All right, you’ve made your point.’
‘About what?’ I retorted, swinging round to face him before I could stop myself.
‘The fitness regime. I give in. You’re much fitter than me.’ And he pretended to bend double, wheezing and coughing, and despite everything I struggled to keep a straight face.
‘Like I said, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Emma,’ he went on now. ‘I know I’m a journalist, but I’m not a complete pig.’ And he finished with loud piggy snort, making other people in the street turn and smile at us. To my annoyance, when he made the snorting noise again, I actually burst out laughing.
‘OK, so you’re not a pig, even if you snort like one,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve got that clear, will you go away?’
‘Only after you’ve let me buy you a coffee. To prove it.’
‘Prove what?’ Why was I even talking to him? I should be running away, as fast as I could. Did he think I was stupid enough to let the offer of a cup of coffee loosen my tongue?
‘That I’m not a pig, of course. Come on.’ He nodded at The Star pub over the road. ‘It’s eleven o’clock, they’ve just opened, and honestly, their coffee’s better than their décor – or their beer, come to that. It’s either that or Annie’s Olde Gossipe Shoppe,’ he added with a grin.
I smiled, despite myself. It had to be said, I did fancy the idea of stopping for a coffee. And I might have been a lot shallower than I wanted to admit, but I fancied the idea even more of stopping for a coffee in the company of a very charming and good-looking man. After all, it would definitely be the last time I would see him; I’d made it very clear I wasn’t talking to him and he surely wasn’t going to find out who I was in the ten minutes it would take me to drink my coffee.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you. But I can’t be more than ten minutes. My landlady’s waiting for her icing sugar.’
‘Never let it be said that I kept a lady waiting for her icing sugar,’ he said seriously, taking my elbow to steer me across the road and into the pub.
It was dark inside, and to my relief, almost completely empty. He was right about the décor – it was grubby and dated, the carpet looked as though it had the beer of centuries soaked into it, and even the wooden tables were slightly sticky. I sat in an alcove at the back, away from the door, and waited while Matt brought me a cappuccino.
‘How can this dump possibly compete with The Riverboat Inn?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘The locals prefer it. It’s authentic.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee. He was right about that too, though – it was delicious.
‘The Riverboat’s a grockles’ pub.’