Heartsease Cottage
Grace wanted to get right away from it all on Valentine’s Day. And so, it seemed, did the man next door…
There are few things worse than being around shops full of Valentine’s cards and soppy films on the TV when you’ve been dumped by your fiancé of three years, thought Grace – which was why she needed to get away from it all.
She was supposed to be getting married this summer. She’d chosen a dress, and she and Paul had both talked to a vicar about how committed they were to each other.
Then Paul had dumped her on New Year’s Eve. He said there was no point in going into January living a lie. He hadn’t just got cold feet, he’d got cold legs, cold arms and a cold brain.
He’d rolled out all the platitudes: it wasn’t her, it was him; there was no one else. But of course there was and she worked with him and when Grace found out, she felt as if her heart had been pummelled.
Then she noticed the advert in the newspaper.
Aloneandwanttogetawayfor Valentine’sDayinabeautifulpartofthe country,surroundedbynothingbut nature,peaceandquiet?Ring HeartseaseFarmandbookour picturesquesecludedcottage.
So she had, because she badly needed some heart’s ease. It had been pricey, so she’d expected quality.
She hadn’t expected a semi-detached property. So much for solitude.
She parked her car next to a very swanky black Jaguar and stole a look through the car window, noticing a man’s coat on the passenger seat. Great. She was going to be alone for two days with a man next door. The worst sort of alone there could be.
There was a little man plaque on the door of the cottage on the left and a little woman plaque on the right one – like a pair of very large toilets.
This wouldn’t do at all. Grace got out her mobile and tried to ring the farmer but there was no signal, which didn’t help her mood one bit.
Across the door with the woman sign on it was a handmade banner reading WelcomeGrace, which did help placate her. She walked in and found the cottage was gorgeous, with a welcome basket of fruit, bread, cheese, other goodies and a bottle of wine waiting for her on the worktop with a note propped up against an old-fashioned telephone.
Doenjoyyourstay.Uponarrival, pleasering2toswitchontheelectricity.
A short dial to the farmer who owned the cottages no doubt.
She rang and her call was answered by a gruff man’s voice.
“Er, this is Grace Ellison. I have to ring this number to switch on the electricity – could you do that for me, please?”
“If I must,” came the short and un-sweet response.
“Am I talking to the farmer?” asked Grace, ready to give him what-for.
“No you aren’t,” came the reply and the phone went down abruptly on the other side.
Howrude, she thought, especially after she had parted with so much of her hard-earned cash for this.
Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. She was just about to ring again when she heard the fridge stir into life.
She put on the kettle, made a cup of tea and settled down with her book.
AIn the CUTLERY DRAWER were only SPOONS AND FORKS… plus a NOTE
t least the cottage was quiet and peaceful, and within two hours Grace had settled right into it. She found herself nodding off on the large squashy sofa when she was rudely awoken by the telephone.
“Er, this is John Willoughby. I’ve booked your cottage and I can’t seem to turn the lights on.”
Grace was just about to tell “Mr Willoughby” he had a wrong number when she noticed a large sign on the wall pointing down to a switch which read, Masterswitchfornextdoor’slights. What a totally strange set up.
“Are you next door, by any chance?” Grace asked him.
“Next door to what?” asked the man. “Me,” replied Grace.
The man made a slight huff noise. “I don’t know where you are,” he said, as if he was hanging onto his patience by a thread.
“I’m in a cottage with a woman sign on the front door.”
“Then yes, I am,” said the man with a snarl. “I’m in a cottage I thought would be in the middle of nowhere with nothing around it, and then I find that it’s actually semi-detached.”
Youandmeboth, thought Grace.
“So if you could do whatever you have to do there to turn on the lights, I
would be very grateful,” the man continued with forced patience.
“OK,” Grace said.
But she’d make him wait a few minutes, as he’d made her wait earlier.
She put down the phone and checked her watch. It was getting dark, so she flicked on the light. Nothing happened. Above the switch was another note. Pleasering2toswitchonlights.
“Oh for goodness sake,” said Grace aloud. This was beyond ridiculous. She rang two on the phone and Mr Rude next door answered.
“Could you please turn on my lights?” Grace asked.
“When you turn mine on, I’ll turn yours on,” came the reply. “And as the lights apparently don’t work from the same circuit as the sockets, could you please turn those on as well while you’re at it?”
“Any idea where the switch is?” said Grace, looking around.
“Well, I found your switch at the bottom of the stairs,” said the man.
“OK, bear with me,” said Grace and put down the phone. Sure enough at the bottom of the stairs, there was a note with Socketswitchesforcottagenext door written on it, pointing to a switch.
She pressed it, letting the man next door have his lights and working plug sockets, at the same time as her lights went on.
She would definitely be asking for a refund when she could get hold of the farmer. Not only was she not alone, but she was being forced to interact with a thoroughly frosty man. And that was the last thing she wanted.
Feeling peckish, she thought she’d have some of that lovely homemade bread that was in her welcome basket, toasted with the crumbly cheese. But in the cutlery drawer were only spoons and forks, plus a note.
Forknivespleasering2.
“I don’t believe it,” said Grace, growling like Victor Meldrew. She needed to make a list of all these cock-ups. She’d paid a small fortune for this getaway. The least she could expect was a darned knife to cut the bread.
She marched across to the phone and just before she could pick it up, it started ringing.
“Hello,” Grace said, snatching it up. “Do you by any chance have a fork and a spoon?” came a familiar voice. The Jag-owning John Willoughby from next door. “This ridiculous cottage has none and apparently I have to ring number one for them.”
“And I’ve just discovered I have to ring number two for a knife,” said Grace, matching John for annoyance.
“Yes, I have plenty of knives,” said John. “I’ll swap you, shall I?”
Grace gathered up half the spoons and forks in the drawer and opened her front door, where John Willoughby
had his hand raised about to knock.
If Grace had been in the frame of mind to appraise a man, her brain would have made a sighing noise. John Willoughby was very tall, very dark and very very handsome. He had the most gorgeous blue eyes – shame about the murderous expression. He stood there with a handful of various-sized knives.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here,” said John Willoughby, as they exchanged cutlery. “But I’m as cross about it as you sound. I definitely didn’t want to be around anyone and I shall be having serious words with the farmer when I can get hold of him.”
“Well – I promise not to bother you, if you promise not to bother me,” said Grace hopefully.
“Agreed,” said John. And he returned to his cottage. Both doors slammed simultaneously.
First thing in the morning, Grace would find the farmer and tell him she wasn’t staying and would like her money back, please.
She hadn’t checked the reviews on the place, she’d been so hell-bent on finding somewhere away from the world, some place that she didn’t have to think about her ex-fiancé.
Last Valentine’s night was when Paul had proposed, knelt down in the restaurant and presented her with a ring. A ring that he’d asked her to return when they split. She wished she hadn’t flung it back at him now but kept it, sold it and spent the money on something frivolous.
Grace cried herself to sleep in the soft bed under the eaves in the pretty cottage bedroom, hoping she’d sleep for a full twenty-four hours and totally miss Valentine’s Day.
She didn’t quite sleep that long, but woke up after eleven, opening the curtains to a blizzard of snow. There was no way she could go off trying to find her way to the farmhouse on the hill in this. She went downstairs, made a log fire to heat up the place and just as she had settled with her book, there was a knock on the door.
“I don’t suppose you could switch on my heating, could you?” asked John Willoughby, politely this time. He was wearing his coat and looked frozen. “The electric fire has stopped working.”
Grace hadn’t seen any instructions about heating.
“Mind if I take a look?” John asked and walked into the warm, cosy cottage. They both searched everywhere but there was no sign of a heating switch for next door.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Grace. She wasn’t heartless; the poor man looked half-blue from cold.
“That would be really kind,” said John. Cold obviously softened him, thought Grace.
She made him a coffee and some toast, slathering the slices with butter.
“I didn’t have any butter, but I did have jam in my welcome hamper,” said
She wasn’t HEARTLESS; the poor man looked HALF BLUE from cold
John, biting down. “Oh my, this is good.”
“I was going to find the farmer today and complain.”
“Me, too,” said John. “I wanted to be alone, not eating toast with a woman I’m ridiculously grateful to for defrosting me.” They both laughed.
“So how come you’re here in the middle of nowhere today?” asked John.
Eating toast, drinking coffee and sitting in front of the log fire with snow falling softly outside, Grace told John all about being dumped on New Year’s Eve. Then John told Grace all about being dumped on Christmas Eve. Then they carried on chatting and chatting, and time slipped away, and when John returned to his cottage and it was still like an ice-box, he suggested they pool their welcome hampers and rustle up something together for dinner.
Grace’s hamper had pasta but no sauce, John’s had sauce but no pasta. He also had a corkscrew for the wine but no glasses, Grace had glasses but no corkscrew. How very odd it all was.
The next morning, the farmer’s wife gave her husband a nudge as he watched Grace and John standing outside the double cottage, nearly knocking his binoculars out of his hand.
“He’s just given her a whopping big kiss and a cuddle,” said the farmer with a delighted giggle.
“You really are a crafty so and so,” said his wife.
“And clever,” added the farmer. “Takes skill to mess with those electrical circuits and get the heating to go off at just the right time.”
He put down his binoculars and turned to the noticeboard in his kitchen where the photos of ten newly-wed couples were pinned. All of them met on Valentine’s Day in Heartsease Cottage. All of them had written to the farmer to invite him to their weddings.
“Better make space for another photo. People who want to book our cottages for Valentine’s Day deserve a bit of love,” said the farmer. “I don’t think I’m bad at this matchmaking lark, do you?”
“You’re like a modern day Cupid,” said his wife. “Only with a tool kit instead of a bow and arrow.”
“Better go and buy yourself another hat, my love,” said the farmer, as he raised his binoculars again to find John Willoughby and Grace Ellison still standing outside the cottages – and still in a very tight embrace.