Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
We finally managed to escape at a little past ten, and I got into my mum’s car to drive home. A full day of work, checking my plot, and then all of this had me absolutely shattered and completely starving, so I rushed home, almost crawling through the door when I arrived.
“I made soup,” Mum said the second I stepped inside. “It’s warm in the slow cooker.”
“I love you so much,” I replied, yanking off my shoes. “You’re the best mum ever.”
“Mm. Hang up my keys. Last time you used my car, I found them in the bathroom sink.”
I hung them up before I forgot and yawned. “Done.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“When did I have time for that?” I looked through the door at her. “I only just managed to escape the clutches of some very furious gardeners.”
Mum sighed. “I knew it. What have I told you about making sure you eat properly? You do a physical job, you have a physical hobby, and you’re going to overexert yourself if you don’t get proper nutrition. I didn’t hand the business over to you just for you to collapse midway through trimming a hedge, you know.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Now sit down, and I’ll bring you some soup.”
“Yes, Mother.” I dutifully trotted into the living room and sank down onto the sofa. It was no good arguing with the woman. It was impossible at the best of times, and she’d most definitely stayed up late to welcome me home.
The least I could do was do as I was told.
“Here.” She handed me a tray with a steaming bowl of her vegetable soup and several slices of crusty bread on the side. “Eat this. I used your early potatoes.”
Yum.
“How did it go?” Mum asked when I’d shovelled down half of the food.
“Everyone is rightfully angry,” I said. “But they seem enthusiastic to help us. Over half the plot holders signed up to be interviewed by the media, and almost everyone said they would contribute to the pop-up market. Someone even suggested we sell more than just our produce.”
Mum nodded. “It’s a good idea. There are a lot of creatives who have plots. How often do you see Susan sitting with her crocheting, for example?”
She had a point. “Wouldn’t that make it more of a craft fair than anything?”
“What better way to show the value of Hanbury’s community than a craft fair full of local businesses? Make it clear that the idea is to raise funds to save the allotments, and I’m sure you’ll have a lot of donations. You’ll also publicise your predicament to other local businesses who may be willing to help.”
“Yeah, but the space we can use outside the allotments isn’t that big.”
“So, use the market space in the middle of town.”
“Do you really think that calendar isn’t fully booked?”
“It’s not.” Mum smiled. “There’s not a market there every day, is there? Let me see what I can do.”
“I feel as though you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Nonsense. Let me help you.”
“You know, all ideas should be run by the committee first. I should—”
Mum raised her eyebrows. “You’re the head of the committee. Why don’t you just give me permission and be done with it?”
“But I—”
“Rose.”
I rubbed my left eye. She really was the only person who could shut me up with one word. “Fine. Go ahead. I’ll let everyone know.”
“Good girl.” She got up and kissed the top of my head. “I’m off to bed, then. Don’t stay up too late, sweetie.”
“Night, Mum.” I watched her go and shook my head.
And everyone wondered how I’d ended up with such a strong personality.
It was her.
All. Her.
UNKNOWN: Rose, I would like for us to talk.
I blinked at my phone. Wasn’t this how horror movies started? This was a death flag, right?
There was no way this wasn’t a stalker.
ME: Who are you and how did you get this number?
There.
I would neither confirm nor deny my identity.
Not that it mattered if this horror movie villain had my phone number.
UNKNOWN: From the allotment paperwork, of course.
UNKNOWN: And it’s Oliver de Havilland.
Look at that. I wasn’t wrong in my identification of the sender after all. If anyone in my life was a horror movie villain, it was most certainly the man behind this message.
ME: You’ve got the wrong number, sorry.
OLIVER: Nice try.
ME: Why do you want to talk to me?
OLIVER: There are some interesting rumours going around about me since your little meeting, and I’d like to know how they came about.
ME: Can’t you get your little spy to find out for you? He did a good enough job informing you about my entire life. Surely a few rumours are no match for his investigative prowess.
OLIVER: I would also like to apologise for that.
ME: Yet here you are, still not apologising.
OLIVER: Apologies should be given in person. Can we meet?
ME: I would rather walk over hot coals.