A Perfect Proposal (36 page)

Sophie wrote back agreeing, adding,
Cornwall is so lovely
–
even at this time of year.

She checked again later while Moira was cooking supper. There was another email.

Darling
… Sophie could tell when Matilda was being imperious, even via email.

I’ve been in touch with Luke and, as I thought, he hasn’t got time to find out who owns the house just now. As you’re down there already, on business of your own, could you stay with your nice bed and breakfast lady and make some enquiries? I’d like to know if the house is for sale.

Sophie told Moira straight away. ‘Well, I’d love it if you stayed a few more days,’ Moira said.

‘I’d like it too,’ said Sophie. ‘I don’t want to go home just yet. Everyone will ask me about Luke and that will be awful. And I can pay you, Rich Boy left me the means!’

‘I really hope you two get back together. It would be a shame to let such a catch slip through your fingers. Money and looks don’t often go together, in my experience.’

‘Oh, you should go to New York, or high-end Connecticut!’ said Sophie. ‘Loads of very rich, very beautiful people!’

‘I’m sure you fitted right in!’ said Moira, laughing.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Sophie.

‘I wasn’t joking, actually. Now let’s find something nice to watch while dinner cooks. We’ve got about an hour before we can eat.’

‘So how am I going to find out about the house?’ Sophie asked later, as they were eating. ‘I’m not a private detective.’

‘You know, that’s a job I’ve always fancied. Why don’t I see what I can pick up while you visit your relatives,’ said Moira. Sophie had rung and arranged to meet them the following day.

‘Have you really always fancied being a private detective?’ Sophie asked.

‘Mm. Don’t know why. I just like the puzzle aspect of it, I suppose. So what do
you
want to do with your life – apart from the get-married-have-kids thing?’

‘I want to run my own business, making clothes out of old clothes. “Designer Shabby Chic”, if you can work that out. I just love making and mending.’

‘So what’s stopping you?’

‘Money, really. I’d need capital, and I also want to train properly. Doing it by guess and by God is all very well, but it probably takes me far longer than it needs to. You can’t make money if you’re too slow.’

‘You sound very talented.’ Moira sounded genuinely impressed. ‘I mean you’re very young to have worked out what you want to do with your life.’

‘I’ve always liked making and mending. In fact, if you’ve got anything in your wardrobe that doesn’t quite work for you as it is, I’ll have a go at it and prove how talented I am.’

Thus the two women spent a jolly evening sewing, watching television and, in Moira’s case, going through her wardrobe looking for things for Sophie to transform.

The following morning Sophie set off for her relations. She felt a lot better than she had yesterday: still heartbroken, but functioning, which was a big step forward.

With Moira’s help and her computer and maps, Sophie had planned a very detailed route and set off up the hill, away from the sea, towards the main road.

Apart from her feeling of total loss about Luke, she found she liked being on her own in the car. There was no one to comment if she crashed a gear; no one to notice if she had to go round a roundabout a couple of times to find the right exit.

When her relations’ village was in sight, she realised she was going to be far too early, having factored in lots of
getting-lost time, and so she found somewhere to park and went for a walk. She was suddenly feeling anxious about wishing herself on people she didn’t know and asking them a rather obscure question. She’d have felt much more confident with Luke by her side, she realised. But he wasn’t by her side and she’d just have to get on without him. In fact it would be better if she never thought about him again. She wouldn’t get over him if she kept him in the forefront of her mind the whole time. The trouble was, when you’re in love with someone they are in the forefront of your mind the whole time and there isn’t a whole lot you can do about it. It kind of defines being in love.

At last she had used up enough time, and Sophie set off on foot to their house. It was up a hill and she started to worry that she’d be panting and sweaty when she arrived. In fact she began to get so nervous that a trip to the dentist seemed preferable. At least at the dentist they are kind to you even if you end up in agony.

The house didn’t look promising. It was a bungalow with a dormer and the garden was steeply sloping and mostly stones – with gnomes.

Sophie wasn’t a gardening snob; she was capable of appreciating gnomes, but seeing them dotted around such an arid landscape was faintly chilling. Gnomes should make you laugh, not make you feel nervous, and she was sure they needed to live amongst grass and little tiny flowers. Maybe flowers in January was asking too much but the potential for some would help.

The bell ‘ding-donged’ and Sophie could see movement behind the frosted glass of the front door. A woman opened it and Sophie smiled her very best smile.

‘Hello! I’m Sophie! You must be Mavis? Mrs Littlejohn?’

‘That’s right. You’d better come in.’

Mrs Littlejohn didn’t actually smile but stood back so Sophie could enter. The moment she got across the threshold, a vile smell hit Sophie, almost making her gag.

‘Turkey giblets,’ explained Mrs Littlejohn, who obviously wasn’t the sort of person who liked to be called by her Christian name by a complete stranger, even if they were related. ‘We can’t afford to waste good food in these hard times.’

As Sophie’s times had always been hard she nodded and followed her hostess to the living room, trying not to breathe through her nose.

What should have been a spectacular view was obscured by waterfalls of heavily frilled net curtain. The two inches between the bottom layer and the window sill was obscured by a large collection of china ‘ladies’ in period costume, almost certainly individually numbered and bought for several large instalments from the back of a magazine.

The actual curtains were covered in cabbage roses and were the same fabric as the three-piece suite enjoyed. The carpet was also rosy, but its roses were a slightly different colour. There was a sideboard covered with more ornaments and a ‘whatnot’ in the corner. Looking more closely, Sophie saw that ‘Joan the Wad’ featured in several different guises.

‘I’ve made coffee,’ said Mrs Littlejohn, ‘I’ll just bring it through.’

Sophie would have preferred tea but felt she’d rather endure coffee than disrupt this woman’s careful plans.

‘Do sit down, dear,’ said Mrs Littlejohn.

Sophie perched on the edge of the sofa, being careful not to dislodge the cushions that stood on their points and so would be prone to toppling.

Sophie did not have a good feeling about this. Mrs Littlejohn was friendly in a formal sort of way but her
bungalow and manner didn’t indicate a great spirit of adventure or a person willing to take risks.

A trolley laden with cups, saucers, plates, a jug of coffee, a jug of milk, biscuits, sugar, and napkins was rattled into the room. Serving the coffee took some time.

Sophie had been going to refuse a biscuit but then succumbed to a Nice. She might need the sugar hit.

Mrs Littlejohn didn’t speak once she’d served coffee, leaving it to Sophie to explain her errand.

‘Did my great-uncle make it clear why I’m here?’ she started tentatively, aware that Uncle Eric hadn’t said much that was useful.

‘Not really, dear.’

Sophie smiled briefly. ‘Then I’ll try and explain. It is a bit complicated.’

‘Then maybe we’d better wait until my husband is here. He deals with all the financial matters. He’s just gone down to the council offices to complain about the recycling.’

‘Right. Well, it’s not really financial – at least not yet. Do you remember inheriting some drilling rights from your late husband?’

‘I inherited everything from him. I can’t remember the details.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t. I don’t suppose you have a copy of his will, have you? Handy, I mean?’

Mrs Littlejohn felt she was having her privacy invaded, Sophie could tell. ‘I’d rather wait for my husband to come home.’

‘But you don’t need him really. This is to your advantage. You don’t have—’

‘I’d rather wait. I’m not one of those women who do things without their husband knowing.’

‘Oh, I’m not suggesting anything like that! In fact you don’t have to do anything.’

‘Shall we just have our coffee and wait for my husband?’

Sophie nodded and took a sip. It was terribly strong and quite bitter. ‘I wouldn’t ask,’ Sophie went on, fired up by the coffee, ‘but …’

Just then a key could be heard turning in the lock and Mrs Littlejohn got to her feet with relief. ‘This will be my husband. He’ll sort everything out.’

Mr Littlejohn opened the door. ‘Don’t sign anything!’

Mr Littlejohn’s accusing glare as he came in made Sophie jump in her seat so the cushion behind her fell over. She realised at that moment that whatever career prospects she might have they didn’t include door-to-door selling. Just seeing him glare at her made her feel instantly guilty.

‘Don’t let this young woman talk you into anything!’ he went on. He clearly assumed his wife was under threat.

Obviously feeling safer now her husband was with her, Mrs Littlejohn soothed, ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’m not going to sign a thing!’

‘Really,’ Sophie protested, ‘I’m not asking you to do anything!’

Mrs Littlejohn’s ill-supported bosom heaved. ‘And I’m not going to do anything. I’m not sure why you’ve come and I know you’re a relative of Cousin Eric’s but I’m not signing anything over to you.’

‘But it’s to your advantage!’ said Sophie. ‘Other members of the family own these rights but we can’t do anything with them unless we band together and act as one.’

In her head that had sounded rousing and ‘let’s-all-pull-together’, but in that cluttered room it was a bit pathetic.

‘What’s she trying to get you to do?’ demanded her husband, looking at Sophie as if she’d put her foot in the door and forced herself into the house.

‘Really, I’m not trying … Look, what it is …’

‘Have a cup of coffee, dear,’ said Mrs Littlejohn, attempting
to get to her feet but hampered by the depths of her chair.

‘I’ll get it!’ said Sophie, leaping to her feet. ‘Once a waitress always a waitress!’ As she poured him a cup, glad that his wife had already loaded the trolley with enough crockery, she realised that she had acted completely out of turn, not to mention oddly. These people would never trust her now. Chastened, she handed Mr Littlejohn the biscuits.

Mr Littlejohn subsided into a chair. Mrs Littlejohn looked annoyed. Sophie looked apologetic. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

Somewhat pacified, Mr Littlejohn took a sip and seemed to relax. Sophie found herself wondering what sort of job he’d had before he retired and then realised she was shying away from the business at hand and forced herself to focus.

‘I’m not here to make you do anything you’re not happy with,’ she said, ‘but if you did agree to let me act for you with regard to these drilling rights, it could be to your advantage.’

‘How?’ demanded Mr Littlejohn. ‘Why would we want to do anything with them?’

‘Because, potentially, they could earn money, possibly a lot of money.’ She smiled and then realised that made her look as if she was trying to promote pyramid-selling.

‘I don’t see how,’ said Mrs Littlejohn.

‘Well,’ Sophie took a breath. ‘The drilling rights that we inherited could be valuable, but only if they’re all put together.’

‘Why should putting them together make a difference?’ Mrs Littlejohn folded her hands and her lips in the manner of a headmistress asking her girls why they thought rolling up the waistband of their skirts was a good idea.

Sophie took another breath and smiled and then wished smiling wasn’t so habitual with her. It was in danger of making these people think her both deranged and dishonest.
‘We none of us own enough to make it worth any oil company’s while to drill. But if we put our rights together we
have
got a package big enough.’