‘Ah, okay.’ The man nodded. ‘Leon.’
We spent half an hour hefting the remaining boxes and other items from the van into the cottage. At some point in the past few weeks the landlord had repainted the ugly beige walls in a crisp white and removed the disgusting lino, leaving freshly sanded floorboards. Instead of the scratched and stained furniture, there was a black leather sofa and a wall of metal bookcases. I couldn’t help bristling at the new kitchen appliances that Leanne would have found so helpful.
Leon was an English teacher; he’d started at the local secondary school earlier in the month, but had been in a short-term let until New Cottage became available. Slender and slouchy, wearing ripped black jeans and a wristful of beaded bracelets, his piercing gaze and slightly sarcastic manner made him seem like the kind of English teacher who had tatty notebooks full of bleak and complicated poetry, probably inspired by some doomed romance.
He was very laid-back about my random offer of help, but did offer to buy me a drink as a thank you. I didn’t think Leon would be someone I’d want to get involved with seriously. He was far too intense, and I couldn’t imagine laughing with him until my sides ached. He was, however, precisely the kind of man I’d had in mind when originally crafting the Dream List. My sixteen-year-old self would have found him intimidatingly sexy and mysterious.
My new neighbour might be the perfect person with which to dip my toe back into the dating waters.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m having a birthday party in our garden tomorrow evening…’
32
The morning of my thirtieth birthday, I indulged myself with a full two minutes of freaking out about the fact that I’d thought it would be a good idea to invite a load of people to my house all at the same time, followed by another five feeling weird and a bit forlorn about waking up alone with no one to say ‘happy birthday’， give me a hug or make me a cup of tea.
I then proceeded to spend a full hour celebrating waking up in my own house, eating exactly what I wanted for breakfast while wearing my most comfortable pyjamas and being able to please myself rather than putting all my energy into ensuring that my mother felt appropriately appreciated for all the （unasked for and unwanted） effort she’d have put into creating the kind of birthday that she would enjoy.
I remembered her offer to throw me the party off the Dream List – vodka jelly and Harry Potter – and I shuddered even as I breathed a sigh of delicious satisfaction that today was going to be just the way I wanted it.
And it was. I walked Nesbit to our favourite stream and back, and then helped Ebenezer hang fairy lights and weave ivy across the open-sided gazebo he’d spent the past few days constructing, as well as twining lights around tree trunks and in between branches. He’d also planted autumn flowers in various-sized pots and distributed them around the patio.
At lunchtime, a hire company delivered trestle tables and chairs to seat thirty, along with glasses and crockery. Steph arrived shortly afterwards to help me decorate the tables in long rows with jam-jar lanterns, tiny bouquets of wildflowers and the brightly coloured runners that Aunty Linda had sewn for me.
We set up a drinks table a safe distance from Drew’s barbecue （which he and Nicky had volunteered to man） and pegged down a cheap offcut of vinyl flooring to serve as a makeshift dance floor. That left the food. After much deliberation, I’d gone for the easiest option I could think of. This included placing a mammoth order at Hatherstone farm shop for meat, salad and bread, which I would supplement with nibbles, sides, sauces and other items to create a build-your-own hot dog and burger bar. All the extras were arriving as part of a supermarket delivery later that afternoon, along with the drinks.
It was nearly five when we returned with the farm shop order. I was already starting to stress because I felt like I had a million things still to do, and the guests were due to arrive at seven – one of whom would be my mother.
But that was nothing compared to the lightning bolt of panic that hit me when I realised Nesbit was gone.
I’d left him in the garden – Ebenezer had promised to be around tidying up the flower beds and checking no stray weeds had dared plant themselves in the garden on my big day. Besides, the garden was fully enclosed. When he failed to come bounding up to greet me as we arrived back, my first thought was that he’d been stolen. What a stupid, thoughtless thing to do – leaving a beautiful, friendly dog outside where anyone could take him.
‘He’s probably feeling disconcerted by all the strange things in the garden and found a quiet place to hide,’ Steph said, her face creased with worry.