One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December

‘This place,’ he gestured around with his empty glass. ‘It’s all just a little bit fairytale, isn’t it? Or it seems that way to my eyes, anyhow.’

Alice couldn’t argue with that.

‘And then there’s you, all blonde hair and rosy cheeks, living in my garden like a pixie.’

‘My garden,’ she countered, half laughing at his fanciful description.

He rolled his eyes and then corrected himself. ‘Fine. Your garden. Either way it’s all a bit fuckin’ Alice in Wonderland.’

Alice looked at him. ‘You know you’re mixing up your fairy stories, right?’

His eyes met hers straight on, and for a second they connected, amusement sliding into seriousness, each recognising a kindred broken spirit in the other. And then he shook his head a little, breaking the moment, and Alice looked down then back up again and held out her hand to take his empty glass for something to do. She stepped back up into the doorway of the Airstream as he stood to leave, touching his hand against his forehead in the smallest of goodbye salutes.

‘Thanks for the rum.’

She watched him push his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, a gesture that was fast becoming familiarly his, his broad shoulders bunched beneath the cotton of his shirt as he sauntered away.

‘Watch out for the three bears in the woods, cowboy,’ she called out, crossing her arms over her chest.

He spun slowly, still walking away. ‘I’m a crack shot,’ he said, flashing her that smile again as he turned away and disappeared into the darkness of the tree line.

Alice considered him for a moment as she pulled the Airstream door closed and knocked back the last of her rum. All of those mixed up fairy tales and unexpected revelations had left her confused by Robinson Duff and his wolfish smile. Worryingly, if she were to liken herself to any storybook heroine right at that very moment, it would most probably have been Red Riding Hood.

‘Morning, mine chatelaine!’ Stewie boomed, doffing his shaggy blond wig at Alice as they passed each other the following morning by Niamh’s garden gate. Alice grinned in reply as he marched on by, the tails of his silk smoking jacket swishing beneath the hem of his rain jacket. Newly returned from his beloved Benidorm, his tan rivalled the orange juice nestled alongside his newspaper in the crook of his arm and his Turkish slippers provided scant protection against the damp pavement. It didn’t matter. Stewie’s penchant for all things colourful and over the top was part of his larger than life charm; he wasn’t a man who you’d ever catch buying a sensible cardigan in Marks and Spencer.

Niamh’s front door opened and Pluto scampered down the path, his claws clattering on the old cobbles.

‘Salutations, Pluto!’ Stewie shouted, not breaking his stride until he reached his own gate further down the lane.

‘Morning, Stewie,’ Niamh called, sticking her head out of the front door, still in her PJs. ‘Loving the blond!’

‘In homage to the divine Marilyn, darling.’ He stroked his spare hand over his wig, his voice carrying easily over the cottage gardens as he opened his own door. He disappeared inside, and then just his hand poked back out holding the blond wig to give it a good shake.

‘Plus it’s long enough to keep the rain out of my eyes,’ he called, and then whipped it back inside and closed the door with a flourish.

Alice followed Niamh back into the cottage trailed by Pluto, who despondently nosed his wet ball balefully back into the house and glared at her with his good eye as he curled up on his rug by the fire.

’Sorry, bud. Next time.’ Alice fussed him behind the ears and he closed his eyes and deliberately ignored her, having heard her lines before. She straightened again, fidgeting around on the edge of the chair.

‘Out with it then.’

Alice looked up at Niamh’s words.

‘You’ve got news. I can tell by the way you’re bouncing around like an over-excited kid.’

For a moment she considered denying Niamh’s assumption, and then cracked under her friend’s expectant gaze.

‘I know how I can keep the manor. It came to me last night.’

Niamh nodded for her to go on.

‘I was sitting looking at the gardens of the manor, at the tree house, and then beyond that there’s the old boathouse down by the lake, right?’

A frown of concentration creased Niamh’s brow. ‘Well, yes, but I don’t see …’

‘I’m going to turn the gardens of the manor into a glampsite.’

Niamh studied her intently. ‘In the tree house, and the boathouse? Alice, that place is rotten through. I know, I paint there sometimes.’

Alice waved her hand, undeterred. ‘Picture it, Niamh. The tree house, expanded to be big enough for a love nest for two. The boathouse, shored up, a perfectly secluded honeymoon spot to watch the sun go down over the lake. A tee-pee somewhere, or a yurt, even. There’s so many quirky places you can stay in now, I could have all sorts.’ She watched her friend’s perplexed expression closely, waiting for it to clear. It didn’t. ‘I know it seems impossible, but nothing ever is really, is it? You just have to want it hard enough.’ Reaching into her bag she pulled out her laptop. The Airstream was too distant from the manor to get reliable net reception. ‘Let me steal your Wi-Fi and I’ll show you what I mean.’

An hour later and Niamh’s printer had worked overtime to provide the images that now filled a red file Niamh had dug out of the cupboard beside the fireplace.

‘I love this,’ Alice said, tapping her fingers against a shot of a converted vintage grain lorry. ‘Where could I get a lorry from?’

‘Let’s not run before you can walk,’ Niamh cautioned, but her eyes shone with excitement that mirrored Alice’s as she closed the file. ‘Let’s start with the tree house and see how it goes.’

Alice knew it was sage advice and went to close the laptop lid, and then had second thoughts and flipped it open again.

‘Alice …’

‘Shh. I’m not going to search for wooden igloo’s again, promise.’ Her fingers flew over the keys and pressed enter.

‘What are you looking for then?’

Alice clicked on the first link that came up. ‘Robinson Duff.’

‘The country music star?’

It was hard to decide between looking at the screen and looking back up at Niamh. She chose the latter.

‘You’ve heard of him?’

Niamh blew her dark fringe out of her eyes. ‘Heard of him? Jesus, yes. Hasn’t everyone?’

Alice scanned the screen, her eyes slowly widening. ‘Everyone but me, it seems.’ Image after image of Robinson filled her screen; publicity shots, paparazzi shots, and fan pictures of him on stage playing to packed stadiums. Wow. Her mouth formed the word, even though no sound came out. ‘He’s pretty famous, isn’t he?’

‘I have his latest stuff on Spotify.’ Niamh reached for the TV remote and clicked through the on screen apps. ‘Just a sec …’

Music filled the room, followed by a voice that Alice recognised easily as that of the man she’d drunk rum with last night. It was a song she was vaguely familiar with from the radio, just as she’d been vaguely familiar with his name when he’d first said it. He must think her totally clueless to have not known precisely who he was from the get go. She certainly felt it now.

‘He’s the cowboy.’

Niamh nodded, humming along to the track. ‘Cowboy through and through.’

‘No, Niamh. He’s THE cowboy. The one who’s living in my house.’

To say Niamh looked shocked would be an understatement. She stopped humming abruptly, her brown eyes rounding to at least twice the size they usually were. ‘Robinson Duff is living in Borne Manor?’