A Cottage in the Country: Escape to the cosiest little cottage in the country

True to her word, Sarah rang to confirm just that the very next day and it was a major boost to my confidence. This middle-aged, recently divorced woman felt as if she had finally taken back control of her life.

CHAPTER 2 (#u9e65b9f4-ac6e-589d-81f9-b9de8d05752b)

I had assumed I'd be moving in within a few weeks. Perfect timing, as that would give me a couple of months before winter set in. After all, this was the shortest chain you could possibly have for a house purchase. It felt as though the storm clouds were retreating and the sun had finally decided to come out and shine once more. Life had a master plan for me and I hadn't been simply cast adrift and left to flounder, unloved and forgotten.

Pull yourself together, Maddie, you're made of strong stuff and you can do this, really you can. I feared there was an implied strength of resolve and determination in my thoughts that didn't quite match my actions at the moment. But pride alone wouldn't allow me to sink into depression. Even when your heart is smashed to pieces, you still wake up each morning to face another day. Crawling into a hole and hiding away might sound comforting, but it's never a real option, is it?

The radio flashes, indicating an incoming call and I turn up the volume.

"Guess who is back from his vacation sporting a tan and looking good?"

Ryan's velvety tones seem to fill the car. Bluetooth loves him, for some inexplicable reason. I can't ever recall losing signal whenever he's on the line, which is rather weird because it breaks up all the time when I'm running around town. Is charisma like some sort of invisible power source that coerces everything in life to work more smoothly? If that's true, then I need to get me some!

Ryan could be a radio-show presenter. He has that smooth quality to his voice that oozes charm and sophistication. But then he could be a heart-breaker, too. He just chooses not to be. He is the definitive bachelor and I've known him for what feels like forever. My husband, Jeff, was always wary of him. Oh, I mean my ex-husband, Jeff…

"Men don't have women friends unless there's an element of attraction, or something funny going on," he'd once informed me. With hindsight I can see exactly why my scheming ex would think that. At the time we moved past his comments and he never alluded to it again, knowing full well I thought he was talking utter rubbish. I do remember feeling just the teeniest bit proud that he cared enough to be jealous, but I'd worked with Ryan long enough to feel completely safe with him.

Ryan maintains that he still isn't ready to settle down, despite having recently celebrated his forty-ninth birthday. What he means, I think, is that he still hasn't found that special someone. He would be a dead ringer for Michael Fassbender, if you add a few years, a sprinkling of grey hair and shave off the designer stubble. He's ageing gracefully, I keep telling him, and he has that suave, dependable, look. He went through a phase of pulling out each grey hair he found, until I informed him that they don't always grow back. I was joking, of course, who knows? But he's a man who spends more time looking in the mirror than most women. That's because he hasn't had to pander to children or a partner, or experience the delights of bathroom wars. That's a bit like Star Wars without the light sabers, but involving all the tricks you can employ to jump the queue for that leisurely soak in the tub.

He's used to the luxury of being home alone, other than accommodating the occasional overnight guest. I sigh. It's not that I regret all those years of marriage; I simply thought it was going to last forever. I willingly gave up my freedom for my husband and the two sons who left home as soon as they became young men. It was a future I'd invested in wholeheartedly, because it defined who I was – a wife and mother. It was my raison d'être.

"Are you still there?"

"Sorry Ryan, I'm wallowing a bit today. I'm so glad you're back, I've missed you. I'm guessing you had a good time?"

Of course, I didn't just lose my husband; I also lost my lifelong friend, Eve. Mistress Rat, as I now refer to her. A sob catches in my throat as I try to wind down my wayward thoughts and concentrate on Ryan's dialogue about his fabulous trip to Dubai.

"…and I'm going to plan another visit, meet up with a few of the group again next year. First time ever I didn't want to board the plane and fly home. You know me, I usually get bored after two weeks and pine for my home comforts, but it was amazing. Anyway, enough about me, how are you doing?"

I'm back in the moment, mind clear as a bell, but the motorway traffic is heavy and I'm following the satnav on a route I don't know. It's bumper to bumper and I'm trying to change lanes, indicating and easing forward gently. The driver in the car parallel to me is doing everything he can to keep me out.

"Ryan, I hate to cut you short, but it's really bad timing. I'm in a huge snarl-up on the M4/M5 interchange and the satnav is telling me I'm in the wrong lane. A bit stressed at the moment – can I call you when I get home? A lot has happened since you left and I'd appreciate your input. I'm off to measure up my new home for blinds."

"You found somewhere! Awesome! Well done, Maddie. Has there been any communication from Mistress Rat or Cheating Ex?"

"No, and yes…eek! Sorry, have to go, promise I'll ring you later."

As I bring our call to a premature halt, the guy to my right edges forward another few inches. Now I'm in an impossible situation, half-slewed across two lanes. The traffic ahead of me is starting to move off and the car behind me honks impatiently, but there's nowhere I can go. There isn't enough room to reverse and continue in this lane and Mr Nasty looks as if he'd rather cause an accident than let me in.

"In one hundred yards keep to the right," the satnav goddess reminds me for the fourth time. If I can't get into the right-hand lane now then it will be too late and I'll end up travelling to London instead of Wales.

"I know, I know! Tell Mr Nasty," I mutter. I glance across at his stony face in the hope that he'll graciously give way, but he's obviously seen my lips moving and thinks I'm talking at him. He gives me a hand gesture that is less than gentlemanly, probably assuming a lot of the dialogue consists of swear words.

"In one hundred yards, keep to the right."

"Oh, shut up!" I wail, as someone else starts honking repeatedly. There's a gap that could fit a dozen cars ahead of me and the front of my car is directly in line with the mid-section of Mr Nasty's BMW. Now he's ignoring me and my face starts to flame. The idiot is refusing to move, even though there's a big enough gap for him to pull forward and for me to tuck in nicely. I glance apologetically at the very patient man in the car behind him, who is holding back ready for me to filter in when the BMW finally decides to pull away. I nod my head in grateful appreciation. Chivalry isn't completely dead.

Honk, honk, honk.

"In one hundred yards keep right."

Mr Nasty glances my way and he actually has a smirk on his face. Right! That's it. My nearside front wing is still a few feet away from his car and I slip into first gear and edge forward another foot. I hold my breath, wondering how close I'm prepared to go. If I hit him, how much damage can you do at, oh, all of two miles per hour?

His jaw drops and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, as it dawns on him that he's decided to tango with the wrong woman. Instead of slowly rolling forward he stops completely, allowing the growing gap in front of him to widen even further. I veer the steering wheel to the left and cruise past the front of his car, slipping neatly into the gap, but ensuring I clear the front of his car by a mere whisper.

"Now who's smirking?" I throw the words at him over my shoulder. Well, he deserved that. Suddenly, he puts his foot down and swerves across behind me, and our positions are reversed. He's now alongside me in the inside lane. He winds down his window for a few seconds, shouts out, "Scary lady, are you insane?" and then floors the accelerator. He speeds off, taking advantage of the huge gap that has opened up while we've been dancing around on the motorway.

I'm speechless. He was in the wrong lane all along! As our respective traffic lines peel off in opposite directions, a big smile crosses my face. I pick up speed thinking, hey, I'm a scary lady and maybe it's about time I started asserting myself… it might be rather fun!

When I pull up in the driveway leading down to Ash Cottage, the estate agent who comes to greet me isn't Sarah but a colleague. He's very smartly dressed, but looks almost too young to be anyone's employee. He extends his hand as he introduces himself and I reach out to clasp it and shake, only to feel mortified as my firm grip meets no resistance at all. Goodness gracious, young man, you need to work on that. I keep my thoughts to myself and give him a bright smile.

"I only need to take a few measurements, Connor," I explain, fearful he might burst into tears after the assault on his hand.

"I'll…um…sort out the key, then," he mumbles, digging deep into his jacket pocket. I follow him down the winding path as we head towards the front of the cottage, when, suddenly, a loud, "Hello" makes us both stop in our tracks. Spinning around, I see a guy in his late fifties, sporting a mass of unruly grey hair, ambling towards us with a big grin on his face.

"So glad to have caught you," he remarks, jovially. "I'm Terence Darby. My wife, Joanna, and I live in Bay Tree Barn – the one at the end of the track," he points his finger along the overgrown lane that runs high up behind Ash Cottage.

"Great to meet you, Terence, I'm Maddie Brooks. This is Connor from Cooper and Tate Estate Agents. I've come to measure up."

Terence steps forward and we shake hands, his firm grip reassuring me that I wasn't being over-zealous earlier. I notice that Connor stands well back, no doubt still nursing a sore hand.

"It's going to be lovely having a neighbour again," Terence replies. He's obviously a seasoned walker, his boots have that lived-in look and his stout walking stick has probably fended off many a bramble.

"I had hoped to be in by now, but there have been several delays." I shoot a glance at Connor, who is engrossed in scraping his shoe against a small mound of long grass. He swipes it several times to remove the dust from the lane. Even if he was listening, I think it's unlikely he'd know what was happening anyway, but it was worth a try.

"Ah," Terence shakes his head. "I can only imagine what it's like today with all the paperwork. We've been here for nearly thirty years and the house before that was our first. We do miss Aggie, she was a lovely lady."

I realise that Connor is waiting impatiently, his shoe-scuffing has stopped and he's now sorting through a handful of keys, with purpose. Terence and I exchange glances, his eyes twinkling and a little smirk lifts his lip as he tries his best not to laugh.

"Well, lovely to meet you, Terence, and fingers crossed that Ash Cottage won't remain empty for much longer."

Terence gives a little salute, a brief nod to Connor, who is still head-down and totally oblivious and he walks off down the lane whistling.

"Nice chap," I say out aloud, as I crane my neck to see if I can spot the barn. The track has a turn in it and already Terence is out of sight.

"Is this the only entrance to Bay Tree Barn?" I enquire, assuming Connor will at least have some knowledge of this property.

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know". With that, he turns on his heels and heads off back down the path, still sorting through his handful of keys.

"Are they all for Ash Cottage?" I ask, rather surprised there are so many. When Sarah showed me around I'm sure she only had a small ring of keys in her hand.

"Well, I thought they were." He begins trying each one in turn, picking out a few that obviously won't fit and putting them back into his jacket pocket. Several look as if they belong to outbuildings and one is quite primitive, made out of cast iron. He's becoming rather frustrated and the colour is rising in his cheeks, so I wander off to give him space and begin looking around the garden. However, it's hard not to simply stand and admire the view, though I'm also excited to explore. I remember the wooden shed that stands halfway down the sloping garden, raised on a semicircular patio area and with an old wooden bench running alongside it. The view from the bench is at a different angle to the view you get from the house and on a bright, warm, autumnal day like today it's a little sun trap.

The colour of the trees now has an orangey hue, the breeze carrying a few leaves here and there as it teases them from the branches. In a week or two they will be falling by the sackful and it dawns on me that this garden is going to be quite labour-intensive. But the stunning vista is mesmerising, and I'm actually looking forward to the hours I'll be spending taming this garden and getting it back into some semblance of order.

"It's no good," Connor calls over his shoulder. "None of these keys fit. Seems I might have picked up the wrong ones from the cabinet. The problem is," he looks at me with unease, "I'm due at my next viewing in twenty-five minutes. I don't have time to drive back to the office to pick them up."

While I do feel sorry for him, I also feel exasperated. "It's taken me over an hour to get here. Can you ring the office and see if someone else could pop out with them? I don't mind waiting – now that I'm here."