Antonia said yes, wasn’t it, and did not add that for five years she had been used to queuing for the communal showers each morning, and hoarding a bottle of shampoo as jealously as if it was the elixir of eternal life.
Clothes were more easily dealt with. She bought two pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters, and some trainers, at a big chain-store in Oxford Street. Then a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the crowded self-service restaurant–yes, you can cope with being out for another hour, Antonia! After this modest repast she hesitated over a trouser and jacket outfit the colour of autumn leaves. Useful for unexpected invitations, and an absolutely gorgeous colour. Oh sure, and when would you wear it? Or are you expecting the locals at this tiny Cheshire village to sweep you into a dizzy social whirl the minute you arrive? In any case, you can’t possibly afford clothes like that, said a bossy voice in her head, this is the boutique section, and look at the price tag for pity’s sake! This remark tipped the balance irrevocably. Antonia came out of the shop with the autumn-brown outfit lovingly folded into its own designer-label bag.
The cottage suggested by Jonathan’s contact or newest bed partner or whatever she was, apparently stood in the grounds of an eighteenth-century manor. It was called Quire House and it had been converted into a small museum–Charity Cottage was apparently a former tied cottage in its grounds. Antonia thought the name smacked of paternalism and gentrified ladies visiting the poor with baskets of calf’s-foot jelly, and thought she would probably hate it.
But by this time she was committed. She had sent a cheque for two months’ rent which she certainly could not afford to forfeit, and had received by return of post a standard short-term lease agreement. This granted her full and free enjoyment of the messuage and curtilage, whatever those might be, permitted various rights of way depicted in red on a smudgily photocopied plan which presumably allowed her to get in and out of the place, and wound up by forbidding the playing of loud music after eleven at night, the plying of any trade, profession or business whatsoever, and the entertaining of any rowdy, inebriated or otherwise disruptive guests.
Charity Cottage, Amberwood. It sounded like a cross between Trollope and the Archers. I won’t be able to stand it for longer than a week, thought Antonia, rescuing her car which had been standing in an ex-colleague’s garage for the past five years, and which the ex-colleague had generously kept serviced for her. It’ll either be impossibly twee or tediously refined, and Quire House will be one of those earnest folksy places–afternoon classes in tapestry weaving, and displays of bits of Roman roads dug up by students. Or it’ll be a sixties-style commune, with people trading soup recipes or swapping lovers. If they find out I’m a doctor they’ll consult me about bunions or haemorrhoids, and if they find out I’m a psychiatrist they’ll describe their dreams.
But I certainly won’t get within hailing distance of any rowdy guests. Nor will I be plying a profession.
It felt odd to have a latchkey again; the agents had sent it by recorded delivery, and Antonia had had to phone them to confirm its arrival. This was somehow rather comforting; it was a reminder that there was still a world where people cared about privacy and where they took trouble to safeguard property. Perhaps it might be all right after all, thought Antonia. Perhaps I’ll find I’ve made a good decision.