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Chapter Five

Angela grimaced as she looked out the window at the rain cascading down in a torrent. It felt like it had been raining non-stop for the best part of a week, and she hated it. It was only just November, but winter had well and truly landed with a vengeance. The rain had turned the courtyard into a slippery rink that threatened to dump her on her behind every time she had to cross it.

Her jacket dripped over the washing-up bowl in the corner of the room, and she sighed as Ruby slunk in, bringing a pungent, musty damp smell with her. Angela wrinkled her nose and slid slowly and carefully to the floor, holding out an old towel to the grumbling vixen.

‘Come on, you and I both know you hate being wet,’ Angela coaxed. ‘Almost as much as I hate you being wet indoors. Please be a nice girl and don’t shake!’ She just about got the towel over the little fox before she grinned and shook. ‘You really can be a brat, you know?’ She laughed as she briskly rubbed the little fox dry while she squirmed happily, rolling on the floor and enjoying the attention for a few minutes before deciding she’d had enough, letting Angela know in her usual, ungrateful way — a growl and nip at her fingers. She flopped out in front of the stove, filling the small room with her pungent foxy funk.

It had to stop raining soon. Even the ducks had had enough.

* * *

The rain lashed down hard, flooding out the small roads as the drains gurgled, struggling to handle the ongoing downpour. The news had threatened storms, and to Rick it felt like the clouds were trying to dump an entire season’s worth of rain onto the little village in a few days. He’d splodged his way up the path to Bill’s, regretting his expensive shoes that seemed no more effective than sandals at keeping his feet dry. He’d gotten drenched the day before in trainers, so had switched to boots that had purported to be “all weather, all terrain”. A good sales line, but a terrible product. He’d already realised they were much better for posing in than actually using. He wondered if he’d somehow used them wrong, but that was ridiculous. How could anyone use boots incorrectly?

He squelched into the office and peeled off his equally expensive jacket. At least his top half was dry. He was glad he’d taken Angela’s early advice of stashing a bag of clean clothes in the office — changing might be the only way he could stay warm and dry today.

‘Hang it over the bowl.’ Angela pointed to the corner where, sure enough, the washing-up bowl was now in position under a hook. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on.’

‘Thanks.’ He set about taking off his shoes, grimacing at the feel of the wet laces. Sure enough, his socks were soaked through, so he peeled them off, wrung them out into the bucket, and shoved them next to the coat to dry. ‘What is that smell?’

‘That would be madam ungrateful.’ Angela flicked a finger towards Ruby, lying spread out in front of the flickering wood burner, her white belly spread out towards the ceiling. ‘You could always shove your socks in the washing machine. I’ve got a load of cloths and towels to go on this morning,’ Angela offered.

‘No, it’s fine thanks.’ He dreaded to think what had dirtied the towels, but at Bill’s it probably wasn’t anything too pleasant. ‘They’re hand-wash only, anyway.’

‘Hand-wash socks? Are you serious?’

‘Cashmere.’ He shrugged.

‘You hand-wash your socks? What, like in the bathroom sink?’

‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Dry cleaners.’

‘Wow.’ She shook her head at him. Really slowly. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please yes. It’s been a bit of a day already. My ride was late, apparently some of the roads flooded and the detour was a huge traffic jam.’

‘Still no sign of Yvette then?’ He couldn’t help but notice Angela busied herself with the kettle, not looking at him as she asked.

‘No. I’ve not seen her since her visit here. She did text me though. My car is being delivered and she wanted her things back. She said she’s going to stay with a friend while she “gets over me”. Some friend called Jean with a yacht off some Greek island or somewhere. Corfu, maybe. They go away like this pretty often.’ He didn’t really care. Eight months of dating, and apparently all he deserved was a brief message nearly a week after she’d stormed out on him. He suspected that if he didn’t have one of her favourite, limited-edition handbags in his flat, he wouldn’t have heard from her at all.

He wondered what it meant that he wasn’t particularly upset. Sure, he missed the fairly energetic sex, but in honesty his agent had seemed more upset than he felt at the split.

‘Cashmere socks, yachts and Greek islands.’ Angela shook her head. ‘A far cry from instant coffee and stinky damp fox.’

‘Yeah.’ He laughed. ‘For someone so cute, she is pretty pongy.’ But despite that, he surprised himself by realising that he actually wouldn’t change anything today. Well, apart from the road-flooding rain and maybe some air-freshener . . . not that Angela would let him spray the little vixen. But to pet and play with a wild fox? That was pretty awesome, and worth a bit of discomfort. Besides, the Rickheads loved her. Then again, they didn’t have to smell her!

But the video of him throwing a ball for her, and getting her to do tricks like sitting, speaking and shaking “paws” on command — in exchange for bits of sausage — had drowned out any speculation regarding the picture of Yvette’s skinny knees and perfectly polished toes against a backdrop of the Med. He supposed he should be grateful for that.

The most hideous noise echoed around the courtyard and into the office, freezing his thoughts in their tracks. Rick glanced at Angela, waiting for her reaction to understand his own. It sounded like something was being murdered, but he’d already learned — courtesy of the foxes — that sometimes the most horrible of noises was “normal” around animals. But the worry paling her face didn’t do much to reassure him.

The sound was followed by a weird shrieking, not unlike a car alarm, before reverting back to the hideous screeching that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Ruby shot across the small room, bolting to her favourite hiding spot behind Angela’s desk.

‘What the he . . .’ He caught Angela’s glare and quickly changed his tune. ‘. . . Heck. What the heck is that noise?’

‘I don’t know. But I can’t imagine it’s anything good.’

Rick grimaced as he shoved his bare feet back into his still-wet shoes, following Angela outside. He grabbed the umbrella from by the door, doing his best to hold it above Angela’s head. When she shot him a grateful smile, he just shrugged. He was already pretty damp anyway, and it wasn’t like she could easily manage the umbrella with her crutches.

They found the source of the noise at the end of the driveway: an old crisp box, already collapsing in on itself from the rain. Angela struggled to kneel down, hampered by her crutches and the slippery stones beneath their feet, and shot him a pleading look.