Free The Cheesemaker's House by Jane Cable Page B

feel decidedly grouchy.
    Most mornings I’m a bit of a zombie so it is no surprise that I’m staring blankly out of the kitchen window when I hear a scrunch of tyres on the gravel. I’m not expecting anyone, but soon I hear Richard’s voice calling.
    â€œYoo-hoo, Princess, are you there? I’ve brought Bob to have a look at the damp proofing work.”
    â€œHow do you always know when I’ve just put the kettle on?” I yell back, trying to stir myself. “Come through to the kitchen.”
    After our cup of tea I open the big barn doors to let the light stream in and William and I follow the men as they walk around inside, looking critically at the cobwebbed walls and scratching around in the cracks in the concrete floor.
    â€œThis will all have to come up,” Bob explains. “Then I’ll put a plastic membrane underneath and inject a chemical damp proof course all round the walls.”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem that damp to me,” I venture.
    â€œNo, love, but the air can get through it now. You have it all cosy and sealed in, and you’ll soon have a problem. Just re-concreting the floor might make the place damp. Best do the job properly.”
    I’m not completely convinced but Richard is nodding and I have to trust his judgment; anyway, I’m feeling particularly crabby so it’s better to keep my mouth shut.
    It’s too hot for much in the way of lunch so William and I spend a few hours in the garden. The area destined to become the patio for the holiday let is out of the afternoon sun so I attack the weeds until my arms are raw with scratches from the brambles. One cut is quite deep and stings like hell. After a futile hunt for the Savlon I grab my keys and handbag and head for Boots in Northallerton.
    On the way back to the car I find myself in the alleyway that passes Caffé Bianco. I have heard nothing from Owen since that wonderful kiss on the cheek last week – it seems beyond him to reply to a text – but even so I have half a mind to pop in to see him if he’s not too busy. When I peep through the door Owen is leaning on the counter, deep in conversation with a skinny blonde. I turn away before he notices me.
    When I get back to the car I positively throw my handbag into the footwell and slam the gears into reverse. I am about to pull out when I catch sight of myself in the rear view mirror. The months of stress are taking their toll and I am confronted by a pair of sunken brown eyes peering miserably at the wrinkles forming around them. The rosiness in my cheeks has been replaced by an unhealthy pallor and there is a nasty spot on the side of my nose. No wonder Owen prefers talking to the skinny blonde.
    I take my foot off the clutch and the car stalls. Hot tears well up behind my eyelids. But after a few moments I tell myself to get a grip; I only look so rubbish and feet so grotty and ratty and confused about everything because I am so tired. I make a split second decision; straight back to Boots to buy the most expensive face pack they have and a packet of Sleep-Eazee. And there’s no way I’m walking past Caffé Bianco.

Chapter Seventeen
    The first time I wake it’s pitch black. The hours of true darkness are very few at this time of year and if I don’t go back to sleep then I’m in for a long one. For a while I stare at the ceiling, trying not to think of anything very much but focusing on my breathing. When that doesn’t work I indulge myself in a little fantasy of being held in someone’s (alright, Owen’s) arms. When that doesn’t work I remember the sleeping pills in my handbag.
    They must have an effect because I doze off for a while, but then I wake with a jump, feeling completely disorientated. There is a noise which seems to be coming from somewhere inside the house, but after grappling with it for a few moments I realise it isn’t inside at all; it’s the crying I heard