‘I could ask.’
‘That’d be great.’
As she drinks her tea, the guy makes an inaudible phone call.
‘So yeah,’ he says, looking up.
‘That’s OK?’
‘Yeah.’
The house is a couple of hundred metres up the road from the café. It’s a tiny, timber-framed building, clearly several centuries old, sandwiched between a pharmacy and an estate agency. A young woman with tattooed arms answers the door, fixes Eve with an unblinking gaze, and introduces herself as Philippa.
‘Are you?—?’
‘Yes. I’m Tom’s mum. He’s sixteen, and so was I when I had him.’
‘I—’
‘You were wondering, Eve, and fair enough.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘It’s written on the tag on your suitcase. Come in and have a look at the place.’
They step into a front room so tiny that the sofa under the window occupies almost half of the floor space. Opposite it is a pair of side tables. One holds a small television and several framed photographs, the other appears to be some kind of altar,or shrine. Winding her way towards the kitchen, Eve notes a sheaf of lavender, a dagger, a statuette of a stag-headed god with dead ivy entwined in its antlers, and a nude Barbie figure wearing the beaked skull of a bird – a crow, perhaps, or a raven – like a helmet. There’s a smell in the air that Eve recognises but can’t quite place. Something animalistic. Something alluring and faintly nauseating.
‘I’m a witch, by the way,’ Philippa says. ‘Did Tom tell you?’
‘No,’ Eve says. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Little bugger. I always tell him to say. There’s some as don’t like it.’
‘Fine by me,’ Eve says.
‘That’s a relief!’
As Eve looks around her, a cat winds itself around her ankles, mewing loudly. Eve bends to stroke it and the cat begins to purr.
‘That’s Pyewacket,’ Philippa says. ‘She likes you. I’ve seen her snarl at guests. We had one once, Pye scratched her so badly I had to take her to the doctor for a tetanus shot. Turns out she was wanted by the police for coercing a man into sex, not that they need much coercing in my experience. How’d you take your tea?’
As Philippa bustles round the kitchen, which is even smaller than the front room, Eve covertly examines her. She’s pale-skinned and freckled, with auburn hair falling to her shoulders, and strong, clear features. The tattoos on her arms are elaborate and skilfully executed. There’s a dancing hare, a pentagram, and half a dozen symbols that Eve doesn’t recognise.
‘So,’ Philippa says, when the tea is made and poured. ‘What brings you here to Cranborne?’
Fair question. What does bring me here? Desperation? Instinct? A broken heart? All of the above? Have I made a terrible mistake? Shouldn’t I concede that Oxana is a special case, that she really does love me in her own crazy Oxana way, and that I just have to live with the fact that she’s also a habitual pants-on-fire liar who takes me into account when it suits her and forgets me when it doesn’t?
No. I had to walk out of that meeting. I had no choice whatsoever. I was blindsided and humiliated; ironically, by Oxana being honest. By her showing that she cared more about her relationship with the Twelve than her relationship with me. That’s why she didn’t tell me about the deal she made with them. Because she knew that I’d have read it as a rejection of the life we shared – the life that’s been so desperately difficult to build and to hold together, the life to which I’ve given absolutely fucking everything – and she’d have been right. I don’t hate her. I can’t even bring myself to be angry with her. I’m just sad, in a way that I’ll never recover from. I’m lost. My heart is broken.
‘I need to get away from my life in London. I need a break. A change.’
Philippa regards her with quietly attentive eyes. She smiles. ‘Well, Wessex is a nice place to come, and Cranborne Chase is an area of outstanding natural beauty. Lots of walking routes. Lots of history to be discovered, if that’s your thing. I can lend you a booklet, if you like.’
Eve sips her tea, which is strong and good and made of proper tea leaves. She was half-expecting something herbal, some insipid brew that tasted of grass clippings but was marvellous for the colon. Or something more sinister, made of wormwood or valerian, that would give her visions. But no, this is standard-issue PG Tips. ‘Thanks for this,’ she says, raising her cup a few inches, ‘I needed it.’
‘You look as if you need a good rest,’ Philippa says, scratching absently at her elbow.
Eve’s eyes are suddenly and infuriatingly brimming with tears. She nods, not trusting her voice.