She was grateful that she could talk to Michael she couldn't confide these feelings to anyone else but she missed seeing the signs of understanding on his face as they sat together on his sofa, and having him put his arm around her. He often said that he missed her when they spoke on the telephone, but did he miss her in quite the same way that she missed him? His life was so busy, so full, so high-speed, and then there was Lucien. Stella had begun to suspect that there might be some variance in their interpretation of the words 'I miss you'.

CHAPTER TWO

When Stella had told Michael and Lucien that she'd moved into a property called Celandine Cottage, they had laughed at how twee it sounded and a particularly hideous garden gnome had arrived in the post the following week. Stella supposed they imagined inglenooks and mullioned windows, crooked quaintness and hollyhocks, but Bethesda Row was a terrace of old weavers' cottages, with smoke-blackened stonework and cellars that regularly flooded. What a fright they'd have if they saw her cracked kitchen sink, the rotting window frames and the bloom of mould on the pantry walls. When Stella thought of the bright, modern flat that she'd left behind in Pimlico everything so comfortable and efficient  the contrast couldn't be greater. She wished that Michael could find the time to come up for a visit, but she imagined herself feeling some embarrassment as his eyes took in the corners where the drawing pins were holding up the wallpaper.

She leaned against the range and warmed her hands now. She'd been writing about modern gas ovens this week, with thermostatic controls and easy-to-clean enamel surfaces, but meanwhile she was cooking on a museum piece. If she had a reliable oven, she'd make génoise sponges and soufflés, Stella told herself, splendid things en croute and en papillote, raised pies and marvellous puddings. If her oven behaved itself, if everything didn't emerge from it covered in black smuts, she'd actually test the recipes she wrote. She pictured a sun-lit tabletop jostling with this impressive fare; instead, her kitchen table was presently the home of her typewriter. There were little balls of dust shifting underneath the keys, she'd noticed yesterday, and she couldn't remember when she'd last rolled pastry there. It wasn't good to be a cookery writer who didn't cook, Stella realized. She was well aware of that. Come to think of it, she hadn't done too much writing recently either. It was just so difficult to find the motivation at the moment.

Stella filled the teapot and stood with her hands around it. Celandine Cottage was altogether a mean little house, she considered, definitely not worth two pounds a week, and very possibly haunted. Mr Outhwaite, her landlord, had openly told her that his father had passed away here and the property was still furnished with the old man's rugs and armchairs, all suspiciously stained and dinted and marked with tobacco burns. When Stella sat down, she settled into old Mr Outhwaite's hollows, she ate off his plates, saw her reflection in his mirrors, and her clothes emerged from his drawers with a faintly sour smell. She was fortunate to have a bathroom several of her neighbours still had outside privies but there were handles on the walls and, for all of her efforts with white vinegar, she couldn't get rid of the grey limescale ring in the bathtub. She'd once woken in the night and thought that she'd seen old Mr O standing at the end of her bed, a wheezing shape in a rumpled nightshirt. In the morning she'd told herself that it had been just a dream, merely her overactive imagination, but had it been? Did old Mr Outhwaite resent her being here? Stella did want to believe in an afterlife she clung to the idea of being able to see her mother's face again but Outhwaite Senior wouldn't have been her first choice of ambassador from the other side. 

She could smell old Mr O as she stepped into the front room now, a faint but distinct whiff of pipe tobacco, wintergreen and long-unlaundered underclothes. Stella had taken to exorcizing him with lavender pomanders, pots of hyacinths, sprays of Mitsouko and gardenia-scented candles. She lit one now and a cigarette for good measure. Didn't they puff smoke at bees to keep them in abeyance? Might it work on the ghosts of unwashed old men too?

It was perishingly cold in here. She tried to stir the fire back into life with the poker, but smoke billowed into the room and she had to open a window. Stella hugged her hot-water bottle on her knee and cradled her teacup in her hands. What would people think of her, sitting here huddled in one of her mother's old jumpers? In London, Stella had been known for her bold prints, her daring taste in hats and her joie de vivre, friends told her that, but had she even remembered to put lipstick on this morning?

If this property was her own, she'd throw out all the shabby, sticky furniture she contemplated now. It would give her pleasure to make a bonfire of it in the garden, to pull up the carpets, whitewash the walls and scrub the floorboards. She often liked to think what she might do to the cottage if it were actually hers and she had the money to remodel it. She spent evenings hanging hypothetical curtains, choosing paint colours and Hepplewhite chairs. It was pleasurable to ponder how one might spend imaginary money. But if she had the option, would she really stay here? Wouldn't she go back to London?

She was grateful that she could talk to Michael she couldn't confide these feelings to anyone else but she missed seeing the signs of understanding on his face as they sat together on his sofa, and having him put his arm around her. He often said that he missed her when they spoke on the telephone, but did he miss her in quite the same way that she missed him? His life was so busy, so full, so high-speed, and then there was Lucien. Stella had begun to suspect that there might be some variance in their interpretation of the words 'I miss you'.

CHAPTER TWO

When Stella had told Michael and Lucien that she'd moved into a property called Celandine Cottage, they had laughed at how twee it sounded and a particularly hideous garden gnome had arrived in the post the following week. Stella supposed they imagined inglenooks and mullioned windows, crooked quaintness and hollyhocks, but Bethesda Row was a terrace of old weavers' cottages, with smoke-blackened stonework and cellars that regularly flooded. What a fright they'd have if they saw her cracked kitchen sink, the rotting window frames and the bloom of mould on the pantry walls. When Stella thought of the bright, modern flat that she'd left behind in Pimlico everything so comfortable and efficient  the contrast couldn't be greater. She wished that Michael could find the time to come up for a visit, but she imagined herself feeling some embarrassment as his eyes took in the corners where the drawing pins were holding up the wallpaper.

She leaned against the range and warmed her hands now. She'd been writing about modern gas ovens this week, with thermostatic controls and easy-to-clean enamel surfaces, but meanwhile she was cooking on a museum piece. If she had a reliable oven, she'd make génoise sponges and soufflés, Stella told herself, splendid things en croute and en papillote, raised pies and marvellous puddings. If her oven behaved itself, if everything didn't emerge from it covered in black smuts, she'd actually test the recipes she wrote. She pictured a sun-lit tabletop jostling with this impressive fare; instead, her kitchen table was presently the home of her typewriter. There were little balls of dust shifting underneath the keys, she'd noticed yesterday, and she couldn't remember when she'd last rolled pastry there. It wasn't good to be a cookery writer who didn't cook, Stella realized. She was well aware of that. Come to think of it, she hadn't done too much writing recently either. It was just so difficult to find the motivation at the moment.

Stella filled the teapot and stood with her hands around it. Celandine Cottage was altogether a mean little house, she considered, definitely not worth two pounds a week, and very possibly haunted. Mr Outhwaite, her landlord, had openly told her that his father had passed away here and the property was still furnished with the old man's rugs and armchairs, all suspiciously stained and dinted and marked with tobacco burns. When Stella sat down, she settled into old Mr Outhwaite's hollows, she ate off his plates, saw her reflection in his mirrors, and her clothes emerged from his drawers with a faintly sour smell. She was fortunate to have a bathroom several of her neighbours still had outside privies but there were handles on the walls and, for all of her efforts with white vinegar, she couldn't get rid of the grey limescale ring in the bathtub. She'd once woken in the night and thought that she'd seen old Mr O standing at the end of her bed, a wheezing shape in a rumpled nightshirt. In the morning she'd told herself that it had been just a dream, merely her overactive imagination, but had it been? Did old Mr Outhwaite resent her being here? Stella did want to believe in an afterlife she clung to the idea of being able to see her mother's face again but Outhwaite Senior wouldn't have been her first choice of ambassador from the other side. 

She could smell old Mr O as she stepped into the front room now, a faint but distinct whiff of pipe tobacco, wintergreen and long-unlaundered underclothes. Stella had taken to exorcizing him with lavender pomanders, pots of hyacinths, sprays of Mitsouko and gardenia-scented candles. She lit one now and a cigarette for good measure. Didn't they puff smoke at bees to keep them in abeyance? Might it work on the ghosts of unwashed old men too?

It was perishingly cold in here. She tried to stir the fire back into life with the poker, but smoke billowed into the room and she had to open a window. Stella hugged her hot-water bottle on her knee and cradled her teacup in her hands. What would people think of her, sitting here huddled in one of her mother's old jumpers? In London, Stella had been known for her bold prints, her daring taste in hats and her joie de vivre, friends told her that, but had she even remembered to put lipstick on this morning?

If this property was her own, she'd throw out all the shabby, sticky furniture she contemplated now. It would give her pleasure to make a bonfire of it in the garden, to pull up the carpets, whitewash the walls and scrub the floorboards. She often liked to think what she might do to the cottage if it were actually hers and she had the money to remodel it. She spent evenings hanging hypothetical curtains, choosing paint colours and Hepplewhite chairs. It was pleasurable to ponder how one might spend imaginary money. But if she had the option, would she really stay here? Wouldn't she go back to London?