Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage by Milly Johnson

know. She had framed photos everywhere in her bedroom at home. She had brought a few with her – one of her with her friend Hugo, and one of her mum, and one of Basil as a kitten sleeping face down in his food bowl. Maybe it was a girl thing. But she did notice a gold band on a dish by his bedside. A wedding band.
    ‘Is there a Mrs Heath?’ she asked.
    ‘There was,’ replied Geraldine. ‘Sarah died not long after I came to live here. Breast cancer. Such a young age.’ She shook her head sadly.
    ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ replied Viv. ‘My mum had it too, eight years ago. Luckily they caught it early and she just needed a lump out. It hadn’t spread, thank goodness. She’s been clear for years now.’
    ‘Sarah wasn’t so lucky,’ said Geraldine, shaking out the duvet cover. ‘She ignored all the signs out of fear and then acted too late.’
    There weren’t even any photos of Sarah, Viv noticed. But death affected people so differently. At the prospect of it, Stel had crumbled; young Viv had turned into a Viking warrior and Darren had made a bolt for it like the cowardly twat he was. Viv had liked him when he first moved in, even though he never seemed to do much but sleep, eat and watch football. But for him to abandon her mother when she was at her most vulnerable was unforgivable. He hadn’t even had the decency to do it to her face but ran off while she was in hospital with cases that he must have been secretly pre-packing for days and left her a perfunctory text that she’d find when she came round from her lumpectomy. Stel had been devastated by his betrayal. Viv might only have been a teenager but she was old enough to realise what absolute pond-life he had turned out to be.
    Viv could hear the sound of a vehicle outside. Geraldine crossed to the window.
    ‘I bet this is Heath,’ she said. But from the way the smile withered on her face, it was obvious that it wasn’t.
    Viv looked out also and saw a short convoy nearing the cottage, led by a matt-grey car. Behind that came a silver Range Rover, and following at a canter was the woman on the black horse that Viv had seen up on the hill on her first day.
    ‘Nicholas Leighton,’ snarled Geraldine. ‘What the hell does he want?’
    Nicholas Leighton. Head of the present Leighton clan
, thought Viv. Father of the horse rider. The man that Hugo had told her would be useful to get to know and ‘she should make damned sure he knew of her’. He was trying to carve a reputation as a philanthropist helping to fund young business people. Who better to recognise the talents of a young fellow Yorkshire person?
    By the time that Geraldine had reached the front door, Nicholas Leighton had got out of his car and was standing with another man who was carrying a clipboard and pointing towards the cottage. Geraldine marched out, her long skirt swishing. Viv nudged the mop bucket out of the way with her foot and pushed the door almost closed so that she could watch what happened without being seen herself.
    ‘What are you doing here, Mr Leighton?’ said Geraldine.
    Nicholas Leighton gave her a cursory glance and then resumed his conversation with Mr Clipboard.
    ‘Get off, you’re trespassing,’ said Geraldine, in as cross a voice as she could muster.
    So this was Nicholas Leighton, thought Viv, momentarily fascinated. He was taller than she had expected and lean with the long legs of an athlete. His hair was thick and black, greying artfully at the temples and in a patch at the front. He’d have a Mallen streak one day, she thought. He looked every inch the country gent in his tweed jacket and expensive boots. His daughter, smoothly dismounting the horse, had the same boots. They probably cost more than the whole of Viv’s worldly possessions. She had tight jodhpurs over her slim legs and a beautifully cut snow-white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off golden forearms. She undid the strap of her riding hat, pulled it off and shook out her long black hair as