Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage by Milly Johnson Page A

if she were filming a shampoo advert. She was beautiful and Viv suspected she knew that she was.
    ‘Did you hear me?’ said Geraldine. ‘It isn’t your land yet. Get off.’
    ‘Oh do go away, you stupid woman,’ Nicholas Leighton threw over his shoulder, flicking his hand out as if he were waving away an irritating fly. He was talking to the man with the clipboard about the plans for the estate. He wasn’t coming across as friendly as his press articles made him sound. Viv could hear giveaway phrases:
There’s no problem about extending the existing pipework. Phase one planning permission for two hundred houses has been agreed.
‘Obviously this lot’ – he thumbed behind him at the cottage – ‘will resort to cheap Fabian tactics, but work
will
commence on the day that the lease expires. Of that there is no question.’
    Antonia Leighton strolled towards them, leading the horse. Viv watched her unseen from the kitchen. She was tall and willowy but had the same wide shoulders as her father.
    ‘I’d like you to leave,’ Geraldine was squawking at him, but Leighton wasn’t taking any notice of her. She might as well have been one of the hens on the other side of the fence protesting when anyone came within a yard of their eggs.
    Viv didn’t like how Antonia seemed to be amused by Geraldine’s distress. She had full dark pink lips that were twisted into a sneer. She was lovely but it was a very cold sort of beauty, Viv thought. Her eyes were a startling shade of dark blue but there was no warmth in them at all.
    Viv watched as Pilot walked over to Antonia, who didn’t see his approach, and nudged the hand that hung at her side with his cold damp nose, hoping for a stroke. Antonia jumped and dropped her hat, startling her horse. Then, quick as a flash, she turned, crop still in hand. Viv saw her raise it. Even quicker than a flash, Viv pulled open the door, reached for the handle of the mop bucket, lifted it, stepped out and threw the contents. Most of the dirty water landed squarely on Antonia Leighton, the rest splashed over the full length of her father’s expensive sleeve.
    The horse threw its head up and shied away, making Antonia stagger. There were a few seconds of the stillest silence ever. Viv’s jaw was open more than everyone else’s put together. Had she really just done that? What part of her brain had told her to throw a bucket of grimy water all over the shiny white Antonia? She certainly wasn’t shiny white any more. Then the silence ended and all hell broke loose. Through the hair plastered over her face, Antonia screamed like a toddler having a tantrum. The horse broke free of her grasp and trotted across the yard, where luckily it halted. Nicholas Leighton, blue eyes blazing, strode angrily towards Viv, his face fixed in fury but stopped in his tracks when Viv grabbed the mop and held it up at his face height like a domestic knight’s lance. He stumbled back, almost comically.
    ‘How dare . . . Who the hell are you?’
    ‘
Daad
. . .’ Antonia was standing, arms extended, like the Christ of the Andes. Her face was contorted in disgust.
    ‘My name is Viv. Viv Blackbird,’ Viv said. Her voice was strong, belying the massive shuddering underneath her skin. She hadn’t imagined the introduction to go like this, but it had and it couldn’t be undone.
    Glaring at Viv like a vengeful harpy, Antonia screamed at her. ‘Have you any idea how much this shirt cost?’
    ‘No,’ returned Viv, sounding cockier than she meant to. She hadn’t a clue about designer clothes, which she presumed Antonia wore. The most expensive thing Viv owned was a half-cashmere jumper which she’d found in the Debenhams Blue Cross sale last year with seventy per cent off.
    ‘You’ll pay for this,’ shrieked Antonia. Viv didn’t know if she meant literally or metaphorically – but she had no intention of doing either.
    ‘You were going to hit the dog. With your crop.’
    ‘That’s assault. You’ve just