Chapter one

As the plane finally broke through the clouds, a faint cheer echoed through the cabin. It didn't last long. It was replaced by a groan. The ground below was sodden. Rain streamed down the window. That was right for Britain wasn't it? Or should that be England? Mona smiled. 'Little old England. Hello there,' she muttered under her breath before turning it into a cough. No point in appearing crazy. Although she was, wasn't she? Anyone else would have pitched up to her ex, demanded a fair share of the business, house and furniture and high tailed it to the hills. Except she couldn't. Not yet. Something was stopping her. Fear? Probably. How on earth had she let herself become sucked into his web of spite again? At least in England she'd be free to figure out what she was going to do. She sighed. Something would turn up.

'First time in England?' her neighbour said. It was good it was a night time flight. There hadn't been any excuse to exchange more than a name before the cabin crew dimmed the lights, turned up the heating and they sped across the pond in a cocoon of dry air and other people's smells, fearful that any small tremor and the damned thing would plummet out of the sky. Her neighbour had been a deep sleeper. Once the eye shades were on, she was out. And she hadn't moved. Either she had a bladder the size of an elephant or she wore special protective pants. Mona hoped it was the former.

Mona acknowledged the question and the interest with a smile. 'No. I've been on holiday a couple of times to London. This is something different.'

'Oh?' the Botox wouldn't allow any expression. The voice gave it all away. Tell me, I'm bursting to know.

'Yes. I'm staying for a couple of months, getting to know the countryside, that sort of thing,' Mona said. Should she get Botox? Or a tattoo? What do you do to mark leaving an old life behind? Perhaps she could go blonde? It would make a change from grey with a few streaks of red.

'Rather you than me,' the woman patted her hand. 'They just don't do decent coffee and as for iced water.' She let her words dribble away. 'Oh, but the history. You must see Stratford, Bath, York and there's Windsor and Stonehenge,' she counted off the places on coral tipped fingernails. Her hands were marked with brown spots and suggested she was at least seventy. 'I'm eighty-three,' she said. Mona smiled her approval and awe. 'This time I'm off to Edinburgh. Just have to see those men in kilts.' She flapped a hand smothered in gold rings in front of her face. 'Phew. Getting hot already.'

There was no time for any more discussion. The pilot's announcement that they were preparing for landing sent everyone into a flurry of activity and before Mona could blink, she was outside in the damp, early morning air as black taxis and coaches vied for the limited space at the terminal arrivals area. She checked her itinerary; a coach to Reading station, a train to Stroud and a taxi to the cottage. She yawned. Her coach wasn't till eleven. She needed coffee and prayed her neighbour had been wrong.

Starbucks. She knew that name. 'A latte with almond milk, a double shot and a cinnamon twirl to drink in,' she said and handed over a brown plastic note.

'At the end,' a clipped voice said. Marika was the name. She didn't sound English. Or not as Mona imagined English people sounded, sort of a cross between the Queen and the family in Downton Abbey. Still, Americans didn't sound alike. It was probably the same here. She collected her drink. Mrs Botox had been wrong about the coffee. It looked good and smelt perfect. She sat down surrounded by her two cases and hand luggage. Like the wagons in the Wild West? She took a sip and swirled the liquid round in her mouth. Perfect. She dipped the corner of the cinnamon twirl in the coffee. Yes. Tasted just as good. If this was England, they'd get on fine. She messaged.

Landed safely.

What else could she put? Miss you all? She did. That wasn't the point. She'd come here to get away, to take stock of what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She counted on her fingers. If you believed in the old three score and ten of the Bible, she had fifteen left. Not much. She added a few more words to the text.

Will message again later. Miss you.

A lump formed in her throat. It stuck there. Accusing. What the hell had she done? She took another sip of the coffee and stopped; the cup poised. Who was that? It was him, wasn't it? He'd followed her. Her hand shook. The coffee spilt. She stared at familiar hunched shoulders; greying hair curled onto the collar of a check coat. He never wore a coat, did he? The head turned, an arm shot into the air as a black cab lumbered to a halt. It wasn't him. She closed her eyes in relief and took several deep breaths.

'You all right?' Marika was stacking used mugs and cups on a trolley. She swiped at the spilt coffee with a cloth.

Mona opened her eyes. 'What? Oh yes. Sorry. Just a bit jet lagged.'

'I make nice clean table for you. Enjoy,' Marika said and wheeled the trolley away.

Mona sniffed and blew her nose on the paper serviette. It wasn't him. She was safe here. She'd make the best of it. All she needed was a bit of peace and quiet for a short time. Please? She was about to lift her eyes to heaven when she stopped. All that churching on a Sunday from the age of three months to fifteen years had seared its message into her soul. If she had one. 'You're the boss,' she told herself. 'You're in control now.' It was scary. She got out her phone, logged onto free WiFi and checked the news. April temperatures smashed. Britain on course for a summer sizzler. Mona looked out at the rain still pouring down. 'Yeah right.'

Four hours later, tired, dirty, hungry, and ready to burst into tears at the slightest word of cruelty or kindness, she opened the door of Lavender Cottage. The email had said the key was under the blue plant pot It was. What about security? Were the Brits so laid back? Mona glanced along the narrow road, hardly wide enough for a car to pass. It was deserted. A curtain twitched in the window of the cottage opposite. Probably anyone acting weirdly would be locked up or burnt at the stake.

Mona dragged her cases into the lounge, closed the door and sank against it. The place looked smaller than in the photos. The front door opened straight into the main room. A black stove huddled in the chimney breast next to a pile of logs. In front was a red and blue rug, partly covering the wooden floor. The pale walls were decorated with someone's photos of a misty field, a snow-covered pine tree and a woodland in spring with lime green leaves above millions of blue plants. A white sofa smothered with mismatching coloured cushions and throws was like her grandmother's house in Kentucky. She sniffed. Was that Lavender? Or something else? She sniffed again. Fresh bread? Where the hell was that coming from?

She moved across to the stable door. From the floorplan, the kitchen was on the other side. She lifted the latch and the door swung inwards. A square room with a red tiled floor and a window with a curtain covering the lower half, grey painted units and a deep, white ceramic sink greeted her. Set in the centre of the room was a scrubbed wooden table. A wicker basket sat in the middle. Mona lifted the starched white cover. Underneath was a freshy baked loaf and a note.

Dear Mona,

I've taken the liberty of buying you a starter pack. In the cupboard you'll find tea, coffee and a few tins of essentials (beans, tomatoes) enough for a few days. In the fridges are milk, butter, local cheese and a present from the girls. I've cleaned from top to bottom and there are towels and plenty of bed linen in the airing cupboard. Hope to see you around in the village.

Sheila (Rose Cottage opposite the church)

The girls? Which girls? Were they neighbours? Mona went across to the small, white fridge with what looked like a rabbit hutch on top. Was that a fridge freezer? She'd never get her food in there. She opened the lower door. A bottle of milk, some packets and a red and white ceramic bowl of eggs perched on the lower shelf. Each egg had some spidery black writing. She picked one up.

Love from Hettie

She replaced it and picked up another.

Love from Clarice

And another.

Love from Brenda

What sort of person names their hens? And can remember which chook laid which egg? One of the eggs had a small brown feather attached. She picked it out.

Another from Hettie

In that moment, any doubts about being there flew away like the feather she blew into the air. It fluttered to the floor. She bent and picked it up and searched for a place to put it. No. She'd keep it in her purse. Or was that a wallet? The feather was a talisman. Everything would be all right. She'd spend a wonderful summer here and go back refreshed and ready to kick some ass and that would include her ex and anyone else who got in her way.

Could she? The doubts returned. He'd told her so often she was stupid she had believed him. All the times he'd changed stories, hidden things, made her feel she was losing her mind and when she challenged him, he'd back down and for a few days, all would be wonderful. Then it would start again until she had run away from him, left her job, and arrived here.

'Forget it,' she spoke aloud. Her words echoed through the silent room. All she needed was a decent bed, some good food and she'd be back to her old self. An omelette with some of that bread and cheese would be perfect.

'Thanks Hettie,' she said as she opened the cupboard doors. Where the hell was the omelette pan?