Chapter 4

      From the outside, it looks like something the Famous Five would drive round in if they’d teamed up with the Scooby Doo gang. It’s a vintage-looking VW camper van, with the distinctive spare wheel on the front and a raised roof space popped upright. One half is painted bright, shiny red, and the rest is a rich, gleaming shade of cream. And while it might look vintage, I can tell it’s actually brand new from all the glistening chrome and this year’s licence plate.

      It’s parked up in a clearing in the woodlands on the far side of the pond, a thick canopy of richly leaved trees hanging over and around it, sunlight streaming through the shade and reflecting off its glossy paint in strange, darting patterns.

      It’s a beautiful spot – I remember my mum telling me about the ancient hazel trees here, and how they’ve been added to with oak and ash, creating this idyllic corner of what is an already beautiful area. The floor is carpeted with bluebells and anemone, in swathes of lilac and white and yellow; butterflies with orange tips to their wings are fluttering around, and the air is drizzled with the sound of birdsong.

      I pause, and breathe it in, letting the joy of it all filter through. It’s all so green and perfect and warm.

      ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ I say to Tom, turning to smile at him. ‘How spring always comes around, every single year?’

      He grins, and doesn’t look alarmed, which is a good start. I can’t help but feel happy, and the beauty of this luscious place is erasing the stresses and strains of the last couple of days. Many things might be wrong in the Willow-verse – but right here, right now, it all feels gorgeous.

      ‘It is,’ he answers. ‘Even for an indoor boy like me. That’s part of why I did this … bought this van, came here. I could stay in the posh hotel on the coast, but I wanted to try and … I don’t know. Loosen up, I suppose.’

      At first, I’m a little confused by that statement. I mean, he’s wearing a Godzilla T-shirt and hasn’t tied his shoelaces and has a dog called Rick Grimes. All the signs are pointing towards this guy being a mega-geek; one of those people who paints tiny figures of elves and goes to comic conventions.

      Admittedly, he’d easily be the best-looking bloke at a comic convention – he could actually be an actor in one of those shows, like Supernatural or The Vampire Diaries, full of chiselled dudes with brilliant one-liners and tortured pasts. But still – he has that geeky vibe. Which is traditionally not one that needs any loosening up.

      But as soon as I follow him into the camper, leaving Bella and Rick outside to sniff interesting pieces of wood and chase caterpillars, I understand exactly what he means.

      Outside, it looks hippy – expensive, but hippy. Pure retro. Inside, there’s a completely different feeling. To say it’s tidy would be an understatement. Everything is put away; the surfaces of the small table and cooking area are spotless; the pull-down bed is made with corners so sharp you could poke your eye out with them, and there’s not a single sign of human habitation.

      The front seats are covered in pristine cream leather, and the upholstery on the furniture looks brand new. Well, it is brand new – but if I’d been living here, it would all look a lot more messy by now.

      There’d be a cereal box left out, or a book lying on the bed, or a pair of Doc Martens hanging from the ceiling, or some photos tacked up to the walls. I like my cleaning job – but in my own space, I like to be surrounded by a little bit of … well, me, I suppose.

      After my mum’s diagnosis, which was a long and torturous journey in itself, we were warned that she might lose some of her spatial awareness as the condition progressed, and find even familiar places difficult to navigate. We were told to expect bruised hips from hitting tables, or confusion about which way a door opened.

      As it turns out, that hasn’t happened – yet. She can still pull off advanced yoga poses, and is physically as fit as a fiddle. Not that I’ve ever figured out why a fiddle is especially fit, but there you go – one of life’s many mysteries. But we did de-clutter the cottage a bit in anticipation – we did it together, on one of her very lucid days, so we wouldn’t get rid of anything she’d later desperately want.

      It didn’t totally work. We had weeks of anguish where she was insisting someone had broken in and stolen her old knitting basket, even though I knew it had gone to the tip, but it does mean that the cottage is a lot less crowded than it used to be. Maybe that’s why I still cling on to the random-ness of my own room.

      Tom, I can see, is of the opposite persuasion. A man who looks like him, dresses like him, and uses the pop culture references he uses? I’d expect to see framed Han Solo quotes and possibly a display cabinet featuring original blaster guns from Star Trek. At the very least, a Spiderman tea-towel hanging from the cooker.

      But no, it’s all shipshape. A place for everything, everything in its place, almost untouched. It’s such a contrast with the free-flowing wilderness outside – sterile and clean and man-made. If I’d only seen this and not the man himself, I’d say he definitely was in need of a little loosening up.

      Maybe the skinny-dipping was part of that process – trying to recreate himself. If so, he’d come to the right place. Budbury, and especially the café where I work, specialises in second chances and fresh starts. A few of the people in our community are locals, but a lot of them are refugees from other places, and other times in their lives, looking for something different. Like Zoe, who runs the bookshop we’ve just opened – she moved here permanently in the new year with her goddaughter Martha, and Martha’s dad Cal.

      It’s a long story, involving tragically early deaths, Australian cowboys and dysfunctional teenagers on the verge of rebelling themselves into oblivion – but now, it seems, they’re all settled. Happy. Moving on with life. It’s the Budbury Effect. Seriously, someone should do a scientific study on it. Maybe I will. I have a GCSE in Biology.

      Tom, perhaps, will become the latest addition to the gang – or maybe he’ll just stay long enough to do up Briarwood, sell it on at a vast profit, and bugger off again.

      For the time being, he seems challenged enough by making a cup of tea. I can tell from his awkward, jerky movements that he’s used to living alone, and not having to work around another human body. Each time we accidentally touch, he apologises, as though he’s just invaded my personal space so much I might feel traumatised.

      It doesn’t bother me, but I can see that he’s getting stressed. We’re both stupidly tall, and the van isn’t actually that big, even without any clutter – plus it’s a glorious day out there.

      ‘Why don’t I go outside and leave you to it?’ I say, taking pity on him. ‘It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside anyway. It might be snowing tomorrow.’

      He looks at me, and I see the relief he tries to hide.

      ‘Good idea. There are some