Two years ago my world went topsyturvy. My father passed away, and after twenty years of marriage I found myself staring at a divorce decree.
I moved back into my dads cosy cottage in Little Bampton because the company Id worked for went bust, and at forty I was certain my chances of landing a decent jobor a decent blokewere about as good as finding a needle in a haystack.
Then the universe seemed to have a sense of humour. The roof, patched up by the villages most dubious handyman, started leaking. I was too exhausted to haul firewood, and the tradesmen whod replaced the windows left half a gap, so the wind whistled straight in.
To keep warm I collected pine cones and, in a desperate bid, used a stack of old novels as kindling. Just when I thought I couldnt get any colder, the power went off and I had to turn the heating down to nothing.
The landlord of the pub opposite started popping over with helpful offers, and I wasnt sure whether to laugh or weep.
I imagined things couldnt get any worsethen, like a scene out of a romcom, my very own knight in battered overalls rolled up on the village bus stop.
Hed come straight from a days roofwork, hair in a mess and grease on his hands. Need a hand? he asked. I admitted I did, but I had no cash. He shrugged and said, When youre settled, well sort it out.
He fixed the roof, the leaky tap, the water meter, the fence, the steps and even the squeaky windows. One bitter night I walked into a toasty hearth, a steaming mug of herbal tea waiting beside itlike a miracle for my frozen throat and icy feet.
I knew then who my hero was and how to thank him, though I kept his name under my hat; the village is small enough that everyone knows the lad who can do it all.
Now the cottage looks like a mans workshop has had a makeoversturdy, warm, and full of life. With my prince around, Im cosy and content, and the only thing Im truly scared of is losing him.
