Chapter Nineteen

Highfield House is a beautifully refurbished Lakeland country home set in three acres of gardens and woodland. The house dates from 1861 and has retained its period detailing.

Ideally located between the busy market town of Haverton and the bustling Lakeland village of Gosthwaite, the property is set amongst the lower fells of the south-eastern Lake District with very easy access to M6 or the west coast main line at Oxenholme.

Pleased with her mental copy for the brochure, Zoe crawled her BMW up the drive, carefully following Dorothy Kilburn's instructions not to exceed five miles per hour near the house. Okay, this had to go smoothly. She already had four potential buyers lined up for Highfield House, what she needed was for the bloody place to be up for sale.

I want, need, must have this house.

She could easily market it for one million and with her receiving two percent of the agency's commission, she could have two grand in the bank within eight weeks. Okay, it was a long way off the eight grand MasterCard bill from hell, but with another three houses teetering on signing, this could be the start. But Mrs Kilburn was playing stubborn, so Zoe had to resort to playing good cop, bad cop with Greg.

His Prius sat outside the house already, and he climbed out as she parked up. Christ, he was perfect - a blue-eyed blond, Rugby-educated only son to a couple with a country estate. Well, he was almost perfect. Being a little less married wouldn't hurt.

He opened her door, helping her out of the car, his eyes firmly focussed on her cleavage. One of Greg's many charms was his utter devotion to his dick. It made him so easy to persuade.

'You look beautiful,' he said, his hand skimming over her arse, snugly clad in a vermillion pencil dress.

'Remember, your bonus. If she signs...'

His eyes glazed over. 'In the car park at Tarn Howse. Fuck, you're hot.'

Zoe's heels clattered up the steps, her heart pounding. She needed to keep cool, be as nice as nice can be, thoroughly understanding and it'd all be fine. She'd shag Greg then get back to Gosthwaite in time for the Bank Holiday football match. It'd be fine.

She pressed the doorbell. Ding, dong, don't make me wait long.

'I knocked when I arrived,' Greg said as they waited. 'She didn't answer.'

'She was in when I rang earlier. That was what, twenty minutes ago?'

No answer.

I Must Have This House.

She hammered on the door. 'Hello? Mrs Kilburn?'

Fuck it. She peeked through the letterbox, staring at the empty hallway. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay... She glanced down, spotting a pair of out turned cankles in Marks and Spencer brogues.

'Oh my god,' Zoe said, staring up at Greg. 'She's on the floor.'

'Is she dead?' He peeked through the letterbox. 'Mrs Kilburn?'

A low groan came from the house. She was alive. Zoe's hand shook as she seized the brass door handle. Highfield House wasn't a Yale lock kind of place and sure enough, Mrs Kilburn wasn't the kind who locked the door.

'Oh gosh,' Zoe said as she pushed against the door, sliding Mrs Kilburn out of the way. 'I'm so sorry. I hope that doesn't hurt. Greg, call an ambulance.'

The old woman's eyes flickered. 'Didn't help...'

Zoe knelt beside her. 'Shush, shush. You're okay. You're going to be fine.'

Okay, she suspected that was far from the truth, but it seemed the right thing to say. In fact, Mrs Kilburn had drool coming out of the side of her mouth, and her skin looked remarkably grey. She didn't look fine at all.

Please don't die while I'm here.

Zoe stroked Mrs Kilburn's forehead as Greg came in. 'And?'

'Ambulance is coming. You hang in there, Mrs Kilburn,' he said, hovering in the hallway.

Not a caring, sharing sort then. Zoe frowned up at him. 'Could you try to sound a little more compassionate?'

'Help me,' gasped Mrs Kilburn, as her eyes opened, her hand grasping Greg's trouser leg. 'She didn't help me.'

Zoe took hold of her hand. 'Mrs Kilburn? Dorothy? It's okay. You're safe now. The ambulance is on its way.'

Mrs Kilburn looked up at her, her eyes widening. 'But... didn't help...'

And her eyes closed, her breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

Zoe looked up at Greg, concern filling her eyes. 'Do you think she'll die?'

He shrugged. 'If she does, the house will definitely go on the market, and if she doesn't, well clearly she can't live here by herself. It's a win-win situation.'

*

The village football, a grudge match between the two Kings, the Alfred of Gosthwaite and the George of Haverton, was an annual fixture, with the Gosthwaite Eleven losing 1-0 for the last two years. This year, Robbie had informed Libby, they were determined to win - Scott had even rallied the troops for three training sessions. Libby had her doubts. Scott, Xander, Patrick and another six guys stood in the beer tent, pint in hand. Not a winning attitude in her book.

'This feels very weird,' Libby said, frowning up at Robbie. With her holding Matilda's hand, and him carrying Dora, she knew they looked exactly what they weren't - a happy little family. 'People will talk.'

'Stop worrying.' Robbie set Dora down, smiling as her and Matilda skipped off to the bouncy castle stationed in the corner of the field. 'Half the people here know anyway.'

'And the half that don't know, think I'm shagging your brother. I'd rather be at work.'

'I'd rather you were here. I'm half-tempted to kiss you right now.'

She elbowed him, knowing he was teasing her. 'Where the hell's Zoe? She promised me she'd be here for moral support. Oh god, there're Jack and Andy.'

'Relax.' Robbie placed a hand on her back, guiding her towards the bar. 'Drink?'

She smiled hello to his friends, the people she knew, but pointedly ignored Jack and Andy. 'And it's fair to say your mother knows.'

'She does not. What do you want, jug of Pimm's?'

'Please. Your dad was looking at me very suspiciously before we left.'

'My dad was checking you out.' He dropped a twenty on the bar, looking over her denim shorts and silk halter neck top. 'Understandably.'

'Oh, there it is.' She took four plastic cups from the barman and walked away.

'Oh, there what is?' Robbie laid out a rug at the side of the pitch nearest the bouncy castle.

'The look.' She smiled at his raised eyebrows. 'Like you're about to bend me over the sofa, whether I like it or not. You're infamous for it, but for the record, you can and I would.'

'Takes the fun out of it, if I have permission.' He dropped to the rug, glancing over to his daughters bouncing merrily away. 'But that's not what I was thinking.'

She sat cross-legged, holding out her cup for him to fill. 'So what was it?'

He popped a strawberry from the jug into her mouth. 'I want to wake up with you tomorrow.'

Libby stared at him and he stared back. 'Really?'

'Mum and Dad are there to look after the kids. It won't make any difference to them.'

They could go to bed, fall asleep, wake up. Talk, kiss, shag whenever they liked. Unrushed. 'You're really going to stay the night?'

'I hope you're not planning to get much sleep.'

She sipped her wine, her cheeks flushing. 'Don't you have to go warm up or something?'

'OMG, Daze, look. A picnic rug and Pimm's, is this a romantic date?' Clara wandered over with Daisy in tow, both pushing sleeping tots in buggies. 'Oh, the kids are here too.'

'Playing happy families?' Daisy asked, barely able to look Libby in the eye.

With her worst fear confirmed, Libby's blushes increased. People did think she was trying to get her feet under the Low Wood Farm kitchen table. She knocked back her drink as Clara sat down. Where the hell was Zoe?

'So, Ms Wilde,' Clara said, helping herself to the Pimm's. 'Shall I sign you up for the fan club, or pencil you in to be guest speaker at the AGM?'

Robbie pulled Clara's ponytail. 'Leave her alone.'

'You're no fun.'

'Rob,' Scott called from the pitch, beckoning him over.

Robbie checked on Matilda and Dora, still bouncing. 'Lib-'

'I'll keep an eye on them,' Daisy offered.

'They'll be fine with me,' Libby said, and as Robbie jogged away, she turned to Daisy. 'I'm not trying to take her place if that's what you're worried about.'

'You couldn't. She's their mother.'

Libby stared at her empty cup.

'Daze, pack it in,' Clara said. 'It's Van's fault as much as anyone's. Besides, Libby's only human. I'm not a hundred percent sure I'd say no.'

'I'm going to the bar.' And Daisy stomped off.

'She'll get over it,' Clara said, turning to watch the other men warming up. 'You and Rob explains a few things though. I couldn't understand why Patrick didn't have his hands in your pants already. I'd started to think he'd found God or got HIV. If I were you, that's who I'd be doing.'

From the safety of her sunglasses, Libby watched as the boys started stretching, Patrick laughing with Scott.

'He's not my type.'

'Why? He's the classic Byronic hero and sexy as fuck. And OMG, does that guy know how to party. There are three days of my life I can't remember. All I know is we got the train to Paris and I couldn't walk when we got back.'

'You and Patrick...' But wasn't he one of Scott's oldest friends? Well, that was his decent moral values box left unchecked.

Clara waved a dismissive hand. 'It was yonks ago, before Scott and I got together. Well, sort of. Scott's the settle down and marry type, but Patrick's more likely to get you fucked, fuck you then fuck off.'

'Definitely, not my type.'

'He's fun. Last year. Gosthwaite would've won the football, but he got hammered, punched the Haverton goalie and got sent off. Scott was furious, but it really kicked off after the match. Patrick got busted snorting coke off his Land Rover bonnet. I thought it was hilarious, but PC Andy wasn't so amused. You should so go out with him, Libby.'

Not a chance. Whatever his reasons were for walking out of the pub, Libby had to admit she'd had a lucky escape. Clara was right; Patrick was hot, very hot, but the last thing Libby needed was to get involved with someone who slept with his friend's girlfriend.

'O... M... G.' Clara pointed to the other side of the field.

The Haverton team stopped their knee-raises as Zoe walked into the park. One-by-one the Gosthwaite players slowed to a halt, watching her hourglass body, perfectly encased in a sleek red dress, killer heels in hand, wiggled its way past. Jack and the Haverton goalie even managed to walk into one another. But if Zoe knew she'd literally brought members of two football teams to their knees, she appeared oblivious, merely flicking her glossy black hair over one shoulder, bee-lining to Libby.

'Bit over-dressed for a football match, aren't you?' Libby filled a cup, offering it to her. Zoe downed it in one then held it out for a refill. 'Bad day at work, dear?'

'That's one way to put it. Hi, Clara.' Zoe hitched her skirt up, flashing more shapely thigh, and lit one of Libby's cigarettes. 'I was so close to signing a house that I could sell tomorrow.'

'Bold statement. It's a Bank Holiday.'

'My point entirely.' Zoe frowned beneath her enormous sunglasses.

Libby frowned at the linked Cs on the arms. 'Are they Chanel?'

'This house was a cert.'

'Zo...'

'Yes, they're Chanel, but this bloody house was supposed to pay for them. Anyway, Greg and I get there and poor Mrs Kilburn's on the tiles. Totally keeled over. Jesus, this village has more totty than I ever saw in Manchester.'

'Is this Mrs Kilburn from Highfield?' Clara asked. 'Lynda from the Post Office's mum?'

Zoe nodded. 'So we rang an ambulance and sat with her. Greg's so bloody uncaring. There I am, wiping her brow and he's telling me it's a win-win situation. If she lives or dies, the house will be sold. I mean, okay, he's right, but it's hardly the bloody time.'

'You sure he's the man of your dreams?' Libby asked.

Zoe's frown deepened. 'He'd got there ten minutes before me. He knocked but didn't think it odd she wasn't answering when she knew we were coming. I just keep thinking, what if he had. What if she dies, and those ten minutes could've saved her. I'd promised him a shag if she signed. Can you believe he still wanted me to?'

'Greg Foxon-Jones is a total wanker.' Clara knocked back her drink. 'You can do so much better.'

Zoe sighed, venting her frustration. 'Is there anything shaggable here? Jesus, Patrick's put together pretty bloody well.'

Libby refused to comment, but nibbled a slice of cucumber.

'Shame he's a vet,' Zoe said, her head tipped to the side as Patrick sat stretching with Scott.

'What's wrong with a vet?' Libby asked, hating herself for biting. Zoe knew all her soft spots. A vet had to be one of the hottest professions around, even surpassing a fireman. Rushing in, saving kittens, puppies, ponies - all completely heroic to Libby.

'Might do it for you, Lib,' Zoe said. 'And okay, they do earn a fair whack, but it's a bit... grubby.'

Clara nodded. 'He sticks his arm up cows' bums, for God's sake.'

Libby shook her head, despairing. Patrick's grubby side wasn't his job, it was his rather dubious morals: rude, backstabbing and willing to sleep with his friend's girlfriend. She sipped her wine. Thank god he wasn't English. Thank god she hadn't summoned someone like him. She smiled as Robbie glanced her way. She'd stick with her distraction for now.

At half-time with Gosthwaite up one-nil, Libby lay in sun, almost dozing, three glasses of Pimm's adding a fuzzy edge to an idyllic English afternoon. Even Zoe's grumbling about football being as entertaining as having her bikini line waxed couldn't spoil her mood.

'It ought to be sexy,' Zoe said, hitching her skirt another three inches, 'but the sad reality is, I've spent forty-five bloody minutes baking and not a single bloke has flirted with me. They're all pumped up on adrenalin, back-slapping each other.'

Libby couldn't care less. Robbie had taken Dora and Matilda to get barbequed corn-on-the-cob, but later, he'd be all hers, albeit surreptitiously.

'Oh bollocks, here comes Lynda.' Zoe kicked Libby's ankle and the pair of them scrambled to their feet.

Lynda, who Libby had met on three occasions in the post office, usually bounced with energy. Now, she walked towards them, her face weary, her hands clutching a hanky. Libby wanted to get her a chair before she fell down.

'Zoe?' Lynda said, stopping beside their rug. 'I'm sorry to interrupt-'

'How's your mother?' Zoe lifted her sunglasses, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Lynda's mouth tightened. 'She passed away an hour ago. I just... I wanted to say thank you for... being there. It made a difference.'

Zoe wrapped one arm around herself as the other reached out to pat Lynda's arm. 'I'm so sorry. I wish... maybe if we'd got there earlier.'

Lynda nodded, her fingers twisting the cross around her neck. 'She had a heart condition. It wasn't the first time... I don't want to spoil your day. I hear the boys are winning. Should be such a lovely day.'

'Please, don't worry about me, not today.'

'I want to... put the house on the market as soon as possible. Her will's in order and, it's just best to get these things over with. I'll pop into your office next week.'

Zoe nodded, clearly uncomfortable. How to not look happy at the good news amongst the tragic demise of a fellow human. Libby stroked her friends arm.

'She'd had a glass of wine,' Lynda said, twittering. 'Silly really with the pills she was on. She should've known better. It went right to her head. Kept mumbling about how I'd come in, but not helped her. Silly. I was behind the counter. I wish I had been there.'

'I really am very sorry, Lynda.' Zoe shifted her weight from foot to foot.

Lynda forced a smile. 'I always said that elderflower wine would be the death of her.'

'Did you say, elderflower wine?' Libby asked, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked at Lynda.

'Her weakness. Sheila's wine is the toast of the Gosthwaite WI, but it's potent stuff.' Lynda seized Zoe's hand. 'Thanks again. I'm so grateful.'

Lynda walked away, tears filling her eyes, and Libby's annoyance grew. Sheila's elderflower wine strikes again. The bloody stuff ought to be illegal.

Zoe took a deep breath. 'Okay, sod this. I'm going home to get changed, hopefully I'll miss the second half, but then I'm coming back and I fully intend to get shit-faced. This has been the weirdest day ever.'

Libby nodded in sympathy. Despite her psychology degree, Zoe had to be one of the least touchy-feely people Libby had ever known. How upset must she have been to go with Mrs Kilburn to the hospital?

The gentle English afternoon of Pimm's had given way to a beer tent filled with flashing lights and Lady Gaga booming from speakers. Laughter came from every corner, but Libby sat outside, curled up on a bench. This had to be in her Top Ten of situations she never wanted to be in. Ever. Zoe currently had some farmer friend of Scott's wrapped around her finger and Robbie still hadn't come back from taking the kids home. Clara and Scott were laughing at the bar, but Grace and Jack's close proximity meant Libby couldn't join them. At least smoking gave her a valid excuse not to be in the marquee.

She lit her second off her first. She could just go home. Robbie would come over and they could spend the evening together, not just the night. That idea had a lot going for it, but it didn't give Robbie chance to get drunk and hang out with his friends. And he needed that.

Distracted by the strobe lights, Libby didn't notice the shadow fall over her, but the aroma of the barbeque gave way to the more enticing smell of fresh sweat on a fit guy.

'The white Rioja,' Patrick said, handing her a glass as he sat down.

'Thank you,' she said, sure she'd never been so grateful for a drink or goodwill gesture in her life.

'Enjoy the match?'

'I'm guessing you did, Mister Hat Trick.'

Patrick had been named Man of the Match, after Gosthwaite cruised home three-one, thanks to his goals.

His grin was like a child's at Christmas, unashamedly happy. 'I don't know if you heard about last year-'

'Clara couldn't resist.'

'She never can.' He gazed into the nothingness, still smiling. 'Christ, I feel like...'

Libby's own smile grew from his high. 'What?'

He shook his head. 'Anyway, I've made up for it.'

'And when their back took you out, you didn't hit him.'

He laughed softly. 'I nearly did.'

'But you didn't.'

'I didn't.' He turned to her. 'Are you hiding?'

She nodded.

'Come inside. Scott's just bought a bottle of tequila.'

Libby shook her head.

'Why?'

'Grace.'

'She won't bother you, not really.'

'You've said that before and she did.'

'She was just mouthing off. Sticks and stones.' Patrick wafted her smoke away.

'Sorry.'

'Since you're not putting it out, you're not forgiven. Look, you can't avoid her forever.'

'I can try.'

'She's behind the bar, but I promise if she even looks at-'

'You didn't last time.'

'I told you. I had my reasons.'

Trying not to notice how his sweaty, post-football body felt so close to hers, Libby shifted on the bench, trying to distance herself from him, but as she crossed her legs, her knee touched his, the skin-to-skin contact making her flinch. He stared down at their knees.

'How's Hyss-'

'Did you-'

Libby tucked her hair behind her ears, aware she was blushing. 'Did you ask Grace about Maggie?'

'Yeah, on Monday, but she got all... so I didn't push it.'

'She got all what?'

'Well, her and Maggie were friends and she got all upset. I hate it when girls cry.'

'Ohmigod, you soft touch.' She elbowed him, laughing, and they both relaxed. 'Go ask her.'

'Tell you what. I'll man up and ask Grace, if you man up and come inside.' He stood up, taking her glass. 'Come on.'

Reluctantly, she followed him into the marquee, but he led her to the furthest end of the bar, beckoning Scott and Clara to join them.

'Why are you being nice?' she asked.

'It's my job to look after you when Rob's not here.'

'Excuse me?'

'I've got his back. It's a Musketeer thing.'

'A what?'

He looked away, grinning. 'Can't say anymore.'

'I'll cry...' She smiled up at him, fluttering her eyelashes.

'God help me.' He leaned on the bar, his elbow resting against hers. 'Scott, Rob and I went to school together. They used to call us the Musketears, tears spelt the boo-hoo way. We broke a lot of hearts apparently. And I say they, I think Scott started it.'

Libby laughed. 'I'm guessing he's Athos?'

'He's your traditional sporting hero, academic, alpha-male, captain of all the teams.'

'And from what Clara told me, you'd fit the wine, women and song role of Porthos.'

'Christ, what did she tell you?'

Libby mimed locking her lips.

'It'll all be true.'

'You sure? Even sleeping with your best friend's girlfriend?'

His grin faltered. 'Yeah.'

'But you and Scott are still friends?'

'Now, we are. Took about a year.'

Libby had her chin on her hand, intrigued. How could someone have so few moral values that they'd do something like that? 'Why did you do it? Do you like her?'

He sipped his pint, turning to where Clara and Scott were chatting. 'No. I don't trust her, never have. We get on, she's fun, but she screwed Scott around and I don't like that.'

'You've got his back?'

'Absolutely. It was a stupid idea, but I was wasted and I wanted to show him that she didn't really care about him. Christ, after we'd, you know, she sent him a picture. Nice, hey?' He shook his head. 'But he forgave her and one day, she just asked him to marry her. And now look at them.'

Libby turned, watching Clara and Scott gazing at each other. 'So is Rob Aramis, the romantic hero?'

Patrick nodded. 'He's going to kill me for telling you this, but he spent most of his time pulling anything in a skirt and he was bloody good at it.'

Libby sipped her wine, trying not to show her shock.

'He'd have a girlfriend, one on the side, and another waiting in the wings.'

'I thought he was Mister Faithful.'

'Back then, he wasn't.'

'What happened?'

'Vanessa. I take it you've never met her?'

She shook her head.

'If you had, you wouldn't be shagging him because she's the nicest person in world.'

'Don't make me feel any worse.' Libby sighed. 'So he changed, just like that?'

'Scott and I came back for Christmas and Rob was shacked up with her. We couldn't believe the change. He said he knew the day he met her that she was the love of his life.'

'She still is.'

'Why are you messing around with a married man who blatantly loves his wife? Habit of yours?'

'No. I have huge issues with infidelity. This is different.' Libby nodded to Grace, who'd left the bar to collect glasses. 'Ask her now.'

'But-'

Libby pushed him away. Cursing her, and not under his breath, Patrick went over to Grace. The Weather Girls prevented Libby from hearing anything they said, but at least she had an unobstructed view. As Grace spoke, she glanced over at Libby, loathing in her eyes, and Patrick's body language changed. He had his back to Libby, but he folded his arms, his shoulders stiffening. This wasn't chit chat about Maggie. More interesting was how Grace glanced down, her nod full of contrition. Unless Libby was very mistaken, Patrick had just given Grace a telling off, and she'd taken it. That girl hero-worshipped him.

The next time Patrick spoke, Grace's bottom lip wobbled, and his shoulders sagged. He really was a sucker for tears. Man up. Was he still speaking or was Grace struggling to compose her answer? Hard to tell, but when Grace did speak, she twiddled her hair, looking down at her feet, anywhere but at Patrick. And in response to his last question Grace's right hand hovered over her mouth. Ashamed of her words. What on earth was she lying about?

Libby leant on the bar, eager for the news as Patrick joined her back at the bar. His frown intriguing her. 'And?'

'Maggie was wearing the necklace the night she died. She left the Ostara festival early because of a migraine.'

Libby's eyes widened. 'So where did the necklace go?'

'No idea, but I asked her about the wine.'

'The wine?'

'The booze mentioned in the Don't drink it all at once gift card. Grace said the bottle and gift bag were on the side when she came to call for Maggie. It was a bottle of Sheila's elderflower wine, the same stuff as you were poisoned with.' He leant on the bar, his frown worsening. 'You were poisoned? How?'

Libby stared at him, shock and shame bouncing around her head. 'I thought she told you what happened with Jack?'

'She just said you messed around with him. Jack poisoned you?'

'No. I mean, yes, but not intentionally.' With mortification seeping out with every word, she gave him a glossed over account of the horrific night four weeks ago.

Patrick leant back, open mouthed. 'Jesus Christ, that's practically date rape, Libby.'

'No. It wasn't his fault.' She forced a smile. 'How often does she use the waterworks on you?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Grace?'

'I think she's playing you, putting on the tears to avoid the situation. You really don't react well to girls crying. Soft touch.'

'How the hell do you...' Patrick glanced across to Grace, who now laughed with Clara at the bar. 'Really?'

Libby nodded. 'And... she was lying.'

'What about?'

'I don't know. You were talking to her. All I could hear was It's Raining Men.'

'How do you know she was lying?'

'Body language.'

'But that's-'

'An art form I happen to be bloody good at.'

'How?'

'If I told you that, I'd have to kill you.'

'Get over yourself.'

'My dad used to be an expert for the MOD. Interrogations, diplomacy, but seriously, I'm not allowed to say anymore.'

'Rob said he thought you were a compulsive liar. I think he might be right.'

'Can you read me, tell if I'm lying? I doubt it.' She smiled as Robbie headed over, swiping Scott's bottle of tequila along the way.

'She's really been playing me?'

Libby elbowed him. 'If it makes you feel any better, she's very good.'

'What doesn't make me feel any better, is I've given her a bloody pay rise every time she's cried.'

'What was the last thing you asked her about?'

He thought for a moment. 'I asked why someone might want to steal the necklace.'

'What did she say?'

'She said, she hadn't the foggiest.'

Libby watched as Grace moved back behind the bar. 'But she was lying.'

Sheila knew the emerald was worth a fortune, surely Grace would too. So why lie about it?

*

On the doorstep of No.4, Libby Wilde stood in her running gear, the skimpiest vest and shorts, with her arms around the neck of Robbie Golding. His hands were on her arse and in one shot, she almost looked naked. Together with the snaps of them knocking back tequila after the football, this was pure gold.

'It's me. You're going to love this.'

'Libby Wilde?'

'Yep. Guess who with?'

Michael Wray remained silent.

'Robbie Golding.'

'You beauty. Send them to me.'