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Annie was right. The gatehouse cottage hadn’t been lived in for a couple of years. Not since Annie, who’d previously lived there, married her writer husband, Jake, and moved to a much bigger abode. Portia only hoped a good clean was all it needed. She really should’ve called Annie yesterday and asked her to check if the place was habitable. But if the verdict had come back that it wasn’t, she still would’ve come. Her desire to escape London had verged on the urgent. And her desire to see Annie’s friendly face equally so. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at how much time she’d spent moaning to Annie on the phone of late. But there wasn’t another soul on the planet she felt anywhere near as close to. Yes, she had lots of acquaintances, lots of people she could call up at a moment’s notice if she fancied going out for a drink or to a club. But try and talk to them about anything other than who’d bought the latest handbag, or which restaurant was flavour of the month, and they’d gaze at you blankly. She and Annie, on the other hand, had history; knew each other better than most siblings. They’d attended boarding school together, becoming inseparable almost immediately. And despite the physical distances that had stretched between them since then, their special bond never weakened. Something for which Portia – at no time more than the present – would be eternally grateful.
So absorbed was she in her musings that, laden down with bags, she didn’t notice another body entering the shop just as she was leaving it, until she barged into him.
‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’ She tilted up her head, her gaze fusing with a dark, piercing one, from a tanned, handsome face.
‘That’s all right,’ he said, his mouth stretching into a disarming grin.
Portia smiled fleetingly, waiting for him to move so she could sidle past.
He didn’t.
‘Looks like you’re going to be busy,’ he remarked, a nod of his head indicating the bags bursting with cleaning products.
‘Er, yes,’ she muttered, aware of her pulse beating at twice the speed it had before this encounter. ‘I’d, er, better get a move on.’
‘Of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘Would you like a hand with your –?’
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ she blurted out, stumbling on the step in her haste to escape.
In the safety of her car, Portia pressed the central locking device and attempted to calm down. Her heart was now racing so fast she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had brought on a coronary. Of course she wasn’t, she reasoned, used to random people speaking to her. That didn’t happen in London – and certainly not in the many war-torn countries she’d frequented. Well, not unless the person concerned verged on the deranged. Somehow, though, she didn’t think the young man in the shop verged on the deranged. He’d merely been pleasant, passing the time of day.
The issue wasn’t his mental state. It was hers. Her nerves evidently so fragmented she couldn’t cope with a simple exchange of pleasantries. Which proved what she had suspected: that she had some serious recuperation to do.
She only hoped Buttersley was the place to do it.
Chapter Four (#ulink_328e33cc-83d8-5a1d-a355-2fd49ddc57c1)
Wow. In the shop doorway, Joe turned and watched the gorgeous brunette who’d bowled into him scuttle down the street and jump into a very smart silver Audi. He hadn’t seen her around the village before. He certainly would’ve remembered if he had. That dazzling combination of glossy dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones and never-ending legs meant she wasn’t a woman you’d instantly forget. Even in combats and T-shirt, she looked like she’d walked straight off the page of some high-class fashion magazine. In fact, so bowled over was he – metaphorically and, almost, literally – that his reason for coming to the shop had completely slipped his mind.
Oh, yes.
His lunch.
And he’d better make it a substantial one. Today’s post-prandial client – Penelope Fleeting – was his most demanding.
Choosing a delicious-looking roast beef sandwich, oozing with horseradish mayo, and packed with crispy lettuce and fresh tomatoes, Joe then swiped up a bottle of orange juice and a couple of bananas before making his way to the till, manned, as usual, by the shop owner, Mrs Gates. A great fan of wigs, the old lady’s current creation, in a pronounced shade of lilac, looked to Joe like it might have been lurking in the bottom of her wardrobe since 1963. She was, however, always extremely pleasant, her round, chubby face rarely without a smile.
‘You mixing with the aristocracy there, Joe?’ she chuckled.
Joe screwed up his nose, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.
‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ she explained. ‘Nearly knocked you over, from what I saw.’
‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ he repeated. ‘Whose family own the manor?’
‘The very same. Although “family” actually just means Portia and her brother now. They’re the only two left since their poor father passed away recently.’
‘The old guy who used to live in the house?’
‘Ah ha. Been in a nursing home ever since he left Buttersley. Lost his marbles. A real shame given what a fine gent he used to be. Proper lord of the manor type. Anyway, how’re things with you? Busy afternoon ahead?’
A slight flush touched Joe’s cheeks. ‘You, er, could say that.’
Having paid for his purchases, Joe sauntered down to the bottom of the street and turned right, following the path to the riverbank. He sat on a bench there, overlooking the water. The clouds which had dominated the sky earlier had been replaced by a dazzling blue sky. Joe held up his face to the sun, his mind awhirl with the incident in the shop. So that was Portia Pinkington-Smythe, was it? Well, he wouldn’t mind becoming better acquainted with her. He wondered if Felicity knew her. If so, he might be able to wangle some kind of introduction. Or ask Felicity to make Portia aware of his “services”. He’d definitely find a gap in his schedule for a woman like that.
Removing his sandwich from its paper bag, a sudden thought struck him. God! Was that how he viewed women these days? As mere objects to add to his round? Just what sort of arrogant, sexist pig had he become? Up until his split with Gina, he’d never thought of women like that. And he’d never thought of Gina as anything other than a goddess – one he’d worshipped, adored and showered with love.
He shoved the sandwich back in the wrapper. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.
In more ways than one.
His phone beeped with a text from Penelope:
Ready when you are x
Joe had never been less ready for anything in his entire life.
Penelope Fleeting was one of Joe’s favourite clients. Her womanly figure included a magnificent pair of breasts and a firm butt that came with clocking up years in the saddle. Heavily involved with the local church, these sexy assets were generally hidden under unflattering knee-length skirts and high-buttoned blouses, her mane of red hair pinned up in a sensible French pleat. Joe had witnessed her many times in the street collecting for various charities. He found her prim and proper exterior a turn-on, being fully conversant with exactly what lay beneath those clothes, and exactly how to entertain her in the bedroom. Something successful barrister Mr Fleeting – a weedy, balding individual, sporting specs that made Hans Moleman’s look trendy – evidently came nowhere near to achieving.
Usually up for a bit of role-play – Penelope’s guilty pleasure - it was with a heavy heart and weary body that Joe made his way up the Fleetings’ drive that afternoon. Ladder on shoulder, bucket in hand, he headed directly to the back of the large, mock-Tudor residence.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Penelope’s usual cut-glass accent had been replaced by a west-country burr as she lounged against the open French doors. Her lustrous titian hair hanging loose, she put Joe in mind of one of those pre-Raphaelite beauties. The image further enhanced by her sexy maid’s outfit: short, frilly skirt not quite reaching the top of her black stockings; voluptuous breasts spilling out of her white blouse.
Despite his dark mood, Joe’s groin stirred.
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she continued. ‘But I was doing the dusting and I’ve gone and broken a vase. A very expensive vase, sir. Mistress’s favourite.’
Right. So that was it, was it? Master of the house punishes incompetent servant. Well, Joe supposed he might be able to rise to the occasion. After all, she was obviously well up for it, and it wasn’t her fault he’d had a sudden attack of conscience.
‘Well, now. I’m afraid that just won’t do,’ he said, setting down his ladder and bucket against the wall and placing both hands on his hips. ‘Didn’t I warn you last week that there would be serious repercussions if you broke anything else?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, obviously doing her utmost not to giggle.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you,’ continued Joe, ardour rising as Penelope wiggled her hips and ran her tongue over her pouting lips. ‘And the best place to do that is the bedroom.’
‘Oh, please don’t spank me, sir,’ she pleaded coyly, velvety cheeks flushed with excitement.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but there is nothing else for it. Now enough of this prattling. Get up those stairs. Now.’
At which point a tittering Penelope shot off at an Olympic pace. With Joe not far behind.
A short while later, the “maid” having stoically received her “punishment”, Joe knuckled down to the main business of the day, as Penelope wriggled and moaned beneath him.
Suddenly he stopped.
He heard a sound. Downstairs.
The sound of a door opening and closing.
Followed by a male voice. ‘Pen? You there?’
Joe leapt up as quickly as if he’d been electrified.
‘Shit,’ exclaimed Penelope, her plummy accent making a dramatic return. ‘It’s my bloody husband.’
***
‘And make sure you get red crysanths. Not yellow ones. Can’t abide anything yellow.’
‘Really? You’ve never said,’ muttered Jenny under her breath, as she tugged on her linen jacket in the hall. In truth, her mother recited the same spiel every Wednesday afternoon as Jenny prepared for her shopping trip to the village.
‘What did you say?’
‘Only that I won’t be long, Mother.’
Stepping out of the front door, Jenny closed it behind her and heaved a sigh of relief. Indeed, every time she stepped out of the front door she heaved a sigh of relief. Because any interlude away from Phyllis was a relief.
The thatched cottage, in which Jenny had lived every one of her forty-nine years, and in which Phyllis had spent her entire married, and widowed, life, huddled at the end of a secluded lane. Compared with the village’s more desirable residences, “cosy abode” would most aptly describe it.
Taking the twelve steps necessary to reach the end of the garden path, Jenny clambered into her car – a battered old Fiat Panda she’d had for as long as she could remember – and headed down to the village. She did a big shop once a month at the huge hypermarket on the retail estate outside Harrogate. But in-between, she preferred to use the village shops which, between them, supplied just about everything.
Normally Jenny looked forward to her Wednesday afternoon jaunt, but today she really wasn’t in the mood. She felt unsettled, restless, and – dare she say it? – unsatisfied with her life. Not like her at all. She’d long since accepted her lot and got on with it. Of course she knew that still living with her mother at her age wasn’t ideal. But, on the positive side, she loved Buttersley. The strong sense of community there made her feel safe, secure, wanted. And she also loved her job. It wasn’t teaching history, which had been her dream of old, but, robbed of her university education, she had, she believed, achieved the next best thing: working part-time as a teaching assistant in the local primary school.
And it was at school that morning that this seed of discontentment had first taken root. As Bethany Stevens proudly wrote the date on the whiteboard, it occurred to Jenny that, in exactly six months’ time, she would have completed her fiftieth year on the planet. The terrifying thought sent ripples of fear ricocheting around her body, followed by a desperate urge for a custard-cream – or six. Escaping to the staff room as soon as she could, she’d been stuffing one of the aforementioned biscuits into her mouth when she’d overheard a colleague recounting how her husband had whisked her away to Rome for a surprise birthday trip. Envy not being a state in which Jenny generally loitered, the more she heard, the more envious she became. Frantically jamming biscuits into her mouth, her longing for such an Italian experience soared by the second. Heavens. What she wouldn’t give to experience such a dreamy city, oozing with incredible history, fabulous restaurants and baking sunshine. Of course, the chances of anyone surprising her with a romantic break there were as likely as her mother enrolling in a hip-hop class, but there was nothing to stop her going on her own to celebrate her landmark birthday. Nothing, apart from the obvious: Phyllis Rutter’s reaction to her daughter jetting off for a few days – fiftieth birthday or not – would be so cataclysmic it might well make the evening news. And the aftershocks would reverberate far longer than those of any exploding volcano. All of which resulted in Jenny feeling not only restless, but also a tad resentful.
Reaching the high street, she parked and headed straight for the newsagent’s. Although scornful of her mother’s rigid routines, Jenny had long since slithered into a Wednesday afternoon one of her own, including purchasing a weekly woman’s magazine and packet of liquorice allsorts for her mother; and a history magazine and packet of pear drops for herself. Today, though, an unaccustomed surge of recklessness swirling about her, she swapped the pear drops for chocolate eclairs, and tempered the cold, hard facts of the history magazine with a frivolous celebrity rag. Not most people’s idea of life on the edge, these unforeseen changes nevertheless threw old Mr Russell, the owner of the establishment, into a state of bewilderment the moment she placed them on the counter.
‘Chocolate eclairs,’ he declared, in a tone which Jenny doubted would have sounded any more amazed had she plonked a bucket of tadpoles in front of him. ‘And a different magazine. Not your usual reading matter, is it?’ He peered accusingly at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
‘It isn’t, Mr Russell.’ Jenny’s rebelliousness galvanised. ‘But I fancy a change today.’
The old man’s thick grey eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘A change?’
Jenny nodded resolutely.
‘Hmph,’ he harrumphed. ‘Well, I suppose everyone’s entitled to one of those once in a while.’
‘Once in thirty years, actually,’ Jenny pointed out, before receiving her change, picking up the bag containing her purchases and waltzing out of the shop doing her utmost not to giggle.
Jenny rarely giggled. Nor had she ever waltzed anywhere before. She found the combination invigorating, and resolved, as she walked towards Annie O’Donnell’s cake shop, to do both again – very soon.
‘Hello, Jenny. I’ve put a ginger cake aside for you,’ said Annie the moment Jenny stepped into Crumbs. ‘And I’ve just baked a batch of chocolate and coconut cookies. I know your mum likes them fresh from the oven.’
Jenny nodded. Annie was absolutely right. Everyone in the village, in fact, knew of Phyllis’s preferences, but today Jenny really didn’t feel like pandering to them. ‘That’s really kind of you, Annie, but would you mind very much if I swapped the ginger for one of those delicious-looking madeira cakes and, rather than the chocolate and coconut cookies, took four lemon limoncello cupcakes?’
Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. Of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. But you always –’
‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ Jenny flashed the younger woman a smile. ‘I just fancy a change.’
Annie nodded understandingly. ‘Well, we all deserve one of those once in a while,’ she chuckled, shovelling the cupcakes onto a paper tray. ‘And they do say it’s as good as a rest.’
‘Don’t they just,’ agreed Jenny. Not that she would know anything about that. Other than visiting relatives with her parents when she was younger, she’d never had a holiday.
The delicious-smelling confectionery paid for and snugly tucked in her basket, Jenny headed to the florist next.
‘Afternoon, Jenny. Got some lovely red crysanths in,’ said George Carey, the ageing florist. ‘Put the best bunch aside for you first thing this morning. I’ll just pop to the back and get them for you.’
Jenny smiled her thanks.
As the old man scuttled off, she gazed longingly about the shop. Shiny buckets crammed with a vibrant rainbow of blooms lined the wall: orange roses, purple alstromeria, blue matsumoto asters and hot-pink miniature gerberas. Why on earth, she wondered, would anyone choose chrysanthemums over these other gorgeous flowers? And why red? They looked so … dated. Even the yellow ones were an improvement, resembling little orbs of sunshine on stalks.
‘There you go,’ declared George, reappearing with the crysanths.
As Jenny looked from the red bunch in his wizened hand to the yellow ones in the bucket, she wondered if she might just dare …
‘If I die of a coronary this evening, it’ll be your fault,’ wailed Phyllis, as Jenny crudely jabbed the red crysanths into the crystal vase on the lace-covered dining table. She’d bottled out of buying the yellow ones, deciding, after much deliberation, that the switch from cookies to cupcakes would be enough to contend with for one evening.
How right she’d been.
‘Self, self, self, that’s all you think about,’ Phyllis raged. ‘It was selfishness that killed your father. And it’ll be the same selfishness that finishes me off.’
This rant having been regurgitated with depressing regularity over the last thirty years, Jenny’s usual response of biting her tongue and saying nothing seemed particularly cowardly today. And today she was in no mood for cowardice.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,’ she batted back. ‘All I’ve done is buy cakes instead of cookies. I thought, rather idiotically it would appear, that you might fancy a change.’
‘A change?’ barked Phyllis. ‘You know fine well I can’t abide change. Lemon limoncello cupcakes, I ask you. What are they supposed to be when they’re at home?’
‘Why don’t you try them and see.’
‘Because I don’t want to, that’s why. There was nothing wrong with those cookies.’
Jenny shook her head in exasperation. ‘If you recall, it took me a year to persuade you to try the cookies, you not wanting anything other than Battenburg at the time.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Battenburg.’
Jenny sighed, her patience waning. ‘There isn’t. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t equally nice things out there. But if you’re not prepared to try anything new, you’ll never know. Now …’ she continued, shoving the vase into the middle of the table. ‘It’s the History Society meeting tonight, so I’m going to get ready.’ And with another waltzing manoeuvre, she made to leave the room.
‘History Society, indeed,’ muttered Phyllis, naturally having the last word. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’
Jenny had to admit – although obviously not to her mother – that she sometimes didn’t know why she bothered with the History Society, either – apart from the fact that it allowed her an evening out once a month. In fact, to call the gathering a “society” was erring towards the ambitious. The group consisted of Derek Carter, the vicar; Judith Minter, the librarian; Mona Hargreaves, a plump mother of six; Edward Fowler, a retired headmaster; and Eleanor Fowler, Edward’s wife and a retired midwife.
The meeting venue was the church hall. All other members walking there, Jenny was surprised to find a car outside – a brand-new, shiny, powder-blue Jaguar she didn’t recognise. She parked behind it then scurried inside, trying not to wince at the particularly strong stench of sweaty plimsolls that flooded her nostrils the moment she stepped over the threshold.
The group was already seated around the two folding tables they always pushed together, Edward presiding in his role as president, everyone else in their usual places. Except that Jenny’s usual place was already occupied – by a handsome man in, she estimated, his mid-fifties, wearing a gleaming white shirt, yellow silk tie, and what looked like a very expensive navy-blue wool suit.
‘Jenny, this is Len Ratner,’ announced Edward. ‘He’s just moved into the neighbouring village and would like to join the Society.’
After all Jenny’s wrong-footing of others that afternoon, the shoe now lodged well and truly on the other foot. ‘Oh,’ she muttered, aware the entire group, including the handsome new marecruit, were gazing at her expectantly. ‘Well, er, welcome, Mr Ratner.’
