by Wendy Holden
Wellover was in the Domesday Book and regularly and effortlessly saw off all comers in Best-Kept Village Competitions. Period dramas were regularly filmed there. Keira Knightley had been in the village shop and Colin Firth in the post office. The only dogging Richard had ever associated with Wellover were ladies in tweed briskly striding the local leafy lanes in the company of brushed and glossy spaniels.
"I didn't realise," he said faintly, wondering nonetheless why he was being selected for this extraordinary confession. Was Mrs. Greatorex suggesting he joined them? He waited for her to speak again. He had to be sure of what was being discussed here, whether the practice was being condoned or condemned. Fools not only rushed in where angels feared to tread but also ran the risk of losing their seats.
Mrs. Greatorex spoke. "It appears," she said in stately tones, "it appears…"—the stately tones shook a little—"it seems…" she added, with an audible sniff, "that Wellover, our beautiful Wellover, is…"—there was a shuddering sound as Mrs. Greatorex seemed to fight for self-control—"the dogging capital of Europe!"
"Oh dear," said Richard, staring hard at the tarmac.
"Russell's Leap—you know Russell's Leap, of course…"
Richard confirmed that he did. The landmark referred to was a well-known beauty spot in the woods not far from Wellover.
"Well, it's there they go. Every Friday night." Mrs. Greatorex's voice was shaking again.
It was the "they" that clinched it. Mrs. Greatorex was ringing to complain then. Richard felt oddly relieved. The thought of the Parish Council Chair bent backwards over a car bonnet, tweed culottes round her ankles, had been a disturbing one.
"And what I'm ringing to ask, Mr. Fitzmaurice, is…"
"Yes?" Richard whispered shakily.
"…what exactly you're going to do about it."
Chapter Forty
"Whaddya mean we gotta walk?" Belle screeched as the car drew up in the carpark at the foot of the village.
"It's a historic site," Darcy explained agitatedly, anxious to get Belle out of the car as soon as possible. Her heart was pumping double-speed; her very nerve-ends were tingling at the thought of seeing Christian.
Of course, it would have been better if he had texted earlier to suggest they met in Rocolo. Then she could have given poor Mara more notice. But when, finally, Christian's call had come, it had been unignorable. And Darcy's main regret, as they bowled along in the limo, was that she had not had more time to prepare herself. Jeans, T-shirt, and no make-up didn't seem much of an ensemble. But none of this would matter to Christian. He was always telling her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
"I don't do walking," Belle snarled as the driver opened the rear door.
Hardly surprising, in those. Darcy glanced at Belle's shoes. Seven inches and counting, and with soles that looked as thin as ballet slippers. She would feel every cigarette butt on Rocolo's cobbled main street.
Nine o'clock at Marco's, Christian had said. Darcy stole a glance at the heavily jewelled timepiece on the thin arm clutching the dog. Five minutes to. Darcy's heart skipped. Get Belle up the hill in those shoes in five minutes?
At the restaurant, Richard had returned to the table. "Sorry," he muttered in his wife's ear. "Can you excuse me again just a sec? I've just got to make a phone call. It's rather important…"
Excitement flashed across Georgie's face. "Ooh. The Leader, is it?"
Richard shook his head. Georgie, for some reason, persisted in believing he was only ever one phone call away from the promotion of a lifetime. He had long since stopped trying to persuade her otherwise. In fact, he had to speak to Guy, his constituency agent; the man on the spot in Wellover. Find out what the real story was.
As Richard punched out his constituency agent's number, he felt something of his old campaigning spirit stir. But Guy, with whom he planned to campaign, did not answer.
As Richard dejectedly returned to the table, he noticed that everyone in the restaurant seemed to be looking at something. Some were even holding up their mobile phones to take pictures. There was nudging and gasping and exclamations. The subject of all the excitement seemed to be a blonde woman in huge sunglasses, a very tiny dress, and huge heels, who was holding a small and ridiculous dog. "Who is it?" Richard asked Georgie blankly.
"Belle Murphy!" Georgie gasped. "The film star. We saw her at the airport, remember."
It was like a bad dream, Darcy thought. First, there had been the ascent of the hill. She'd actually had to push Belle up the steeper bits.
As, finally, they arrived at Marco's, the bells chimed the quarter hour. Quarter past! Fifteen minutes late! The panic this plunged Darcy into was deepened when she looked searchingly round the crowded tables full of moving, eating, laughing, talking faces. But nowhere among them was the face she longed to see. Christian had not yet arrived. Or, worse, he had arrived and, seeing she was not there, had left again.
As it happened, Christian had not yet arrived. He had got lost in the darkening lanes in the Ferrari. The ancient peasant he had asked for directions—almost giving the old guy a heart attack as he roared unexpectedly up beside him in the sports car—had for some dumb reason given him the wrong ones.
It was nine fifteen by the time he nosed the gleaming red roadster into the carpark at the foot of the village. He was late. Christian, however, had no fear that Darcy would not be there when he got to the restaurant. Of course she would be. Women always waited for Christian Harlow.
He locked the car from the inside and swung himself out of the open top in one fluid, athletic movement.
He pushed a hand through his oiled black hair, quiffed up for the evening. Cramped from the car seat, he shook his muscled thighs in their white linen trousers and shrugged his gym-honed arms in the black leather waistcoat.
The waistcoat was all he wore on his oiled torso apart from a hip-hop thick layer of silver crosses, diamond initials, shark's teeth on leather thongs, and gold medallions. Most of them had been given by women over the years: the shark's tooth by his first conquest and the diamond initial by his most recent. Belle had provided one of the silver crosses. Christian thought of them as his trophies. His war medals, gained on the campaign route to stardom.
He walked away from the powerful vehicle, pinging in the heat of its recent exertions, deliberately not looking back at it as he strode with unhurried confidence through the carpark.
Belle was milking every minute. She preened and posed, tossing her hair about, soaking up the attention. Darcy could hardly believe how excited people seemed to be about seeing her, not least because after just one minute of her company, it was hard to imagine why anyone could possibly admire her. Having been at close quarters with her for some hours now, and finding her anything but impressive, Darcy had almost forgotten Belle was famous.
It was with relief that Darcy saw Marco the chef now appear from his kitchen. She could ask him if he had seen the actor; hopefully, he would remember Christian from earlier.
This possibility was scotched by Sugar's immediately exploding into barks. The dog was straining in Belle's arms, trying to snap at Marco. The chef backed away, annoyed.
"You've upset him," Belle accused. "Upset my little baby-waby!"
"I'm very sorry to hear that," rejoined Marco pleasantly.
Behind Belle, Darcy tried to catch his eye.
"We need a table for three," Belle barked.
Marco suppressed a sigh. Did he have a table for three? No, he did not. Did this shouty, American, plastic-looking woman not realise that booking was essential on busy nights like this?
"I'm sorry, signora," he started to say, intending to include her companion in the apology. He glanced at the dark-haired, whiteshirted woman who seemed to be with the blonde, albeit some distance behind her.
Her. His nerves jangled; his palms moistened; his breath felt suddenly constricted. It was…her.
She looked less coiffed than before, more casual in her jeans, and her black hair was damp
and twisted as if she had just jumped out of the bath. The bath. Her in it. Marco paused, fleetingly, at the thought.
"Whaddya mean, you're sorry?" Belle blustered. "You've got no tables? Don't you know who I am?"
She was looking at him so intensely, the beautiful girl with dark hair. Marco felt suddenly light and unanchored and giddy. He looked wildly around. There had to be a space somewhere. If not, he would make one. Out of thin air, with his bare hands…
As it happened, a table for two had just become free. And Daria, wonderful Daria, with her usual efficiency, was already clearing it.
"Should think so too," Belle huffed over her shoulder to Darcy. Darcy ignored her. She was concentrating on asking Marco about Christian at the first opportunity. "Have you seen my friend?" she murmured to Marco as he pulled over a third chair. "My friend from lunchtime," she added, in a voice too low for Belle to hear.
So that was the third guest, Marco thought. He wouldn't have bothered had he known. The muscle-bound swaggerer. The one who had asked for ketchup with his spaghetti. What did this woman— who obviously so appreciated food—see in such a bonehead?
"He likes his steak rare," the blonde interrupted. "And he'll have foie gras to start with. Okay?"
Marco almost lost his footing on an awkwardly placed cobble, as it dawned on him that the dog, not the bonehead—or, at least, a different type of bonehead—was intended as the third diner at the table.
"I'm sorry." He collected himself swiftly. "Animals are not allowed in the restaurant."
"Not allowed?" Belle turned on him in shrill fury. "You're saying that my dog—my dog—is not allowed? I'm a VIP, okay?"
Marco felt, behind and around him, the ringing silence from the rest of the diners, all of whom were following the drama with bated breath. Even the ones eating inside, in the brick-vaulted room, had crowded out round the entrance, below the vine with its fairy lights.
"Animals are not allowed to eat at table," Marco maintained doggedly.
Belle drew herself up to her full height, which was impressive, given the extra seven inches. Her back was arched, and it seemed to Darcy that her very breasts were bristling. "Sugar," Belle said icily, "is not an animal."
Marco looked at the skinny scrap of brown fur in her arms. "That isn't an animal?" It looked like a dog to him. A nasty sort of dog too.
Belle shoved her sunglasses close to Marco's face and hissed. "Sugar isn't an animal; he's a VVID. A Very, Very Important Dog." The creature in her arms gave a rolling, affirmative growl.
Beetroot-faced behind her co-star, Darcy wished the cobbles would open up beneath her. Poor Marco. The only upside to this toe-curling scene was that Christian, at least, was not present to witness it.
Did Darcy but know it, this was not the case. Christian was, at that very moment, climbing the steep village street, fists thrust in his white linen pockets, returning with interest the admiring glances the promenading female youth of Rocolo were bestowing on him. But as he approached the lights and bustle signalling the restaurant, some instinct within urged him to slow down. Softly, quietly, stealthily, Christian approached the outer ring of spectators and inserted himself into the crowd.
The centre of the attention was a blonde in jet-black sunglasses and a very short black dress, with white-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Good legs, Christian thought. And her tits were impressive, if so obviously fake you could park a Harley between them. She was holding a small, nasty-looking brown dog whose diamond collar picked up the candlelight and threw it back with ten times the force.
That dog. He'd seen that dog before, Christian thought. Most recently, a mere few hours ago. It was Belle's dog, Sugar. Which must mean…
He looked at the blonde again. That…was Belle? It couldn't be. She looked so different. So confident, so polished, so utterly unlike the crushed wreck who had begged him not to leave her back in L.A., whose career was as broken as her spirit. That woman, Christian saw, had disappeared completely. The Belle he now saw before him, buoyed up by her new starring role in a big film and her success in Shakespeare in London, was a total glamazon. She stood proud and tall—very tall in those heels—radiating attitude.
She was gesticulating, shaking her hair about, in the apparent middle of an argument with that great, shambling loser of a restaurant owner who'd given him all those snooty looks earlier in the day. Well, go, girl, Christian found himself thinking. He liked that red lipstick. He liked the way everyone in the restaurant was staring. Belle was the centre of attention, and he liked that in a woman.
Christian's scrutiny travelled approvingly again over her erect breasts—more erect than he remembered them, tiny hips, and long brown legs. He felt a stir of lust in his white linen trousers.
Christian was about to step forward to attract her attention when he spotted, in the shadows behind his former girlfriend, the woman he was auditioning for the role of the present one. Darcy Prince. Actually, Christian thought, his eyes behind his wraparounds sweeping critically over the creased, white shirt and battered jeans, Darcy wasn't looking so great tonight. Her hair was a mess; she looked as if she'd just got out of the bath. She wasn't even wearing shades, for Chrissakes; no Hollywood stars went out without them, especially if they weren't wearing make-up.
He returned his gaze to Belle. She was looking good; there was no doubt about it. So good that Christian was starting to wonder if he'd thrown her over too soon. Now that she was going to be a big star again, it was beginning to look like a mistake.
But what could he do about it? What passed for his brain wrestled with the problem. If he stepped out now, he ran the risk of being claimed by Darcy, which would ruin his chances with Belle. Belle might even be mad at him. She was pretty pissed at him when he'd left her, and that hadn't been so long ago.
Either way, it was now clear to Christian, making himself known to these two actresses was a high-risk strategy. Too bad if Darcy was expecting him, and he could tell she was from the way she stared around from time to time, a desperate expression in her eyes. He'd have to go away and think about this. After all, he'd be seeing them both on set in the next couple of days, when principal photography started. Which might have its tricky moments. He needed a strategy, Christian realised.
Stepping softly out of the crowd in the courtyard, he gained the street and melted swiftly away, a flash of diamond and white linen in the shadows.
Meanwhile, in the restaurant, the dog drama had reached doglock.
"Sugar is a Very Important Dog," his owner was insisting.
Marco's eyes held Belle's—or the area where he imagined Belle's were. It was difficult to tell behind the sunglasses. "Having a dog eat at your table in your home is your business, signora. But a restaurant is a public place."
"Okay." Belle tossed her hair impatiently. "I'm willing to compromise with you."
"Signora?"
"It's a public place, right? So get rid of the public. Empty the restaurant. We'll eat on our own."
Chapter Forty-one
His guide book had been spot on about this place, Ken thought. Rocolo was a peach, no question. Crumbling houses, narrow passages, an ancient church, and a tiny main square at the top with funny little shops full of ham and cheese and suchlike. Straight out of Italian village central casting it was.
Not much space in his room, but he was pleased with it nonetheless. Above a bar right at the very top of the village and behind the barn-like church in the square. Took five flights of stairs to get to it, but worth the effort: white walled, simply furnished with the bathroom in the room, behind a little wall. Loo, shower, and basin, but what else did you need? At the other end of the room, the other side of the slightly saggy but otherwise perfectly comfortable double bed, were a pair of French windows. They afforded a spectacular view of the village below, the roofs spinning out below him, the ridged dips in the tiles making it look like a flamenco skirt made of terra-cotta instead of frills.
Directly below his balcony was the children's playgr
ound by the church. It had been a bit noisy when Ken arrived. It was teatime, and the kiddies had been having their last runabout. Probably some people might have objected; their Italian village idyll ruined by screaming brats and all that, but Ken didn't mind it at all. Who could possibly mind the sound of children playing? He liked kiddies. Had always imagined at some stage that he'd have a few of the little blighters himself. Hadn't happened though, but that was another story.
Dinnertime, Ken told himself, patting his stomach. There'd been a restaurant he'd spotted on the winding hill up through the village: nice little place on a corner, set on a courtyard with white parasols. It had been crowded even then, but hopefully they'd have room for one.
Ken proceeded in leisurely fashion down the winding main street towards where he remembered seeing the restaurant. The contrast with what he would have routinely been doing in London—what Keith was no doubt doing that minute—struck him forcefully. Sitting on the wall opposite the Portchester, most likely, waiting for some self-regarding celebrity to emerge. But now, here, without the long lenses permanently slung round his neck, Ken felt lighter in more ways than one.
