At least, she had been until the photo shoot for the Polwenna Bay charity calendar.
Far from falling flat on its face, as Jules had secretly been praying hard that it might, enthusiasm for Sheila’s idea had gathered momentum until all of the village was talking about it. Wherever she went, from the post office to the pasty shop, people accosted Jules to ask about the photo shoot and offer their services. The usual justification for this was that it was all for a good cause, obviously, but Jules wasn’t fooled. Everyone, it seemed, was frantic to have their moment in the limelight and determined that the vicar should consider them for a starring role.
Jules was beginning to have great sympathy for Simon Cowell…
It was simply staggering, and quite frankly a little scary, just who was lining up to volunteer to pose. After several more ciders on Water Carnival day, the Pollards had come banging on the vicarage door, keen to be January’s offering. Then Pete the Post had terrified her by delivering Monday morning’s mail starkers except for his Royal Mail cap covering his privates. When she’d got over the shock of both these visits (and resigned herself to not answering her front door again until all this madness was well and truly finished), Jules had resumed vicar mode and gently told her wannabe Chippendales that the calendar was only going to feature the female members of the village.
“That’s sexist!” Little Rog had protested.
“The boy’s right,” his father had nodded. “You’re supposed to treat us all as equals in the eyes of the Lord, Vicar!”
“Believe me, I’d like to tell you all equally that this is a crazy idea,” Jules had replied with feeling. “If you don’t like the rules, take it up with Sheila and the WI. This is her fault – I mean, project.”
Jules was exhausted from just thinking about the whole idea and trying to figure out how she could put the kibosh on it before it was too late. She’d watched Calendar Girls and would have enjoyed it hugely if not for the Polwenna Bay remake dangling over her head like the sword of Damocles. Inspired by the movie, she’d called the national headquarters of the Women’s Institute, hoping that they might be able to intervene. No such luck. Apparently the parishes of England were well and truly past being shocked by such activities. Rather than receiving the reprimand she’d been hoping for, Jules was wished a cheery good luck. In desperation she’d phoned the vicar of the next parish, an experienced man who would surely be able to tell her what to do, but he’d just laughed and wished her all the best with the fundraising.
“Beats a tea party,” he’d concluded, before ringing off and leaving Jules ready to bash her head on the table in despair. Was it just her who thought this was lunacy? Maybe she was a miserable killjoy? After all, she’d been praying non-stop about finding a way to halt the project and so far had drawn a blank.
Was this God’s answer? Jules wondered. Granted, He had made man in His own image, but even her steady faith wobbled at bit at the thought of the Almighty looking like Sheila Keverne or Patsy Penhalligan in the nuddy…
It was bad enough stressing about the photo shoot, not to mention falling out with Morgan Tremaine, who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to take the photos. (“It’s art, Vicar. I’d be looking at the mise en scène of the shots, not the bodies. Fact.”) But Jules was also lying awake at night worrying about the bishop’s impending visit. Once again, as the hands of her bedside clock had crawled past two and then three, she’d stared out of the open curtains into the inky night and tried to slow the racing of her heart. Although she was doing her best to be upbeat in front of her flock, deep down Jules had a very bad feeling. Sheila’s comment about Ashley Carstairs scoping out the church had lodged in Jules’s mind and despite trying her hardest to give him the benefit of the doubt, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe her verger had a point. Although Jules had frequently come across him in St Wenn’s, Ashley was never seen there on a Sunday and he was notorious in the village for buying properties and developing them. Jules thought this reputation seemed slightly unfair, since as far as she knew he’d only bought one house and showed no signs of wanting to collect another, but you could never be too sure. The fact remained that unless Jules could rustle up something to put St Wenn’s on the map – preferably in a non-scandalous way – the future of her church looked rather bleak.
Today, a sunny Saturday morning two weeks on from that unforgettable PCC meeting, had seen an early start for Jules and the stars of the Polwenna Bay calendar. In spite of all her best attempts to derail the project, it was still full steam ahead and the photo shoot was due to take place shortly. Richard Penwarren had called in a favour from one of his patients and secured a photographer; various locations around the village had been earmarked; and Danny had managed to persuade his brother’s girlfriend, Summer, to do the make-up and styling. This was a real coup, since until recently Summer had been a successful glamour model. She’d tactfully declined an invitation to pose but had somehow managed to talk Morwenna Tremaine into taking part, which could only be a good thing if Ashley Carstairs kept his promise about buying a hundred copies.
The first location was Patsy’s Pasties. Already a crowd had gathered there, probably more on account of the free pasties being handed out rather than the sight of Patsy herself in a frayed towelling bathrobe and with her hair in rollers. Jules helped herself to a steak and onion and wove her way through to the front of the shop, where Danny was artistically stacking pies on the counter. Meanwhile Summer applied the finishing touches to her aunt’s face and a skinny lad in drainpipe jeans measured the light and twiddled reflective umbrellas.
“Get on, Rev!” beamed Patsy, waving Jules over. “How do I look?”
With her hair in rollers and sporting bright red lips and TOWIE-style false eyelashes, Patsy looked unusually glamorous and was clearly bursting to get in front of the lens.
“You’ve done a great job,” Jules said warmly to Summer.
Summer laughed and Jules thought for probably the millionth time just how beautiful she was; with her shining green eyes the exact colour of sea-smoothed glass, her deep dimples and her softly curling hair, if anything she was even prettier in the flesh than in all the adverts and magazines.
“It might not have been Shakespeare but at least I learned something while I was in London,” Summer said, pulling out the last of her aunt’s curlers and spritzing her hair with Elnett. “Right, that’s you done, aunty!” She glanced at her clipboard. “Who’s next? Silver Starr? Or you, Mo?”
Mo Tremaine was sitting on the floor and scowling. She’d been looking miserable all week, Jules thought, which was such a shame because when she smiled Mo was stunning. Still, if Jules had been waiting to get her kit off for the calendar, she’d have had a face like a slapped bottom too.
“Bloody stupid idea,” Mo muttered. “I’ve not got time anyway. The horses need me.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “That excuse doesn’t cut it, Mo. Jake and Symon are taking care of all your yard chores today. By the time you have to pose behind the hay bales the place will be sparkling. Next?”
Mo didn’t say anything but just glowered from under her shaggy red fringe. Her eyes were ringed with dark shadows and she looked tense. Instinct told Jules that Mo was dreadfully upset about something but was keeping it to herself. Ashley Carstairs had been conspicuously absent again for the last few days. Was this something to do with it? The electricity that sparked between those two whenever they met up could have powered Cornwall for a year. I wonder if there’s more to this than meets the eye? mused Jules.
Patsy shrugged off her robe, in the style of Cleopatra stepping into the bath, and waddled behind the counter while everyone hastily averted their eyes. When Jules was brave enough to look again Patsy was striking a pose behind the shop counter, buns and pastries shielding her modesty as the photographer snapped away.
“Beautiful! Yes! Yes! Move a little to the left. Gorgeous!”
“Yeah, baby,” Danny murmured into Jules’s ear, making her giggle.
“So, have we persuaded you yet?” Danny wanted to know. “You could be Miss December. We could get you a cute Santa’s hat and you could pose behind the pulpit?”
Jules whacked him on the arm. “More like Miss October for scaring people on Halloween. Besides, don’t we want people to buy the thing?”
Danny sighed. “I wish you’d stop putting yourself down. You’re looking great, Jules.” His piercing blue eye locked with her gaze, and the undamaged part of his mouth was smiling appreciatively. “Take a look in the mirror. Those walks of ours haven’t just sorted my leg out. I’d take a leaf out of Cashley’s book and pay a fortune for a calendar if you were in it!”
Jules felt her cheeks start to glow and looked down at the tips of her Crocs. She wasn’t quite sure what to say – her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly think. “While we still have St Wenn’s I’m the vicar, and I don’t think posing among the prayer books would look so good on my CV. Besides, I thought all the spots were taken? I’ve been fighting people off. Who’s next?”
“I think it must be Silver Starr.” Summer passed Jules the clipboard and pointed to the schedule. “Sheila and the WI are February and Mo is September. Kursa’s up for April and Kelly from The Ship is May. Somebody could double up so that we can find you a space, though. Maybe you could both pose behind beer kegs!”
“Turning water into wine? It’s Biblical,” suggested Danny.
Jules grimaced. “I’ll stick with my cassock, thanks. Did Alice change her mind about posing?”
Danny shook his head. “Granny’s being very mysterious at the moment. She said she was far too wrinkly to be in a nude calendar but not to worry; she’s got a plan up her sleeve.”
“What sort of plan?”
“No idea. She’s not saying. All I know is that she’s commandeered the laptop, which is driving Morgan nuts, and she keeps shutting herself away for hours. Knowing our family she’s probably developed an online poker habit.”
Danny’s father, Jimmy Tremaine, was well known for his fondness for gambling. Charming, handsome and feckless, he was forever losing too, which didn’t help the family’s ailing finances. Jules only knew all this because Alice had told her in confidence that she was in the process of consulting a solicitor to see if the trust on Seaspray and the family marina could skip a generation and pass straight to Jake. But Alice, online gaming? Surely not?
“That was a joke, by the way.” Danny put his hand on her shoulder. “She’s probably on Plenty of Geriatric Fish or drooling over Ross Poldark with all the other females I know. Relax. There’s nothing to look so worried about.”
“I think I’ve lost my sense of humour this week,” Jules sighed.
Danny glanced across the bakery. Patsy was into her stride now and posing with a couple of strategically placed Belgian buns. The glacé cherries left nothing to the imagination. His lips twitched.
“Seriously? You can’t see the funny side of this?”
“Well, maybe,” Jules admitted. “But to be honest, Dan, I’m so worried about what the bishop is going to say that I can hardly think straight. I haven’t slept for days because it’s not looking likely to be good news.”
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Hey, we don’t know that for sure. Let’s just wait and see what happens before we give up and let Cashley turn St Wenn’s into a pole-dancing club, OK?”
She nodded. “OK. No to pole dancing in the church.”
“Actually, you could be onto something. Pole dancing in services could be exactly what we need to get the numbers up. I bet everyone would come.”
Jules laughed out loud.
“That’s more like it,” Danny said. “Oh, thank God; Patsy’s putting her bathrobe back on. Looks like this bit of the shoot’s over. I’ll need some extra counselling to get over seeing that sight!”
“Don’t be mean,” scolded Summer, who’d overheard this. She looked at her clipboard and drew a big tick next to her aunt’s name. “One down and eleven to go.”
“Eleven more? Forget the counselling,” Danny stage-whispered to Jules, “it’ll be intense therapy!”
“Me too,” Jules whispered back. “Or maybe a new parish?”
“Good work, everyone,” said Summer brightly, taking charge while most people just helped themselves to pasties. “Now we need to get over to Magic Moon. Silver Starr’s next and then Mo.”
“Who I’m sure can’t wait to pose amid the hay bales,” Danny said.
Mo flicked him a V. She was still scowling, chewing the end of her red ponytail and looking less than thrilled.
“Do you really think we should make her go through with it?” Jules asked Dan as, en masse, the photo-shoot crew made the short trip to Silver Starr’s shop, guided by the smell of patchouli oil and strains of panpipe music emanating from it.
It troubled Jules that Mo looked so unhappy. Even if Ashley had jokingly offered a fortune (at least, Jules thought he’d been joking; Ashley was so deadpan it was hard to tell), it didn’t seem fair to make Mo do something that Jules herself wasn’t prepared to undertake.
But Danny wasn’t worried. “Don’t take that sulky face to heart. This isn’t anything to do with the shoot. She’s been in an evil mood for days for some reason. Bloody hard work, my sister. If it was anyone but Mo then I’d say it was man trouble, but we all know that unless it’s got hooves she’s not bothered.”
Jules was just about to reply that she wasn’t totally convinced this was the case, when the sight of Silver Starr diverted her attention. Silver was draped across a chaise longue in the shop window and clad in little more than some wisps of thinning tinsel.
Tourists were peering in and looking rather bemused. “She’s starkers!” declared one in disbelief. “I thought this was a family-friendly village?”
Unless she wanted her charity fundraiser to make the headlines for all the wrong reasons, it was time for Jules to intervene. Striding into the shop and yanking the indignant model from public view, Jules knew she had to focus all her energies on keeping her flock decent and hopefully out of the local nick.
Mo Tremaine and whatever was upsetting her would just have to wait.
Chapter 10
“What’s up?” Summer asked Mo over dinner later on that evening. The two girls had headed away from Polwenna Bay, where the wrap party for the photo shoot was in full swing, to a small seafood shack in the next town along the coast. Mo was usually so busy with the horses that she and Summer didn’t get to see that much of each other, so they were taking full advantage of Jake and Symon shouldering the stable chores.
This was a great idea in theory, and usually Mo couldn’t have thought of anything nicer than catching up with Summer, but today she couldn’t have felt less like chatting. Or eating. The thought of telling her best friend what she’d done the other day made her feel quite queasy. Still in shock herself, Mo couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on Summer’s face if she knew the truth. As it was, she could hardly look her own reflection in the eye when she cleaned her teeth or brushed her hair. It was as though she had I slept with Cashley written all over her freckly face.
Mo didn’t think she’d ever felt more disappointed with herself. So much for fighting him every step of the way as he sought to develop and ruin the village. One touch of his hands on her skin and she’d dissolved into a puddle of longing. When his lips had met hers and he’d pulled her close she’d been lost…
God. He must be really laughing now, Mo thought as she shredded a bread roll viciously. What was it he’d told her all those weeks ago in the pub? I always win. He’d been so confident that she’d crumple eventually, and she hated herself for proving him right. Why on earth had she made his victory so easy?
The answer to this question was lurking somewhere in the back of her mind, like a fish darting only just below the waves, and knowing it was so close made Mo shiver. There was no way she was going to acknowledge it. No way at all.
Especially since she hadn’t even heard from Ashley since. Not that Mo cared about that. As if.
She’d hardly noticed, actually.
“Mo?” Summer leaned forward, a worried frown creasing her forehead and her green eyes filled with concern. “You’re miles away. Is your food OK?”
The food was perfect and Mo knew it was ungrateful of her not to be in a more sociable frame of mind, especially since Summer was treating her to dinner. Mo didn’t get out much: usually the demands of evening stables combined with her dire lack of funds meant that restaurants were out of the question, so her supper of choice was generally a Pot Noodle or a slice of toast eaten on the hoof – quite literally, on the majority of occasions. Today, with the horses taken care of and the hideous photo shoot over with, she should be able to just sit back and enjoy her moules marinière, crusty French baguette and glass of dry white wine. Without a villager in sight, clothed or unclothed, or any horses to worry about, all Mo had to do was relax with her best friend.
So why was this so difficult?
The problem was that Mo couldn’t answer Summer’s well-intentioned questions without having to fib. The truth would be that little more than a week ago she’d acted totally out of character and allowed Ashley Carstairs to get far too close, as close as one person possibly could be to another – and now he’d done yet another of his vanishing acts. It was hard not to take everything personally.
That perfect afternoon was etched in her memory now, a sunshine-drenched kaleidoscope of hard earth and prickly wheat beneath her back, the drone of bees, and Ashley’s dark eyes holding hers as she melted into him…
Mo knocked back several gulps of wine, determined to derail this train of thought as fast as she could. The trouble was, the more she tried to not think about Ashley, the more her annoying brain refused to focus on anything else. What infuriated her even more was that this clearly wasn’t a mutual problem: he’d not spoken a word to her since they’d kissed goodbye in the purple shadows of twilit Fernside. His silence since had been deafening.
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2 Page 9
