Storm Damage

by Lorna McKenzie

  What would he be doing about supper tonight? She reached for the phone. No, she couldn’t phone him—he thought her a brazen enough hussy as it was. But she couldn’t let him starve, and he was in no fit state to look after himself. She reached again for the phone but, before she could lift it, it rang.

  “Poppy?”

  “Oh, hello, Esther,” she said, relieved to hear the homely voice of Robin’s mother. She had been like a second mother to Poppy since her parents had died. “How are you? Did you survive the storm intact?”

  Not a good choice of word, she thought wryly, hoping Esther would not enquire the same of her.

  “We lost a couple of slates; otherwise we’re fine, but I gather you had a spot of excitement at the height of the storm!”

  “You could say that.”

  “Robin says he’s a decent sort of bloke, this Guy Devereau. I’ve invited him to dinner, and thought you might like to come along, too.”

  “Oh, I was just going to have a quiet supper by the fire…”

  “You get enough of those. Come on, love, the poor man doesn’t know anyone else round here, and with Tess away, there aren’t many pretty young things to grace our table. We’ve invited the God squad from the vicarage, but what with Desmond’s sleazy stories and Madge’s aimless prattle, not to mention daughter Annabel’s predatory antics, we’d like someone sane along, too.”

  “Oh, all right, you’ve twisted my arm…not that I feel particularly sane, mind you.”

  “Anything to do with Guy Devereau? Robin said he’s not bad-looking, which probably means he’s pretty stunning!”

  “It’s nothing to do with his looks, Esther—though he’s handsome enough. But yes, it is to do with him, and the fact that he wants me out, to make room for his new staff.”

  “Oh dear! Robin said he seemed to have got under your skin. Oh dear, I’d no idea…”

  “Don’t worry, Esther.” She could imagine poor, caring Esther desperately wanting to withdraw Guy’s invitation. “I promise not to make a scene or embarrass you in any way.”

  She did, however, take tremendous trouble with her appearance that evening. After wearing sensible country clothes during the day, dinner parties offered a chance to dress up, and she and her friends generally did. Besides, some little voice suggested, Annabel would be there, doing her best to seduce every attractive man in sight, which meant Robin and Guy. Annabel was not the typical vicar’s daughter, but then, neither was her father the typical vicar: away from the pulpit, his stories veered towards the suggestive. These, fortunately, went over the head of his scatty wife, Madge, who was a bishop’s daughter. She was the only typical member of their household, in fact. Her life consisted of charitable work for the less fortunate, whether they required it or not.

  Poppy was glad she had worn her cream silk. Its soft satiny folds draped about her body, offering subtle hints of the curves beneath, rather than making a bold statement. The cowl neck scooped low at the back, while the front sported a keyhole effect, giving a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage; the skirt rippled about her slender hips as she moved. Her makeup was equally subtle, and her hair, like polished chestnuts and the only vibrant colour about her, was dressed high on her crown, leaving a few stray curls about her slender neck. Long pendant earrings drew further attention to its graceful length. Compared with Annabel, Poppy looked positively fragile. Annabel’s black hair was a ragged, back-combed halo about a heavily made-up face: her sequinned top clung, while her tight black skirt must surely be uncomfortable to sit in.

  Whatever Esther’s misgivings, they hadn’t prevented her seating Guy next to Poppy. Guy leaned towards her over the melon cocktail.

  “You don’t fool me, Poppy Winters. There’s a core of steel under that delicate exterior.”

  “Wh-what? Look, if you’re going to sit there and insult me all evening, I suggest we change places right now. I’ll say it’s draughty here…”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I might get landed with Jezebel!”

  “She’s only a vicar’s daughter,” said Poppy coyly, her eyes sparkling wickedly.

  “Yes, and there are several endings to that little quip! Most of which could well be appropriate.”

  Poppy gave a little chuckle.

  “No private jokes now,” Vicar Desmond admonished.

  “I suppose after spending a night under the same roof, they’ve got a lot to talk about!” declared Annabel with a pout, her dark eyes casting daggers in Poppy’s direction.

  “I’m hoping she’ll tell me about it,” Guy replied, giving Annabel a devastating smile which banished her peevish expression.

  “You poor man, losing your memory like that,” put in Madge. “If there’s anything we can do, we’re always there to help.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  The conversation turned to the damage done by the storm, the roofs to be repaired, the livestock that had needed rehousing till animal sheds could be repaired. Good tales were told, fine wines consumed, and, after a short period when the men were left to themselves, paying token homage to tradition, they regrouped in the drawing room.

  “I’d like a word, Poppy,” Robin whispered, taking her elbow and leading her to a corner beside wall-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  “Take your pick—there must be millions here.”

  “I’m being serious, wretched girl,” he laughed despite himself. “Look, I’m not entirely happy about that knock our new friend has suffered. I’m arranging an X-ray for him tomorrow, but it might help restore his memory if you were to tell him exactly what happened while you were with him.” Poppy fought back her horror at the very thought. “It might jog his memory and help him fill in the blanks.”

  “I’m not spending a minute longer in that man’s company than I have to!” she told him heatedly.

  “Oh, come on, love. Mother told me the way of things, but I’m sure something can be worked out about the cottage. Have a little charity, eh?”

  “I don’t feel charitable towards Guy Devereau!”

  “Taking my name in vain, Poppy?”

  She swung round, embarrassed.

  “You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people!”

  “Why don’t you go and do your host bit with Annabel, Robin?” Guy suggested, restraining a smile.

  “Thanks, pal. I hoped you’d draw off some of the fire.”

  “I’m burning up,” Guy laughed.

  “I guess I’ll have to lend you Poppy, then.” He winked at her as he sauntered off.

  “Are you and he an item?” asked Guy.

  “No, we’re not!” she snapped. “As I’ve already said.”

  “Good, then you won’t mind Esther’s suggestion that you drive me home. She was kind enough to pick me up, but we can hardly expect her to turn out again when we’re such close neighbours, can we?”

  It was the last thing Poppy wanted, but she could hardly refuse. She could try, though.

  “Of course not, but I’m leaving now.”

  “That’s fine by me—I feel extraordinarily tired.” They were soon in the hall taking their leave.

  “Don’t forget: supper with us on Saturday,” Annabel reminded Guy. “I can drive over and pick you up.”

  “How awfully kind,” he replied. “But you won’t have to bother—I’ve arranged for a hired car to be delivered in the morning.”

  “You’ll come too, won’t you, Poppy?” enquired Madge, causing Annabel to scowl.

  “I’d love to,” Poppy replied sweetly.

  “I’ll pick you up—hardly worth getting your car out,” said Guy, which brought further killing looks from Annabel.

  “Please don’t bother,” she felt bound to say.

  “I insist,” he replied, urging her towards the door.

  “How well do you know the Hall?” he asked as they headed past her cottage and up the
lane to his new home.

  “Pretty well—my parents both worked there, and they weren’t the kind to leave me to my own devices during the holidays.”

  “Home from home, eh?”

  She stopped her Mini at the base of some steps leading to an ancient oak door flanked by lichen-covered stone portals.

  “I wouldn’t say that, but I know my way around.”

  “Like to advise me on a colour scheme for the drawing room? You have an artist’s eye, and I’m afraid my tastes run a little to the colonial.”

  She was surprised and delighted by the invitation: she had often viewed those dingy, duck-egg-blue walls and faded brown velvet curtains with distaste, longing to wave a magic wand and create a light and tasteful background for the beautiful mahogany pieces in the room. He watched her face light up with pleasure at the prospect of realizing her dream, but then her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What’s the catch?” she demanded.

  “My dear Poppy.” His tone was conciliatory, but her nerves tingled with alarm when he lifted a finger and stroked it down her smooth cheek, ensnaring a strand of hair and pulling it free. “Why are you always so suspicious? No catch, I promise.”

  “No bailiffs?”

  “Not without following the letter of the law,” he smiled. “I’m no Rachmann—wicked landlord type, in case you didn’t know,” he explained.

  “I’ll think about it—I am trying to run a business, you know, and this is usually the busiest time of year.”

  Though sales in her local outlets were disappointingly low this year.

  “So—delegate! Train someone.”

  That thought had already occurred to her, before the recent falloff.

  “Don’t try and run my life for me!” she snapped.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to slap on the paint or whatever yourself—just supervise the workforce, once the basic plan has been decided.”

  She just couldn’t resist it.

  “All right—it’s a deal.”

  “Excellent—nine o’clock Monday morning all right?”

  “Fine,” she agreed with a quick nonplussed shake of the head. “Can I have my hair back now?”

  His answer was to wind it tighter. “Are you coming in for coffee?”

  “No, I’m not.” Heaven knew what that might lead to, though she had a rough idea!

  “How about one of those mind-blowing kisses, then?”

  “Stop it, Guy,” she protested weakly as his head came closer.

  His lips touched hers, warm and firm. She was determined to resist, but as his lips stroked hers, her control started to snap, and she closed her eyes. His lips pressed briefly against hers, lifted away, and she was free. Her eyes snapped open to find him smiling at her with satisfaction.

  “You’re detestable, Guy Devereau, do you know that?” she declared, but without much conviction.

  He laughed properly then. “I love you, too, Poppy Winters.”

  He let himself out and closed the door smartly. She revved away, not staying long enough to see how Guy Devereau started up the steps and then paused halfway to stare back with a puzzled frown before continuing into the house.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday evening at the manse was a convivial affair. Poppy found herself seated between Robin and the vicar—doubtless Annabel’s arrangement, since she herself was positioned on the other side of Robin, between him and Guy. Guy must have had similar thoughts from the knowing wink he gave her when they leaned forward at the same moment. She replied, having made sure no one else was looking, by sticking out her tongue, gratified to see his chest shake with silent laughter.

  The other guests were the local vet, Derek, his wife, Shirley, and a pair of computer scientists who, though only in their thirties, had bought a substantial new house on the edge of the village. They used it at weekends, but they planned to live there in their retirement or when their skills became defunct.

  The vicar was at his most entertaining, while Guy managed to tell stories that appealed to their host’s somewhat strange sense of humour but went completely over the head of Madge, if not of the other females present.

  “Do you have any children?” Guy asked Tanya, who was sitting opposite him.

  “Well,” she turned slightly pink, placed a hand on her stomach and shot an enquiring look at Bob, her husband.

  He laughed. “Go on, darling—you’ve as good as told them now.”

  “Well,” she said again with surprising shyness, in contrast with her otherwise confident demeanour. “It hasn’t been confirmed yet, but we’re pretty sure I’m pregnant—about six weeks, in fact.”

  “Leave it another couple of weeks and then pop along to the surgery,” Robin suggested.

  “Won’t that fettle up your career?” Guy wanted to know.

  “Heavens, no. We shall have a nanny at first, and there’s a super crèche for later on at the firm where we both work.”

  “Ah!”

  Poppy knew instinctively that Guy disapproved of this arrangement, but of what import to her were his opinions?

  “I may be able to work from home on a terminal linked to the firm’s main computer. We haven’t explored all the possibilities yet.”

  “When are you due to whelp then?” asked Derek, the vet.

  “Darling, Tanya’s not a dog!” his wife, Shirley, scolded wryly.

  “It’s all right,” Tanya laughed. “I suppose about the first week of June. We’re thrilled, aren’t we, darling?” Bob smiled his agreement. “We’ve been trying for a baby for ages.”

  Poppy wondered if the other women in the room suffered her own fleeting jealousy. Tanya suddenly seemed to have everything: a satisfying career, a secure home, no financial problems and, on top of that, a husband who loved her very much and his child growing inside her. Fulfilment, indeed. She couldn’t see that happening to her.

  Robin nudged her elbow and she came out of her reverie to find Shirley speaking to her.

  “Oh, sorry Shirley—I was miles away.”

  And Guy was peering at her oddly— she hoped she hadn’t voiced her thoughts aloud.

  “I said could I pop down in the morning and look at your new designs?”

  “Of course you can. Come for coffee.”

  “Can I invite myself, too?” asked Tanya.

  “Oh, do.”

  “That’s a smart top you’re wearing tonight—you didn’t make that?”

  It was of black silk laced with silver and stitched with black sequins, the fringing on the three-quarter sleeves matching the rows on the skirt. No low necks and bare shoulders tonight—she knew the draughty manse all too well!

  “Yes, I did,” she told Tanya. “Silk’s very warm.”

  She wished she hadn’t added that the next moment, when Annabel declared: “She means the manse is bloody cold.”

  “Darling!” chided Madge in hushed tones, while the vicar appeared to notice nothing amiss.

  The high-ceilinged drawing room was just as chilly as the dining room, in spite of the huge fire roaring up the chimney, and a small radiator opposite. Annabel stuck to Guy like a leech, but Poppy was happy to circulate.

  “Come over here, Poppy,” said Robin quietly, drawing her away from a group that included their host, the vet and Tanya.

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “I don’t like the look of Guy.” She glanced across and noted with concern that he was indeed pallid beneath his tan. “I’m going to arrange for tests in the county hospital on Monday.”

  “Monday morning?” she enquired, remembering her planned meeting with Guy to discuss the decor of his drawing room.

  “No, the specialist holds his surgery in the afternoon.”

  “Fine.”

  She explained what they had planned for the morning.

  “Have you
talked to him yet about those missing hours?”

  “Well, um, not really, no.”

  “Do try, and right now see if you can persuade him to go home.”

  Great! Annabel was going to love her for that! Fortunately, as she made her way over, Tanya and Bob were just saying good night to their hosts and Derek was returning from taking a phone call to announce that old Farmer Brewer was having trouble with a breech-presentation calving so they, too, had to leave. Guy unfolded his length as she reached his side, and stood up. As he did so he swayed slightly and she automatically caught his arm.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty all in, actually,” he replied, his brow creased with pain.

  Annabel was standing on his other side, pouting at the sight of Poppy’s hand under Guy’s elbow. She let it drop, having no desire to make Annabel jealous. The poor girl was very young and unsure of herself for a nineteen-year-old. She supposed that with parents like hers, the girl stood little chance of knowing how to make the best of herself. Madge made no concession to fashion, wearing sack-like dresses and leaving her greying hair straight and slightly unkempt. Maybe she should take the girl in hand? No, somehow she didn’t think Annabel would appreciate that.

  “It’s been a super evening, Annabel,” she said now. “But everyone else is leaving”—except Robin, who was just accepting a large brandy from the vicar—“and Guy’s got one of his splitting headaches.”

  “He didn’t say anything,” came the suspicious reply.

  But surely he didn’t have to? He was obviously in distress.

  A few minutes later she was releasing her seat belt and opening the passenger door of Guy’s hired Jaguar outside her cottage.

  “See you in church?” she enquired, standing on the road and leaning inside the car.

  “I guess so,” he replied, with a smile—he had guessed she didn’t want a repetition of last night.

  “It’s expected of you!”

  “I wouldn’t miss one of Desmond’s sermons for the world! I bet they’re quite something.”

  “You’d be surprised!”