‘Why is it that the one time I actually ask you to interfere in something, you start acting all holier than thou and making excuses? I’m beginning to think you’ve gone soft since your heart attack.’
Without waiting for a reply, Tory climbed down from her seat, picked up Dotty from her comfortable position on Pickles’ back and started towards the door. Just as she reached it, she turned back and delivered the punch line. ‘I have to say I’m disappointed in you father. You’re no longer the irresponsible meddlesome old windbag you once were.’
The whole pub was silent as the door slammed behind her. ‘Bloody cheek,’ muttered the Admiral as the conversation started up once more, ‘I’m every bit as bollocking interfering as I ever was.’
‘Yes you are Sir,’ affirmed Jimmy passionately, his fervent tone earning him a suspicious look. However, the Admiral contented himself with a small nod of acknowledgement at his friend’s insight and turned his mind back to the problem at hand. He had to confess to feeling a small frisson of excitement – a feeling that had been distinctly lacking since he’d come out of hospital. Maybe Victory was right, maybe he had gone soft.
He shook his head and turned to his friend with a sigh. ‘It’s no good Jimmy lad, as much as we might want to, we can’t hang up our deerstalkers yet, the world needs us…
~*~
Tory’s heart was still thudding uncomfortably when she arrived home. To her relief, Noah was still upstairs with Isaac. She’d vaguely told her husband that she was just popping down to the Ship to check on her father, but that excuse would collapse under any kind of hard questioning – she was a terrible liar. Hanging her coat up, Tory wondered what on earth she’d been thinking – actually encouraging the Admiral to stick his nose into affairs that were none of his business, but she couldn’t think what else to do.
Noah had flatly refused to go against Kit’s wishes and speak to Jason, which meant that she couldn’t either. The only person who didn’t give a rat’s arse about anyone’s wishes apart from his own was her father.
Tory simply couldn’t believe that Jason would willingly walk away from her best friend. She’d seen how he looked at Kit – that kind of passion wasn’t something that died over night.
Tory thought back to the break up between her and Noah. Her father had told her then that if she wanted the actor, she needed to get off her arse and go get him.
If Kit wasn’t going to do that with Jason, then it was up to her best friend to take steps. She just hoped that Kit would forgive her if she ever found out…
~*~
The Admiral sat down in his favourite chair, a glass of Port on the table next to him. His study was the only place he was able to sneak a quick tipple of the hard stuff. His wife was like a blood hound. She could sniff out alcohol at fifty paces. He shook his head at the unfairness of his lot before turning his mind to the matter at hand. He needed to meet up with Jimmy pronto. The problem was he’d already exceeded his weekly allotted trips to the Ship and if he asked Jimmy to meet him here, there was no doubt Mabel would smell a bloody great rodent. He could of course enlist the help of Victory, since it was her fault he was reduced to looking for a way to sneak out of the bloody house in the first place.
‘I’m popping over to Marks and Spencer’s dear.’ His wife’s shout gave him a few seconds to hide his glass as her words preceded her entrance to his study. Did the woman have no bloody manners? A man’s study was his sanctuary. Even Victory knew never to step over the threshold unless invited. But Mabel had no such restraint. It was a damn good job she could make a cracking steak and kidney pudding, or he might have been tempted to take steps…
‘Did you hear what I said dear?’ Mabel called again as she brazenly walked right in to his refuge. The Admiral could tell that her eyes were scanning the room for signs of anything untoward and he thanked his lucky stars that he’d had the foresight to put the chocolate coated peanuts in his back pocket.
‘Of course dear,’ he responded through gritted teeth. Mabel stared at him for a second with narrowed eyes. The Admiral felt himself begin to sweat. The woman had some kind of bloody radar when it came to spotting his smuggled treats. So far she’d confiscated three family size bags of cheese and onion crisps, five sausage rolls and tin of Quality Street. Fortunately she hadn’t yet discovered his secret stash of Cockburn’s Special Reserve...
‘Will you be long my dove?’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the Admiral cursed his stupidity as Mabel halted her retreat and turned back to stare at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’ she asked guardedly.
Somehow he managed to keep his expression of polite interest as he sought to dig himself out of the hole. ‘No reason sweetheart. I just thought I’d take Pickles for a bit of a walk up the lane – if you think that’s acceptable of course my angel.’
Mabel’s face softened, indicating he’d averted potential disaster. ‘I’ll be gone a couple of hours I should think. A bit of fresh air will do you good, just don’t overdo it will you Charlie?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it darling.’ Damn, he’d overdone it, he could tell. But after a couple more seconds staring at him skeptically, she thankfully retreated and he sagged with relief.
Right, he’d got an hour and a half to get to the Ship and back. If he walked on the flat path along the river, he should be able to manage it easily. He went to his study door to listen, and as soon as he heard the door slam, he got straight on the phone to Jimmy.
By the time he arrived at the Ship, he’d got a bit of a sweat on. Even Pickles was puffing and panting. Still, he’d managed it, although it was a bit harder than usual - this bloody dieting lark wasn’t doing him any good at all.
After taking a bit of breather, he pushed open the door and saw with approval that Jimmy was already ensconced at the bar and had his pint ready and waiting. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Old Jimmy might have made the odd bid for freedom over the last couple of years, but good training would always win out.
Clambering onto the seat next to his former Master at Arms, the Admiral took a long draft of his pint before saying anything. Unfortunately Jimmy got in there first.
‘That’s the only drink you’re allowed Sir, so you might want to take it a bit slower.’ After spluttering into his beer, the Admiral looked up at his friend incredulously. This was mutiny.
Before he could get a word in however, Jimmy held up his hand. ‘It’s not me Sir. Mabel’s had a word with the barman. He’s only supposed to serve you one alcoholic drink. He said you’re allowed to have tonic water though if you’re still a bit dry after your pint.’
For a second the Admiral stared at Jimmy in disbelief. How did Mabel know he was here? This was a bloody disaster - his wife could read him like a book. His whole life was in tatters and he felt like crying.
Jimmy put his hand on the Admiral’s shoulder and patted it sympathetically, before leaning forward and whispering, ‘Don’t worry Sir, I’ve bought you a pickled egg instead…’
~*~
I’m determined that little Isaac’s baptism will be a truly memorable occasion. I know it’s only a christening, but I need to focus on something, and the couple of weddings I’ve got in the pipeline haven’t been taking nearly enough of my time – or more importantly, my brain.
I have two weeks to bring it all together and I’ve spent the last two days poring over magazines and websites. There are going to be fifty guests and the invitations have gone out already – giving me even more brownie points with the printers…
At the moment, I can’t decide whether a choir will be over the top. I bite the end of my pen doubtfully. Maybe I should call Freddy. He’s pretty good at judging when something is too much. Then I think back to his penchant for red velvet at Tory and Noah’s wedding. Maybe not.
Tory’s given me complete carte blanche with the proviso that I use local people. So there aren’t going to be any chocolate penises at this particular party…
In a moment of inspiration, I decide to check
out the church to see if I can actually watch a baptism take place. The parish church is only round the corner from my flat, so it won’t take me five minutes to find out if there are any christenings scheduled for this Sunday.
Just as I head out, my mobile rings, and glancing down I see Freddy’s name come up on the screen. For a second I’m tempted to ignore it, but then of course there’s a possibility he might ring again when I’m actually in the church. Swiping the front screen, I put the phone to my ear.
‘I need to speak to you,’ Freddy says breathlessly as soon as we’re connected.
‘Why what’s up?’ I ask a little apprehensively, sensing that Freddy’s fondness for gossip is about to be given free rein.
‘Not over the phone,’ he answers showing unusual restraint. Usually he can’t wait to pass on whatever rumour he’s unearthed at the earliest opportunity. His self control only serves to increase the volume of the warning bells already clanging in my head.
‘I’m heading round the corner to the parish church. You can meet me outside if you want,’ I say in the calmest voice I can muster.
‘Why the bloody hell are you going to church on a Thursday?’ he asks, surprise temporarily sidetracking him.
‘I don’t usually go to church on a Sunday either Freddy,’ I respond drily before sharing my brilliant idea. There’s a short silence, then, ‘Okay, I’ll meet you at the gate, and after you’ve done your recce, we can go to the Cherub.’
The alarm bells are positively crashing round my head now. If Freddy thinks I need alcohol to hear whatever he has to tell me, then it’s worse than I thought. Cutting the call, I hurry down the stairs, anxious now to get my fact finding mission over with. A few minutes later I arrive outside St Saviour’s Church. There’s no sign of Freddy yet, so I determinedly force my mind back to the matter at hand and begin scanning the parish notice board.
While reading, I become aware of a woman marching up the street towards me. Glancing round, it quickly becomes clear that she’s very irate and is dragging a reluctant child by the hand. As she gets closer, my heart sinks as I recognize my nemesis from the wedding I arranged a few weeks ago. I have no idea who the woman is, but the child she’s dragging is most definitely Chardonnay. I’d know that wailing anywhere.
‘Where’s the vicar?’ she shouts over her charge’s howling.
‘Er, I’m not sure,’ I respond uncertainly, stepping back. ‘Is there something wrong?’ I question, reluctantly.
‘WRONG… WRONG… I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S BLOODY WRONG. THIS LITTLE MADAM HERE TRIED TO SUPER GLUE MY POOR LITTLE ADRIAN’S FINGERS TO HIS RIGHT NOSTRAL.’ The woman’s voice could probably be heard all the way over to Kingswear.
‘NO I DIDN’T,’ yells Chardonnay, not to be outdone. ‘IT WAS GOD WHO DONE IT SEEIN’ AS ADRIAN’S ALWAYS GOT HIS FINGER UP HIS NOSE. HE’S DISGUSTIN.’ The woman glares down at the unrepentant child before turning back to me, and thankfully lowering her tone, continues self righteously, ‘I told her we’d come and ask the vicar if God would do such a terrible thing to a helpless boy.’
I become aware that we now have an interested group of spectators, including Freddy who I can see grinning out the corner of my eye. What is it about this bloody child that seems to attract an audience?
‘Are you saying you didn’t superglue Adrian’s finger to his nose, er… young lady?’ I ask sternly – mainly for want of something better to say and hoping against hope that someone has the sense to fetch the priest.
Chardonnay stares up at me and I can see the moment recognition enters her eyes.
‘You’re that lady with the chocolate willies,’ she states emphatically and my heart sinks.
‘They weren’t willies exactly,’ I protest, trying to cut her off at the pass.
‘YES THEY WERE,’ she yells, dropping back into megaphone mode. ‘YOU ‘AD A ‘UNDRED CHOCOLATE WILLIES IN THE BACK OF YOUR CAR. YOU’RE DISGUSTIN’ TOO…’
I glance around at the engrossed listeners. ‘Now, that’s not strictly true,’ I say, protesting my innocence weakly.
This was clearly getting out of hand and I frantically look round for Freddy to extricate me, knowing that any excuse I give now for having a hundred chocolate penises in my car will simply add to the titillation of the rapt audience.
Luckily, at precisely that moment, the church gate opens and out comes the vicar. Thinking that now is probably not the time to ask him about forthcoming Christenings, I wave vaguely towards my nemesis and her vociferous jailor before doing a runner.
‘My business is going to go down the pan after that little fiasco,’ I mourn despondently while nursing my glass of wine fifteen minutes later.
‘I can’t believe you never actually told me about your debacle with the chocolate balloons,’ Freddy states indignantly, ‘And after all our hard work too.’
I shake my head sadly and take a sip of my wine, thinking back to my near disaster. So much for thinking outside the box.
‘At least you didn’t meet her mother Sharon,’ I say with a shudder, ‘She told me no bride would want a load of bollocks decorating the tables on her wedding day.’
We stare at each other for a second, then burst out laughing. ‘Bloody hell, that’s priceless,’ Freddy snorts when we finally get ourselves under control. I nod my head, still giggling. ‘So what was so important to tell me that it necessitated plying me with alcohol beforehand?’ I question cheerfully.
Freddy’s laughter slows down, then finally stops as he obviously remembers the reason for our meeting. My own mirth dies in response and I stare at him waiting.
After taking another gulp of his wine, he looks at me seriously. ‘Jason sent me an email this morning. He says he’s received a letter. Supposedly from you…’
Chapter Twenty
The Admiral had terrible wind. It was the bloody pickled egg, he knew it. If this carried on much longer, he’d be rivalling old Boris in the anal acoustic stakes.
Still, his meeting with Jimmy had gone according to plan, apart from the depressing knowledge that Mabel now seemed to be able to predict his every move. Of course, the only silver lining was the fact that his wife knew he was at the Ship, which meant that he didn’t need to get back to the Admiralty before her. Consequently he and Jimmy were able to settle themselves in a corner and put together Operation Bloodstone. For once Jimmy didn’t protest at their proposed involvement in Kit’s love life and the Admiral was almost certain it was because the order had come from Victory.
So they sat and plotted together while surreptitiously sharing the pint Jimmy had bought for himself.
‘The thing is Jimmy lad, we can’t just up sticks and disappear up to Scotland again. That won’t bloody wash with anyone, and as much as it grieves me to say it, young Buchannan is not likely to listen to anything we have to say.
‘No Jimmy, the only way we’re going to conduct a successful operation is to employ subterfuge.’
Jimmy nodded his head dutifully, and waited as the Admiral produced a large sheet of paper and a pen with a dramatic flourish.
‘Jimmy my boy, we’re going to write ourselves a love letter…’
~*~
‘But I haven’t written a letter to Jason,’ I protest faintly. ‘What does it say?’
Freddy takes out a sheet of paper he’s obviously printed off from his computer and hands it to me with a grimace. ‘Read it and weep,’ he mumbles knocking back the rest of his wine.
Frowning, I open the piece of paper and begin to read…
Dearest darling Jason
I know I’ve behaved a bit like a snivelling nancy, but I want you to know that whatever happened between us is in the past.
Will you please forgive me? I can’t possibly live without you and if that means coming to live in the pile of ruins you call home, then I’m game.
Tory says I’m a bit of a sad case and I need to get my arse in gear. She’s right dear Jason. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with, even if it means abandoning my curre
nt post.
Please say you will come down to Dartmouth for a bit of a chat. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.
Furthermore, the Admiral told me about the bit of stuff you’ve got stashed away in Bloodstone Tower. Dearest Jason let me assure you with all my heart that the only bit of stuff you need is me, so please make sure you get rid of her before we shack up.
Your ever faithful Kit xxxxxxxxx
I look up. ‘Please tell me he doesn’t really think I’ve written this,’ I say hoarsely. ‘I’m going to bloody kill Tory’s old man…’ I crumple the piece of paper viciously, imagining it’s the Admiral’s throat. ‘But first you can get me another drink.’
An hour and a bottle of Prosecco later, I’m not feeling quite so murderous. In fact I’m beginning to see the possibilities that may have opened up as a result of the Admiral’s letter.
1. Jason has contacted Freddy. (I’m assuming he bypassed Tory having surmised that the letter had been written by her father).
2. This could well mean that he hasn’t in fact shacked up with his bit of stuff, and still actually has feelings for me.
3. He is now aware that other people are aware (is that proper English?) of the fact that Aileen’s niece’s presence in Bloodstone Tower is most definitely giving the wrong impression to others – namely me...
So, what should I do?
Unfortunately Freddy, who under normal circumstances is second only to the Admiral in the slippery and evasive stakes, has had one too many glasses of wine. So I suggest that we reconvene at my flat tomorrow evening to work out a plan…
Walking back to my flat, I feel happier than I have for some time. I feel sure that it’s only a matter of time until Jason is back in my life, the petite redhead is sent packing and I’m working out colour schemes with Tory. ..
Chasing Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 17
