by Fiona Walker
‘I wish you’d called earlier. There was a cancellation for tonight – one of the sea view four-posters,’ Guy admitted, then shook his head as Legs’ face brightened, ‘it was snapped up straight away – had a call first thing. We’ll put you up in Skit. It’s not so cold in summer, although the upstairs neighbours can be a bit noisy. You can stay as long as you like.’
Skit was the old skittle alley which ran the full length of the restaurant at first floor level and which was the subject of a long-running battle with the local planning authority because the couple had earmarked it for further accommodation, but the presence of a rare colony of greater horseshoe bats who used the roof-space as its summer roost precluded any alteration, so it was currently only used for storage and as an occasional staff bedsit. From May to September, the bats lived in a huge maternity colony overhead, rearing their young and chattering noisily all night. It wasn’t ideal, but it was definitely preferable to a car seat.
‘Just a night or two will be great.’ Legs smiled gratefully, then remembered the Honda abandoned at Gull Point with a broken driver’s door. ‘Is it all right to park my car in the unloading yard if I bring it down the back way?’ The Book Inn only had a tiny courtyard, and parking on the harbour was strictly frowned upon.
Guy pulled an apologetic face. ‘Not tonight; we’ve got live music in the bar later – a seriously well-connected performer, you wait – and they need the space to unload. We might even persuade you to sing for your supper again, hey Legs?’ He ruffled her hair before turning to serve a customer.
Buoyed up by the thought of Book Inn food that night, and perhaps a couple of drinks on the house over a jolly catch up and a sing-song, she headed back up the private cliff path to Gull Point to fetch the Honda and move it to the public car park at the top of the village where she could keep an eye on it. Driving along the top lane, she almost slammed straight into a taxi coming far too fast in the opposite direction. Only just swerving to avoid it, she scraped her car’s wing along a rocky bank as a result. The driver lowered his window as they inched past each other.
‘You want to kill someone, my love?’ He told her off in a thick Devonshire accent.
Having expected to share cheery ‘could-have-been-worse’ apologies, Legs was instantly defensive. ‘It was your fault!’
‘Silly cow.’ He started to wind up his window again.
‘Bully!’ she yelled, but he was already driving away.
In the back seat, two mournful, apologetic eyes gazed out at her through the darkened glass as the car slid past, and Legs smiled gratefully back, raising her hand to acknowledge the passenger. It was only as the car moved away that she glanced in her rear-view mirror and realised she had been waving at a basset hound.
When Legs assessed the damage, her car was even more crumpled than ever, the front wing freshly scraped. She parked it close up against a wall to hide the fact the driver’s door was ajar and then climbed out the passenger’s side. Her handbag had tipped off the back seat, spilling its contents everywhere, which added to her irritation. Scraping around the seats and footwells, she could only find enough loose change for one day’s parking. Carrying her nephew’s small duffel-bag, the pile of crime thriller manuscripts she had brought with her to look through for work and all the loose clothes and shoes she could gather from the car, she set out along the narrow, cobbled lane to the harbour, eager to get settled then go for a run to shake off her road rage before cocktail hour.
Back at the Book Inn, Guy was nowhere to be seen, and the nervous-looking girl with the pierced tongue was trying to cover both the bar and the reception desk, where a dark-haired figure was drumming his fingers impatiently beside the guest register.
‘It’s B-Y-R-N-E,’ he spelled out to her in a rich Irish accent as she frantically pressed keys on the computer to try to find his reservation. ‘I am expected.’
‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Jesus, what sort of a place is this?’
‘I’ll get the boss!’ she bleated, retreating through a Staff Only door while customers called out for service in the bar.
‘I think she’s new,’ Legs said kindly.
The man didn’t turn around, and so she casually sidled along the desk to try to get a better look, remembering what Guy had said about great live music from an amazing connection. Wasn’t Gabriel Byrne’s son Jack in a band with Harrison Ford’s boy? Now that was just the sort of act Guy and Nonny were notorious for booking, having a genius streak for promotion and an address book to die for.
Her sidling got her as far as a large display of lilies in a square vase, which liberally dusted her white shirt in bright saffron stains as she craned sideways to see his face.
He was probably too old to be Jack Byrne, she decided, although he definitely had a look of Gabriel about the curled raven wing brows, black peat eyes and glowering face. A cousin maybe?
Still ignoring her, the man reached out and moved the lily vase further along the desk, away from her shirt.
Pierced Tongue returned from consulting with Guy in the kitchen, jabbering apologies as she handed him a key.
‘You’re in Octodecimo, Mr Byrne,’ she lisped. ‘Up the stairs and then right.’ All the rooms at the Book Inn were named after publishing formats from Folio through to Sexagesimo-quarto, which always played havoc with drunken guests asking for their keys. Legs imagined Pierced Tongue and her lisp didn’t fare much better.
Nodding, he stooped to pick up a battered Gladstone bag and stalked upstairs.
Pierced Tongue caught Legs’ eye and sucked her barbell nervously, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t realise who you were. You’re a local legend.’
She smiled kindly. ‘I’m just an old local called Legs, at a loose end.’
‘Weren’t you engaged to Francis Protheroe once?’
Legs stepped back, deciding that Guy should really train his front of house staff to be more discreet. ‘That’s right.’
‘My friend says you two were the Brangelina of Farcombe.’
Legs snorted with laughter. ‘Tell your friend I’m very flattered, although I’ve always thought Jennifer Aniston would have made Brad happier in the long-term, and that way he could have saved on tattoos.’ She could feel the little ink stars on her ankle itching guiltily.
Pierced Tongue beamed, flashing her barbell. ‘She’ll love that!’
Taking the keys to Skit, Legs rushed up to change into her running shoes, which had been drying on the roof of the car all day and were stiff with dried saltwater, before pounding out along the harbour walls to the under-cliff and then up through the tracks to the woods. As she ran along the public coastal path, a figure pounded towards her. It was black-haired B-Y-R-N-E, still glowering menacingly, iPod earphones blotting out the world around him, and an ear-swinging basset hound blundering along behind, clearly struggling to keep up.
‘Hi there!’ she shouted cheerfully, raising a hand in polite recognition, but he once again blanked her, running past as though she wasn’t there, his dog almost forcing her off the track as it veered across her path to cock its leg against a gorse bush. Not breaking stride, Byrne let out a deafening whistle and beckoned it forward.
‘Unfriendly bastard!’ she muttered breathlessly as she shambled on, wishing she’d chosen a route with less steep inclines. Running more than once in a day was always a giveaway that she had a troubled heart and mind. When she’d been breaking up with Francis, she had run her way through a new pair of trainers in a fortnight.
She returned red-faced and sweaty. Even a long shower in Skit’s unconventional en suite, which had once been the pub’s main gents’ loo, failed to stop her cheeks glowing with sunburnt, wind-swept vigour. Nor could she get a comb through her wild, wet hair and had to settle for pulling it up into a bedraggled top-knot which revealed how milk white her neck was compared to her beetroot face. Matched with her depleted wardrobe of ten-year-old-boy-sized separates, the overall look was not an ego-boosting one. Which made her doubly annoyed to fin
d herself walking downstairs directly in front of grumpy Byrne, his impatient breath on her hot neck.
She was about to divert to the bar for a much needed stiff drink, but Guy’s blonde glamourpuss wife Nonny was front of house in the restaurant and fell on her in delight, a welcoming embrace of highly toned glamour and finely tailored chic, as delicately scented as a freesia.
‘Guy said you were here! You look … amazing.’ The word stood ironically between pauses before Nonny rushed on. ‘That androgynous look is so on-trend. Eat now because we’ll be absolutely heaving later and I still have one table free.’ She checked her clipboard. ‘Ah – that is, I did, but Gabs pencilled somebody in. Can’t read the name.’
‘Byrne,’ said a deep Irish voice behind Legs. ‘It’s Byrne.’
‘Mr Byrne.’ Nonny held out her hand, slipping into professional hostess mode as smoothly as she might slip into one of her many killer little black dresses. ‘Rhiannon Taylor. Welcome to the Book Inn; I trust Octodecimo is to your satisfaction?’
‘It’s satisfactory,’ he acquiesced.
Legs started to back away, mouthing. ‘I’ll eat later.’ She was quite happy with the prospect of a liquid supper – the Book Inn served dreamy cocktails, accompanied by gorgeous bar-top tapas.
But Nonny was tapping her pen against her clipboard in a way that Legs knew marked danger, eyes signalling her to wait. ‘The table is laid for two …’ she told Byrne leadingly. ‘Would you like us to clear the other setting or perhaps …?’
‘I’m dining alone, yes.’ He nodded curtly.
Legs was backing away fast, smiling fixedly and shaking her head as she tugged down her tight, shiny top, which had ridden up to reveal a lot of bare-skinned midriff. The T-shirt matched with her baggy-bottomed navy cut-offs was hardly restaurant dress code, and she had no desire to small-talk with a big sulk.
Nonny’s delicate, red-nailed hand grabbed her just before she could scarper through to the oblivion of cocktails and live music, ‘I’ll bring you something through to the bar, Allegra darling. The sea bass is fantastic. Fresh from Ilfracombe this morning.’
‘Sounds delicious!’ she agreed, eager to get away. ‘I love bass. Hate bassoons, love bass.’
To Legs surprise, Byrne let out a sharp, sweet laugh and turned to look at her intently, raven’s brows taking off.
‘Allegra?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I can’t possibly let you eat in the bar. It’s five-deep in there. Would you care to join me?’
Legs had thought the bass joke particularly weak, and was tempted to add something about being a ‘dumbass’ at this point, but she was struck so mute by surprise at his niceness, she said nothing, nodding mutely.
Having gobbled up so much food at lunch, she didn’t really want to eat another big meal when cocktails were so much lighter and lovelier. The first Book Inn speciality that she longed to revisit was a wonderful rum-fuelled concoction called a ‘Dark and Stormy Night’, which she could quickly follow by a brandy-laced ‘Once Upon a Time’ and an absinthe-heavy ‘Alas dear Readers’.
But Nonny had already summoned the head waiter to pull back chairs and was soon steering her into the restaurant behind Byrne, muttering sotto voice in her ear. ‘Help! We think he must be Michelin; Guy has a hangover and is cooking like shit. Get Michelin Man drunk and flirt your arse off. Don’t let him eat the chilli-baked crab whatever he says; the marinade is totally buggered. Anton is on side. Thank goodness you’re here.’ She planted the briefest kiss near Legs’ ear.
With that, she was deposited at a small table by the indoor fountain and left in the capable hands of Anton their waiter, along with unsociable table companion Byrne.
While she hastily ordered a Dark and Stormy Night to galvanise her nerve, he spent a lifetime studying the menu. Legs, who was under instruction to have the sea bass, took the opportunity to assess the jogging malcontent while she swigged her drink.
He was not very tall – a good five inches shorter than Francis at a guess – and in possession of a face as sharp with clashing angles as Francis’s angelic profile was soft with symmetrical harmony. He had the most amazing fiercely focused coal-black eyes, highly intelligent and faintly familiar, although not belonging to anybody Legs trusted, of that she was certain. On close inspection, they were very dark brown and flecked with fox-pelt red, like the ancient oak beams overhead that flickered in the candle’s glow.
The brown eyes snapped up as Anton strode back, pad aloft, then turned their focus on her face, candlelit flecks turning to flame-throwers.
‘Starter?’ Byrne demanded.
He sounded like Jeremy Paxman, Legs thought suddenly, fighting giggles. With the hastily consumed Dark and Stormy Night making her face glow all the brighter, she was grateful to have an excuse to bury herself in the menu for a moment.
‘Asparagus.’ She chose the first thing she saw.
‘And for me,’ Byrne’s hypnotically Late Late Show voice echoed. ‘Then my companion will have the sea bass and I’ll have the Devon crab.’
‘Absolutely not!’ Legs squawked, grabbing back the menu from Anton. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want the Paella Valenciana.’ Guy had always boasted that he could make his signature dish in his sleep.
‘That is for two people,’ Anton pointed out, ‘but it’s a very good dish. I can check with Chef if you like.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchens, sharing Legs’ horror at the crab choice, but appearing to be equally unsure about her choice of the paella.
‘No need!’ Legs looked across at Byrne imploringly, convinced that a long-winded risotto would suit Guy and buy her time to charm their Michelin Man. ‘The paella here is the best in Devon.’
Reluctantly, Byrne regarded the menu again. ‘I’m not keen on rabbit, or snails.’
Legs started in recognition. Guy insisted on making his paella to an old, traditional recipe that contained no seafood and positively exploded with garlic and artichokes. She’d only ever tried it once, and she’d been very drunk at the time, largely because it took so long to prepare that she’d consumed most of a bottle of wine waiting. It had been Daisy’s birthday, she recalled. A large group of friends and family had gathered, including all the parents. Many toasts had been raised to Daisy, and several to her late father Nigel. Dorian had recited Tennyson’s ‘Crossing the Bar’ in his honour and Hector had played his bassoon, partly simultaneously, which had all got rather competitive. With emotions and alcohol running high, Daisy had later rowed with her mother about the presence of her future stepfather, Gerald, whom she hadn’t wanted to be invited. Legs and Francis, down from London on a flying visit, had put on a united front, but she had already fallen madly for Conrad by then.
Thinking back, Legs realised it was the last time she’d eaten in the pub, not long before she and Francis had gone their separate ways. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘It means a lot to me,’ she managed to croak.
Looking alarmed, Byrne changed their order to the paella. ‘And a bottle of the Rioja,’ he added before Anton melted away. Moments later, the waiter returned with a complimentary glass of champagne each and a small tray of amuse-bouche.
Legs raised her flute gamely, ‘Thank you for letting me join you.’
‘Your name is Allegra?’
She nodded, practically draining her glass in one.
‘Unusual.’
‘Allegra Maria.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I appeared nine months after my parents took their first holiday in Italy. My sister is Rosalind Celia, so one can only assume they enjoyed a good production of As You Like It before conception.’
His mouth flickered in a smile.
She hoovered up a thimble of cauliflower and mustard foam, ‘When we were at prep school, we had a project to look up the meanings of our names. I was so jealous that my sister’s translated as ‘little white horse from heaven’, and mine as ‘gay virgin’ that I changed my name to Heavenly Pony.’
‘Even more unusual.’
&nb
sp; ‘It didn’t catch on, however hard I tried.’
‘I think everyone should change their name at least once in life.’
‘I’ve always just been Legs.’ She managed to stop herself short from rattling on about the inappropriateness of her nickname and slugged back some more champagne. He had hardly touched his. She must work harder at loosening him up.
‘So what brings you to Farcombe?’ She picked up a ceramic spoon of salmon mousse flecked with orange zest and licked it off greedily.
He fingered the stem of his full champagne flute. ‘Family affairs.’
‘Me too!’ She drained her glass and picked up a tiny parmesan tuile containing minted pea sorbet, fighting not to expand upon the ‘affairs’ element, vaguely aware that she was already getting tight. Indiscretion had always been among her key weaknesses, along with her short temper, and alcohol inevitably unlocked both incredibly swiftly. ‘So you have family living in the village?’
He gave a non-committal shrug and finally lifted his glass to his lips.
Legs had always been hopeless at drawing people out. Ros liked to claim it was because her little sister was completely self-obsessed and talked about herself too much, but kinder family members and friends would say that Legs tried to entertain and cheer glum company rather than counsel it.
Thus she found herself telling Byrne about Spywood and her family’s connection with Farcombe. ‘It’s our safe haven and bolt-hole; we all love it here.’
‘So you’ve all been coming here since before the festival?’
‘Long before.’ She nodded, smiling gratefully as Byrne signalled Anton to refill her champagne glass. ‘Before the Protheroes really used the house much – Hector’s first wife died of a tumour when she was barely thirty. He and Francis stayed in New York for ages afterwards.’
