Her hair was in need of a cut, Nessie conceded as she splashed cold water on her face in the freezing bathroom. And her concealer was so old it had cracked in its plastic tube – it had been a long time since she’d felt like making an effort. She studied her image in the age-spotted mirror over the sink, noting the downturned curve of her lips and faint purple smudges under her eyes. Maybe it was time she started to take some pride in her appearance again, for the benefit of her battered self-esteem. And if she was completely honest, perhaps a tiny bit for the Cotswold Chronicle photographer.
The milkman had left two bottles at the door. Nessie took a deep breath of sharp morning air as she stooped to collect them and glanced across the green as she did so. The grass was covered in a blanket of frost, turning it an enticing silvery green. Beyond it, she could see thatched roofs and whitewashed walls nestling beneath a peach and lemon-streaked sunrise. As views went it wasn’t half bad, she decided, straightening up. Sam thought Little Monkham was twee, an overblown caricature of the stereo typical English village, but Nessie liked its Christmas card perfection.
A movement to her right caught her eye. Luke tumbled out of Snowdrop Cottage, a woolly hat jammed snugly over his ears and a scarf trailing behind him as he half ran, half skidded across the yard.
Kathryn appeared in the door frame. ‘I told you not to run, it’s too icy!’
Grinning, Luke slid the rest of the way to the old Land Rover and thudded his gloved hands onto the bonnet. ‘I can’t slide properly if I don’t run.’
Nessie watched Kathryn pick her way across the treacherous yard. When she reached the car, she snaked out an arm to pull Luke close. ‘Where’s my morning kiss?’
‘Urgh, get off!’ the boy replied but Nessie noticed he didn’t wriggle away. Instead, his arms encircled Kathryn and he returned the hug. They stood like that for a second or two before Kathryn dropped a kiss onto his forehead and released him.
‘Now, get in the car and let’s take our chances on the roads.’
The fear of imminent death didn’t appear to bother Luke. He slithered around to the passenger side, catching sight of Nessie as he did so. A flicker of something crossed his face – curiosity? Disappointment that the ghost hadn’t finished her off yet? – then he raised an arm to wave at her. Kathryn looked up too, ice scraper in hand. ‘Morning!’ she called. ‘Brisk today, isn’t it?’
Nessie nodded, suddenly aware of the goosebumps on her arms. She wrapped her dressing gown around herself a little more tightly. ‘Morning. Yes, it’s freezing.’
‘Wait until January, we’ll need a blowtorch to defrost the windscreen then.’ Kathryn’s expression brightened. ‘Hey, are you free later for a cuppa?’
Nessie thought of the morning ahead: the plumber was coming to look at the antiquated heating system, the carpet fitter was due to measure up and of course there was the dreaded interview to deal with. It would be nice to have something to look forward to, she thought. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Great,’ Kathryn said, smiling. ‘I’ll be back around four if that suits you? Just knock when you see the car.’
‘Okay,’ Nessie said, returning her smile. ‘See you later.’
Luke rolled down the window and fixed her with an intense stare. ‘Unless you see Elijah first.’
Nessie laughed and stepped back into the pub. The Land Rover swung around and Kathryn cracked her window down a fraction. ‘Four o’clock, then. Bring cake!’
Nessie nodded and waved as they drove away. She shut the door with a sigh and trudged back to the stairs. Soon she’d have to start the epic task of making herself presentable for the camera but not before she’d had tea and a bacon sandwich. Everything would feel easier then.
‘So is it fair to say you and your sister are novices in the hospitality business?’
Joe Poole of the Cotswold Chronicle had a charming smile and an easy-going manner but Nessie couldn’t shake the worry that every question he asked had a double meaning. Sam had given strict instructions on how much information Nessie could reveal. ‘Stick to the pub and the story of how we got it but don’t get drawn into our family history,’ she’d said, when Nessie had presented herself for inspection. ‘Talk about how we envisage making The Star and Sixpence the centre of Little Monkham life, in symbiosis with the village. And try not to mention my name if you can help it.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ Nessie had asked, her head spinning with all the dos and don’ts. ‘He’s bound to ask about you.’
‘Give me your surname, then,’ Sam replied promptly. ‘No one is going to be searching the internet for Sam Blake.’
‘It might look that way on the surface but I managed a bookshop for years and a lot of the skills are transferable,’ Nessie told Joe, smiling. ‘There may be some things that are new to us but we’re fast learners and we’ve got some expert help from Joss Felstead, who used to run the cellar for our father. The villagers have been great too. Running The Star and Sixpence is going to be a real community project.’
She hid her crossed fingers in the pocket of her chunky cardigan and pushed the image of Henry Fitzsimmons firmly out of her mind. Joe glanced down at his notes. ‘Great. Well, I think I’ve got all I need, except for your full names and ages.’
He smiled again and Nessie decided it wasn’t charming at all; there was something of the wolf about it, too many teeth. She didn’t smile back as she told him how old they were, adding a year each for good measure.
‘And your names? I know you’re Vanessa but I don’t think I caught your surname.’
She hesitated for a second, wondering how to keep Sam out of things, and realised that she couldn’t. ‘Chapman,’ she said at last. ‘I’m Vanessa Chapman and my sister is Sam Blake.’
It wasn’t much, Nessie knew, and Google would make the link anyway but if anyone was looking for Sam, it might buy her a little more time. ‘Okay,’ Joe said, snapping his notebook shut. ‘The story should hit next week’s edition, just in time for Christmas. We thought outside for the photo, if it’s not too cold for you?’
‘Fine,’ Nessie said, reaching for her coat.
Chapter Six
Sam was huddled at the bottom of the cellar steps, straining to hear the lower tones of male voices. Shivering, she wished for about the hundredth time she’d worn a thicker jumper – the cellar was cold. It smelled strange too: yeasty and damp, although Joss was meticulous about cleanliness so there wasn’t a speck of dirt. She wrapped her arms around herself and shifted from one foot to the other. What was taking Nessie so long? It was supposed to be a quick chat about their plans to drag The Star and Sixpence into the twenty-first century, not Newsnight. Surely they must have finished by now?
The door at the top of the steps opened and a bulky figure loomed into view. Sam shrank back, peering upwards warily, then let out a silent sigh of relief when she realised it was Joss.
‘Hello,’ he said from halfway down the wooden stairs, spotting her skulking between two steel beer kegs. ‘What brings you down here? Come to check on the Goblin’s Grail?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, glancing sideways at the Best Before label on the top of one of the kegs. She had no idea if Goblin’s Grail was a proper beer name or one he’d just made up. ‘I’m just checking everything is in order.’
He studied her then, his blue-eyed gaze dancing with amusement. ‘Right. And is it?’
She folded her arms and reminded herself that this was her pub; she had every right to be in the cellar if she wanted to be. ‘Seems to be.’
Joss crossed the flagstones and checked the digital thermometer on the wall. ‘Good,’ he said solemnly. ‘I’m glad we got that sorted out. Anything else I can help you with?’
‘No. Just pretend I’m not here,’ she said, listening again for the tell-tale murmur of conversation from upstairs.
His lips quirked but he didn’t say anything and began checking the lines leading from each of the kegs. Sam watched with half an eye. Now that the cellar was almost
operational, she was glad all over again that they’d taken Joss back on to take care of things; quite apart from the muscle required to manhandle the full and empty kegs, there was no way either she or Nessie had time to fathom the maze of tubes leading out of each barrel and up to the mass of copper pipes and narrow cylinders filled with amber liquid. And Nessie might be horrified at Joss’s relaxed approach to paying tax but neither sister could fault his methodical approach in the cellar.
He had his back to Sam, drawing samples from each of the kegs and examining them closely. As far as she could tell, he’d taken her at her word and seemed to have forgotten she was there, which allowed her the opportunity to study him. Today, he was wearing a faded charcoal t-shirt with an almost illegible list of concert dates on the back and comfortable black jeans. His fair hair needed a trim; it was starting to curl against the freckled skin of his neck. Clearly he wasn’t the type to visit the barber every two weeks, although she’d noticed his beard had been trimmed. He tilted his head, holding a beer sample up to the light, and gave her the chance to examine his profile. He had a good nose, she decided objectively, and decent, kiss-able lips; not pencil thin and hard-looking, like her last one-nighter. Now he’d been a poor kisser . . . a poor everything, really, but she hadn’t expected more. He’d simply been in the right place at the right time when she’d needed a distraction. She’d left before it was light the following morning, promising to hook up again soon. They hadn’t.
‘You should just admit it, you know.’ Joss broke into her thoughts without turning around.
Sam blinked. ‘Admit what?’
‘Well, I assume from the fact that you can’t keep your eyes off me that you fancy me,’ Joss said. ‘But you don’t want to admit it because you’re my boss and you think it would make things awkward. It wouldn’t.’
Sam’s mouth fell open. She’d known he was cocky, but this? He ought to be working in the City with brass like his. ‘Really? Is that what you think?’
He turned towards her. ‘It’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first woman to find me irresistible and I dare say you won’t be the last.’
She couldn’t help herself: she laughed. ‘So you’re Little Monkham’s answer to Casanova, are you?’
‘I do all right,’ he said easily. ‘I’m no Owen Rhys, mind you.’
Sam felt her forehead furrow. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Haven’t you noticed? Half the women in the village are pining away for Owen,’ Joss said. ‘A tragic past equals gold with the ladies. Not that he does anything about it.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a waste.’
Interesting, Sam thought, and she stored the information away for future consideration. ‘Sounds like he’s got some morals. Unlike you.’
Joss didn’t look in the least bit offended. ‘I don’t lead anyone on and everyone has a good time.’
Until the woman wants to get serious, then I bet you’re off like a hare. Sam threw him a cool look. ‘Even if I did fancy you, Joss, and I’m not saying I do, there isn’t the smallest chance I’d do anything about it. Firstly, I’m your employer and secondly, I am far too busy to help you add another notch to your overloaded bedpost.’
Joss shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, turning back to the kegs. ‘I’m a patient man.’
She wanted to wipe the smug arrogance from his face, to tell him how ridiculous he sounded. She’d met his type before, the kind who thought they were too good to pass up, and she knew how to deal with them. The trouble was that she couldn’t afford to be too scathing – Joss was a good cellarman and they needed him. So she fought the urge to take him down a peg and contented herself with a sub-zero smile. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time.’
‘Sam?’ Nessie’s voice floated faintly down the stairs. ‘Where are you? The coast is clear.’
Joss glanced over, one eyebrow raised. ‘Hiding from something?’
Summoning up a withering glare, Sam hurried upstairs. Apart from anything else she was freezing and the way things were going she wouldn’t put it past Joss to offer her a warming hug.
‘How did it go?’ she asked when she reached the ground floor, taking the cup of coffee Nessie was holding out. ‘When are they running the article?’
‘Next week, they said.’ Nessie frowned at the cellar door. ‘Did I hear you talking to Joss down there?’
Sam pulled a face. ‘Yeah. We’re going to have to keep an eye on him. He’s convinced I fancy him.’
Nessie folded her arms. ‘You do. There might as well be a flashing sign on your head, it’s so obvious. Just keep your mind on the job and don’t encourage him.’
Sam scowled, stung at her sister’s lack of faith. ‘I wasn’t planning to jump him across the bar. Honestly, Ness, credit me with some sense. You’re a fine one to talk, anyway – what about you flirting with Mr Hotstuff next door?’
‘We’ve spoken twice – that’s hardly flirting,’ Nessie said dismissively but her cheeks reddened all the same. ‘Besides, he’s married.’
Sam shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter how often you’ve spoken – what matters is what was said. And according to Joss he’s got a tragic past.’
Nessie stared at her. ‘What does that mean?’
‘He didn’t say,’ Sam said. ‘Why don’t you ask Kathryn?’
‘I can’t,’ Nessie replied, looking scandalised. ‘What will she think?’
‘That you’re a nosy neighbour,’ Sam said promptly.
Nessie shuddered. ‘That I’m sniffing round her husband, more like. No thanks.’
She made an excuse then, something about checking the brewery paperwork, but Sam knew her sister was running away before the conversation got any more difficult. She hadn’t intended to embarrass Nessie; she’d only wanted to steer things away from her and Joss. Because deep down, Sam knew she hadn’t been completely honest: she did fancy him a bit. And being told over and over he was off-limits wasn’t going to do that little spark of attraction any good at all.
‘Good morning,’ Franny said, her eyes gleaming over her glasses as Sam walked into the Post Office just before lunch-time. ‘How are things going with the refurbishment?’
Sam peeled off her gloves and reached for a packet of loo rolls. She’d wanted to wait until they had time to do a supermarket shop in Gloucester but there were some things they couldn’t manage without.
‘Fine,’ she told Franny. ‘Providing the toilets get finished and the electrician can get the new fridges then we should be good to re-open on Boxing Day.’
Franny nodded in evident approval. ‘Good. Let me know if he needs a shove in the right direction. These traders need a firm hand sometimes, especially around the holidays.’
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Sam said with a polite smile. ‘I’m used to getting things done too.’
Franny sniffed, as though she found that hard to believe. ‘You’ve managed to upset old Henry Fitzsimmons already, I see. He was in here first thing this morning, complaining about the way you’d treated him.’ She gazed over her glasses at Sam. ‘I told him you were bound to want to shake things up a bit, the young always do, but he wasn’t having any of it, I’m afraid.’
Sam frowned. Was there an undercurrent of disapproval behind Franny’s words? ‘I did apologise to him. Unfortunately, he’s not as good as he thinks he is.’
‘We’re all guilty of that, though, aren’t we?’ Franny said. ‘He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it, says he’s going to start a petition to get you shut down.’
Sam laughed. ‘The daft old goat. Like that’s even possible!’
Franny didn’t laugh. She simply stared at Sam until her laughter died a nervous death. Sam shifted uneasily. ‘Er – it’s not possible, is it?’
‘No,’ Franny replied, in a way that made Sam think she meant the exact opposite. ‘Not without the full backing of the village council, anyway.’
She smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Sam narrowed her gaze, all too aware of a lot of things th
at were hanging in the air unspoken. It almost felt as though Franny was threatening her . . .
‘You don’t get much post, do you?’ Franny said, changing tack suddenly. ‘I see lots for Vanessa but nothing for you.’
Sam blinked. What was she getting at now? That she had no friends? Or something else? ‘It goes to my flat. In London.’
‘Oh, I just wondered if you needed any help setting up a mail redirect,’ Franny said but Sam noticed her gaze was calculating. ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss out on anything important. You haven’t put your old place up for sale yet, have you?’
How could she possibly know that? Sam wondered in disbelief. Technically, she supposed it was possible to work it out by cross-referencing the Electoral Roll with the local estate agency websites, but who had the time or the inclination to do that? Franny, obviously. The government should whip her into MI5, Sam decided faintly; who needed a Snooper’s Charter when they had a nosy old bat like her to deploy? ‘Not yet.’
‘I suppose your young man is looking after things for you,’ Franny went on. ‘Or are you separated like Vanessa?’
Sam shut her mouth with a snap, irritation rising like a cobra. It didn’t matter how much they needed to keep Franny sweet, she wasn’t answering questions like this for anyone, especially not when it suited her to keep her footprint in Little Monkham as low as possible. In fact, the village mentality of access-all-areas was really starting to grate. At least in London people had the grace to dress their curiosity with manners, but here? It was almost as though Franny felt she had the right to know every last detail of her neighbours’ lives and Sam would be damned if she was giving her the satisfaction. Placing the packet of toilet rolls onto the counter with exaggerated care, she plastered a bland expression across her face. ‘Just these, please.’
Franny’s lips tightened but she didn’t push Sam any further. She handed her change over without a word and waited until she had almost reached the door before speaking again. ‘Let me know if you need any help with those tradesmen.’
Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence Page 4
