She flicked a crumb of pastry from her hair and studied the artfully posed photographs. You could buy anything your heart desired here, providing you were minted and not skinted, as she was: a Georgian mansion, a fake Georgian mansion, original or fake Tudor splendour, or the type of mansion that had obviously, and misguidedly, been inspired by Hollywood glamour and erected by owners who were confident it was buried so deep in a generous acreage of land that no council official, however petty, would be able to deny the appropriate planning permission.
As she took another distracted bite, which was far too big, a flake of pastry tickled at the back of her throat and she fought the urge to cough and shower the immaculate pane of glass with melted cheese and ham. Just as her eyes flooded with tears, she caught the eye of the woman behind the desk inside, who glared at her with the type of knowing stare that came from hours of practice assessing a person’s wealth. Estate agents here could identify old money, new money and no money within seconds. The disdainful look told Pip that she’d been labelled pretty accurately and dumped in the final category, which annoyed her and sent her straight in through the fingerprint-free glass door. Plonking the remains of her slightly greasy and very flaky-pastried lunch on the neat pile of business cards, she very slowly and deliberately sucked the remnants of the pie from her thumb and forefinger and tried to ignore the woman’s look of distaste and the fingers that were just twitching to move the offending object from her pristine desk, well, from her view more probably.
Pip paused and let the silence widen into an uncomfortable gulf that just had to be filled. She was good at her job for many reasons; one being that she knew just how to sow that seed of uncertainty. Then, shooting the woman her best ‘I dare you’ stare, she launched into a list of requirements that had the kind of price list attached that was impossible to ignore, just in case.
A very satisfying half hour later, after convincing the harried estate agent that it wasn’t worth the risk of ignoring her, and insisting on seeing anything and everything that might or might not suit her and her imaginary billionaire Arab sheik husband, Pip pushed the intercom button on the very imposing, but slightly tacky, entrance gate and waited to be let in.
‘It’s Philippa Keelan, from the—’
‘Oh, hi babe. Come in.’ The soft voice was a long way from landed gentry, but was refreshingly down-to-earth and sounded genuinely welcoming to Pip’s jaded journalistic ears.
There was a metallic click and then the gates slowly, but majestically, swung open to reveal a long, curved driveway that disappeared behind a mass of rhododendron bushes. A few seconds later, Pip drove around the curve to reveal an amazingly perfect house. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. Most of the celebrities that purchased properties in the area seemed to delight in knocking down the imposing houses and replacing them with something which they considered more in keeping with their own image than that of the surroundings. But this property looked like it had been lovingly restored to something probably even better than its original glory.
It was even more impressive inside, and so was the girl who opened the door: incredibly tall, slim, with the blemish-free complexion of a model, clothes that were the kind of deceptive casual that comes straight off the catwalk, and a genuine, if apologetic, smile.
‘David won’t be long; he’s just finishing a game. I’m Sam, by the way.’
‘A game?’ How could he have arranged an interview on a match day? Pip fought the bubble of annoyance. There was a time and place for sweaty, just-off-the-pitch footballers and this wasn’t it. ‘But there isn’t a fixture today, is there?’ She wasn’t particularly genned up on the game, just the players, but…
‘Naw, not football.’ She giggled. ‘He’s on the Xbox, babe. Come on, come through. We can sit in the kitchen and have a glass of wine. Or is it too early?’ She looked worried, as though she might have just committed some indescribable faux pas.
‘Wine sounds good, except I have to drive.’
‘Davey will take you back, honest, it’s no probs. You only live in Tippermere, don’t you?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Great, that’s sorted. Have you lived here long? I mean, I don’t mean to be nosey, if you don’t want to say…’
Pip laughed at the open, honest face. ‘No, I don’t mind, and yes, I’ve not been here long.’
‘It’s just the girl who rang from the paper said it was just so lucky you’re here now. A coincidence; we only moved in a few days ago. Do you like it here? I mean, the village is very quaint and all that, but…’
‘It’s quiet?’
‘Yeah, I mean, I’m not complaining.’
‘It’s nice enough, when you get to know it. But it’s not big city. I haven’t really decided if I like it or not yet. What about you? Apart from the quiet bit?’
Sam shrugged. ‘The house is gorgeous, but to be honest I think I need a dog or something, or I’m going to end up talking to myself.’
‘A dog?’ Pip scanned the immaculate kitchen.
‘We always had one at home when I was a kid.’ For a second the smile slipped but was back almost before she’d noticed.
‘I know someone, just the guy who can help you out with a dog, if you’re serious.’
‘Sure, I’m serious, but don’t mention it to Dave yet.’ She winked a perfectly kohled baby blue.
‘He’s into dog rescue or something, I’m sure he’ll get you sorted. How about I sort something out for next week? And, while I’m at it, I’ll introduce you to this great girl I know, we can start you up a dog-free social life as well.’
‘Really?’
Sam looked as though she might be eternally grateful, and Pip couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Really, you can bring David along too.’ She raised the goblet – there was no other way to describe it – of wine. ‘To the dog thing that is, not the girlie get-together. Once you’ve told him.’
‘He might be training, is it okay if it’s just me? I mean, I understand if—’
‘Just you is fine.’ Pip grinned. This was too easy. Within five minutes of stepping into the house she’d sorted a meet with Amanda, which would cheer up the three of them no end. And she had the ideal excuse to rope Tom in, and then she could work out if Amanda and him actually did know each other or not, seeing as neither of them would spill the beans. Face to face it would be obvious. And she’d have a nice story to please the ed. Footballing star, stay-at-home glam-but-lonely girlfriend with her adorable new pooch (everyone loved a puppy pic), maybe more, maybe even an intro to the rest of their team. And his manager. Oh, yeah, now that was a thought worth hanging on to.
If Amanda liked Sam, and she was pretty sure she would, she might even persuade her to throw one of her parties, and then they could invite David’s sexy manager, who she knew only lived a few miles away. It was the manager who’d persuaded his new signing to move here. Under his watchful eye.
Or was it too soon for Amanda to be throwing parties? Tippermere was always up for a party, but maybe Amanda wasn’t. It was hard to judge; one minute she swore she wanted independence and hinted that her marriage had been on the rocks, the next she looked like she’d just lost her soul mate.
‘Aw, thank you. That’s brill, isn’t it Dave?’
The entrance of David, in jeans, sloppy t-shirt and a smile, cut short her musings. Dave was tall, much taller than he looked on the TV, in fact he positively dwarfed the tall but willowy Sam. And he was ripped. Seriously, in the way only a sportsman could be. And not in the way every horse hero in Tippermere was. This was seriously pampered, physio’d, and suited-and-booted type of fit. The type that involved a proper diet, facials, serious haircuts, training and designer gear. Pip would have swooned at his feet, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she felt shagged out, too old, and zero competition for the dazzling smile of adoration that Sam was directing his way. Instead she settled for admiring the physique and drinking his no doubt very expensive wine.
‘Nice place you’ve got here.�
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‘Cool, isn’t it? Nice to meet you, I’m David Simcock. Has Sam been looking after you?’ He held out a hand as his other squeezed Sam’s waist affectionately.
‘She certainly has.’ They were perfect. Beautiful, glamorous, in love.
‘The place is all down to my pa; he’s a property developer. Got some ace people in to do it up for us. Done a good job hasn’t he?’
‘Amazing.’ The word ‘property developer’ hit Pip square in the middle of the most devious part of her brain and did a loop-the-loop. Elizabeth would love this.
‘He loves it round here. Looking for other places he can sort. In fact, I think him and mom would quite like to move into the area, keep an eye on us.’ He winked at Sam and settled onto a bar stool next to her. ‘So, fire away. What do you want to know?’
Pip took a long swig of wine. The day had just got even better. A property developer who was looking for other places would really get the ears waggling. Elizabeth would love to hear about this, and if Tom was trying to sneak under the radar, well she knew just how to flush him out.
And David and his girlfriend were about to discover just how wonderful their new home village could be.
***
‘I need a dog.’
‘Sorry?’ Tom stood in the doorway of the cottage and stared at Pip as she waved off what appeared to be the driver of a very new Ferrari with blacked-out windows. ‘I thought you said you didn’t believe in keeping pets in small houses?’
‘Not for me, silly. Can I come in?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Tom.’ She gave him a look. ‘I promise not to jump you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Shh. Tab is upstairs, and she’s already been complaining about last night.’
Pip shrugged.
‘Complaining to Lottie.’ He liked Lottie, but he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know what he’d been up to, well, more specifically, who he’d been up to it with. The grin that spread across Pip’s face wasn’t what he’d expected.
‘If you don’t want to be talked about then you have to live the life of a nun in this place, well, monk in your case. I mean, what did you expect? It’s a village, for God’s sake.’
‘But—’
‘And if you do keep your cassock buttoned, they’ll make something up.’
‘I wasn’t aware I had a cassock.’ He raised an amused eyebrow, wondering where she was going with this.
‘Come on, let me in, this is important. You’re going to have a party.’
‘I am?’ He stepped back. ‘I’m not. Seriously, Pippa.’
Pip had decided that it was definitely too early for Amanda to be throwing parties. But Tom was a different matter altogether. And he had contacts.
‘Hang on, didn’t this conversation start with a dog?’ He let her walk past him, into the spacious kitchen, and sit herself down at the breakfast bar.
‘Yeah, what did Lottie say?’
Ah, so she was bothered. ‘Coffee? She’s not said anything yet. Names weren’t exactly named, but she looked like she wasn’t going to give up. She wants to know who I was up late playing with.’
He looked a mix of frustrated, knackered and bemused, which was pretty adorable. Very Hugh Grant, to her mind. ‘You’re right, she won’t give up.’ Pip giggled. ‘I think part of the reason Rory loves her is because she reminds him of his flaming terriers. She’s already texted me twice asking when I’m going to be down at Rory’s yard. So, what exactly does she know?’
‘Well, it is my fault I suppose.’ Guilt flickered across his features as he watched the coffee maker do a final splutter. ‘I looked wasted when we went down there this morning, and Tab ended up saying I’d been up practically all night partying.’ Tom plonked two mugs of coffee down; he needed a coffee even if she didn’t. Well, the thing he actually needed most was an afternoon nap. How could living in the country be so bloody exhausting? ‘And, for your information, I am not having a party.’
‘You’re not?’ Pip ignored the coffee. ‘But it’s the best way to meet people.’
‘I’ve met lots of people, and I came here for peace and quiet. I don’t think I’m up to meeting people anymore.’
‘These are interesting people, real proper people. They don’t talk horses all the time, and,’ she leant forwards conspiratorially, ‘you can meet Amanda.’
‘And why would—’
‘Squash the rumours. You know, about you and her. Unless,’ she twirled a spoon round in her cup, despite not having added any sugar, ‘you do already know her.’
‘No party. And no Amanda. If people want to gossip, then fine.’
‘You don’t mean that, I know you don’t.’ Frustratingly he’d ignored the actual issue of whether they had already met, and the way he looked, she felt more like hugging him than interrogating him.
‘You do, do you?’ He took a sip of coffee and decided Pip would wear him out, even without sex.
‘You’ll find reporters under the bed.’
He shrugged.
‘And following Tab around.’ Children always clinched it, even if it was playing dirty. ‘And you’ve got to; I’ve arranged it. Well, I’ve not actually arranged the party.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we should just go to Amanda’s place.’
This did catch his interest. For some reason, every time he went anywhere near Folly Lake Equestrian Centre, he found himself staring up in the direction of the Manor House and wondering what it was like. Pip, honed to every muscle twitch, spotted his lapse and leapt on it. He was hooked.
‘You’ll love it, and so will David and Sam. Maybe you could bring the dog with you?’
‘Pip, who are David and Sam, and how have we got back on to a dog? What dog?’
‘Sam wants a dog; she wants to rehome a poor abandoned mutt.’ She’d made that bit up herself, after realising what a brilliant byline it would make for the article. ‘And you’ve got lots.’ An abandoned dog was probably better than a puppy, providing it was cute. An abandoned puppy would really clinch it. And it would make a brilliant photo opportunity; all she had to do was sneak Tom into the picture as well and she had a winner. After all, who could resist a gorgeous guy, lovable dog and a footballer’s wife, well, girlfriend. If she could work in fiancée that would be even better. She was a genius.
‘I don’t just keep a stock under the bed, you know.’
‘Really?’ She feigned astonishment. ‘Well, actually, I suppose I would have heard the odd whimper and wail the other night when you ravished me.’ He seemed to have gone a lighter shade of pale, if that was possible. ‘But I thought you said you’d set up some dogs’ home with that what’s-her-face, politician’s wife?’
‘It’s his mother, not his wife. Yes, I have, but we don’t just let anyone do a pick-and-mix.’
‘This is not just anyone, this is David Simcock and his girlfriend. And you, Tom, are going to give them the perfect housewarming present to help her settle in. She’s lovely, really, well you can see for yourself. I’ll sort something for one day next week, you, me, David, Sam and Amanda and lunch. Oh, and the dog. Better go, got to put Lots out of her misery.’ For a moment she thought about mentioning David’s father, a hint that he might be interested in Folly Lake Manor, but she bit it back. No need yet; she’d use it as a clincher if she needed to. But for now it looked like he was going to play anyway. Well, from the state of him, not exactly play, more just roll over on his back and play dead.
It wasn’t that she wanted to cause him grief; she genuinely liked him. But she did want to know why he was here, and she was going to find out. And for the sake of Lottie and her rumbustious father, it was about time someone put the pressure on and tried to find out exactly what was going to happen to the Equestrian Centre and the village they were so fond of. Elizabeth had her own sneaky and time-proven methods, but Pip was always in favour of the direct approach. ‘Right, I’m off. Don’t forget the puppy. I’ll text you when I’ve spoken to Amanda. Now, I wonder what I can get away with tel
ling Lottie?’
For a moment Tom forgot about the dog, and the lunch. ‘You aren’t going to tell her are you?’
He sounded shattered and Pip couldn’t help but throw a wink his way. ‘Oh, I never tell anyone anything I don’t have to. Don’t worry, lover boy.’ She planted a smacker of a kiss straight on his lips, which somehow managed to make his head throb as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. He really did need to lie down. ‘I might tell someone else, though.’
He tried to ask who, but by the time the words were out, they hit empty air. She’d gone.
***
‘I thought you would at least come for a drink after the drag hunt.’ Lottie was slightly peeved, firstly that her friend seemed to have abandoned her for somebody possibly more interesting (and less obsessed with horses and Rory), and secondly because she obviously knew things and wasn’t in any hurry to share. She had become more and more suspicious of Pip’s responses to her texts and the fact that she seemed to have disappeared down a black hole (no mean feat in Tippermere), only now to pop out like a white rabbit from a magician’s hat when it suited her.
‘I was busy.’ She grinned, not put out by Lottie’s accusing tone. ‘And you know, I don’t like the whole hunting scene, all that unharnessed testosterone, male bravado and bloodlust floating in the air.’
‘I’d always thought you liked an overdose of testosterone, and there isn’t any bloodlust. Even Tom was there.’ Lottie shot her a look to see if there was a response, but Pip was frustratingly deadpan.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 109
