by Unknown
She wrenched her head away and stared at her aubergine mini-bagel, feeling the hole in her heart as clearly as she could see the hole in the doughy hula-hoop before her.
As the party was ushered past her and Lloyd, Lady Belling gave Ellen a curt nod of recognition. But Spurs failed to acknowledge her. Not looking to left or right, he headed directly for his table. He was, she noticed, sporting the same ancient jeans and flip-flops he’d worn dog-walking a week earlier, matched rather eccentrically tonight with a white shirt and striped tie to conform with the restaurant’s dress code. The combination would have looked ludicrous on anybody else, but he carried it off with absurd, sullen cool. She felt her heart smash against her ribs and her skin prickle with the heat of pure, intuitive attraction.
‘Good evening.’
To Ellen’s surprise, Ely Gates had smoothed his Conservative Club tie to his starched shirt and was stopping at their table. ‘Lloyd, my boy.’ He stooped down to bestow an evangelical double handshake on Ellen’s disastrous date. ‘Are you in good health?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Lloyd was choir-boy gauche in the presence of the village Machiavelli. ‘Have you met Ellen Jamieson?’
‘Not formally.’ Ely fixed her with a gaze that could have burned souls for lesser sins than accepting a dinner date with Lloyd without marriage playing a part in her future plans. ‘Although I believe I rudely failed to introduce myself at Lady Belling’s fundraising evening.’ He extended one long-fingered hand, his eyes lasering into hers so intently he seemed to be checking her optic nerves. ‘Elijah Gates.’
‘I know.’ She smiled nervously up at him as her hand underwent a long, crushing shake with no possibility of shaking in return. He was spectacularly charismatic and scary. With his neatly trimmed beard, smart suit and gleaming shoes, he reminded her of an old warhorse groomed and rugged in plush retirement, yet capable of letting rip and charging that half-tonne powerhouse body up a hill, given half a chance.
‘I hope Lloyd has convinced you that my offer is a reasonable one?’ He smiled, but his eyes remained arctic with intensity.
‘Your offer?’ Ellen looked at Lloyd, who was frantically trying to reaffix the big white smile to his face.
‘I should have explained.’ He glanced awkwardly between them. ‘The offer on Goose Cottage came from Ely – hmm – Mr Gates.’
‘My mother always loved that cottage,’ Ely told Ellen, in his rich, old Cotswold accent. ‘She said it was a magical place, and that as long as geese are kept on the land, it makes for long marriages, ripe riches and good health.’
‘Sounds great,’ Ellen wasn’t sure her father would agree, ‘but surely it would seem very small to you after Manor Farm?’
He let out a bark of amusement. ‘I do not wish to buy Goose Cottage for myself, child, simply as an investment.’
‘I see.’ She smiled awkwardly, feeling silly. ‘Well, I think Mum and Dad are holding out for a bit more.’
‘And I shall hold out for their agreement,’ he said coolly. ‘My offer for the cottage remains open, as Lloyd will have explained. I know its value. We’ll see who gives in first, shall we? Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ He swept off in a puff of cigar smoke.
Ellen watched him go with wide eyes.
Eating as quickly as possible to hurry the date along didn’t present much of a problem to Ellen because the portions were microscopic. Her first course – which appeared to be half a sardine balanced on a potato crisp – disappeared in one mouthful and she was already tapping her fork in anticipation of the main course by the time the Gates and Belling parties were ushered through from the Mallard sofa purgatory to the main dining room. She’d hoped to be able to watch them for entertainment, but they were shown through an archway to the smoking area and when they sat down the only visible member of the group was Ely’s wife, who did nothing but blow her nose incessantly on her napkin.
Suddenly Ellen was livid with herself for telling Lloyd that she preferred non-smoking. What she wouldn’t give for a cigarette now!
‘More champagne?’ he asked, proffering the bottle and rubbing his ankle against hers.
Ellen nodded, although she was finding it hard to get drunk – like being too tense for a local anaesthetic to work at the dentist’s.
Lloyd dipped his head beneath the flop of caramel hair and watched her thoughtfully through it. Having started out by getting as silly as a teenager on cider, he had now soft-pedalled on the bubbly long enough to recapture his posh accent and lift his game. With the help of three glasses of mineral water and a basket of bread, he was on the attack again, big white smile back in place as he talked about himself.
‘I like sport. I probably could have been a pro – football, tennis, cricket or something. But I want to make my millions in business. Now, I wouldn’t mind owning a football team. That might be cool.’
Above his head was one of the many strange duck paintings that were scattered across all the walls, obviously commissioned by the same artist. In them, each bird was picked out in a brown ink splat. They reminded Ellen of the hundreds of Coke stains and spills that she had spent all week scrubbing from the flagstones or washing and rewashing out of the soft furnishings.
On and on Lloyd droned about his ambitions, the cars and villas and other status symbols he wanted to own. Not once did he ask Ellen about herself or her plans, although right now all she wanted to do was get home as quickly as possible.
‘I know you girls find sport boring,’ he chortled, ‘but it really is a technical business. I often think that if women bothered to learn a bit more, they’d get really into it.’ The big caramel eyes blinked sincerely at her.
‘Excuse me – I’ll be right back.’ Ellen went hastily in search of the loos before she punched him. There was no point telling him that she probably knew as much about sportsmen and their technical requirements as he knew about the value of Cotswold property. It would only increase his esteem, and things were already steamy enough as far as besotted Lloyd was concerned. He had now undressed her so many times with his eyes that he should have coat-hangers dangling from his lashes.
The lavatories – predictably signed ‘Ducks’ and ‘Drakes’ – were beyond a candlelit, roofed terrace in which two early diners were enjoying post-prandial cigars and Cognacs overlooking the stream. Ellen eyed the tall, open doors as she passed through, tempted to make a run for it – but she had left her bag and house keys at the table.
To her embarrassment, she found herself walking into the Ducks’ wash room at the same time as Hell’s Bells, who blustered past with another curt nod and bagged the only cubicle. Ellen studied her reflection while she waited, dragging her fingers through her hair which had dried in rats’ tails from swimming.
She had separated every strand and given herself a Farrah Fawcett mane by the time the cistern flushed. Hell’s Bells could pee for as long as a horse. Re-emerging with a hunk of loo roll in her hand, she headed for the sink. ‘Can’t stand those new-fangled blower things.’ She indicated the hand-dryer on the wall as she placed the tissues beside the basin in readiness.
Her improvised paper hand towel had, it transpired, been the last of the loo roll. Two minutes later, Ellen tore the cardboard roll from the holder and braced herself for something not very soft, strong or long. She half suspected the old bat of taking it all deliberately – a habitual prank born from years of tomfoolery at boarding school, hunt balls and drunken charity dinners.
Not that she minded. In a curious way, feeling less than savoury hardened her resolve to throw Lloyd off as soon as she could. She was almost tempted to slip it straight into the conversation when she returned to the table – ‘you’d think somewhere like this would have toilet tissue in the Ladies, wouldn’t you? Ugh.’
Smiling at the childish idea, her face flushed from a quick blast with the new-fangled blower, she headed back through the covered terrace. Then, like a soldier given an ‘eyes right’ command, she found her head twisting to stare over her shoulder before
she had time to question why.
Glowing far more brightly than the candles around him, Spurs Belling’s eyes pierced the gloom. But they weren’t looking at Ellen; they were glaring into his mother’s matching silver gaze as the two squared up to one another in the open doorway.
‘No way.’ He was shaking his head, knuckles white against a cigarette filter as he pressed it to his mouth and took a tetchy puff. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘You cannot change your mind now, Jasper,’ Hell’s Bells muttered in a low voice, glancing around.
The cigar-smokers had moved outside to look at the stream and the two were alone, apart from Ellen who hovered behind a potted fern, anxious not to be seen.
‘I didn’t agree to this in the first place,’ he hissed.
Ellen had no idea what they were arguing about and wasn’t loitering to find out – mother and son were clearly accustomed to locking horns. What rooted her to the spot was the irresistible, voyeuristic urge to look at Spurs for just a few seconds. It was like standing in the eye of a storm, watching it swirl around her – electrically charged, black-souled and unpredictable.
‘You know how important this is to me,’ Hell’s Bells was entreating him, as gently as her angry, bullying tone could manage.
He stared down at her, unblinking, his cheeks sucked in so that every taut muscle in his jaws seemed to have been shrink-wrapped in tanned, freckled skin.
‘Frankly, I’d rather die.’
Ellen personally thought that a bit of an overreaction at being forced to dine with the Gateses and their children.
‘You’re killing yourself already,’ Hell’s Bells snapped. ‘If you keep smoking those ghastly cigarettes, you won’t see sixty.’
Recognising her own mother’s lecture notes in use, Ellen fought a childish urge to leap from behind the potted fern and beg a Marlboro from Spurs. But instead, she forced herself to turn back towards the restaurant and leave the two scrapping – the babble of diners drowning out the last few moments of the heated exchange.
‘That is the plan,’ Spurs laughed bitterly. ‘In fact, if I smoke hard enough I may be stubbed out before my half century. Thank heaven for Duty Free.’
‘It’s not a joking matter, Jasper.’
‘No, it’s a smoking matter.’
‘I can assure you, you’ll regret this facetious attitude when you are told that you can count out the rest of your life on just one calendar.’
‘I already can. There’s a date circled in June that might as well be my funeral.’
‘You have a duty to the family.’
‘Not so Duty Free, then.’
‘Do you agree, or don’t you?’
‘No.’
Diners in the restaurant jumped as there was a loud crash from the terrace. Ellen, who had just settled back into the sugary syrup of Lloyd’s gaze, looked up sharply. ‘What was that?’
‘My heart beating faster,’ he purred, his eyes not leaving hers.
‘Excuse me – I left something in the loo.’ She sprang up.
Stop this, she told herself angrily as she trotted back towards the Ducks. Stop staring into the flames, you stupid idiot. But the storm had broken, and she could never resist watching lightning strike.
The crash had been caused by Hell’s Bells sitting down heavily on a wicker sofa and consequently knocking the potted fern from its stand. Crouching on the flagstones, Spurs was scooping soil into the largest piece of pot, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up as Ellen passed, snapping, ‘I told you that we don’t need any help—’
Realising that she wasn’t a member of staff, he shut up and carried on scooping. A moment later, he threw down the crockery and soil and marched outside, muttering, ‘Fuck this.’
On the sofa, Lady Belling was looking deathly pale and waxy. Something about her pallor set off emergency bells in Ellen’s head.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked automatically, unable to pass by without offering help. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
The steely eyes had lost all their shine as they remained staring straight ahead. ‘That’s very kind,’ she muttered hoarsely, ‘but I will be quite all right. I just need a few moments to recover.’
There was none of the usual ruddiness in the freckled cheeks and, despite her sturdy bulk and proud, high-chinned posture, she struck Ellen as incredibly frail. ‘If you’re sure . . .’
‘Oh, I am,’ she rallied a little prickly spirit and shooed Ellen away towards the Ducks – only to call her back moments later. ‘Here,’ she drew a small packet of paper handkerchieves from her handbag. ‘You’ll need these.’
‘Thanks.’ She wondered if Hell’s Bells was trying to make amends, but the dull silver eyes showed no recognition. Whatever had just caused her knees to go had really knocked her for six.
Not needing the loo, Ellen stood in front of the mirror and studied her reflection again, clutching the handkerchieves to her chest.
Nosy Parker, she could hear Richard taunting her. Can’t resist, can you?
The nickname had come about from her tendency to park the camper van at the best spying vantage points at camp sites. Ellen was notorious for taking hours to go to the loo block because she spent so long dawdling outside tents listening to the conversations and arguments on the other side of the canvas.
‘Go away,’ she told him. ‘I’m not ready to talk to your memory yet.’
Nice dinner date. Very Gillette.
‘Go away.’
Shame he doesn’t rattle your cage like the posh bastard.
‘Shove off. Go on – sling your—’ she rapidly turned the mutterings of a mad woman into a cough as a fellow diner came into the Ducks behind her.
‘Are you . . . ?’
‘No – no, I’ve finished. Here,’ she handed her the tissues, ‘you’ll need one of these.’
‘Thanks – oh, look, there’s something stuck to this.’
A piece of tightly-folded paper had become glued to the re-sealable strip on the tissue casing. Ellen took them back and, battling with curiosity, headed out.
Hell’s Bells had gone, but Spurs was still framed in the doorway with his back to the room, finishing off a cigarette. Something about the murderous hunch of his shoulders told her to approach with great caution.
‘Your mother handed this to me by accident,’ she muttered, pulling the piece of paper from the tissues and thrusting it at him with such haste that it ripped, leaving a corner still attached to the glue strip. ‘Could you give it back to her?’
He nodded, not turning around, staring fixedly into the bubbling stream.
As she sloped away, he unfolded the remains of the letter and scanned it. Just before Ellen walked under the archway to the dining room, she heard a great, mournful groan and turned to see Spurs bury his face in his hands.
‘Find what you were looking for?’ Lloyd had already scraped back his chair, standing up and calling across to her.
She nodded as she rejoined him, glancing curiously at the paper that was still dangling from the travel tissues. It was a letterhead – Foxrush Holistic Veterinary Practice – with contact details. She pocketed it, wondering vaguely if there was a holistic cure for chicken-chasing dogs and disappearing cats.
‘I missed you,’ he growled sexily.
‘Is that a fact?’ She flashed a smile at a waiter as he proudly presented her with her main course, a tiny square of wafer thin bright red beef with charred edges, topped with half a black olive and drizzled with lurid green sauce.
Ellen bolted it in two mouthfuls and waited for Lloyd to demolish a piece of anorexic chicken and strategically arranged pink peppercorns. Even though he was eating slowly because he was talking so much, it was simply too small to spin out very far.
As soon as he had swallowed the last mouthful, Ellen looked at her watch and explained that she had to go, politely refusing his offers of dessert, coffee and Cognac. ‘I can’t – I have to get back to the dog. I can’t leave a window open for her
now in case she goes after our neighbour’s chickens.’
‘In that case, I’ll see you home.’
‘Oh, I can walk.’ Ellen reached for her bag.
‘I absolutely insist.’
She relented: she should at least have the decency to go through the motions of fighting him off at the doorstep.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’ She blushed at the lie.
‘It’s not over yet,’ he purred.
As they stood up to leave, he put a protective arm around her back to steer her away from the table, and Ellen caught sight of Spurs Belling stalking furiously under the archway, heading for the door. As he passed her, the silver eyes locked on hers for a second, almost razing her to the ground. She looked away hastily, hating the reaction that hit her pulses and groin.
‘D’you know him?’ Lloyd raised his eyebrows.
‘Not really.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to,’ Lloyd whispered. ‘I’m glad I’m here to look after you.’ He patted her bottom and winked at Gina, who swept over to see them out and wish them well.
Although Ellen didn’t entirely trust Lloyd to be sober, she decided to take the gamble of letting him drive her one mile across the village because she wanted to get home.
The leather passenger seat still felt damp from her swimming-pool bottom, although that bottom itself had long-since dried in the warm restaurant. Ellen perched on it, made extra-certain that her seat belt was well fastened, then chewed her lip as Lloyd swung out of the car park, eyes scanning the road.
It was dark outside. The last hot orange fake-tan streaks of a dusky sunset had given way to a muggy navy blue duvet, but villagers were still out and about, walking dogs or lined up along the tables outside the Lodes Inn.
They travelled the short distance in awkward silence, both knowing that they had a fight ahead of them to get what they wanted. When Lloyd pulled up outside the Goose Cottage gates, Ellen burst on to the verge before he could jump out and do his door-opening flourish. But despite her speed he had a secret weapon up his sleeve.
