by Jill Mansell
“Two bouillabaisses?” asked Dexter, who wasn’t stupid.
“I think we’ll take a look at the menu,” Oliver replied with satisfaction. “And there are three of us. My daughter’s waiting outside.”
See and be seen was Oliver’s motto. Despite the fact that the Fallen Angel had a perfectly good restaurant area and a ravishingly pretty rear garden, he had insisted they eat at one of the tables at the front of the pub. Kate, waiting self-consciously for her father and Will Gifford to reemerge, watched as one of the locals ambled past and turned to stare at her. Oliver had persuaded her, against her far better judgment, to join them for lunch while Estelle set about the task of fumigating the kitchen and scraping cremated salmon fillets off the baking tin she had put into the oven and promptly forgotten all about until the smoke alarm had gone off. Oh well, she couldn’t hide away forever. Safety in numbers and all that.
“Quite a character, that landlord,” announced Will, sitting down next to her and handing her a menu.
Glancing at it, Kate prayed no one passing by would assume they were a couple. More specifically, she hoped Jake Harvey in his workshop across the road wouldn’t think it.
“I’ll have the steak in port. And a glass of red.”
“Your dad’s on his way out with another bottle of champagne. What it must be like to be wealthy,” Will marveled. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I normally have to go to to get a glass of champagne—blagging my way into celebrity parties, getting kicked out on my ear when they realize I haven’t been invited, the humiliation of realizing I’m actually a pint of bitter man through and through—excuse me, but is that dog all right?”
Norris was snorting and grunting at her feet. Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. He always breathes like that.”
“He might be thirsty. I’ll ask for a bowl of water while we’re ordering the food.” Unfolding his long legs, Will said, “Back in a sec. By the way, you don’t happen to know the name of the pretty barmaid, do you? Curvy redhead, cute dimples?”
Honestly, what was it with men? One-track minds or what?
“I only moved back here this week. I don’t have a clue.” This was perfectly true; she and the barmaid hadn’t gotten as far as exchanging names, only insults.
“Fine, fine.” Will raised his hands in mock terror, as if dodging a poison dart. “No problem anyway. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”
Kate wondered if he was capable of a brilliant idea. Bored, she said, “What?”
“I’m going to call on my expertise in the field of investigative journalism.” Will’s brown eyes sparkled. “And ask her.”
The champagne helped, which was something to be grateful for. Before long, Kate’s knees were feeling nicely relaxed. When Will realized that the bowl of water hadn’t arrived for Norris, her father said brusquely, “Kate, go sort it out,” and she found herself rising automatically to her feet.
The abrupt transition from bright sunlight to dim, smoky gloom was disorienting, not helped by the fact that she was still wearing her dark glasses. Removing them and blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust, Kate saw the door from the kitchen swing open and heard a voice saying, “Back in a moment. There’s something I forgot to—ooh.”
The curvy redhead with the dimples, carrying something in both hands, had caught sight of Kate in the pub and frozen for a millisecond. Sadly, a millisecond was all it took for the swing doors to swing shut again, before she had a chance to escape them. Realizing too late what was about to happen, the girl lunged forward, getting caught anyway. She let out a squeak of alarm as the bowl ricocheted out of her hands, sending up a beautifully choreographed fountain of water before hitting the flagstones with a loud craaack. Kate gasped. The girl gazed in dismay at the shattered remains of the bowl, now strewn across the floor, and at the sopping wet front of her white shirt and navy skirt.
A roar of fury made them both jump. Erupting out of the kitchen like a maddened bear, the landlord bawled, “You bloody idiot, can’t you do anything right? Is a bowl of water too difficult for you?”
“I’m sorry. The doors swung shut on me.” Flushing, the girl knelt and began frantically scooping up the scattered shards, wincing as a splinter of china dug into her knee.
“Possibly because they’re swing doors,” jeered the landlord. “But then you’ve only been here for two years, haven’t you, so how could you possibly be expected to have known that? Oh, for crying out loud, stop faffing about and clear it up. Get a dustpan and brush, if you know what they are, and try not to get blood all over the flagstones… Yes, can I help you?” As the girl scurried off, the landlord turned his attention to Kate for the first time. “My apologies for the scene of carnage—you can’t get the staff these days.”
“It was an accident,” said Kate.
He gave a snort of derision. “She’s the accident.”
“No wonder you can’t get the staff”—Kate bristled—“if this is the way you treat them. Why do you have to be so rude?”
The landlord smiled, but not in a friendly way.
“Because it’s fun. I enjoy it. Why, what’s your excuse?”
Eyeing him with contempt, Kate retorted, “At least I’m not a bully.”
“No? Hardly Julie Andrews, though, are you?” He was openly smirking at her now. “I mean, forgive me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one who was in here the other night hurling insults at Nuala? Calling her a fat cow and reducing her to tears?”
“I didn’t call her a fat cow.” Kate was seriously regretting coming here, but she was damned if she’d back down.
“No?”
“No. Just…fat.” Thank goodness the barmaid—Nuala—was still off somewhere, hunting down the dustpan and brush.
“You made her cry.”
Oh God, she hadn’t, had she?
At that moment, the kitchen doors swung back open. Surveying the scene—Kate and the landlord facing each other across the wooden bar—Nuala said, “That’s not true.” Turning to Kate she added, “Don’t take any notice of him. He’ll say anything to win an argument.”
“Been listening at the door, have we? Very classy,” drawled the landlord as Nuala bent down and began sweeping up the bits of broken bowl.
Not to mention embarrassing, thought Kate. Addressing Nuala, she said in disbelief, “Why do you let him speak to you like this? I mean, what are you doing here, working for someone who treats you like dirt?”
Nuala, hurriedly brushing the last splinters of china into the dustpan, mumbled something unintelligible.
“Ah, but she doesn’t just work for me,” the landlord declared with satisfaction. “She’s my girlfriend. We live together. Didn’t you know?” He raised his dark eyebrows in mock surprise. “We’re love’s young dream.”
* * *
“You’ve been ages. We were about to send in a search party.” Will Gifford patted the space on the bench beside him. “What was all the crashing and shouting about in there? Is that your way of getting reacquainted with the locals?”
Kate wondered if his scruffy, bumbling Hugh Grant act was meant to be endearing. “I’m fine. The landlord’s a dickhead, that’s all.”
With a shout of laughter, Will said, “Oh, good grief! You mean it was you?”
Emptying the lukewarm dregs of her champagne into an oak barrel overflowing with geraniums, Kate held out her glass for a refill from the bottle in the ice bucket.
“Your daughter doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” Will told Oliver, and Kate shot him a meaningful, take-note look.
“That’s Kate for you.” Oliver nodded with pride. “She’s always known her own mind.”
Nuala appeared, carrying a fresh bowl of water for Norris. As she placed it on the ground next to their table, she glanced awkwardly across at Kate.
“Look, thanks for sticking up for me in there. I heard what you said to Dexter.�
� Despite feeling she needed to express gratitude, she clearly wasn’t comfortable saying it.
Kate shrugged. “I meant what I said. He’s a bully.”
“He isn’t really. A lot of it’s just for show,” Nuala insisted.
Duh?
“Fine.” Kate picked up her drink. “If that’s what you think, good luck to you. You’ll need it.”
“Honestly,” complained Will, “this is so unfair. I miss all the fun.” His eyes bright, he looked at Nuala. “So what happens now? Is she banned from the pub?”
“Banned?” It was Dexter, emerging with their lunches. “You must be bloody joking. Had the guts to stand up to me, didn’t she? I’ve always respected a girl with a bit of spirit.” Deftly, he laid down the plates, straightened the cutlery, and refilled their glasses with the remainder of the Laurent Perrier. “Besides,” he went on, acknowledging Oliver with a nod, “what landlord in his right mind would ban the daughter of a man who spends two hundred quid on a pub lunch?”
“Anyway,” Nuala murmured when Dexter had whisked open their napkins with a flourish and disappeared back inside the pub, “I just wanted to…um, apologize for the other night, although I didn’t say what you thought I said.”
“Fine,” Kate replied stiffly, aware of Will bristling with curiosity beside her. “Let’s just forget it, shall we? In future, you don’t make fun of my face and I won’t make fun of your fat.”
“There you go.” Will Gifford gave her a comforting nudge when Nuala had left them. “Sounds to me like you’re settling back in a treat.”
Chapter 13
“Right,” Oliver announced with a flourish of platinum Amex, “how about that guided tour now?”
Norris, nudged awake by Kate’s foot, spotted a small, sandy-haired terrier some distance away and lumbered to his feet, snuffling with interest.
“No,” Kate warned, but Norris ignored her. Like a new graduate from an assertiveness training course, he raced across the dusty road dragging her along in his wake. The terrier, eyeing him in return, let out a volley of high-pitched barks and rushed up to greet him like a besotted groupie.
This has to be the famous Bean, Kate realized as Jake Harvey emerged from his workshop and whistled to attract the little dog’s attention. Bean glanced back, then promptly ignored him, far more interested in discovering what a hulking great bulldog looked like close up.
And smelled like close up, Kate discovered, as the two animals investigated each other thoroughly, indulging in that dreadful bottom-sniffing thing dogs loved to do to embarrass their owners. Mortified, she tugged at Norris’s leash and prayed they wouldn’t attempt anything more gymnastic.
Laughing, Jake sauntered over. “Bean, you’re under age. Plus, he’d squash you flat. How was lunch?” He grinned broadly at Kate.
“Pretty good.” Actually, it had been excellent. “But I don’t think much of the landlord.”
“Dexter? Oh, he’s in a league of his own. Actually, we’re fairly sure he’s the secret love child of Simon Cowell and Rosa Klebb. Saw you talking to Nuala,” he went on innocently.
“That girl shouldn’t let him speak to her like that. What is she, some kind of doormat?”
“Nuala? Her motto is better the devil you know than no devil at all. Anyway, how about you?” He nodded over at Will Gifford, currently shrugging his way back into his shabby jacket. “Who’s the mystery man? Boyfriend of yours?”
Oh God, was this the conclusion everyone was going to jump to? Now that she was ugly, would they automatically assume that someone like Will was the best she could hope for?
“Please.” Kate shuddered. “I’m not that desperate.” In fact, if anyone physically resembled a battered old doormat, it was scruffy, tufty-haired Will: should you need to wipe your feet on something, he’d be perfect.
“You’re looking a bit happier today,” said Jake.
Was she? Really? Well, maybe she wasn’t feeling quite so suicidal. Then again, this could be due to picturing herself trampling all over Will Gifford in spike-heeled boots.
“Either your heart’s beating very fast indeed,” Kate observed, “or someone wants to speak to you.”
The pocket of Jake’s white cotton shirt was vibrating like a hummingbird.
“I was enjoying the buzz.” With a wink, he took out his cell phone and answered it. Much to Kate’s relief, Norris and Bean had stopped investigating each other’s bottoms, evidently having decided to keep their relationship platonic. Norris was now lying on his side on the dusty ground while Bean, rather sweetly, attempted to clamber all over him.
“Hello, you,” Jake murmured, smiling into the phone and raking tanned fingers through his blond hair. “I know. Me too.” He paused to listen, then laughed. “Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse. No, definitely free tonight.” Another pause, then he broke into a grin. “You’re a bad, bad girl. OK, eight o’clock. I’d better go now. See you there.”
Kate had never been more glad of her dark glasses. Was every conversation with Jake Harvey destined to lift her spirits, then bring her crashing back to earth with a bump?
“Sorry about that. Sophie’s headmistress,” said Jake.
“Really? Oh.” Too late, she realized he was joking.
Entertained, he said, “You haven’t seen Sophie’s headmistress. Anne Robinson on a broomstick.”
“Well, I’d better be going too.” Kate gave Norris’s leash another tug before Jake could start telling her all about the stunning girl he’d arranged to meet tonight. Across the road, she saw that Oliver had finished settling up. If he and Will made their way over now, Will would be bound to say something excruciating.
“So who is he?” Clearly curious, Jake nodded over at Will.
“He makes documentaries. He’s doing one on my dad. He’ll be filming around here too,” said Kate.
“Filming?” Jake let out a low whistle. “Anyone with something to hide had better watch out then.”
“Does that include you?” Kate couldn’t resist the dig.
“Not me.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “Luckily, I’m not the secretive type.”
* * *
“Who’s he?” asked Will.
Honestly, and women were supposed to be the nosy ones.
“Local coffin maker. Thinks he’s it. I’m taking Norris home,” said Kate, because Norris was casting lovelorn looks over his burly shoulder at Bean and she didn’t trust him not to drag her back across the road.
“We won’t be long,” said Oliver. “Just a quick tour of the town, then we’ll be back.”
* * *
Sophie and Tiff were playing with a cardboard box on the pavement outside the Peach Tree.
“Takes me back a bit,” Oliver said jovially as he and Will approached the delicatessen. “Playing with cardboard boxes because we couldn’t afford proper toys.” He liked to exaggerate the circumstances of his childhood, play up the poverty aspect. “Hello there, you two. Having fun? This is Sophie, by the way, our housekeeper’s granddaughter. And Tiff is the son of Juliet, who owns the deli.”
“Hi,” said Will, eyeing the box with its letterbox-size slit in the top. “Playing postmen?”
Sophie shot him a pitying look. “It’s a toll booth.”
“It costs fifty pence to get into the shop,” said Tiff.
“No it doesn’t,” an exasperated female voice called out from inside the delicatessen. “Tiff, let them in.”
Tiff and Sophie gazed up at Oliver.
“Outrageous opportunism,” Oliver tut-tutted, pulling a handful of coins from his trouser pocket and slipping them into the box. Sophie and Tiff exchanged smug glances—Oliver Taylor-Trent was always a soft touch. Then their eyes swiveled in unison to fix upon his younger, scruffier companion.
“Don’t look at me,” Will protested. “I’m like the queen. I never carry cash.”
> “Appalling children.” Juliet sighed, appearing in the doorway and ushering in her potential customers. “You shouldn’t give them any money.”
“Nonsense,” Oliver said briskly. “Couple of young entrepreneurs in the making. Reminds me of myself when I was young.”
“More like a couple of highway robbers.” Juliet smiled apologetically at Will. “What must you think of us?”
It didn’t take a mind reader to guess what Will was thinking. Juliet was wearing a white, peasant-style Indian cotton blouse and a swirling calf-length skirt strewn with poppies. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose, glossy plait. Her eyes, darker still, were alight with gentle humor. Oliver, watching Will’s reaction to Juliet, wondered whether it was those eyes or her glorious hourglass figure that appealed to him most.
“How’s business?” Oliver asked easily.
“Oh, pretty good. We get by.” Dimples appeared in Juliet’s cheeks. “I’m sure trade will pick up now that you’re back.”
“Funny you should mention it. Estelle forgot to buy prosciutto this morning.”
“Customers with expensive tastes and more money than sense,” Juliet told Will cheerfully as she crossed to the chill cabinet, “are my favorite kind. Three bags or four?”
Oliver thought about it. “Better make it six.”
“Gravlax?”
“Go on then.”
“How about those olives you like?”
“You’ve twisted my arm.”
“And we’ve got the most amazing Sevruga caviar.”
“Now you’re pushing your luck,” said Oliver.
“Oh well, worth a try.” Juliet laughed as she rang up his purchases on the till and expertly packed them into a Peach Tree brown paper bag with string handles. “Thanks very much. I’ll put it on your account. And we look forward to seeing you again soon.”
“Bye, Mr. Taylor-Trent,” chorused Tiff and Sophie as they left the shop.
“Bye,” said Oliver. “Don’t spend it all at once.”
