by Jill Mansell
Jake, who knew when he was beaten, turned to Juliet. “Fancy bringing Tiff over? If I’m making lasagna, may as well make a big one.”
“Great,” said Juliet, because lasagna was Jake’s signature dish. “I’ll bring a bottle. What time, sevenish?”
“Actually, can we eat earlier than that?” Maddy did her best to sound casual. “I’m going out at seven.”
Opening his mouth to say something caustic, Jake caught Juliet’s look of warning and closed it again.
“Fine. We’ll lock the kids in the attic and have a romantic candlelit evening together, just the two of us.” Winking at Maddy, he said, “She won’t be able to resist me.”
“Or,” Juliet said prosaically, “we could play Scrabble.”
* * *
“Oof.” Kate gasped as the small boy, barreling around the corner of the pub, ran full tilt into her stomach.
Tiff, staggering backward in the wake of the impact, gazed up in horror at Kate and wailed, “Oh no, my ice cream!”
The chocolate ice cream he’d been clutching had ricocheted out of his hand and landed with a soft phut on the pavement, the cone sticking out like Pinocchio’s nose.
It served him right, of course, but that was boys for you. Kate found herself feeling quite sorry for him.
“You shouldn’t have been running so fast,” she said kindly, because tears were now welling up in the boy’s blue eyes. She didn’t see why she should have to buy him another one—it wasn’t her fault after all—but in all likelihood she probably would. “It’s OK. Don’t cry. Oh, look at Norris; he’s such a pig.” Smiling nicely to cheer the boy up, she nodded at Norris, who was enthusiastically slurping away at the ice cream and chomping up the cone.
“I-I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, backing away from Kate in dismay.
She knew who he was. He belonged to Juliet Price, who ran the delicatessen. His name was Tiff, that was it, and he spent most of his time with Jake’s daughter, Sophie. With his messy white-blond hair and startlingly bright eyes, he was actually rather sweet looking. Abruptly, it dawned on Kate that the cause of his terror could be the sight of her own scarred face. Hurriedly she dug into her back pocket for a couple of pound coins. Determined to show him she wasn’t as scary as she looked, she said encouragingly, “Here, don’t worry. I’ll get you an even better ice cream—aaargh!”
Belatedly glancing down, Kate discovered the real reason for the boy’s agitation. The front of her trousers was sporting a brown stain the size of a baked potato, complete with splatter marks and drips all down one leg. She gazed at the mess in paralyzed disbelief. This couldn’t have happened while she was wearing her usual jeans, could it? Oh no, of course not, because life didn’t work that way, did it? Instead, it had to happen on the one day she was wearing her brand new cream linen John Galliano trousers.
Kate’s head felt as if it might explode with the effort it took not to scream and hurl abuse.
“Had a bit of an accident, have we?” Dexter Nevin, emerging from the pub, eyed Kate’s trousers with ill-concealed amusement.
“They’re Galliano.” Kate spat the words through gritted teeth. “I bought them in Bloomingdale’s.”
“Ah well.” Dexter shrugged easily. “I’m more of a Next man myself.”
“They cost a fortune.”
“I said s-sorry.” Tiff turned fearfully to Dexter. “It was an accident, I promise.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Before he had a chance to burst into fully-fledged sobs, Kate shoved the pound coins into the boy’s hand. “Just be more careful next time, OK?”
“I thought you were going to kick him,” said Dexter when Tiff had disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.” Kate grimaced. “But you’d only have called the cops.”
“If you come inside, I’ll lend you a cloth.”
“Oh yes, that’ll do the trick.” Kate sighed. “A nice greasy dishcloth, that’ll really work. OK, stop it. It’s all gone now,” she told Norris, who was greedily sucking up the last remnants of ice cream with a slurp and a flourish.
“You never know, we might be able to rustle up a clean dishcloth,” Dexter said mildly. “You can bring him in with you, you know. We’re a dog-friendly pub.”
“You don’t say. I didn’t think you were anything-friendly.”
He laughed at the truculent look on Kate’s face. “Animals are fine. It’s humans I have a problem with. So, are you coming in or aren’t you?”
Kate hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.
“I’ll get home. These’ll have to go to the dry cleaners in Bath.”
“Don’t mention it,” Dexter called after her as she headed toward Gypsy Lane.
Turning, Kate shielded her eyes from the sun and scowled. “What?”
“Sorry.” Dexter was standing there with his hands on his narrow hips, smirking at her. “I thought I heard you say thanks.”
Chapter 20
At Dauncey House, Kate found her parents out in the yard around the pool. Estelle, wearing a black tankini that cruelly emphasized her bulging midriff, was valiantly attempting to read last year’s Booker prizewinner. Since Danielle Steel was more her line of country, this was an exercise doomed to failure, on a par with expecting a stroppy teenager to enjoy sheep’s eyeballs in aspic.
Looking up, only too glad to be distracted from her book, Estelle cried, “Oh, darling, whatever happened?”
“They’re bloody ruined, that’s what happened.” As Kate showed her mother the damage to her trousers, Oliver swung around and she realized he was on the phone.
“Yes, yes, that’s Kate you just heard.” He paused, then smiled at Kate and said, “Will says hi.”
In no mood to exchange pointless pleasantries, Kate said, “It’s chocolate ice cream. It’s never going to come out, and they’re my best trousers.”
“Oh, darling, you don’t know that. Maybe we can soak them in stain remover,” suggested Estelle. “How did it get there?”
“That bloody kid from the deli ran straight into me. I could have strangled him.”
“Tiff Price?” asked Estelle. “Juliet’s little lad? Oh, he’s a dear. I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it.”
Oh well, that was all right then.
“My trousers are ruined.” Kate’s voice rose in exasperation. “They cost me six hundred dollars!”
“Kate,” Oliver chided, “you’re overreacting. He bumped into you. It was an accident. Dear me, anyone would think you’d been stabbed.”
Eyes narrowed, Kate watched her father return to his phone conversation, laughing off the incident as if it was nothing at all. She vividly recalled once, as a child, spilling Coca-Cola over some business documents and Oliver yelling furiously at her until she’d burst into tears. Yet here he was now, acting all ultra-reasonable and telling her not to make such a fuss, purely because Will was listening on the other end of the phone and Oliver was determined to create a good impression and demonstrate that he truly was an all-around great guy.
* * *
Nuala, snuggled up in bed, thought happily that, contrary to what other people might think, life with Dexter wasn’t all bad.
It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and they’d been making the most of their precious free time in the nicest possible way. The pub had closed at two thirty and would reopen at six. Having reacquainted themselves with each other’s bodies, a little doze was now in order, then maybe—
“Nu, fancy a cup of tea?”
See? He was all right really. Smiling to herself, Nuala wriggled and said, “Mmm, lovely.”
“Great. Make me one while you’re at it.”
“Oh, not fair.” Nuala groaned, tugging the tartan cotton duvet more tightly around her and nudging Dexter’s legs with her feet. “I’m sleepy.”
Dexter nudged
her in the ribs. “Me too. Come on, it’s your turn.”
This was true: he had brought her a cup of tea in bed this morning. OK, so it had been way too strong and he’d forgotten to put any sugar in, but it had, technically, been a cup of tea.
“OK, we’ll just have a little sleep first,” Nuala bargained. “Then I’ll make it.”
Whisking the duvet off her and rolling her efficiently out of bed, Dexter said, “No, now.”
“You’re so mean.” Grumbling, Nuala covered her nakedness with her oversize white toweling nightgown.
“I’m not. I’m just helping you use up a few more calories.” Lying back against the pillows with his hands resting behind his head, he winked at her.
Nuala weakened. When Dexter was happy, she was happy. He might not be the most perfect specimen physically—his rumpled brown hair was starting to recede and he was developing a paunch—but there was still that indefinable something about him that got to her every time. And let’s face it: if he were drop-dead gorgeous, he never would have been interested in her in the first place.
As she reached the door, Nuala warned, “Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dexter turned onto his side. “Zzzzz…”
The nightgown, miles too big for her, had been appropriated from a hotel by Dexter during a precious weekend away together last year. When he’d presented it to her, she’d been guiltily delighted. A week later, the hotel had written to Dexter billing him for the stolen nightgown. Laughing, he’d chucked the letter in the trash. Nuala, mortified, had fished it out and secretly settled the account herself. The really annoying thing was that if she’d known she’d be paying seventy quid for a nightgown, she would have at least bought one that was the right size.
Anyway, tea, thought Nuala as she made her way downstairs, and maybe a spot of pâté on toast, then, who knows, perhaps they might even go for a repeat—
Aaargh.
Oh God…
“Ow!” screamed Nuala, crashing down the stairs like a skittle. “Ow, ow, ouch.”
Twenty seconds later Dexter appeared at the top of the staircase.
“What’s all the racket? Bloody hell, Nu, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Fell down.” Nuala managed to get the words out through teeth gritted with pain. “Tripped over the hem of my nightgown. Oh fuck, it hurts. Dexter, it really hurts!”
Naked, he made his way down the stairs and helped Nuala into a sitting position. Supporting her with his strong arms, he studied her face.
“Bit of a shiner there. Teeth feel OK?”
Tentatively checking with her tongue, Nuala nodded.
“Well, that’s good. You’re going to look like a boxer with that eye. And you’ve got a bump on your forehead but no blood. You’ll live,” he reassured her.
“My shoulder…” Nuala gasped, feeling sick with the pain, and Dexter gently pulled back the lapel of the nightgown.
“Looks like you’ve broken your collarbone. How’s the rest of you? Back? Legs?”
Bracing herself, Nuala moved her legs, then her spine. “They’re OK.”
“Right, just stay here. Don’t try to move.”
For a terrifying moment Nuala thought he was heading back to bed. As he rose to his feet she whimpered, “Where are you going?”
“To get some clothes on, you idiot. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
* * *
By the time Nuala emerged from her hospital cubicle with her left shoulder securely strapped and her arm in a sling, it was seven in the evening.
Maddy, waiting in reception, rushed to meet her.
“You look terrible!”
“Thanks.” Nuala had already seen her face in the bathroom mirror. Her eye had blackened dramatically over the course of the last three hours. “Are you giving me a lift home?”
“No, I thought I’d make you hitch a lift. Of course I’m giving you a lift home.” Maddy’s expression softened as she held the door open to let Nuala through. “You poor thing, does it really hurt?”
“They gave me some pills. Thanks for coming to pick me up. God, I’m such a twit.” Nuala’s smile was self-deprecating as they made their way toward the parking lot. “And now look at me. Clumsy or what?”
“Hmm,” said Maddy.
What was “hmm” supposed to mean? Trying to laugh, Nuala said, “Did Dexter tell you how it happened?” Having spent the first hour with her in the waiting room, Dexter had been forced to leave her there and drive back to Ashcombe to open the pub at six. He’d promised to find someone to pick her up and Nuala had been glad he’d managed to get Maddy. Dexter was just as likely to have sent along one of his cider-guzzling regulars on a tractor.
“He said you’d tripped on your nightgown and fallen down the stairs,” said Maddy. She stopped, regarding Nuala gravely. “Is that true?”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?” Mystified, Nuala said, “My nightgown’s too big for me. I got the hem caught under my foot and went flying. Poor Dexter, gave him the shock of his life! Oh, but he was so sweet, looking after me and carrying me to the car. He even had to put my panties on for me because I couldn’t reach past my—”
“Nuala, listen. This is me. We’re friends, aren’t we? You can tell me.” Maddy gave her a meaningful look.
“Tell you what?”
“Look at yourself. Black eye, bruised forehead, cracked collarbone. Come on now,” said Maddy, her tone supportive.
Realization finally dawned. Nuala’s eyebrows shot up as if she’d been electrocuted.
“My God, I don’t believe it. You think Dexter did this to me! You actually think he gave me a black eye and chucked me down the stairs!”
“Didn’t he?” asked Maddy.
“Of course he didn’t!” Her voice rising in disbelief, Nuala tried to stamp her foot and flinched as the sudden movement jarred her shoulder. “I can’t believe it even crossed your mind. Dexter’s never laid a finger on me. He’d never hurt me!” Shaking her head—ooch, more pain—she said, “And you have to believe me, because I swear to God that’s the truth. You can strap me to one of those lie detectors if you want—”
“OK, OK.” Maddy nodded to show she believed her. “I’m sorry. I just had to ask.”
They’d reached the car. Carefully, Nuala climbed into the passenger seat.
“But why? Why would you even think that?” Even as the words came out, deep down Nuala already knew the answer. Oh Lord, did this mean everyone in Ashcombe was going to think Dexter had beaten her up?
“Well, you and Dexter…the way he is…I mean, you just said he’d never hurt you.” Maddy could be horribly blunt when she wanted. “But he does sometimes, doesn’t he? Maybe not physically but verbally. When he calls you a lazy lump or a fat-arsed camel. You can’t tell me you enjoy it.”
Her cheeks flaming, Nuala said defensively, “He does it to everyone. That’s just Dexter’s way. When we’re on our own he’s lovely to me—”
“Wrong. No.” Maddy was shaking her head. “He doesn’t do it to everyone. He’s brusque, he’s sarcastic, he can be downright cantankerous, but he doesn’t verbally abuse the rest of us. Only you, because he knows he can get away with it. And a man who treats you like that in public—well, you can’t blame us for wondering what else he might do when the two of you are on your own.”
Nuala gazed blindly out of the side window, hot with shame. Everyone was going to assume she was a battered girlfriend. With a shudder, she imagined the regulars in the pub eyeing each other meaningfully, muttering behind their hands, watching her and Dexter, and drawing their own wrong conclusions every time he came out with one of his mock derogatory remarks.
“I’ll talk to him about it,” she said. “Tell him he has to stop, you know, saying those things.”
Maddy drove out of the parking lot. “Right, y
ou do that.”
She sounded horribly unconvinced.
“I will. Don’t give me one of your looks,” Nuala protested. “God, I’m not going to be able to work for weeks.” She plucked gingerly at her sling. “How’s Dexter going to manage without me in the pub?”
“Grumpily, I’d imagine.” Swinging around a corner, Maddy said, “He’s already asked me if I’ll help out tonight.”
“Really? And are you?”
“No chance. I’ve already made plans.”
“Great.” Mischievously Nuala said, “Can I come along with you?”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Maddy’s mouth.
“How can I put this? Not a chance in the world.”
Chapter 21
“Come on, you stupid animal.” Kate tugged at Norris’s leash as he dawdled along like a recalcitrant toddler. It was Saturday afternoon, the temperature had shot up into the nineties, and she was beginning to regret this attempt at a longer than usual walk.
Since embarking on a keep-fit plan for Norris, they had done their best to restrict his eating, but last night he had wolfed down an entire Dundee cake that had been carelessly left out in the kitchen by Estelle. Today, in an effort to work off a few of the ten thousand or so calories he had guzzled in ninety seconds flat, Kate had changed into jeans and sneakers and resolved to bring him out on the equivalent of a doggie marathon. Leaving the village behind them, they had set out along Ashcombe Lane, the hilly, winding road that would eventually take them into Bath. Not that they’d get that far, but at least the scenery was spectacular and it made a change from endlessly circling Ashcombe itself.
Feeling like an American sergeant major harassing the latest unfit arrival at boot camp, Kate chivvied Norris past a promising clump of creamy white cow parsley—he could spend forever searching for the perfect place to pee—and dragged him on up the hill. Huffing and grunting in protest, Norris waddled more slowly than ever. Honestly, at this rate, ants would be overtaking them.
