by Daisy James
‘He’s offered the asking price …’
‘You do know he will change the place beyond all recognition. Just another yuppie drinking establishment, I don’t doubt. Already heard on the grapevine that he’s applied for planning permission to convert the Old Barn into a pair of dwellings. Change the whole nature of the village that will.’
Kirstie was about to shoot back a retort, but she didn’t want to upset Angus any further by pointing out to him that what Miles wanted to do was no different from what Angus himself had already done with the two disused barns on his own land. Only twelve months before, he had sold them for conversion, one of which Josh had snapped up.
‘Sorry, Angus. I know it’s hard, but it was our only choice.’
‘Yes, well, here. If you like that monstrosity, take it. I bought it from a friend in the summer as a favour to their son who’s trying to make a living as an artist. I’m afraid it just doesn’t match the aesthetics of my kitchen!’ Angus pulled a superior expression, then held up a watercolour of a lopsided, five-tier wedding cake, the tumbling sides being supported by a battalion of mice dressed in aprons and chef’s hats whilst a cascade of icing dripped down onto their paws. ‘Do you think your friend Rachel would like this?’
‘Oh, Angus, she’ll love it!’ Kirstie stepped forward to hug the brusque farmer-cum-auctioneer. ‘It’s the perfect Christmas present.’
‘Judith ordered one of her cakes for my brother’s birthday last month. An exact replica of his bulldog: Clem. He loved it. Talented young lady is our Miss Butterworth. In her genes, of course.’
And with that he shook hands with Josh and strode into his office, closing the door firmly.
‘Come on, Harrison. Let’s get this tree back to The Duck and finish the decorations.’
Chapter 8
When Kirstie walked through the front door of the Dancing Duck, Emma immediately accosted her.
‘Someone arrived while you were out. I told him to wait in the brasserie. Just to warn you – I noticed Leon’s face when he saw who it was and I suspect he’s currently busy selecting his favourite meat cleaver.’
For a moment, Kirstie had no idea what Emma was babbling on about until she peered round the door into the room Leon had claimed as his territory.
‘Ah, I get it. Em, can you help Josh with the tree, please?’
‘Sure. I know who I’d rather spend my time with,’ Emma said, casting dark and dangerous looks in the direction of the handsome thirty-something guy who lounged in one of the crinkled leather chesterfields at the entrance to the brasserie, his ankle draped over his thigh, oozing charm and charisma.
Kirstie also caught Josh’s confused expression until he realized who Emma was talking about and his jaw tightened. She rolled her eyes at them both and strode through the door.
‘Hi, Miles. I wasn’t expecting you to call in today. Is everything okay?’
Miles leapt from his seat, his palm outstretched, his powerful physique filling the room. Just like the first time she had met him when she and Olivia had accepted his offer for the pub, he was immaculately dressed. He wore a tailored charcoal-grey business suit and psychedelic violet silk tie. His honey-blond hair had been professionally teased into random tufts and his beard neatly barbered.
‘Hello, Kirstie. Sorry to barge in unannounced, but I was in the area so I thought I’d take the opportunity to check out a couple of things my architect has raised. Also, with your permission, I’d like to take a few photographs to email to my parents in Hong Kong. If it’s not convenient, I can come back later when the pub’s closed?’
Kirstie noticed the uncertain way his sapphire eyes flickered towards the kitchen door behind which there was an increasingly aggressive concerto of hammering. She had to supress the urge to giggle. Clearly Leon was taking his objection to Miles’s presence out on that evening’s steaks.
‘It’s no problem at all. Be my guest.’
Kirstie surreptitiously inhaled the citrusy whiff of expensive cologne floating in the air between them. Miles reminded her of one of Emma’s previous conquests, Owen Green, a rugby fanatic who had insisted on dragging Emma to every match within a fifty-mile radius so she could cheer him on from the sidelines whatever the weather – their dalliance had lasted all of three weeks.
Miles possessed the same broad shoulders and bulky biceps straining against the Italian fabric of his sleeves, as well as the suspect bump on the bridge of his nose – which she had to admit did not detract one iota from his appeal. Miles was the epitome of the old adage ‘work hard, play hard ball’ and Kirstie felt the surprise stirrings of attraction.
‘Thanks. It should only take me an hour or so.’
Miles produced an electronic tape measure, collected a file from the table in front of him, and paused. Ripples of heat cascaded through Kirstie’s body as he flicked his eyes from her copper curls to the muddy tips of Olivia’s Hunter Wellingtons. She cringed. Why couldn’t she have been wearing the ivory silk Jimmy Choos she had worn to the annual FMTV awards ceremony last month?
‘I’m staying overnight at my parents’ cottage in Maltby. If you’ve got nothing else planned later, perhaps you could show me what the country folk do around here for fun.’ His lips curled into a smile to reveal his perfectly straight teeth that his obsession with rugby hadn’t yet spoiled.
For the first time in a long while Kirstie felt flustered. She prided herself on always being in complete control of every situation she found herself in, whether on screen or off. As soon as she had arrived in London, she made it her mission to be able to walk into any room, studio, or office with confidence. Yet this was the second time in a week that she had not been in control of her emotions. What was happening to her?
‘Oh, yes, I’d love that,’ she heard herself say, her voice an octave higher than usual before a cacophony of falling pans from the direction of the kitchen cut their conversation short.
‘Great. See you in the car park in an hour. I’d like to eat at the Camilla restaurant at Craiglea Hall to check out the competition. I hope you’re hungry?’ And with another flash of his toothpaste ad smile Miles strode from the room.
Within seconds Emma was at her side. ‘You can’t possibly be thinking of going out with Miles Morgan!’ she snapped. ‘It’ll be like eating with the enemy!’
‘Miles is not the enemy, Em. Looking at it from a purely financial point of view he is actually our saviour.’ Kirstie saw Emma’s expression of disbelief and hurried on. ‘Anyway, didn’t you just tell me that I should start going out more?’
‘I did, but not with that corporate shark. Okay, okay, yes, he’s scrumptious and smells like a Parisian perfumery. But that’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Emma slumped into the seat Miles had just vacated and selected a strand of blonde hair to twirl around her finger. ‘I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal against Miles. I would feel exactly the same way about anyone who bought the Dancing Duck, but why does it have to be some rich lawyer from London? Why couldn’t it be a lovely middle-aged couple, born and bred in Hampshire, wanting to invest their life savings in a cosy village pub?’
‘Miles was the only potential purchaser who offered the full asking price. Sadly, there was no beauty parade of buyers for me and Livie to pick from. Look, we’re having dinner – that’s all. I’ll try to ease the conversation round to the subject of what his plans are for the pub. He’ll probably have his hands full with converting the Old Barn so it’ll be years before he gets round to thinking about what to do with the pub and brasserie.’
‘I’m sorry, Kirst. None of this is your fault and I know that if you could turn the clock back you would. I should be looking for another barmaid job, but I can’t get my head around the fact that this is actually happening. Mum and Dad will probably let me off with my board until I find something else but I’m worried about Leon. You must have heard the commotion he was making in the kitchen – he loathes Miles. There’s no w
ay he’s going to stay on at The Duck when Miles takes over and he’s refusing to even start looking for anything else until you’ve signed the papers and it’s definite. You know what his landlord old Mr Fallows is like. He’d chuck him out on the street if he falls behind with the rent.’
‘Leon is an accomplished, Cordon Bleu-trained chef! In fact, to be honest, his talents are wasted here. He could do so much more if he moved on, perhaps to a restaurant in London. This might be the catalyst he needs to force him to move on to bigger and better things.’
Emma stared at Kirstie as though she didn’t know her at all. Her magenta lips parted as if she was trying to understand what she had just said, incredulity written boldly across her face. ‘Leon loves it here. Life’s not all about the ceaseless pursuit of ambition, Kirstie.’
And before Kirstie could stop her, Emma flounced from the room, her long blonde waves flowing in her slipstream like a miniature field of golden corn.
Kirstie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. The next two weeks were going to be harder than she thought. She had hoped to find a staunch ally in Emma, her friend since junior school, her sidekick in every adventure, her partner in every escapade. She needed Emma on her side, especially when she suspected she would be sparring with Josh too.
A sudden shaft of loneliness shot through her and she craved the reassuring presence of Olivia and Harry to soothe her aching heart. But, of course, they had much more important things to worry about than her concerns about getting to the end of December with her friendships intact. She had lost Josh eighteen months ago, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Emma too.
She texted Olivia to ask how George was and dashed up the stairs to the flat to get changed before Leon emerged from the kitchen brandishing a carving knife with a murderous look in his dark eyes.
She only had the strength to deal with one drama at a time!
Chapter 9
If Kirstie had put a bet on what type of car Miles drove she would have won the jackpot. The sleek silver BMW Roadster glided noiselessly down the narrow country roads leading to Craiglea Hall, the aroma of tannin from the cream leather seats filling the air. Miles had selected a CD compilation of Christmas songs and she hummed happily along to an acoustic version of ‘White Christmas’.
It wasn’t long before the handsome stone façade of the country manor hotel came into view, its architectural symmetry so pleasing to the eye. Miles parked in the gravel car park at the rear and they made their way round to the front. The arched main door was flung open in a gesture of welcome through which Kirstie could see the magnificent staircase and the glossy banister she and Olivia had dreamed of sliding down when they were youngsters.
The whole property screamed opulence, elegance, and good taste – a complete contrast to the shabby chic comfort of the Dancing Duck. Yet, for the first time in her life, Kirstie found the boutique hotel somehow soulless, instilling in her a nervous tension in case she left a fingerprint on the shining glass doors and brass handles or knocked a vase from a pedestal.
The heels of her stilettos click-clacked on the parquet flooring as they made their way to the Camilla lounge. A cauldron of emotions swirled in her chest – the restaurant had been her mum and dad’s favourite place to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries – but she pulled the shutters down on the part of her brain that housed her memories of happier times and forced herself to concentrate solely on the present.
A pale-faced restaurant manager greeted them, his demeanour more akin to a funeral director than a maître d’. She had eaten in many expensive restaurants during her time in London, and she had expected to experience a welcome surge of familiarity when they were guided into the lounge. However, her reaction surprised her. She yearned to be back at Leon’s friendly buzzing brasserie for a bowl brimming with his hearty French fayre.
They were shown to what her mum would have described as the best seat in the house, a white-linen-bedecked table in the bay window looking out over the pristine lawns, sadly not at their best in December, but softened by the projection of the mellow amber light of the street lamps melting into the darkness at the edge of the grounds.
Miles proved to be great company. He regaled her with a constant flow of hilarious anecdotes about the exploits his rugby comrades got up to when not busy with their stressful careers, particularly a recent stag night in Brighton when they had left the groom-to-be chained to a railing outside the police station dressed in a Pink Panther onesie.
He also spoke of his love of Japanese art, offering to take her to an exhibition at the British Museum. If he had seen the live TV debacle she had recently starred in, he had the grace not to mention it, for which she was grateful. Maybe he was as busy with work as she was and never watched the television – or caught up on YouTube – in which case he genuinely had no idea and that made her feel even more comfortable in his company.
They ordered their meal and Kirstie’s spirits rose even further when Miles ordered a bottle of her favourite Chianti without asking her preference – a very positive sign. When their starters arrived, the conversation moved on to plays they had seen and they even found they had a mutual acquaintance – Chris Coulson, one-time cameraman on FMTV but now playing rugby professionally for a French club in Bordeaux.
‘How long have you been a lawyer?’ asked Kirstie devouring her smoked salmon starter as though she hadn’t eaten all day.
‘Ten years next summer. I love my job. I love the pressure, the thrill of the chase you get when negotiating a big deal, even the crazily demanding clients. I like that every day is different and that I get to stretch my brain to breaking point, especially when appearing in front of a High Court judge who’s glaring at me from the bench as though I’m a slug crawling out from under a stone. Gets the old heartbeat racing, I can tell you.’
Miles sipped his wine, eyeing Kirstie over the rim. He waited until the waiter had removed their plates before continuing. ‘But you’ll know all about the adrenaline rush of speaking in a public arena, when the stakes are high to achieve accuracy and present perfection. If anything goes wrong, it’s impossible to put right.’
She tried to see if Miles was referring to her recent debacle, but his face reflected innocence itself so she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘I love my job too. When I was a teenager, one week I would dream of being a famous actress, the next it would be a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant, so I alternated my spare time between rehearsals for drama school and whipping up increasingly exotic recipes. I would badger my mother to acquire the weirdest of ingredients for me to try out, some of which are still festering on the spice rack in the kitchen to this day. Mum never threw anything out! I used to love spending time at my friend Rachel’s family bakery learning techniques from her father, which have stayed with me ever since.’
‘But you decided to pursue the acting side of your dream?’
‘Yes. When I left school I studied Dramatic Arts and Film Studies at university and loved every minute of it. I knew that was where my heart lay. When Emma and I were in the sixth form we got the chance to be extras in a detective series that was being filmed here at Craiglea Hall and that sealed the dream for me.’
‘Did you move to London after university?’
‘No, actually I stayed here for a couple of years. I helped to run a theatre and drama school in Winchester, which I loved, and I took whatever support artiste work I could get. It wasn’t the route to stardom I’d dreamed of, but I was happy. I loved seeing the productions we worked on come together and how the kids morphed from shy, awkward teenagers into confident, talented young people just by learning a few lines and performing on stage.’
‘So what made you leave it all behind and seek out the bright lights?’
Miles leaned away from her as the waiter set their monkfish in front of them. Kirstie had purposely steered clear of any dish that would spark the reminder of Christmas. She was especially looking forward to the tarte Tatin
with home-made almond ice cream she had already decided on for dessert.
After the one glass of Chianti, Miles had switched to Perrier but he refilled her glass. The wine tasted of liquid sunshine and she could feel the alcohol dulling her raw edges and urging her to spill her innermost secrets to this most amiable of listeners. But she’d had lots of practice at burying her emotions, of keeping the painful recollections locked away behind steel-encased doors.
‘I just decided that it was time to pursue my dreams and there would be more opportunities in London, and as it turned out, I was right.’
‘Yes, Kirstie’s Kitchen. It must be a fantastic feeling to have your own show?’
‘Well, it’s not really my own show, just a short segment in the morning …’
‘My sister Eloise watches it regularly in Hong Kong on YouTube. When I told her I was buying The Dancing Duck, a pub in which Kirstie Harrison owned a half share, she bombarded me with a list of questions to ask you. However, as this is a social occasion and not a business discussion, I’ll save the interrogation for a later date.’
Had Miles just said date? Was this a date? No, it was simply a turn of phrase. If she had truly thought it was a date she would have made more effort to rummage through Olivia’s wardrobe for a more suitable outfit than black dress pants and a wide-sleeved fuchsia top.
Again, a surge of pleasure washed over her. She had forgotten how agreeable it could be to enjoy a no-strings-attached dinner with a good-looking guy whose eyes lingered on her in a way that caused her skin to prickle with interest and her heart to beat just that little bit faster. He was an intelligent conversationalist who spoke eloquently about his work as a commercial litigator for one of the Big Five London law firms, but also about his love of acoustic guitar and of course rugby, a subject he could wax lyrical about.
‘It sounds like you lead a hectic life. What made you want to buy a village pub?’ Kirstie leaned back so that the waiter could set down the dessert she had been saving a space for.
