by Abbie Walton
LOVE: A MESSY BUSINESS
BY ABBIE WALTON
BOOK ONE OF THE MESSY LOVE TRILOGY
Copyright © 2015 by Abbie Walton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A FRIENDLY REQUEST FROM THE AUTHOR
HI!
IF YOU ENJOY READING THIS BOOK, PLEASE TELL A FRIEND. WORD OF MOUTH REALLY IS AN AUTHOR’S BEST FRIEND. HER SECOND BEST FRIEND IS A REVIEW, SO IF YOU COULD LEAVE A REVIEW ON AMAZON AS WELL, THAT WOULD BE MUCH APPRECIATED!
ABBIE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE: AN UNEXPECTED SALE
CHAPTER TWO: A NEW ARRIVAL
CHAPTER THREE: AN ACCIDENTAL MEETING
CHAPTER FOUR: AN UNAUTHORIZED EXPLORATION
CHAPTER FIVE: A DATE FOR THE DIARY
CHAPTER SIX: A CHANGE OF PLANS
CHAPTER SEVEN: AN INDECENT PROPOSAL
CHAPTER EIGHT: AN EDUCATIONAL DISCUSSION
CHAPTER NINE: A RIGHT MESS
CHAPTER TEN: ANOTHER FINE MESS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: AN AFTERMATH CONVERSATION
CHAPTER TWELVE: A BIT OF RESEARCH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A BUSINESS ARRANGEMENT
COMING SOON FROM ABBIE WALTON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE: AN UNEXPECTED SALE
The rain dripped off the end of his nose, his white shirt almost transparent (in a beer gut-revealing, not Colin Firth-appealing, kind of way). His suede shoes had almost submerged in the muddy puddle he was standing in, but Peter Wright didn’t care two hoots. Clutching his hammer like a mountain climber about to triumphantly nail his flag on the summit of Everest, he was going to enjoy this. They had said it could never be done. But, somehow, he had done it. If he was completely honest, he didn’t quite know how himself – luck, mainly, and sheer Lancashire bloody-mindedness had played its part as well. Two bloody years it had taken him. He still hadn’t quite pulled himself together after the phone call that had confirmed the news; his hands were shaking as he tried to get the sign straight, but inside his heart was singing.
It was a real pity, he thought to himself, that there wasn’t a bit of a crowd to witness this historic moment. A round of applause, and perhaps even three cheers, was the absolute minimum he deserved. Ah well, at the very least someone might buy him a pint at the pub when he broke the news. He was looking forward to that – both the pint and the news-breaking. But the sign had to be set up first – it wouldn’t feel real until it was, not to mention the fact that it was great (free) advertising of his professional capabilities. Eventually, the sign and the ground co-operated with each other and Peter stepped back a foot or two to savour the moment and admire his handiwork.
As he did so, the number 26 bus chugged past. Perhaps the driver was over-eager to be the first to read the sign, but the bus got mightily close to the kerb and even closer to the standing water that had been struggling to make its way down a drain clogged with the flotsam and jetsam of neighbourhood life – three carrier bags, a free local newspaper, an assortment of fast food containers and, most oddly of all, a mound of rotting banana skins. The water wasn’t struggling any more though; it was now flowing freely down Peter’s back. He froze, and then cursed, then turned around with a look of pure fury to find the bus, completely unperturbed, wending its way down the lane to the village centre. With half a mind on his rapidly uncomfortable underwear, Peter noticed a figure staring out of the back window of the top deck. To his horror, he realised that it was Audrey Whitcomb. He wasn’t too bothered that she had seen him get a soaking, although he was sure that he’d get the mickey taken out of him about that. No, the problem was that, with her legendary eyesight, she had to have seen the sign. By the time he’d get to the pub, they would all know the news; not just them, but most of the town would know as well. He cursed again, more out of frustration than real anger. He told himself, though, that nothing, absolutely nothing must be allowed to spoil this momentous day.
So he adjusted his tie, scraped most of the mud off his shoes and squelched his way into town to the Red Lion, stopping every two hundred yards or so to deal discreetly with a soggy wedgie that threatened to impair what was supposed to have been his triumphant arrival.
As he reflected later that day, what happened next didn’t go quite as he’d hoped. In his mind’s eye, he’d imagined striding into the pub like he was in the Wild West, blasting the doors open so that they nearly fell off their hinges. Then, as every pair of eyes swivelled to watch his entrance, busty wenches would dash to be the first to slake his thirst so that he could then enthrall them with his latest achievements. Not on this occasion, son. The plan was a non-starter right from the off – the constant damp of Spring had caused the ancient wooden doors of the pub to swell and it was quite an achievement just to be able to shoulder-barge one door open enough to squeeze through without losing a few buttons a la Bilbo in the Misty Mountains. It was especially cruel on the regulars who had, over time, developed a barrel where a six pack used to be. Why the management hadn’t yet taken any steps to make their establishment just a smidgeon more accessible than Fort Knox was unknown – but they hadn’t.
No-one even noticed when Peter finally managed to sidle into the main room of the pub – they were too busy watching the final minutes of the cup tie on the huge TV on the wall. He couldn’t even get a drink from the bar although, pleasingly, it was at least staffed by a busty wench (not that Peter was stupid enough to refer to her as such, at least not a second time). Kate Boswell was a United fan and that happened to be far more important than serving a customer right at that very moment. To tell the truth, most things were. She had hoped that her shiny new degree in Psychology would open some doors for her to an interesting life, but they were proving as hard to prise open as the knackered ones of the Red Lion.
Peter was now in a bit of a quandary. Should he wait until the game finished or try and get people’s attention now? He looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Injury time. But it was 0-0, so there might be half an hour of extra time. His pants would have wet rot by the end of that. He coughed, expectantly. He coughed a little louder, a little insistently. He coughed as though his guts were about to make a guest appearance. He coughed in vain. Nothing less than an earthquake would have been enough of a distraction to get their attention, and merely looking like a mudslide clearly didn’t count.
But perhaps God was smiling on him after all. The big screen suddenly went completely dead and then came the dreaded snowstorm effect. There was confusion for a second or two until it dawned on the drinkers that the sudden bad weather must be impacting the satellite reception. Everyone turned round instinctively to look at the bar, for some reason expecting the barmaid to be able to magically fix things. Peter was still standing there, hoping for that celebratory drink. To a man, they glared at him as though he was entirely to blame for this interruption. It was not the most fertile ground on which to sow his seeds of good news, but it was the only chance he was going to get for a while. After a couple of seconds of awkward silence which felt a lot longer, along came a typically friendly Lancashire greeting.
“What the ‘ecks happened to you? You look like you
’ve fell down a bloody well!”
Peter flinched momentarily but remembered the talking-to that he’d given himself earlier and bravely ploughed on.
“Actually Dave, I’ve just come from Ashton House. Been putting up the “SOLD” sign as a matter of fact…” He puffed out his chest and held up his hammer with pride, like an Oscar, as if to emphasise the magnitude of the deed he had just done as well as to prove he had indeed done it.
“So you have gone and sold it then! Audrey said that you had when she was here at half-time, but I told her she needed her bloody eyesight checking! Bloody ‘ell! How the hell did you manage that?”
This was more like the reaction Peter had been hoping for. The game had all but been forgotten. It was suddenly as if he was now a magnet, drawing people to the bar, where even Kate was showing interest and there was a distinct possibility of getting a pint out of her if he played his cards right. Like everybody else, she wanted to know all the details. After all, this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill house sale – this was Ashton House.
“So come on then Pete, spill the beans. Who’s gone and bought the place? You did tell them what happened there, didn’t you? When are they moving in? And how old are they?”
“I’ll need a pint before I can answer any questions, love! Pint of mild, please.”
After waiting until he had safely received the pint (quicker than any Red Lion drinker in living memory), he admitted to a bit of deception.
“I’m afraid I simply cannot divulge any details that are confidential to the buyer. That would be a clear breach of the Estate Agent Voluntary Code of Practice, section three, subsection four,” he said a bit too primly, rather like a head nun at a convent.
“However,” he continued amid howls of disapproval, “I can confirm that all interested parties have been made aware of the, err, colourful past of the property, shall we say. I spoke to the buyer personally about that and he didn’t have any problems with it at all.”
“Oh, so it’s a he then!”
“I can…err…neither confirm nor deny that.”
“So when he is arriving then? Can you tell us that?”
“I cannot get into specifics, Kate. All I can say is that he, erm… I should say he OR she, is keen to move in sooner rather than later. I’m sure it won’t be too long before they put in an appearance.”
“Ugh…why anyone would want to live in that big old house is beyond me; it gives me the creeps just looking at it.”
“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste, Kate. I don’t mind admitting I thought I’d never sell it, but it bloody well has. And to mark the occasion, I’ve just decided that the drinks are on me…”
The only person who didn’t suddenly erupt into loud cheers, thump Peter somewhat moistly on the back or vigorously shake his hand was Kate, who now had to issue all the drinks without being permitted by the brewery’s rules to drink one herself. But at least something new was happening in this god-forsaken place, she thought to herself as she set to work. Must be a rich family moving into such a big house – three or four kids perhaps? That would be good - the school was desperate to get a few more on the roll to keep it open and the local shops, all three of them, would definitely welcome any extra business.
She was making some logical assumptions, but logic and common sense were about to go out of the window. Her life was soon about to change in ways she never could have imagined. In fact, it would not be too much of an exaggeration to say that she was about to find herself in well over her head.
CHAPTER TWO: A NEW ARRIVAL
It was two weeks before there were any further developments and Kate, like everyone else, had almost forgotten that there were going to be new owners of Ashton House. But, as Kate cycled past on her way to the lunch-time shift at the pub, she noticed a van was pulling into the driveway – a delivery van. She pulled over and pretended that she had to make some kind of adjustment to her brakes, just so she could have a bit of a nosy. She was hoping she might get a first look at who the new people were going to be. But the only two people there were obviously just the moving guys, judging by the way they were dressed. They didn’t look the sort to be able to afford such a big place.
Kate was just about to cycle off when the back of the van was opened. She stopped to see if she could spot any clues about the new occupants. She was expecting it to be stuffed to the gills, as moving vans almost always are – but it was barely half-full. There was some bedroom furniture, a couch and a table, a couple of suitcases and about half a dozen boxes - and that was pretty much it. Hardly enough to fill a couple of rooms! The only possible explanation was that this must be the last of two, or maybe even three, vans that were on their way and there hadn’t been enough stuff to fill up the last one. She would have dallied longer to see the other ones arrive, presumably with the new family in tow, but she couldn’t be late for her shift.
As she free-wheeled her way down the hill to the village, she wondered to herself why she was so interested in such a mundane thing as some people moving in. Had her life really become that uninteresting? Well, yes it had, actually. It was hard to believe that it would soon be a year since she’d come home from University, a Psychology degree in one hand and twenty thousand pounds of student debt in the other. At the rate she was paid at the Red Lion, she’d be a hundred before she paid the latter off and she still wouldn’t have found something useful to do with the former. What use was psychology in a pit village, or an ex-pit village to be more precise? An ability to brew good beer or breed prize-winning greyhounds was much more in demand, and always likely to be. Yet could she afford to move away to a bigger place where there might be some sort of proper career? An endless cycle of poverty and pub karaoke was beckoning and it was depressing.
And so it was that Kate didn’t arrive at the Red Lion in a particularly good frame of mind. It didn’t improve when she was told that Emma, the other barmaid, had called in sick (more like sick of working at the Red Lion, thought Kate) and was “invited” to do a double shift right through until last orders. What else could she do but accept? She had nothing else planned that day and she could definitely do with the extra cash. The pub seemed even stuffier than usual and the day dragged by until the regulars came in for their evening pint.
Eventually it was time, Kate decided, to take off her blouse to reveal her trademark low-cut bodice underneath, of which the (male) customers were always most appreciative. She’d been blessed with brains but she hadn’t done too badly in the boob department either, it had to be said - a genuine 36D, a Double D in some bras. Thanks Mum. She wasn’t actually wearing a bra today though, as she’d found that this was the best way of maximising her tips, tips that she badly needed. She had managed to convince herself that it was her who was doing the manipulating and using the men to get what she wanted, not the other way around. She did, after all, have a degree in Psychology. Most of the time, she believed her attempt at self-justification.
What always happened was one of those strange occurrences where everyone knew what was going on but nothing was ever said about it. Even between the blokes, there was only the occasional raising of the eyebrows and a blowing out of the cheeks as if it to say, “whoa, just look at that”. The men knew full well that she was deliberately giving them an eyeful and were prepared to pay her for it. She knew full well that the five pound notes arriving in the glass jar on the top of the bar were not deposited there because of her adroitness at pulling a good pint. After all, poor flat-chested Emma was lucky to take home more than a few coins at the end of her shift. But everyone went home happy, up to a point. The men wished they were going home to wives with a similarly inviting cleavage, while Kate wished she was going home to somebody, somebody who appreciated her for who she was, not just for what she had on display.
Fred Yates was not one of the better tippers, but Kate still had a bit of a soft spot for him as his wife of almost forty-five years had passed away from cancer a couple of years ago and he’d never really recov
ered. She didn’t begrudge him a pleasant view as he drank his usual pint of stout, excruciatingly slowly to prolong the entertainment for as long as possible on his meagre pensioner’s budget. He liked to talk, not having anyone to talk to at home. The conversation was rarely thrilling but it was harmless enough and helped to pass the time.
“So, I see the new owner’s moving in, eh love?” Fred lived just opposite to Ashton House and Kate guessed that was what he was referring to, given there were no other recently sold houses in the village.
“Yeah, Fred. I saw one of the delivery vans being unloaded as I came in to work.”
“One of the delivery vans? What do you mean? There only was one van that I saw. I was out in the front garden doing my weeding all day, apart from a few toilet breaks. My prostate, you see…”
Except to grimace sympathetically, Kate ignored the final clarification, which she felt fell under the category of “Too Much Information”, and continued to press for more details.
“Really? That’s odd, don’t you think? The place will be half-empty…”
Fred scratched his chin. “Maybe they’re those folk who they say are “house poor”, you know – they’ve spent all their money on buying the house and now they can’t afford to put any stuff in it. Mind you, they’ve got enough money to buy a fancy car – nice blue Range Rover he was driving.”
“Who?”
“Who do you bloody think? The new owner of course! He was just arriving as I was setting off to come here. Only a young chap, a lot younger than I expected. Can’t be more than thirty at most by my reckoning.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Well I bet he’s either moving in with his parents and they’ve sent him on ahead to get things ready, or else he’s married an older woman and she’s bringing the kids later.”
“Well now’s your chance to find out. He’s just walked in.”
