He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across her shoulders.
‘You’re too kind.’
‘I’m not being kind. I’m looking after our best dancer.’
She laughed, and he joined her in a smile. ‘There, you see. It’s not as bad as all that.’
Her laughter stopped. ‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘It is?’
‘Joshua, Mr Me I’m Called Joshua has thrown me out.’
‘Thrown you out?’ He eyed her keenly, something lifting in his chest like a balloon suddenly filled with helium. ‘I would have thought that would be something to celebrate. You can do better than him as a boyfriend.’
‘That’s the whole point.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand?’
She’d picked up his hand and started playing with his fingers. He’d bet a pound she didn’t even know what she was doing but whatever it was he never wanted her to stop.
‘He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not really my dance partner. His wife’s pregnant, as in heavily pregnant and once she couldn’t fit into the costumes he’d ordered he went looking for a stand-in.’
He laughed, he couldn’t help it. He’d never felt so relieved in his life at the thought of her not tangled up with that oaf. ‘So, what’s the problem? I think that’s wonderful news.’ He added, placing his hand around her shoulder but she pulled away and dropped his hand. He wished she hadn’t.
‘Really, it’s all fine is it, Mr Hopper? It’s all fine he’s booked a double bed for the week and expects, no, demands I share it? He’s taken both my bag and my suitcase so now I’m left with no alternative but to go back to him and, even if I manage to get my belongings there isn’t a room to be had. I’ve just come from the Tourist Information Office and everywhere is booked solid.’
***
‘A wedding ring?’
‘Yes, er Beverley.’ He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to a stop outside the late-night jewellers presumably open late for just such an occasion as this. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you Beverley but as we’re married it sort of goes with the territory. My name is Arnold.’
‘I prefer Hopper.’
‘So do I, as it happens but that’s not really relevant. What is relevant is the fact that the owner of the guesthouse, lovely lady by the name of Susan Hall, thinks I am.’
‘But why would she think that? You are married, aren’t you?’ Her eyes widened as all colour left her face. ‘Oh God, out of the hands of one maniac and into the other.’
‘No, and shush unless you want the whole of Blackpool in on our little secret,’ he said, throwing a quick glance at the couple beside them. ‘Darling,’ he went on, his mouth now pressed into her neck. ‘I always pretend I’m married, it’s much gentler than telling them I’m not interested.’ He felt her relax as she expelled her breath.
‘Oh, oh I see. That’s fine then, darling,’ she replied, lifting her lips to his cheek.
It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all but it would have to do with the eyes of that couple still lingering. Taking her hand he opened the door and pushed her in first with a gentle hand. They’d get the ring and then he’d confront Joshua. He was looking forward to that part.
Breakfast was interesting as he examined Mrs Hall’s raised eyebrows with a smile but as Beverley had a ring there was nothing she could do and it wasn't as if it was post-war or anything. Unmarried couples did live together. Okay, so they usually undressed in front of each other as opposed to hiding in the bathroom until the other one was in bed but he couldn’t have everything. She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when he’d woken her by placing a cup of tea on her bedside table. He’d already showered and dressed but he didn’t linger. She felt safe with him and that was something he wanted to continue. ‘I’m just nipping out for the papers, anything you need?’
‘No, I’m good. Hopper…’ She grabbed his hand and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Thank you for everything. Thank you for last night.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said with a grin, remembering the surprised look on Joshua’s face when he’d barged in and demanded her bags. A threat to call the police not to mention his wife did the trick, especially as he hadn’t been alone.
‘I’ll try and stay out of your way and not be a bother,’ she added, releasing her hand to brush her hair off her forehead.
‘You’ll be no bother. I’ll see you at breakfast.’
Lavender Peel called the group to attention with a clap of her hand.
‘Right, as you may have heard Joshua Pratt has decided not to enter so, now we’re a man short Hopper has kindly offered to step into his shoes so to speak. The next couple of days are make or break but now Guy is able to get around - albeit on crutches - he has also agreed to show his face. In effect, you have two experts to learn from, so learn.’
Hopper wasn't lucky. In fact you could say he was the unluckiest person around. He was the type of bloke to win a bottle of whiskey in the church raffle only to find he wasn't allowed to drink alcohol until he was eighteen. Apart from the whiskey, which he didn't really count as he’d only been six, the only thing he'd ever won was a deluxe hairdryer with all the accessories known to man, which was as useful to him as a pot of Brylcreem and a moustache trimmer. But weaving Beverley around the floor of the Rosebush Dance Studio he was the luckiest man in the world. She was as light as a feather on his arm and intuitively followed his steps and actions in perfect unison. He couldn't have felt closer if she'd been his twin but, with her sparkling blue eyes and the way her chestnut hair was coming adrift from her band to frame her face in a riot of curls, the one thing he didn't feel towards her was brotherly. Gentlemanly; yes. Brotherly; far from it. He never wanted the day to end because when it did, he’d have to relinquish his hold on this most perfect woman.
But end it did and, in the scuffle and scurry to leave the studio, he nearly lost her in the crowd of dancers heading down the road to the pub. Tomorrow was the day Lavender would decide on which three couples were going to enter the dance festival. Tomorrow he might be looking forward to a few more days in her arms. But the likelihood was he’d be rummaging around in the back of his Ford Escort for his fishing rod and tackle.
Standing at the bar while he waited to be served, he remembered with a smile that he still had the evening to look forward to. She was sharing his room, if not exactly his bed and, although not his wife, at least she was pretending to be.
‘Who's having a vodka and lime,’ he asked, placing the tray of drinks in the middle of the table before handing her a glass of dry white wine with a smile.
‘Are you not drinking?’ her gaze on his glass of orange squash.
‘No. I'll probably head off after this one. I'm quite tired.’ He rested his head back against the brown leatherette banquette before folding one leg over the other. ‘I’m the old man of the group you know,’ he added with a wink as he threw a glance across at Malcolm, Paddy and the other male members all posturing in their tightly fitting jeans as they made plans to hit the nightclubs later.
‘Not that much older, surely?’ Her voice soft as she leant towards him.
‘Old enough, forty next birthday.’
‘That's nothing. You're only a few years older than me.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Thirty-two next birthday, which just happens to be next week so thirty-one and a half.’
‘Shouldn’t that be three-quarters or nine-eights?’ he said, a mock frown wrinkling up his forehead.
She laughed. ‘If I thought I could get away with saying thirty, or even better – twenty-nine, I would.’ Bending down to pick up her bag she threw him a smile. ‘I'm quite tired myself so I'll join you.’
‘Surely you’re not going already?’ Margo said, throwing a quick glance across at Penelope. ‘We’re just going to get some grub and then find a dance floor.’
‘What, you haven’t had enough dancing for one day?’ He grinned before taking Beverley’s arm. ‘We’
ll let you children enjoy yourself while we-’
‘Go off somewhere quiet. We get it, don’t we gang?’ she added on a snort before turning away.
Hopper stared at the back of her sloppy peroxide dye job with a frown of annoyance and - it must be said - quite a bit of anger. He was all ready to walk over and confront her when he felt a tug on his arm.
‘Don’t let it bother you.’
‘But they’re insulting you?’
‘I take it as a compliment. Come on, let’s get some fish and chips and eat them on the beach.’
‘Okay, but no skinny dipping, mind,’ he said, shifting his arm to around her waist. ‘I’m not sure if my blood pressure could stand it.’
‘You can talk. What about that six-pack that was lurking under your t-shirt all afternoon?’
‘More like a crate.’
***
‘So, what do you do then, Hopper?’
‘Have a guess.’
They were sitting on the beach, the chips a long distant memory, watching as the sun dipped into the sea. They'd found a quiet patch away from the night-time revellers but still within sight of the twinkly lights on the promenade and pier. The evening couldn’t have been more perfect if she hadn’t decided to sit as far away from him as possible. But, thinking about her most recent experience with the likes of Joshua, he couldn’t really blame her.
She turned to look at him, taking her time to scroll up and down his body with a laugh. ‘Oh, I don't know,’ her eyes lingering on the area just above his belt. ‘With a crate like that it has to be something like a bartender or nightclub owner?’
‘Not a bad guess, but not even close. I'm a butler.’
‘A butler.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You’re having me on.’
She was bending over, tears dripping down her face in an explosion of laughter. ‘You've been watching too much telly - that's your problem.’ She glanced up at his silence and the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. ‘OMG you're a butler. Well, I never. So what does the butler do again? Is he the one that opens the doors?’
‘No, that would be Stevens, the footman.’
‘Oh, he's the one that lays out his lordship’s clothes and polishes his riding boots?’
‘No. That would be Marsden the valet. I do get to have the keys of the cellar though,’ he added with a smile.
‘Well, at least that's something.’
‘So what do you do, Beverley?’ he said, rolling on his front and looking up at her.
‘It's more a case of what I did.’
‘I don’t understand?’ He took up a handful of sand before letting it run through his fingers and onto her arm.
‘I'm a cook, or at least I was.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes. I was a cook at Joshua’s restaurant but now obviously…’ She looked up and pulled a face. ‘But now, obviously I’m unemployed and probably sacked without a reference. With over eight million looking for work, it’s unlikely I’ll get a job.’
‘Well, if you ever fancy going into service, and I wouldn't recommend it, the cook at the Cosgrave Manor has just handed in her notice.’
It was her breathing that alerted him first, her breathing and then the sound of muffled tears and then the scream.
In fact, if it hadn't been for the scream he'd probably have left her alone but there were other guests on the floor and the very last thing he wanted was a complaint going to Mrs Hall about the strange sounds coming from his bedroom. He was in a difficult position as it was with regards to his wife and, if she took it into her head to boot them out, they'd have nowhere to go.
Jumping out of bed he'd never been so thankful he’d packed his pyjamas. Not the most fashionable but, when he was being woken up constantly by his lordship, fashion didn't come into it.
‘Shush it's alright,’ he put his arm on her shoulder before brushing her hair off her forehead in the same way he did for Lady Sarah whenever she fell and scraped her knees. The screaming had stopped, thank God, but not the tears. Lifting her up into his arms, he positioned her head in the crook of his neck as he continued running his hand over her hair. ‘It's alright Beverley, whatever you were dreaming about it's gone - long gone. It's only me and I'm never going to hurt you.’
‘It was Joshua. I dreamt he… He tried to…’
‘It's over, you're safe now.’ He placed her back down on the pillows before tucking the duvet right up to her neck in an act of self-preservation before moving away to his side of the room.
‘What about a cup of tea?’ He said, looking down at his wrist. ‘It's only three but I could do with a cuppa.’ He watched as she scrambled out of bed, all his plans for her to be covered head to foot in the duvet disappearing in a puff of white nightie. ‘Here let me. It's the very least I can do after interrupting your night’s sleep.’
‘I wasn't sleeping.’
She paused, kettle in hand.
‘You weren’t sleeping? What, you’re one of them insomniacs or something?’
‘No, I'm not used to sharing a room with…’
‘A woman?’
‘Anybody.’
Placing the kettle back on the table she walked over to him. ‘I'm sorry, this must be really difficult for you.’
But she didn't continue. She couldn't continue. It was impossible for her to continue speaking with his lips clamped to hers in the sweetest of kisses – a kiss that went on and on and on…
‘But I thought you weren’t into women. I thought I’d be safe…’ she said, confusion written all over her face as she grasped the neck of her nightie in a vice-like hand.
‘I’m not into women, as such. I’m into one woman and she just so happens to be you.’ He glanced away, his jaw tightening. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to feel pressurised.’ His gaze locking with hers again. ’That doesn’t mean you have to feel anything other than safe.’ He ran his hand through his hair before lifting his head. ‘I have feelings for you, Beverley; strong feelings, the type of feelings that will never go away; the type that only grow stronger over time, never less. But also the type that never bind. Stay because you want to, or even if you don’t want to. I’m happy to sleep on the beach if me staying here worries you,’ he added, grabbing his bag and starting to stuff clothes in only to stop at the sound of her voice and then the soft feel of her fingers on his arm.
‘I thought I was going mad, completely and utterly mad. I saw you and, as the song goes ‘My heart went boom’. And then Joshua was so horrible and you came to my rescue like something out of a movie.’ He watched a blush score up her cheeks. ‘And then I thought I’d got it wrong, so wrong. You said you weren’t into girls so I assumed that you were… well you know what I assumed, so I slammed the door shut on my feelings, my strong feelings.’ She looked down at the ring on her finger; the ring they’d bought together before stroking her fingers along his arm and down to his hand.
‘Beverley, I’m sort of old-fashioned, well I am a butler after all. I can’t offer you much. I don’t have much and, in a little over a week I’ll be back at the beck and call of Lord and Lady Cosgrave.’ He shook his head, trying to make sense of his thoughts. ‘Come with me. We can spend whatever free time we have together and I’ll even let you take over the care of the chickens,’ he added, his eyes twinkling.
‘Chickens. Well that makes all the other stuff immaterial now doesn’t it? I’ll come with you, Mr Hopper, but only because of the chickens,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘Now that we’re a couple in the eyes of the world and married in the eyes of Mrs Hall do you think we can start our honeymoon?’
She didn’t wait for a reply. In truth there wasn’t a reply to be had. Instead, with both hands entwined through his hair she reached up and pressed her lips to his.
The End
To keep reading…
If you liked this book there are four further standalone books in this series. Englishwoman in Paris, where Hopper and Beverley are in service to Earl Cosgrave, is available here for 99p.
Or the 3 book box set is available here.
Englishwoman at Christmas, the new release, is available to purchase here.
About Jenny O’Brien
Best-selling author, Jenny O'Brien, was born in Ireland and, after a brief sojourn in Wales, now resides in Guernsey (famous for its potato peel pie).
She's an avid reader and book reviewer for NetGalley in addition to being a 2016/2017 RoNA judge.
She writes for both children and adults with a new book coming out every six months or so. She's also an avid collector of cats, broken laptops, dust and happy endings - two of which you'll always find in her books.
In her spare time she can be found frowning at her wonky cakes and even wonkier breads. You'll be pleased to note she won't be entering Bake-Off.
Readers can find out more about Jenny and her books from her website, which also contains direct links to all of her social media pages and blog. It also has a direct link to her newsletter where you’ll hear about all her latest book news, in addition to when her books are available for free.
For Jenny’s website, please click here
Thank you for helping me to continue dreaming up stories!
Jenny O’Brien
Englishman in Blackpool, Englishwoman Short Story Page 2
