The Little Village On The Hill (Book 2: Love Is In The Air): A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Alice Ross

  ‘Er, yes,’ I stammer, after taking half a second to remember who Dimitri is.

  ‘And your mum obviously likes him. What with his Onassis connections and being a hotel owner and all.’

  ‘Yes. Both my parents like him. In fact, the whole of Chollingflower seems quite taken with him.’

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. ‘Caitlin showed me your Instagram pictures - of the two of you at Hadrian’s Wall yesterday.’

  Ha! I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist looking. Just as I hadn’t been able to resist looking at hers. Which is the best thing ever about social media: everybody’s secretly keeping tabs on everybody else. How can Tom – a maths genius – fail to see how useful that is?

  ‘Looks like you had a nice afternoon,’ he adds – somewhat flatly.

  ‘We had the best afternoon,’ I reply. Which isn’t strictly true. We had a perfectly nice time, but it didn’t come a close second to the evening Tom and I spent in London, when we’d laughed so hard, we’d cried and it had felt like we’d been mates forever.

  ‘So, you’re obviously over the whole Giles thing,’ he goes on. Reminding me how much I’d wailed at him in London after discovering that Giles had been cheating on me. And also reminding me of how lovely Tom had been about the whole thing. So lovely that, by the next day, we’d been roaring with laughter again as we’d sung our hearts out in the car all the way home.

  ‘Yes. Well and truly over Giles,’ I reply. Then, deflecting the attention, ‘You and Caitlin are obviously getting along well if you’re looking for a house together.’ I do my best to keep my tone neutral but I suspect, by the way he pleats his forehead, that a touch of the judgmental has crept in.

  ‘I—’ he begins.

  Then stops as Caitlin and Dimitri beetle up, sniggering like a couple of teenagers.

  ‘Look what Dimitri’s won for me,’ cackles Caitlin.

  Tom and I don’t look. At least not for a couple of seconds. Because we’re still looking at one another. Until the pink teddy bear that’s being wafted in front of us severs the connection.

  ‘Oh. That’s… nice,’ I utter.

  ‘It’s their Star Prize, because Dimitri has broken the record for the number of plates smashed in one day.’ Caitlin hugs the bear to her recently inflated boobs and sighs. ‘And the best bit is, we’ve had a lovely chat about his hotel and I’ve decided that I’d quite like to buy one.’

  ‘Now, wasn’t that fun!’ proclaims my mother, driving us home an hour later.

  In the back seat of the Mini, next to Dimitri, who seems on a bit of a high – probably from all the candyfloss – I conclude that it most certainly was not fun. It was… Well, I don’t really know what it was. Because, after that strange conversation with Tom, my head feels like it’s full of candyfloss. I have no idea what he’d been about to say to me before Caitlin and Dimitri had bowled up, but the expression on his gorgeous face when Caitlin had announced that she wanted to buy a hotel, had spoken a thousand words: those of a frustrated parent with a spoiled child. However, despite his obvious bad mood, I doubt even her fickleness would constitute a good enough reason to dump someone who brings pert boobs, shiny white teeth and five and a half million spondoolies to the party. An opinion Tom obviously shares, given he’s still with her.

  What today has taught me, though, is that even if Dimitri had five and a half million pounds in the bank (which he very well might, for all I know), there’s no way I can carry on this charade with him. For all it’s a different situation, it still reminds me of my relationship with Giles. When I’d invested so much energy into being the perfect girlfriend, that it had become one big exhausting chore. And I very much suspect, if things progressed with Dimitri, that it would be the same. Because, for all his gorgeousness and charm, the chemistry just isn’t there. Or at least, not until I’ve had a couple of drinks. And even then, it’s purely physical. Nothing like the special chemistry I experienced with Tom during our London trip. I have no idea how often such connections come along; if it’s a once in a lifetime thing. But I do know that, having experienced it, I couldn’t settle for anything less. And for all the only person I’ve ever met who’s had that effect on me is breakfasting in bed with Caitlin Harmer every morning, it’s not fair on Dimitri to let him think there’s something there when there isn’t.

  Which is why I need to have a serious chat with him and let him down gently.

  Once I’ve figured out what to say.

  By the time Monday rolls around, I haven’t had a chance to speak to our guest, because my dad whisked him off to the pub to play darts last night. And this morning, he’s in the garden with my mother, discussing the location of the garden party’s strawberries and cream cart – the ‘brilliant idea’ she’d come up with at Doddingflower Fair yesterday.

  I’m at the table drowning my muesli in milk and mentally rehearsing my ‘You’re a really lovely guy but…’ speech, when my mobile rings with a call from a Number Unknown.

  Reaching for the remote to mute Mull of Kintyre on the CD player (my mother deeming a little Scottish influence essential for Dimitri’s cultural experience), I silence Sir Paul and answer the phone.

  ‘Hello. Is that Isobel Irving?’ enquires a high-pitched female voice. ‘It’s Belinda here. From Belinda’s Buns.’

  ‘Oh. Hello,’ I say, as if expecting the call. While actually thinking, who is Belinda from Belinda’s Buns?

  ‘It’s about your job application...’

  What job application?

  ‘… for the post of Sandwich Artist.’

  Oh God! I’d totally forgotten about that. Probably because I’d been in yet another strop about Tom and Caitlin when I’d hastily fired off my form. Not that I’m about to admit that.

  ‘Lovely to hear from you,’ I chirp instead.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so early,’ she goes on, ‘but I wondered if you’d be able to come into the shop for an interview today. I know it’s short notice, but something’s come up and I need to set on an extra pair of hands as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I stammer. ‘Well, I’m working in the library today, but I could pop down at lunchtime. About one o’clock?’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll see you then.’

  With my mother keeping Dimitri and his striped purple pants occupied outside with the garden party planning, he doesn’t offer to accompany me to the library this morning. And I’m also spared any sightings of Tom, who my dad is apparently picking up on his way to the builders’ merchants. Two occurrences for which my nerves are very grateful, they already being in tatters about my interview later. Which is ridiculous, given the lie I told on my application form was only a teeny tiny one. Hardly a lie at all, really. I mean, I know I didn’t actually work in the little deli in Tuscany, but I did pop in to purchase something on at least ten of the fourteen days my parents and I spent there a decade ago. And I know two weeks when I was a schoolgirl, isn’t quite the same as three months as a university student, but it’s not that much different, is it? Besides, everyone tells a few porkies on application forms. Because if they didn’t, nobody would ever be offered a job, would they?

  I arrive at Belinda’s Buns at ten minutes to one, having stuck one of my ‘Back In An Hour’ signs on the library door. Despite the library being busy that morning – with most of Chollingflower’s female contingent popping in, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dimitri – the only other occasion I can remember time crawling by so slowly was during root canal treatment at the dentist’s.

  By the time the bus reaches Doddingflower, my legs are shaking so much that I trip over a walking stick and topple on to an unimpressed baby’s buggy as I clamber off.

  Belinda’s Buns is halfway down the high street, squeezed between Pam’s Perms and Lisa’s Lupins. It’s a pretty little shop with a yellow and white candy-striped hood over the window.

  ‘Isobel?’ a plump woman with strawberry blonde curls peeping out from under a peaked white cap, greets me as I enter. ‘I’m Belinda.’ She drops
a load of coins into a customer’s hand and smiles her thanks. ‘Would you like to come through?’ She indicates the gap in the counter.

  I really don’t want to go through. Now that I’m here, scanning the array of mouthwatering sandwich fillings and salads in shiny white bowls, and the selection of meats laid out on shiny white platters, it strikes me that I don’t have a clue what to do with any of them. Apart from stuffing them into one of the many different types of rolls spilling from the baskets behind the counter. But then I remind myself that a filling stuffed into a roll actually is a sandwich. So, the job’s fancy ‘Artist’ title, notwithstanding, I don’t somehow think it’s going to require an art degree.

  Sidling through the gap in the counter, I follow Belinda down a short corridor, into a tiny kitchen at the back of the premises. Which is so clean, I’m tempted to reach for my sunglasses to kill the glare from the sparkling surfaces.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming at such short notice,’ says my prospective new employer. ‘My usual girl has had to dash up to Scotland to help with a family emergency, which has left me up the creek without a helper.’ She attempts a tinkling laugh – which sounds like it could easily morph into a howling cry. ‘Anyway, I’ll have to keep this short, I’m afraid, as I’m coping with the lunchtime rush on my own.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ I say, thinking the shorter the better.

  She beams at me as she swipes up two sheets of paper from the worktop – which, to my horror, look very much like a printed version of my online application.

  ‘I was very impressed with your application form,’ she says, running an eye down the top sheet. ‘And to see that, as well as working in the deli in Tuscany for three months of your university holiday, you’ve also completed a food hygiene course. Would you like to tell me a little more about that?’

  Er, no, actually. Because it’s a total lie, I almost blurt. But as that would serve no purpose at all, I mumble, ‘Well, it was a, um, online course’.

  Belinda gives an encouraging smile and bobs her head up and down.

  ‘And it was, um—'

  The bell above the shop door jingles.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’ll be another customer,’ she puffs.

  I blow out a sigh of relief.

  Until her face lights up like an LED bulb. ‘I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t we kill two birds with one stone and you can give me a demonstration of your skills by serving them?’

  WAAaaahh! ‘Well, I’d, er, love to,’ I reply, panic nipping at my innards. ‘But—'

  Before I can invent a reason, Belinda has already scuttled through to the shop, calling, ‘You can wash your hands in the sink there,’ behind her.

  I do as instructed, then haul my reluctant body after her.

  ‘So, Isobel,’ she begins, beaming at me expectantly as I shuffle up behind the counter, ‘the customer would like a barbecued tofu stuffed pitta pocket, with barbecue sauce, romaine lettuce and sprouts.

  ‘Sprouts?’ I echo.

  Belinda nods her cap and carries on beaming at me.

  ‘Er, right,’ I say, frantically looking around for a pitta pocket.

  On the bus, heading back to Chollingflower twenty minutes later, I conclude that my interview could have been worse. Although, other than me serving a vegan a chicken and bacon melt, I’m not sure how. I had no idea so much work went into ‘creating’ a sandwich. Or that there were so many different types of spread or bread. And that’s before you tackle the whole filling debacle. I’d ended up asking my one customer ‘Would you like…?’ fifteen times, which seems a bit excessive given we’re talking stuffed rolls here. If I do get the job - and I hope I do because the pay is actually quite decent - I’ll suggest to Belinda that we streamline the customer experience by only having one type of white and one type of brown roll. I mean, do we actually need sourdough, soda, multigrain and olive ciabatta? And for all my effort ended up being more arsey than arty, it was still perfectly edible – once I’d scraped off the dollop of prawns I’d accidentally added. Which was why I’d considered it very magnanimous of Belinda to let the customer have it for free, just because he’d waited three times longer than usual and had muttered something about missing an optician appointment.

  Anyway, Belinda had still been smiling when she’d waved me off. Which I’d taken as a positive sign. And even if I do have to wait a couple of days for the outcome while she interviews a few more people, I do feel like I’m in with a chance, because she’d looked particularly interested when I’d fessed up to desperately needing the money.

  Chapter Seven

  When I push open the door upon arriving home from the library later, the first thing I hear is female cackling.

  And the moment I realise it’s coming from Caitlin, my stomach clenches.

  What on earth is she doing here?

  Unfortunately, it’s all of ten seconds before I find out.

  ‘Izzy! Have you had a hard day at the library?’ she sniggers, as I enter the kitchen and find her and a shirtless Dimitri side by side on stools at the breakfast bar – clutching a glass of champagne apiece. And my mother at the workbench, doing something to an onion, with a glass of champers in front of her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I tentatively enquire from the doorway.

  Caitlin’s glossy red lips stretch into a smile that exposes every inch of her recent dental work.

  ‘We’re celebrating.’

  ‘C-celebrating?’ I echo faintly, experiencing the sensation of a one-hundred-stone bull sitting on my chest, as the first thought to rocket into my head is that she’s going to marry Tom.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, tossing back her hair. ‘It’s been quite a momentous day, all in all.’

  ‘H-has it?’ I stagger over to the table and collapse onto a chair before my legs cave.

  ‘Caitlin has – hic – some very exciting – hic - news,’ chips in my mother, sounding like she’s sozzled. And the only time my mother ever gets sozzled, is at a wedding.

  Ugh! As if it wasn’t hard enough coping with Tom and Caitlin having breakfast in bed, now my head is awash with them doing all kinds of married stuff – like going on holiday together, choosing a new sofa and having kids. I can’t bear it. Nor can I bear sitting here, listening to her rabbiting on about rings and dresses and cakes and stuff. I’ll have to conjure up an excuse to get out of the house and quick—

  ‘Caitlin is going to be buying the bed and the breakfast,’ pronounces the topless Dimitri.

  I blink and his nipples come into focus. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not a bed and breakfast, Dimitri. It’s a very sweet Georgian guesthouse,’ Caitlin goes on. ‘In the cutest little village twenty miles from here.’

  Too busy wondering how that fits in with the wedding plans, I can’t reply.

  ‘Dimitri and I have been to look at it this afternoon,’ she witters, turning to him and placing her hand over his. ‘It was so reassuring having someone from the business…’ - she places great emphasis on the last two words – ‘…with me. Much like having Tom by my side when I decided I wanted to become a property developer and build the new house. But now that I no longer want to be a property developer, it couldn’t have worked out better, Dimitri being here at the exact moment I need a little guidance in the hotel trade.’

  What is she on about? And what has the hotel trade got to do with her wedding to Tom?

  She snatches up a bottle of champagne. ‘Would you like a glass, Izzy? We’re celebrating my latest career challenge.’

  ‘Your latest career challenge?’ And not your engagement to Tom?

  ‘Of course, I know everybody doesn’t have the luxury of being able to chop and change their careers,’ she continues. ‘But that’s just one of the many benefits of having money: it gives you so many choices in life. And talking of life choices, how are you getting on with yours? Aren’t you supposed to be assessing your options or something?’

  The flood of relief I experience upon discovering that Caitlin
isn’t marrying Tom – or at least not yet – is shunted aside by irritation at her supercilious tone.

  ‘Actually, I had an interview today,’ I blurt.

  Just as my dad strides into the room.

  Followed by Tom.

  ‘Evening, all,’ says Dad. ‘Did I hear something about an interview there?’

  Nooooo! I hadn’t intended telling anyone about my interview at Belinda’s Buns. And certainly not Caitlin. Because, with five and a half million smackaroos, her life choices are significantly more glamorous than mine. And, let’s face it, make a career as a Sandwich Artist look a bit… well… crap.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ I furiously backtrack, aware my cheeks are burning as Tom pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits down on it. ‘I mean, it wasn’t even an interview as such. It was more of a…’

  I’m groping around for the appropriate term (Knocking up a sandwich? Stuffing a bun? Dissecting a roll?), when my nemesis asks:

  ‘What’s the job title?’

  Bollocks! Why hadn’t I kept my big mouth shut?

  ‘Sandwich Artist,’ I mumble, wondering if anyone would notice if I slid under the table and stayed there for the next seven days. Although, in all likelihood, Tom would notice, because he’s sitting at the table, regarding me strangely. Possibly because I’m doing a good impression of a perspiring tomato.

  ‘The Sandwich Artist?’ pipes up the topless Dimitri. ‘Are you going to be painting the portraits of the sandwiches, Izee?’

  ‘No,’ I squeak, wishing everyone wasn’t looking at me quite so intently. ‘I’ll be… making them.’

  ‘You? Making – hic – sandwiches?’ snorts my inebriated mother. ‘Oh, Isobel, you are funny?’

  Apparently, I am not only funny, I am positively hilarious, as demonstrated by everyone in the room proceeding to roar with laughter.

  Apart from me.

  And Tom.

  Who is still staring at me across the table.

  Until two glasses of champagne are plonked in front of us.