by Alice Ross
I’m in the process of adding #FloralPrintsGalore, when Tom and Caitlin appear – Caitlin in a lilac maxidress, her arm entwined around Tom’s like a clingy grapevine.
‘Hello, Izzy,’ she drawls. ‘I thought I’d better come and support the event, given Erica’s now left the village and I’ve inherited her celebrity crown.’ She flashes a disingenuous smile.
Which I don’t return. Instead, I pleat my forehead and wonder how someone who’s been handed an obscene amount of cash for doing nothing more than buying a ticket, could possibly consider themselves worthy of the ‘celebrity’ mantle. Erica Rowland might have been shagging my ex-boyfriend behind my back, but at least she’d written an international bestseller. Even if it was about orgasms and medium-sized cucumbers.
I’m combining my pondering with noting how gorgeous Tom is looking in his pale blue shirt and cream chinos, when Caitlin asks:
‘Is Dimitri around? I have a couple of great ideas I want to run past him for my new guesthouse project.’
‘The last time I saw him he was in the kitchen,’ I reply.
‘Great. Back in a mo,’ she tinkles, before pecking Tom on the cheek and sashaying off across the lawn.
Leaving me and Tom alone for the first time since the Belinda’s Buns meltdown in the library.
‘So, um, how are you?’ he asks.
A predictable and, under normal circumstances, perfectly acceptable opener. To which, under normal circumstances, I would bat back an acceptable ‘fine’, ‘great’, ‘never better’, ‘crap’ or ‘shattered’.
But the only thing I feel is an overwhelming compulsion to kiss him.
A compulsion I obviously quash. Because a) he’d probably splat me with a strawberry cheesecake; b) Caitlin would consider me even more of a loser than she already does; and c) my mother’s chances of making WI Regional Chair would be well and truly scuppered.
‘Have you recovered from the sandwich thing the other day?’ he asks, his lovely smile setting his hazel eyes crinkling.
I pull a rueful face. ‘Just about. I’m really sorry about breaking down in front of you like that. You must think I’m a pathetic whinger.’
‘Actually, I think you’re—’ He breaks off and clears his throat before carrying on. ‘Have you, er, done any more assessing of your options since we last talked?’
‘I have. And the upshot is that I’ve decided to go back to London and resume my publishing career.’ I attempt a bright smile of my own.
While Tom’s disappears completely. ‘Oh. I… I thought you might be staying in Choll—'
‘Isobel, have you seen Dimitri?’ My mother rushes up to me looking very hot and bothered. ‘We’re presenting the prizes in fifteen minutes and we can’t find him anywhere.’
‘He’s probably gone to change his shirt,’ I say. ‘I’ll nip up to his room and see if he’s there.’
And with that, I shoot Tom an apologetic grin and march up to the house, blinking back tears.
I don’t know why voicing my heading-back-to-London intentions to Tom has upset me so much. But who am I kidding? Of course I know. It’s because, as well as not wanting to go back to publishing or London, I don’t want to leave him.
Totally pathetic, given I’m not even with him.
And nor will I ever be. Because there’s no way I could ever compete with Caitlin Harmer’s boobs, teeth and beefed-up bank account.
Which is why I need to get over myself. Stop dwelling on things I can’t have. And start concentrating on things I can. Like a half-decent job in London.
Which isn’t so bad. Is it?
I’m still working up the courage to answer that question, when I climb the stairs and reach Dimitri’s room.
The door is slightly ajar.
And through the crack drifts a low female moan.
I stop in my tracks as an ice-cold shiver shoots down my spine.
Surely, that wasn’t…
Trepidation bubbling, I tiptoe to the door and peep through the gap.
Through which I see the bed.
And a near-naked Caitlin astride Dimitri – who, for a change, isn’t wearing any pants.
After witnessing Dimitri and Caitlin in their compromising pant-less position, my head is whirring faster than a helicopter propeller, which results in me spending the rest of the afternoon drifting about the party in a daze.
Dimitri, much to my relief, had his pants (and his squiggly shirt and tight trousers) back on, within ten minutes of my viewing of the bedroom scene. And, to my mother’s relief, presented the prizes and delivered his – very humorous - speech without the smashing of a single plate.
While Caitlin migrated back to Tom and glued herself to his side.
Watching her giggling and clapping at Dimitri’s presentation, I felt sick. Not because of Dimitri, for whom I have no feelings other than a desire for him to return home, but because of Tom. For whom I do have feelings, and who is one of the nicest guys on the planet.
How could Caitlin do that to him?
But then I remember all the horrible things Caitlin used to do at school. And realise that the answer to that question is… easily.
Chapter Ten
I spend most of Sunday in bed, pretending to have a tummy ache. And because my mother is also in bed – nursing a hangover – I am thankfully left alone with my thoughts. Which are, unsurprisingly, all about Caitlin cheating on Tom.
A fact I have decided to keep to myself.
Still very raw from the recent discovery that Giles had been cheating on me, I can’t face shattering Tom’s world with similar news.
And even though it’s since struck me that it’s always Caitlin who’s wrapped around Tom, and never the other way around, I don’t doubt he loves her. After all, who wouldn’t love someone with five and a half million in the bank?
By Monday morning, I’m feeling slightly better. Until I drag myself downstairs and find Dimitri and his orange pants at the breakfast bar. While he’s prattling about tomatoes, I can’t look at him. No wonder, when I’d mentioned Jennifer on the day of the party, he’d needed some prompting before he remembered who she was. Because, rather than spending every evening at the pub with her, as I’d assumed, he must have been with Caitlin – probably christening all the new beds in her new house. The reason she most likely had them delivered.
‘So, I am looking forward to the Greek tomatoes when I am back home tomorrow, Izee.’
My ears prick up like super-charged antennae. ‘You’re going home tomorrow?’ I gasp, jerking up my head so quickly that an unchewed Shreddie hits the back of my throat.
‘Yes. It has been all the fun, but my family is needing me back at the hotel.’
‘Oh. Right. That’s a shame,’ I say, doing my utmost not to leap off my chair and do the macarena.
Dimitri’s news that he is leaving for Santorini tomorrow cements my decision not to tell Tom about the Greek Affair. After all, with Dimitri no longer in Chollingflower, everything can go back to the way it was – with Tom hopefully looking happier than he had whenever I’d caught a glimpse of him at the party.
But Tom and Caitlin aren’t my problem. Whatever hitch their relationship has encountered, will likely be overcome with another flashy watch or designer shirt.
I, meanwhile, have enough problems of my own to deal with. Like ploughing on with my Return To London plan and finding another job.
In the library three hours later, I am beginning to realise that my search for a job in the Capital could be much harder than I’d first imagined. Following conversations with two recruitment agents, both of whom had sounded ten years old, and both of whom had taken great relish in informing me that they were ‘inundated with applicants’ at the moment, I am rapidly losing the will to live. Or at least the will to return to London. But I have to, because there is absolutely nothing for me in Chollingflower.
I’ve just made the decision to close for lunch again (in order that I can lie down in the darkened staff room and rebuild my energy res
erves), and am about to slap a ‘Back In One Hour’ post-it on the door, when Tom appears.
Causing something to squeeze around my heart, and the post-it to float from my hand and land on my foot.
‘Oh. Sorry,’ he says. ‘Were you about to close?’
‘I….’ All words rocket from my head as I am consumed by a desire to wrap my arms around him and press my head to his T-shirt. Even though it’s covered in cement dust.
‘I just, um, thought I’d pop in and have a look at the, er, books. But if you’re closing for lunch…’
‘No. It’s fine,’ I squeak. ‘I am closing for lunch, but you can come in anyway.’
As he gives a wavering smile and steps inside, I retrieve the post-it, stick it on the door and flick the latch.
‘So… are you looking for anything in particular?’ I venture.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and shrugs. ‘Um, do you have anything on… photography for beginners?’
‘If we do, it’ll be under P in the Hobbies section.’ I scuttle over to the shelves to the left of the window and pull out the first book I see beginning with P.
‘Er, that’s about pigeon racing.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Heat rushes to my cheeks. How on earth am I supposed to read book titles when he’s standing so close that every part of me is quivering?
‘Always nice to take up a new hobby,’ I nervously witter. ‘Has Caitlin bought you a lovely new camera?’
His brows snap together. ‘No. Why would she?’
I shrug and attempt a breezy tone. ‘I don’t know. I just thought… you know… with the watch and the shirt and everything…’
‘Actually, we’ve split up,’ he says.
So definitively that I drop the copy of Pigeon Racing. Oh my God! Has he found out about Dimitri?
A rather feeble ‘Oh’, escapes me. ‘I had no… that is, I didn’t…’
He sinks onto the brown plastic chair behind him. ‘I finally bit the bullet and broke it off yesterday. If I’m honest, I have no idea what I was doing with her. She’s nothing like the kind of girl I usually go for, who’s much more like—’ he flicks me a look, then refocuses on a spot on the floor. ‘We got together at the Vicar’s Let’s Be Merry And Drink Sherry bash at Christmas. I hadn’t been back in the village long and I suppose I just let things develop because I felt a bit lonely. I knew after a week that it wasn’t right, but then she won the Lottery and everything went mental.’
‘She won the Lottery after you two got together?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘No reason,’ I say, shame pulsing through me for ever doubting him and imagining that was the reason he’d teamed up with her.
‘I’ve tried to break it off loads of times since, but every time, she makes me feel guilty by buying me an outrageously expensive present that I don’t want. Like that watch, which, by the way, I’ve just given to your mum for the next WI raffle. The orphaned wombats need it more than I do. So, there you have it. The whole thing has been doing my head in for months. So much so that, with you being an expert on relationships,’ he chuckles, obviously referring to me blurting out every detail of my relationship with Giles when we were in London last week, ‘I came in to offer to buy you lunch the other day so I could ask for your advice. But then Belinda from Belinda’s Buns rang and—’
My hand shoots to my mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. I totally made that all about me.’
He shakes his head and smiles. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m glad I was there. I think you needed a friend on hand.’
‘I did,’ I agree, yearning to be more than friends.
But we can’t be more than friends.
Because I’m going back to London.
And that’s the end of that.
The next morning, after a rubbish night’s sleep, my head continues to buzz with thoughts of Tom. I don’t think he suspects anything about Caitlin and Dimitri, and I’m certainly not telling him. There’s no need to cause him further suffering, when it sounds like he’s had lots of it over the last few months. And besides, Dimitri is leaving, so it doesn’t matter anyway.
‘Thank you, Izee, I am having the best time in the Chollingflower,’ our soon-to-be ex-visitor says, pecking me on both cheeks as my parents and I flank him on the step, waiting for the taxi to take him to the airport.
Only it isn’t a taxi that pulls up on the drive. It’s a great big sleek limo.
What the…?
‘Morning, Dimitri,’ chirps Caitlin from the back seat, as the uniformed chauffeur pulls open the door. ‘I’ve got the Bucks Fizz all ready for you.’ She holds up a champagne flute, at which my bemused parents and I gawp.
‘What’s going on?’ I demand.
‘Hasn’t Dimitri told you?’ she titters. ‘I made the spontaneous decision yesterday to scrap my guesthouse idea and have decided to buy a hotel in Santorini instead.’
‘You can take care of the sale of the new-build for me, can’t you, Izzy? I’ve left your contact details with the estate agent.’
Then, before I can reply to that incredibly presumptuous statement, Dimitri shimmies onto the seat alongside her.
And the car rolls off.
In the library later, I feel at such sixes and sevens, that I don’t know what to do with myself. I really should be searching for jobs in London, but my heart isn’t in it. Probably because it’s full to bursting with love for Tom. Love that I can do absolutely nothing about, because he obviously just thinks of me as a friend. And because I’m heading back down south. In the absence of any better ideas, and in an effort to while away the time, I pull out a copy of Erica Rowland’s bestselling One Hundred And One Ways To Have An Orgasm book, and am flicking through it, looking for the bit on medium-sized cucumbers, when in comes a very attractive girl with a sheath of gleaming blonde hair and a smart navy trouser suit.
‘Are you Isobel Irving?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, slamming shut the book. Then swiping up a 1967 knitting pattern and slapping it over the cover.
She extends a manicured hand. ‘Rachel Dickson. Cholly Gazette.’
‘Oh. H-hello,’ I stammer, panic zipping through me. Has someone reported all the nudey activity that goes on in here to the Press? Are we going to be labelled The Most Scandalous Village in the country? Will Mrs Downey’s bits and pieces be plastered all over the Sunday papers?
‘We’ve been following your Instagram feed with interest.’
‘Oh.’ I frantically rummage through my memory, trying to recall if I might have inadvertently posted a shot of Mrs Downey’s bits and pieces.
‘And we love it. We’ve been thinking about including a feature on village life in the paper for some time now, but we weren’t sure how to approach it. After following your feed, though, and loving your humour, we’ve decided that something along those lines is exactly what we’re looking for. Obviously, I don’t know your personal circumstances, or if this is something you’d be interested in, but if you are interested, we’d love you to write a couple of sample columns for us. With a view to making it a regular weekly feature. As well as setting up and maintaining a new Instagram account – on exactly the same lines – for the Gazette.’
‘Oh my God. I— I don’t know what to say,’ I sputter.
‘Yes might be a good place to start,’ says Rachel, beaming at me. ‘But, of course, I can’t expect you to do that without telling you how much we’ll pay.’
‘You’ll pay?’
‘Of course. It’s a job. You would be our Village Correspondent.’
Isobel Irving, Village Correspondent - I can see it on my business cards now.
‘So,’ she goes on, ‘this is what we were thinking…’
The second Rachel sashays out of the library, taking my verbal acceptance of the job with her and promising to email a draft contract for me to look over, I’m so excited I think I’ll burst if I don’t tell someone my news. So, I pick up my phone and scroll down to the first name that pops into my head:
/> Tom!
Who turns up twenty minutes later, clutching a carrier bag.
‘I brought you a present – to celebrate your new position of responsibility.’ He pulls a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles and a packet of Rolos from the bag and sets them down on the desk. ‘I know it’s not much but—’
‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ I croak, tears springing to my eyes at his thoughtfulness.
With his eyes fixed on the desk, he shuffles his feet. ‘So… I, um… suppose this job offer means that you won’t be going back to London and that you’ll be staying in Chollingflower.’
‘I suppose it does,’ I say, my stomach flipping over as he lifts his gaze.
‘That’s… good,’ he whispers, his head moving a shade closer to mine.
‘It is,’ I agree, my head moving a shade closer to his.
Before old Mrs Platt wanders in with her shopping trolley and her frilly parasol, and asks: ‘Do you have any books on how to grow cucumbers?’
If you enjoyed this book, you may also enjoy Alice Ross’s Lovelace Lane series.
An exclusive extract from The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane follows
The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane
Chapter One
Of all the times and places to have intimate relations, Lily Matlock had to confess that a tiny caravan on a building site at the beginning of March probably wasn’t one of them. But today, she’d decided, was going to be so exciting, it deserved to start with a bang – in the nicest possible sense of the word.
Under three duvets and her gran’s old crocheted blanket – which she’d flung on top in the hope of adding another few much-needed degrees to the fold-down bed – she slid a woolly-socked foot up Luke’s muscular calf. Given his attire of thermal leggings, knee-length footie socks, and a pair of jog pants, she applied slightly more pressure than if they’d been barefoot and naked, and somewhere there weren’t icicles clinging to the insides of the windows.
‘Whatyerdoing?’ Luke mumbled into the pillow.
