by Liz Eeles
I’d feel a bit of a prat, to be honest, if I wasn’t surrounded by the great and the good of Honeyford, all dressed in a variety of outlandish costumes – from animals and superheroes to ballerinas and pirates.
We’re all clustered around the war memorial, steaming gently in the hot lunchtime sunshine and waiting for Alan to start the parade. I crane my neck, trying to spot the book club through the milling crowd. There they are, ambling towards me and looking fabulous!
Stanley has ditched his loincloth, thank goodness, and is dressed as Biggles in a battered leather jacket and huge goggles. Dick has opted for Harry Potter, complete with a cloak, round glasses and a scar on his forehead that looks a lot like lipstick. Mary is a white-faced zombie in ragged clothes, and Millicent looks very Jo March in a long dress and a bonnet. Phyllis, being pushed in her wheelchair by Mary, is bonneted up too as Elizabeth Bennet and is carrying a large photo of Colin Firth’s head on a stick.
Behind them, Luna is wandering along with a huge smile on her face. She’s dressed as a goddess from the Greek myths too – she had two spare bed sheets. And, with her long silver hair flowing down her back, she looks far more other-worldly than me. Caleb, in his Spider-Man costume, is clasping her hand. He looks adorable and gives me a shy grin.
‘Are you up for this then, Flora?’ asks Dick, swishing his cloak as he reaches me. ‘The whole town’s gone mad and you know what they say – if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. There’s a man over there dressed as a gorilla who’s never going to last in this heat. And have you seen that Alan bloke on his float yet?’
When I shake my head, Dick chortles. ‘Then you are in for a right royal treat and, speak of the devil, here he comes.’
The crowd ripples back as a flatbed lorry pulls up next to the war memorial. The back has been covered in what looks like gold tinfoil and there, in pride of place, is Alan. He’s sitting on a throne that’s really a chair covered in gold tissue paper, and he’s waving at everyone. Let’s just hope no one notices the chocolate cake stains on his lavish costume.
Katrina is seated next to him, now wearing a long silver lamé dress and looking bored. She gives me a very non-regal wave and yawns, before pulling a mobile phone from under her right buttock and having a shifty look at the screen.
The lorry starts trundling slowly along the High Street and the fledgling samba band falls in behind, along with local Brownie and Cub packs, and people in fancy dress.
‘Come on, everyone,’ yells Stanley, grabbing the sign made by Daniel that says: Cosy Kettle Afternoon Book Club & Luna’s Magical Emporium. ‘It’s time to par-tay!’
Honeyford Samba Band might be newly formed but it’s brilliant. The musicians dance and weave their way along the street and the raw tribal beat lightens my heart and my mood as we follow them. Bystanders are cheering and waving flags and I feel a sudden overwhelming rush of affection for this tiny town and these people who have come into my life when I needed them most.
As we go past the bookshop, I spot Becca, who categorically refused to dress up. And there’s Daniel standing next to her. He calls out to Caleb and gives him a big thumbs up before the parade snakes past and turns into Weavers Lane.
By the time we arrive at the Memorial Park twenty minutes later, Dick is grumbling that his corns hurt, Millicent is overheating in her bonnet and Phyllis has almost had Mary’s eye out with her Colin Firth stick. But everyone seems glad we took part in the parade, which is now starting to disband.
I’m about to hurry back to the shop when Daniel’s voice suddenly sounds in my ear. ‘That looked like fun.’ He laughs when I jump, and waves at Luna, who’s sitting on the park wall with Caleb.
‘It was more fun than I expected. What are you doing here?’
‘I need to collect Caleb so Luna can get back to her tarot reading. She’s in demand.’ He smiles at Stanley, who’s ditched his Biggles goggles and is tucking into an ice-cream cornet. ‘Everyone looked amazing and seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was great publicity for the book club.’
‘It certainly was. Thank you for making the sign – it did the trick perfectly.’
We’re back to being ultra-polite to each other and our earlier spat hangs in the air between us.
Suddenly, the crowd around us shifts and Daniel moves closer, until his arm is brushing mine. ‘Look, Flora, I need a quick word. I’ve spoken to Caleb and he told me that he threatened to run away if you told anyone his secret. I still think you made the wrong call, but I can see that you were in a difficult position, and I’m sorry if I went over the top in the kitchen. I can be a bit… in your face with people sometimes.’
He winces as people around us cheer for local newsagent Ivor, who’s dressed up as a giant bee and has just removed his costume head.
‘It’s all right. I should have told you,’ I shout, trying to be heard above the cheering.
‘Maybe, but you cared enough to try and do something to help Caleb and it sounds like Jemima’s on top of the situation now so there’s no harm done.’
‘Except you don’t trust me.’
Daniel shrugs. ‘Like I said, I can be over the top. I was upset when I said that.’
‘But I don’t blame you for saying it. I don’t trust myself either, right now, when it comes to making decisions. Everything’s a bit of a muddle.’
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate and you could have done without taking on my son’s problems.’
‘I didn’t mind because I care about Caleb.’
‘I know. That was very apparent when I saw you both in the café earlier. You’re good for Caleb, Flora.’
‘Even when I’m keeping important stuff from you and feeding him chocolate cake off the floor?’
Daniel’s mouth twitches. ‘Did you abide by the five-second rule?’
‘Hmm, not quite, but the cake had been on the floor for less than five minutes, if that counts?’
‘Yeah, as long as it’s less than five something, that’s fine.’
The bee has buzzed past, the crowd has quietened down, and Daniel’s last sentence reverberates along the road.
‘Oops.’ When he grins, lines fan out from his brown eyes. ‘Everything might seem like a muddle, Flora, but you’re doing a grand job in the shop and the café. Your Charter Day is a great success.’
‘Do you think? What about World War Three in The Cosy Kettle – a war fought with chocolate frosting, sponge fingers and crème pat?’
Daniel throws back his head and laughs. ‘That sounds delicious. And from what I’ve heard, you dealt with the situation admirably.’ He swallows. ‘You look lovely, by the way, in your goddessy get-up. Really lovely.’
The sound from the crowd seems to fade away and it’s suddenly quite hard to breathe. The skin of my arm is against the warm skin of his and my nerve endings feel as though they’re on fire.
The spell is broken by the shrill ring of my mobile, which is clipped onto my belt. Daniel steps back as I unclip the phone and glance at the screen. It’s Malcolm.
‘Flora? Where the hell are you? It sounds like you’re at the circus.’
‘We’ve just finished the Charter Day parade and everyone’s gathered at the park.’
‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that. Look, this is a quick call to let you know that Mr Kinsley has just finished his lunch so we’ll be with you on time.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you for doing this, Malcolm. I appreciate it.’
‘Of course. Like I said, I want to help make sure that my wife’s event is a great success and her dreams come true. We’ll see you soon.’
I’m about to end the call when Malcolm says, ‘And I’m looking forward to speaking to you later—’
‘About? Oh, about my decision.’
‘Yes, of course, your decision.’ Malcolm sounds cross. ‘I hope you hadn’t forgotten.’
‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten.’
I definitely had, momentarily. Daniel’s arm pressed up against mine had completely pushed t
he fact that today is D-Day out of my mind.
‘Hmm. Well, Mr Kinsley and I will see you soon.’
As soon as the call has finished, Daniel says, ‘I’d better go and grab Caleb because Luna will want to get back to her shop. I’ll see you later, Flora. Congratulations again on a successful Charter Day and I hope all goes well with your famous author.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
We’re back to being ultra-polite again. But a sudden thought strikes me as he walks away. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask – what did you want to speak to me about in the kitchen, before Jemima came in?’
Daniel keeps on moving away from me. ‘Nothing important. It doesn’t matter.’
He weaves his way through the crowd towards his son and I watch him go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Becca has opened up the shop by the time I get back and people are starting to gather for our VIP visit. We’ve cleared a large space at the front of the store and set up displays of S.R. Kinsley’s bestsellers plus a couple of comfy chairs and a microphone borrowed from Alan. Now all we need is our special guest. I change back into my blue chinos and cream linen top and head outside because Malcolm texted a while ago that they were on their way.
Five minutes later, Malcolm’s Jaguar purrs into view and draws up beside me. Our famous guest is here and I can finally relax because everything is going to be OK. Grinning broadly, I nip round to the passenger side and open the door.
I’ve never met a proper big-name author before – one who sells gazillions of books and is photographed at posh hotels in Sunday newspaper supplements. I’m expecting S.R. Kinsley to be debonair and charming, with an air of creativity surrounding him like a cloak.
I am certainly not expecting him to be drunk. But here he is, clambering out of Malcolm’s car, pissed as the proverbial newt.
‘You must be Flora,’ he drools, dropping his leather briefcase on my toes and swaying alarmingly. He stares at me, jerking his head backwards and forwards in a bid to focus. ‘How perfectly marvellous to meet you and you’re so damned attractive too. No one mentioned that.’
When he lunges forward, I step back sharpish because the fug of alcohol fumes coming off him is making my eyes water. But I’m too slow and he plants a big, wet smacker on my right cheek.
‘Ooh, you smell absolutely divine, sweetheart,’ he slurs, ‘and how gorgeous is this teeny tiny little town? Look at all the flowers and the tiddly houses. Tell me, how many pubs does Honey… Honey…?’ He gives up. ‘…this place have?’
‘A couple, Mr Kinsley,’ I mutter, grabbing hold of his arm as he stumbles over the kerb. If he goes head over heels, he’ll never get up.
‘That’s marvellous, and please do call me Sebastian,’ he mumbles. ‘I can try out both of ’em. Actually, talking of pubs, I quite fancy a cheeky pint and a whisky chaser right now.’ He belches and giggles. ‘Oops, I do beg your pardon.’
‘What the hell?’ I mouth at Malcolm, who’s out of his car and leaning against it with his arms folded. He shrugs.
‘Here he is, at last!’ declares Millicent, bustling up behind me. ‘Mr Kinsley, how magnificent to make your acquaintance once more. You came to my house a while back for dinner and… oh.’ She stops and claps a hand to her mouth as our star speaker, her VIP dinner guest, sways back and forth with a stupid grin on his face.
‘Is he…?’ she asks, recoiling from the alcohol fumes. ‘He appears to be—’
‘Yep, Millicent. Mr Sebastian Kinsley, our VIP speaker, is absolutely bladdered.’
‘But you shouldn’t have let him anywhere near alcohol,’ she splutters.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, someone has, even though everyone knows he has no control after he’s had a few.’
‘I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think I needed to spell it out,’ she huffs. ‘There are so many stories online about his fondness for drink. Why do you think he threw up in my flower bed?’
‘I don’t know. Food poisoning?’
‘Food poisoning?’ squeaks Millicent, aghast. ‘At my dinner party?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, as Mr Kinsley slumps against me. Malcolm is still standing by the car, doing absolutely nothing. ‘The most important thing right now is working out what the hell we’re going to do with our esteemed, rat-arsed author?’
‘And with the crowd that’s waiting for him. There are loads of people in the shop and they’re expecting to hear from a famous writer. It’s going to be really bad publicity for the bookshop if you let everyone down. No one will ever forgive you.’
‘Cheers, Millicent. That really helps.’
‘Just telling you the truth.’ She purses her lips as though she’s sucking on a lemon.
I take a deep breath and try to keep the drunken man, who weighs a ton, upright. ‘OK. First things first. We need to get Mr Kinsley inside.’
‘Definitely, and before people I know spot us together,’ hisses Millicent. ‘I don’t want to be seen in the street with a drunk – even if he is a celebrity.’
She grabs his arm, which he’s waving around as though he’s conducting an invisible orchestra, and I put my arm around his waist.
‘Aw, are you giving me a cuddle?’ slurs Mr Kinsley, slumping against me with his head on my shoulder. ‘Do you wanna kiss? Ooh, I wanna kiss you, biggish-like.’
Biggish-like? This is the man who’s expected to talk eloquently about his love of the English language in ten minutes’ time.
‘Move yourself, Malcolm,’ I snap. ‘We need to get this sorted out.’
Together, with Malcolm’s help, we spirit Mr Kinsley in through the back door of the café. Fortunately, everyone is gathered in the shop, waiting to greet our esteemed author, so the only person we bump into is Becca. Her mouth opens wide at the sight of our almost unconscious guest being hauled along.
‘Is that him?’ she asks, giving a nervous giggle. ‘What’s going on?’
‘This is Mr Kinsley, who is… well, he’s pissed and we need to get him upstairs, pronto. Please don’t say a word to anyone. Not until we’ve worked out what we’re going to do.’
Millicent, Malcolm and I manage to half-push, half-pull Mr Kinsley up the rickety wooden stairs and into the attic room. He stumbles into a huge cobweb that’s hanging between the beams, before falling, face first, onto Ruben’s camp bed. A large puff of dust rises into the air.
For a few moments, we all stand at the foot of the bed, staring, until I realise that someone needs to take control of the situation.
‘Millicent, would you mind going downstairs and holding the fort? People are expecting to hear from Mr Kinsley any minute and we need to buy some time.’
‘What shall I tell them?’ she asks, frowning at our author, who’s snoring loudly. His shirt has rucked up, exposing a roll of flabby white flesh above the belt of his trousers.
‘Tell them anything but the truth. Say he’s been delayed by… I don’t know, traffic, diarrhoea, aliens? And in the meantime we can work out what we’re going to do.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ says Millicent, who’s not really being terribly helpful. ‘You want me to lie to a shop full of people?’
Grasping her by the shoulders, I stare deep into her eyes. ‘Absolutely. I want you to lie through your teeth because now is not the time to get on your moral high horse, Millicent.’ When she looks equally doubtful and affronted, I sigh. ‘Just apologise profusely and say that Mr Kinsley is indisposed at the moment. That’s true enough.’
He gives a huge, foul-smelling belch to verify this fact as Millicent, pale-faced, descends the stairs. The moment she’s gone, I round on Malcolm, who’s leaning against the wall watching what’s going on.
‘What the hell happened? How did this go so wrong?’
‘What do you mean? It’s not my fault,’ he blusters.
‘You offer to pick up our author and give him lunch, and he turns up at my shop totally off his head.
You’re the only person who’s seen him so whose fault is it?’
‘Certainly not mine. I offered him a glass of Burgundy at lunchtime. One glass. That’s just being a good host. I didn’t know he was going to order a bottle when my back was turned, did I?’
‘One bottle?’
Malcolm pushes out his bottom lip so far he looks like a big baby. ‘Maybe two. We were busy and I didn’t have the time to police his alcohol intake. I didn’t think he’d take advantage of my free hospitality.’ He emphasises the word ‘free’ as though I should be falling over myself to thank him.
But I’m still reeling from this extra information. My VIP guest, the man a crowd downstairs is expecting to talk sensibly to them about writing, has consumed two bottles of wine in the last couple of hours. What on earth am I going to do?
There’s the sound of a steady tread on the wooden staircase and, even before his dark hair comes into view, I know it’s Daniel.
‘Is everything all right up here?’ he asks, shooting me a quizzical look. ‘Becca’s downstairs in a bit of a flap and finally said there was “a bit of an issue” when I grilled her.’
He swiftly takes in the scene before him – Mr Kinsley is now half-on and half-off the camp bed, singing a filthy song involving a sailor and a prostitute in Plymouth; I’m running my hands through my hair over and over again; and Malcolm is still leaning against the wall, doing what can only be described as sulking.
‘Right,’ says Daniel. He gives a soft, low whistle. ‘This is, indeed, a bit of an issue.’
‘Lover boy’s here and stating the bleeding obvious. That’s all we need,’ hisses Malcolm, puffing out his chest.
Daniel ignores him and walks over to the bed. ‘I presume this is the great novelist S.R. Kinsley? What happened here, then?’
‘Malcolm picked him up at Oxford Station and gave him lunch,’ I tell him, trying to smooth my hair back into some semblance of style.
Daniel gives Mr Kinsley a prod on the shoulder and winces when the author launches into another verse of his song. ‘A liquid lunch, was it?’
‘It was honey-glazed veal escalopes with a summer vegetable medley, if you must know,’ says Malcolm, speaking loudly to be heard above the singing. ‘Plus a glass of Burgundy.’
