‘Oh. You think so?’ He sits there looking perplexed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Talk to Karina,’ I say firmly. ‘Not me. You’re with her now, remember?’
I make a point of looking at my watch, and fortunately he takes the hint.
As he leaves, I ask, ‘How’s Pete?’ and to my surprise he smiles.
‘He’s good,’ he says. ‘We’re spending more time together. He says he’s starting to feel better.’
So Pete’s crawling out of his depression. I am so pleased to hear that. It’s been worth putting up with Arian just to hear that.
‘Bye, Arian,’ I say firmly. ‘Go and talk to Karina, before she’s whisked off her feet by the sexiest American that ever was.’
That got him. His face looks thunderous.
‘Thanks,’ he mutters at me, and shambles off.
‘Whatever did you say to Arian last night,’ Karina asks me as she comes into the office the next morning.
‘Oh, not much,’ I say airily. ‘Why? Did he come grovelling back with his tail between his legs?’
‘Actually, he didn’t so much grovel, as come in with a car load of food shopping muttering about peppermint tea and how I really ought to put my feet up when I get back from work. By the way, I can’t stand peppermint tea, Louisa. And he’s bought packets of it. Would you like some?’
Then she adds, ‘He also muttered something about a sexy American. You wouldn’t happen to know where he got that idea from, would you?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ I say innocently and quickly give her a mountain of filing.
So, bliss is restored in that household, at least temporarily. I wouldn’t bet on it lasting.
Will Farley is indeed our new vet. After our dodgy start, I decide that he’s harmless enough and he works hard, which is exactly what we need. Paris’s man-radar is fully activated and she duly appears, sporting newly Titian hair and emerald green contacts, which make her eyes look like a cat’s. She leans decoratively against Will’s car, eyeing him sideways as she pretends to smooth the non-existent wrinkles in her jodhpurs.
‘Are you the new vet,’ she lisps coyly, her lips pouting as she looks at him. ‘Only I’m Paris. I live just up the lane.’
Will just stands there and gawps. I give him a warning look.
‘Say hello nicely to Paris, Will. And then come inside please. I need to give you some addresses.’
Will still doesn’t manage to speak, but tears himself away to follow me in.
‘What a honey,’ he eventually manages, looking completely gobsmacked.
‘Will,’ I say sternly. ‘She’s a sixteen year old nympho and does that to all the new vets. Now, I don’t know what rules you go by where you come from, but she is most definitely under age and off limits. Now get a grip and concentrate.’
Will and Marcus are very good mates, it turns out. No doubt they’ll be double dating with Barbie-doll Rachel and one of her teeny tiny girlfriends. I can imagine it - two big husky vets and their dainty dolly birds, going to all those lovely hidden-away pubs that Marcus knows where to find. It’s so not fair.
Thank God Karina isn’t tiny. I’d end up changing my name to Louisa the Blob – which rolls off the tongue rather too easily. And I wouldn’t mind going on a date with the husky American. I wonder if they kiss differently to English men…
And that evening, Will actually does ask me out. Be very careful what you wish for, Louisa Mulholland. I’m forgetting about the strange and powerful magic we have round here. All I’d done was think it would be nice to go on a date with Will, and abracadabra…here I am on a date with Will.
Will drives an awfully nice great big Toyota. It’s twice as big as Marcus’s Land Cruiser and very swanky with electric absolutely everything including heated seats, he tells me with one of his overly suggestive looks. He’s a complete tart. I’m starting to wonder, just a tiny bit, why these men have to drive such enormous and impressive cars - after all, you know what they say.
We spend a lively evening at the Swan and Tadpole, which I’ve never been to before. It wouldn’t be Marcus’s kind of pub at all. There’s live music and I soon find out that Will fancies himself as a bit of a groover. He’s not half bad actually, and so we whirl around for a while to Danny Devonshire’s Rock and Rollers, which is jolly good fun and quite exhausting.
Then when we sit down for a rest, he starts asking questions again. Is insatiable curiosity an American quirk, or is he just nosy?
‘Say, you must know Marcus quite well then,’ he starts in that gorgeous accent which I could listen to for hours. ‘He talks about you one hell of a lot.’ Then he frowns. ‘Seems he don’t have so much time for this Arian guy you were talking about…’
I smirk. ‘They don’t really know each other,’ I say, ‘but let’s just say they got off to a bad start.’
Meaning they’d like to lock horns or stamp on each other’s heads.
‘So, does Marcus have a girl?’ he asks innocently.
‘I believe he’s seeing Rachel,’ I say. ‘Tiny, beautiful…daughter of Agnes…’
‘Oh.’ Will looks confused. I think maybe American men are even slower on the uptake than English ones.
‘Well, I guess you should know, babe…’
I’m flummoxed. Is or isn’t Marcus dating Rachel… and if not, why not?
Will and I actually get on really well. I still think he’s incredibly good looking, in a large, slightly oafish way though. Something about him reminds me of a fair-haired Jeremy Clarkson - with more hair - and his personality is scarily similar too. Only there’s one major snag, which is nothing either of us can do a thing about. And that’s chemistry. He’s like a big kid, larking and joking around; pulling my leg like I’m his little sister. This bonhomie continues in the office, and it’s not long before we get noticed.
‘Bit cosy aren’t we?’ Karina’s the first to comment. Slightly archly, but she’s obviously curious. ‘You and Will? Could he be the man of your dreams?’
She and Arian seemed to have reached a new understanding and I think she’d love that, for me to meet the one, as then my threat level would be reduced to zero. Even though I am no threat at all, even in my current incarnation as a sad single person.
Beamish too makes his characteristic fumbled attempt at giving our non-existent union his blessing.
‘All I’d like to say is, um, yes, well, I’d be very happy…Yes, most happy indeed…’ I assume he’s talking about Will and me?
Even Mrs Boggle notices. ‘Oh dear, are wedding bells in the air, Louisa? I always cry at weddings I’m afraid,’ she tells me unhappily, the corners of her mouth already quivering in anticipation. I hasten to reassure her that she is way off the mark.
‘Actually, you’ve got it completely wrong,’ I say. ‘He’s more like a brother than anything else.’
‘Oh, dear, that’s such a shame,’ says Mrs Boggle.
Honestly, there’s just no pleasing some people.
Conversation with Marcus is minimal, sadly. If we meet, we’re terribly polite, talking about the weather or Elmer, once we run out of work related stuff. He’s impossible to read, but then he’s a man. Chances are even he doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
30
Absolutely the best, most fantastic news ever. Agnes is out of hospital! I can’t wait to see her and I intend to give her a very stern lecture about resting properly and not overdoing things.
I ask Beamish where Agnes is staying. He huffs and puffs more than ever - then he tells me.
‘Um Louisa. Yes. Um. Well. Um…’ which goes on for about five minutes or so, with a few ‘jolly goods’ thrown in for good measure, until he actually manages to stutter out that ‘Um well, thought she shouldn’t be on her own.’
I have to say I’m mystified. So she hasn’t gone home, but he still hasn’t told me exactly where she is staying. With Rachel maybe?
‘So where exactly is Agnes,’ I ask, very patiently, knowing that the way things are going, this may take
a while.
He clears his throat. ‘With me,’ he mutters quietly under his breath.
I do a double take. ‘Oh, that’s such an awfully good idea,’ I say, trying to look completely un-astonished. ‘Yes. Um. Very good indeed.’
Beamish nods his head and carries on looking at the ground.
‘Um, would it be okay with you, Beamish, if I, er, just popped over to see her? I promise I won’t be there too long…’ I shake my head to reassure him.
‘Um, yes, jolly good idea,’ he says. ‘Um.’
‘I rather imagine the cat’s out of the bag now,’ says Agnes when I call round to see her. She’s looking tons better, and is putting on a bit of weight at last too.
I rather imagine it is.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, a model of tact, such as I am these days. ‘After all, here you are, just staying with a very good friend until you’re better. What’s to know?’
Agnes fixes me with a look that I haven’t seen in a very long time.
‘Beamish and I,’ she says, quietly and deliberately, ‘have been having a relationship for ten years. I think we’ve done quite a good job of keeping it a secret - until now,’ she adds ruefully.
‘But why, Agnes?’ I ask her.
‘What, why Beamish, or why the secrecy?’ Then she laughs at my expression. ‘Oh Louisa, I’m no spring chicken. It suited us both that way. But the funny thing is, well, since I’ve been ill, it’s made both of us view our friendship differently. I’ve realised that I’m not immortal and Beamish has had quite a scare. So we’ve made a decision.’
When she looks at me, her eyes are quite misty. ‘You have to promise to keep this to yourself, just for a day or two. I haven’t even told Rachel yet, but she’s coming over later today so I will do. But Louisa, dear - Beamish has only asked me to marry him!’
‘Oh Agnes!’ is all I can say. How lovely, lovely, lovely. I swoop over and hug her as tight as I can without hurting her.
‘It’s truly wonderful news,’ I say, a tear in my own eyes by now. ‘If that’s what you both want, I think it’s completely fantastic. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you,’ she says, looking a little overwhelmed by my response. Agnes is not used to being the centre of attention, but she’s going to have to get used to it. I mean, she’s got a wedding to plan, a dress to choose, an enormous guest list to compile, oh and invitations, and there’ll be all eyes on her on the big day….
‘Louisa, we’re planning just a tiny wedding,’ she says warningly. Sometimes I think Agnes knows how my imagination works better than I do. ‘Just a handful of close family and friends – and that’s all,’ she adds firmly.
‘But Agnes,’ I can’t help butting in. ‘You can’t! You and Beamish have so many people who would want to be there to wish you well.’
‘Louisa,’ she says, persuasively. ‘We will have a big party, don’t you worry. Maybe you could even help me to plan it? And Rachel too? Your organisational skills, after all, have somewhat come into their own, whereas mine… well, let’s just say I’m a little out of practice.’
Wow. I beam at her. ‘Agnes, I’d be honoured.’ And I would, even though teeny tiny Rachel makes me look the size of a house.
It’s terribly difficult keeping such an exciting secret to myself when I get back to work. Karina gives me very odd looks, and eventually asks me why I’ve got such ants in my pants. I’m sure she thinks it’s to do with Arian. She’s terribly suspicious.
Eventually I spot Beamish out in the yard, so I shoot outside and catch him on his own.
‘Agnes told me,’ I whisper excitedly. ‘It’s so exciting Beamish. I just wanted to say congratulations,’ I add, kissing him on the cheek.
He puffs his chest out and looks highly embarrassed. ‘Um. Thank you Louisa. Yes, well, um…’
Marcus knows instantly that something’s up, which is quite illuminating given that he’s a man. In between discussing this complicated case with Miles, he gives me very questioning looks. Miles is completely unaware, being totally oblivious to anything unhorsy and clearly having higher things on his mind. He’s looking upset again, which can only mean one thing. A horse in need. And exactly which horse that is, I’m just about to find out.
‘What’s wrong Miles?’ I ask, if only because he looks as though he’s about to tell me anyway.
‘Don’t suppose you’d like some company for old Horace?’ he says glumly, looking a lot like Eeyore. ‘Only it’s Mrs Winkle’s Wurzel. She’s got to go into hospital and she’s got no-one to have him for her. She’s worrying herself sick about him,’ he adds dejectedly.
Then he adds, ‘It won’t cost you. You can have all her hay…’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask, hoping it’s not serious. I like Mrs Winkle. She’s a sweet old lady and always makes us the most delicious Christmas cake.
‘Cancer,’ says Miles, and sighs. My blood chills in my veins. ‘Not quite sure how serious yet. That’s why she’s going into hospital.’
Oh bugger. I can’t say no. And actually, I don’t mind. Not at all. Wurzel’s a small, elderly Welsh Mountain pony and I know he won’t be any trouble. And I’m sure it’s only a rumour that he’s good at climbing out of fields and going off adventuring.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Of course I will, Miles. Please tell Mrs Winkle I’d love to have him.’
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come with me to pick him up?’
We go the next day and I’m quite shocked. Poor Mrs Winkle’s not looking at all well. She was never big, but she looks shrunken and her skin looks too big for her. Whatever it is has clearly made her lose a lot of weight. She offers us a cup of tea, so we follow her into her kitchen which is sparsely furnished but immaculately clean and she produces one of her cakes.
We sit there eating the huge slices she cuts for us – and it’s delicious - only I have to admit I’m not enjoying it. I’ve a horrible feeling and it gets worse when she fetches Wurzel from the paddock at the end of her garden, then pauses for a moment and hands his lead rope to me.
‘Thank you so much for having him,’ she says to me. There’s a tear in her eye. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know he’ll be cared for. He’s a little darling and taught all my grandchildren to ride. He’s old you know, but tough as old boots.’
She stands there stroking the furry little neck and pats his shoulder for ages.
When we load him in the horsebox, the way she says goodbye to him, I wonder if there’s something she’s not saying. And as Miles pulls out of her driveway, I turn and wave out of the window, and she’s just standing there, at the side of the lane, looking small and frightened and alone.
It’s just two days later when Mrs Boggle starts on one of her favourite subjects and drops a bombshell.
‘She’s dead, duckie. Didn’t no-one tell you?’ Making all these tutting noises as she heads for the men’s loo with her bucket and mop.
‘Now hold on a moment,’ I say, rather alarmed. ‘Just exactly who are you talking about here, Mrs Boggle?’ my blood running cold as instantly I think of Agnes.
‘Mrs Winkle, lovey. Only bin and gone and died, inn’t she.’
Oh, poor, poor Mrs Winkle. I can’t believe it… I only saw her two days ago. And gosh. It strikes me that I’ve just inherited an escapologist of a Welsh Mountain pony.
While on the one hand, everyone is celebrating the fact that Beamish and Agnes are getting married, the edge is most definitely taken off things by the death of poor Mrs Winkle. Miles and I go to her funeral, which is a simple service in the village church. Black rather suits Miles, who’s more long-faced even than the coffin-bearers. However, in spite of the sadness, the sun shines brightly and it’s the most gloriously sunny day for early November. It’s a fitting tribute to Mrs Winkle, because she loved the countryside and today it’s at its radiant, autumnal best for her. Loads of people turn out to bid her farewell and the little church is packed. I leave a simple bunch of daisies outside
the church with the other more elaborate flowers, and a note:
Wurzel and I will miss you Mrs Winkle, Louisa x
31
Karina’s become enormous. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s having twins…or triplets maybe… Golly! How funny would that be. It would freak Arian out completely! But, on a more serious note, I have to admit I actually like her…and feel for her a little bit too. After all, the poor girl is massively eight months pregnant and can’t walk anymore - she waddles. And she’s all but hitched to the loser that used to be my husband.
Work is busy as ever, but when I get home in the evenings, things can sometimes be fairly exciting too. It’s dark now by the time I finish at the practice. Usually I switch on my torch and go out to the paddock to check my horses. Note the plural… Horace, bless his heart, always nickers as soon as he even hears me and just follows me into his stable. He’s more darling than ever. Wurzel usually just follows along behind. But last night… Well, there was Horace, reliably just in the same place as always patiently waiting for me, but there was no sign of Wurzel anywhere. I put Horace to bed, then traipsed around every inch of the field with Elmer. There was no Wurzel to be seen. Not anywhere.
I end up walking all around the village before I eventually find him, feasting contentedly in the allotments, the little blighter. Oh yes, I can safely say that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Wurzel’s night vision. He’d homed in on Mr Jones’s prize carrots no problem, and Mrs Percy’s cabbages and God knows what else. I didn’t like to look as I sneaked him out. But he did leave rather a lot of hoof prints all over those precious vegetable gardens and everyone must have heard us clip clopping up the road. And there aren’t that many ponies round here, not ponies with reputations like Wurzel has.
The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man Page 17