by Rosie Dean
‘Oh, I’m still at school but I’m going to be studying photography, like Millie,’ she smiled.
‘Probably not for the same reasons, though,’ Sacha replied.
I shot her a look.
‘They’ll be stopping for tea in a minute,’ said Arabella. ‘Churchill teas are delicious. That’s why it’s such a good turn out.’
‘Things are looking up,’ said Sacha.
All the time, of course, my peripheral vision was clocking Victor’s movements. I was deeply thrilled to see his head turned in my direction. Perhaps he was wondering why I’d turned up with Calamity Jane and would she be a better shag than me? But in my deepest soul, I hoped it was because I’d made a good first impression and he was ever so slightly interested.
We perched on the grass to wait for tea. I took my camera out and trained it on the batsmen. Although, my senses were completely alert to the presence of HIM.
At last, there was a ripple of applause for the end of the innings and people began drifting towards the pavilion. Sacha was up off her haunches and, before I could stop her, she was homing in on HIM like a heat-seeking missile.
‘Hi.’ She said, breezily. ‘You look remarkably like the guy who nearly maimed my friend Millie, last week.’
At the mention of my name, I responded with a light, beatific smile. I’m cool with this, I seemed to be saying. Ha-ha. Isn’t my friend amusing? When really, I wanted to wrap the camera strap round her neck and throttle her.
He stood and smiled at Sacha, before glancing across at me and nodding. Yep. That smile was a real winner. What killed me though, was how good he looked next to Sacha – two beautiful, golden people.
To my intense satisfaction, he spoke directly to me. ‘Hello, again. How is the hand?’ He actually moved away from Sacha, towards me and I, trance-like, was heading straight for him.
‘It’s fine. No bones broken.’
‘You should see the photos she took,’ Sacha chipped in – like she didn’t trust me to do this on my own. ‘They’re really good…for a beginner.’
He glanced back at Sacha and then at me. ‘Did you bring any with you?’
Arabella was at my side waving the green folder. ‘Yes, can we see them?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But don’t you want to have your tea, first?’
Sacha apparently did. She was slipping into the pavilion, ahead of a tall chap who was smiling eagerly down on her.
Victor was, I think, weighing me up. I struggled not to gaze back into his eyes for longer than was rational. ‘There’ll be plenty left,’ he said, moving nearer and glancing down at the folder. ‘Did I hear your mum say you want to be a fashion photographer, Arabella?’ he asked, causing a crimson tide to lap her cheeks.
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
‘Good for you. Aim high and go for it.’ He smiled but not in a creepy, Uncle Fester way; more supportive and big brotherly. My heart and stomach swapped places for a second and my hands were visibly trembling as I opened the folder. ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ I said with an exaggerated shiver as the sun glinted on the photographic paper.
I’d picked the best shots, included the groups and shuffled the ones of Victor somewhere into the middle. I passed them to Arabella, who shared them with him. They swapped comments, Arabella coohing appreciatively over the infants of my creativity.
He handed them back to me. ‘They’re great. And your friend says you’re a beginner?’ He gave me a really twinkly smile – and a sigh whistled through my heart. As he came alongside I could feel his body heat as our orbits overlapped.
‘Yes. Wanted to do it for years. I’m really enjoying it.’ I still sounded like a twelve year old.
‘Seems you have a talent for it.’
I pulled a smile.
‘So, what are you going to do with the pictures?’ he asked.
‘I’m working towards an exhibition.’
He nodded appreciatively. ‘All the local teams would be thrilled to see themselves mounted and hanging in a gallery.’ I smothered an inappropriate giggle. ‘Mounted as in framed,’ he added, knowingly.
‘Could there be another way?’ I said, and we both laughed.
I swear my body was drifting towards his – like two lilies on a pond.
‘So, Millie. Are you a fan of cricket or are we just specimens for your portfolio?’
‘Well…yes…it sounds brutal but you’re just specimens. I might do a study in village life…maybe contrast it with gritty, urban culture,’ I added recklessly. ‘You know, snap some OAPs picking up their pensions in Winchester…’
He grinned. ‘Well, if it’s village life you want, it’s here in all its glory. Speaking of which, shall we go in and have some tea?’
I was so thrilled, you’d think he’d proposed a real date. Still, the signs were promising. As we headed towards the pavilion, I asked, ‘Have you lived in Marshalhampton all your life?’
‘No. Just since January.’ He stood back to allow me through the door before him.
‘Do you like it?’
He nodded slowly. ‘It has a certain charm.’ Then he gave me that knockout smile. ‘And the people are very friendly.’
‘We Hampshire folk are nothing if not friendly,’ I said, trotting out an old saying of Dad’s. It gave me a warm feeling to hear it – like I was somehow introducing them.
He offered his hand to me. ‘My name’s Josh.’
‘Josh?’ I squeaked, converting my surprise by adding, ‘Hi,’ and shook hands for longer than was necessary. So, Victor had to be his surname.
The display of food was fantastic; plates piled high with samosas and kebabs, sitting next to trays of scones laden with jam and cream. Across the room, Sacha was in confab with the guy who’d followed her in. She was doing a real Sacha number on him, standing inside his bubble, smiling and nodding with clear focus on his every word. Was I doing that? Maybe I should show Josh more attention.
‘So, how long have you been playing cricket? From what I saw last week, you’re the star of the team.’
‘Never really played it before I came here.’
‘How amazing.’ Was that the best I could do? I began fiddling with my hair – a dead give-away that I fancied him. I stuffed my hand into my jacket pocket.
He shrugged. ‘Blessed with good hand-eye co-ordination, I guess.’ He was smiling in the most encouraging way. Lucky old me. Was it my imagination or had the temperature just shot up? With a jolt, I realised I was standing against the tea urn and stepped away, bringing me closer to Josh.
‘Careful,’ he said, touching my arm and igniting some other heat in me. The impulse to wrap myself round him was so palpable, I stuffed both hands into my pockets.
‘So, Josh, what kind of job relocated you to Marshalhampton, or do you work somewhere really exciting – like Andover?’
He smiled. ‘I work in Marshalhampton and London.’
‘Doing what?’
He inclined his head towards me and lowered his voice. I love it when a guy does that. ‘If I tell you what I do, you must promise not to laugh.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, equally quietly and, I hoped, with a hint of seduction. ‘So long as you don’t say you’re the vicar.’ And the second it came out of my mouth I just knew.
His smile, and the way he looked at me under his eyelids was as good a confession as I needed.
Holy cricket, Batman!
The man of my dreams was a fully paid up, bone-fide, dunked in the font vicar. And I’d been bothered because I’d thought Victor was a dodgy name.
My lips, which were curved into a flirtatious Sunday afternoon smile, froze over my teeth. At the same moment, a snort of laughter reached me from across the room.
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘You are the vicar.’
Sacha’s snorts were becoming cackles and my mind had completely locked up. I reached for a samosa and wondered if I should say grace before I ate it.
To my dismay, Sacha swanned over to introduce herself properly. Her Stetson was hanging behin
d her shoulders and her chest was leading the way. Now aware of Josh’s status, she couldn’t suppress her fascination – tinged, I’m convinced, with a large helping of wait-till-we-get-home glee.
‘What do I call you?’ she said, ‘Rev?’
He smiled. ‘Josh usually works.’
‘You’re so not like any vicars I know.’ Yeah, like they were regular players in her social circle. ‘Do you wear a dog collar and one of those big, pointy hats?’
I closed my eyes to hide their frantic rolling.
He laughed. ‘I wear a dog collar when I’m on duty.’
She touched his arm and whispered, ‘You’re not Catholic, are you?’
‘No.’
Oh holy heck. What would my mother make of that? Quite a lot, I imagined. In fact, if she knew there was a husband in prospect – even of the wrong denomination – she’d probably be knitting a layette by the end of the month. He was still a Man Of God, which would be a result in her eyes. I pulled myself back from the idea. In any case, a vicar’s wife was so far off my scope that the decision was unavoidable – I had to scratch him from the schedule. He was the X-Factor contestant no longer eligible to compete; out in the first week due to previously undisclosed circumstances.
I was free to pursue other, more suitable options and therefore, any pressure stopping me from behaving normally with Josh would be lifted. It’s rather like being introduced to some utterly gorgeous guy, wondering if your hair is looking good and whether there’s cabbage on your teeth, only to discover he’s already engaged. Suddenly, you can relax and be yourself. It’s like a psychological belt-loosening; you can let your tummy sag and your tits droop.
Thus, it should have been with Josh. In fairness, it kind of was – except he was still utterly lovely and, unless my imagination was spooking me, catching my eye encouragingly throughout the conversation.
‘Cool,’ Sacha said, throwing me a smile. ‘But aren’t you too young to be a vicar?’
‘I don’t know. How old do you think I should be?’
She pulled a face and said, ‘Way older than you. Practically retired, I mean, the last time I went to church it was full of wrinklies.’
‘Sacha, that was your grandad’s funeral,’ I said.
She gave me a glance and ploughed on. ‘I’ve always wondered…if you’re busy on Saturdays with weddings and Sundays with church, what do you do the rest of the week – and please say something mad like lion taming?’
Please don’t, I thought.
‘Nothing so thrilling. I work with the homeless.’
‘Oh. That’s nice,’ she said.
Breaking away from our little group, I took a breather by selecting another scone – there were six to choose from and I took my time over whether it should be the one with the lopsided rosette of cream or the one with jam slipping onto the plate.
‘Go on. Take one before they disappear.’ Josh was beside me, leaning across and helping himself to the one with the lopsided cream.
‘God, I could eat the lot,’ I announced, wincing at my blasphemy as I reached for the over-jammy one. As if to gag myself, I took a large mouthful, which dislodged two crumbs that tumbled onto my plate.
He gave me a look then, which I couldn’t work out. Maybe he liked women with a hearty appetite. He smiled. ‘You’ve some cream on the tip of your nose.’
Bugger.
He saluted me with his scone. ‘Occupational hazard with these,’ he added, before stuffing half of it in his mouth and making noises of appreciation that unnervingly put me in mind of sexual ecstasy.
Josh offered me a napkin and I wiped away the offending dollop of cream.
Did he fancy me? And if he did, had my reaction to his vocation hurt his feelings? Finally, when my mouth was empty, I asked, ‘How do people usually respond when they find out you’re a vicar?’
With a lump of scone halfway to his mouth, he paused and smiled. ‘Depends who they are. But, you pretty much reacted the way I thought you would.’
He’d thought about my reaction?
I pulled a face of apology, but not for long. It’s not a good look. ‘Sorry. That’s really naff of me, isn’t it? People probably aren’t very impressed by what I do. That doesn’t mean…’ I gave up. Nothing I was going to say would sound right. Stupid, stupid me. If he’d been half his size and plug-ugly, I’d probably have entered into a serious debate on divinity; which made me wonder if there was any scientific evidence to support the theory that lust negates intelligent thought.
He was still smiling at me. Maybe he’d done a course at theological college on How to Handle Members of your Congregation. In fairness, he did it very well, because I felt as if he still quite liked me. After all, he wasn’t giving me the cold shoulder or switching his attention to Sacha. But that didn’t alter the fact he was still a vicar. He probably came with all the religious dogma and sanctimony that I’d battled with for years. There were times when my mother resembled Father Riley’s puppet, a groupie from the order of St Barnabus.
No, Josh was not a self-made business man; not a forwardly-thrusting, upwardly-mobile corporate dynamo; not even a reasonably successful, safe-pair-of-hands on the middle tier of senior management.
I blustered on, feeling the need to explain what I did for a living. ‘I work in marketing. It’s hardly saving the world, is it?’
‘Depends what you’re marketing.’
‘True.’
‘Which is?’
How did I tell him I was currently working on launching a new, silicon filled, push-up bra? ‘Ladies undergarments,’ I finally said in a silly, posh voice – letting him know I fully recognised the lack of humanitarian merit.
‘Nice,’ he said, suggesting red-blood coursed through his veins like any other male. ‘Well, if your campaign’s successful, you’ll be keeping people in jobs. I guess that’s saving somebody’s world.’
‘Wow! You’d be good in marketing. Putting a positive spin on things.’
He laughed. ‘Isn’t that another definition for bullshit?’
‘Are you saying I’m a professional bullshitter?’
‘No. I was talking about myself.’
A harsh voice called from the doorway. ‘Come on gents, let’s put these Marshalhampers out of their misery.’
Josh put his empty plate on the table. ‘Are you sticking around?’
Did he want me to? ‘For a while. Are you batting?’
‘Nope. I’m afraid I’m out – caught in the gully.’
‘Ouch.’
Sacha rejoined us. ‘Yummy tea. Are we off now?’
For someone who spends her working life caring for the welfare of others, you’d think she’d have more sensitivity, wouldn’t you?
‘I was planning on watching the game for a while,’ I said, ignoring the way her eyes expanded in disbelief. ‘You know – wander round and take a few more pictures. This location is really beautiful.’
Josh made to move past us, touching me lightly on the arm with his hand as he did so, the heat from his fingers charging my circulation. ‘Excuse me, Millie, Sacha. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.’
I noticed he didn’t touch Sacha. Maybe she did too, because she said, ‘Thank you, your reverence,’ and then, would you believe, curtseyed? I suppose I should have been thankful she didn’t kneel down and kiss his ring.
He had the good grace to laugh as he headed off outside. He had that effortless, fluid movement of someone who is at ease with himself. Unfortunately, I didn’t have long to contemplate his finer points as Sacha was leaning against me, her arm round my waist and her head on my shoulder. ‘Cutest vicar I’ve ever seen,’ she murmured. ‘D’you think he could be corrupted?’
I really should have left her at the flat. ‘I’m not even going to try.’
‘You’re kidding,’ she murmured. ‘In that case, I think I might have a go.’
I turned my head and looked at her – her spiky, black eyelashes fanning out symmetrically above her cheekbones, and I marvelle
d at what fine, unblemished skin she had, despite murderous shifts and a lousy diet. ‘You? What about Mediterranean Man?’
‘When did men start being rationed?’
‘You said you didn’t like the look of him.’
‘He’s suddenly got interesting.’
I gazed out of the doorway and watched the players settling into their positions. Part of me was fuming because she was muscling in on my patch; another part was trying to work out if she might actually stand a chance, and yet another was wondering if I cared anyway. The long-term goal was to find my life’s partner – and Reverend Josh didn’t fit the profile.
Sacha tilted her head and looked at me. I looked back. ‘What?’
‘Don’t worry. He only had eyes for you, anyway.’
I shrugged. ‘Too bad,’ though my tummy was secretly dancing the fandango. ‘Come on, I haven’t finished my research project, yet.’ And with that, I hauled the camera bag over my shoulder. ‘Let’s take a walk round the boundary so I can get some more shots.’
Sacha groaned but followed anyway. ‘Why don’t you take some more of me? I quite enjoyed all that posing.’
There was a rustle behind us, someone was catching us up. I turned – cool but expectant. It was Arabella. ‘Do you mind if I see how you work?’
‘Sure – be my guest.’
Working with an audience upped my game. I was composing my shots with more consideration. Of course, Sacha couldn’t bear being out of the limelight for too long, and had me posing her and Arabella against trees, along a bench and, the pièce de résistance, leaning against the glossy white bonnet of a 1960s Austin Healey sports car.
‘Hey! The sun.’ Sacha proclaimed as we were bathed in early evening sunshine. What’s more, it was there to stay, as the ceiling of clouds slid slowly away to the west and blue sky followed.
I took some close-ups of Sacha and Arabella, cheek to cheek – Sacha all sharp and sexy, Arabella creamy and unblemished. Both, quite lovely.
‘Ooh, look. Here come da vicar.’ Sacha had no respect.
I looked up to see Josh heading our way. Despite all my best intentions, he did look gorgeous and my insubordinate body reacted immediately, sending my pulse rate up and my mind into la-la land. Perhaps Sacha was onto something and I was as irresistible as I’d always hoped I’d be.