She had been invited to cut a symbolic ribbon tied between two trees, but when she failed to turn up it looked like Rhodri would have to do the honours—until she appeared at the very last moment round the corner of the stable block, eating a chocolate Easter egg, which she must have found while riding through the grounds.
‘Quick! You’re on, Miss Gwyn-Whatmire!’ Nia said, taking her elbow and pointing her in the right direction. ‘See, over there—they’re waiting for you to cut the ribbon!’
‘Village fête, is it?’ Dottie said vaguely. ‘Should have warned me.’ She thrust the half-eaten chocolate egg into the pocket of her Barbour jacket then, with a businesslike air, pulled out a folding hoof pick, strode over and sawed through the ribbon. ‘I declare this fête open,’ she said. ‘What are you all waiting for? Off you all go!’
There was a smattering of applause. Dottie took the half-eaten Easter egg out of her pocket and began pulling wisps of hay off it.
Nia’s sister, Sian, was hanging around Gabe, I noticed, probably in her official reporter guise. After a while they left together. She is very pretty in a hard way, but I think Nia is much more attractive, and, clearly, so does Rhodri. Nia said later that Sian had pretty well forced Gabe into offering to give her a lift down to the village where she’d left her car, but she’d put good money on it that that was as far as she got with him.
‘I don’t think Sian’s his type,’ she said rather meaningfully. ‘He’s got other things on his mind: he asked me earlier if this Tom Collinge Rosie had gone off to visit was the same man you used to go out with at college, the one who had dumped you at the end of term.’
‘Oh my God—no wonder he was morose and preoccupied earlier!’ I said, a feeling of panic rising. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Well, “yes”, of course…but then I said he’d asked you to go back to him soon after you’d broken up.’
‘Which is true,’ I approved, with a sigh of relief. ‘Well done, Nia! Quick thinking.’
‘Fortunately, he didn’t ask me whether you had gone back to him or not, so I didn’t have to tell any lies.’
‘So,’ I said slowly, working it out, ‘Gabe, Rosie and Tom think Tom’s Rosie’s dad; Mal and half the village suspect it’s Rhodri; and I don’t know for certain but am almost sure it’s got to be Gabe.’
‘Right,’ agreed Nia, following this with an effort. ‘Look, Fran, I’d better get back and help out—I’ll talk to you later.’
There seemed to be children everywhere, all happy, since Nia had rather overdone the eggs, to the point where they could hardly take a step without falling over one.
I was sorely tempted to eat one myself, but the thought of thin-as-a-whippet Alphawoman Alison out there on Cayman with my husband seemed to be strengthening my willpower. I strengthened it even more by taking myself off home: there were more than enough helpers, what with Mrs Jones and her team showing the house, and even Dottie bellowing instructions at the people trying to park their cars, as though they were imbecile members of her pony club.
I only hoped she had remembered to stable Rollover in his loose box and not Nia’s workshop, or there would be hell to pay.
The start of week two of Atkins, and I can’t face another chicken, let alone an egg. I am losing weight rapidly, but more because I’ve gone off all forms of protein and therefore am not eating much of anything apart from the odd leaf.
The latest copy of S.O.N.W. magazine came today, and Alphawoman seems to be popular. While they don’t pay a huge amount, at least it’s regular. There was a poem too, which I’ve copied out for the wall of my studio.
Thorns of ugliness prick your eyes.
In the garden of life
See only the rose.
I’ll do my best.
Gabe’s car vanished again from outside Fairy Glen, so I assume he’s gone back to London—though he didn’t call and say goodbye.
Mind you, there’s no reason why he should. None at all.
My Golden Showers and Mermaid are showing signs of renewed life already—that manure must have been exactly the tonic they needed!
I’ve just found a small card behind the door, half hidden under the mat, so I don’t know how long it’s been there. On it was written: ‘I’ve gone. Officinalis.’
That’s the Apothecary’s rose, I think. Must ask the library van if the book about old roses I ordered has arrived yet.
‘I’m back, my love,’ Ma announced breezily on the phone.
‘Hello, Ma, did you have a good time?’
‘Lovely—so much to do and see.’
‘What, the museums and art galleries?’
‘Oh, no, there wasn’t time for that kind of thing,’ she said vaguely. ‘We found a very good flea market, though. And I’ve brought you an Edam. I thought you could eat that on the peculiar diet you’re on.’
‘Yes, cheese is about the one thing I haven’t gone off that I can eat,’ I admitted. ‘Are you coming over?’
‘Saturday. Gabriel says we can exchange contracts any time I want to, so I thought I’d have a final sort-out of odds and ends.’
‘I’d better borrow Nia’s van and move any bits and pieces I want too, then,’ I agreed.
‘No rush. I’m sure he won’t mind how long you leave them there.’
‘He might need the room—he’s bound to bring some things of his own.’
‘I suppose so. How did the filming and the Plas Gwyn opening go, my love?’
‘It was a roaring success. There seemed to be hundreds of people, and although most of them probably came to see Gabe Weston, they bought tickets and went on the Easter egg hunt and toured the house too. Nia said the collection boxes they’d dotted about for the garden restoration scheme were pretty full by the end of the day, but mostly with coppers.’
‘I’m so glad. “Every mickle maks a muckle,” as Lachlan would say.’
‘I don’t think he would,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Well, something like that. But do give my love to Nia and Rhodri, and I’ll catch up on the rest of the news at the weekend. I must go, I’m tea dancing.’
Tea dancing? That sounds terribly staid for Ma!
Rosie’s back from Cornwall in a strangely angry and touchy mood, and although she did say that she’d enjoyed the surfing and made a new friend (called Star, which sounds a bit hippie-child), she was tight-lipped on the subject of Tom.
Eventually I got out of her what was wrong, and—shock, horror!—it turns out that not only is Tom married, but his wife still lives with him and, until just before last Christmas, so did his lover!
Well, he did say in one of his emails that he’d recently ended a relationship, he just didn’t mention that it was only one of many!
‘Tom said they haven’t really been married for years, just lived as friends, sharing the cottage, and he doesn’t see anything wrong with that!’ Rosie said primly. ‘I said I thought it was indecent. Clara, his wife, is quite nice—Dutch. She cooks peculiar vegan food, though.’
She frowned and added, ‘You know, Mum, now I’ve spent more time with Tom I can see that, although he’s fun, he isn’t really…well, next to Colum he just doesn’t seem very grown-up!’
‘No, he didn’t sound in his emails as if he’d changed much,’ I agreed.
‘And he’s so restless, Mum. Always wanting to go to pubs and parties. He can’t sit still for a minute. And I’ve been thinking that, although I really like him, we don’t actually have that much in common. I wanted us to be alike, but we’re not.’
‘I like him too, Rosie,’ I said gently, ‘and it’s not his fault he isn’t what you were looking for. But perhaps now you’ll believe me when I say that it’s highly unlikely that he’s your dad.’
‘I suppose so—but at least he was better than a nameless stranger I’m never going to find!’
‘A father in the hand is worth two in the bush?’ I suggested, and she gave me a watery smile and offered to make me a cocktail.
‘No absinthe,�
� I said firmly.
Next day Rosie did her usual vanishing trick back to university with half my belongings and larder, leaving me with a seriously sandy washing machine. I’m not sure it’s ever going to wash clothes again, but I may be able to use it to grind wheat.
Despite having hardly seen her I was actually quite glad to see her go this time, since part of me had an insane urge to tell her who her probable father was.
But then, of course, Rosie would have been round there like a shot, demanding to know the truth, and he’d probably have denied it until he’d got a paternity test result. And what if the whole thing got round the village—even into the papers?
What if they did the test and it was Tom after all, and Gabe thought we’d just been after a big pay-off?
Too many what-ifs. Just forget it, Fran, and keep it zipped!
I’ve got flu.
OK, I’ve got a heavy cold. I’m so sorry for myself I’ve abandoned Atkins and am eating and drinking all the wrong comfort foods, assisted by Ma. When she arrived for the weekend and set eyes on me she insisted that I needed feeding up, not starving, and brought me nourishing and fattening food and drink including the most enormous whole Edam.
News of my near-starvation quickly spread around the family circle, and Naomi, Joe’s wife over in America, rang especially to tell me that the new version of the Atkins diet was much better than the ancient one I’d got, with more fruit and vegetables, and she is sending me a copy through Amazon.
Beth and Lachlan, who haven’t seen me for about three years, assured me I looked absolutely fine, and I shouldn’t bother about it. But then, they aren’t married to a slim, fit and handsome man who was probably even now surrounded by bikini-clad and twig-thin women on a coral beach, one of them his ex-wife.
And speaking of Mal, he came in for an earful when he rang me and got Ma instead. She said I was wasting away, but she didn’t tell him it would take me about ten years at my present rate to complete the job.
Ma nearly drove me crackers, bustling about like a Romany version of Florence Nightingale, humming ‘Tulips From Amsterdam’ endlessly, and attempting to cheer me up by showing me the brochures for her round-the-world cruise.
How she thought the idea of her loose on the ocean waves for weeks, together with the madder and richer of her friends, would cheer me up, is beyond me.
Flu and over-anxious Ma both now gone, but weight increasing four times as fast as I lost it, so I have a figure to die from, not for. I feel really down. Carrie and Rhodri have been to see me a couple of times in an attempt to cheer me up, but they are both very busy—the restoration project starts in only a couple of weeks, just before I’m supposed to go out to Grand Cayman.
Oh my God—the Flying Pig lands in the Caribbean!
I’ve also missed the Walpurgis night ceremony up at the maze, which is a big shame because I was looking forward to watching it, but at least I managed to get Ma to post off a nice card and a cheque to Rosie for her birthday, which falls on the same day.
Nia came round to tell me how the ceremony went, but says she is looking forward to next year’s, when the maze will be re-cut to its original size. She also said that Mrs Evans having to do the ritual walk using her Zimmer frame had rather held things up.
After the maze she’d gone alone up to the standing stones to perform some sort of personal Druid ceremony, and she left me a little glass bottle of what she swears is only dew, which I am to drink. I presume it’s some sort of magic tonic.
After she’d gone, I tried it. I can’t say I feel any different yet, but you never know, and I saved a drop or two to add to the hens’ water, because Shania has been looking a bit peaky.
Tomorrow Fairy Glen officially becomes Gabe’s and he’s moving in, but I haven’t got enough energy to care—or change the Flower Fairies bedding.
Have just assured Mal on the phone that I have lost most of my excess baggage and am nearly a shadow of my former self, and he said he looked forward to seeing the old Fran back again.
Bastard.
As soon as I put the phone down I went into the kitchen and wolfed down a whole bar of cooking chocolate, a packet of trifle sponges and a small frozen Black Forest gateau, which at least took a long time, since it was rock-hard to begin with and I had to suck it.
Carrie exchanged the copy of Atkins for a food combining book when she came round with some calorie-laden goodies to cheer me up. She said Gabe had been into Teapots to buy a big bag of doughnuts for the removal men to have with their tea, to the delight of her customers, and they’d had a nice chat before he went back.
It is a sad indictment of today’s society that my friends have more dieting books on their shelves than anything else.
I’ve already started food combining. This sounds possible: I can eat anything at all that I want, so long as I don’t mix protein and carbohydrates at the same meal.
How hard can that be?
Great Expectations
Remembering that I still had a key to Fairy Glen, which I ought to hand back, I thought I might as well go the whole hog and give Gabe a house-warming present too. He was perhaps a bit terse last time we met, but I really should have been there to welcome him when he moved in.
The Flower Fairies linen on the little bed in the turret room is weighing on my conscience a bit too.
Laden with home-made goodies and a card with a Mermaid rose that I’d painted myself, I set out rather furtively at dusk, since not only did I want to avoid the Wevills’ beady eyes, but by ‘give’ a present to Gabe I of course actually meant ‘sneak up and leave it on the doorstep’. But I still think he’s telepathic, for the front door swung open while I’d barely had time to admire the clipped box trees that now stood either side of it.
‘They don’t really go with the cottage, I know,’ he said gravely, ‘but I couldn’t leave them in London. Perhaps Aled could add a touch of the grotesque to them next time they need clipping.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I replied, recovering from the surprise of his sudden appearance. He was wearing a loose natural linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans and bare feet. His hair looked as if he’d run his hands through it a few times, for several of the little silkworm cocoons had unravelled. All in all, he was a sight to make most women’s knees go weak, let alone one with a shared history.
‘Are you coming in?’ he asked.
I stopped staring at his bare feet, which were rather beautiful in a Michelangelo’s David kind of way, and remembered why I’d come. ‘No, I’ve just brought you a house-warming present,’ I said, thrusting the bottle and cake tin at him. ‘And a card. But I don’t want to disturb you, you must be busy.’
He looked surprised. ‘A present? That was a kind thought, Fran!’
‘It’s nothing much,’ I assured him, ‘just a bottle of my elderflower champagne—be careful when you open it, it’s very fizzy—and one of my legendary fruit-sinks-to-the-bottom cakes.’
‘Whose bottom?’
‘The bottom of the cake. It always does—I’m noted for it—but it tastes wonderful because I make it with butter, and dried fruit soaked for two days in dark rum. And the fruit is now on top, because I turned it over so I could ice it.’
‘I think you’d better come in and show me this marvellous cake yourself,’ he suggested, swinging the door wide and ushering me in.
‘Well, I’ll just put them down, then leave you to it. I can’t stay,’ I said, walking through to the kitchen.
‘Not even to join me in a glass of champagne?’
I stopped dead. ‘Oh, no—I’ve just remembered you don’t like champagne! You said so at the pub.’
‘Ah, but elderflower champagne is different—if it’s good.’
‘You’ve had it before?’
‘Yes, my granny used to make it.’
I hovered uncertainly while he got out two unfamiliar glasses. Looking round, in fact, the whole cottage seemed to have acquired a slightly different air, though it was hard
to put my finger on any changes.
‘Let’s see this cake, then. Your friend Carrie says you’re a better cook than she is.’
‘Does she? I’m not a better pastry cook, no one can beat her at that.’
He prised the lid off the tin and stared down at the cake with its rather wobbly blue ‘Welcome To Your New Home’ icing. I’d added one of the sugar roses I’d saved from my birthday cake too.
‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,’ he said, lifting his head and smiling at me.
I don’t know what it is, since he is nowhere near as handsome as Mal, but when he smiles like that he is devastatingly attractive. I felt as if the sun had come out just for me, and sat down on the nearest chair quite unintentionally.
‘It was no trouble, because I make cakes all the time, unless I’m dieting.’
‘So does that mean you can’t eat a piece with me now?’
I considered. ‘I suppose I could, because I’m food combining, and as long as I don’t mix protein and carbohydrate I can eat anything. Cake’s all carbohydrate.’
‘You cut it then, and I’ll pour the drinks.’ With his back to me he added, ‘Is it very odd to see a stranger here?’
‘Not as bad as I thought it would be,’ I confessed. ‘Mainly because…well, I suppose I know you, you’re not a total stranger. I’ve sort of got used to you being about.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, putting my glass down in front of me and taking the piece of cake I offered him. I’d carefully cut one with the entire word ‘Home’ on it, so it was a hefty slice. ‘I’ve sort of got used to you being about too. I hope you’re still going to come up to Plas Gwyn and help me plan out the rose garden?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t need me for that,’ I said, flattered.
‘I do have a rough design,’ he admitted, ‘but I’d like to talk it through on the site with a fellow enthusiast. Please?’
‘All right,’ I said. I looked around the kitchen. ‘It’s odd, nothing much seems to have changed.’
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