*
Shorter's Green was compact, not sprawling in all directions like so many places. It was more than a village, not really a town, the beginning of the High Street just five minutes away from her cottage. Why can't we have a word for it, Lucy pondered as she came into the small main street where a couple of dozen real shops fought a losing battle with estate agents and building societies. A villown, perhaps, or towllage. Townlet?
There was this one main street, which had once been an important road until the bypass had been built. She thought it had once been a posting road, hence the three large inns which were now competing to be multi-starred restaurants. So far her budget hadn't stretched to sampling any of them, but she'd dreamed of Edward taking her there. Where another road crossed it there was a large open square, the original green, she assumed, and in one quarter was a municipal park with children's swings and a roundabout she longed to try. The quarter next to it was occupied by the church, an imposing size with a tall tower, and a notice board outside showing how much had been collected towards the organ fund. Why did they use thermometers with blood-red liquid? Did this indicate collecting the money was like drawing blood?
The square was used as a car park on days when there wasn't a market, and she'd heard the annual fête took place in the park. A few narrow lanes and alleyways led away from the High Street, and Lucy promised herself she'd explore them one day soon. She'd seen glimpses of thatched roofs and black and white timbered houses. They looked enchanting, olde worlde, just like the countryside ought to look.
Then she halted so abruptly she was almost mown down by a twin buggy. It was being scooted along by a couple who looked so young she felt they ought to be in school, primary school. She felt ancient at twenty-six. They glared, she smiled deprecatingly, and then returned her attention to the monstrosity straight in front of her, smack in the middle of the opposite side of the square, occupying one of the prime sites in between a pharmacy and the post office. She gulped. Why on earth hadn't she seen it on Saturday? Then she remembered the market stalls which would have obscured it. Oh well, she could hardly have expected no competition at all in a town this size. Townlet. Villown. What the hell. She'd think of it as a town and be optimistic. Towns had more people and she needed clients. But this glossy, double-fronted, three-storey emporium advertising all sorts of sybaritic delights under one very well-maintained roof was something else.
Fighting a rush of panic she told herself to calm down, to look on the bright side, not to face trouble before it came. The clichés helped. Their prices would have to be outrageous. She could compete. She had no overheads, or almost none. Pulling back her shoulders, and wishing she'd taken the time to style her hair as well as wash it that morning, Lucy marched across the road and pushed open the gleaming glass door.
A vision in shades of tasteful Granny Smith and dusty privet wafted towards her. A perfectly coifed blonde head leant forward attentively, and nails six inches long, painted in stripes of grey and green, were held out in supplication.
'What can we do for modom?' a silky voice enquired. Lucy thought it would be ungenerous to notice the faintly strained attention to pronunciation. She didn't think they included elocution in the national curriculum, whatever else was prescribed. It would probably be thought politically incorrect, since regional accents were considered the only genuine ones these days. So the vision must have defied the prevailing wisdom and been to self-improvement classes. Bully for her.
She struggled to suppress her confused feelings. She felt over-awed, yet contemptuous. She mustn't let either show. 'I – er – I've just moved into the area, and came to see what you offered,' she said, admonishing herself to take that silly smile off her face.
'Take a seat, I'll get our brochures. Are you contemplating massage and fitness as well as beauty treatments? Cuticurls offers everything you could possibly want.'
Bet they don't offer men. Not that she wanted one now, unless the gorgeous hunk she'd encountered in the market miraculously overlooked her clumsiness and was available. She'd get her ego boost some other way. Well, not with the men she was likely to encounter here, probably weedy stylists or hulking masseurs, she supposed. Both sounded uncomfortable. And she needn't speak as though I'm in desperate need of either hair or face treatments, she thought indignantly, snapping her attention back to what the vision was saying. Her hair might be an undistinguished brown, but Jenny, who used to work in the same salon, was a whizz at cutting and had done it only last week. And she had always prided herself on her good complexion. Her eyes might be too big, and hazel instead of that dark slumbrous chocolate brown she coveted, and her nose ridiculously tip-tilted, but she wasn't that awful. And she was only a few pounds overweight. She pulled in her stomach, and recalling the llama attempted to reproduce its superior smile.
'Everything, please,' she said firmly.
She sank into a deeply cushioned armchair, damson coloured, overripe and squashy, and looked around. It was more like an up-market hotel than a hairdressing and beauty salon. Cuticurls indeed! To compete she'd have to call herself Curlylocks. And decorate her van with a picture of herself sitting on a cushion and sewing. No. That wouldn't project the right image, and image was ultra-important these days. Lucylocks? Would that be better? Lucy Lockett searching for pockets. No, unfortunate metaphor. The Hangnail Clinic would be best of all. She fought down the hysteria, and firmly banished a mental picture of herself blow-drying the llama. Alpaca. She must find out the difference.
The vision had retreated behind a desk straight out of Bond Street, and was collecting glossy pamphlets from elegant rosewood bookshelves. Beyond her an archway led into the business section, and Lucy could see lesser visions, all in black or damson tights and tunics of different shades of green, floating sinuously about wielding scissors and towels and pushing delicate trolleys stacked high with rollers and lotions. Some of the visions were male, she thought, but it was impossible to tell. They all appeared to have shapely legs and undulating pelvises.
'Let me explain.' The front-of-house vision had returned, pulled up a stool to perch beside her chair, and adopted an awed tone, her voice undulating like the pelvises. 'These are our regular treatments, hair and manicure and facials and so on, all the usual, and then there is massage, LaStone hot and cold stone massage, reflexology massage, light touch reflexology, aromatherapy, Bach's floral therapy, HopShe ear candles and therapy – '
Lucy's mind was reeling. She'd never heard of some of these, let alone knew what they were.
The vision was continuing. 'We have heaps of different treatments designed to meet every need for the discerning woman who wants to look and feel her very best at all times. You can consult nutritional experts. Or we do classes for yoga, aerobics, weight management, and cooking for health.'
And no doubt mud baths and ice packs and saline dips as well as kung fu. Lucy bit her lip and fought down a desire to giggle. Then she saw a tall, slender man by the archway, listening. He wore a bottle green tunic with damson tights, and at least six hoop earrings in alternating green and gold decorated one ear. He was draped against the wall, one hand resting on his hip, the other stroking his damson-dyed hair. She averted her gaze, but the vision turned round and smiled nervously.
'Carry on, Caroline,' he said in a high voice, and minced across to the desk.
Caroline smiled tentatively, took a deep breath, and refixed her bright expression. 'Yes, Mr Evelyn, sir.' She began to gabble, and watched out of the corner of her eye until the man returned to the salon. Then she sighed and her speed reverted to normal. 'Then there are fitness classes at all levels, or you can book time with a private fitness trainer. I'd recommend Alice, she can do wonders for simply anyone.'
Thanks a lot, Lucy thought. She'd clearly marked her down as someone who needed wonders.
'All our staff, of course, are fully qualified. Can I offer you an appointment? We do introductory offers for new clients, one free extra treatment of equivalent value to what you book. It help
s you appreciate some of the other things we provide. For example, you could – '
'I'd rather go away and think about what I want,' Lucy cut in hastily. If that had been her boss she felt sorry for Caroline, not snaring a customer, but she'd just managed to decipher a couple of items on the discreet price list at the foot of a page.
Her attempt to rise firmly to her feet was somewhat hampered by the deep damson-jam cushions, but she eventually regained the sanity of the pavement.
*
Clutching the brochures she walked dazedly along until she came to a chic wine-bar. She turned in. After that episode she needed a drink, badly. She found a table in the far corner and sank down, ordered a double gin and tonic, and laid out the brochures. With increasing disbelief she perused them. This wasn't an enclave of Mayfair or Knightsbridge. Nor was it Gloucestershire. It was a small town, or large village, on the outer fringes of the Chiltern commuter belt. Prices of houses were high, but not excessively so. She knew, she'd tried to buy one closer to London at first, and concluded that all the people who lived there were millionaires. Perhaps all the men further out, busily catching trains to the big city each day, had to make do with cheaper houses and longer journeys so that their wives could pay the astronomical prices of local tradesmen.
Then her shock faded and she began to see hope for herself. Surely not everyone could afford to pay as much for a shampoo and blow dry as they did for a ballgown? She could charge a quarter the price and still rake it in. Her optimism restored, she went out into the street, searched for other salons and found two. There was a dingy unisex affair at the far end of the High Street, with loud pop music emerging, and the only customers a couple of elderly men whose hair, what there was of it, scarcely merited cutting. Up one of the small alleys nearby there was another salon, with a 'For Sale' notice which looked almost as old as the building, and that hadn't seen fresh paint for decades. This end of the town was decidedly shabbier than the other above the square.
Her step livening, Lucy started for home, busy composing the advertisements she would place in the local papers and whichever shops would display them. Then she saw Annabelle's, and was tempted. But Kate was coming. However, she hadn't said she was staying the night, and was just as likely to want to go back to college as stay over.
She struggled with herself. Kate wouldn't mind. And she didn't want to offend Flick, who'd been kind. And she must get to know people. It was time she shook off the depression that had engulfed her during the last few months. Edward had been a mistake, an aberration, and she didn't intend to have another one, but there would be women at the party, perhaps future clients. And she suspected that whatever her protests Flick would somehow persuade her into going. She had to be prepared. At least she could look. She didn't have to buy. One of her old dresses, the sort Karl hadn't approved of, which she'd kept, would do if nothing took her fancy, or if these prices were outrageous too. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
*
Cas had a whole sheaf of printouts spread over the dining room table. It was the only space large enough for him display them all, since Mrs Thomas had refused to let him use the kitchen table, saying she wanted to make pastry, and if he wanted plum tart for lunch he had to get out of her way.
He gazed at the pictures of llamas being offered as stud animals. He had a lot to learn, and he could not make a mistake in choosing Rosa's first mate. After a while he discarded all the pictures of animals whose colours did not match Rosa's own. He would try to breed true colour, a delicious pale fawn. He had Rosa's pedigree in front of him, and her parents had both had that colouring. If he could find a male similarly blessed that might be the right one.
He went back to the computer and trawled the internet. He'd thought, when he first decided to buy llamas, they were rare in England, but there were a surprising number of studs available. Gradually, researching each one from his short list, he was able to discard some, until he was left with three possibles. How on earth was he to choose from these? Sighing, he decided he needed to visit the llama farms and see the animals, suss out the owners, and discover something about the progeny they had already sired.
As he was tucking away the sheets into a folder Flick came in.
'I bought the padlocks and chains,' she said. 'When do you mean to fix them?'
Cas sighed. Much as he loved his sister she could at times be a pain, wanting him to do things he did not feel like doing.
'Later,' he said. 'I have to go out now. Well, after lunch,' he added, recalling the plum tart.
Flick shrugged. 'OK, then I'll do them, perhaps ask Kevin or one of the others to help.'
'You do that,' he said, relieved. 'Kevin will make a much better job of it than I will.'
'Where are you going?'
'To see a possible mate for Rosa. I'll be away overnight, it's down in Devon.'
'You'll be back for Melanie's bash, though?'
He groaned. 'Must I?'
'She'll be horribly offended if you skip it, Cas. She'll assume it's because Alice won't be there, and that will shorten the odds on whether the two of you are getting married.'
He frowned. It was bad enough, living in a small place where one's every move was noted, analysed, and gossiped about. His next girlfriend would be from London, or Oxford, he vowed, out of range of the local gossips. Then he realised with some amusement he was planning a next girlfriend. Alice seemed to be in the past.
'I'll be there.'
*
Chapter 3
'Accountancy? But Kate, what on earth do you know about it?'
Kate sighed. 'I don't have to, Lucy, it's a three-year training course. And I was good at Maths.'
'But I thought you wanted to be – oh, I don't know! An art historian or a painter or something creative!'
'Accounts can be very creative at times. Painters and art historians don't earn scads of lovely cash. Accountants do, if they're high flyers. And I'm not going to be kept short like you even when Karl was earning loads of dosh.'
'And you're going to be a high flyer?'
'The ones I'm interested in will be.'
Lucy looked at her sister with fascinated eyes. Though she looked a bit like her, but with straight blonde hair and big green eyes, she had a completely different character.
'Isn't that rather a mercenary attitude?'
'So what's wrong with that? It's called ambition. Most girls don't plan their lives, they just accept what comes, and then have to put up with it. I'm not falling into that trap.'
That had certainly been Lucy's experience. 'But will you enjoy that sort of job? Would it be worth it, just for the money?'
'Oh, it won't be for long. Then I can get out and do what I really want to.'
There were times when Lucy did not understand her sister. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, then opened them again. This was getting to be a habit. No, it was not another dream. Kate was there and looking determined. While waiting for her train to arrive Lucy had been imagining all sorts of disasters, from abandoning her course in the middle of finals to an unplanned pregnancy. Instead, an ebullient Kate had announced, almost before she'd closed the van door, that she'd been offered and accepted a training post with one of the country's leading accountancy firms. Kate was still talking.
'So can I live here? I can buy a car and commute to Oxford. I'll be based at the office there, for a while, and it would be cheaper than renting a flat. I'll pay you rent, of course, so you'll benefit too. And I imagine you need a bit extra, until you get your business going.'
Before Lucy could respond, before she could even think of what her response should be, they were interrupted. A head was poked through the open half of the kitchen door. She winced, for a moment seeing the llama, then realised that instead of Rosa's tan-coloured expression, it was Flick.
'Hi, Lucy. Sorry, didn't know you had a visitor. I was passing, and wondered how you got on at Annabelle's? Did she fix you up? Can I see it?'
'Come in. This is my siste
r, Kate Hadley. Kate, Flick Burroughs is a sort of neighbour, I suppose, though you can't see the farm, it's way beyond that hill.'
'Are you staying, Kate? Then you must come too. I'm taking Lucy to a party tonight. Time she got to know some of the locals.'
Kate grinned at her. 'Wonderful! I suppose I should get to know them too. I'll be living here with Lucy, for a time, anyway. At least, I will if she'll have me. You didn't look too keen a moment ago, sister dear.'
'Of course I will,' Lucy said hastily. 'You took me by surprise, that's all. I imagined you'd want your own flat in London.'
'Great. I'll collect you both. Now, your dress, Lucy. What did you get?'
Lucy smiled reminiscently. Annabelle's had been a revelation. 'I splashed out on a bright red trouser suit in some sort of floaty new material. The Scarlet Woman, that's me. Annabelle's got a wonderful system. We'd better go and get you something, Kate. I don't suppose you brought anything suitable. She sells new clothes, very expensive ones, but she also does a roaring trade in exchanges. I hardly dare call them second-hand.'
Kate wrinkled her nose. 'But aren't people afraid of meeting the original owner? I'd hate to have some rich bitch sneering at me for wearing her cast offs.'
'I thought students haunted charity shops for cheap clothes?'
Kate laughed at her. 'Oh, students! But I'm finished with that in precisely five days and one hour. Life's going to be different from now on. I'll be a working gal, and no second-hand rags for me.'
'These are mostly designer labels,' Lucy felt compelled to point out.
'That's the beauty of her scheme,' Flick added, grinning. 'She has friends in Cheshire and York and Cirencester, and also in Kensington and Hampstead I think, who run the same sorts of businesses, and they never resell what comes from their own area, they swap them round. As most of them are designer clothes the chances of repeats are less than if they came from stores.'
'That's different. OK, a trip to Annabelle's for me, then, Lucy. I have to start equipping myself for life in the big, bad world. Flick, who'll be at this party? Are there any filthy rich bachelors?'
Mating the Llama Page 3