Probably the Best Kiss in the World

by Pernille Hughes

  But.

  Looking at her brewing paraphernalia, surrounded by the aromas of the beers and the yeast, the barley and the hops, the entire atmosphere in the room was tugging at her soul. The joy she got from brewing, the memories she had with her dad, knowing she was good at it, all those things gnawed at her. The thought of packing the vats and the bottles away made her feel sad to her bones. Not jotting down notes for recipe ideas was a notion that made her anxious. There was a helplessness to those thoughts that scared her.

  She sat upright and took a resolute breath. She was going to ignore who the flowers came from. Whether an encouragement or an apology, it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, they didn’t change anything – she’d made her decision on the plane coming back from Copenhagen. Packing it away was a huge change for her, but that was probably why she was finding it hard. Many things in life were hard; that didn’t make them impossible, nor the wrong thing to do. She’d sell her stock at the show, she’d finish her wedding beer and that would be it, as she threw herself headlong and blissfully into her sustainable married life with a decent man who she knew and was clearly in tune with, who didn’t tease her, who indulged his mother and tolerated his obnoxious nephews lobbing sprouts at him over a dinner table, and who her dad had approved of.

  Resolved, Jen tied the flowers upside down from her awards shelf for them to dry. It was too beautiful a bouquet, too rare a thing in her life, for her to bear seeing it wither and die in a vase. It bookended her shelf of beer accolades and mementos like a big, fragrant red full stop.

  She had a plan, and being a stickler for plans, Jen knew she was safer, less exposed to trouble, if she followed it.

  Chapter 16

  “They’ve totally filched your ideas,” Lydia hissed indignantly, handing Jen a paper-cup of steaming coffee, while giving a couple of other entrants milling around the tent flaps, the stink-eye.

  It was a cold morning for July, or maybe simply being out of the duvet at aahhmmaaggaahhdd o’clock made it feel Baltic. The craft tent had been buzzing from very early-doors, with people putting the finishing touches to their entries. There had been some argy-bargy going on around the cakes display, proper “piping bags at dawn” stuff, but that was cake-bakers for you; vicious.

  The Home Brew category was somewhat more sedate, there being no more than eight entrants, six of whom were retirees and all, bar Jen, male. None of the others had much sense for the creative display element. “There’s two others displaying their beers in a tin bucket,” Lydia detailed, with a sneer. Jen had done that the previous year, salvaged tin bucket, fresh straw and three bottles for tasting. She’d plumped for a cracked butler’s sink this year, filled with dried flower petals. It was different and had been free. It was amazing what Max had in her salvage rejects and Alice was happy enough for Jen to root through her offcuts.

  “When’s the judging finished?” Lydia asked, slurping her coffee and burning her tongue. Burnt or not, it didn’t stop her swearing.

  “Another half hour,” Jen groaned, eyeing the closed-off tent. She hated this bit. No, in fact the bit she hated most was walking away, having set up the display. The brews were like her babies going into school for the first time. She’d done her bit, now they had to stand on their own two feet. That made her feel queasy. What if the judges failed to appreciate their brilliance? All mothers experienced that, didn’t they?

  Jen had first won two years before, when she’d lifted the title off Jim Arbuthnot, who after years of winning thought he owned it. While Lydia and Jen hopped around in a deranged happy dance, old Jim had had a face like a smacked bottom. Jen didn’t know which was worse for him, that his run had come to an end or that he’d been beaten by a woman. He stormed out muttering about India Pale Ale being the easy option, but even if Jen said so herself, that brew was the smoothest thing this side of smooth and packed with flavours. The following year Jen easily won again, with Clink and you’ll miss it, a copper-coloured American Pale Ale, which she’d spent ages perfecting to get the right bitter hoppiness using three different kinds of hops, giving it aromas of citrus, mango and flowers. It was the most expensive brew she’d made yet, but thanks to the win she sold out from the stall, giving her enough profit to overhaul the coal shed into her brewhouse, using YouTube tutorials to guide her with the hammer and nails.

  This year, she’d gone for a light yellow fruit beer using elderflower. It was light and summery and Lydia had declared it her favourite ever, naming it Hoppy Days.

  The crowds were arriving in droves which immediately pepped the spirits of the stallholders. Jen often spent her Saturdays working a stall at the local farmer’s markets. She did a decent trade with her beers, especially, like that day, when she could wangle a plot next to Fenella the cheesemaker. The two products went well together; it was all fermentation after all. Sales had taken a leap when Jen had suggested they collaborate on a Ploughman’s gift pack. She wasn’t quite sure how she was now going to break her news to her stall mate. She decided to wait until later. No need to spoil things from the off. Fenella, though a good thirty years older than Jen, was a spritely woman, happily widowed and polar opposites to Jen when it came to facing life, living by a mantra of Que sera sera much to Jen’s mystification.

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. So much for fucking July weather.” Fenella had always had a mouth on her too, which enamoured her to Lydia, who also had a coffee for the cheesemaker.

  “I’m not sure anywhere in this country is warm at nine in the morning, Fen,” Jen said, unpacking another box of bottles onto her trestle table. She’d rented a van for the weekend, the Capri not being built for delivery driving, and it had been rammed full. Fenella pulled her knitted Peruvian hat down over her ears. Her fluorescent yellow puffa jacket was zipped to the hilt.

  Jen had another scan of the stall, and surveyed the boxes. “If it’ll just get a bit warmer, and if I can win a commendation or more, then I’m hoping these’ll all shift.” She prayed she had enough for the day. She’d held some back for tomorrow. She could go back to get those and spend the rest of the night replacing them if she had to.

  “Relax,” Lydia said mildly, blatantly eyeing the passing bottom of a young farmer. “You know the drill. You’ve got enough stock. And none of this commendation bollocks, you’re going to win.” Sometimes Jen thought Lydia’s confidence in her was slightly indecent, surely she had to grant the other contestants a modicum of skill or chance? “Where’s Robbie?” Lydia added, causing Jen to purse her lips slightly. Lydia thought she was looking innocent, but Jen knew she was stirring.

  “Robert will be here,” she said confidently. “I texted him the announcement time.” She busied herself with the merchandise and stall so as to ignore Lydia’s customary eyeroll.

  Attison’s Beers, locally brewed with love, it said on the banner behind her. She’d added a sticker for each of the past two years stating she was the beer category winner. Surveying the table top and its many, many bottles, Jen was so flipping proud of all of it. Was that wrong, she wondered? Pride was supposed to be wrong, but in this instance she didn’t care. I made that. I made that with my recipes, my ideas, my time, my hands. And it gave her a thrill. Until she remembered that she was stopping this, that the end was in sight. Then it gave her a lump in her throat.

  “That’s six bottles gone already,” Lydia said with a grin, dropping some cash into the unattractive money apron around Jen’s waist. Jen hadn’t even spotted Lydia’s patter-come-flirting with a couple of farmers, being so caught up in loving her wares. Lydia was a born saleswoman. “Gotta love beer drinkers. Any time, any place, any where.”

  “You stole that line,” Jen pointed out, marking the sales down on her spreadsheet. She liked to know what had sold best. She was still working on paper, The Phone of Shame not knowing the meaning of spreadsheet.

  “So? It’s a motto I hold dear.” Lydia replied and Jen rolled her eyes at her.

  It was hard to stay nonchalant when the judging
tent reopened. Word rushed around the showground like wildfire, a gushing relief to all those who’d spent the last hour clock-watching and sweating.

  “I’ve never seen geriatrics move so quickly,” Jen observed wryly, watching the flurry of competitors sprint to see if there was a certificate by their entry, “unless it’s at the supermarket and a checkout’s just opened.”

  Only, Lydia wasn’t behind her as she’d thought. Lydia apparently had no qualms about racing for results, and was barging through the tent with an impressive use of her elbows. Thankfully the strewn straw was keeping the ground solid enough for Lydia’s leg so far. Jen worried how long it would be before things got slippy.

  “You did it, Jen!” she shouted over the thronging mass as Jen approached the tent with feigned calm. Jen heard a small groan from her left and turning, saw Jim, brow deeply furrowed and shoulders now sagging. As if that wasn’t awkward enough, Lydia then appeared at her side, slung an arm around her and planted a huge kiss on her cheek before pronouncing, “Three years in a row. Woohoo!” Bless her, thought Jen with a pained smile to Jim, but I want to slap her silly sometimes.

  Making it to the beer display Jen got only the briefest glimpse of the gold-coloured card before Lydia swamped her into a second hug.

  “I knew you’d do it. I am so proud of you.” Jen decided not to slap her silly at that precise moment, the reality and joy of the situation beginning to sink in.

  The judges notes, scribbled onto the card, were exactly what she was looking for; a fruity light delicate beer, perfect for summer, hoppy days indeed!

  “Congratulations.” The voice jogged her out of her vainglorying. She looked up into the face of a tall well-built man, black and silver tufty hair, mid-forties. She recognised him, but couldn’t place him, but it didn’t matter either way, as she was smiling at him like a fool, because she’d WON!!! and he seemed happy for her.

  “Anthony St James!” Lydia exclaimed, her jaw roughly around her knees. Yes, that rang a bell with Jen, but out of context she was still at a loss. “I love your show. I watch it in bed on a Sunday morning, if I’m by myself. Sometimes, even if I’m not – they never seem to mind. I’m Lydia, by the way,” she gushed, vigorously shaking his hand, “and the mute grinner here is my sister, Jen. Three times winner of the beer class.” She elbowed Jen sharply in the ribs.

  “Anthony St James,” he repeated, shaking her hand. It was a good handshake. Strong and firm, but without crushing her bones. Jen’s dad had taught her to shake hands. It was something she always noticed.

  “Off the telly,” Lydia hissed in a bizarre pantomime hiss, which Anthony St James Off The Telly could definitely hear but chose to ignore.

  And then, with a startled Oh, she got it. It was Anthony St James. Off. The. Telly. He’d opened a posh restaurant in town the summer before, but she’d never seen him. She’d assumed he only put his name on the menu. But here he was.

  “The TV chef,” Jen babbled, “right here. In real life. I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry. I couldn’t place your face. I’m used to seeing you this big.” She indicated the size of her TV screen which was embarrassingly small “and here you are, this–,” she raised her hand to just above his head and realised that she was being an idiot. Whipping her hands behind her back she chewed her own lip for damage limitation.

  “I wanted to congratulate you on a really good beer,” he said graciously ignoring her muppetry and subsequent blushing. He probably encountered starstruck muppets like her all the time.

  “You’ve tried it?” she asked slowly to control her effusiveness. She wanted to claw back a modicum of dignity, but on the other hand she was so desperate to hear what he thought, that it hurt.

  “I was a judge this year. I’ve spent the morning scoffing sponges, chutneys and beer.”

  They all winced in unison, which made them laugh.

  “Well, thank you,” she managed, pulling herself together. “I’m honoured.” He looked at his watch and his smile pulled into a “must go” smile. Jen realised she should probably be making her way back too, given Fenella was covering her stall for her.

  “Wait!” Jen grabbed his arm in a pique of high drama, causing Lydia to think she’d lost the plot. Jen grabbed three unopened bottles from her display and handed them to him. He had to hold them to his body, slightly awkwardly and enough to draw attention.

  “A gift from Attison’s Brewery.” Jen might have been lacking in the blowing-her-own-trumpet department, but she knew a marketing opportunity when she saw one. A celeb walking around with her bottles, was tantamount to an endorsement.

  “You have a brewery?” he asked, a brow arching. Jen looked from him to Lydia and back again, conscious that her face was getting hot.

  “Just a small one,” she squeaked, and instantly felt more stupid for squeaking. Squeaking was not cool. Squeaking did not say she was a serious brewster, brewing the best of British craft beers. But then again, she wasn’t; she was just a hobbyist, and one about to pack it in at that. He didn’t need to know that though, while she had stock to shift and wasn’t above taking advantage of poor unsuspecting celebrities. “But a good one,” she added, thankfully without a squeak this time.

  Ambling arm in arm back to the stall, Lydia stopped to buy two homemade liquorice pipes, handing one to Jen. They walked along smoking them like two old biddies. Jen could tell, even without the pipe, Lydia was pondering.

  “How can you give this up?” Lydia finally asked. “Really, Jen. This win, it’s a sign. You’re gifted. Your talent is recognised, if not by Robert, then by the rest of the world.” Jen wasn’t sure the county show constituted The World, but she understood the sentiment.

  “Robert knows I brew well.” It seemed right to defend him, she just wasn’t sure it was absolutely true. No, actually that wasn’t fair. He did know she was good at it, he was a man who dealt in evidence after all, but the fact was it simply wasn’t part of their future. “It just doesn’t fit into our new plan.”

  “His plan. I can’t believe you’d have signed it off willingly.”

  “Times change, Lydia,” she said, dodging the question and speeding up a bit to reach the stall and end the conversation, not least because there was a germinating part of her that agreed. She was good at this. Much as she was trying to convince herself it was the timely thing to do, it didn’t quite add up in her head. She didn’t seem to be able to click with other crafts – her attempt at knitting had almost killed her, meanwhile she couldn’t stop herself thinking about new recipes or flavours. Looking at the rosette she’d taken from the display to perch on her stall, she wondered whether Lydia might be right. Was it a sign?

  News had filtered out about the win and the customers had started arriving. Clearly they seemed to like cheese too, as Fenella didn’t have enough arms to handle it all. She didn’t disguise her relieved sigh when Jen retook her spot behind the trestle. Fenella wasn’t subtle like that.

  Lydia started messing with the banner behind her.

  “Lyds, give me a hand, please,” Jen groaned. The queue – yes a queue! – was getting longer. “What are you doing?” She turned to see Lydia had added a sticker onto the vinyl, listing this year’s win. “Where did you get that?”

  “I had it made,” she smirked.

  “But you couldn’t have known the result.”

  “Pff. Of course I knew. Faith Jen, faith.”

  Jen had to bite her lip, because her eyes suddenly stung a little. She loved this girl. She was indisputably the best cheerleader.

  Speaking of cheerleaders, she looked about, but there was no sign of Robert. Her fiancé. The Phone of Shame showed no messages. She told herself he couldn’t have got the message, reception out in the showground was dicky at times.

  Lydia looked at her watch. “You going to be OK handling the sales? I need to go.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jen said, hoping that was true. The queue wasn’t abating. “Ready for a night of campfires and guitar strumming?”

  “I’v
e packed my music and earphones if they try the strumming,” Lydia said, pulling her stuff together.

  “Call me if you get stuck, or if your leg is giving you problems or–”

  “I’ll be fine, Jen.” Jen noted Lydia’s change in tone. It was snippy. She told herself to relax. It was just a night in a field, for goodness sake.

  “Right. Yes. Only, make sure they pick somewhere not too muddy. They don’t see how mud pulls at your leg, or that it can be slippy.”

  Lydia took a breath for her retort, but released it, unwilling to get into it. She gave Jen a kiss on the cheek, said she’d see her later, and headed for the car park, where allegedly her friends were waiting. Jen decided she’d send her a text to check she’d found them in a little while.

  “Have fun!” Jen called, hoping it might smooth things over, but Lydia simply waved without looking back. Jen watched her disappear with her usual sense of trepidation for her sister. It took the beeping of her phone to distract her.

  Srry darling.

  Was asked 2 sub in a

  4ball match at last min.

  C U 2morrow.

  Robert

  Robert religiously signed his texts with his name, as equally religiously as he corrected anyone who shortened it. She wondered who else he thought she’d think it was from. After all, she didn’t know anyone else who’d let her down for a game of golf.

  Chapter 17

  “You’ve got a good business there, Jen. Thought about expanding?” Fenella asked, as they packed their trestle tables down, both stalls depleted. Every day, Jen thought. She decided to postpone the news that she was packing it all in, until the end of the show. Given her mood with Robert, she wasn’t currently inclined to think about accommodating his wishes. And having spent the day next to Fenella’s fromagerie, she knew which aroma she’d prefer to live with.