by T A Williams
‘It smells great, though.’ Giancarlo was feeling much better about life today. The sun was shining, his bed had turned out to be unexpectedly comfortable, and the barmaid in the Smugglers Arms had given every indication of being susceptible to his Latin lover charms. He looked forward to renewing her acquaintance that evening. Although he was unused to eating breakfast, he decided he was more than happy to make an exception today. He speared a sausage and dipped it in one of the fried eggs. He gave Beppe an encouraging look. ‘And it tastes as good as it smells.’
Beppe’s doctor had told him to go easy on fatty foods. He wondered what he would say if he saw the spread before him. Guiltily, he picked up a piece of bacon and tasted it. He had to admit that it was very good. This was followed by a piece of fried bread and egg. That, too, was really rather tasty. He reached for one of the sausages.
The door from the corridor opened. ‘Here’s your tea, gentlemen.’ Mrs Pendennis set the tray down on the table and started to unload it. Along with the teapot and another pot of extra hot water, was a jug of milk, two racks of toast as well as jam, marmalade and honey. ‘Now, is there anything else you would like? Some more bacon perhaps? Or I could make you some porridge?’
Giancarlo assured her that they had all they needed, and returned his attention to his plate. Mrs Pendennis looked on, well pleased. These foreign gentlemen clearly appreciated good food. She went back to the kitchen, inadvertently omitting to close the door firmly behind her. She was just sitting down to a plate of scrambled eggs when she heard a noisy disturbance coming from the guest area. A glance at the dog’s empty basket confirmed what had happened.
She hurried through, to find Doris the dog hanging from the crotch of the fat man’s trousers, growling furiously as she shook her hairy head violently from side to side. Luckily, as far as Mrs Pendennis could tell, the dog’s teeth appeared to be caught in cloth, rather than flesh. In view of Doris’s considerable size and weight, that was probably just as well. The big Italian was screaming in terror rather than agony, as he did his best to climb onto his chair.
‘Doris, let go this instant. Let go, I say.’ Receiving no reaction from the furiously growling dog, she picked up a magazine, rolled it up and struck out. Alas, her aim was not the best. The magazine glanced off the dog’s head and landed with a thud in Mr Scognamiglio’s lower abdomen. He yelped, grasped at himself, and folded forwards over his hands. Fortunately, this dislodged the dog and Mrs Pendennis was able to grab Doris by the collar.
‘I’m most terribly sorry, Mr Sconn… Sconnamil…. Terribly sorry.’ The fat man had his head between his knees by this time. She heard a rasping, whooping noise as he tried to regain his breath. She was distracted by a similar sound from the other side of the table. On glancing up, she saw the handsome young man in paroxysms of laughter. There were tears running down his cheeks as he looked on at the spectacle before him. For physiological as well as linguistic reasons, Mrs Pendennis made her apologies to him.
‘Do please tell Mr Sconnmill how sorry I am. That was my fault. I didn’t close the door properly. I do assure you I will make absolutely sure Doris doesn’t do anything like that again.’ She turned and dragged the struggling dog out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her this time.
It was a while before Giancarlo was in a fit state to talk, and even longer before Beppe was able to respond coherently.
‘Enjoy your breakfast?’ He used his napkin to wipe the tears of laughter off his face.
‘That fucking mutt. I could report the old lady to the police, you know. Have the damn thing put down. It almost chewed my, my fucking balls off.’
‘Yes.’ Giancarlo was laughing again. ‘I saw that. Obviously hasn’t had its breakfast yet.’ He ducked as the fat man threw a slice of toast at him. He reached down and retrieved it from the floor. ‘So, Beppe, have you finished your breakfast now?’
‘I’ll finish that fucking dog…’ Gingerly, Beppe sat upright and reached under his belly to check for structural damage. Giancarlo reflected that a mirror on a stick would probably be useful in these circumstances. Finally reassured, he reached for his cup and drained it. Giancarlo wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and relayed what Mrs Pendennis had said.
‘The old lady is very apologetic. She promises it won’t happen again.’
‘Again? I should bloody say so. There should be laws against keeping vicious beasts like that in the house.’ Giancarlo noticed that Beppe now returned to his toast, butter and jam. Clearly, his appetite had not been affected by the dog’s assault upon his manhood. Giancarlo decided it was time to get back to business.
‘So what’s the plan this morning? Quick trip to the police station to file a complaint about the hell hound in the kitchen?’
Beppe’s brain was functioning again now. ‘No. We need to keep a low profile. If the news gets out that there are photographers around, any chance of getting our shots will be out the window,’
‘Talking of out the window, it’s a lovely day out there. Very good for boating, I would think.’
‘Yes, that’s just what I was thinking before that fucking dog tried to emasculate me.’ He looked across the table and saw the smile on the boy’s face. ‘You wouldn’t be laughing if the bloody thing had gone for you.’
‘The only thing going for me in that area is that barmaid down at the pub.’
Chapter 12
After months of cold, wet weather, it looked as if England was finally going to get a decent spell of sunshine. The clouds disappeared, the sun shone and everybody was much happier as a result. Well, almost all of them. Samantha and Neil had resolved their constant rowing by virtually ceasing to talk to each other. The atmosphere in the flat was getting worse and worse and Sam took every opportunity to get out. Now that the weather had improved, she had returned to her first love of running.
Samantha had always hated training runs in the cold and wet. Now, having the opportunity to come home from work and go for a run in the warm summer evenings was a blessed relief. That first week after the rain stopped she went out no fewer than five times in a row and felt all the better for it. Her regular route along the River Exe and then up the hill into the old part of the city around the cathedral was challenging as well as scenic. A bonus was that she often found the cat waiting miserably for her when she returned, and he proved to be a lot more affectionate as a result. As for Neil, he was showing fewer and fewer signs of affection. Sam had reluctantly come to the decision that she had to call her mother and tell her she and Neil were breaking up.
On the sixth night she grudgingly accepted Becky’s invitation to accompany her to a party. The party was being thrown by the newly-appointed head of the History department, effectively their new boss. She didn’t even bother to invite Neil. He wouldn’t have wanted to go and she wouldn’t have wanted him to be there. It was only the fact that it was described as a garden party and the warm sunny Sunday evening was so delightful that convinced her to go. She wasn’t feeling very sociable and it was just to offer support to Becky in her never-ending quest for a suitable man, millionaire or not, that she agreed to it.
At nine-thirty on the Sunday evening, fortified by a large glass of Chardonnay each and bearing a bottle of Rioja as an offering, they turned up at the party. It wasn’t in a scruffy terraced house in the heart of student town, but in a fine Georgian villa, high on the hill above the university, with a terrific view across the historic city. Even more surprising was the fact that the music was provided, not by a tattooed DJ with an earring and a couple of battered loudspeakers, but by a string quartet set up under a pergola of exquisite white roses. As they rounded the side of the house and took in the scene, both of them stopped dead in astonishment. They glanced at each other, the same thought on both their minds.
‘Bugger! We should have dressed up.’ Sam looked down at her shorts and regretted her decision not to go with a dress. Beside her, Becky was doing her best to tug her very short skirt down to her knees without baring her b
ottom.
‘There’s something about Bach, isn’t there?’
They turned towards the voice. It emanated from a tall man, probably in his early forties, with a patrician accent and immaculately styled long brown hair. He was wearing jeans and a plain white shirt. Samantha began to feel a bit less conspicuous about her choice of clothes. He smiled down at them. ‘Miles Vernon, Professor Miles Vernon. And you are?’ He held out his hand.
He was very good-looking and he knew it. Sam read the interest in his eyes, but she took a surreptitious step backwards, definitely not attracted to him and keen to avoid his getting the wrong idea. At the same time, she didn’t want to appear rude to a professor, even if his was a new name to her. But she needn’t have worried. Before she had time to extend her own hand, Becky had grasped his with both hands and was pumping it up and down. She beamed up at him. ‘Hello, Professor Vernon. I’m Becky and this is Samantha. We’re PhD students in the Archaeology department.’ She paused, then added for clarification, ‘At the university.’
Sam had a hard job restraining herself from giggling. Miles Vernon probably didn’t realise just how close he was to having his clothes ripped off him, Viking-style. You didn’t need a PhD to see the ‘target acquired’ look in Becky’s eyes. Sam waited until Becky had reluctantly released him and then shook hands with him in her turn. ‘Good evening. Is this your lovely house? Is this your party?’
He smiled at her, exposing a set of immaculate white teeth as he did so. ‘Good evening, Samantha.’ He pronounced it ‘Sementha’ and she repressed a shudder. ‘The answers are yes and yes. The house is indeed mine, and I thought I should do something for all my new friends at the university.’
At that moment, Ryan, their red-haired fellow postgrad, arrived on the scene behind them, and offered his hand to Miles Vernon.
‘Good evening, my name is Ryan, Ryan Stocker.’
‘Good evening, Ryan. Are you also from the Archaeology department?’ Without waiting for an answer, Miles Vernon smiled expansively and repeated his introduction. ‘My name’s Miles Vernon, Professor Miles Vernon.’ Sam had a sudden memory of the Bond films: My name is Bond, James Bond. Now, if Miles Vernon were Daniel Craig, that would be a different matter, she thought with a secret smile, suddenly feeling her mood lighten.
‘Hello, Professor Vernon. Hi, Sam, hi Becky.’ Ryan’s eyes barely flashed over Samantha’s face. It was pretty obvious where his attention was directed. And Sam had to admit that Becky was looking very good that evening. Her hair was pinned up and she was even wearing earrings. Clearly, Ryan was equally impressed and he hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Sam decided to help out. She caught his arm and pulled him over until she could kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Good to see you, Ryan.’
It worked. Becky was obliged to follow suit and poor Ryan blushed like a schoolgirl at the physical contact. Beside him, Miles Vernon looked on indulgently.
‘Come along. I’ll get you all a drink.’ Spotting the bottle of Rioja, he took it from them with a smile. ‘That’s very kind. You shouldn’t have. There was no need.’
They followed him into the garden. Sam noticed Virginia Greenway and a number of other familiar faces from the university among the guests. Over to one side, if her memory served her right, was none other than the Vice Chancellor himself. Clearly, Miles Vernon was a mover and a shaker and, she thought idly, somebody with a lot more money than your average university professor.
A trestle table had been set up against a vine-covered wall. One look at it confirmed that their bottle of Rioja was indeed superfluous. The whole tabletop was covered with bottles, cans and glasses.
‘What can I get you, Becky, Sam?’ Ryan reached for a bottle of white wine, but Miles Vernon stepped in.
‘Champagne for these lovely ladies, I think.’ He glanced down at the girls. ‘How does that sound?’
‘Great, lovely, wonderful.’ Clearly, Becky had no doubts.
Samantha nodded. ‘That would be fine, thank you.’ As he expertly opened a bottle of champagne, she studied him a bit more closely. He certainly was a good-looking man. But, charming as he was, Samantha felt there was something a bit creepy about him. His hair was too perfect, the gold chain around his neck and his gold watch too ostentatious. A closer look at his shirt told her it was silk, the top three buttons deliberately exposing his bronzed chest. There was no doubt about it. He fancied himself big time, and he seemed to have his eye on her. Sam was in no doubt that Miles Vernon just wasn’t her type. Quite clearly, however, she was his. She accepted the glass of champagne and eased back so as to keep Becky between him and her.
It didn’t work. Before she could take a mouthful of wine, he was at her side. He took her by the elbow and guided her down the garden towards the musicians, his hand firmly and proprietarily on her arm. Samantha sensed Becky’s outrage at being deserted, but could do little about it. Once they were a decent distance from the drinks table, Miles Vernon put his lips uncomfortably close to her ear and whispered archly. ‘I get the impression your red-haired colleague would appreciate a little time alone with your friend Becky.’
Samantha glanced back. There was nothing wrong with Professor Vernon’s antennae. Becky was still staring down the garden towards them, while poor Ryan stood helplessly at her side. Miles Vernon’s grip on Samantha’s arm became a little more insistent and she decided enough was enough. Luckily, just at that moment, salvation appeared in the shape of Virginia. Sam was able to turn towards her, effectively causing Miles Vernon to release her arm. She gave a silent sigh of relief and made the introductions.
‘This is Virginia Greenway. I’m sure you know she’s our head of department. Virginia, have you met Professor Miles Vernon?’
‘Of course I’ve met our host. Good evening again, Miles.’
‘Hello, Virginia. I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself.’
Virginia had been talking to a tall, fair-haired man. He was standing to one side of her while she and Miles renewed their acquaintance. He now turned towards them and Samantha saw who it was. Unaware that Sam and he had already met, Virginia introduced him. ‘James, this is Samantha Squires. She’s one of the brightest and the best of the Archaeology department. Samantha, let me introduce you to Dr James Courtney. He’s just arrived from the University of Cambridge.’ She smiled at Samantha. ‘James is a specialist on the Middle Ages and he’s going to be lecturing in the department of Medieval Studies this winter.’
Sam took James Courtney’s outstretched hand and glanced across at him. She had to admit that he was a fine-looking man, proving that good looks and medieval studies could indeed go together. However, his manners needed a lot of work. The enigmatic blue eyes met hers for less than a couple of seconds. He barely touched her hand before relinquishing it and turning away with a grunt that might have been a one word greeting. Clearly, he had a problem, whether just with her, or more generally, Sam had no desire to find out. Then she had a thought that cheered her. Maybe she could get Becky to check him out. And if she did, Sam found herself wondering whether Becky might launch a Viking-style raid on him. She grinned at the thought and caught Virginia’s eye.
‘It’s always good to meet new historians, isn’t it, Virginia?’
Miles Vernon shook James Courtney by the hand and subjected him to particular scrutiny. ‘Miles Vernon.’ Once again Sam had an image of 007 and she repressed another grin. ‘I’ve just taken up the post of Head of History, so I’ve just arrived myself. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Dr Courtney.’ Sam couldn’t miss the exchange of looks between the two men. Somehow, she got the feeling they weren’t destined to get on. Both looked fit, both were handsome and both, no doubt, were very bright. But Sam had a feeling there was only room for one alpha male in the History department. ‘The Middle Ages lasted a long time, Dr Courtney. Do you have a favourite period?’
The man from Cambridge cleared his throat. ‘The High Middle Ages are my main field of interest. Say, the year one thousand to the fou
rteen hundreds.’
‘Ah, yes, a fascinating period, what with the Crusades and so on.’ Sam could see that Miles Vernon was keen to show off. She realised with relief this was her chance to make her break for freedom.
As the two men chatted about events of almost a thousand years before, Sam and Virginia moved away. Sam sensed disappointment on the part of her host, if not the Cambridge man. When they were out of earshot, Virginia surprised Sam by passing on a juicy bit of gossip. ‘That Dr Courtney is going to be interesting. The word on the grapevine is that he had to leave Cambridge in a bit of a hurry. That’s why he’s pitched up here in the middle of the summer.’
‘Why, Virginia? What did he do?’ In spite of herself, Sam was interested.
‘The story I’ve heard is that he told his head of department he was an idiot, but maybe slightly less politely.’ Virginia was grinning by now. Sam found herself smiling in turn.
‘He did that?’ Virginia nodded and Sam realised that she had not, after all, been singled out for particularly rude treatment by the Cambridge man. He obviously was like it with everybody. For a moment she rather hoped he might have a go at Miles Vernon. As far as Sam could see, he could do with being taken down a peg or two. She smiled at the thought and took a big mouthful of what was unmistakably rather good champagne. After a few words with Virginia, she excused herself and slipped away into the crowd, By a circuitous route, she made it back to the drinks table. By this time she had consumed her glass of champagne. Becky greeted her with an icy stare and a similarly empty glass.
‘You didn’t waste much time.’ Clearly, Becky thought she had been betrayed.
‘Miles Vernon is more slippery than an eel. Escaping his clutches was a trick worthy of Houdini.’ Seeing what could have been relief on her friend’s face, Sam reached for the champagne bottle and filled both glasses to the brim. She looked around. ‘Where’s Ryan?’
‘He said something about looking for some food. Apparently there’s another table over there somewhere, groaning with tasty canapés. So, what’s wrong with Miles. I think he’s dreamy.’