The Chic Boutique On Baker Street

by Rachel Dove

  Amanda felt as though she would pass out any moment. All those nights, working to make him look good, doing his work, waiting for him to pick her up for dates that never happened. The memories came like stab wounds, thick and fast, realisation dripping like blood from her new wounds. She shook her head slowly, trying to get her brain to connect to her mouth.

  She swooped down, picked up what was left of the file and threw it to Marcus.

  ‘All done,’ she said and she fled.

  Marcus chased her to the elevators, calling her name, but thankfully the steel doors closed on him just as he reached them. Amanda pressed a shaky finger to the lobby button and sank down to the floor, head in her hands. Her phone buzzed in her bag, and, on automatic pilot, she pulled it out.

  ‘Perry,’ she said, her words barely flopping for freedom from her numb lips.

  ‘Amanda,’ the prim voice said crisply. ‘Mummy here, any news for me?’

  Amanda stared at the walls of the lift as they took her to the ground floor.

  ‘No, Mother, nothing to report. I’ll call you later.’

  Clicking off the call before her mother could ask her another question, she threw the phone into her bag, and peeled herself off the floor, quickly rearranging her clothes and hair before the lift doors pinged. Making her way across the marbled floors of the reception area, she smiled goodnight at the security guards and pushed through the front doors, gulping greedily at the fresh night air before hailing a taxi.

  Two days later, she had been called into Stokes’ office and fired. Gross negligence, they had stated. Amanda had barely taken it in, and before she even thought to ask what she had done, she was standing outside the same doors, a box full of trinkets heavy in her arms.

  It was all a colossal mess, and now she was unemployed to boot. She should have been looking for another job, another firm to work for, before the gossip really spread, but she couldn’t bring herself to apply anywhere else. What was the point? Her reputation was tarnished—bungling a million pound account did that for your career. The years of hard work and sacrifice would mean nothing. She was the girl who cocked up the huge contract and, now, that’s all she would ever be.

  She rubbed her gritty eyes, puffy, sore and still caked in last night’s mascara, and gingerly reached over. She rolled her fingers over the touch pad and the laptop sprang to life. Squinting at the screen, she refreshed her email inbox. Whilst she had been sleeping, her new life had been forming around her, and when she opened the reply from the estate agent, she smiled to herself. Time to disappear.

  The little Eden she had sunk her life savings into was thankfully not a disappointment, despite the sale being unseen.

  There was an exterior entrance on the street, and a staircase within the shop too, which made her feel very safe and self-contained, master of her own realm. She could pretty much spend her life at work and home, all within a few steps. After all the commuting and fast walks in teetering heels, barrelling down corridors and storming into court, it was an appealing thought to Amanda.

  Opening the door, she flicked on the light and sighed. After long days of working to make the shop interior what she had envisioned, she had barely made a dent on her new home and it showed. Boxes surrounded the chintzy sofa she had bought from eBay, a buy she intended to upcycle with some new covers, and which at present looked like something from her gran’s house. Stepping over them, she passed a dilapidated end table and spied her smartphone. In the city, her phone had been permanently glued to her hand, never leaving her side for longer than a bath. The more time she did without it, the less she missed it, and the people who used it to contact her. Well, maybe her thoughts lingered on one, but she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on that now. Opening the wooden drawer in the front of the table, she scooped up the phone and shoved it in, dusting down her hands as she walked away. Last night’s DVD title filled the television screen with colour as it sprang to life. She pressed ‘play’ and Pride and Prejudice began playing again, the embroidered garments flowing across the screen as the title music sounded. She walked to the open-plan kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a microwave Thai meal and the remnants of the bottle of rosé from the night before. Spying the washed glass on the draining board, she filled it up and took a swift glug, smiling as the cold chill of the wine hit the back of her throat, warming her through. She sat down on the breakfast bar stool, running her fingers along the bandage on her foot. She pursed her lips as she thought of the disastrous encounter, and the feeling that she hadn’t been able to shake all afternoon. She had heard him next door, banging about most of the afternoon. He was obviously an arse. Obviously. She just felt sorry for the dogs he had been looking after. She could see him being a dog man though, all jeans, jumpers and ruddy cheeks, skipping over mountain and dale with man’s best friend. Her face drew into a frown as she sipped at her wine. Tracy was the polar opposite of him, all mean scowls, and out-there fashion sense. Not a couple you would put together immediately, if at all. She ran her free palm along the side of the cool glass. In fact, they were pretty much the last people she would put together in a relationship. Not that she cared, of course, and his unkind words had stung. What did he know about her business? Did he really think she hadn’t done a little bit of research before she started? Fair enough, she had sold her London life and skipped town in a heartbroken knee-jerk reaction, but he didn’t know that, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about doing it before.

  She had the bookmark, the ideas, she had a plan. What she didn’t need was the sexy—Sexy? No!—annoying business owner next door causing problems and making her the village pariah. In her last job, she would have taken him on, told him exactly what she thought of him, dragged an apology out of him, but he had rattled her, and the feeling was not familiar or welcome. She resolved to ignore him and his girlfriend, let them get on with it. Plus, they had a regular supply of fresh dog poop at their disposal. Sometimes, a girl has to pick her battles.

  She sipped at her drink and rose when the microwave pinged. After setting her food out on a plate, she took both to the couch and wrapped herself up with a blanket left on the arm from last night. As Lizzie Bennet navigated singledom on the screen, Amanda pondered her own fresh start. If her city friends could see her now, huddled under a blanket in a box fort, watching Austen and getting into a tizzy over the first man under seventy she had met this month. Pathetic. And anyway, not only was she over men forever, but Ben wasn’t single, he was an opinionated git and his girlfriend owned next door. And one thing was for sure, for the sake of her sanity and her bank balance, Amanda’s new life had to work. No, she would stick to Mr Darcy. She would get through this week, spend her nights under this blanket of denial, and then, come the weekend, she would sort her new home, and her new life, out for good. And she wouldn’t think about Ben again. She drank a toast to Darcy, smiling through a mouthful of pad thai.

  ‘Just me and thee, Darcy!’ she said, in a voice that held more conviction than she felt. Sighing, she took another glug and wondered yet again how life could change so quickly, and how she was ever going to adjust.

  Ben Evans was arm deep in work. Mr Jenkins’ prize cow, Gwendolen, to be exact. The poor animal was having a breech delivery. Ben could see the calf’s feet pointing up, and Gwendolen was in distress. Not as much distress as Alf was in though. Alf Jenkins, one of the local steadfast farmers in Westfield, was leaning against the head gate, feet shuffling from one to the other. His ever-present roll-up was hanging from his tight lips, and his knuckles were as white as the white plastic apron encasing Ben’s body. Ben looked out from the cow’s behind, giving Alf a quick flash of his pearly whites.

  ‘Alf, she is in breech, but I can get her out. I need you to get me a bucket of water, and a shot of brandy.’

  Alf’s impressively bushy eyebrows shot up into his hairline, which was half hidden in his tweed flat cap.

  ‘Brandy?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Alf, a decent shot please, and
some water. As fresh as you can, in a bucket. Go now, I have Gwen, don’t worry.’

  Alf frowned and, looking confused, wandered off towards the farmhouse he shared with his wife of thirty years.

  ‘Annie! Annie, Gwen is nearly there. I need the brandy!’

  Ben chuckled softly, his distraction technique working well. Alf loved his cows almost as much as he did his wife, in fact at times it was a close call which he adored the most.

  ‘Come on now, Gwendolen, let’s get your baby born.’

  Gwen responded with a low, rumbling moo. Ben inserted his hand further into the cavity, pushing the calf back into the uterus as gently as he could. He wondered whether the woman he had met today would be appalled by his job, as Tanya always had been. Did Amanda even like animals? Probably not, she was obviously a ball-breaker, not the type to go all goo-goo-eyed over a puppy.

  Tanya sure didn’t, unless they came in the form of designer coats and handbags. She had once toyed with the idea of getting a small dog, after seeing celebrities in her coveted fashion magazines being photographed with the latest living handbag accessory. She had even begged Ben to track down a breeder, until he had pointed out that the little pup might, in fact, have to be fed whilst out and about, and might even take a dump in her Louis Vuitton. He still remembered how his wife’s lip had curled up in disgust, and half an hour later she was back to her usual online shopping frenzy, the possibility of a pet all but forgotten.

  Gwendolen bellowed as he turned the calf around to a birthing position. She banged against the metal gates with her hooves and let out a rumbling low noise. Ben checked the position and, satisfied, he wiped the sweat from his brow onto his shoulder. Just as he was waiting for the next contraction to start, to begin pulling out the calf, Alf appeared, his cheeks red, carrying a large black bucket of ice-cold water and a bottle of brandy, a plastic tumbler perched upside down on top.

  ‘Is she …?’ Alf’s voice broke with concern.

  Ben smiled. ‘All turned around, Alf, don’t worry. She will be out in a jiffy.’

  Alf’s shoulders dropped as he visibly relaxed. He set the bucket down and lifted up the brandy. ‘And this?’

  Ben laughed. ‘That is for you, Mr Jenkins, wet the baby’s head.’

  Alf chuckled as he began to fill the tumbler with the amber liquid. Gwendolen began to bellow again and, after a couple more contractions, Ben hauled the calf from its mother, laying it down on the fresh straw nearby. Alf preened and puffed out his chest, a tear in his eye, as he set the bucket of water down in front of Gwendolen. He planted a brandy-soaked kiss between the prize cow’s long lashes.

  ‘Well done, my girl, well done!’

  Ben set to work, cleaning out the calf’s nose with his fingers, tickling its nostrils with a blade of hay to get the calf breathing and moving about. The calf sneezed and, shaking its head, opened its brown eyes and looked straight up at its deliverer. Ben felt the rush of adrenalin, strong as always, as his job gave him another day to be proud of.

  ‘Welcome to the world, little one,’ he whispered softly, as he patted the calf lightly. He pulled his gloves off, reached into his zip pocket for his phone and snapped a picture of the new arrival with his camera phone.

  An hour later, Gwendolen and Ophelia—the latest addition to the Jenkins household—were tucked up in their stall, clean and warm, whilst Alf, Annie and Ben sat around the farmhouse kitchen table, the fire roaring in the hearth. Ben had stripped off his blood-soaked coveralls and was now sat, hay still stuck out of his tussled brown hair, gulping down hot sweet tea and eating a steaming bowl of corned beef hash and Yorkshire puddings, made by the fair Annie. Alf and his wife were eating with him, laughing and joking happily, talking of their new calf and their plans for the upcoming summer county fair. Ben, dressed in a black woollen jumper and dark blue denim jeans, savoured the food and atmosphere. The Jenkinses were such happy folk, and he felt a pang as he thought of driving his jeep home to his own empty cottage.

  He lived in the village, next door to his vet practice, and had impressive grounds himself, with space for horses and more, but with running two successful businesses, his dreams of having a little bolt-hole of his own like this had yet to come off as he had hoped. The furthest he had got was to purchase four chickens for his expansive back yard the week before: two black and one white Croad Langshan hens, and a Leghorn cock. He planned to have more animals eventually, but he had held off for some reason, probably due to the time and effort needed to keep them healthy and happy. He had not felt himself lately, and had only taken the chickens on due to another owner becoming unwell. The thought of the chickens being left abandoned had haunted him, so he had galvanised his efforts and stepped in to give them a home. They were still getting used to each other, animal and man, and the notion of how horrified Tanya would have been to share her home with his feathered friends gave him reason to chuckle, which hadn’t happened often recently. Lucky for the chickens that Tanya wouldn’t be sharing an abode with them, although her departure had been more of an adjustment for their owner than he had envisaged, given the circumstances. Who knew that the wife you are indifferent to, leaving with your best friend, would leave such a hole?

  The thought of pulling up his drive to an empty house meant Ben wasn’t in any rush to leave, and the Jenkinses were great clients, keeping him in business with their many farm animals and half-dozen dogs. Also, the dogs seemed to be constantly matted from farm life, which meant they often frequented his other establishment, Shampooched. He had bought the dog groomer’s a few months after he and Tanya had moved to Westfield when the lady who ran it for many years retired and moved to Spain to crochet away her twilight days from her veranda. He had bought it for Tanya, hoping to get her more involved in village life, but it hadn’t worked out quite as he had hoped. In fact, not at all how he had hoped, so now he had Tracy, who was sullen and off kilter to some, but she loved dogs and ran the business well, which took some of the pressure from him. Which reminded him, he had to run to the wholesaler’s first thing, as Tracy had left him a list that morning, and he had his regular surgery to attend to as well, so he had an early start.

  Having polished off two bowls of hash and enough Yorkshire puddings to fashion a raft on a sea of gravy, he reluctantly said goodbye to the Jenkinses and headed home. On the dark drive, he contemplated two things: whether his new chickens had started laying yet, and whether he would see Amanda tomorrow. He wondered what she had meant by the ‘we’ when she spoke about being open soon. Did she mean the normal ‘we’ as in clients and staff, or did she really mean ‘we’ as in ‘my adorable drop dead gorgeous bodybuilder husband and I’? Ben found himself wondering what sort of bloke she was with. Whoever the poor lad was, he had Ben’s sympathies. She looked like a handful, and a bossy one at that. She was cute though …

  As he pulled up to his front door, he smiled to himself at the memory of her flouncing off. He felt sure she was going to be a pain in the neck. He just hoped whatever arty-farty stuff she sold didn’t drive the regular stream of tourists away. Somehow, he just knew he would have to keep an eye on his new neighbour.

  Three

  Everyone in the sleepy hill-set village of Westfield knew well enough to let Agatha Mayweather have her own way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late hu
sband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.

  Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.

  As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.

  Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly grateful for this small act of kindness every morning.