by Jill Mansell
‘So have you learned your lesson?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Actually, no, you haven’t,’ Josh tut-tutted. ‘I saw you this afternoon, remember? Flirting with that chap outside the hotel. And you can’t tell me he was ugly.’
Daisy looked innocent. ‘Wasn’t he? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Come on, tell me all about him.’
Reluctantly she did. And braced herself for his reaction.
Josh, predictably, roared with laughter. ‘Oh, this is priceless. Daisy MacLean, this is your life! Don’t you see, you’re setting yourself up all over again?’
‘I’m not setting myself up,’ Daisy said crossly. ‘I’m just not, OK? There’s absolutely nothing going on between me and Dev Tyzack.’
‘Sweetheart, pull the other one.’
Don’t tempt me, thought Daisy.
‘But there isn’t.’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘I was watching you, remember.’
‘And did I throw myself at him?’
‘You looked as if you wanted to.’
Oh God, thought Daisy, horrified. I didn’t, did I?
‘These lady killer types are all the same,’ Josh went on. ‘It’s a law of nature. They can have any woman they want, so they do. As soon as they make a conquest, they lose interest and move on to the next one. It’s a thrill-of-the-chase thing. Fun for them,’ he concluded sympathetically, ‘but not very relaxing for you, waking up each morning and wondering if today’s the day you’re going to be given the old heave-ho.’
‘And I actually said you could stay here,’ Daisy wailed, giving his knee a swipe. ‘I offered you a bed out of the sheer goodness of my heart and this is the kind of abuse I have to put up with!’
‘Not abuse. Sensible advice. You’re free to do whatever you want,’ Josh said easily. ‘I’m just reminding you what’ll happen when it all goes wrong.’
***
Having planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek, Josh had disappeared into the spare bedroom and been out for the count within seconds. Daisy, lying in her own bed gazing up at the beamed ceiling, heard him begin to snore gently through the adjoining wall.
But this wasn’t the reason she couldn’t get to sleep. Josh’s remarks were rattling round her brain like beans in a jar. Basically, Daisy admitted, because he hadn’t told her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.
High-risk men—men like Dev Tyzack—only ended up making you miserable.
Better not to get involved.
Chapter 23
The board in the front window of the village shop was plastered with a variety of notices. Baby rabbits were advertised, free to a good home. A babysitter was offering her services. Someone was desperate for a cleaner three mornings a week. Somebody else was selling their tanning bed, their Spanish guitar, and an upright freezer. One of the cottages in the village was being advertised for holiday subletting. If anyone had seen a black cat with a white smudge on her nose, missing since the beginning of February, could they please contact Fred and Eileen in Brocket’s Lane.
The bell clanged above the door as Barney entered the shop. Christopher and Colin were both in there, busily restocking the shelves and bickering amicably with each other. Today they wore matching pink and grey checked shirts, grey trousers, and pink knitted waistcoats.
‘Hey, it’s the boy Barney.’ Colin enjoyed teasing him, protesting that anyone as pretty as Barney couldn’t be straight. Even Christopher, relieved to discover that Barney wasn’t gay, was friendly towards him now. It was hard, being insecure and jealous and terrified that your young boyfriend might be persuaded to stray.
‘I was looking at the ads in the window,’ Barney began.
‘And you want to buy the Spanish guitar? Hallelujah,’ exclaimed Colin. ‘I thought we’d still be advertising that bloody thing in ten years’ time.’
‘No—’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve found Smudge.’ Christopher looked hopeful.
‘Sorry, I haven’t,’ Barney blurted out, because otherwise they could be here all day. ‘It’s about the cottage.’
Christopher and Colin looked surprised.
‘Hill View Cottage? The holiday sublet? They’re asking four hundred pounds a week for that place.’
‘I know,’ said Barney, ‘and I can’t afford anything like that. But I just thought maybe you’d know if there were any other places to rent around here. Something smaller and cheaper. Well,’ he amended, ‘quite a lot cheaper.’
Christopher pulled a face. ‘All the holiday properties cost a bomb, they’ve been chintzed and ruffled to within an inch of their lives. You wouldn’t find anything for less than two hundred a week.’
Terrific. Barney’s spirits took a dive. Since being seized by the idea this morning, he’d been counting the minutes until his lunch break, convinced that Christopher and Colin would be able to help.
‘What’s wrong with the hotel? Have they kicked you out?’ Always eager for gossip, Colin had abandoned his shelf-stacking. His eyes widened. ‘Were you caught doing something naughty?’
Barney hated to disappoint him. ‘I just wanted somewhere with a bit more room.’ Shyly, but with some pride he added, ‘For me and my girlfriend.’
‘Sweet,’ sighed Colin.
‘Well, if we hear of anything we’ll let you know,’ Christopher assured him. ‘But don’t hold your breath.’
‘In the meantime,’ Colin said brightly, ‘you’re looking a bit pale. Are you sure you wouldn’t be interested in a sunbed?’
News traveled fast in the village. At four o’clock Barney was beckoned outside by Bert Connelly, one of the hotel’s handymen.
‘Hear you’re lookin’ for a place to rent.’ Bert came straight to the point.
Startled, Barney hoped and prayed Bert wasn’t about to offer to squeeze him into his own cottage in the village, which was already full to bursting with his three lumbering farmhand sons and a wife the size of a haystack.
‘Um, well, it was just a thought.’ Please, no.
‘Only I had an idea.’ There was a meaningful glint in Bert’s eye.
‘Oh yes?’ By this time Barney was beginning to feel like Hugh Grant in Mickey Blue Eyes. Except Bert was somehow scarier than the Mafia.
‘Reckon I might be able to help you out, see.’
‘The thing is, the money—’
‘I know, I know what you young lads get paid.’ Bert tapped the side of his huge nose and drawled, ‘That’s why I thought of it. And don’t you worry, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.’
It was now or never. Summoning up all his courage, Barney blurted out, ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll stay where I am, but thanks for… well, you know, thinking of me.’ There, he’d said it. Now he wouldn’t have to share a bed with one of Bert’s sons and a couple of even more terrifying dogs.
‘Oh.’ Evidently disappointed, Bert slid a fat hairy hand into the pocket of his overalls. Pulling out a scrap of paper, he scrunched it up in his fist and shrugged. ‘Well, just a thought. Seemed a shame, little place like that standing empty. Still, never mind, eh?’
Completely wrong-footed, Barney repeated idiotically, ‘Standing empty?’
‘Oi, Bert!’ Kelvin yelled across from the van that had just trundled into view. ‘Are we goin’ to fix that fence or not?’
‘Brock Cottage,’ Bert explained, turning to go. ‘Rose Timpson’s old place, at the end of Brocket’s Lane. Not that it’s much to write home about, but I thought you might’ve been interested—all right, all right, I’m coming,’ he bawled back at Kelvin. ‘Keep yer ’air on.’ As Kelvin had only a few functioning follicles, this was probably a joke.
‘I might be interested!’ Barney’s heart leapt with hope. ‘Who’s Rose Timpson? Is that her phone number?’ It took all his self-con
trol not to grab the balled-up scrap of paper from Bert’s hand.
‘Hardly likely to be.’ Bert chuckled at the thought. ‘Dead, isn’t she? Kicked the bucket a couple of months back. Still, eighty-seven, can’t say the old bird didn’t have a good innings.’
‘Bert, get a move on, will you?’ roared Kelvin.
Happily, Bert didn’t share Kelvin’s eagerness to get the job done. ‘Place has been empty since she died, see. Trouble is, it’s a complete tip. Rubbish everywhere, needs major work doing on it. Rose’s son wants to fix the place up and sell it, but he’s stuck out on a twelve-month contract in Dubai. So at the moment it’s just sitting there doing bugger all.’ Bert shook his head slowly. ‘And like I say, it’s not as if he can rent the place out, the state it’s in. Leastways, not in the normal way, to holidaymakers and the like.’
‘Bloody hell, Bert, are you gonna stand there yakking all day?’
‘But I reckon Bobby Timpson wouldn’t say no to the chance of a bit of extra cash, like, if I told him you might be interested in takin’ the cottage on for a few months.’
‘That sounds fantastic.’ Barney could have hugged Bert. Well, almost.
‘Right then, here’s the key.’ Bert delved into his other pocket. ‘What you want to do is take a look around the place after work, then pop in to us and let me know what you think. If you’re up for it, we’ll give Bobby a ring. I’ll vouch for you, tell him you’re a good lad, and I reckon we’ll have ourselves a deal.’
***
Rose Timpson evidently hadn’t squandered her pension money subscribing to House Beautiful. She had, however, been an avid hoarder. Both bedrooms of the tiny cottage were stacked high with teetering piles of old newspapers. Pictures of cats had been cut from magazines and scotch taped to the walls of the living room. There were dead potted plants lined up along every window ledge, damp patches on the walls and dozens of used light bulbs in a big box in one corner of the kitchen. The wallpaper was awful, there was a chilly damp smell in the air, and a huge plastic chandelier coated with grime and dust dominated the minuscule bathroom.
‘See what I mean?’ Having spotted Barney making his way along Brocket’s Lane, Bert had abandoned his vast, cooked tea and ambled after him. ‘Told you it was in a bit of a state. Well,’ he amended, kicking a corner of the ratty living-room carpet, ‘quite a lot of a state. Now you’ve seen it, you might want to change your mind.’
But Barney’s eyes were shining. The cottage only smelled damp because it had been left unheated since December. Once Rose’s belongings had been moved out, the place would have real potential. During his long stays in hospital he’d watched enough episodes of Changing Rooms to know that a few gallons of fresh paint and an electric sander could work wonders. They could chuck out the awful stained carpets, polish up the floorboards, put up new curtains…
He’d never actually put up a curtain before, but maybe Mel would know how to do it.
Mel and Freddie…
‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ he told Bert.
‘Want me to ring Bobby, then?’
‘Yes please.’
Barney had been half expecting to follow Bert down to the phone box in the village, but the older man promptly produced the latest Nokia Orange and punched out the numbers.
Seconds later he was greeting Bobby Timpson as easily as if he’d just bumped into him in the pub.
Within a couple of minutes, the deal was done. For thirty pounds a week, Barney was the new tenant of Brock Cottage.
‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ he babbled when Bert passed the phone over to him.
In Dubai, Bobby Timpson sounded amused. ‘No problem. At least now I won’t have the job of clearing out all that junk when I get back.’
‘I’ll decorate it, make it look nice,’ Barney fervently promised.
‘Don’t go too mad. The place is going to need rewiring before I sell it, so don’t bother putting up a load of fancy wallpaper.’
‘Just paint,’ Barney said happily. ‘You won’t recognize the place when you next see it.’
‘Give the rent to Bert each week. He’ll keep it for me. By the way, any trouble on that score and you’ll have his lads to answer to.’ Bobby’s tone was light, but the underlying note of warning was there.
‘There won’t be any trouble, I can promise you that,’ Barney said eagerly. ‘You don’t know how much this means to me. I won’t let you down.’
Chapter 24
Lettonie was fabulous. Tara, who was feeling fabulous, gazed around the opulent entrance hall with a shiver of delight. Colworth Manor was equally posh, of course, but everyone there knew her as a chambermaid and kept asking her to do depressingly chambermaidy things like fetching more towels or scrubbing out that grate.
Suppressing a smug grin as she glimpsed her reflection in one of the long Georgian mirrors, Tara reveled in her anonymity. The maitre d’, leading them through to the sitting room for their pre-dinner drinks, had already called her ‘madam.’ And if she said so herself, she really was looking stunning tonight. Anyone seeing her and Dominic together would take them for an affluent couple, accustomed to frequenting only the best restaurants. Crikey, even her hair—slicked back tonight, instead of sticking up in its usual arrangement of chaotic spikes—looked chic.
‘I love this place,’ Tara whispered excitedly when they had been served their drinks and left in peace to survey the menu. ‘This is so great—oops, sorry!’ She clutched at her stomach, which was growling like a cement mixer.
‘Don’t apologize. You look gorgeous.’ Dominic reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. He smiled. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’
Tara’s heart overflowed with gratitude. A man being nice to her was one of her favorite things in the world. A man bringing her to a place like this, gazing lovingly into her eyes, and paying her lavish compliments was enough to make her insides go completely squirmy.
On an impulse, she leaned over and kissed him—just briefly, but quite lustfully, on the cheek. Maybe it wasn’t what chic, affluent couples did in restaurants (‘Oh God, a public display of affection, how naff!’), but she didn’t care.
Dominic didn’t seem to either.
‘You don’t know what you do to me.’ As he murmured the words, his mouth hovered tantalizingly close to her own. ‘God, Tara, you should come with an X rating, you’re so—shit!’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Tara spluttered with laughter, but Dominic wasn’t listening. Abruptly shoving her off him, he leapt to his feet, straightened his tie, snatched up his drink, and shot over to the other side of the room.
What?
Tara stared at him, wondering if this was some kind of joke. When he’d sucked in his breath and sworn like that, she’d thought he had cramp in his leg. But now he wasn’t even looking at her. For heaven’s sake, he was behaving as if she didn’t exist.
Mystified, she followed the direction of his panic-stricken gaze. The maitre d’ had just shown another couple into the sitting room and was busy taking their coats. As the middle-aged woman turned to decide where she’d most like to sit, she spotted Dominic and let out a shriek of delight.
‘Oh my goodness, I don’t believe it! Gerald, Gerald, will you look who’s here?’
Tara didn’t believe it either. Dominic, his face suddenly wreathed with smiles, crossed the room and greeted them both with apparent delight.
‘Marion, Gerald, how are you? This is such a coincidence, Annabel and I were only talking about you this morning, saying we hadn’t seen you since the wedding.’
Wedding. Oh fuck. Sliding down in her seat, Tara grabbed one of the glossy magazines from the low table in front of her, wrenched it open, and held it inches from her face.
‘Darling boy, of course you haven’t seen us! You’ve not long been back from your honeymoon.’ Marion twinkled up at Dominic. ‘Oh, b
ut what a wedding that was! Beautiful, just beautiful… I wept buckets, didn’t I, Gerald?’
You weren’t the only one, thought Tara.
‘You and Annabel must come over for dinner soon,’ Gerald jovially announced. ‘You can tell us how you’re settling into married life.’
‘It’s our thirty-second wedding anniversary,’ Marion went on, sounding smug. ‘That’s why we’ve come out tonight. But what are you doing here, Dominic?’
Sensing the older woman’s eyes flickering over her, Tara concentrated violently on the magazine, apparently riveted by a feature on barn conversions.
‘Business meeting,’ Dominic said easily. ‘I’ve been having dinner with a couple of clients. You’ve just missed them actually, they had to drive back to Taunton. I’m waiting for my taxi to arrive and take me home.’
Tara swallowed. Inside her shoes, her toes were scrunched up so much they were practically bent double. The feature on barn conversions blurred before her eyes as she listened to Dominic cheerfully telling the couple how well they were looking, how great it was to see them again, and how much he was enjoying married life. Finally, announcing that his taxi had to be here by now, he said his good-byes, kissed Marion on both cheeks, shook Gerald’s hand, and made his way out to the entrance hall.
Leaving her sitting there with an empty glass, a furiously rumbling stomach, and aching, doubled-over toes.
Over by the open fire, Marion and Gerald chatted happily, enjoyed their drinks, and slowly—very, very slowly—perused their menus.
‘Poor thing,’ Tara heard Marion whisper in that carrying way so beloved of women in their sixties. ‘See her all on her own over there, Gerald? Mark my words, that girl’s been stood up.’
Heroically, Tara didn’t react. In her head, she thought of all the things she could say. As she turned the pages of the magazine—Country Life, to add insult to injury—she mentally willed Marion and Gerald to knock back their drinks, race through to the dining room, and give her a chance to get out of here.