“I don’t have a problem with it, but why should it matter if I take a partner or not?”
“Because then I can deduct your ‘plus ones’ from the invitees.” Mel took her crystal-covered biro and scrawled out the writing next to Bea’s name and then Tom’s on her spread sheet.
Bea scowled at her sister. What was she on about? She looked at her dad for a clue.
“Mel and Joyce have got a little enthusiastic with their invitations and Grant has finally put his foot down.”
“Not Grant,” Mel groaned. “Dad’s the one being selfish.” She pulled a face at him. Bea could remember when that princess-look of hers used to work, but she must have been all of five years old at the time. She tried not to be irritated with her sister.
“Thank you, Melanie,” Joyce snapped, coming through to the living room carrying a tray of biscuits. “I think your father is being perfectly reasonable about this.” She looked Bea up and down. “You’ve got here then? I thought we said ten-thirty, not eleven o’clock,” she said pointedly looking at her watch. “I do have a list of items to work through today, Beatrice. We can’t all be spending time wallowing.”
Bea ignored her and sat down, soothed by her father’s glare in Joyce’s direction as he left the room. She knew he’d have a go at her stepmother when she’d left, but a part of her wished he’d do it in front of her. Just for once.
“Melanie tells us she’s inviting that handsome chap, Luke, is it, and his model girlfriend. So you and Tom will have to team up. I won’t have any argument on the matter.” She hesitated for a moment. “Although I do think that refusing to allow any more than one hundred people in the marquee is probably a little too conservative, Eric. Your precious lawn will grow back if we do decide to hire a larger marquee,” she shouted over her shoulder in the general direction of his study, where Bea presumed her father must now be working.
“I think a hundred guests are more than enough,” Bea said. “You can’t have that many friends, and neither side have large families, do they?”
“Beatrice, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,” Joyce snapped, pursing her lips together and raising her chin in her usual aggressive manner when anyone dared to disagree with her. Bea remembered when she was little being terrified of this woman, until she saw Annabel stand up to her and give her hell. Bea smiled to herself. That was the night when Annabel told Joyce and her father that Bea would be moving in with her for good. It had been the happiest day of her life, until her wedding day.
“Are you listening to me?”
Bea blinked and tried to recall what Joyce had been saying. “Of course.”
“You’ve had your big day and I won’t allow you to try and ruin your sister’s, whatever misguided loyalties you might have about that date.”
Bea shook her head and glared at Mel. “It was hardly a tantrum. But I do think out of all the days Mel could have chosen for her wedding, Aunt Annabel’s first anniversary is a bit insensitive.”
“You’re so selfish.” Joyce pursed her thin lips together. “You’ve always thought more about that old woman than you did anyone else.”
“You wonder why?” Bea murmured under her breath.
Her father returned to the room. “What’s all this shouting about?” He looked over at Joyce, who for once closed her mouth and didn’t answer. “I told you that I wanted this to be a calm chat and let’s keep it that way. I want Mel’s day to be a perfect at yours was, Bea,” he said, ignoring Joyce’s badly concealed moan. “I agree the date is a little unfortunate, but it’s booked now and maybe it’s not such a bad thing to have something happy for us all to focus on for the ninth of May.”
“Maybe,” Bea said, unconvinced, especially because she was the only one who’d actually had any affection for Aunt Annabel. She suspected her father had a soft-spot for her aunt, but never showed it as Joyce seemed so sensitive about Annabel being Bea’s mother’s sister and a reminder that Joyce wasn’t the first woman he’d loved in his lifetime. But not wishing to give her father more grief than he suffered most days, she nodded. “Mel tells me she’s come up with a suggestion for you to keep Simon away from the house?” he added.
“Yes, an injunction, but he’s retaliated by getting his lawyers to send me a letter threatening a court date on the tenth of May.”
“Probate ends on the tenth of May,” her father said quietly. “He doesn’t waste any time, does he?”
“No, but I suppose whatever happens it’ll be a relief to get it all finalised at last.”
“Have you been to the bank yet?” Bea nodded. “No luck then?” Bea chewed her lower lip and shook her head. “Never mind, you’ll have to keep trying. You know I would help if I could.”
Joyce stood up. “Don’t you dare say if it wasn’t for this wedding, Eric.”
“I wasn’t going to, Joyce. This wedding might be expensive, but even this couldn’t pay for half the worth of that house.”
“Yes, well some people don’t know when they’re well off, do they?” Joyce snapped, giving Bea a pointed glare. “You sister doesn’t have a house of her own yet.”
“Mum, stop it,” Mel said, slamming down her biro. “Annabel was nothing to me. She was Bea’s mum’s sister, so why would she include me in her will? Honestly, you do irritate me sometimes.”
Bea didn’t know who must looked more stunned at her sister’s uncharacteristic outburst at her mother; her, her father or Joyce. When no one spoke, Mel took hold of one of Bea’s wrists. “Look at your hands, Bea,” she said, turning over her hand and inspecting Bea’s ruined nails. “A farmer would have better manicured fingernails than you.”
“I doubt that somehow,” Bea said. “But I promise I’ll get a manicure before your wedding.” She thought it was the least she could do. “Do you want to come with Shani, Paul and me to a Winter Fayre this afternoon after we’ve finished here?”
“She’s not going anywhere until we finalise these arrangements,” Joyce snapped.
Mel thought for a moment then smiled. “Oh God, go on then. Where is it?” she added, without looking up.
“It’s such a gorgeous day and the Fayre is in Gorey Village near Shani’s parent’s house. Her mum is the Chairwoman of the Women’s Voluntary Guild, or something like that, as I’m sure you’ll remember. Shani phoned me last night and asked if I could muster up some helpers.”
Mel glanced up at her. “What would we have to do? And why does she need us to help? I thought her mum is the most organised person in the entire cosmos.” She smiled at her mum. “Apart from you, of course.”
“Apparently, there was a monthly lunch party that most of them attended at one of their homes and it seems like they’ve been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Mel laughed in disbelief.
“Well, you know food poisoning.”
“Sounds strange to me,” Joyce said.
“There’s nothing sinister about the request, her mum just needs helpers for two of the stalls. She’s managed to persuade her cousin Paige and her fiancé Jeremy to help, so I can’t really say no, now can I?”
Bea would really rather have not bothered to go either, but she liked Paige and knew that if she had been roped in then Shani would be in her mother’s bad books if she didn’t go. Even so, she thought, she wished her friend would stop feeling she had to take charge of her all the time, especially when she had so much DIY to get on with, however she didn’t mention her thoughts to Mel and waited to see if she would agree to go.
“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Bea’s dad said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You two should get going. We’ve agreed that we won’t be hiring a larger marquee, we know your plus one and Tom’s are being removed from the list and by the time we’ve pruned the deadwood,” he raised his voice a little, “and Joyce realises our neighbours from twenty years ago do not need an invitation, then I think the numbers should tally pretty well. We can discuss this again later in the week.”
“Put like that,” Mel shrugg
ed, “How can I refuse? Grant’s busy anyhow and these damn wedding preparations are stressing me out. I need to get away from them for a bit.”
“It’ll probably do me good to have time away from the smell of paint and white spirit.” Bea smiled, relieved to have a reason not to spend any more time in Joyce’s company.
“Look at all the cars already parked here,” Bea said as she tried to figure out where she should park her dusty car. The only space she could see was between two shining Mercedes and, with her lousy parking she thought it preferable to draw up on the roadside instead.
“What is it about bangers that people never bother to wash them?” Mel looked back at Bea’s ancient Mazda.
“I daren’t,” Bea joked. “The thing would fall apart if you wet all the rust.”
Having been given their orders for the day, Bea led the way to their pitches. It never ceased to amaze her how Shani, with her toned features, had such a matronly mother. Mrs Calder’s robust frame was supported by such short legs and ankles that Paul cruelly insisted any young oak would be grateful for and nothing at all like her daughter’s. Her steel grey hair, pulled back into a tight chignon, framed the powdered face with beady black eyes that never missed a trick and pursed cherry matt-red lips Bea was sure had never uttered a gentle word to anyone.
“Step to it,” she bellowed. “I want these stalls ready for visitors as soon as you can. No point in wasting time.”
“Blimey,” said Mel, indicating the elderly women scuttling around the room answering Mrs Calder’s orders. “This lot are terrified of her.”
“Aren’t you?” Paul laughed. “I wouldn’t cross the old bag.”
“Hey, that old bag is my mother.” Shani punched him on his shoulder. “Only I’m allowed to criticise her and don’t you forget it.”
“I can see who the next generation of old bags will be led by,” he laughed, before running off with a tray of cakes he’d been supposed to take to an old lady’s stall.
“Steady on, young man,” Mrs Calder’s voice bellowed across the room. Voices hushed and Bea giggled as Paul stopped messing about and mouthed an apology.
“So, you all understand. Melanie and Paul, you are to man the second-hand bookstall and Beatrice and Shani you can have the preserves.” Mrs Calder pointed to the rickety trellis tables laden with jam filled jars of all shapes and sizes.
“Come along then, jump to it. Lady Dulbury will be arriving in half an hour to open the fayre. I need you all to make sure your stalls are immaculate and presentable and don’t forget one of you needs to be in charge of tying the moneybag round your waist. You’ll find more than enough change in them, so do be careful not to lose them. At some point today a photographer from the Gazette will be here to cover the event and I don’t want any of you letting the side down.”
“Whose bright idea was it to help out today?” whispered Paul behind his hand to Bea. “I’d rather be moping by myself than being bossed around here.”
“I’m not deaf,” Shani said, her voice quiet. “Now stop messing about and come with me.”
“If you’re not careful you’re going to morph into your mother,” Paul giggled ignoring her. Mel grabbed his wrist and dragged him to their stall.
“No. No. No, Mrs Baxter, not like that.” Mrs Calder pounded over to the cake stall, her sensible brogues slapping the hard earth lawn where the poor white-haired old lady fumbled with a disintegrating Victoria sponge.
“Quick, let’s look busy,” Shani said, frantically tidying up their stall.
Bea didn’t argue. She nudged her gently. “You must take after your dad.” She raised a playful eyebrow.
“Thankfully, I think I do. Do you know, when I was small I was sure I was adopted and even had the guts to ask her once.”
“Phew, that’s brave,” laughed Bea at the thought of it. “What did she say?”
“Nothing, she told me not to be so rude and sent me to my room without any supper.”
They were mid-titter when Shani’s mother noticed and made her way back over to their stalls. “I presume by the chit chat that you two are satisfied with your presentation?”
“Yes.” They nodded, almost standing to attention and trying not to laugh.
She surveyed the trestle table and all that it held for a few seconds before sighing loudly, her whole body quivering as if to emphasize her concerns. “It’ll have to do, I suppose. You are amateurs after all, and I must be grateful for whatever help I can find today.” She clapped her hands together and marched off once more to check on the others.
The jostling and elbowing in front of their stall slowly began to subside. “We’ve all done extremely well, don’t you think?” Shani shouted from the middle of the hall three hours later.
“Most of our jars have been sold,” Bea said to Shani proudly. “Even the boxes hidden under the table to restock are almost gone.” Bea looked down at her own bag containing two jars of damson and raspberry jam she’d bought for herself and her parents. “I’ll just pop these last few jars on the stall, see if we can sell them too,” she said. Sensing someone there, she stood up, arms full of jars, and placing them on the table, asked, “Can I help you?”
Luke held a carrier bag full of books. “Yes, please,” he said.
EIGHTEEN
Mole Hills
Startled by his voice, Bea looked up, knocking over two of the jars. “Hell,” she said, as he instinctively reached to catch them before they hit the ground.
Luke smiled at her, his eyes sending signals through her entire body as she hurriedly tried to think of a reply. “Well done,” she said, impressed by his instinctive reactions.
“Well?” he asked, waiting for a reply.
Bea frowned. “Sorry?” Why did she find it so hard to stay focused when he was around?
Luke shook his head. “Can I buy a couple of pots?”
“Of course you can, as much as you like,” she said, unable to stop her lips drawing back into a wide smile. “Anyway, what are you doing here? I wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of thing.”
He looked around at the other stalls. “I could say the same to you. However, my excuse is that this is my parent’s home and my mother is on the Committee with that old battle-axe over there.” He inclined his head in Mrs Calder’s direction.
Bea leant towards him, “Lower your voice,” she whispered. “She’s Shani’s mother.”
Bea laughed when Luke’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his fringe. “Poor girl. Doesn’t take after her though, does she?”
“No, thankfully not,” Bea giggled. “So, do you always help out at these things then?”
He shook his head and shuddered. “No, only when they’re held here, which thankfully is only once a year. My mother always asks me to hang around to help with any heavy carting about, and I don’t really mind. It’s a bit of fun, and I’m usually paid with a couple of ciders from that stall, and Jersey Wonder’s from over there,” he said, indicating a converted ice-cream van behind him.
“What a surprise,” Leilani said, suspicion souring her voice. “When Luke suggested I come here today, he didn’t mention you might be working here, Beatrice Potter. Isn’t it delightful how we keep on bumping into each other? I suppose we have to expect it on this tiny island of yours.”
Bea forced a smile, determined to be pleasant. “Leilani, have you been enjoying the fayre?”
“It seems a little more interesting now I’ve seen you’re here. I thought there would only be old ladies fighting over tea cosies, or whatever you call those horrible knitted coats for teapots,” she said, approaching Luke and snaking her arms through his like a particularly clingy feline. “Lukey,” she said, raising an immaculately sculptured eyebrow in what Bea presumed was supposed to be a sexy look. “Your mother asked me to find you. She needs you in the other room to help re-arrange some tables.” She turned back to Bea. “I gather the afternoon teas are more popular than they had anticipated.” She took one of his hands in both of hers and began
pulling him towards the house. “Ta, ta, Beatrice,” she said over her shoulder in a mock English accent.
Bea ignored her and caught Luke’s eye. He mouthed an apology and smiled at her before following Leilani.
“God, I hate that rotten cow,” Shani said from behind her. “Hey, I’m thirsty, do you mind holding the fort for a bit?” she asked, crossing her legs as only someone expert in yoga could manage. “I can get us some lemonade after I’ve visited the Ladies room.”
“Not at all, off you go.” Bea watched as Shani walked off, wondering what was different about her.
“Young lady,” said a tiny old woman in front of her. “Please can you help us?” Bea nodded, hoping Shani wouldn’t be long with that drink. Her throat was parched, and she wished she’d thought to bring a bottle of water along with her for the afternoon. “We’ve just enjoyed the most delicious afternoon tea and were told that the jam they served with the scones is being sold on this stall. But we can’t decide between the strawberry and the damson.”
“How about buying one of each?” Bea asked, giving them her brightest salesman smile.
“We only want one jar each though,” the shorter of the two women replied.
“Well, why not buy a different one and if you have a spare container at your home you can take half each out of the jars and swap,” she said, holding up two jars.
After a few more minutes of debate they did as she had suggested and she gratefully handed each one a jar and took their coppers. “This bag is heavy,” she said to Paul and Mel when they came over to join her and see how she’d done. “Why can’t people use pound notes instead of all these coins, and most of them are coppers? You’d think they’d be pleased to still have pound notes over here. I don’t know why they stopped them in the UK.” Bea stepped from one foot to the other to try and alleviate her aching feet. Raking her hands through her hair, she pushed it back off her flushed face. Where was Shani with those drinks?
A Jersey Kiss (Jersey Romance Series) Page 20