by Jill Mansell
“Not much farther,” said Kate, pushing her hair back from her face as they reached the brow of the hill and the wall of trees ahead of them came into sight. “Norris, you really are hopeless. It hasn’t even been two miles yet.”
By the time they reached the entrance to Hillview, Norris had had more than enough. When Kate stopped walking he sank down onto the grass verge with a grunt of relief. The road was deserted in both directions. The sun blazed relentlessly down. Norris’s tongue, attractively, was lolling sideways out of his mouth.
“Two miles,” Kate told him. “Well done, you. One day you’ll have more muscles than Schwarzenegger.”
Then, turning, she gazed once more at the battered sign, half hidden by ivy. She hadn’t deliberately planned this, not really deliberately. If Norris had been skipping along like a spring chicken, more than happy to set off back home, then that’s what they would have done. But seeing as he was on his last legs and clearly desperate for a drink, well, it would be cruel to deprive him. And where was the harm, anyway, in knocking on Pauline McKinnon’s front door to ask for a bowl of water? The advantage of calling on someone who was a recluse was that they were bound to be home. She could talk to Mrs. McKinnon, casually ask her how Kerr was doing these days, maybe hear some news about him.
And if the woman was so reclusive she refused to answer the door, Kate remembered there had been a decorative stone water trough and a small pond to the side of the house years ago. Since they were unlikely to have been removed, Norris could still have a drink.
Norris groaned when she attempted to pull him to his feet. Bending over, Kate hauled him up into her arms—God, he weighed a ton; it was like carrying the world’s fattest baby—and headed up the bumpy, weed-strewn driveway.
Her heart leaped into her mouth as she rounded the last bend and saw the car parked on the gravel. A gleaming midnight-blue Mercedes—surely this was the one that had passed her that day on Gypsy Lane. Oh, good grief, Kerr must actually be here now, in the house, visiting his mother…
With adrenaline swooshing through her body—whether it was due to terror or excitement, she couldn’t tell—Kate clumsily shifted her hold on Norris, freeing one of her hands just enough to be able to comb her fingers frantically through her hair and rub the beads of perspiration from her upper lip. She really hadn’t been expecting this, but was it such a bad thing to have happened? Maybe it was fate bringing them together today. Maybe they were meant to meet again, and when Kerr saw her, he wouldn’t even notice her scars…
OK, so maybe that was a fantasy too far—not even Stevie Wonder could fail to notice these scars—but Kerr would see them and instantly, magically dismiss them because she was all that mattered; her personality was what was important and he didn’t give a toss about physical imperfections.
Shit, shit, shit. Kate ground to an abrupt halt. Having ventured another twenty yards up the drive, she was now able to see a second car parked behind Kerr’s Mercedes. A silver Saab.
A silver Saab, silver Saab—the wheels were clicking in Kate’s brain. She’d seen it before, parked in the Main Street outside—God, outside Jake Harvey’s workshop. But this made no sense. Why would it be parked here now? Either Pauline McKinnon had just died and Jake was measuring her up for one of his bespoke coffins, or Jake and Kerr were gay, conducting a furtive homosexual affair.
Creeping up the driveway, taking care not to crunch the gravel, Kate lowered her face to Norris’s fat neck and shushed him before he could even think of betraying her with a bark. Approaching the house, she veered away from the front door and headed over to the long sash windows of the sitting room. Her pulse was thundering now, crashing against her ribs. If the silver Saab belonged to Jake, what on earth could he be doing here?
Breathing shallowly, Kate reached the sitting room window at last. Clutching Norris tightly in her arms, she half knelt, half crouched in the untended flower bed and peered inside.
What she saw made her cry out in disbelief.
The sitting room was empty, but the house was narrow, longer than it was broad, with a clear view, via the two sets of windows at the front and back of the house, through to the backyard.
And there was Kerr, not with Jake Harvey at all, but with Maddy.
With with Maddy, that much was self-evident. Feeling as though she’d been punched in the stomach, Kate realized that what she was seeing here was a couple who were, without question, a couple.
Maddy was wearing a pink bikini. She lay on her front on a green-and-blue-striped towel, smiling at something Kerr said as he massaged suntan lotion into her back. Suddenly twisting around and seizing the bottle of Evian at her side, she squirted water at Kerr. He in turn grabbed her, pinning her down and tickling her until she shrieked for mercy. Still rooted to the spot, Kate watched him kiss Maddy, and Maddy’s arms winding around his neck. Kerr, wearing only dark glasses and a pair of white shorts, was as tanned and athletically constructed as she remembered. His hands were roaming over Maddy’s back… God, it was almost impossible to take in, Kerr McKinnon and Maddy Harvey, cavorting together in the yard.
More to the point, where was Pauline McKinnon while all this was going on?
Stunned but realizing that she could hardly stroll around to the back of the house and ask them, Kate slipped away from the window and headed back down the driveway. Norris weighed a ton, but she didn’t dare put him down. Spotting the lily-strewn pond, he began to whimper pathetically, but Kate ignored him. Maddy and Kerr. It was unbelievable. Surely Marcella couldn’t know about this.
Feeling hotter and wearier than ever, Kate reached the bottom of the drive and unceremoniously plonked Norris down on all fours. Norris promptly lay down in the road and closed his eyes, tongue lolling and baggy jowls drooping in defeat.
So much for fantasies. With a sigh, Kate pulled out her cell phone and called a taxi company to come pick them up.
* * *
At nine thirty on Sunday morning, Dexter Nevin was outside the Fallen Angel watering his hanging baskets when he heard footsteps coming down the road. Swiveling around on his ladder, he saw the answer to his prayers heading along the Main Street toward him.
Well, let’s face it, he was desperate.
“Morning.” Dexter’s mouth twitched at the look of disdain Kate shot him. Her face might be less than perfect, but she had an enviable figure, he’d say that much for her; in low-slung khaki cargo pants and a tiny, white cropped top, she moved like a catwalk model. Lithe, that was the word he was after. Maybe even slinky. Shame about the stroppy manner, but beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers.
“Morning.” Kate’s reply was cool.
She was on her way to the shop, Dexter guessed, to pick up the Sunday papers.
“You know, I could do you a favor.”
That stopped her in her tracks.
“Sorry?” asked Kate suspiciously.
“Well, we could do each other a favor.” Dexter climbed down from the stepladder and began gathering up the coils of garden hose. “Nuala’s off work for a while—the clumsy article fell downstairs and cracked her collarbone. So”—he paused and surveyed Kate speculatively—“how about you taking her place?”
“As a barmaid, you mean?”
“Of course as a barmaid. I wasn’t actually suggesting you hop into my bed.” Dexter did his best to keep a straight face. “Then again, it’s entirely up to you, if that’s one of your conditions—”
“Let me get this straight,” Kate interrupted. “You want me to come and work for you, behind your bar, because your regular barmaid has a fractured collarbone. So, I’m sorry, but how exactly would you be doing me a favor?”
“You’re bored to tears,” Dexter said bluntly, “rattling around in that big old house up the hill. You spend all your time walking that fat dog of yours because you don’t have anything else to do. I’m telling you, it’s no life for a girl your age. A bi
t of socializing, that’s what you need. Trust me, it’d work wonders. Because moping around feeling sorry for yourself isn’t doing you any good at all.”
“Blimey, you must be desperate,” said Kate.
“Of course I’m desperate.” Dexter broke into an unrepentant grin. “I’ve asked practically everyone else in the village and they’ve all turned me down.”
Kate widened her eyes. “No. How could they? You’d think they’d be clamoring to work for someone with such a sparkling personality.”
“Ever done bar work before?”
“No, and I have no plans to start now.” Bar work, ugh. Kate suppressed a shudder of revulsion.
“Don’t you look down your nose at me,” Dexter retaliated. “You’re not tall enough, for a start.”
Indignantly Kate took a step back as he advanced toward her.
“Miss Hoity Toity,” Dexter murmured, softening the insult with a faint smile. “You think it’d be so far beneath you, don’t you? It hasn’t even occurred to you that this could be the answer to all your prayers.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, was the man on drugs? Frostily Kate said, “I promise you, it wouldn’t.”
“Trust me,” said Dexter. “Just give it a try. Today, twelve till four. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again. But I still think you might be pleasantly surprised.”
Kate hesitated. One half of her couldn’t believe she was even considering his offer. Then again, what if Dexter was right? And she was bored to tears, with nothing to do all day long other than drag Norris out on walks he passionately didn’t want to take.
“What about my face?” Blurting out the question, she forced herself to meet Dexter’s gaze. “Aren’t you scared I’ll frighten away the customers?”
By way of reply, he stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle. Moments later, the bedroom window above him was thrown open and Nuala, clearly used to being summoned like a dog, popped her head out.
“Now you see why I asked you.” Dexter casually indicated Nuala’s spectacular black eye and dramatically bruised forehead. “See? Compared with that, you’re Nicole Kidman.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” said Kate.
“Ooh, are you going to be our new barmaid?” Hanging precariously out of the window, surrounded by a picturesque tangle of wisteria, Nuala looked delighted.
“She hasn’t said yes yet,” Dexter announced. “I’m still working my mysterious magic on her.” And he surveyed Kate with an expression of such infuriating self-confidence that for a moment she was tempted to slap him, hard.
Instead, a vision of the rest of her day intervened, hours and hours of boredom stretching endlessly ahead, and Kate found herself saying, “OK, just this once. I’ll give it a go.”
“There you are.” Dexter nodded with satisfaction. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Against her better judgment, Kate found herself smiling. Shaking her head in disbelief, she murmured, “Mysterious magic indeed.”
“Didn’t think I had any, did you? You see, that’s what makes it so mysterious.” As he wound up the last of the garden hose, Dexter winked at her. “Works every time.”
Chapter 22
Sunday lunchtimes were one of the busiest sessions of the week at the Angel. A child-friendly pub selling excellent food, it attracted customers from miles around. Following a crash course in pouring pints and fathoming out the till, Kate was so rushed off her feet, she barely had time to be self-conscious about her face. Occasionally, glancing up, she caught customers she didn’t know gazing at her with a mixture of pity and horror, but the regulars had grown used to her, had seen her walking Norris around Ashcombe often enough by now for the novelty of her scars to have worn off.
Much to her amazement, Kate was enjoying herself. The pointy, lace-edged sleeves of her white shirt were wrecked from dangling in the drip trays, but she’d wear something more sensible next time. On the plus side, everyone was so cheerful—apart from Dexter, of course—and friendly. But even working behind the narrow bar with someone as professionally grumpy as Dexter Nevin somehow managed to be fun. Every time he berated a hapless customer, Kate promptly berated him in return. She flatly refused to take any nonsense. In no time at all, they were like a long-established double act, and the more they bickered, the more the customers enjoyed it.
“You’ve got the knack,” said Nuala, lost in admiration. Perched on a leather upholstered bar stool with one arm in a sling and the other clutching a half-pint of lager, she was discreetly advising Kate whenever advice was required. “Stop, not Pepsi-Cola.” She lowered her voice as Kate reached for a bottle. “When someone asks for whiskey and pep, they mean peppermint. The cordial bottle next to the lime.”
“That’s disgusting. Whiskey and peppermint?” Kate made a face. “That shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Shift your fat bottom. Let me squeeze past,” bellowed Dexter, carrying four brimming pints of Blackthorn.
Using the steel tongs, Kate picked a cluster of ice cubes out of the ice bucket and deftly dropped them down the front of Dexter’s denim shirt. His whole body stiffened, his eyes widened, but like the pro he was, he didn’t spill a drop of cider.
“I do not have a fat bottom,” Kate said clearly, “and I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that. So just stop it, OK?”
After a brief stunned silence, a cheer went up around the bar. Unable to resist it, Kate curtsied to the applauding regulars.
“Oh God.” Dexter gave a snort of disgust. “Don’t encourage her. She’ll be unbearable.”
“If you want to keep your staff,” said Kate, “try treating them with a bit of respect.”
“If you want to keep your job,” Dexter rejoined, “you’ll get this ice out of my shirt.”
“I think you’re forgetting who needs who here.” Blithely, Kate busied herself with the next order.
“Come here.” Standing up on her bar stool and leaning across the bar, Nuala lovingly unfastened the bottom button on Dexter’s shirt with her good hand and shook out the lumps of ice. “See? There are still some things I can do.”
Having assumed that no one else in Ashcombe would be aware of Maddy’s affair with Kerr McKinnon, Kate began to think she’d gotten it wrong. Maddy herself had only popped into the pub briefly at one o’clock to return a video she’d borrowed from Nuala. Feeling like a spy in possession of classified information, Kate had stayed in the background, stacking the dishwasher while Maddy and Nuala chatted at the bar. Maddy, looking sun-kissed in a pale yellow halter top and black capri pants, had glanced at Kate, then turned away again without saying anything. Before long, jangling silver bracelets and wafting perfume as she waved good-bye, she was off again, her departure provoking a round of good-natured joking among the locals. A couple of them pressed Nuala for details, but she just shrugged, professing her total innocence. The locals then turned their attention to Jake, who had sauntered in from the pub garden to fetch a lemonade and a bag of chips for Sophie.
“Come on, Jake. Tell us what that sister of yours is up to,” complained Alfie Archer from Archer’s farm. “Pops in for two minutes, then we don’t see her for dust. Can’t tell us there isn’t something suspicious going on. Who’s the latest lucky chap?”
“Sorry, Alfie. My lips are sealed. Not allowed to talk about it.” Gravely Jake shook his head. “Marcella’s orders. Let’s just say she’s not thrilled about Maddy’s choice in men.”
Hmm, thought Kate. Interesting.
When Dexter called time at four o’clock, Kate realized that despite the sopping wet lacy sleeves and aching feet, she had, in fact, thoroughly enjoyed herself. She almost laughed out loud when Dexter pressed a twenty-pound note into her hand—she bought lipsticks that cost more than that. Were there really people in this country who survived on wages of five pounds an hour?
“You’
re not bad,” said Dexter, which Kate realized was his way of telling her that, in barmaiding terms, she was phenomenal. “How about tonight?”
As Kate piled up the washed and dried ashtrays, she caught sight of Jake and his daughter making their way back through the pub. “Fine,” she said absently, her heart leaping with foolish anticipation. Along with most of the pub regulars, Jake and Sophie were heading over to the cricket pitch to watch the match being played out between Ashcombe’s first (and only) eleven and the team from neighboring Monkton Combe. Not wanting to go home, Kate was counting on Jake to invite her along—not because she fancied him or anything, purely because it was the kind of sociable, easygoing offer he would make. Plus, of course, it would be interesting to hear more about his views on Maddy’s liaison with Kerr.
“Seven o’clock we open,” said Dexter.
“Soph,” Jake called over his shoulder. “Come along.”
“I’m off then. See you back here at seven.” Hastily squeezing past Dexter, Kate just managed to reach the front door at the same time as Jake, Sophie, and Bean.
“Hi. Was that fun?” Jake greeted her with that devastating surfer’s smile of his and Kate’s stomach promptly disappeared.
“Not so bad. I’m working again tonight.” She prayed she didn’t sound as hopelessly out of practice as she felt. “Um…going up to the cricket?”
“That’s the plan. Soph, stay on the pavement,” Jake instructed as Sophie and the little dog raced ahead, “and don’t let Bean off the leash. That animal’s a nightmare with cricket balls,” he told Kate. “It’s her life’s ambition to disembowel one.”
Rather awkwardly, they were by this time outside the pub and Jake still hadn’t invited her to join them. Out of sheer desperation, Kate heard herself saying hurriedly, “Plenty of interest in Maddy’s new chap then, by the sound of things.”
Jake raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
“You said your mum wasn’t thrilled,” Kate persisted, pulling a face. “I’d have called that the understatement of the year.”