* * * * *
On the long walk to Timble and then back to the car to top it up with lawnmower fuel, Flick had time to do a lot of thinking. Beck had reached out to her after the picnic. He’d told her the truth about the letter when he could have lied. He’d followed her and she’d pushed him away. He’d wanted to give her another chance and she’d blown it. Maybe it was for the best. She had a feeling her life could be about to implode. Grinstead’s kept lurching into her thoughts only she hadn’t the energy to do anything about it.
Flick decided to go and dig under Jared’s lonely marker. The yellow flag signaled something lurked there, and it was about time her luck changed. She imagined herself running to Beck to tell him she’d stumbled on the lost link he was looking for, a find to make this summer’s dig his best ever. Failing that, she might be able to make the hole deep enough to bury herself.
She drove to Hartington Hall, parked out of sight and made her way through the wood toward the marquee carrying a selection of tools. Most of them had belonged to her father and been used for plastering—floats, a set of finger edging trowels, a jointing knife and a paint brush. Flick crouched down, hidden from view by a pile of wooden boards, so if Celia did come down it was unlikely she’d see her. Flick spent the rest of the day carefully digging and found nothing.
* * * * *
Beck thought Giles looked rather freaked out at the wedding rehearsal. Maybe it had only just sunk in what he’d let himself in for. He’d nipped out three times to go to the bathroom and returned smelling of smoke and alcohol. The vicar must have had pressing business he wanted to get home to, probably some TV soap, because “blah, blah” dotted the run-through like Morse code.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—blah, blah, to witness—blah, blah, by the power—blah, blah. Don’t forget the rings, best man. Ha ha.”
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Celia fussed over everything—suggesting different locations for the flowers, trying to get Willow to change the hymns, telling Giles to speak up, the vicar to speak up and Henry to shut up. Beck wanted to talk to Kirsten about Flick but he didn’t get the chance.
Giles had arranged transport to and from the Devonshire Arms at Bolton Abbey for the rehearsal dinner. Beck made sure he sat next to Kirsten.
“Is Flick okay?” he asked.
“I had a text message ten minutes ago from Josh saying Flick just got back. She did run out of petrol last night and slept in the car because she was afraid of walking over the moor in the dark.”
Beck sighed. This was such a mess.
“What the fuck is she doing building drystone walls, cleaning for Celia Hartington and pole dancing when she has a degree?” he asked.
Kirsten opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Tell me,” Beck said.
“You’ll have to ask her.”
The meal at the Devonshire Arms was declared delicious by everyone except Beck who hardly took in what he ate. Celia sat on his left and she’d spent most of the evening quizzing him about his speech, which still had to be written, though he’d assured her it was finished and no, he hadn’t said anything unpleasant about Giles and yes, it was tasteful. On his right, Airy or Mary or it might have been Fairy tried to persuade him to go to with him to her parents’ villa in the Algarve at the end of August. Once coffee arrived, Beck excused himself and went into the garden.
“Beck?”
Dina. He looked round. Sitting next to her was the guy from Yorkshire TV. Flick’s ex.
“What are you doing here?” Dina asked.
Beck wasn’t fooled. He guessed she’d overheard him talking to Isobel about where he was going. “Rehearsal dinner.”
Marcus smirked. “Has Flick provided the entertainment?”
Beck’s back stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she’d please the male half of the audience. Guess we both had a lucky escape there. I know how I’d have felt if she’d been sticking her breasts in a mouth other than mine. I mean, if you’re going out with a woman, she belongs to you, not a load of randy tossers in a strip joint.” Marcus curled a loop of Dina’s hair in his fingers.
“How do you know what Flick’s been doing?” Beck asked, then saw the look on Dina’s face.
“Did you get to fuck her before you dumped her?” Marcus asked. 221
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“What?”
“She might look good but I like my women to do more than just lie there. Fucking Flick was like shagging a rug.”
Beck strode over and yanked Marcus upright. “Funny, that’s exactly what she said about you.” The urge to slam his fist into the guy’s face rose like a red tide.
“Then why did she beg me not to leave her,” Marcus blustered and pulled free of Beck’s grip. “She emailed me constantly while I was away. She took to cyber-sex like a kid in a sweetshop. You know the first thing she did when I got back?”
“I’m not interested.” Beck unclenched his fists, turned headed for the door.
“I’ll give you a hint. The very first time I saw her again, she was half-naked in seconds,” Marcus shouted. “You ask her. She was so desperate for me.”
Beck turned and stared at him.
“Don’t worry about sex with me,” Marcus said, running his fingers down Dina’s arm. “I’ve had lots of compliments on my technique.”
Dina hesitated for a moment and then dashed for Beck. “Can I go back with you?”
“No.” He made his way down the corridor.
“Please, Beck. He’s a creep. I thought he wanted to go out with me but all he’s done is ask me about you and Flick. I don’t want to get back in his car.”
Beck sighed. He had enough upset women on his conscience. He nodded for Dina to follow and introduced her to the wedding party. Despite her protests that she’d sit in the bar until they’d finished, they gave her coffee and invited her to join them. Henry took Beck on one side. “Make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?”
“It was that or give the dragon pestering the damsel a thump in the mouth.”
“Dina seems very fond of you.”
“She’s got a crush on me.” Almost as though she’d heard, Beck saw Dina glance at him.
“And you’re not interested?”
“She’s not my type.”
“How about Flick?”
Beck stayed silent.
Henry sighed. “She’s had a very tough time.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do. But I’m going to tell you how Flick’s world fell apart.”
* * * * *
Flick had become skilled at arriving home after everyone had gone to bed and leaving before they woke the next day. Kirsten had propped a note by the kettle asking if she was okay. Flick scrawled yes at the bottom. 222
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She reached her hole in the ground before Beck’s team started and before the marquee people arrived. The previous night she’d hit something with her plasterer’s float but the light had been failing, so she’d no idea what she’d found. Now the sun was out Flick thought it could be some sort of box. The wood disintegrated as she excavated around it although she wasn’t certain it was wood. Flick worked in a slow and methodical way to expose as much as she could without damaging what she uncovered.
“What are you up to?”
She glanced up to see Henry walking toward her.
“Hi, Sut,” she called. “Digging. Is that okay?”
Henry laughed as he pretended to catch an insect in his fist and eat it. “Demon of Flies. Yes, you can dig, though no more singing reindeer, please.”
“I give in with this game,” Flick said. “I’ve run out of names. You should be on Mastermind.”
“Well thank you, Felicity.”
She sat with her back to the hedge. “Why the fascination with fallen angels?”
“I think it’s fairer to hear both sides of a story, don’t you? Since God wrote all the book
s, I decided to look at the Devil’s version. Hell’s angels turned out to be far more interesting than heaven’s.”
Flick narrowed her eyes. “I think you do it to piss off Celia.”
Henry winked. “She no longer invites the vicar round for tea. Mission accomplished.”
Flick smiled.
Henry leaned forward. “I’ve got you a job for Saturday.”
“What? Cleaning the bathrooms?”
“Pushing Gertrude around in her wheelchair once we get back from the service.”
“And Gertrude is happy about that?”
“She asked for you. Well, almost. ‘I suppose you’ll ask that crazy redhead to look after me’ were her actual words. I think she has a soft spot for you, Flick.”
So had Flick for Gertrude—buried under Lady C’s roses.
“What about Celia?” Flick asked.
“I’ve talked her round. After all, if you don’t look after Gertrude, she’ll have to. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Flick gave a small smile.
“I’ve got a few prospective purchasers who’d like to come and look at your house. When would a viewing be convenient?”
“Whenever you like. What time do you want me to be here on Saturday?”
“Around three. Will you come dressed in a nurse’s outfit?”
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“No, Henry.”
He put a pained expression on his face.
“Looks like someone’s come to see you,” Henry said, nodding over her shoulder.
“See you Saturday.”
When Flick turned, Beck stood there. Her heart jumped for joy even though she knew it was wasting its time.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“I’ve brought you some strawberries.” He offered her a bowl.
“Thank you.”
Now Flick’s heart sank. She hated strawberries. More than hated. She loathed them. They made her ill and she’d have to eat at least one. She took the bowl from his hand.
“I didn’t know about your parents. I’m sorry.”
“Why should you have?” Oh God, that came out too sharp. He looked at the hole she’d dug. “Found anything interesting?”
“A piece of wood.”
“Can I see?”
She knelt on the dust sheet she’d spread out next to the hole and Beck crouched beside her. As his arm touched hers, Flick’s breath caught in her throat. It was hopeless. She still wanted him.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You want my expert opinion based on years of study? I’d say…it’s a piece of wood.”
Flick laughed and Beck’s gaze never strayed from her mouth. “Have a strawberry,”
he said.
She picked up the smallest and put it between her lips. Flick knew he was watching. She held the fruit between her teeth and told her brain she had to chew and swallow. It wouldn’t kill her. She’d had worse things in her mouth—her lucky appendix, for a start. She wrapped her lips over the strawberry and felt the synapses flashing between her brain and her stomach. Throw up alert! Flick spat it out into her hand.
“I’m sorry, I can’t eat it.”
Beck looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like strawberries.”
He laughed. “Then why did you take one?”
“Because you’d bought them specially and I didn’t want to say no.”
He smiled and if she hadn’t been sitting, she’d have fallen. He was so cute.
“Have you always hated them?”
She answered without thinking. “Not until something bad happened.”
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“What?”
Now she’d have to tell him. “It was the day I took my final history exam at high school. Fairly stressful morning but the question of whether Peter the Great was really great, was sort of there so I’d written reams. That night I was ill. Mum and Dad heard me choking. They came into my room and thought I’d been vomiting blood. I thought I’d been vomiting blood. The room was awash with red. The Timble Chainsaw Massacre.” She laughed. “There was a bit of a panic. I panicked. Mum and Dad panicked. An ambulance came. Then one of the paramedics panicked but the other one asked Mum what I’d last eaten. She looked at him as if he was crazy, told him salad and quiche and stood there glaring. Only she didn’t know I’d spent the whole afternoon eating strawberries at a ‘Pick your own’ farm near Pudsey. We’d all tried to out-eat each other. I didn’t even bloody win, but now I can’t eat them at all.”
Beck tossed the strawberries over the hedge. “What other subjects did you do?”
“Geography and Economics.”
“So Marine Biologist was going to be quite a challenge.” He grinned at her.
“I like fish.”
“But not prawns.”
Flick winced. “I thought it was a finger.”
“What?”
“Or maybe a penis.”
Beck laughed.
“Well, not a man’s penis, obviously. It was too small, but I thought maybe if a chicken had a penis, it could have been that. It was chewy.”
“Stop right there,” he said.
“Okay.” Nerves made her gabble.
“Flick.”
She watched his Adam’s apple go up and down.
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what?”
“For being a prick.”
She smirked. “That might be difficult.”
“You drive me crazy.”
“Sorry.”
“Mostly in a good way,” Beck added.
“So do you forgive me for driving you crazy in a bad way?” she asked.
“I’m working on it.”
Flick took a deep breath. “I’m not at the club anymore.”
“I’m glad.”
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She wished he’d kiss her, but he stayed where he was.
“Are you coming here again tomorrow?” Beck asked.
She nodded. “In the afternoon. Henry said it was okay. I’m working in the morning.”
“I’ll bring you something better than strawberries.”
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Chapter Thirty-Two
Hartington Hall seethed with activity when Flick arrived the next day. Walkways had been erected between the Hall, the marquee, the portable washrooms and the car park. Canopies sheltered the paths in case it rained, their support poles decorated with flowers and lights. Inside the marquee, stiff purple cloths covered the tables and a team of people were busy attaching purple cushions to silver chairs. In the far corner, two guys inflated silver and purple foil balloons with helium. From the sound of highpitched conversation and giggling, Flick guessed those doing the inflating were aged about twelve.
When she walked around the back of the marquee to her little dig site, Flick found Willow sobbing as though her heart had been ripped out. Willow might not like her, but Flick could hardly pretend she couldn’t see.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.”
Having cornered the market in persecution complexes, Flick was afraid to ask “do what?” in case it had something to do with her.
“Don’t cry Willow. You’re supposed to be happy. You’re getting married tomorrow.” And Lady C is going to be your mother-in-law. Yes, that’s enough to make anyone howl hysterically.
“Everything’s going wrong.”
“Such as?”
“Celia is furious with me. The tablecloths are supposed to be purple,” Willow choked out.
Flick thought they were purple. She ran back to the marquee, stuck her head in and hurried back.
“They are purple. They’re pretty.”
“The wrong purple.”
Flick bit her lip and told herself to take this seriously.
“They lo
ok lovely,” she said in her best soothing voice, the one she reserved for Fluffy—though it never worked.
“But they’re not what Celia wanted.” Willow almost spat the sentence out. Flick winced. “It’s your wedding, not hers.”
Willow looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “Is it?”
“Course it is.”
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“It seems more like this will be her day. Once we said we were getting married she took over. She chose the date, food and the church, even what Giles was going to wear and Mum sided with her because she’s in awe of her.” Willow sighed. “I don’t think Celia agreed with any of my suggestions. I didn’t argue until it came to the tablecloths and we had this huge row. Celia complained to Giles and he got upset. It was horrible, so I gave in and said they could be the purple she wanted, but I was going to choose the napkins. So we made up and his mother was happy and everything was all right until today.”
It had never crossed Flick’s mind that you could argue about the color of tablecloths. On the other hand, the way Celia hijacked the wedding didn’t surprise her at all.
“So is the problem with the tablecloths or the napkins?” Flick handed Willow a tissue from her pocket.
“I ordered napkins to contrast with the tablecloths. A darker shade of purple but they’re the same. They’re going to look so ordinary on the table and I wanted them to look special. Celia thinks I’ve done it on purpose.”
“Come and show me.”
Willow took Flick back into the marquee and opened up a box of napkins. A team of workers were now putting glasses on the tables. Flick thought it all looked beautiful. Willow picked up a square of material and started to wail.
“Wait,” Flick said and started to fold the napkin. “Corner to corner. Other corner to corner. Glass in the middle. Flip over. Bend down. Pull out each little bit,” she mumbled. “Voilà. A water lily. Put something like a white flower in the middle and it will look great.”
Willow looked at it open-mouthed. Flick wasn’t sure whether she was struck dumb by her skill or appalled at the result.
“Hold on.” Flick ran out and back up to the Hall. She grabbed a series of flower heads at random—not roses—and dashed back.
Once flowers sat in the centre of the folded napkin it was transformed.
“What do you think?” Flick asked.
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