It was out in the small country village of Dilbury, about a fifteen-minute drive from Shrewsbury. We were surrounded by rolling green fields, not to mention the prestige of a wooded deer park that formed part of a stately home, where Lord Kirkland, an actual real-life Baron, lived. We had a magnificent church, a village pub called The Cock & Bull, a village hall, and a small post office, which doubled as the village shop and sold local produce as well as staple cupboard and household supplies. It was the kind of village that murder mysteries like Miss Marple were written about, where a neighbour might stab someone to death with a set of pruning shears for winning the coveted first place rosette for their floral display at the village show.
So now I lived here, in a quaint, typically British detached country cottage, set in its own large grounds. White-painted pebble rendering, a thatched roof, sage green painted windows, and stable front door, which sat under a small thatched canopy, gave it that chocolate-box effect that had the Americans going wild. It had been a typical “two up, two down” kind of cottage, with old beams on the ceilings, which I’d painted white. I’d done some renovation work on it, or I should say a team of builders had, as my DIY skills were non-existent. I’d had a modern, white shaker kitchen with oak block worktops put in, and a small island unit that I’d had my heart set on, even if it was only for Georgie to sit at as she drank wine while I cooked and we gossiped. Luckily the room was big enough to be a kitchen diner, so I had a nice chunky oak table and soft padded leather chairs to seat up to six people, and there was a set of French doors out onto the back patio. I had lovely views out over my huge rear garden and down towards the River Severn that meandered across the plain below me.
I’d had a green oak extension put on that side of the house, which gave me a large open bay garage, and at the back of it a decent utility room, with a door that had been knocked through the thick cottage wall to link it to the kitchen. Above the garage and utility room, accessed by an external oak staircase, was the office for my new business. Admittedly, I did most of my work on my MacBook from my favourite position on the sofa in the lounge, but the office was there for when I had client paperwork to sort or meetings to hold.
The front door of the house opened into a large hallway, from which an oak staircase rose to the first floor. I’d managed to have some much needed internal storage space built under the stairs, but I was scared to open the door in case everything fell out and I couldn’t shove it back in. I actually no longer had any idea what was even in there. To the right of the hall was my cosy lounge, complete with a log burner set into the inglenook fireplace. A summery colour palette of pink and green, along with more French doors out to the back garden, kept it light and airy, and feeling more spacious than it actually was.
Upstairs I only had two bedrooms and a bathroom set into the eaves. But the equally sized bedrooms were pretty spacious, with enough room for two decent-sized wardrobes, a dressing table, and a king-sized bed each. Then there was the petite, but perfectly formed, bathroom. With some clever planning on the bathroom fitter’s side, I’d managed to squeeze in a gorgeous mini clawfoot roll top bath under the window that overlooked the porch at the front of the house. There was obviously a toilet too, as well as a modern, made-to-look-old Victorian sink, a built-in chrome towel rail, and finally a walk-in shower. It was all set off with crisp white metro tiles, with a thin strip of luminescent glittering silver and gold tiles around the middle of the room. I loved the house. Being in my childhood bedroom and still having memories of Dad everywhere I looked was the icing on the cake. I’d adjusted to country life quite quickly, loving the tranquillity. This was home.
I’d met Georgie, who lived in Ivy Cottage, two cottages down the lane, when I’d booked Mr. Sumo in for his first bi-monthly grooming session with her. She had a custom-built log cabin built in the bottom of her garden for her business. It wasn’t like my boy had a long coat that needed shaving or trimming, but I’d discovered when he was a puppy that he adored bath time, especially having a massage and rub down, then his claws being manicured. For some reason, he’d only ever allowed my dad to do it, never me. He’d sulked terribly when Dad had died, rebuffing my attempts to pamper him, so when I’d discovered Georgie’s handily located business, I’d given it a shot. The traitorous pooch had no problem with her laying her hands on him. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you!
‘Where are you, Chubbers?’ I called as I shrugged off my coat and hung it up on the hook by the front door. He went by many nicknames, many of them fatist. His official name was Mr. Sumo, but I often used just Sumo, Mr. Su, Chubs, Chubberson, Chubberooney, and if I was feeling in an extra loving mood, Chubbalicious.
I grabbed my phone and put my handbag in one of the cubbyholes of the hall shelving unit, then headed straight for the lounge. Why I spoke to him, I had no idea. I suspected all pet owners did it, though I was sure many would deny it. And as to where he was, well that was a stupid question anyway. He’d be where he always was, curled up on his favourite armchair by the fire. It was the best seat in the house, whether the log burner was going or not. I smiled as I headed in and found him exactly where I’d expected. Most dog owners got greeted at the door with wagging tails, excited barks, and licks of enthusiasm. I had to go find him, only to receive a single raised eyebrow and a disapproving “where the hell have you been” look that made his already miserable face look even worse. Oh, and a few measly grunts and snuffles.
‘Hello, Chubbalicious, how’s your day been?’ I asked as I scratched his head, making him close his eyes and grunt loudly. That was the closest I got to any kind of appreciation from him. But despite all of his failings, and his seriously rank breath and gassiness, I kind of loved the ugly gold and white mutt.
I sat on the arm of the chair and continued to scratch behind his ears while I filled him in on my afternoon from hell. Pandemonium had broken out when Rachel had started crying, with Julia, the bestower of soon-to-be bridesmaid dress number ten, berating me for my lack of tact. The other bridesmaids had all obviously been lying as they tried to convince Rachel that her colour scheme was gorgeous and … unique. There was no discounting the second part of that statement, that was for sure. With only two weeks to go before the wedding, it was too late to have the custom-made dresses changed now, and no amount of dye was going to dull the garish colours. So, with no other option, everyone had convinced her it was a marvellous theme and she soon perked up, though she shot me the odd daggered look as I kept myself out of everyone’s way before sneaking out early.
‘Sumo!’ I groaned, quickly reaching up to cover my nose as I screwed my eyes shut. My God, his farts could melt your eyeballs. I coughed, then started to gag, choking on the foul-smelling odour as I quickly stood up and scuttled away to minimum safe distance, which in this case was right out here in the hall. ‘Jesus, what do they put in that dog food of yours?’
He responded with a grumble, then there was a thud and the sound of him shuffling across the plush cream carpet. Mention food and it was the fastest you ever saw him move, if you could call his pace fast, that was. He waddled past me in the hall, panting like he’d just run a marathon or had some aggressive doggie-style action, and headed straight through the kitchen and out to the utility room to plonk himself down by his empty bowls. I followed him in and he nudged my hand out of the way, as he always did, before I’d had time to empty the can of chunks, smothered in doggy gravy, into his bowl, resulting in a load of it landing on his head. Completely nonplussed at his gravy hat, he devoured his meal with noisy gulps, belches, and grumbles of what I could only assume was pleasure. Chunks of meat went flying over the side of the bowl onto the wisely placed wipeable mat underneath, protecting my floorboards from his messy eating. After chasing the errant morsels around with his tongue, he sat back with a loud belch that rumbled up from his tummy as he lifted his back paw to scratch behind his ears, then leaned down to lick his doggie bits a little too enthusiastically.
‘See, this is why you’re single,’
I reminded him with a shudder as I headed into the kitchen to make myself a much needed coffee. ‘What fancy lady pooch is ever going to want to date you when you have those sort of table manners, not to mention the amount of gas you expel?’
As if on cue, he let out a rare bark and rose a few inches in the air, startling himself and me in the process, as he let rip another odious fart.
‘Jesus,’ I groaned, pulling my top up to cover my mouth and nose.
How the hell a fart that long and bubblingly loud could take the culprit by surprise was beyond me. I looked down as I heard the pitter-patter of his claws on the oak floor, and he wobbled his way past, heading back to his armchair for an after-dinner nap. Not even so much as a glance up at me to say thank you.
‘You’re welcome!’ I yelled in a muffled tone as I tried to escape the blast zone by darting back into the hall. Dogs, they were as bad as men!
Chapter Two
Dress Nine
August
‘COME ON, SUMO, WALKIES,’ I called from the lounge door, waving his lead. He lifted his head and eyed me over the arm of his chair, as if suspicious my motives for rousing him from his sleep were genuine. When he saw the lead, he yawned and had a gentle stretch before making a meal out of getting up, then trying to ease himself off the chair. He put out a paw, then retracted it, and repeated the move again and again as he stared at the floor, performing some kind of doggie hokey cokey. ‘Come on, it’s hardly an abseil over the edge of a canyon. You have no trouble when it’s time for dinner.’
I giggled as I was rewarded with an immediate response to his favourite word and he threw himself down, landed with a thud and ambled over. As I was going to be out for the rest of the day and was paranoid about leaving the dog flap unlocked when I was out, he needed some fresh air, as well as a tinkle and poo.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I warned, crouching to grab him as he tried to shuffle past to the kitchen. ‘Walkies.’
He sulked as I clipped his lead to his studded brown leather collar. I shoved my front door keys in the back pocket of my jeans, grabbed the invoices I needed to mail and a poop bag, then yanked open the stiff front door to a gorgeously sunny summer’s day, even at nine-thirty in the morning. After much coaxing, I got him to walk the few paces out onto the stone doorstep before he promptly sat down and looked up at me expectantly as I wrestled the front door shut.
‘I know, I know, it’s not like we haven’t been doing this for years,’ I sighed, as I grabbed the long metal handle attached to a skateboard parked at the side of the porch and pulled it around to line up with the raised flagstone. Sumo immediately stepped onto it, then plonked his arse back down, his fat pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as his eyes shot back and forth, surveying his domain. ‘Ready?’ I asked, and he gave me his “I was born ready” look.
I hooked his lead over the handle, on the off chance he decided to make a run for it, then started walking up the path, pulling the skateboard along behind me. I knew we were the joke of the village. The twenty-something spinster with the dog that went for a walk without actually walking. But I’d tried everything, he just wouldn’t walk unless he had to. I’d never met anyone as stubborn as this dog. And being stuck indoors all of the time wasn’t healthy for him. So “walkies” consisted of him sitting on his arse as I tugged him along on this contraption Dad had made for me, which had required me adding an “extension” to the sides of the skateboard for Sumo’s ever expanding overhang to rest on. Granted, pulling him around the nicely tarmacked pavements of the town centre route I used to take him on had been far easier than the rough country lane I lived on now, but I’d had someone adapt it with shock-absorbing suspension and all-terrain wheels. It was like a gym workout for me, without the extortionate fees. I cursed out loud as I caught my arm on the holly tree, which was overhanging my front path. I assumed it had been here longer than the cottage, and was what had inspired the name “Holly Cottage.” I glanced down to see a white mark where one of the vicious leaves had marred my skin. Luckily it wasn’t bleeding, that wouldn’t have been a good look in my sleeveless dress. We headed out through the ornate black metal gate and onto the lane, and I turned to pull it shut.
‘Morning, Abbie, and a fine one it is at that,’ came my neighbour David Jones’s voice. I was really fond of the elderly couple next door. They were like surrogate parents to me, but they could both talk the hind legs off a donkey about nothing. Today I really didn’t have time to waste. I had a taxi booked to take me to the bride’s parents’ house so I could get ready there.
‘Morning, David.’
‘Taking Sumo for his walk?’ he chuckled, as he leaned over his gate and angled his head around his hedge to look at us both, as if he’d been expecting us. Nothing happened in this village without everyone finding out. And his wife, Daphne, was the most ardent collector of all the news.
‘Just popping to the post office. Do you need anything?’
‘We’re fine, thanks. Georgie did our shopping in Welshpool yesterday, isn’t it,’ he replied. I was Shropshire born and bred, and proud of it, but I still hadn’t worked out this bizarre colloquialism of adding a random “isn’t it” to the end of sentences. It didn’t make sense, and there was no pattern to when you did, or didn’t, add it.
‘Is Daphne still ok to come and check on Sumo tonight?’
‘That she is. Where is it you’re off to again?’
‘A wedding.’
‘Not yours, still single then?’
‘Yes,’ I sighed with a quick and discreet roll of my eyes, as he reached up to pull his tweed cap a bit lower to shield his eyes from the sun. Being reminded by the villagers on a daily basis was getting really old. ‘I’m sorry, David, but I’m going to have to hurry to make it to the post office and back, as I need to fit in a quick pamper session before I leave. I can’t be late.’
‘You’ll be wanting to trim that bush of yours, it’s getting out of hand.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I looked at him wide-eyed, wondering if I’d just heard him correctly. I knew I hadn’t had a wax in a while, but how did he know that?! I tried to remember when I’d last worn a bikini to sunbathe in the garden, where there was a remote possibility that he might have noticed some stray hairs if he’d been hanging out of his bedroom window using a pair of binoculars with a telescopic lens, with the sole purpose of muff spotting. But with our usual wet summer weather, I was drawing a blank.
‘Your bush, it’s looking a bit of a mess. Might take someone’s eye out if it’s not tended to soon. Too much for me to handle, I’m not much good unless it’s already neatly trimmed and has some sort of shape for me to follow. I know a fella who won’t mind getting right in there, head first, isn’t it. He’s even got a qualification in it.’
‘In … bush trimming?’ I squeaked. What bizarre world had I woken up in this morning, where my “been drawing a pension for over two decades” neighbour was openly discussing the state of my fanny hair and factoring me out to local muff-diving stud?
‘Hmmm,’ he confirmed with a nod. ‘My big purple plums were hanging too low, Daphne swung around too fast the other day and got smacked in the face by them, ended up at casualty with a black eye, isn’t it. He soon came round and sorted them out for me as well. By God, he’s multi-talented, and easy on the eye, too,’ he winked.
‘He swings both ways?’ That was all I needed, a blind date with a bisexual romancer of the elderly. This guy was sounding like a real catch. Not.
‘Swings? No, he doesn’t do swings. Just carpentry, bushes and trees, mowing and the like, isn’t it. He’ll even do your overgrown hedge while he’s at it, as I know how busy your job keeps you. I’ll tell him to pop by one day this week for you.’
‘Oooh, you were talking about my holly bush, about sending a gardener around.’ I breathed a sigh of relief, cursing my overactive imagination.
‘What other bush needs trimming? He’ll do them all. Very reasonably priced. And he’s single,’ David added, giving m
e a poignant look.
‘Awesome,’ I replied with a sinking feeling of dread. I’d stopped accepting recommendations from some of the well-meaning busybodies in the area. All of the blind dates they’d fixed me up on had been disasters. ‘I really must go, David. Nice to see you. Don’t forget to remind Daphne about Sumo tonight, she knows where the spare key is. And I’ll see you for Sunday lunch at mine tomorrow.’
He gave me a salute and disappeared back behind his hedge as I yanked on the handle and got Sumo’s ride moving. Jesus, and people thought life in the country was dull.
‘Bisexual romancer of the elderly,’ Georgie chuckled, after I’d recounted my morning during the taxi ride to Rachel’s family home, situated in Kingsland, the posh part of Shrewsbury, of course.
‘Honestly, I swore we were having an entirely different conversation. And as for the “he’s single, easy on the eye,” comment, I’ll believe that when I see it. Do you know any single, good-looking gardeners in our parts? If so, I’d have thought you’d have been all over that action already.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she replied with a shake of the head, then pulled a slight face.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered, reaching over to grab her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Georgie was all talk, but took after me with no action. She’d been engaged only five months ago, before she found out he was cheating on her with one of The Cock & Bull barmaids. Quite apt really, turned out Greg was a cock, and totally full of bullshit. One minute she’d been talking about her own wedding, which would have taken me one step closer to the dreaded thirteenth dress, the next she was in puddles of tears, having broken it off and kicked him out. ‘Still hurts, huh?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ she replied with a forced, but brave, smile. Never having been in love, I couldn’t even begin to imagine putting myself in her shoes, but I’d seen how devastated she’d been. I’d been the one to try and help her pick up the pieces and get through it. And the well-meaning Joneses too. They really were a sweet old couple, as long as you didn’t spill your deep, dark secrets to them. Daphne never meant to be malicious, but always forgot what she’d been told to keep quiet. Not that I had any secrets in my closet, my life so far really had been dull.
Never the Bride (Dilbury Village #1) Page 2