All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  ‘No, that’s okay, I have too much going on here. A wedding organizer’s work is never done’. I give a theatrical sigh before throwing a quick glance towards our still silent diva.

  ‘I don’t know about Freddy though, perhaps he’d like to go along with you.’

  ‘How about it Freddy – you up for a couple of nights in London?’ Freddy looks up, eyes shining, his sulk completely forgotten.

  ‘I can’t do two nights – the panto this year is full of bloody amateurs who can’t tell the difference between Widow Twanky and the Fairy Godmother. ‘But I think I could manage to come up on Tuesday for the day.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Tory responds with satisfaction, just as their breakfast arrives.

  ‘So, changing the subject, do either of you have anything you want to tell me?’ She’s actually staring at me, and unable to help myself, I colour up.

  ‘I knew it,’ she exclaims excitedly, ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I declare firmly, determined to keep my love life to myself for a little longer. I shut my mouth mulishly (Tory’s description), and she knows from old that she’s not going to get anywhere pushing the subject. With a small pout, she turns to Freddy.

  ‘So how about you Freddy? Anything new in the wasteland that’s been your love life for the last year and a half?’

  Freddy gives a pout of his own. ‘You know just how traumatized I’ve been since my fling with the flamenco dancer. I’m determined that any future relationships will be slow burning as opposed to a flash in the pan. No longer will I wear my heart on my sleeve.

  ‘However, since you ask, yes, Jacques and I have exchanged mobile phone numbers. But other than that peeps, my lips are sealed. You can expect an update after the wedding.’

  Tory glares at both of us, frustrated by our reluctance to spill the proverbial beans, so I decide another change of subject is in order. ‘How’s your morning sickness been?’

  Tory narrows her eyes at me, telling me she knows exactly what I’m doing, then she slumps slightly in acceptance.

  ‘It’s been much better over the last few days actually; I’m hoping I might have kicked it into touch.’ She emphasizes her new found cast iron stomach by popping a piece of toast in her mouth.

  ‘That’s brilliant. We might not be sending you down the aisle with a bucket after all. So what time do you expect to be back from London?’

  ‘We’ll be back by Wednesday lunchtime.’ She pauses, taking a quick sip of her coffee, before continuing casually, ‘Do you want to come over in the afternoon to help us put up the Christmas decorations ready for Thanksgiving supper?’

  I know the way her mind works – she’s thinking she can pump me for more information over Christmas carols.

  I stick my fork in one of her mushrooms and put it into my mouth in an echo of her earlier action. ‘I’d love to,’ I say with a knowing grin. ‘I’ll bring the moose milk.’

  Noah pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Sounds disgusting. I’m assuming it’s something alcoholic that doesn’t actually come from a real life moose?’

  I smile mischievously at him. ‘You Hollywood types don’t know everything Noah Westbrook. Moose milk is a naval specialty. I pinched the original formula from the Admiral and I think you’ll find it to be a highlight in your up to now mundane existence.’

  ‘That’s if it doesn’t kill you,’ mutters Tory moving her plate out of my reach. ‘I seem to remember my father losing three days of his life after you had that competition to find out whose recipe was the best.’

  ‘I’ve perfected mine since then,’ I protest half heartedly, ‘Made a few tweaks and adjustments so it’s not quite so…err…’

  ‘Lethal,’ interjects Freddy bluntly.

  I look indignantly at him, but before I can come up with a suitable response, my attention is taken by two paws scratching insistently at my knees. Dotty has obviously finished cleaning the floor under the table and is now ready to move on to plated food. Bending forward, I pick her up and put her into my lap.

  ‘You like Aunty Kit’s moose milk don’t you Dotspot?’ I ask softly, rubbing her head against my cheek. Tory nearly chokes on her coffee.

  ‘Don’t you dare give her any of that stuff,’ she orders, waving her knife at me. ‘You know what she’s like, the greedy little madam will eat anything.’

  ‘It’s a drink, not something to eat. And of course I won’t give her any. What kind of aunt do you take me for?’ And to emphasize my point, I give Dotty a sizeable piece of bacon fat, which of course is not a health hazard for dogs at all.

  Noah leans back with a contented sigh. ‘God I love English breakfasts,’ he murmurs patting his stomach. Then he looks at me over his coffee cup before saying decisively, ‘I would love you to bring some of your infamous moose milk on Wednesday Kit. Whatever it is, it sounds mind-blowing, and if nothing else, we Hollywood types can take our liquor...’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning and I’m going over the critical path of the wedding timeline while waiting for Tory to drop Dotty off. Everything appears to be under control and I feel a tiny frisson of pride at what I’ve achieved. Granted I haven’t done it alone, but for a first timer, I do believe I’ve done okay so far. Hopefully, once the wedding is over and the details come out in the press, I’ll be inundated with work. That’s the plan anyway.

  Maybe Noah can get me my own reality TV show - we could call it The Wedding Organizer. I try not to think about the possibility of Jason Buchannan figuring somewhere in my dreams of event management superstardom.

  My musings are interrupted as the doorbell rings accompanied by frenzied barking that can only be Dotty. A few seconds later the little dog dashes into the flat and throws herself ecstatically at my feet. Tory arrives at the top of the stairs a couple of minutes later with both arms full. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind having her?’ she asks, dropping the heavy load onto the table.

  ‘Not at all,’ I respond, eying the pile of toys, dog food and basket. I really don’t know why she bothered with the last two. ‘How long did you say you were going for?’

  She smiles ruefully, acknowledging that she might have overdone it slightly. I step forward to give her a quick hug, then push her gently back towards the door. ‘Go on, have a lovely couple of days, and don’t come back without my Christmas present…’

  As the door slams shut behind her, I turn back to Dotty who is already making herself comfortable on my sofa. I bend down to give her a quick fuss, then eye the dull, overcast sky outside. ‘Come on Dotspot, let’s get the whole walkies thing over with shall we? Then we can curl up and watch movies all day.’ The little dog cocks her head to one side and wags her tail. She really is a sweetheart, even if she’s spoiled rotten…

  Five minutes later we’re both wrapped up in fleecy jackets. Looking down at her jaunty little red number, I’m just grateful we don’t actually match. The weather outside has continued to get colder, and there’s even a slight frost decorating the benches in the Royal Avenue Gardens.

  As we walk past the bandstand, I watch them putting up the last of the Christmas lights and decorating the huge tree positioned in the middle of the gardens. I stop to look at a large poster propped up next to the tree. The lights will be officially switched on this Friday. There’s going to be a candlelit lantern parade, lots of carol singing and Santa arriving by boat.

  ‘Apparently it’s the last leg of his journey from Lapland,’ I tell Dotty who seems much more interested in sniffing her way around the bottom of the tree.

  It sounds like fun. They haven’t gone to quite so much trouble in previous years, although Freddy did mention something about The Flavel Centre being involved in a story telling marathon over the weekend.

  I make a mental note to tell Tory and Noah about it. It will be a lovely ending to their Thanksgiving celebrations. And of course Jason might like to tag along too – if he’s not involved in the festivities as
Captain of BRNC.

  Pulling on Dotty’s leash, I head out of the gardens and over to the waterfront before turning left towards the Higher Ferry. The river is completely still, a light mist hanging low over the water. The only noise comes from the distant clanking of rigging. There’s hardly anyone about and I wonder if everyone is busy with their Christmas shopping. I haven’t even started mine. It’s going to be a last minute thing this year – after the wedding is over. As always, Aunt Flo has asked me over for Christmas Day, and I can’t help but speculate as to what variation on a classic roast turkey dinner she’s likely to come up with this year.

  Last Christmas she actually created a turkey cake, complete with layers of turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing and mashed potato frosting. Apparently she got the recipe off the internet. I think the less said about it the better really. I smile to myself as I remember Neil’s face as she carried it in…

  I realize that we’re nearly at the higher ferry slip and I debate whether to treat myself to a hot chocolate in the Floating Bridge before walking back. A cosy pub with a log fire would be just the job on a cold day like this.

  Decision made, I get ready to cross the road towards the entrance, just as the higher ferry reaches the slip. The queue of vehicles waiting to board starts to move forward in anticipation, and I hurriedly pick Dotty up and step back onto the pavement, deciding to wait until the cars have all embarked rather than risking life and limb by squeezing between them as they wait.

  Snuggling the little dog’s warm body to me, I idly watch the cars as they file past. Suddenly my heart lurches as I recognize Jason’s white Audi begin the move onto the ramp, before pausing to wait for the car in front. I’m just about to step forward and wave, when I realize there’s someone else in the car. A woman.

  Frowning, I step behind a large bush, unaccountably reluctant for him to see me. She’s probably a work colleague. I peer round the leaves to see if she’s wearing a uniform, only to see her lean towards Jason laughing. In what feels like slow motion, I watch her raise her hand and stroke his cheek, just as he pulls forward onto the ferry.

  Heart thudding, I crane my head in a last ditch effort to see more, but the car is swallowed up. A few minutes later, the ferry pulls away, and I’m left feeling slightly sick, all thoughts of a nice hot chocolate disappearing faster than you can say, ‘Cheating bastard.’

  I arrive back at my flat in record time. Dotty is more than happy to be back in the warmth and waits patiently as I strip off her coat with trembling hands. How bloody ridiculous – my hands really are shaking.

  My mind persists in replaying the scene in full technicolour, and at the same time I keep telling myself that I’m completely overreacting. She could have been a relative – a distant one. I know he hasn’t got any siblings, or cousins. He told me he comes from a long line of only children – on both sides.

  Taking a deep breath, I berate myself crossly. A caress on the cheek means nothing, I’m simply being overly melodramatic. There could be hundreds of perfectly valid reasons why a strange woman is sitting in his car and stroking his face…

  So why do I feel like crying? Why is my heart pounding in my chest as though I’ve run a bloody marathon? It’s not even as if we’re dating – I mean, not exclusively anyway.

  I pace the floor while Dotty watches me, her ears back in baffled sympathy. Oh God, when did I let him get under my skin? When did he stop being an arrogant knob and become simply Jason?

  Groaning, I sink down onto the sofa and lean forward to hug my knees. When did I let myself fall in love?

  ~*~

  Admiral Shackleford was already on his second pint and Jimmy still hadn’t arrived. It was too damn much. Charles Shackleford was prepared to accept that his request might have been a little last minute, but Jimmy was only babysitting his bloody carpet crawlers for God’s sake. There must be some other mug he could leave them with in an emergency such as this.

  Things were rapidly getting out of hand. He’d been about to bring up the subject of old Boris during the murder mystery evening at Flo’s place, but then the questions started coming up about the damn woman’s stint across the pond, and in the end he had to admit (if only privately) that he’d chickened out. But he’d spotted Victory and Kit glance at each other which had put the fear of God into him.

  And then this morning, before she disappeared off to London, Victory had asked The Question - well, one of them anyway – there was getting to be a bloody list now. As much as he hated it, like always, he needed Jimmy’s level head.

  He glanced down at his watch, and then at Pickles napping at his feet. As if he could feel his master’s eyes on him, the elderly spaniel lifted his head and gave a yawn.

  ‘We’re getting too bollocking old for all this cloak and dagger stuff old boy,’ the Admiral mumbled to the Springer gruffly, ‘We both need putting out to bloody pasture.’ He bent down to stroke Pickles’ head with a sigh. ‘Either that or the knackers’ yard.’

  Abruptly the door opened, bringing in a waft of cold air, but glancing round, Charles Shackleford’s relief at seeing his friend was short lived as he noted with disbelief that Jimmy had two of his ankle biters in tow. The Admiral stared wordlessly at the two toddlers as if he’d just seen a couple of aliens.

  Jimmy was struggling to hold the door open as he pushed the first one through, while trying to drag number two who was currently kicking and screaming. ‘Give me a hand with Abigail will you Sir?’ he puffed as he tried in vain to yank his reluctant granddaughter through the rapidly closing gap.

  The Admiral remained seated, staring in horror at the scene in front of him. ‘Bloody hell, she’s got a pair of lungs on her,’ he grumbled loudly over the din.

  ‘I NEED YOUR HELP SIR – NOW.’ Jimmy’s response loud enough to alert the whole of Kingswear – if his granddaughter hadn’t already done the job.

  The Admiral hesitated another second – obviously reluctant to take orders from a subordinate – then catching sight of Jimmy’s irate face, he hurriedly climbed down off his bar stool muttering, ‘I know where she bloody gets it from.’

  ‘Please could you refrain from swearing Sir,’ Jimmy breathed as he thankfully handed over the first child to the Admiral. Charles Shackleford stared with distaste at the little girl in his arms. There was a definite aroma coming from her nether regions. It reminded him of Boris.

  ‘What the bl… what the hell am I supposed to do with her?’ he shouted to Jimmy irritably, completely ignoring the fact that his friend was now busy dragging granddaughter number two through the door by the ankles. The noise was beginning to reach a crescendo, especially when Pickles decided to get in on the act by howling enthusiastically. The Admiral could only be thankful they were the only customers in the pub.

  The small girl in his arms continued to watch him solemnly, and thankfully silently, as Jimmy eventually managed to manoeuvre her sister into the pub. After another couple of minutes, the small man finally stood puffing and panting with the reluctant Abigail hanging upside down over his arm.

  For a second the Admiral thought he’d gone deaf as she suddenly stopped shrieking, catching sight of Pickles now cowering next to the bar stool. After a couple of seconds blessed silence, the little girl found her voice again, this time yelling, ‘Bow wow.’ Kicking her legs out in an effort to get down, only Jimmy’s quick thinking prevented her foot going straight up his nose.

  With incredible patience, he placed his granddaughter back on the ground, this time the right way up. Charles Shackleford privately thought the little bugger was lucky not to have been dropped on her head.

  Jimmy bent down beside Abigail to show her how to stroke Pickles gently, and to the Admiral’s relief, the child in his arms immediately wriggled to get down too. Pulling a face as the noxious smell wafted up, Charles Shackleford hastily put her down non too gently next to her sister.

  ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking man?’ the Admiral demanded when Jimmy finally straightened up.


  ‘Beryl next door is looking after Tommy,’ Jimmy answered mildly after taking a welcome swallow of his pint, ‘But she couldn’t have all three of them. Tommy’s only a baby, so while he’s asleep, he no trouble. But this pair…’ He shook his head, bending down again to stop Beatrice trying to take Pickles a walk by his ears. ‘You have to have eyes in the back of your head with Beatrice and Abigail.’

  His voice was full of pride and the Admiral glanced down at the two little girls - one smelling like a pile of manure, and the other with her face streaked with snot and tears. The Admiral shook his head. He prided himself on being a compassionate man, but he was definitely struggling to see the attractions of this pair of ankle snappers. But then, maybe he’d feel differently when Victory finally decided to get off her arse and give him one of his own…

  ‘So what did you want to see me about Sir? Jimmy said distractedly.

  The Admiral heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve just got a bad feeling in my gut Jimmy lad,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not an ulcer?’ his friend answered glancing towards the Admiral’s ample stomach.

  ‘No it’s not a boll… a blo.. a damn ulcer,’ Charles Shackleford responded irritably. ‘You know how intuitive I am.’ He ignored Jimmy’s derisive snort, putting it down to the small man drinking his pint too quickly – beer could be very gassy.

  ‘I can sense things Jimmy,’ he continued earnestly. ‘You know, feel when things are about to go tits up, and right now my gut’s telling me we’ve got a bloody tsunami on the way. It’s not just Bible Basher Boris. This whole damn business with Flo. I just don’t know what to do Jimmy lad.

  ‘It’s not often I say this, but I’m worried. Victory’s asking questions. If I don’t start talking, she’s going to add two and two together and come up with five.

  ‘I think I’m going to have to come clean. About everything.’

  ‘No Sir, Jimmy said firmly, looking the Admiral right in the eyes, ‘You can’t force your daughter to make a decision like that – it’s simply not fair. You need to tell Boris that he can’t officiate at Victory’s wedding, it’s as simple as that.