‘I’d go for the bandage, Mitch, should sort that right out.’
‘Great. Much obliged.’ And Mitch shambled off.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mitch. ‘Occupational hazard, like being a doctor. People always come up to you with their problems.’
‘No worries.’ She liked how Jamie had been so nice to the man, actually. So many men in London were just so dismissive all the time. So self-absorbed. Meg smiled at Jamie and he smiled back at her. For a rather long time.
‘You’re really pretty,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ said Meg again, and this time there was no local animal owner to come and distract them, so she grabbed a beer mat and starting tearing thin strips off it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking down.
‘I’ve had some trouble with pretty girls in the past,’ he said, looking down himself and drumming the side of his beer bottle with his fingers.
‘How come?’ asked Meg.
‘Do you really want me to tell you?’
‘Well, we’re on a date. We need to make conversation. Go for it!’
‘I’ve always dated very good-looking girls,’ Jamie said, looking up. ‘Usually pushed my way by my mother. She used to teach at the local girls’ school and for years she’d try to set me up with her prettiest ex-pupils. They all ended in disaster – often they were too full of themselves, too high maintenance, too much trouble. The last one broke my heart. Once I was really falling for her, she buggered off with one of the local mechanics from Bates’s – someone flash, with lots of money and a great big car. Shallow.’ He shrugged.
‘Not saying I am one, but not all good-looking girls are shallow,’ protested Meg. ‘What an assumption!’
‘No, I know,’ said Jamie. ‘I do know that. But when I met you I was immediately attracted to you, and then I thought hang on, be careful, don’t fall in the same old trap, especially as Mum was clearly trying to set you and I up. I was … wary.’
‘It was me that did the falling,’ said Meg, remembering the cowpat. She also remembered, now, how he had gone all grumpy once she started to flirt with him a little. It made sense. ‘And I’m flattered you thought me … attractive enough to be wary of! Call me shallow, or whatever.’ She was flattered. She was really, really flattered.
Jamie laughed. ‘I did try to resist,’ he said, ‘but I guess I just really like you, despite myself.’ He grinned, and she knew he was teasing. ‘I like pretty much everything about you. I like your feistiness, your gumption, your audacity at faking being an art teacher …’
‘Oh, that,’ giggled Meg.
‘Plus the fact you’re more than a little bonkers – generally.’
‘I’ll take “bonkers”,’ laughed Meg, now remembering the bin episode, too. ‘At least it makes me vaguely interesting.’
‘You’re more than vaguely interesting,’ said Jamie softly, looking her right in the eye and making her squirm in a very delightful way. ‘You’re the most interesting girl I’ve ever met.’
His gaze held hers. Meg had had just enough vodka not to look away. A delicious silence hung suspended between them and if it wasn’t for the coffee machine going and the jukebox belting out Thin Lizzy, she could swear she could hear them both breathing. Her heart was certainly going like the clappers.
Another sound started chiming in. A beeping noise was adding another layer of harmony to the heart thumping and all that breathing. It was coming from the bag under Jamie’s stool.
‘Oh hell, my beeper’s going off.’ Jamie rummaged in the bag for his phone and scowled at it once he checked the screen. ‘I’ve got to go on a call. An unhappy bull, suspected tummy trouble. Do you really want to come with me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, downing the rest of her drink. ‘Why not?’
No way did she want this evening to end yet.
*
Jamie strode up the field with Meg struggling to keep up in her flip-flopping footwear.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Time is sometimes crucial.’
‘I understand,’ she puffed. She stopped to kick off the flip-flops, and carried them as she went into a light jog to keep pace. There was a black shape in the distance, at the foot of a hay bale and they headed towards it. ‘Ah, it’s Billy,’ she said as she spied her cumbersome neighbour, collapsed on his side and groaning softly. That’s what she’d christened him, anyway. Billy the Bull.
‘Billy? No, it’s Sampson. Hello, mate,’ said Jamie, stroking the bull gently along his flank. The bull groaned again and flailed around a little, snuffling his nose into the earth.
‘Not looking good is he, Jamie?’ A man dressed incongruously in a black dinner suit and white trainers appeared from behind the hay bale; Meg could see Westins Farm sprawled far in the distance, jewelled by an immaculate white farmhouse. She’d once woken up in a hay bale there, after a bit of a bender. ‘Accuse the attire – one of my farmhands called me at the dinner and dance over at Marbury.’ He pulled his trousers up at the knee and knelt next to the bull. ‘The old boy’s in quite a bit of pain, as you can see. One of my lads said he’s been wailing for the last hour and he can’t stand up.’
‘What’s up, old boy?’ said Jamie softly, bending down on his haunches and gently prodding the bull’s belly with his forefinger as the bull let out a deafening bellow. ‘Could be a twisted gut, a bloat, a distended abdomen. Has he been eating his usual diet?’
‘Far as I know.’ The famer sniffed. He pulled off his bow tie and put it in his pocket.
‘OK,’ said Jamie. ‘Well, I’ve got a shot of the good stuff in my bag. It might sort him out.’
‘We can but try,’ said the farmer.
Jamie pulled out a Perspex box from his bag. He took out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid, filled the syringe, then injected the long needle into the bull’s pulsating rear.
The bull slumped down. Sighed a little. Fidgeted on the soft earth for a bit, then let out the most enormous long-reverberating fart and casually excreted the most enormous cowpat (bull pat?) Meg had ever seen onto the grass behind him.
‘And there we are,’ said Jamie with a smile and another pat for Sampson on the flank. ‘Better out than in. Must have been a blockage in the colon somewhere. He’ll be all right now.’ He stood up. ‘Right as rain, I expect.’
The farmer stood up, too, and, as if to demonstrate how all right he was, Sampson thwacked his tail three times on the ground – cleverly out of range of the large mound of natural fertilizer he’d just provided – and clambered to his feet. He then looked at his relieved assembled audience with a look of high derision, turned on that tail, and sauntered off in the general direction of the horizon without an apparent care in the world.
‘Thank you, my lad,’ said the farmer, slapping Jamie heartily on the back. ‘Invoice me in the week. I’d best get back to the dinner and dance before the wife gets off with Lord Tiverton.’ And he yanked his bow tie from his pocket, flung it round his neck and strode off in the direction of the farmhouse.
Meg, now free to do so, started laughing.
‘I’m glad you find it so funny,’ said Jamie, pretending to have the hump. ‘That was veterinary practice at its very finest.’
‘I’m sure,’ giggled Meg. ‘I’m ever so impressed.’
‘Come on, you,’ said Jamie and he surprised Meg by grabbing her hand in his and they walked like that, hand in hand, down to the stile. She was trying to ignore the delicious sensation his hand was sparking in her; he was all quiet, the satisfaction of a job well done, or something else, she didn’t know. He kept glancing over at her, a smile playing on his lips and she couldn’t ignore the delicious sensation of her hand in his. It felt lovely, it felt … right. Holding hands with Jamie was surprisingly wonderful.
They stopped by the stile.
‘You’ve got something in your eye,’ said Jamie.
‘What?’
‘You’ve got something in your eye.’
‘I don’t think so …’
‘Come here, let me
see.’ What was he going on about? Didn’t people pretend they had something in their eye when they wanted someone else to get closer to them? When they wanted someone to kiss them? Oh …
Jamie grinned at her. He let go of his bag and it dropped to the ground. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her to him by slipping his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans, the ones above the front pockets. Oh, that was really nice – she liked that. It’s what she imagined cowboys doing – not wholesome ones, but really, really sexy cowboys. He kept his fingers in them, once she was close to him, which was even sexier – she felt like a desirable, lassoed cat. He was quite a bit taller than her and she looked up at his face. He had lovely skin – it was all smooth and fresh looking. His brown eyes were ones she felt she could drown in. He leant back against the stile and pulled her closer still. Over his shoulder she could see the village in the distance; she could hear the chatter from the pub on the breezeless, warm summer air.
‘I think my eye’s perfectly all right,’ she said softly. ‘Both of them, in fact.’
‘I know,’ said Jamie. He didn’t take his from hers. ‘It was just a ruse.’
‘A ruse?’ She widened her eyes and looked at him quizzically. She knew that he knew that she knew what he meant, but the game was lovely all the same.
‘To kiss you.’
‘Oh.’ She felt a soft fluttering in her tummy, a feeling of delight and pleasure. Oh, she liked this. He slid his fingers free of her belt loops and wound his arms around her waist, pulling her into him really tight. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and whispered into it.
‘Would that be all right? You were hard enough to get to come on a date. I don’t want to step over any line.’ His breath was hot on her ear lobe and smelled of beer, in a really nice way.
‘You can step over the line,’ Meg whispered back.
And there, against the stile, a wood pigeon cooing in the distance and a combine harvester rumbling in a far-off field, Jamie looked into her eyes, leant towards her, and kissed her, his lips softly on hers. She leant into the kiss, smiled into the kiss. She was expecting it to be nice, she was expecting it to be fun; what she wasn’t expecting as the kiss went on and Jamie pressed his body closer to hers was a rush of feelings to flood round her body, and how startling those feelings were. He was a great kisser, but it wasn’t just that – as Jamie began to gently explore her tongue with his own, she felt all light-headed, all unnecessary, and wonderfully out of control; it was astonishingly sexual, this kiss. She wanted him to kiss her like this all night.
‘Wow,’ she said, when Jamie eventually pulled his lips from hers. He was smiling at her in way that said he really, really liked her; she was smiling back at him in a way she knew said, Bloody hell, what have you done to me?
And she was disappointed it was over.
He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Again?’
‘Again.’ She nodded.
They kissed and kissed, until the combine harvester sounded alarmingly close and they broke away from each other. Jamie winked at her, took her hand again, and they walked slowly back to the pub.
Chapter Eighteen
Sarah
Thursday night was date night, according to Clarissa. Sarah wouldn’t really know, and would just have to take the top model’s word for it. She had bumped into Clarissa last night, in the building’s entrance hall, they’d got chatting and, somehow, Clarissa was coming round with her make-up caddy and her curling tongs and helping Sarah get ready for her date with Dylan tonight.
The curling tongs weren’t needed. Sarah’s hair, of course, wasn’t long enough for them. Instead, Clarissa gave her a tousled, gelled quiff with slightly pushed forward sides and gave her a makeover which made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow.
‘So bloody cute!’ proclaimed the top model, when she had decided Sarah was done. ‘Take a look in the mirror, lady!’
Sarah did so and was shocked and pleased with what she saw. She looked pretty amazing, it had to be said.
‘Wow, thanks, Clarissa!’ Sarah turned her head from side to side. She’d worried about stupid contouring or Sharpie eyebrows, but Clarissa had done a great job. She looked sophisticated, yet pretty, and possibly five years younger.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty good at makeovers,’ said Clarissa, shrugging casually. ‘When I retire I’m going to be a make-up artist. In fact, I might become one way sooner. Modelling is getting kind of old.’
‘Really? All that money though,’ commented Sarah, admiring the subtle highlighter Clarissa had applied to her cheeks.
‘Yeah. Hey, put your outfit on,’ said Clarissa, motioning to a long pleated skirt in metallic pale silver, almost like an ethereal ballet skirt, and a gossamer thin black short-sleeved knit, with a scoop neck, both hanging on the back of the door. On the floor below them were a gold clutch bag, a feathery pale silver scarf and a pair of sky-high caged sandals in a subtle snake print. It was all Sarah’s outfit; nothing was Meg’s. Sarah had seen the look in one of Meg’s Vogue’s, though, and thought it looked lovely as an ensemble; she probably wouldn’t resemble the wispy young model draped over the chaise longue in a cavernous stately home, but she’d make a good stab at it. ‘Money’s not everything though,’ Clarissa added, ‘and I’ve made enough. Meg knows how I feel, that I get a bit jaded about it all. All that flying, jet lag, standing around in your underwear and being barked at. Sometimes it’s too much. I think I’d be really happy as a make-up artist!’
Sarah stepped into the skirt and slipped the top over her head. Clarissa tucked it in for her. ‘Then go for it,’ Sarah said. ‘Does Meg ever get jaded about her job, too? Running the agency?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Clarissa nodded. ‘She’d never tell anyone, but I know.’ A car beeped outside. ‘Your taxi?’
‘I expect so.’ Sarah slipped her feet into the sandals and wound the scarf round her neck. ‘Thank you so much, Clarissa. For the makeover. I love it.’
‘You’re very welcome. Now go and fall in love,’ said Clarissa, opening the door with a flourish.
‘Oh, no!’ said Sarah, taking the gold clutch from her. ‘Don’t say that! That’s not going to happen!’
*
Sarah wasn’t sure what was going to happen, she thought, as she sailed through the streets of London. It was another hot night in the city and Sarah wound down the cab window all the way to get some air. She was nervous as hell. She had never looked better. She really liked Dylan a lot. All three things were true and she had no idea how, combined, they would pan out.
It took ages to get to the restaurant, but when the cab pulled up outside Spam!, Sarah recognized it straight away. It was a municipal concrete block – a carbuncle between two Georgian beauties – with grey frosted windows, a swinging ‘bubble writing’ sign and a latticed front door with migraine-inducing stained glass. So far, so Seventies. She paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement.
‘Sarah!’ It was Dylan, exiting a cab too, just behind hers. He looked pretty dapper, for him, and Sarah could see he’d made an effort for the evening. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of smart black chinos, with shoes all shiny and hair slicked back with some sort of product. The slicked-back hair made Sarah smile, as did the ubiquitous brown suede jacket which topped off his look.
‘Hi, Dylan.’ Sarah remembered when she’d first clapped eyes on him, twenty-two years ago. He’d been standing outside the Dorchester, and she was on her second to last event at House – a high tea for Barnardo’s – before she had to go home, not that she knew it at the time. She’d been struck, as she was now, by his handsome face, the mischief in his eyes, the way his mouth broke into a languid, slow, slow smile.
‘You’re looking rather lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah, walking towards him. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’ He really didn’t. His face even looked … moisturized. He looked quite gorgeous.
Dylan stepped forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. Sarah nervously
switched her gold clutch bag to her other hand. He smelled delicious. All lemon and sandalwood. It made her feel even more jittery; her stomach went into gymnastic mode and did a somersault, a backwards roll, and a handstand.
‘Shall we?’
Dylan held out his arm, Sarah slid hers into surprisingly soft brown suede and they made their way up the concrete steps to the restaurant.
It was quite something, inside. Really quite something. And that something was 1975. There were round tables with white tablecloths down to the floor, stiffly upright ‘carver’ chairs and dusky-pink velvet lampshades, squatting low to the table. Flock wallpaper, huge menus in red leather propped up on tables, and doors with panels picked out in brown piping. As they walked through the restaurant, a hostess trolley was trundled in front of them along orange swirly carpet – bearing three wobbling platters with silver-domed cloches on the top. Sarah half expected Basil Fawlty to come flying in from the kitchens goose-stepping and shouting about not mentioning the war. At the same time, it was really rather glamorous and the diners had certainly come dressed that way. She spotted half a dozen dinner jackets and a hell of a lot of chiffon and was glad she’d dressed up as much as she had.
‘I booked a table on the terrace,’ said Dylan. ‘It should be the perfect night to sit outside.’
A debonair waiter not at all like Manuel led them out through wide-open small-paned doors to a wide terrace with a cast iron, swirly railing that overlooked the Embankment and the back of the MI6 building. The tables had the same sweeping tablecloths, but the lamps out here were hurricane lamps, tea lights flickering within. It was all just gorgeous.
They sat down. There was a soft, warm breeze coming off the river which fanned Sarah’s hair in just the right way, like a Beyoncé wind machine.
‘This is lovely,’ said Sarah. ‘I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I love it.’
‘First time I’ve been here as well,’ said Dylan. ‘It really is very nice. What would you like to drink?’ he said, picking up the drinks menu. ‘Babycham?’
The Sister Swap Page 23