B01ESFW7JE

by Cathy Bramley

  Jo and Carrie smiled at each other.

  ‘You daft thing! Of course I would have wanted to know you.’ Sarah leapt up and threw her arms around Carrie’s neck. ‘Anyway, can you remember how desperate I was to meet people back then? I would have made friends with an axe murderer given half a chance.’

  Jo snorted into her champagne.

  Sarah clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Not that you— I didn’t mean it like that, Carrie. That came out all wrong.’

  Carrie burst out laughing. ‘Remind me about your impeccable people skills again?’

  Suddenly all three of them were laughing hysterically and Jo could have kissed them both for lifting her out of her bad mood. They were possibly the most unlikely friends, but, she realized, she loved them and was truly overjoyed to see them doing so well.

  ‘But …’ Sarah began and then bit her lip. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Carrie. ‘Ask me anything, I quite literally have no more secrets.’

  Sarah looked dubious. ‘OK. Well, I was going to say that you’re still young enough to have children if you wanted to.’

  Carrie went pink and nodded. ‘I told Alex about the abortion when we met and said that I didn’t want to go through anything like that again, that I couldn’t see myself as a mother and he said that that was fine by him. We both admitted recently that in fact that’s not true and we would like to give it a go. But even if we do, Sarah, I still want to be a florist, so don’t worry.’

  Sarah held her hands up. ‘Not worried. I’d be thrilled for you both.’

  Jo’s heart twisted with happiness for her, even if there was a little twinge of jealousy mixed in there too.

  ‘If it’s not too un-PC,’ she said, reaching for the Prosecco she’d brought with her, ‘I think that deserves another toast. Oh, also, I just remembered …’

  She delved into her handbag and tossed a small package wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon into Carrie’s lap. ‘Catch!’

  Carrie tore into the parcel to reveal a black and silver bikini. Jo had chosen something both elegant and flattering for the fuller figure. She held her breath, hoping Carrie approved.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘Alex helped with the size.’

  Carrie gasped. ‘It’s beautiful. But I don’t think … I mean, I was a bit hasty.’ Her cheeks had turned a delightful shade of rose pink and she wafted her face with her hands.

  ‘A trip abroad in September, Alex tells me?’ said Jo firmly. ‘I’m really proud of you, Carrie. You’re so close to making your wish come true.’

  Carrie swallowed and nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you. I love it,’ she said, giving Jo a hug.

  ‘Next up. The village show,’ announced Sarah. ‘I thought I should enter something, as a way of introducing my new business to the village. Any ideas?’

  ‘Yes, jam!’ said Jo. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve got some tips. I was in the pub the other night with an old friend from school and I overheard … What?’

  Sarah and Carrie looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘I do go to pubs without you two, you know,’ Jo said, pretending to be offended.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Sarah grinned.

  ‘We just never expected to hear jam-making tips from Jo Gold,’ said Carrie.

  ‘I’ve surprised myself, to be honest,’ Jo said wryly. ‘Anyway, I overheard a group of women talking about some competition or other and one of them said that to win over the judges, you should put alcohol in your jam.’

  ‘Ooh, now you’re talking,’ said Sarah, draining her glass. ‘Champagne and strawberry jam maybe?’

  ‘Or whisky and raspberries?’ suggested Carrie.

  Sarah thought about it for a moment. ‘It would be nice to use some local produce. Did the woman in the pub say what she was making?’

  Jo frowned. ‘Yes! It was damson gin jam. That’s quite hard to say after three glasses of champagne!’

  ‘Damson gin jam,’ the other two repeated with a giggle.

  ‘Hey, it could become my sales gimmick,’ said Sarah. She rifled through her handbag, extracted a notebook and jotted something down. ‘You know: if you’re ever in a financial jam, come and see Sarah Hudson. I could put a proper logo on the jar.’

  ‘Perfect, so damson gin jam it is,’ said Carrie, clapping her hands. ‘Who’s got damsons we can pick?’

  ‘There’s probably a tree in Abi’s orchard. I’ll ask her when I get back.’ Jo looked at her watch. She ought to get back to Abi’s; it felt rude to be staying over at her friend’s house and not spend the evening with her.

  ‘Gosh, how is Abi? I feel awful for not asking earlier,’ said Carrie, frowning.

  ‘OK, all things considered,’ said Jo with a sigh. ‘Very tanned. A bit anxious, though. Tom starts school next month and I don’t think she knows what she’ll do with herself then.’

  ‘She can join our gang,’ said Carrie merrily. ‘We’ll have her making ridiculous wishes before she knows it. Mention it to her.’

  That was a lovely thought. Jo’s heart tweaked at Carrie’s kind gesture.

  ‘She must come out with us next time, if she feels up to it,’ Sarah added. ‘Send her my love. I did call round this afternoon, but there was no one home.’

  ‘I will.’ Jo stood up and gave them both a kiss. ‘I’d better go. Abi’s cooking me dinner.’

  ‘Are you growing your hair?’ asked Sarah, studying her closely.

  ‘No … Well, yes, a bit.’ Jo’s hands fluttered self-consciously up to her fringe and pulling it across her forehead.

  ‘Very girlie,’ said Sarah.

  Carrie nodded. ‘Much softer; it suits you.’

  ‘It’s part of my new persona,’ Jo said flatly. ‘Seeing as the old one wasn’t working.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sarah looked slyly at Carrie. ‘Patrick seems very smitten.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Jo held her hands up. ‘He’s a colleague. At most a friend. That’s as far as it goes.’

  Carrie smiled at her. ‘Well, I think he’s lovely.’

  ‘No, I mean it,’ Jo warned, aware that her heart had just speeded up. ‘I don’t want to talk about Patrick. He leaves next month and I don’t think I can bear it.’

  She felt her throat tighten and made a show of checking her mobile phone, pretending not to notice as Carrie and Sarah exchanged the most unsubtle nods and winks.

  ‘Have you tried telling him how you feel?’ asked Carrie.

  Jo chewed her lip and shook her head. Admit her feelings to Patrick McGregor? She wasn’t sure she was ready to admit those to herself yet.

  Chapter 34

  It was bank holiday Monday in August, and the English weather had lived up to its reputation with the utmost accuracy. The pavement was shiny with recent rain and a vindictive wind was blowing the first autumn leaves up and down in relentless spirals. But that hadn’t deterred the people of Woodby and thereabouts from turning out for the annual event of the year. The village hall car park was overflowing and the roads either side were lined with cars as far as the eye could see. Sarah clutched Dave’s arm as he wove the pushchair through the parked cars.

  ‘I look ridiculous in this flowery dress and my face looks like rice pudding,’ Sarah pouted. ‘My hair is so frizzy that it actually looks like it has been in a fire and it’s cold. It’s still August, why is it so cold?’

  ‘It’s not that cold. Your body is in shock, that’s all.’

  She glanced up at his handsome face and the smile he gave her plucked at her heart.

  ‘Oh, Dave. I do love you,’ she said, squeezing his arm tightly. ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

  ‘I love helping out a damson in distress.’

  ‘Funny.’ She managed a smile. ‘If my head wasn’t banging quite so hard, I’d laugh.’

  Zac spotted a dog on the other side of the road and started to shriek. Sarah clutched her head in pain. She was sure the entire cast of Riverdance were in there having a dance-off. />
  Images of her drunken self head-banging to heavy metal round the kitchen last night kept creeping up on her. She remembered straining off some of the gin, dancing round the bubbling vat of jam, pretending to be a witch and taking quite a few sips of the damson-infused liquor. After that it was all a bit fuzzy. She shuddered. She would never drink gin again. Or eat damsons. Jam was possibly a no-go zone too.

  At nine thirty this morning, the time that entries had to be delivered, she had still been sleeping off her hangover. If it hadn’t been for Dave who ran down to the village hall and entered on her behalf, she would have missed the deadline altogether.

  She had woken up at ten, with jam on her face, in her hair, and even on the bedroom floor. The kitchen had come off worse: every surface was sticky, the unwashed jam pan lay abandoned in the sink and a row of rejected unlabelled jars filled to various levels had glued themselves to the table.

  ‘Looks like the whole village is out in force,’ said Dave. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity to speak to people about your new business.’

  Sarah grunted. ‘Can’t speak at all at the moment.’

  The sky was as grey as her mood. She was so cross with herself. Dave was right: this should have been her big moment. In her mind’s eye she had seen herself skipping gaily through the hall with a wicker basket on her arm, buying cakes and plants and exchanging friendly gossip with her neighbours, along the lines of, ‘Yes, I’ll be opening my new accountancy business in September.’ Or, ‘Of course I’d be happy to help you with your tax return, pop in any time.’ And then, of course, ‘First prize for my jam? Me? I don’t know what to say!’

  In reality, she could barely stop shaking, she didn’t have the energy to walk around the stalls and the only words on her lips were: ‘Pass me a bucket.’

  Dave deposited her at a table with a cup of tea and a scone and tactfully whisked Zac off to the face-painting stall where Abi was turning a little girl into Batman. Tom was already sporting a black-and-white Dalmatian face. Sarah caught her eye and waved. She’d go over later and have a chat with Abi. Just as soon as she felt a bit more human.

  ‘Hi, Sarah, guess what?’ Carrie dropped into the chair next to her, elegant and tanned in a cream shift dress and matching cardigan. ‘Oh heavens! What happened to you?’ She recoiled in horror at the sight of Sarah’s face. ‘You look green!’

  ‘That lethal damson gin jam happened, that’s what!’ Sarah groaned.

  Carrie bit her lip apologetically. ‘So sorry I couldn’t help you, we only got back from holiday yesterday and I’ve been up to my eyes in the floral displays for the show.’

  ‘S’all right,’ sighed Sarah. She slurped her tea as a thought occurred to her. ‘Did you wear your bikini?’

  Carrie wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Only in our room.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I felt a bit, you know, overexposed.’

  ‘Pictures?’ asked Sarah. ‘Because if there’s no evidence …’

  Carrie twisted her wedding ring round. ‘I’ll have to check with Alex,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You are such a poor liar!’ Sarah rolled her eyes, feeling slightly better. ‘I have such an awful hangover,’ she confided. ‘Promise me you’ll never let me touch gin ever again?’

  ‘OK, promise. Now come and have a look at the prizes!’

  Sarah’s resistance was no match for Carrie’s exuberance and they were soon wandering amongst the locally grown produce, giggling at the size of Mr Ogden’s marrow and marvelling at the handmade corn dollies.

  ‘You’re the two girls taking on the old post office, then?’ asked a whiskery elderly man. His unlit pipe bobbed between his lips as he spoke. ‘Good to see the place opening up again. Well done.’ He lifted his pipe in a salute and nodded.

  Sarah raised her eyebrows in surprise at Carrie.

  ‘Nothing stays secret in this village for long,’ Carrie laughed. ‘Which reminds me, Rebecca wants to talk to you about going self-employed and what to do about tax and stuff. I said you’d go and find her later.’

  ‘OK, thanks. My first customer!’ This was going far better than she expected. The people in the village were lovely. Such community spirit! The veil of cloud began to lift from Sarah’s head and she squeezed Carrie’s arm tightly. ‘I’m so glad we did this wish list. It has really made me realize what is important to me. Well, eventually, anyway.’

  ‘Our two businesswomen!’ exclaimed the lady running the secondhand book stall. ‘Congratulations, both of you! Good luck.’

  Another woman pricked up her ears and waved at them. ‘Ah now,’ she cried.

  Sarah shot Carrie a quizzical look.

  ‘Marjorie from the Women’s Institute,’ hissed Carrie. ‘Be very afraid and don’t agree to anything.’

  ‘Ladies!’ Marjorie beamed at them. ‘I hear that we have two entrepreneurs in our midst. Can I put you down to come and talk at our October meeting?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be any good at public speaking,’ stammered Carrie.

  ‘Absolutely!’ said Sarah, ignoring Carrie’s frantic gurning. ‘We would love to.’

  Carrie laughed nervously as the woman recorded their contact details on her clipboard.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sarah whispered, ‘I’ve had loads of practice at that sort of thing. I’ll do the talking and you can do a flower-arranging demonstration or something. At this rate, we won’t need to do any advertising!’ She sighed happily and linked her arm through her friend’s as they walked away, suddenly aware that her nausea had vanished.

  ‘Here’s my advertising,’ said Carrie proudly. ‘What do you think?’

  They had reached the floral displays. There were six different categories arranged along one long trestle table.

  ‘You are so talented.’ Sarah gasped as she moved along the table, reading the placings, which were written on cardboard stars. Carrie’s entries had come first in five of the categories and second in the sixth.

  ‘Second place, Carrie?’ she said with a tut. ‘What happened there?’

  Carrie nudged her playfully. ‘I’ve already had a request to do the flowers for a ball in October,’ she said happily, her cheeks calming down to a more pleasing pink. ‘I’m so excited.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Sarah. ‘Oh! Does this mean the prizes have been announced for the jam too? Come on!’

  She dragged Carrie over to the preserves table as fast as she could without wishing to appear too eager. She spotted her own nearly black jar of jam from a distance.

  ‘It’s half empty!’ she squeaked, squeezing Carrie’s arm. ‘That’s got to be a good sign.’

  ‘I’ve come second,’ said Abi, squeezing between them. She looped her blonde hair behind her ears and smiled wistfully. ‘It was Fréd’s recipe for raspberry conserve; he’d have been really proud.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Carrie, plonking a kiss on her cheek.

  Sarah beamed at her. ‘And I bet you didn’t trash your entire kitchen making it, did you?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Abi. ‘So how did you do?’

  Sarah pulled a face and picked up the card next to her jar of jam.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she gasped, reading the judges’ comments.

  ‘Third!’ cried Carrie, looking over her shoulder. ‘Oh, well done.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean, look! It’s not my jam, apparently!’ Sarah jabbed her finger at the name on the card: Dave Hudson.

  Abi bit her lip and looked at Carrie. ‘Whoops.’

  After all that effort, pricking three million damsons with a cocktail stick, soaking them in gin for a week and boiling them up into a gloopy mess, not to mention the crippling headache she had incurred as a result of rigorous tasting, her husband had muscled in at the last moment and stolen her glory.

  ‘He entered the jam as his own. The cheeky … Oh, speak of the devil.’ Sarah folded her arms and gave her husband a pointed look as he arrived carrying a mini Spider-Man.

  ‘I hope that face paint is all ri
ght?’ said Abi nervously. ‘I haven’t done anyone that small before.’

  ‘It’s fab.’ Sarah chuckled despite herself. Zac had a red and black spider’s web on his forehead and cheeks, white eyes and a little black spider on his nose.

  ‘Mama!’ yelled Zac, wriggling in his father’s arms.

  ‘Aw, cute,’ said Carrie anxiously.

  Sarah took Zac from Dave and stared at him.

  ‘What?’ asked Dave innocently, trying not to drop Zac.

  ‘Thanks a bundle,’ she harrumphed. ‘You know how hard I’ve worked to make that … fffflippin’ jam!’ She wouldn’t swear in front of Zac, he was starting to repeat words. Only yesterday, she had heard him say something that sounded distinctly like ‘bugger’. She had been mortified.

  ‘Sarah, I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your name. My jam.’ She waved the third-prize certificate under his nose.

  ‘What? Not on purpose, the lady must have got the wrong end of the stick when I delivered it. She was very scary and I got a bit flustered.’ He paled suddenly. ‘Oh Christ, it’s her.’

  An officious-looking woman with steely grey hair propelled herself towards them at speed. She was wearing reading glasses that dangled from a string and bounced dangerously on her vast bosom.

  ‘Sarah Hudson? Our new professional accountant?’ the woman barked at her.

  Sarah beamed, flattered to be recognized. ‘Yes. And this is Carrie Radley, the professional florist.’

  Carrie smiled shyly.

  ‘I wonder if I could impose upon you to present our prizes in the children’s category?’

  ‘Me?’ Sarah gasped. ‘Why? I mean, I’d be happy to help, but why me?’

  ‘It’s the vicar’s job usually,’ explained the woman, ‘but he’s had to rush off for emergency dental treatment after breaking his tooth.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ said Carrie. ‘How did he do that?’

  The woman gave Dave a stern look. ‘Mr Hudson failed to mention that he had left the damson stones in his jam.’