The Little Village On The Hill (Book 2: Love Is In The Air): A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Alice Ross

  ‘Well, on the plus side, if they’re gossiping about Dimitri, it means they’ve moved on from talking about me assessing my options,’ I puff, hopping onto a stool at the breakfast bar and plucking a pink cupcake from the plate.

  ‘Don’t eat that,’ she chides, snatching it from my hand. ‘You’ll spoil your dinner. And why are you sounding so grumpy? Nobody nearly died again, did they?’ she asks, referring to the incident a couple of days ago, when an old chap collapsed in the library and most likely would have died, had it not been for Tom popping up at the right moment and administering CPR. A heroic act that he hadn’t wanted to talk about afterwards.

  ‘No. Nobody nearly died, thank goodness. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  She eyes me warily. ‘It’s nothing to do with this break thing you and Giles are having, is it? Did you see him when you were in London?’

  I had seen Giles when I was in London. With his new woman Erica Rowland – a local ‘celebrity’ in our village, whose book One Hundred And One Ways To Have An Orgasm had been an overnight bestseller a few years ago, netting her a fortune. Ever since then, she’s been suffering from a serious case of writer’s block and had rented a house in Chollingflower in search of inspiration. Which she appears to have found in my ex-boyfriend’s designer boxers. Not that I’m going to tell my mother any of that. Because it’ll only stir up a whole load of trouble and I really can’t be bothered. I’m over Giles already and Erica is welcome to him. And for all I have no idea how I’m going to feel when I bump into her next, I can’t be bothered to think about that right now, either. I do, however, recognise that this could be the perfect opportunity to inform my mother of my split from the man she hoped I’d marry.

  ‘Um, actually, Mum,’ I venture, feeling anxious at dashing her dream of having her highlights done in the chair next to Carol Middleton (mother-in-law to Prince William, who presided over our breakfast this morning), ‘Giles and I have decided to call it a day.’

  ‘Oh,’ she sniffs, in the same tone used when discovering a mouldy blueberry in a newly opened punnet. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. Giles was a perfect catch: good-looking, excellent job, very solvent, not to mention his… connections,’ she adds, patting her bob to convey her meaning. ‘Quite where you’re going to find another man like that now that you’ve left Lond—’

  As one of Dimitri’s snores rattles through the house like an elephant in an earthquake, she breaks off and blows out a sigh of relief. ‘Silly me. For a moment there, I completely forgot about Dimitri.’

  ‘What about Dimitri?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she breezes, snatching up the copy of House of Hammers and flicking through to the page about screws.

  While she’s thus engaged, I reach for the cupcake again. Before she snaps:

  ‘Put that back. You’ll spoil your appetite and we’re eating at the pub this evening, once your father gets home.’

  ‘He is home,’ says my dad, padding into the kitchen in his socked feet. ‘And he’s wondering why we have a load of Union Jacks around the door and Winston Churchill in the hall.’

  ‘It’s perfectly obvious why,’ tuts my mother. ‘We’re enhancing Dimitri’s cultural experience.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Yes. We are. Anyway, never mind about that. Isobel has just informed me that she and Giles have broken up.’

  ‘Good.’ My dad plops down on the stool next to me and swipes up the cake I’d been aiming for. ‘I never cared for the guy. Far too up himself for my liking.’

  ‘You would say that,’ huffs my mother, snatching the cake from him. ‘And don’t eat that. You’ll spoil your dinner.’

  My dad rolls his eyes. ‘Why would I say that about Giles?’

  ‘Because he didn’t like all those… male things that you like. Playing darts and watching football and all those things.’

  ‘No. Because he was far too interested in your Women’s Institute stuff. Always thought that was a bit weird. Couldn’t figure it out for the life of me.’

  Nor could I at the time. But now I know that it was because Giles has a thing for the ‘older woman’ – namely Erica Rowland, who attended all the WI events in her ‘celebrity’ author capacity.

  As another of Dimitri’s snores rumbles through the house, my dad grips the edge of the breakfast bar.

  ‘What was that?’ he sputters, eyes darting around for signs of structural damage.

  ‘Dimitri,’ replies my mother matter-of-factly. ‘And please don’t mention his snoring to him. Now that Isobel is no longer with Giles, he’s our only hope.’

  ‘For what?’

  She cannons him a reproving look. ‘You can scoff all you like, Jim, but don’t forget that his family own a chain of hotels. And most probably have ancestral connections to the Onassis dynasty.’

  ‘Actually, they only own one h—’ I attempt to chip in.

  ‘What has a chain of hotels got to do with anything?’ asks my dad.

  ‘Everything,’ sniffs my mother, before striding out of the room.

  ‘You’re not too sad about this business with Giles, are you?’ enquires my dad, turning to me. ‘Only I never thought he was good for you. You were never yourself when you were with him. And you never looked happy. I know your mother thought he was wonderful, but between you and me, I don’t think her opinion would have been anywhere near so high had it not been for Carol Vorderman’s hairdresser.’

  ‘Carol Middleton’s hairdresser, Dad. And don’t worry. I’m over him already. In fact, I’m actually relieved that I don’t have to pretend to be the perfect girlfriend anymore.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to pretend to be anything,’ he says, placing his hand over mine and giving it an affectionate squeeze. ‘You’re perfect as you are. And you need a man who’ll appreciate you. One you can relax around and have a laugh with.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I mutter, my thoughts immediately turning to Tom.

  Completely nonsensical, given he’s been snared by Caitlin. Still, in a pathetic attempt to steer the conversation onto the man in question, I can’t resist saying, ‘So… I, um, walked past the new house at lunchtime. It’s looking great. How’s the project going?’

  My dad blows out an exasperated breath and shakes his head. ‘It was going fine. Until the owner started making all sorts of changes to the plans. Some of which are frankly ridiculous.’

  ‘Who is the owner?’

  He lifts his brows. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘Right. No. Of course you wouldn’t. Well, I, um, think you’d better hold on to your seat because this is probably going to come as a shock.’

  ‘Oh God. It’s not Carol Middleton, is it? Or Des O’Connor?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. It’s… Caitlin.’

  ‘Caitlin?’ My jaw drops to the floor. ‘But how can she afford a house like that when she waxes bikini lines for a living?’

  ‘She won the National Lottery.’

  All air whooshes from my lungs and I feel a bit lightheaded. Caitlin Harmer has won the National Lottery. Of all the people…

  ‘Five and a half million.’

  I gawp as an awful sense of injustice rolls through me. Caitlin Harmer, one of the nastiest people on the planet has come into five and a half million quid for doing precisely nothing. I can’t believe it. Nor can I believe how nauseous the news is making me. I’m not normally a resentful person. Had it been anyone else – other than a mass murderer, obvs - I’d have been delighted for them. But Caitlin Harmer? Seriously?

  While I’m trying not to throw up, Dimitri struts in from the garden in his orange pants.

  ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ asks my mother, reappearing at the same time and making it sound like the man has just come out of a three-year coma.

  ‘To tell truth, I am a bit pecker, Mrs Irveeng,’ he says, patting his toned brown stomach.

  ‘I think you mean peckish,’ she says. Before swipin
g up a pink cupcake and saying, ‘Have this. It’ll keep you going until dinner.’

  Chapter Four

  Constructed in traditional golden stone, the Potted Petunia is Chollingflower’s only pub. Which nobody seems to mind, as, with its plethora of hanging baskets and delightful beer garden, it’s really rather nice. That evening, though, after finding out that Caitlin Harmer has won five and a half million quid on the lottery and is the owner of the fabulous new-build house my dad and Tom are working on, I register nothing of the pretty scene. Nor do I listen to any of the conversation going on between my parents and Dimitri, as the four of us wind our way through the village to the pub. At one point, though – as we’re walking past the fruit and veg shop with its big ‘All Produce Organic’ sign outside, I am vaguely aware of my mother tying herself into an almighty pink knot, attempting to explain the difference between ‘organic’ and ‘orgasm’ to our visitor.

  At the pub, we order our drinks: a bottle of lager apiece for my dad and Dimitri, and a gin and tonic each for me and my mother. (I resist ordering a treble, even though I feel in desperate need of one.) We spend ten minutes explaining various things on the menu to Dimitri – which involves the barmaid dipping into the kitchen to show him an aubergine, then we meander through to the beer garden and sit down at a large round table with a green and white parasol.

  ‘So, Dimitri, what do you think of our little village so far?’ asks my dad.

  ‘I think it very spiffing, Mr Irveeng,’ says Dimitri. ‘The people, they are all you’re welcome.’

  ‘Well, we do like to pride ourselves on our sense of community,’ flutters my mother. ‘And although I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, I do think my work in the local WI goes a long way to contributing to that.’

  ‘In the Wifi?’

  ‘The WI,’ I say. ‘It stands for Women’s Institute.’

  ‘It’s a national organization that goes right back to 1897,’ explains my mother. ‘And I’m hoping to be made Regional Chair next year.’

  ‘A very good thing to be doing, Mrs Irveeng. My cousin, he is making the sofas for a living. But making the chairs is also very impressiveness,’ says Dimitri, nodding earnestly. Before something – or rather someone – equally as impressiveness catches his eye. ‘Aah, look. There is the Tom,’ he says.

  Causing my stomach to flip. Noooooo! I can’t cope with seeing Tom right now. Not after I’d stomped off in a huff at lunchtime after our heated discussion about social media. (Although I’m not sure it was that heated. Or if I actually stomped.) But I’d certainly stomp now, were we to have a repeat scene. Because now I know what a hypocrite he is, looking down his perfect nose at me for being an Instagram fan, while he’s plastered all over his girlfriend’s social media page. His girlfriend who just happens to have five and a half million quid in her back pocket. And who is clinging to his arm for dear life as she picks her way over the lawn towards us in a tight red dress and strappy silver sandals.

  ‘Good evening, Tom. Good evening, Caitlin,’ chirps my mother, as they reach the table. ‘Isn’t it a lovely one?’

  ‘It is,’ Tom agrees. ‘So lovely that we thought we’d come out for a bite to eat.’

  ‘Great minds think alike. We’re eating too. Why don’t you join us? There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘We’d love to,’ says Caitlin, shimmying onto the bench between me and Dimitri. ‘I’ve been dying to catch up properly with Izzy. And it’s so lovely seeing Dimitri again,’ she adds, fluttering what can’t possibly be natural lashes at him.

  Tom slides onto the bench between Dimitri and my dad, offering me a tentative smile as his gaze briefly fuses with mine. I swipe up my glass, look away, and gulp down a much-needed slug of gin.

  ‘So, how are you enjoying Chollingflower, Dimitri?’ Caitlin purrs.

  ‘I am enjoying very much. All the ladies are very beautiful here.’

  ‘Oooo, isn’t he a charmer?’ titters my mother.

  ‘He certainly is,’ agrees Caitlin, lowering her definitely false lashes and shooting our guest a dazzling smile. ‘Although I can’t imagine why anyone would want to visit Chollingflower and leave behind all that lovely Greek sunshine and sangria…’

  ‘That’s Spanish,’ I say.

  She tosses me an unimpressed glare. ‘… and spaghetti carbonara…’

  ‘That’s Italian,’ says Tom.

  She shoots him an unimpressed glare. ‘… and crispy duck.’

  ‘That Chinese,’ says Dimitri.

  She fires him another smile. ‘I know, silly. I’m teasing.’

  ‘We walked past your new house on the way down, Caitlin,’ pipes up my mum. ‘I must say, it looks quite something.’

  ‘Yes. It very nice house,’ agrees Dimitri. ‘Very… sexy house.’

  Caitlin gusts out an exaggerated sigh. ‘It’s OK, I suppose. To be honest, I’m finding the whole project exhausting. It’s taking forever. On Grand Designs, you see it at the start, then there’s a bit of messing about, then an hour later, they have the end result.’

  ‘Um, could that possibly be because it’s an hour-long programme?’ I ask sardonically.

  She flicks me a disparaging look and shakes back her titian locks. ‘In real life, everything takes ages.’

  ‘It’s not taking that long,’ counters my dad. ‘Some of the houses I’ve worked on have had all kinds of setbacks. The way yours is going, you’ll be finished ahead of schedule.’

  Caitlin heaves another sigh that sets the parasol fluttering. ‘And on top of everything else, there’s all that choosing. Choosing tiles, choosing light switches, choosing the kitchen...’

  ‘Can’t think of anything worse,’ I mutter – with a large dose of irony – into my gin. I’d kill to spend all day choosing stuff. I’d only been six when my parents bought their current house – a rambling five-bedroomed detached – which had been a total wreck at the time. It had taken years of hard graft and an inordinate amount of ‘choosing’ to restore it to its former glory, something I’d loved being involved in, despite my tender age.

  Not that Caitlin would be remotely interested. In typical fashion, she ignores my comment and rumbles on. ‘It’s all so stressful. Thank goodness I have Tom to go home to at night. He gives the most wonderful shoulder rubs. In fact, he can work miracles with his hands.’

  I don’t want to think about the miracles Tom works with his hands. And I suspect, by the way said hands are now holding a menu in front of his face, that he’d much rather I – or anyone else – didn’t think about them either.

  ‘I bet you can’t wait to move in,’ says my mother.

  Cailin scrunches up her face. Which, with her new lips and fake tan, makes her look like a disgruntled goldfish. ‘I’m not actually sure we’re going to be moving in. Now that I have a feel for the place, I think it might be a bit small.’

  A bit small? I almost choke on an ice cube. Caitlin and her three siblings grew up in a three-bedroomed semi, which would fit into the new-build six times over.

  ‘Tom and I are looking at the old vicarage in Doddingflower tomorrow. It has seven en suite bedrooms, a massive kitchen, and an indoor swimming pool. And because it’s just been refurbished, there’s no work to do at all. Which is just as well, because I’ve decided I don’t want to be a property developer anymore. I think I’ll do an Izzy and take some time out to assess my options,’ she adds, snorting with laughter.

  I don’t join in. Nor do I think about the inordinate number of options available to someone with five and a half million pounds at their disposal.

  Thankfully, before anyone can leap on the subject of my options, the food arrives.

  ‘Hmmm. I’m not sure I’m happy with this burger, Tom,’ Caitlin sniffs, looking at her beautifully presented meal like it was a plate of wriggling earthworms.

  ‘It looks fine to me,’ says Tom, reappearing from behind the menu with slightly flushed cheeks.

  Caitlin screws up her nose. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit small?’

&n
bsp; All eyes swivel to the burger. Which looks perfectly burger-sized to me.

  ‘I suppose it’s because I was in New York last week,’ she titters. ‘All the portions over there are huge. Have you been to New York, Izzy?’

  ‘No,’ I mutter.

  Caitlin doesn’t pretend to be interested. Without bothering to acknowledge my response, she’s now holding her phone to the burger and taking a photograph of it.

  ‘I’m going to post it to Instagram with the hashtag TinyBritishBurger,’ she giggles.

  ‘Goodness. You young people and your Insta-man accounts,’ tuts my mother. ‘Isobel puts all kinds of ridiculous things on hers.’

  ‘Really? What’s your username, Izzy?’

  I tell her and she immediately looks me up.

  ‘Hmmm. I see what you mean, Mrs Irving. Why would anyone be interested in a picture of Chollingflower’s disused well?’

  ‘For the same reason they’d be interested in a picture of your Chollingflower burger,’ I retort.

  ‘And I see you only have eight hundred and twenty-seven followers, Izzy. I have fifteen hundred. Probably because I post more interesting things. I had fifty-six Likes for the picture I posted of the lovely new Breitling watch I bought for Tom.’

  ‘Breitling, eh?’ says my dad. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in real life. Let’s have a look, Tom.’

  With more reluctance than I would have expected from someone about to flaunt a beautiful piece of Swiss technology worth around ten thousand pounds, Tom lifts the wrist bearing his expensive new trinket. While much ooh-ing and aah-ing then ensues from my parents and Dimitri, my gaze stays on the watch for only a couple of seconds, before sliding to Tom’s forearm. A strong, tanned forearm corded with lean muscle and—

  I jump as the arm suddenly drops back down and Tom clears his throat.

  ‘So, er, how long are you staying in Chollingflower?’ he asks Dimitri, in an abrupt change of subject.

  This question gaining everyone’s attention, all heads snap round to the Greek, who sniggers: