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

by Alice Ross

  ‘Well, maybe you’re just not cut out to be a sandwich maker,’ he offers.

  ‘Sandwich artist,’ I snap back, through a shower of custard cream crumbs. ‘And just because I’ve never heard of romaine lettuce, and I might have put on cranberry sauce when the customer wanted barbecue sauce, doesn’t mean I’m not cut out for it. It means I have stuff to learn. But I’m very good at learning. I’ve learned to do a bazillion things in my life. Like how to talk and walk and tie my shoelaces and do the Floss Dance…’

  ‘Of course you have,’ he agrees earnestly. Even though his shoulders are shaking and it looks like he might be holding in a laugh.

  ‘If I can’t get a job in a sandwich shop, how am I ever going to get a proper job?’

  ‘You will. Something will turn up. It always does.’

  I flick him an unconvinced look and stuff the rest of the biscuit into my mouth. ‘It’s alright for you. You’re like my brother and sister, sailing through life without a hitch; everything landing in your lap at exactly the right time. I bet you’ve never had to deal with anything more traumatic than getting less than one hundred per cent in a maths exam.’

  ‘Um, I never actually got less than one hundred per cent in a maths exam. But that doesn’t mean I’ve never had to deal with anything traumatic.’

  I snap off a bit of loo roll and blow my nose on it. ‘What, like getting a bad case of sunburn when you lived in California?’

  ‘No. Like having my best friend die in front of me.’

  My mouth drops open and for a couple of seconds, it feels like the world has stopped. ‘W-what?’

  He sucks in a deep breath, rakes a hand through his curls and drops his gaze to the floor. ‘It was at Harvard a couple of years ago. We’d had a few drinks and were messing about on the basketball court late at night when he collapsed. At first I thought he was messing around. But when I realised he wasn’t, I completely froze. I had no idea what to do, so I just stood there and watched him die from a cardiac arrest.’

  ‘Oh my God. That’s horrendous,’ I gasp.

  He nods and blinks rapidly a few times before meeting my gaze. ‘I still have nightmares about it. And it’s the reason I left Harvard. I couldn’t face staying and finishing my postgrad, so I decided to come home to Chollingflower and do something totally different. Something that doesn’t involve sitting at a computer all day; something that tires me out physically as well as mentally; that produces a tangible result and gives me an instant sense of achievement. Like working for your dad.’

  I have no idea how to reply. My brain is on overdrive trying to digest all this information, which puts my own pathetic problems into perspective. Tom has made some serious changes to his life to allow him to move forward after that trauma; mature, grown-up changes that can’t have been easy. And here I am, blubbing like a baby about a stupid job in a stupid sandwich shop.

  ‘And that’s why I was able to save that man’s life in here last week,’ he goes on. ‘Once I’d recovered from the shock of what happened, I vowed never to feel so useless in those circumstances again. So I signed up for a first-aid course and learned the basics.’

  Tears spring to my eyes again – not because I’m feeling sorry for myself, but because I am in complete and utter awe of this beautiful, clever, caring man sitting next to me. ‘I… I don’t know what to say,’ I eventually sputter.

  He heaves a heavy sigh. ‘There’s not much to say, but it’s not all doom and gloom. For all I wish it had been under different circumstances, moving back to Chollingflower has been the best thing I’ve ever done.’ He lifts his gaze to mine and offers me a tentative smile.

  ‘Really?’ I whisper, as our eyes lock and something warm and lovely glides down my spine.

  ‘Really,’ he whispers back.

  Before a juggling ball flies out of the back room and smacks me in the forehead, reminding me that the reason he’s saying that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Caitlin Harmer and her five and a half million quid.

  For all my problems are small fry compared to everything Tom has gone through, after he leaves the library, I feel even more miserable. Him opening up to me like that brought on such a rush of love for him that my heart physically ached. And on at least two occasions during the relating of his tale, I’d had to sit on my hands to resist reaching for his. He’s been gone less than an hour when I find myself logging on to Caitlin’s Instagram account, just so I can see his face again. And there it is, with its chiselled bone structure, razor-sharp cheekbones, full luscious lips and killer lashes – with Caitlin’s beaming mug not more than two inches away. Enlarging the pictures and examining them closely, though, I notice that Tom doesn’t appear entirely comfortable. Unlike Caitlin, who looks like the cat that got the five and a half million pots of cream. Which she has.

  She has all the cream.

  Because she has Tom in her life.

  And I don’t.

  Still, my chat with Tom has made me realise that if he can pull himself together after a real trauma, then there’s no reason I can’t sort myself out too. Starting by finding another job. Today’s rejection from Belinda’s Buns has been a massive blow to my flailing confidence, but, in fairness, I don’t think I’d have offered the job to someone who didn’t know their cranberry sauce from their barbecue sauce either. My sister Juliette – the brilliant actuary in Edinburgh – had been right when she’d told my mum that I should stick with what I know. Which is why, I decide, I’m going to restart my job search by looking for publishing vacancies in London tomorrow. And even though I don’t want another job in publishing, and I don’t want to move back to London, I’m going to grow up and do both.

  I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve made up my mind to return to the capital, or if Chollingflower is looking particularly beautiful this evening, but as I meander along the streets on my way home, I can’t resist taking a couple of pictures of the village. Sitting on the wooden bench next to the pond on the green, I add them to my Instagram account, and experience a pang of sadness that my days of typing #VillageLife are drawing to an end. It’s been great fun taking the pictures and they’ve inspired lots of positive comments – especially from people like Gemma, who are stuck in big cities. Just like I’ll be when I venture back down south.

  ‘Cheer up. It might never happen.’

  I jerk up my head to find Clive Maynard, in his trademark flat cap, wheeling his bike towards me. For as long as I can remember, Clive’s been delivering groceries to Chollingflower’s elderly residents – even though he’s now in his seventies and could be classed as an elderly resident himself.

  ‘Everything alright?’ he asks, propping up the bike at the side of the bench and coming to sit beside me. ‘You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

  I gust out a sigh. ‘At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I feel like I have.’

  ‘Get away! You’re fit and healthy and have the world at your feet.’

  I give an ironic snort. ‘The world might be at my feet, Clive, but it’s one big pile of mush.’

  He flips off his cap and scratches his pink scalp. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that sounds very much like man trouble. That Greek boyfriend of yours keeping you on your toes, is he?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend. And it’s nothing to do with him. It’s… someone else. Someone who is unfortunately with someone else.’

  ‘Hmmm. Tricky one that. And this couple, are they…?’

  ‘They’re not married, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘In that case, girl, why don’t you tell him how you feel?’

  ‘Because there’s no point,’ I huff, thinking of Caitlin’s pumped-up boobs and even more pumped-up bank account. ‘She has everything to offer him and I have nothing. Not even a job. And on the subject of jobs… I was rejected from one in a sandwich shop today.’

  Clive nods knowingly. ‘No shame in that. Sandwiches are a complicated business these days. A few years ago, all you
had were cheese and pickle or ham and mustard. Nowadays, it’s rye this, wholegrain that, or tomato-infused with pumpkin seeds the other.’

  Recalling the mind-boggling choice in Belinda’s Buns, I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘That’s more like it. Now stop worrying about jobs. Something will turn up when you least expect it. And as for this man of yours, if you don’t tell him how you feel, how’s he supposed to know?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll want to know,’ I say, picturing a wardrobe full of Ralph Lauren shirts.

  ‘In that case, it’s probably best to move on. I know it’s a cliché, but there really are lots more fish in the sea.’

  I couldn’t give a fig how many fish are in the sea.

  Because if I can’t be with Tom, I’m not remotely interested in any of them.

  When I eventually wind my way home after my chat with Clive, my mother is in the kitchen, along with a bazillion bobbing balloons.

  ‘I thought, if I blew some of them up today, it would save lots of time on Saturday,’ she says, pumping up another.

  ‘Riiiiiiiiight,’ I say, batting six of them out of the way.

  Eventually – after more batting – I arrive at the sink, where I fill a glass of water from the tap and decide to leave my Moving Back To London And Won’t Be Marrying Dimitri announcement until Sunday – the day after the party. By which time, my mother will most likely have collapsed in a heap and not have the energy for any lectures.

  ‘God. What a day,’ puffs my dad. Bashing his way through the balloons, he drops down onto a chair at the table. ‘Now that Caitlin has moved on to her next “career challenge” with this bed and breakfast place, she’s totally lost interest in the new-build and is putting it up for sale next week – even though it’s nowhere near finished. And because some poncey estate agent has told her that it’ll sell better with furniture in it, all these posh beds and sofas have been delivered today. Which doesn’t make our job any easier – or quicker – when we’re tiptoeing around, trying not to splatter plaster everywhere. Honestly, I don’t know how Tom puts up with her.’

  ‘I suppose you can put up with a lot from someone with five and a half million pounds,’ sniggers my mother.

  Which serves only to nudge me further along my scale of misery.

  ‘Dimitri not eating with us tonight?’ enquires my dad half an hour later, after my mother plonks a couple of shop-bought pizzas on the table and announces that she hasn’t had time to prepare a proper meal due to her balloon-inflating, so if we want anything else, we’ll have to make it ourselves.

  ‘No. You just missed him actually,’ she says, attacking a stonebaked spinach and ricotta with the cutter. ‘Apparently Mrs Downey is still ill, so he’s helping out at the pub again. I must say, it’s lovely to see him settling into the village and making friends.’

  She fires a knowing smile in my direction.

  One that would immediately evaporate were I to inform her that the only ‘friend’ Dimitri is interested in, is lovely barmaid Jennifer. Or so I’d thought.

  Until my dad pipes up:

  ‘That’s odd. I bumped into Mrs Downey today. She’s made a full recovery and is back to firing on all cylinders.’

  A crease appears between my mother’s brows. ‘Oh. That is odd.’ Then, immediately rallying, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter if he’s working there or not, does it? So long as he’s enjoying himself and wants to come back to the village. And we are hoping he’ll come back, aren’t we, Isobel?’

  With a mouth full of spinach and ricotta, I don’t reply. I really don’t have the headspace to worry about what Dimitri is up to. Apart from wondering if he’s ever going back to Greece.

  Chapter Nine

  The next two days pass in one big miserable blur. Now that I’ve finally made my decision to head back to London and restart my publishing ‘career’, I’d expected to feel a flicker of relief. But I don’t feel anything. I am completely and utterly empty.

  Even finding Tom at the kitchen table when I dragged myself downstairs yesterday morning, failed to lift my gloomy spirits. It was the first time I’d seen him since my Belinda’s Buns meltdown in the library, when he’d told me about his friend’s tragic death. Which, for some unfathomable reason, seems to have made things even more awkward between us. We’d exchanged shy smiles and some inanities about the weather, but that had been it. Which, despite me knowing that there’s no point even thinking about the man when I’ll be leaving Chollingflower shortly, propelled me further into the doldrums.

  The only good thing about this week is that I’ve hardly seen Dimitri. He’s been in bed when I’ve left for the library (- thankfully sparing me more sightings of him in his pants), and by the time I return home, he’s already at the pub ‘helping’ the fragrant Jennifer.

  This morning, however – the morning of the WI Annual Garden Party at which he is due to present the prizes - he and his red Batman pants are very much in evidence, being ordered around by my mother, as she teeters on the brink of hyperventilation. In case she tips over the edge, I hunt out a couple of paper bags and hide them in the gazebo.

  ‘I am thinking, Mrs Irveeng,’ Dimitri begins, while she’s scuttling about with her clipboard and a pen wedged behind each ear, ‘maybe, after I have been presenting the prizes, we could be having the big Greek finale with the dancing and the plate smashing.’

  My mother’s eyes grow as wide as plates. ‘Well, it’s a, um… interesting and international idea, Dimitri. And as you know, I’m normally very keen on anything international, but we couldn’t possibly smash the best china because it’s an Irving heirloom. And the Marks & Spencer’s Eucalyptus range crockery is a perfect match with the lounge carpet, so I’d much prefer to hang on to that, too.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Dimitri shoves a hand down his pants and adjusts something. ‘In that case, Mrs Irveeng, I will be making the speech.’

  My mother’s eyeballs almost spring from their sockets. ‘But what will you say?’

  ‘How much I am enjoying the Chollingflower, of course,’ comes back the reply.

  The guests start arriving after lunch, by which time I’m so exhausted from all the preparation, that I want nothing more than to slink back to bed. But I can’t. I have to make an effort and be there with the paper bag in case of any parental hyperventilating. The chances of which would have been significantly higher had it not been another gloriously sunny day; the garden hadn’t been looking its quintessential best; and Dimitri hadn’t put on any clothes.

  ‘Is Jennifer coming?’ I ask in my most innocent voice, as he’s primping in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar on the white shirt covered in green squiggles that he’s wearing with his tight black trousers.

  He scrunches his nose. ‘The Jennifer?’

  ‘Jennifer from the pub. Who’s going to be spending next year in Greece with the turtles,’ I add, surprised he needs a reminder when he’s spent every evening this week in the Potted Petunia with her.

  ‘Ah! The Jennifer.’ He nods madly. ‘No. She is not the coming because she is doing the working.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘What you think about this shirt, Izee? I am wanting to be looking the best when I am presenting of the prizes. Maybe I am thinking the orange one is better.’

  ‘No. That one’s fine,’ I mutter, grateful he’s wearing any shirt at all.

  For all my own lukewarm enthusiasm for anything WI related, even I have to admit that this year’s garden party is a resounding success. I haven’t yet figured out if it’s the clouds of balloons that are pulling in the crowds, or if it’s Dimitri and his tight trousers. Whatever the reason, though, the garden is jam-packed with women in floral frocks, sensible heels and apricot lipstick.

  ‘Goodness, Isobel.’ My mother lurches into the kitchen where I’m helping the girl from the catering company lay out sausage rolls, ‘I’m not one to brag, but I think this may well be Chollingflower WI’s most successful event yet. Even Deidre Lacey is here. And you know who she i
s, don’t you?’

  I have no idea. But, by the expectant way my mother is looking at me, I have a feeling I ought to. ‘Is she the lady who once had a speaking part on Emmerdale?’

  ‘No. That was Edith Coulthard. And for all she’s lived on the fame for the last twenty-five years, I hardly class saying “Ticket, please” as a “speaking part”. No, Deidre Lacey is on the WI…’ – she sucks in a quivering breath – ‘…National Committee.’

  ‘No!’ I press a hand to my chest and feign awe. ‘If I’d known royalty was coming, I’d have worn my best dress.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve mentioned your dress, dear, I hadn’t intended saying anything, but don’t you think that one’s a little short?’ she sniffs, referring to the admittedly-quite-short flippy lemon creation I’m wearing.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum. It’s the summer. Now, carry on and tell me what’s so great about Deidre Lacey and the WI National Committee.’

  ‘It is the National Committee who decide who will be Regional Chair next year. Which means… if I am going to be in with any chance at all, we have to hope that this afternoon’s party runs like clockwork, and that we raise more money than any other branch in the area.’

  ‘Of course it will run like clockwork. With all the planning you’ve put in, what could possibly go wrong?’ I say through a reassuring smile.

  At the exact moment Dimitri minces in wafting a fig leaf and says, ‘I am all the ready for the giving of the speech, Mrs Irveeng.’

  With the exception of avid Georgette Heyer reader, Mrs Platt turning up in full regency garb, tripping over her frilly parasol and landing face down in another of Mrs Johnson’s strawberry cheesecakes, the first few hours of the garden party actually do run like clockwork, with everyone having such a lovely time, that I can’t resist taking a couple of photos and adding them to my Instagram feed with the hashtags:

  #VillageLife #Chollingflower #GardenParty #Strawberries&Cream