The Chic Boutique On Baker Street
Rachel Dove
Winner of the Prima Flirty Fiction CompetitionThe perfect escape to the country…Recently single and tired of the London rat race Amanda is determined to make her dreams of setting up an idyllic countryside boutique come true, and the picturesque village of Westfield is the perfect place tomake a fresh start.Local vet Ben is the golden boy of West¬field, especially to resident gossip Agatha Mayweather, who is determined to help Ben get his life back together after his wife left.When a chance encounter outside the ‘chic boutique’ sets sparks flying between Amanda and Ben, Agatha is itching to set them up. But are Amanda and Ben really ready for romance?The Chic Boutique on Baker Street is the debut novel from Rachel Dove, winner of The Prima Flirty Fiction Competition. You won’t be able to resist this heart-warming romantic story set in an idyllic Yorkshire village, full of lovable characters and laugh-out-loud moments…as Amanda finds her way to a second chance at life and love. This is the reading escape you’ve been looking for!
RACHEL DOVE is a wife and mother of two boys, living in Yorkshire. She is the proud winner of the 2015 Flirty Fiction Competition with Prima Magazine and Mills & Boon, with her entry, The Chic Boutique on Baker Street. When she is not writing, she can be found raising her boys or curled up under a blanket with a book.
Emily Bronte, the author of my favourite book, once wrote:
‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’
I married my soulmate, and my best friend.
Love you Peter.
To my boys, Jayden and Nathan – the two masterpieces of my life. Mummy loves you, now go tidy your room.
Acknowledgements (#ulink_2546b095-3578-521e-a46d-1c70d0fcf8a3)
This book is a magical dream come true for me, and it wouldn’t have happened without help. First of all, can I thank the amazing judges and staff involved with Prima Magazine and the Flirty Fiction competition. I enjoyed every minute, so thank you. Also, huge thanks to Anna Baggaley, my lovely editor who has been with me for every word, turning the jumble in my head to a book I am proud of, and the lovely people at Mills & Boon for being fabulous in general.
The writing and book blogging community on Facebook and Twitter have been amazing too, and without their support, encouragement and general nuttiness, I would be in a corner somewhere dribbling, so thank you all.
Table of Contents
Cover (#uc522a793-6308-52fe-8f3b-141d0fa1f588)
About the Author (#u82f73906-fcf0-5798-a22c-06b562884f78)
Title Page (#u245f4e8d-bc6e-5a49-8185-bb7a2e401944)
Dedication (#u447fd25c-08c2-5cc4-ab1c-a96518ce4f2b)
Acknowledgements (#uad7a769c-b55c-574f-b878-18712215c996)
One (#uefefead9-d622-5a3b-91dd-5f0b68a84537)
Two (#u81934741-bc73-5b58-a0b5-1952766bc8d9)
Three (#u6009f733-89a0-5c66-ade2-8961478965a8)
Four (#u889c2814-5ebf-5168-8672-7dc0becc4de3)
Five (#u9b87e2bf-6b7d-5b28-8179-b2730200d940)
Six (#u988352cc-103b-5d4e-b355-daf2b9edc7e7)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_7f2050d8-d496-5390-84ec-0e249121bba4)
Amanda stared up at the dark wood beam, pondering whether a strip of pale yellow taffeta ribbon would be robust enough as a makeshift noose.
She shook her head, banishing the futile thoughts, and started to clear off the workspace of her new venture when she heard the shutter from next door’s shop go up. The metallic clang reminded her that next door had left their advertising board out the night before. She picked it up on her way to the shop front. New Lease of Life had only been open for a week or so, and her next-door neighbour, ‘Shampooched’, had not been the ideal business colleague. The twenty-something pink-haired rock enthusiast who worked there was not the friendliest person Amanda had ever encountered, but Amanda didn’t want to make waves, being new to town and living above the shop and all. She took a deep breath and walked backwards into the shop, clasping the heavy A-board, a blackboard detailing their opening times.
‘Hey, Tracy, you seem to have left this out … er again … so …’
Amanda was blocked from walking any further by a wall. Squeaking in surprise, she promptly dropped the A-board onto her own feet, this morning clad in soft green ballet pumps, of all things.
‘Owww, son of a b—’
She was tumbling towards the concrete tiled floor, and a bruised bum to boot, when the wall moved and caught her in its grasp. Her words caught in her throat as she gazed up into a pair of steely grey eyes. She found herself smiling despite her embarrassment.
‘I am so sorry, are you OK?’
The man was staring at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. Amanda’s eyes flitted from his chiselled jaw to his full bow lips, and travelled down to his tanned, muscular neck, and his chest, which was encased in a simple black T-shirt. She loved watching the lips move. The movements stopped and Amanda frowned, disappointed. It was then she realised that the lips were attached to an actual person, a person who was waiting for an answer to whatever question these lips had formed.
What is wrong with you?
A voice, soft and cracking with what Amanda thought might be suppressed laughter, broke through the awkward silence.
‘I said, did you hit your head?’ he asked.
Amanda shook her head. ‘Er … no, no, just banged it a little. Sorry!’
Looking down at her right shoe, she saw crimson staining the mint green canvas of her pump. He followed her gaze, frowning.
‘I’m Ben. Just stay sat there a sec, I’ll get a chair and the first aid kit.’
Amanda nodded mutely, feeling a little cheated that the moment had passed, and more than a little embarrassed of her own behaviour. Seriously, woman, you used to command the attention of courtrooms, a bloke in a shop trips you up, and you lose it!
Ben returned, bringing with him a black fold-up chair and large green first aid kit. Amanda kept her eyes on the floor, but could just make out his long lithe legs in his smart black jeans and brown Docker boots. He settled her onto the chair, offering himself as a prop to support her as she got up off the floor. Her cheeks flushed as she felt his arm muscles flex under his T-shirt, and her nostrils twitched with the scent of his heavenly cologne. She literally had to stop herself from burying her head into his neck there and then.
‘So,’ Ben started, as he kneeled before her, opening his kit. ‘You just opened next door, right?’
Amanda nodded, grateful for the small talk.
‘Er yes, that’s right, Amanda Perry. Do you work with Tracy?’
The mention of Tracy reminded Amanda that the goth girl was nowhere to be seen, and Amanda was acutely grateful for her absence. She figured this man couldn’t be a customer, as he had no dog in tow, and he seemed to know his way around.
Please don’t be her boyfriend, she thought to herself. Wait, what? You don’t care anyway, Amanda, new life, remember? Celibate new life. Men are out of bounds.
Ben was concentrating intently on Amanda’s injury, seemingly unaware of her question. Yep, definitely her boyfriend then. Before she knew it, the wound had been cleaned and bandaged up. Amanda was suddenly glad her last pedicure had not been too long ago, and thanked her lucky stars that she had bothered to shave her legs last night. Had this occurred a day earlier, Ben would have been patching up a limb resembling that of a Himalayan yeti.
‘All done,’ he said cheerily, flashing a smile up at her. He stood and, grasping her hands, pulled her to her feet. The sudden movement startled her and she swayed slightly. He tightened his grip, steadying her.
‘Whoa! Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked, concern clouding his features.
Amanda stiffened in his grasp and extricated herself from him as gracefully as she could.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for doing that. I just wanted to bring your board back. I … er … had better get back next door, I left it unlocked and we open soon.’
Ben smiled, and Amanda was once again drawn to his full lips. She mentally gave herself a telling-off, and pursed her lips in a businesslike fashion.
‘Well, nice to meet you, Amanda, and if you need anything else, we are just next door.’
Amanda noticed the ‘we’ in the sentence, and winced.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she muttered.
‘What is it you are doing next door, anyway? Antiques and such? Be nice to have one again, good for the tourists. Since Old Bill died, we have been sadly lacking for the antique market in Westfield.’
‘No, nothing like that. Actually it’s a boutique. We sell handmade crafts, doorstoppers, shabby chic decorations, upcycled furniture, craft kits, tea cosies, fairy doors. I make a lot of the items myself and run the upcycling service and I am planning to stock some kitchen table businesses’ designs too, once my website is up and running. Plus, in the front, I have plans for a small coffee area, so people can shop and get a nice coffee, swap ideas. I am going to expand and sell items online too—handmade goods produced in Westfield. My research showed that people love Yorkshire crafts.’
When she paused to draw breath, exerted from talking excitedly about her new venture, she noticed that Ben was now scowling, and looking quite put out. ‘Really? And the town council agreed to all this, did they? Tell them all this, did you?’
Amanda bristled at his abrupt line of questioning. Folding her arms, she suddenly missed her city heels. She drew herself up to her full height, which in flats still meant that she was looking at the bottom of his now upturned and set jaw.
‘Yes, I did tell them, and it was approved. Of course, why I need a town council’s permission to set up a shop that I own myself is a little strange, but—’
Ben huffed. ‘Strange!’ he practically shouted. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Amanda. Westfield is a historical Yorkshire village, we have a way of life here, I know you mean well but I just can’t see any good coming from any of this.’
Amanda was absolutely dumbstruck. She was about to start apologising and explaining herself when she realised that this was exactly the reason she had left London in the first place.
‘Well,’ she retorted, poking Ben in his chest with an index finger. Well, not his chest, more like his stomach, from her angle. ‘The day I take orders from another man is the day I pack up and quit life, so why don’t you just do me a favour, Ben—stay out of my business and keep your bloody board out of my way!’ With that, she spun on her heel, not easy in flats, and flounced out of the shop, making sure to bang the door on the way out. As she was busy storming out, she heard him mutter, ‘Bloody Londoners.’
She resisted the urge to go back and slap him, and instead spent the next half-hour pummelling stuffing into her new cushion range, imagining she was inserting things into her stuck-up country boy neighbour.
Next door, Ben was doing much the same, only he took out his frustrations on an unamused Border collie, who was shampooed and brushed vigorously to within an inch of its doggy life.
Two (#ulink_1622a075-e4d3-5a29-866c-54372d31ced7)
Amanda dragged the silver metal shutter down with tired shoulders. The metal clanged into place, and she cursed as she dropped the key twice in her attempts to lock the deadbolts. Sighing, she secured the last bolt and straightened up. She winced as her back popped and clicked back into place. She had always thought that being sat ramrod-straight in court all day, followed by long nights hunched over her desk, would have been detrimental to her health, but after a long day in her shop, she now realised that the city girl in her had actually had it pretty easy compared to her new country bumpkin self.
The one thing she didn’t miss was the long commute home. She shuddered as she thought of all those early mornings and late nights crammed on the Tube with sweaty, cranky people and drunks, all trying to get somewhere, anywhere else but the tin can they were entombed in most probably. She remembered the stench, the awkward face thrust into an armpit journeys, the glazed eyes all framed within the condensation of the windows of the trains. To say Amanda had a new-found respect for sardines after all those years would be an understatement. Those fish were the Thors of the oceans, albeit that their journeys were done in the afterlife, but still, kudos.
All Amanda had to do now was pirouette on one foot from the shopfront to her own front door, the flat being directly above her livelihood. The living quarters had been one of the main draws for Amanda, one of the catalysts that had enabled her to even visualise embarking into a new life, far away from her old one.
She had kept the property listing bookmarked for weeks, occasionally taking time to moon over it in between sending work emails and IMs to Marcus. It was like her porn, property websites and Pinterest. They made her happy, and growing up in the dysfunctional family she had, Amanda had soon realised that happiness had to be grasped where it could.
Being the daughter of two law partners, Amanda’s childhood was less My Little Pony and more Mandarin lessons after school and organic vegetables on her dinner plate. Her parents worked hard, played hard and treated their only daughter like a science project, something to be worked on, altered and trotted out to show off at dinner parties. They worked all the time, and Amanda soon found a refuge: Grandma’s house. Dad’s mum lived alone in a neat bungalow on a leafy street in Muswell Hill not far from the impressive and sterile Highbury house she shared with her parental units. Amanda loved staying with her gran, a woman who despaired at her son’s clinical, detached treatment of her only grandchild.
Looking around her new flat, Amanda thought of the happy times she had spent in that house: the smells of cooking, washing on the line, life. That bungalow had more life and joie de vivre within its crooked walls than could be contained, and Amanda learnt everything from her grandmother, Rose. Sewing, cooking, baking: Rose could turn her hand to anything, and showed Amanda another side of life. One where work and money did not rule the world, and where creativity and enjoying life had more value.
She was thirteen when Rose died. She could still remember the bungalow, the smells, the laughter, but now it was tainted, tainted with the memory of her parents picking through Rose’s life, selling and discarding her possessions. She could still picture her mother’s face, full of disgust at the layer of dust on the surfaces, the baskets of wool around the rooms. Grandma Rose’s death affected Amanda deeply, whilst it was barely registered by her own son. After that, Amanda threw herself into schoolwork, working most nights in her room, and when she finished her schooling, she made her escape to university, the promise of a law career already mapped out since her infancy.
She wondered what Grandma Rose would have thought of her actions now; she suspected that she would be watching somewhere, geeing her on. Her parents, however, would not. She shuddered at the thought. Changing her life completely was something they would never understand. She reached out and touched one of the walls of her abode. It was cool to the touch. Perhaps that bookmark was fate, she thought to herself. Maybe it finally brought me home.
The flat was all high ceilings and bumpy plastering, and it looked to Amanda exactly how she was feeling—a bare shell.
She had pored over the pictures on the estate agent’s website all night that night—laptop plonked on the bed, Amanda submerged under the duvet, surrounded by sodden tissues and the contents of her household bills box. She had made herself a little island of desperation, her king-size bed floating along on a sea of desperation, isolation and sheer disbelief. She felt like her world had been spun on its very axis, and she couldn’t help but think of what her parents would say when they discovered the news. That night, Amanda had cried, wailed, and eventually, at 3 a.m., had emailed the estate agent to not only put her London flat on the market, but to also put in an offer on the shop and flat she had been ogling, far away from the hustle and bustle, in a Yorkshire town called Westfield. Only then, once the email had pinged ‘sent’, had the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach eased enough for her to drift off. She dreamed that her little divan island had floated away, and she awoke feeling determined and oddly detached from her previous self.
When she came to, with the light from her bedroom window shining on her laptop screen, she winced, wondering what awaited her now the juggernaut of her plan had started the low rumbling of action. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but the water cooler gossip at work would be in overdrive this morning when she didn’t turn in as normal. What would Marcus tell people? Would he back her up, tell people it was a mistake? Would he even care?
She still had no idea how it had happened herself, so how could she explain it to anyone else?
She remembered how she felt that day, but the reason the contract had gotten so messed up eluded her still. She was always so meticulous. After Marcus’s visit to her office, she had knuckled down, eager to get the work done and sent off to Marcus, as he had so rudely requested on his way out to an afternoon at the golf course. Time had escaped her once again, and by the time she had finished printing off the paperwork, a quick glance at her workstation clock told her it was well past office hours. After rubbing her stiff neck, she arranged the papers neatly in the case file, threw her coat on, grabbed her bag and headed to Marcus’s office. The office was empty, even the cleaners had gone home. A few side lights lit her path along the sleek corridors. She was just pondering on her pathetic life when she heard a noise coming from Marcus’s office. Looking around her, she became all too aware that she was alone and that no one would actually miss her for a while if she were to go missing. Brandishing the file like a weapon, she froze, listening intently. She heard it again—a low grunt, punctuated by the odd squeal. What the hell was it? Gripping her bag tight to her side with her elbow, she gently pushed open the door to her boyfriend’s office. She jumped as a bang sounded near her, and she realised that she had dropped the file she was holding. The papers exploded from the file, fluttering around her, but she took no notice. What she was looking at was far worse. Marcus was lying across his desk, trousers around his hairy ankles, while a woman was straddled across him, writhing. Both heads snapped towards her at the noise, and they froze. Amanda was trying to form a coherent thought in her head when Marcus jumped up, bouncing the naked woman off him. He jiggled around one-footed on the carpeted floor as he tried to pull his clothing back on. The woman just stared at Amanda, a smug look on her face, and it clicked into place then. Angela, his secretary. The biggest cliché of them all. Shagging her boss in his office after hours.
‘Working late again are we, Miss Perry? We needed that Kamimura file by five,’ she said, all the while pulling her silky panties back up over her stockings and under her short dress. Amanda nodded, looking at Marcus, who was now heading towards her, red-faced and green around the gills.
‘Amanda,’ he said, glaring back at Angela, who shrugged and sat down. ‘This isn’t what you think, I promise.’
Amanda felt as though she would pass out any moment. All those nights, working to make him look good, doing his work, waiting for him to pick her up for dates that never happened. The memories came like stab wounds, thick and fast, realisation dripping like blood from her new wounds. She shook her head slowly, trying to get her brain to connect to her mouth.
She swooped down, picked up what was left of the file and threw it to Marcus.
‘All done,’ she said and she fled.
Marcus chased her to the elevators, calling her name, but thankfully the steel doors closed on him just as he reached them. Amanda pressed a shaky finger to the lobby button and sank down to the floor, head in her hands. Her phone buzzed in her bag, and, on automatic pilot, she pulled it out.
‘Perry,’ she said, her words barely flopping for freedom from her numb lips.
‘Amanda,’ the prim voice said crisply. ‘Mummy here, any news for me?’
Amanda stared at the walls of the lift as they took her to the ground floor.
‘No, Mother, nothing to report. I’ll call you later.’
Clicking off the call before her mother could ask her another question, she threw the phone into her bag, and peeled herself off the floor, quickly rearranging her clothes and hair before the lift doors pinged. Making her way across the marbled floors of the reception area, she smiled goodnight at the security guards and pushed through the front doors, gulping greedily at the fresh night air before hailing a taxi.
Two days later, she had been called into Stokes’ office and fired. Gross negligence, they had stated. Amanda had barely taken it in, and before she even thought to ask what she had done, she was standing outside the same doors, a box full of trinkets heavy in her arms.
It was all a colossal mess, and now she was unemployed to boot. She should have been looking for another job, another firm to work for, before the gossip really spread, but she couldn’t bring herself to apply anywhere else. What was the point? Her reputation was tarnished—bungling a million pound account did that for your career. The years of hard work and sacrifice would mean nothing. She was the girl who cocked up the huge contract and, now, that’s all she would ever be.
She rubbed her gritty eyes, puffy, sore and still caked in last night’s mascara, and gingerly reached over. She rolled her fingers over the touch pad and the laptop sprang to life. Squinting at the screen, she refreshed her email inbox. Whilst she had been sleeping, her new life had been forming around her, and when she opened the reply from the estate agent, she smiled to herself. Time to disappear.
The little Eden she had sunk her life savings into was thankfully not a disappointment, despite the sale being unseen.
There was an exterior entrance on the street, and a staircase within the shop too, which made her feel very safe and self-contained, master of her own realm. She could pretty much spend her life at work and home, all within a few steps. After all the commuting and fast walks in teetering heels, barrelling down corridors and storming into court, it was an appealing thought to Amanda.
Opening the door, she flicked on the light and sighed. After long days of working to make the shop interior what she had envisioned, she had barely made a dent on her new home and it showed. Boxes surrounded the chintzy sofa she had bought from eBay, a buy she intended to upcycle with some new covers, and which at present looked like something from her gran’s house. Stepping over them, she passed a dilapidated end table and spied her smartphone. In the city, her phone had been permanently glued to her hand, never leaving her side for longer than a bath. The more time she did without it, the less she missed it, and the people who used it to contact her. Well, maybe her thoughts lingered on one, but she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on that now. Opening the wooden drawer in the front of the table, she scooped up the phone and shoved it in, dusting down her hands as she walked away. Last night’s DVD title filled the television screen with colour as it sprang to life. She pressed ‘play’ and Pride and Prejudice began playing again, the embroidered garments flowing across the screen as the title music sounded. She walked to the open-plan kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a microwave Thai meal and the remnants of the bottle of rosé from the night before. Spying the washed glass on the draining board, she filled it up and took a swift glug, smiling as the cold chill of the wine hit the back of her throat, warming her through. She sat down on the breakfast bar stool, running her fingers along the bandage on her foot. She pursed her lips as she thought of the disastrous encounter, and the feeling that she hadn’t been able to shake all afternoon. She had heard him next door, banging about most of the afternoon. He was obviously an arse. Obviously. She just felt sorry for the dogs he had been looking after. She could see him being a dog man though, all jeans, jumpers and ruddy cheeks, skipping over mountain and dale with man’s best friend. Her face drew into a frown as she sipped at her wine. Tracy was the polar opposite of him, all mean scowls, and out-there fashion sense. Not a couple you would put together immediately, if at all. She ran her free palm along the side of the cool glass. In fact, they were pretty much the last people she would put together in a relationship. Not that she cared, of course, and his unkind words had stung. What did he know about her business? Did he really think she hadn’t done a little bit of research before she started? Fair enough, she had sold her London life and skipped town in a heartbroken knee-jerk reaction, but he didn’t know that, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about doing it before.
She had the bookmark, the ideas, she had a plan. What she didn’t need was the sexy—Sexy? No!—annoying business owner next door causing problems and making her the village pariah. In her last job, she would have taken him on, told him exactly what she thought of him, dragged an apology out of him, but he had rattled her, and the feeling was not familiar or welcome. She resolved to ignore him and his girlfriend, let them get on with it. Plus, they had a regular supply of fresh dog poop at their disposal. Sometimes, a girl has to pick her battles.
She sipped at her drink and rose when the microwave pinged. After setting her food out on a plate, she took both to the couch and wrapped herself up with a blanket left on the arm from last night. As Lizzie Bennet navigated singledom on the screen, Amanda pondered her own fresh start. If her city friends could see her now, huddled under a blanket in a box fort, watching Austen and getting into a tizzy over the first man under seventy she had met this month. Pathetic. And anyway, not only was she over men forever, but Ben wasn’t single, he was an opinionated git and his girlfriend owned next door. And one thing was for sure, for the sake of her sanity and her bank balance, Amanda’s new life had to work. No, she would stick to Mr Darcy. She would get through this week, spend her nights under this blanket of denial, and then, come the weekend, she would sort her new home, and her new life, out for good. And she wouldn’t think about Ben again. She drank a toast to Darcy, smiling through a mouthful of pad thai.
‘Just me and thee, Darcy!’ she said, in a voice that held more conviction than she felt. Sighing, she took another glug and wondered yet again how life could change so quickly, and how she was ever going to adjust.
Ben Evans was arm deep in work. Mr Jenkins’ prize cow, Gwendolen, to be exact. The poor animal was having a breech delivery. Ben could see the calf’s feet pointing up, and Gwendolen was in distress. Not as much distress as Alf was in though. Alf Jenkins, one of the local steadfast farmers in Westfield, was leaning against the head gate, feet shuffling from one to the other. His ever-present roll-up was hanging from his tight lips, and his knuckles were as white as the white plastic apron encasing Ben’s body. Ben looked out from the cow’s behind, giving Alf a quick flash of his pearly whites.
‘Alf, she is in breech, but I can get her out. I need you to get me a bucket of water, and a shot of brandy.’
Alf’s impressively bushy eyebrows shot up into his hairline, which was half hidden in his tweed flat cap.
‘Brandy?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Yes, Alf, a decent shot please, and some water. As fresh as you can, in a bucket. Go now, I have Gwen, don’t worry.’
Alf frowned and, looking confused, wandered off towards the farmhouse he shared with his wife of thirty years.
‘Annie! Annie, Gwen is nearly there. I need the brandy!’
Ben chuckled softly, his distraction technique working well. Alf loved his cows almost as much as he did his wife, in fact at times it was a close call which he adored the most.
‘Come on now, Gwendolen, let’s get your baby born.’
Gwen responded with a low, rumbling moo. Ben inserted his hand further into the cavity, pushing the calf back into the uterus as gently as he could. He wondered whether the woman he had met today would be appalled by his job, as Tanya always had been. Did Amanda even like animals? Probably not, she was obviously a ball-breaker, not the type to go all goo-goo-eyed over a puppy.
Tanya sure didn’t, unless they came in the form of designer coats and handbags. She had once toyed with the idea of getting a small dog, after seeing celebrities in her coveted fashion magazines being photographed with the latest living handbag accessory. She had even begged Ben to track down a breeder, until he had pointed out that the little pup might, in fact, have to be fed whilst out and about, and might even take a dump in her Louis Vuitton. He still remembered how his wife’s lip had curled up in disgust, and half an hour later she was back to her usual online shopping frenzy, the possibility of a pet all but forgotten.
Gwendolen bellowed as he turned the calf around to a birthing position. She banged against the metal gates with her hooves and let out a rumbling low noise. Ben checked the position and, satisfied, he wiped the sweat from his brow onto his shoulder. Just as he was waiting for the next contraction to start, to begin pulling out the calf, Alf appeared, his cheeks red, carrying a large black bucket of ice-cold water and a bottle of brandy, a plastic tumbler perched upside down on top.
‘Is she …?’ Alf’s voice broke with concern.
Ben smiled. ‘All turned around, Alf, don’t worry. She will be out in a jiffy.’
Alf’s shoulders dropped as he visibly relaxed. He set the bucket down and lifted up the brandy. ‘And this?’
Ben laughed. ‘That is for you, Mr Jenkins, wet the baby’s head.’
Alf chuckled as he began to fill the tumbler with the amber liquid. Gwendolen began to bellow again and, after a couple more contractions, Ben hauled the calf from its mother, laying it down on the fresh straw nearby. Alf preened and puffed out his chest, a tear in his eye, as he set the bucket of water down in front of Gwendolen. He planted a brandy-soaked kiss between the prize cow’s long lashes.
‘Well done, my girl, well done!’
Ben set to work, cleaning out the calf’s nose with his fingers, tickling its nostrils with a blade of hay to get the calf breathing and moving about. The calf sneezed and, shaking its head, opened its brown eyes and looked straight up at its deliverer. Ben felt the rush of adrenalin, strong as always, as his job gave him another day to be proud of.
‘Welcome to the world, little one,’ he whispered softly, as he patted the calf lightly. He pulled his gloves off, reached into his zip pocket for his phone and snapped a picture of the new arrival with his camera phone.
An hour later, Gwendolen and Ophelia—the latest addition to the Jenkins household—were tucked up in their stall, clean and warm, whilst Alf, Annie and Ben sat around the farmhouse kitchen table, the fire roaring in the hearth. Ben had stripped off his blood-soaked coveralls and was now sat, hay still stuck out of his tussled brown hair, gulping down hot sweet tea and eating a steaming bowl of corned beef hash and Yorkshire puddings, made by the fair Annie. Alf and his wife were eating with him, laughing and joking happily, talking of their new calf and their plans for the upcoming summer county fair. Ben, dressed in a black woollen jumper and dark blue denim jeans, savoured the food and atmosphere. The Jenkinses were such happy folk, and he felt a pang as he thought of driving his jeep home to his own empty cottage.
He lived in the village, next door to his vet practice, and had impressive grounds himself, with space for horses and more, but with running two successful businesses, his dreams of having a little bolt-hole of his own like this had yet to come off as he had hoped. The furthest he had got was to purchase four chickens for his expansive back yard the week before: two black and one white Croad Langshan hens, and a Leghorn cock. He planned to have more animals eventually, but he had held off for some reason, probably due to the time and effort needed to keep them healthy and happy. He had not felt himself lately, and had only taken the chickens on due to another owner becoming unwell. The thought of the chickens being left abandoned had haunted him, so he had galvanised his efforts and stepped in to give them a home. They were still getting used to each other, animal and man, and the notion of how horrified Tanya would have been to share her home with his feathered friends gave him reason to chuckle, which hadn’t happened often recently. Lucky for the chickens that Tanya wouldn’t be sharing an abode with them, although her departure had been more of an adjustment for their owner than he had envisaged, given the circumstances. Who knew that the wife you are indifferent to, leaving with your best friend, would leave such a hole?
The thought of pulling up his drive to an empty house meant Ben wasn’t in any rush to leave, and the Jenkinses were great clients, keeping him in business with their many farm animals and half-dozen dogs. Also, the dogs seemed to be constantly matted from farm life, which meant they often frequented his other establishment, Shampooched. He had bought the dog groomer’s a few months after he and Tanya had moved to Westfield when the lady who ran it for many years retired and moved to Spain to crochet away her twilight days from her veranda. He had bought it for Tanya, hoping to get her more involved in village life, but it hadn’t worked out quite as he had hoped. In fact, not at all how he had hoped, so now he had Tracy, who was sullen and off kilter to some, but she loved dogs and ran the business well, which took some of the pressure from him. Which reminded him, he had to run to the wholesaler’s first thing, as Tracy had left him a list that morning, and he had his regular surgery to attend to as well, so he had an early start.
Having polished off two bowls of hash and enough Yorkshire puddings to fashion a raft on a sea of gravy, he reluctantly said goodbye to the Jenkinses and headed home. On the dark drive, he contemplated two things: whether his new chickens had started laying yet, and whether he would see Amanda tomorrow. He wondered what she had meant by the ‘we’ when she spoke about being open soon. Did she mean the normal ‘we’ as in clients and staff, or did she really mean ‘we’ as in ‘my adorable drop dead gorgeous bodybuilder husband and I’? Ben found himself wondering what sort of bloke she was with. Whoever the poor lad was, he had Ben’s sympathies. She looked like a handful, and a bossy one at that. She was cute though …
As he pulled up to his front door, he smiled to himself at the memory of her flouncing off. He felt sure she was going to be a pain in the neck. He just hoped whatever arty-farty stuff she sold didn’t drive the regular stream of tourists away. Somehow, he just knew he would have to keep an eye on his new neighbour.
Three (#ulink_4151b60b-a4a3-5e7f-b9f2-a153c269e9cf)
Everyone in the sleepy hill-set village of Westfield knew well enough to let Agatha Mayweather have her own way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late husband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.
Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.
As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.
Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly grateful for this small act of kindness every morning.
Losing Henry the year before, after twenty years of blissful marriage, had knocked the wind out of her sails more than she would ever own up to, and quite often, waking alone in the ornate four-poster bed, she was more than happy to see a friendly face as she awoke to seize the day.
‘Thank you, Taylor.’ She smiled as she took the ornate cup and saucer, embellished with tea roses, from the tray that he proffered.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, I trust you slept well?’
Agatha rolled her dark blue eyes at her manager. ‘Taylor, really? After all these years, you can’t just call me Agatha?’
Taylor chuckled, ignoring the daily request. ‘We have the summer fair to begin planning today, and the council meeting at 3 p.m., to discuss the permits for the beer tents and the marquees. Shall I be driving you?’
Agatha sipped her tea, her eyes closing momentarily as the sweet nectar travelled down her throat, warming her bones and waking her up.
‘Yes, please, Taylor, and I have an eleven o’clock in the village for the children.’
Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’
Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.
‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.
‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’
Buster took Taylor’s open, speaking mouth as an invitation for a kiss and Taylor found his tongue being massaged by that of a huge, rather smelly dog’s tongue in return. Horrified, he shut his mouth and began reaching frantically into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. Just then, a bellow rang out and both dogs stopped, startled, and sat down, contrite at either side of a very wet and dishevelled Taylor.
‘Children, stop that immediately!’ Agatha was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking resplendent in a fitted peach skirt suit, pearly white blouse peeking from beneath, and matching cream cloche, her silvery white curls peeking out from beneath the fabric brim. Her dark blue eyes were shining with anger, and her taut gait made the dogs look to the floor. Taylor chuckled under his breath. Not every day two huge grey Irish wolfhounds looked like scolded children, which of course they were. Agatha, having never been able to have children, had always filled that maternal hole with the biggest, hairiest rescue hounds she could find, and Maisie and Buster definitely took the dog biscuit for being the craziest mutts she had ever given a home to. Agatha called them her children, and treated them as such, and both dogs adored her as much as she did them, although when Henry was alive, he had had to put his foot down and ban them from the bed, which, surprisingly, Agatha hated. She loved to cuddle up with them, but, even now, she honoured her late husband’s wish and they slept in two huge plush baskets in the hall of the house, or laid out like two overgrown rugs in front of the ever-present fire in the drawing room. Brandishing the two thick leather leads Taylor hadn’t noticed on the crook of her arm, Agatha smiled.
‘When you have quite finished, Taylor, let’s get into the car. Many, many things to do today, people to see …’
She wandered to the front door, grabbing her cream leather bag from the hall dresser on her way past, dogs in tow, tails wagging excitedly. Taylor groaned good-naturedly, pulling himself to his feet. His suit now looked like a dog blanket. Lucky he kept a lint roller in his glove compartment, he thought to himself, as he wiped the dog drool from his chin. After locking up the huge front doors, he wandered over to the car, whistling as he walked. Agatha eyed him from the back seat as he got comfortable, and he flashed her a cheeky wink. Colouring, she huffed and returned her attention to the dogs. Taylor held back a grin as they pulled away to the village.
A short drive later, they pulled up at the small parade of shops on Baker Street. Agatha had always loved this little slice of history—the large, ornate mouldings on the shopfronts, the quirky businesses they contained, it was always a favourite place of hers. She remembered running to the sweet shop as a young girl after school for her fix of sweets from Molly’s Delights, the little confectioner’s that used to be here on this very street. Molly had long since died, and the shop now changed hands, but the feel and look of the shops were still the same. She looked at the newest shop—A New Lease of Life. Rumour was—and Agatha always knew the truth—that the new owner was a city dweller, a quiet pale girl, who had recently upped sticks and moved to Westfield alone. The type of shop she had opened perturbed Agatha, and had since she had heard the new business application from the council meeting. Westfield was very much a make do and mend type of village, and an upcycling shop, whilst being a trendy fad to the city folk in today’s austere times, was less of a new concept to the villagers. The villagers here never threw out anything without revamping it or repairing it as much as possible, and not many people didn’t know how to sew, knit or bake. She did wonder how long this newcomer would stay, as she couldn’t see the shop being much of a success, even with the tourist trade. She made a mental note to investigate further. She would pay this girl a visit tomorrow and see what was what. Maybe she could help her integrate into the village, and boost her trade. She was just about to tell Taylor he could open the door to get the dogs out, when something caught her eye in the new shop window. Or rather, someone did. Ben Evans, town vet and owner of the dog groomer’s next door, was outside watering the planters at the front of the shop. Or, more accurately, he was drowning them. His arm was holding the green watering can over the poor spluttering plants, but his gaze was firmly on the shop window next door. More accurately, he was focused on the woman within, who was bent over the large wooden table in the centre of the shop, cutting and measuring fabric. She was a pretty thing, Agatha noted, with long brown hair tied in a loose, messy plait, her thin frame covered in a pretty floral dress and matching pastel pink bolero cardigan. Agatha watched as Ben’s eyes never left her back. She was the polar opposite of his ex-wife, Tanya, that was evident. Agatha’s brow furrowed at the memory of the Day-Glo orange Mrs Evans as was. All labelled clothes, designer perfume, which choked everybody in a one-mile radius, and gaudy talon-like fake nails. Everyone in Westfield had been scandalised when Ben, a native of the village, had returned fresh from university with his new love in tow. She was at such odds to Ben and his quiet, kind ways. Agatha had never taken to the woman, and was not sad when she had left for the bright lights and temptations of city life. She had felt for Ben though; the evil witch had decimated the poor young Evans lad, and he had not been the same since. Agatha’s romantic side kicked in immediately, and she was just thinking how wonderful it would be for the two to get together, when the moment was abruptly broken. The nearest plant, bearing the brunt, was half dead, gurgling with the sheer weight of the water, and the terracotta pot, now full, began to overflow and splashed on Ben’s denim-clad feet. Startled, Ben jumped back, tripping over the A-board that Tracy always had too close to the shop, and promptly fell over, his legs in the air. Quick as a flash, he jumped up, swinging his limbs widely. Grabbing the A-board for support, he straightened himself up, now damp, and cast a furtive glance at the window to see if the girl had seen. The girl in the shop, however, simply worked on, unaware of the drama outside.
Ben dusted himself down quickly and Taylor took this as his cue to get out of the car, coming round to Agatha’s door. Ben looked horrified, obviously realising that his little trip to the pavement had not gone completely unnoticed. He nodded sheepishly at Taylor and, looking into the car, beamed at Agatha, his grey eyes shining with embarrassment. Agatha grinned back at him before she could stop herself. She had always had a soft spot for the Evans boy, and he had grown into a fine young man.
The dogs loved him too and, as Taylor opened the door, they both made a break for it, Ben only just catching their leads before they barrelled into the shop.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, how are you and your fine charges doing today?’
Agatha smiled. ‘Fine, Benjamin, fine, as muddy as always, I am afraid. Buster here still thinks he is a spring chicken. I am afraid he was chasing rabbits again in the far paddock, poor Archibald had to dig him out of the warren!’
Ben chuckled, thinking of the surly gardener, Archie, who had been the Mayweathers’ gardener for many years. He had been great friends with Ben’s father, Edward, and the only time anyone had ever heard him talk, let alone laugh, was in the Four Feathers on a Saturday evening, whilst thrashing Ben’s dad at the weekly darts and dominoes night. Ben’s parents had both since passed away, and thinking of Archie gave Ben a pang of loss for his dearly departed mother and father.
Tracy came to the door of the shop and smiled tightly at Agatha.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather.’
Agatha smiled tightly in return, trying not to stare at the girl’s shocking pink hair, which today was piled on top of her head like a solid structure of candy floss. The youth of today, she thought to herself. Tracy moved closer to Ben, taking the dog leads, attached to the very bouncy Maisie and Buster, from his grasp. Agatha caught a flash of colour from the shop window next door, and discreetly turned her gaze. The girl from the shop was now furtively staring at Ben as he chatted to Taylor, and her gaze flitted from Ben to Tracy, and back again. Did she think these two were together? Agatha’s interest was peaked. The look on the girl’s face was one she had seen before. It was how her husband used to look at her during their courting days, and how the young Evans lad had been looking at the girl only minutes before. The cogs started turning in Agatha’s quick mind, and a seed of a plan began to form.
As Taylor said their goodbyes, closing the door near Agatha and moving to his own, he looked at his long-term employer and suppressed a smile. I know that look, he thought to himself, that woman is plotting again …
Had Agatha noticed Taylor watching her through the rear-view mirror as she straightened her already immaculate suit on the leather upholstery of the back seat, she would have seen his amused look, and another, very different look in his eyes. But Mrs Mayweather was lost in thought, planning her strategy on her next pet project, and, as everyone knew, what Agatha Mayweather wanted, she generally got, sooner rather than later.
Four (#ulink_f01b3b1d-0eed-5f06-91e8-54e6f7fff5e5)
Four months earlier
London
Stepping down onto the platform, Amanda juggled her leather briefcase, black wool coat and Grande Caramel Macchiato. She felt grotty, despite the flesh-grating power shower she had subjected her skin to only hours before. The fetid stench of the rat race seemingly clung to her clothes. The memory of the sweaty bloke’s armpit she’d travelled pressed up against on the train was still fresh in her memory, and the smell still lingered in her nostrils. She took a gulp of her strong caffeine and sugar fix and fumbled for her ticket, swiping it as she went past the ticket barrier, a single body in the herd of office workers walking stridently towards the various workplaces in the city centre. Feeling a buzz from her handbag, she tapped on her Bluetooth earpiece, barking, ‘Perry!’ into the busy atmosphere.
‘Miss Perry, it’s Elaine. I just wanted to go over your schedule for today. You haven’t left any time for lunch again. Do you want me to rearrange anything?’
Angela rolled her eyes, almost tipping her coffee over herself as she flicked her wrist to check her watch. ‘No, Elaine, it’s fine. I will send out for something, and have a working lunch.’ She walked out of the station, click-clacking in her high heels along the pavement towards her office, law firm Stokes Partners at Law. She could hear her long-suffering assistant sighing down the line.
‘No problem, Miss Perry, shall I ring Antony’s?’ Antony’s was the deli round the corner from the office, and they delivered. Pasta, salads, breads and cheeses to die for. Amanda’s stomach growled, betraying the yoghurt and blueberries she had gulped down this morning. Amanda smiled at her assistant’s fussy care of her.
‘Yes, please, Elaine, my usual. Thanks, I’ll be there in ten.’
Elaine said goodbye and the line clicked off. Passing the newsagent stand, Amanda’s eye was distracted from her fast walk to the office when she spied the latest craft magazines on the stands. Striding up, she smiled at the stallholder, then picked up half a dozen of her coveted magazines and passed the armful to him.
‘Wrap them up please, Terry,’ she said, handing over the cash.
‘I know, I know, can’t have those fancy lawyers knowing about your secret knitting habit, eh?’ he teased, as he wrapped up the magazines in brown paper and then sheathed them into a large carrier bag.
Amanda laughed. ‘Something like that, Terry.’
Moments later, she entered her office on the fourth floor, coffee still warm in her hand, fired up her computer and walked over to her filing cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer with a small key from her bag, she stashed the package of magazines inside, relocked the cabinet and double-checked it was locked. Relieved to have once again smuggled them in undetected, she walked across the plush grey carpet, her tiny stiletto heels leaving small dents in the thick floor covering. At the large low window, she reached across with a manicured hand and drew back the fabric blinds, letting the early morning London sun dance across her workspace. Amanda loved her office, with its stark white walls, huge cherry-red desk and a small seating area, complete with table and elegant carved chairs. Although the decor was a little too bland for her personal tastes, it was perfect for meeting clients in comfort. She preferred to work this way, rather than using the impersonal and imposing meeting rooms on the first floor. In fact, other than being in court, Amanda would be quite happy to spend all of her working hours in her office. She liked the logical side of the law, seeing through a project from start to finish, undertaking each stage, piece by piece, layering the work needed to be done in neat piles, all in colour-coded trays on top of the large mahogany surface she slaved at. The cut-throat side of the business always left her cold. She was tough, and fierce in the courtroom, but she had no passion for it. She always felt like her mother when she turned on the ball-breaker side of herself, and her grandma’s voice would ring in her head: You are not like them, my little duck, their world is not for you. She still wondered from time to time whether her grandmother was right. There must be more to life than feeling the need to conceal half of your personality every day. Did anyone know the real her? Didn’t anyone notice how conflicted she was? She sighed to herself. They don’t know, because you don’t show them. She knew what they thought of her.
Amanda was well liked in the office; in fact she was pretty much considered a maverick in the law firm of Stokes Partners at Law. She was a shark; an organised, keen-eyed, methodical-minded shark and her billable hours were always stellar, month on month. Even when she had been knocked down with the flu, she had worked from her couch, sending in dictation via email to her disbelieving PA Elaine.
The partners were considering a new addition to the partnership in the next few months, as Mr Ford, one of the oldest and most senior members of the firm, was retiring, much to his neglected (and at the moment, very insistent) wife’s delight.
Amanda, as oblivious as she was to such things as office gossip and the buzz around the water cooler, was the clear front-runner, and tipped to be the first ever female partner at the firm. The other contenders were few and far between, and it was widely accepted that the partnership spot was between Amanda and Marcus Beresford, a guy with more years at the firm under his designer belt.
Amanda wasn’t even sure how she felt about the partnership. After all, what was the point of more money if you never left the office to spend it? And who would she spend it with? Other than her work colleagues, she didn’t even speak to anyone, let alone socialise. Last Saturday night, whilst her colleagues were all with their families, or knocking back overpriced drinks in loud sweaty clubs, she had been sat in her flat, knocking back wine, flicking through Plenty of Fish for a possible date and screening calls from her parents, both eager to give her pep talks about ‘the last push for partner’. Her mother had even taken to sending her daily emails, suggesting ways of clinching the partnership, whilst simultaneously disparaging her for not cutting her hair short or returning their calls.
As though summoned by Amanda’s mind, Elaine buzzed through.
‘Miss Perry, I have your mother on line one.’
Amanda rolled her eyes, groaning.
‘Tell her I am in a meeting please, Elaine.’
‘Er …’ Elaine’s hesistant voice came through the speaker. ‘I have told her that excuse the last five times, and she says if you don’t speak to her now, she will come to the office.’
Amanda grimaced. ‘Well played, Mother,’ she said under her breath. ‘Fine, put her through please, and hold my calls.’ She knew this would take a while, like root canal treatment and about as pleasant.
‘Hello, Mother,’ she sighed into the line.
‘Hello, darling, meeting go well?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, knowing full well there was no meeting. ‘Did you get my email this morning, with the picture?’ Amanda fired up her email, putting the phone receiver between her cheek and shoulder.
‘Do you see it?’ her mother pestered.
‘Yes,’ Amanda said, looking at the woman clad in an astronaut suit, minus a helmet, that now filled her email screen. ‘I like my hair though,’ she said, running her fingers through the ends of her hair as though to comfort the strands under threat.
‘No, no, it’s too girly, too feminine. Think Anne Hathaway in Interstellar, elfin like, efficient. Would save you valuable billable time too, dear. How much money must you lose every month just by straightening that mop of yours?’
‘Well, if I stopped going to that overpriced muscle gym you made me sign up to, I would save even more,’ she retorted like a sulky teen being made to take French for her options against her will.
‘The gym is not a waste of time, it’s an investment. Trust me, when you get to my age, you will be thanking me for making you exercise. Now, have they made an announcement about the partnership yet? My sources tell me it is due any time. Kimberley is threatening divorce if he doesn’t step down soon,’ her mother declared, referring to Mr Ford’s wife. Sometimes, it felt like Amanda was still at school, getting regular reports from her teachers and having to sit through parents’ evenings with her mother and father barraging her poor subject teachers on every aspect of her education. She half expected her mother to check her homework too. Amanda deleted the email and short hair Hathaway disappeared from the screen.
‘Look, Mum, I have to go, I am busy,’ she said, bringing up her schedule on the screen.
‘That’s fine, Amanda dear, go get some work done, get this partnership nailed down. Think about the hair, OK?’
Amanda strangled the receiver a little between her fingers, before putting it back to her ear. Marcus sidled into the room and she pointed a finger at him to stay silent. The fact that she was sleeping with her colleague and partnership rival was something for another day. Like the twelfth of never.
‘I have thought about it, and the answer is still no. Bye.’
Celine Perry let out an elaborate sigh designed to guilt trip her spawn, and hung on the line, her disapproval making the phone lines jangle. Amanda put down the receiver like a woman handling a live grenade, staring at it ticking away in its cradle. Marcus cleared his throat, and she jumped at the noise, turning her gaze to her visitor, her demeanour tightening further.
‘Marcus, what do you want? I am busy today.’
Marcus Beresford grinned from the corner of Amanda’s office, clearly amused by her terse welcome.
‘Why, Miss Perry, anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see me?’
Amanda’s frown deepened as she eyed him from the top of her computer monitor.
‘I’m not pleased to see you, and I am busy—what is it?’
Marcus smiled, now appearing contrite. ‘Is this about last night?’
Amanda angrily motioned him to come in and shut the door, aware that Elaine was sitting outside, probably earwigging every word.
Marcus stepped in, closing the door behind him, and sat on one of the meeting chairs. Despite herself, Amanda found herself gazing at him. His hair was freshly cut and still slightly damp, and the edges curled slightly at the nape of his neck, showing the grey flecks in his black hair against the dazzling white of his shirt. He was dressed impeccably as always—crisp dark grey suit, cream striped tie and polished-to-perfection black loafers. Even his hands were immaculate, with manicured short nails, and wisps of coarse dark hair peeked from his cuffs, licking around his designer watch. Amanda turned her admiring gaze swiftly back into a glare and she returned to the commercial lease she had been poring over for the last two days. She felt his eyes on her. Sighing, she met his eyes, anger fuelling the feeling in her gut.
‘Marcus, I have said this before, our personal life does not come into this office, ever! I don’t want to talk about last night. You stood me up, again. Remember Saturday? You are a git. End of conversation. Now, I am busy, so, please, close the door after you.’
Marcus stood up, walked over to the side of the desk and knelt down beside her. Amanda flushed at his proximity, and willed her cheeks not to betray the fluttering in her chest. ‘Marcus …’
‘Amanda, I am so sorry. It just got too late to call, we had the Japanese clients fly in unexpectedly, I couldn’t just blow them off. I am so sorry! It was a late one and, when I did get a chance to call, your phone was off. And I explained about Saturday, my mother was in town. Did you really want me to not see my mother when she had come to London to see me?’
Amanda paused. She liked how attentive to his mother he was, always on the phone to her, spending time with her when she came into town. Last night she was furious, but she did turn her phone off in anger before she went to bed, having waited for two hours, dressed up to go to a dinner that never happened. Again. Softening slightly, she nodded slowly.
‘OK, fair point, but I have a busy life too, Marcus. A call or even a text earlier would have been nice. I could have worked late.’
Marcus stuck his bottom lip out, pouting like a child at the girl he was dating.
‘I know, pookie, I am sorry.’
Amanda rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t call me “pookie”, I am not a bimbo. Now let me get to work, I have lots to do today and you dribbling on my desk is counterproductive.’
Marcus grinned then, bouncing back upright. ‘Thanks, babe, I mean Amanda. I will make it up to you, I promise.’
Amanda raised her eyebrows at him and pointed to the door, before returning to her work, feeling slightly better about her morning. Marcus swaggered to the door and paused with the handle in his hand, a gap showing the offices outside.
‘Oh and, Miss Perry, I emailed you a contract to look over, for the Kamimura account. Would you give it a look?’
Amanda’s fingers stilled on her keyboard. She had a busy workload, and that account was not hers to work on, it was his!
‘Why can’t you attend to that, Mr Beresford? It is your account,’ she retorted, trying to keep the indignation out of her voice, aware that they once again had an audience. Marcus pursed his lips sheepishly.
‘Ah, well, the clients have booked a golf session for this afternoon, so I am leaving the office now till tomorrow.’
Amanda’s jaw dropped, and her mouth flapped as she struggled to form coherent words. Sighing, she gritted her teeth and nodded.
‘Fine, Mr Beresford, I will take a look. If I get time.’
Marcus winked at her, smirking.
‘Why, thank you, Miss Perry. I will need it by five.’ Before she could answer, he swiftly pulled the door to and she heard Elaine gushing over his attentions outside her office. She ran her hands over her tight ponytail and then pushed away from her desk sharply, swivel chair barrelling in the wall behind her. She reached into her bag and pulled out her little key. She then buzzed her secretary, who could be heard outside giggling.
‘Elaine, I am not to be disturbed for the next hour, hold all calls, and get me the Kamimura files. Please,’ she added as an afterthought.
She locked her office door and opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Running her fingers along the brown paper, her stress started to melt away. She selected a magazine and sat behind her desk, pulling her legs up on the chair. After pulling up her Pinterest account, she started to read the magazine, adding ideas to boards as she went along, sighing contentedly, whilst outside her sanctuary, the legal world forged on. At least in here, she could be herself. If the week went on like this, she would be spending her free time making voodoo dolls to stick pins into.
Five (#ulink_055fe702-c041-5e6e-8168-f992c07e66ad)
Amanda awoke on Thursday morning to the sound of birdsong coming in through her open bedroom window. As always, it took her a little while to adjust to where she was, and resist the urge to dive out of bed and check her emails from work. Smiling, she thumbed through her hangers, settling on a pleated cream skirt that swished as she walked, and a thin cream camisole with embroidered flowers around the dipped neckline. She looked down at her shoes, all lined up in the bottom of the wardrobe, spying her green suede pumps with dismay. She hadn’t been able to get the blood out, yet she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away either. They sat there, among her other footwear, a little reminder of the day she had met Ben. Not the best memory, it had to be said, but she left the shoes sitting with their buddies all the same. Cringing at her own sentimentality, she picked up a similar pair, this time in a light grey colour, and slipped them onto her bare feet.
A quick brush of her hair, a slick of dusty pink lip gloss, and she was dressed. Looking into her cheval mirror—another junk shop find with her magic worked on it—she did a double-take of the girl staring back at her. Her brown hair loosely framed her face, which now looked well rested and less drawn than in recent weeks. Her outfit was pretty, casual and summery, and matched the weather streaming through the muslin voiles, which framed her large bay bedroom window. She smiled at her reflection and headed for the stairs to the shop, hoping to everything holy that she had a good day. Amanda was realistic—she had never thought that she would open to an instant success, but now, with no income, and her life savings all literally in one basket, the business had to work, as for the first time in her life, she didn’t know what direction her life was heading towards.
Still, she had three working days left till Sunday, her day off. She could come up with some ideas. She had seen a flyer for the summer fair—maybe she could set up a stall, showcase her goods and services, get the word of mouth out. She made a mental note to find out more.
She unlocked the front door to open the window shutter, and was faced with a mesmerising pair of grey eyes.
‘Oh, sorry! We have to stop doing this,’ a deep voice gently said.
Amanda flustered, panicked at his words, till she realised he was talking about bumping into each other. She mentally brushed off the sinking feeling she had, and smiled thinly.
‘Sorry, Ben, I was just opening up.’
He smiled back, matching her wary half-smile, and reached out and took the shutter key from her. A spark zinged up her fingers as his brushed hers, and she shivered. Looking at Ben, she saw his slightly shocked expression, mirroring hers, before he turned away. Man, he has nice eyes, she thought to herself. Ben turned away from her, deftly unlocking and lifting the shutters, and she found herself watching him. His muscles twitched as he pushed up on the cold steel, and she idly wondered what was under his white cotton shirt. His buttons were open at the neck, showing off a tanned throat with a sprinkling of dark hair peeking out from underneath. She bit her lip as she imagined running her hand over his bare chest, his curls twitching around her fingers as …
‘You OK?’
Amanda’s lip sprang abruptly from between her teeth as she realised that Ben was speaking again. His amused grin was evident, and she flushed at being caught acting like a gormless idiot, yet again. What was it about this man that made her want to jump into his arms whenever she saw him? He was awful! Get a grip, you know no good comes from attractive and haughty men. The guy hates you.
‘Sorry,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Did you say something?’
Ben chuckled, his grey eyes sparkling with mirth. ‘I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday. I realise I came across as a bit nasty, but I just care about this community.’
‘Yes, you were,’ Amanda said, setting her jaw and warning her eyes not to wander. She didn’t accept his apology, he noticed. He was obviously right on the money—she was another city girl, here to make her mark. Well, Westfield didn’t need change, and he wasn’t about to let it happen either.
Amanda glanced behind her. Tracy was working in the shop, obliviously washing a Great Dane. She turned back to Ben and wiped her clammy palms down the sides of her skirt, her body zinging with nervous anger. She bit the bullet, swallowing.
‘So, you and Tracy, have you lived here all your lives?’
Ben’s brows knitted together, a confused expression coming over his face. He opened his mouth to speak, when a car pulled up behind him. Ben looked irritated, and turned to greet the man coming out of the driver’s side towards them.
‘Mr Taylor, have the dogs been hunting again?’
Taylor laughed, wiping his brow. After glancing between the two of them, he turned to open the rear door. ‘No, my dear Ben, a whole different kind of hunt is going on around here, I think.’
Amanda looked at Ben, intrigued, and he glanced across at her, his expression saying ‘get ready’. He turned to stand next to her, and she followed his gaze and saw Taylor help a rather well-dressed woman out of the car. Her cream shoes kissed the pavement daintily, and, after smiling thanks at her helper, she smoothed down her already immaculate clothes and levelled her gaze at Amanda and Ben. The atmosphere was palpable, and Amanda felt like she had been caught kissing behind the bike sheds by a strict teacher. She smiled at the lady politely and skipped into her business mode, offering what she hoped was a firm, steady hand.
‘Hi, I’m Amanda Perry, pleased to meet you, Mrs …?’
‘Agatha, dear, call me Agatha.’
Taylor’s surprised expression, caught by Amanda’s shrewd eye, told her that this woman didn’t offer her first name lightly, which comforted her some. Who was she? Maybe Ben had called her, maybe she was here to run her out of town. Agatha stepped forward and wrapped Amanda’s hand within her own. They were strong, belying her age, soft and warm, and Amanda relaxed at the gentle gesture.
‘Pleased to meet you, Agatha.’ She smiled. The woman spoke well, forthright but friendly, and Amanda instantly took a liking to her.
‘Now, dear, I have come to officially welcome you to Westfield. I think we are long overdue for a meeting. I am the committee head of a number of things here, and I would like to introduce your new venture, if it would please you, of course.’
The words came out as a statement rather than a question, and Amanda guessed that the woman before her generally didn’t ask, but rather expected. She was a doer. Her liking to her grew all the more, and she grinned happily. Ben tutted loudly next to her, and she clenched her fists by her sides, ignoring him.
‘Agatha, I would be delighted. Would you like a drink?’ She motioned to the shop doorway. Agatha smiled, a little shake of her head making her tight bun catch the light, shooting off glints of grey into the sunshine.
‘I’m afraid I can’t today, but I appreciate the offer, thank you. I was thinking Tuesday? I could get Taylor here to pick you up perhaps, bring you to my house for a light supper?’
Taylor sniggered at the side of her, and Agatha shot him a fearsome glare. He coughed, covering his tracks feebly, and straightened up, clasping his hands in front of him. Amanda shot a quick look towards Ben, and saw he was watching the exchange with wide-eyed interest. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, poodle primper. Amanda quickly looked back at Agatha.
‘That would be wonderful, thank you. I close at five, is that OK?’
Agatha smiled warmly, her eyes flicking to her companion once more.
‘That’s fine, Amanda—’ she said it ‘A-marn-da’ ‘—I shall send the car for half past six.’
Taylor nodded once, eyes cast to the floor. Amanda also nodded and Agatha smiled again, seemingly satisfied. She then turned her attention to Ben.
‘Now, Benjamin, Miss Perry here is new to the area, and being a native like myself, I would venture that you could be of some assistance, don’t you?’
Ben didn’t get a chance to reply before she went on. ‘Amanda, you are closed on Sunday, do you have plans?’
How did she know that? Amanda thought of her impending day off. My day off? Oh, hours of being sat in PJs probably, scouring Pinterest on the laptop, checking my bank balance and crying intermittently. This didn’t seem like the thing to say, so she just whispered feebly, ‘Er no, not really.’
Agatha bristled with pleasure, not seeing Taylor’s eye-roll to Ben.
‘That’s settled then. Benjamin, you have a day off too. Why don’t you take the girl on a tour, show her the sights of our lovely village?’
Ben cleared his throat, turning to Amanda, an embarrassed look on his face. ‘Er, well, I have a lot on at the moment, I will have to check my …’
Amanda looked up at him and waited a second till her heart stopped doing jumping jacks in her stomach. A day with him! No chance!
‘Benjamin Evans,’ Agatha said, her best scolding voice in full flow. ‘You have better manners than that.’
Ben visibly sagged, his shoulders drooping. Turning to Amanda with a ‘she is making me do this’ face, he said glibly, ‘Of course, I would be delighted to take you on a tour.’
Amanda wanted the ground to swallow her up. She dare not even try to get out of it now. Agatha and her mother would get on like a house on fire.
‘Er, yes, well that would be lovely.’ She paused. ‘If you and Tracy are not too busy, of course.’
Amanda couldn’t think of anything to get out of it. A day with Ben would be bad enough, but watching the couple being all loved up while he sat there plotting her grisly death seemed a lot less appealing.
My Lord, Agatha thought to herself, I could bang this pair’s heads together! Don’t young people talk any more? There was a lot to be said about Facebook statuses, that was for sure. Even an old fogey like me knows that. The two of them had enough tension to implode the universe. She half expected them to start pulling each other’s hair.
Agatha spoke up, cutting through the miscommunications. ‘Tracy?’ she said, trying hard not to yelp in frustration at the duo. ‘Well, Tracy will be busy, dear, with her boyfriend. But I am sure that Benjamin here can manage the tour on his own.’
Taylor sniggered again, louder this time, and Agatha jabbed him with a pointy elbow. He made an ‘ooof’ sound as she connected with his torso, and he spluttered twice before turning to the rear door. Agatha stared at the couple before her as though nothing had happened. They are like moody teenagers, she thought to herself.
‘So, shall we say 10 o’clock, Ben, for you to pick Amanda up?’
She turned to the door, seemingly thinking all was arranged, got in and looked expectantly through her open window as Taylor returned to his seat, red-faced.
Ben muttered quickly, ‘Yes, that would be fine. Amanda?’
Amanda looked into his eyes and nodded.
Agatha nodded back, a smile of accomplishment lighting up her features. ‘All settled then, and I shall see you next week, Amanda. Drive on, Taylor,’ she said in a clipped tone, obviously still ticked off with her driver. Taylor shrugged good-naturedly at her as he pulled away, but Amanda and Ben were oblivious to all, as they still stood, staring at each other.
Ben eventually broke the silence, his voice cracking as he spoke. ‘Wear something warm, OK?’ he said gruffly.
Amanda nodded, turning to her doorway. Male chauvinist pig, he probably thought she would turn up in heels and a ball gown, like some feckless damsel. She would show him.
She felt a warm, manly hand grab hers and she turned back to him in question.
‘Sorry,’ Ben said, his grip easing slightly. ‘I just wanted to ask, do you like chickens?’
Six (#ulink_fa73b788-df93-5e98-96cb-2e893684cc80)
The next couple of days went by in a blur. Amanda worked hard at the shop, finishing her projects and cutting out fabric for cushions and scented drawer liners, the items she was hoping to sell to the tourist trade. At night, the TV stood quiet, Mr Darcy left unwatched, as she frantically put together her flat into some semblance of the home she wanted. All but three of the packing boxes were now crushed and sat by the door for recycling, her sheets were all unpacked and put away. She had even been to the local grocer’s and filled her fridge with some proper food, things that required more than the pricking of plastic and the ping of the microwave. The shop had even made some sales, not enough for her to relax, but she had noticed a small trickle of townsfolk and was cautiously optimistic about things picking up once word had got around.
And here she was, Sunday morning, the date of her tour with Ben. It wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. She hadn’t slept well the night before, mentally and literally scanning her wardrobe for the appropriate outfit. Dress warm, he had said, so eventually she had decided on her favourite pair of faded blue jeans, a nice top and a slick of lipstick. She had even bought a pair of walking boots for the occasion, although she had needed to go back to the shop for a pair of thick socks, realising that her Betty Boop trainer ones wouldn’t quite fit the occasion. In the city, she had never really worn socks, other than for the gym, and she much preferred to be barefoot or wear simple pumps or heels. Now her feet felt heavy, encased in thick wool and hard rubber. She had been clumping around the flat since she got up, just to wear them in. She felt like a spaceman, but she was going to show the Cockapoo shampooer next door that she was not just some city slicker, and she had a right to be here.
The trill of the doorbell downstairs made her jump. He was right on time. Amanda headed for the buzzer, flicking her gaze to the mirror as she went past. She looked like a giddy schoolgirl, all flushed cheeks and shiny eyes. This is not a date. Be cool. Aloof.
She pressed the buzzer and opened the door. Ben was halfway up the stairs, and she resisted the urge to meet him halfway.
‘Hi,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ready to go?’
Amanda smiled, her small rucksack—also new—hanging from one shoulder. ‘Yep,’ she said, grabbing her warm parka from the hook on the way down. Locking the door downstairs, she was very aware of Ben’s gaze on her, and she willed her arms to work the key into the lock. Ben now stood by the side of a dark blue jeep, and he opened the passenger side for her. She settled into the seat, as Ben took her bag from her and put it into the boot without being asked. Country manners, Amanda scoffed.
Ben slid into his leather seat at the side of her and started the engine. ‘So, I thought we could maybe have a picnic on the fell? I just need to call at my place first, to make lunch. That OK with you?’
Her head whipped around in suspicion. ‘A picnic? Just us?’
Ben kept his eyes on the road, his cheeks colouring. ‘Yes, well, Agatha thought it might be a good idea.’
She nodded slowly. She felt a pang of embarrassment. This was like a pity date, she realised. Take the poor lonely girl out and feed her. She folded her arms tight across her chest. Fine, she would play along. It was just one afternoon, then he was out of her life. She could avoid him easily enough.
Thank the Lord for the nice weather, Amanda thought to herself. It was slightly cold, but the sun was warm and the sky clear. ‘Sounds lovely,’ she said, throwing him an over-the-top smile. ‘Do we need to shop first? I didn’t bring any food.’
Ben shook his head, pulling away from Baker Street in one smooth movement of the wheel. ‘No, I have that covered.’
A short drive later and they pulled into the drive of a large house. The shopfront next door said Evans Animal Practice, and was painted in green and white. After flicking a button on the dashboard, an impressive wrought iron set of gates slowly rumbled closed behind them.
Amanda looked around. Was this his parents’ house? An arranged date and meeting the parents? What was next? Shotgun wedding?
Ben got out and dashed to her door before she could even reach for the door handle. Giving her his hand, he helped her out and then led her down the cobbled driveway. Amanda tried not to notice the jolt she felt when his fingers once again wrapped around hers momentarily. After opening the front door, he led her through to a large farmhouse kitchen. An Aga gave the room a nice warmth, and Amanda was immediately drawn to the huge pile of food amassed on the wooden table, and the small woman cutting doorstop slices of bread on a wooden chopping board. She looked like Ma Larkin, complete with pinny and ruddy cheeks. Ben dropped a kiss onto the woman’s cheek and motioned for Amanda to take a seat at the table. Was this his mother? Did he live with his parents?
Amanda sat down and smiled at the lady, who was quite possibly the happiest woman she had ever seen.
‘Amanda Perry, this is Dotty. Dotty, Amanda Perry.’
Dotty wiped her hands on her apron and held one out to Amanda. ‘Pleased to meet you, dear, I work with Ben. I’m just here to give him a hand with lunch. Do you have any preferences for sandwich fillings? Ben said you might like sushi, but we don’t get much call for that around here. Pickled herring is probably the best you will get,’ she chuckled, her belly rocking with mirth.
Amanda laughed too, throwing a quick dirty look Ben’s way. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing. ‘Oh thanks, but I am not one for sushi anyway. I’m not fussy with sandwiches, this all looks lovely though.’ The table was groaning with bread, cheeses, fruits, a potato salad and a huge pork pie. Amanda’s stomach rumbled, and she put a hand on her tummy, embarrassed.
Dotty smiled at her. ‘Did you not have any breakfast, dear? I can make you some toast if you like?’
Amanda opened her mouth to say no, but Dotty had already picked up some bread slices and moved over to the toaster on the worktop. Amanda looked at Ben, who was staring out of the kitchen window. He looked back at her, a funny look on his face.
‘So, you never answered my question, about liking chickens?’
Amanda looked at Ben. ‘To eat?’
Dotty laughed, setting a kettle of water onto the stove.
‘Show her, Ben, go on, I’ll put the coffee on.’
Ben grinned and, motioning for Amanda to follow him, moved to the back door. He clicked the stable doors together and opened the door to the outside. Birdsong and sunlight infiltrated the kitchen. Amanda stood up and walked out to the garden. ‘Garden’ was an understatement of course. Beyond Ben’s back door was a huge field, complete with patio and garden furniture. A large gas barbecue stood covered in one corner, and one side of the garden was home to a huge hen house. Ben opened the door to the house, and Amanda gasped as four chickens tentatively popped their heads out. He stifled a chuckle. He had a feeling that coming face to face with some animals would freak her out.
‘Wow, you meant real chickens then, huh?’
Ben sat down on the grass. ‘Yep, not had them long. They were going to lose their home, so I took them in. Come, sit. They are quite friendly.’ He tapped the ground beside him, challenging her.
Amanda, well aware of what he was doing, defiantly strode over and took a seat next to Ben, careful to sit far enough apart from him to feel comfortable, and to resist the urge to jump into his lap. What was it about this man that made her want to run her fingers through his hair? Why were the wrong ones always so cute? The chickens strode over to them, pecking at the green grass around them.
‘So, do they have names?’
Ben shook his head. ‘No. They were kept for their eggs, not as pets, so the owner never got around to naming them. I have three hens and a cockerel. Here he is, look.’
Amanda looked to the hen house and saw a larger, brighter chicken strut his stuff on the lawn. The hens ignored him for the most part, and he snuck the occasional glance at them before sticking his beak back high in the air. He reminded her of something, and she laughed out loud. Ben smiled, curiosity written all over his face.
‘What? You thought of a name?’
Amanda giggled. ‘Darcy. He reminds me of Mr Darcy, all haughty and proud. It’s daft.’ She shook her head, embarrassed that she had shown herself in all her book geekiness. Ben chuckled, stroking the head of one hen that came to him, looking for food.
‘Darcy, I like it. It suits him. So that would make the hens what? Jane, Lizzie and Lydia?’
Amanda’s jaw dropped. ‘You know Austen?’
Ben nodded, standing up to grab a bucket of corn from the back door.
‘My mum did,’ he said, stroking the back of his neck with his free hand. ‘I am afraid to say, I was pretty much force-fed it when I was a kid.’ Smooth, Ben, smooth! Why don’t you just don a cardi and recite Keats to her! You are not here to impress her, you donkey. ‘Er, I guess some of it stuck.’
Amanda smiled broadly. ‘Smart woman.’ For a second her mind flashed to an image of Marcus. His idea of reading had been perusing the sports pages on the toilet. With the door open. Yuk. He had always mocked her for her love of reading, berated her for her flat full of books. She looked again at Ben, who was now talking to the hens, feeding them from his hand.
‘You want to give it a try? I think Lydia is getting impatient.’
Amanda stood up and scooped a handful of yellow corn from the bucket.
‘You’re not really going to call them that, are you?’
Ben looked down at her. ‘Yes, why not? I think that they suit them, don’t you?’
Amanda nodded happily, and for a moment their eyes locked on to each other.
Ben looked like he was going to speak, and Amanda found herself willing those lips to move, but the moment was broken when the back door opened. They jumped apart from each other.
‘Coffee and toast is ready, my dears. I have packed your lunch too.’
They both looked to Dotty, and then back to each other. After dispersing the rest of the corn, they walked back to the house, a sizeable gap between them.
The toast was the best that Amanda had ever tasted. The bread was thick and crunchy, and the butter was melting into the slices. It was heaven. She devoured the contents of her plate, resisting the urge to lick her fingers clean. Dotty smiled, passing her a napkin. Ben had excused himself to pack up the car.
‘So, Amanda, how are you liking the village life so far?’
Amanda smiled at the friendly woman. ‘I like it so far—everyone seems calmer here. The pace is a lot slower than London, it was quite a shock to the system.’
Dotty’s face dropped slightly. ‘So, you are a city girl born and bred? Don’t you miss the bright lights?’ Amanda noted the concern in her voice, unsure why this question seemed so loaded.
‘Bright lights are all well and good, but it also comes with long hours, stress and drunks peeing in the street. I am enjoying the change of pace to be honest.’
Whatever test Dotty had just thrown at her, she had seemingly passed it. Dotty’s shoulders had notably relaxed, and her returning smile was genuine.
‘Oh good, we are often worried that newcomers will leave after the novelty has worn off. Us natives, we never get far. Ben went away and came back, and we are glad he did.’
Amanda was intrigued. He left? Why all the pomposity then? He had gone full-on League of Gentlemen on her when they first met.
‘Oh really, why did he leave?’
Dotty sat back, sipping at her mug of coffee. ‘He went to university, and then came back when he graduated. It was a difficult time—he had not been in a new job long, when his parents passed.’
Amanda’s heart plummeted. He had lost his parents, together?
Dotty saw the question on her face and smiled kindly. She looked to the hallway, as though checking Ben was out of earshot.
‘Ben was working in a practice in London, when his parents died. They got into a car crash, up on the main road. Some boy racer passing through the village, thinking our roads are racetracks. They never suffered, bless their hearts, it was very quick.’ Dotty grimaced at some memory playing in her head. ‘Ben came home straightaway of course, and took over the family business. Once he came back, he never left. He is a country boy, through and through. It’s just a shame that Tanya didn’t see it that way, but that’s a whole other story.’
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