Twenty
On the last Saturday in September, BARS hosted its bridge tournament. Clare arrived at the village hall to discover a line of yellow and black striped hazard tape stretching from the side of the hall, across the field normally used for parking and all the way to the opposite fence. There was a stiff breeze, and the tape snapped angrily in the wind, as if mimicking the man responsible for putting it there.
With only five minutes to go before kick-off, the room buzzed with chatter and laughter, but twelve of the players were missing and Penny was beginning to question if the movement would still work with only thirteen tables. Clare was rushing about touting the raffle, ripping off tickets in exchange for ￡10 notes, then stuffing the money into a plastic bucket. The door opened to admit a group of strangers. Clare counted ten; they would still be a pair short. She gritted her teeth. The solution was obvious – she and Anna would have to make up numbers, which would prevent her from plugging the raffle.
She turned to look for Anna, but then heard giggling and spun back. Framed in the doorway was a young woman. She wore a bright pink trouser suit, with a white silk blouse. Her shoulder length strawberry-blonde hair and elegant, chiselled features gave off the air of a supermodel. The volume of background chatter lowered. Players shuffled in seats and gawped as the glamourous woman’s partner walked in: Sam. Clare cast around for Fred, who had sold the last dozen tickets. When she didn’t see him, she glared at Sam instead. She should have guessed that Richard would send his spy. That was probably why Sam was last to arrive. He’d been told to report on anyone illegally parked. Clare would have to keep her eyes on him, he wasn’t here just to play bridge.
Watching Sam help his partner take off her jacket and then pull out her chair, Clare realized that this explained why Sam had orchestrated that run-in with his brother. He hadn’t been fetching milk at all. He’d got cold feet about entertaining Clare in a cosy twosome, in case his girlfriend showed up, although she wasn’t convinced that this glamorous woman would have felt threatened by Clare. Recognizing the insidious signs of jealousy stalking her thoughts, she told herself to accept Sam wasn’t interested in her, and that was good news. He would have left her high and dry and crushed her heart, just like Guy. Her life would soon be back on track, in London, where she belonged.
Sam shot Clare a smile. She didn’t return it. He reached for his cards and Clare scooted off to help in the kitchen, vowing to throw him out if he did anything to disrupt the evening.
By the time they stopped for food – with a warning from Penny not to discuss the boards, as half the room wouldn’t have played them yet – it was obvious that both Sam and his stunning girlfriend were skilled players. Clare hoped they wouldn’t win, as neither of them needed the money. She could see him now, turning up at Brambleton Hall with Ms Pink Trouser Suit for a nightcap with his brother, snickering over the evening they’d endured and plonking the prize money of ￡100 on the hall table – petty cash to them.
Dashing in and out of the kitchenette with trays of shepherd’s pie, Clare spotted the enemy on manoeuvres. Sam was making his way from table to table, leaning in and chatting with people. She reminded herself that provided he didn’t spike the auction, she didn’t care. She heard him laugh, smiled and caught herself. Why did she still find that sound attractive?
Ivy said grace and then invited people to collect food. Anna served vegetables, Clare doled out shepherd’s pie and Ivy was overseeing the vegetarian option. When the pink trouser suit stood in front of Clare, she told herself to act as if she was a client. ‘Thanks for your support,’ she said.
The woman leaned closer, giving Clare a blast of wine breath – it was supposed to be one glass each, but pink trouser suit had the breath of a wino. Clare’s eyes darted round the room. There was a bottle of wine on every table. Where had they come from? BARS hadn’t paid for those.
Sam’s girlfriend was telling Clare she was down from London, saying she was staying at Sam’s, ‘I can never say no to bridge!’
Clare scraped the serving spoon against the tray. When Sam reached Clare, she kept her eyes on her job. ‘Don’t try anything,’ she said, hammering her spoon against his plate.
‘Smells delicious,’ he said. ‘Did Ivy cook this?’
Clare glanced up into his smiling face. ‘I’m not sure you should be here.’
His smile slipped and he exhaled. He looked like he was about to get cross with her for being rude, but she didn’t let him. ‘Excuse me, we need to tidy up,’ she announced, hurrying off, angry with herself for letting Sam rattle her.
While BARS did the washing-up, the remaining boards were played and then Anna announced the auction. Trying to ignore Sam, who was trotting from table to table acting as the wine waiter, Clare picked up a printed list of prizes. Written in Fred’s neat handwriting was a couple of late additions, including a box of vintage claret that looked quite valuable.
Clare started with the wine. There were several bidders, but Sam’s girlfriend was like an overenthusiastic schoolchild. Her hand seemed to be permanently waving at Clare, and the box of wine sold for nearly ￡2,000. The woman also bought a local artist’s watercolour of the harbour and a hamper of local goodies. There was a fierce tussle over Ivy’s home-baked Dundee cake. The pink trouser suit was once again in action, bidding against another stranger, who Sam was egging on, but who graciously bowed out at ￡120.
Sam and his girlfriend won the tournament. As he escorted his partner to collect the prize money, Clare clapped, a part of her pleased their chief supporter was clawing back a tiny portion of her donations. The woman leaned on Sam as they weaved their way towards Clare ‘Wonderful evening for a marvellous cause. Thank you and good luck.’
Clare wanted to say she didn’t think Sam would agree, but she didn’t want to embarrass her generous benefactor, so, smiling, she handed over the envelope of money.
‘What’s this?’ asked the woman, scrunching the envelope in her hand.
‘Your prize money.’
‘No, you keep it,’ she said, thrusting the envelope back at Clare. ‘I’ve had a fabulous time.’
Clare’s smile broadened. Her hands tightened round the envelope. She didn’t trust herself to look at Sam. He wouldn’t enjoy reporting this to his brother.
When the last player had left, Fred, Anna, Clare and Ivy gathered round a table. Ivy upended the plastic bucket, and the raffle money tumbled out. They shuffled the notes and coins into piles, reminding Clare of counting savings from her piggybank the week before Christmas. She thought of her egg money jar and decided to keep that for a treat.
They counted the cash, then added the ￡1,120 from ticket sales and the money pledged from the auction. They’d raised nearly ￡5,000, ￡3,000 of which was from Sam’s girlfriend. Anna gave a whoop of delight, Fred whistled, Ivy praised the Lord and Clare felt herself grinning. It was a staggering amount of money – a third of the target.
Outside, Fred celebrated by ripping down Richard’s hazard tape. He rolled it into a ball, stomped onto the field and hurled it on to the grass.
‘Fred Thompson, you make sure you dispose of that responsibly,’ Ivy scolded. Fred picked it up. Ivy reached out a hand. ‘It’s soft plastic. Give it here. They recycle that at the supermarket.’
Walking home, the fizz of adrenalin fading, Clare felt like she used to as a youngster the morning after a wonderful party – the anticipation was gone, there was nothing to look forward to. The reality of BARS’ finances was stark. It was fantastic to raise ￡5,000, and Gina and her gang of mothers were inching towards their target of ￡500, but they were out of ideas. Ivy’s sponsored slim wouldn’t raise the other ￡9,500, and Brambleton wasn’t wall-to-wall with banking wealth and rich lawyers. Stopping to cross the road, Clare changed the angle of her torch and as she shone it sideways the beam fell on a barn owl. With a few unhurried rhythmic flaps, the bird sailed past into a nearby tree. She hadn’t seen one since she’d worked in the pub. There weren’t many of them in London. She heard the bird’s low hoot, and a gentle peace settled over her.
There must be a solution. She would find it.
By mid-October the rich sweet smell of windfall apples made Clare feel nauseous. The bulk of the harvest had been collected mechanically, but for a second day Clare was crawling on her hands and knees collecting fruit. She imagined her mother scrabbling through the orchard. If Cindy could harvest alone, her daughter could. Wearily, she heaved up another basket, spilling the contents into an orange sack. Stop-it’s nose was wedged through the gate, occasionally squeaking his desire to join the game. She leaned on the bonnet of the Land Rover and allowed the harvests from her childhood to wash over her: Clare sitting in a corner of the orchard playing on a picnic blanket while her parents collected apples. She tried to pinpoint which corner the blanket had been in. All four looked idyllic in the hazy autumnal sunshine. Gazing around the beautiful field, with its symmetrical rows of trees, she mused that it was no wonder they’d named the farm after it. She laughed, realizing she hadn’t thought about where she should have been on her sabbatical adventure all week. She peeled off her gloves and went to check her emails.
On opening her laptop, her body went rigid. Her eyes darted, pausing briefly at the word ‘appeal’. She groaned. ‘Shit, shit, shit! Already.’
Bill had warned her this would happen. Richard had until the end of February but had acted quickly. BARS now only had weeks to raise nearly ￡10,000, commission an EIA and write their submission. The only local couple rich enough to donate that kind of money were Roger and Anna, and, given Roger’s stance, that wouldn’t happen. Maxed-out on debt and with her savings in a kitchen jar, Clare couldn’t fund the shortfall. She couldn’t think of anything to sell apart from the Land Rover, and she needed that to transport apples.
She turned towards Stop-it. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you out. Life’s always better after a walk, eh?’
Clare strode past the chicken enclosure. Hilts looked like he was scowling at her, and she glared back. Richard and his army of advisers would be crowing.
Clare dawdled along the Tarka Trail, past fields that for centuries had been home to Hetherington dairy cows. Rugged hills rose dramatically against the backdrop of the vast, grey estuary, and waves crashed against the rocks below. The breeze tousled her hair, which now reached her ears, and she sucked in a lungful of fresh, salty air. She loved this track. As a teenager during school holidays she, Trish and Anna used to cycle to Torrington and back – over fifty miles – just so that Trish could gaze at her teenage crush: a young gardener who worked at RHS Rosemoor.
Clare had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Without an alternative EIA, Richard would win. And when he did, his challengers would be in his crosshairs. She wished she hadn’t encouraged Fred and Ivy to fight. Richard could make them homeless. Stop-it seemed in tune with her mood: his leash was slack, and he nudged the side of her leg, copying her in staring morosely out to sea, at the people enjoying the water. She watched a paddle boarder glide gracefully, their silhouette serene against the sunlit waves, each stroke propelling them forward with quiet determination. In contrast, a kite surfer seemed to add a dash of exhilaration to the scene, their bright purple sail soaring high, tugging them across the ocean at speed. The surfer caught the wind, leapt and twisted, sending sprays of water sparkling into the air.The tourists were oblivious to the feeling of dread lodged in her stomach like a hard knot of despair.
She gnawed at a fingernail, debating whether to expel Ivy and Fred from BARS. Would that protect them? In her peripheral vision, she saw a man in the former Hetherington fields and recognized one of two people she didn’t want to speak to.
‘Hi there, you two,’ called Sam.
‘I expect your brother is pleased with himself.’
‘He’s enjoying the fight. He didn’t expect the Council to turn him down, but this tussle was always going to end in an appeal.’
An appeal she couldn’t fund. A guilty feeling clogged her throat. Stop-it lunged after a passing rabbit. She staggered down the hill, both hands gripping the straining leash, dragging her arms virtually out of their sockets. Sam opened the gate. ‘Give him here.’
‘He’s just excited. So many smells to investigate. I’ve been harvesting, so he hasn’t been out much.’
‘Why not let him off in here? Give him a chance to run around. There’s no livestock.’
There used to be lots of animals , thought Clare, and there still should be . What would become of her family’s former land? What would become of her mother’s orchard if she couldn’t protect the trees from Richard and his chicken run-off? Sam opened the gate wider, took the leash, then bent and unclipped the dog who shot off, kicking out his back legs like a horse released from stables after a long winter.
Clare walked beside Sam on a wide track, mown through the grass.
‘I cut this so holidaymakers can get across to the coastal path.’
She couldn’t think of a reply. These fields should be full of cows, not the occasional walker. But it was Hastings’ land now.
They reached a copse which Clare recognized from her childhood. Her father had planted it as a cover for the dairy herd in hot summer months. It was a thin belt of holm oak and beech, both species hardy enough to absorb the salt thrown at them in winter storms. The saplings of Clare’s youth now towered forty feet above her.
‘I remember this wood as a child. My father planted it.’ A dreamy look came over her face and she gave a little laugh. ‘When I was at primary school, we used to play cowboys and Indians in here.’ Sam had played here too, before he became too grand to mix with the local kids.
‘I remember.’ he said breezily. ‘I used to nick Dad’s Panama hat and Mum’s Hermes scarves to dress up as a cowboy.’
She smiled despite her mood. ‘Were you ever caught?’
He laughed. ‘I’ve always been nimble-footed. I’m pretty good at sneaking round unobserved.’
They picked their way along a deer track, Clare walking behind Sam, talking about her harvest.
‘What are you doing with your apples?’ asked Sam.
‘Not making cider, that’s for sure! I finally tasted my mother’s efforts.’ She stopped. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk about Cindy with a member of the family who had conned her out of her farm.
As if he could read her mind, he turned and looked at her, then said in a stern voice, ‘I don’t approve of what my brother did to your farm you know. Cindy didn’t say anything to me and by the time I found out, it was too late to stop him.’
Clare sighed and shook her head. Nothing could have stopped Richard. Her mother had picked a fight with the wrong man, and he’d clobbered her. She must stop Ivy and Fred incurring his wrath; they were easy prey for Tricky Ricky. ‘You were saying ... you won’t be following in your mother’s cider-making footsteps?’ Sam grinned.
Imagining Rose, Sam and the other Brambleton Show judges taking a mouthful of her mother’s honking brew, Clare laughed, feeling the pent-up tension escape. When she spluttered to a halt, Sam told her he’d guessed the show had been the first time anyone had drunk Cindy’s cider. He knew that being teetotal, Cindy wouldn’t have tried it herself. And if Clare had tasted it, she would never have entered it. They walked on, and Clare told him she thought some of her mother’s apples were dessert apples, not cider apples, and that might explain the disaster.
‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘You can make cider from any sort of apple. The trend is moving away from traditional varieties like Dabinett, Foxwhelp and Kingston Black.’
She chuckled. ‘Why do they have such odd names?’
‘When someone discovered an apple, they named it. They must have wanted something memorable.’
‘Tough for others to remember though.’
‘Yes. The big commercial cider makers thought so too. One of them renamed them after women in the office – there’s a variety called Meredith, and another called Frederika.’
‘Those are a bit easier! Well, whatever Mum grew, she was doing something wrong.’
‘Let an amateur make wine from the finest pinot noir grapes and you’re unlikely to end up with something that will worry Burgundian vintners.’
‘It really was awful, wasn’t it!’
He barked a laugh. ‘Yup. The word rancid springs to mind.’
The wood was thinning, giving a glimpse of Sam’s orchards. Long straight rows of trees, their branches no longer weighed down by fruit. Beneath each tree canopy, the sward was punctuated with neat circular carpets of bark chippings. It looked as well tended as Fred’s little garden.
Sam pointed at Stop-it a few yards ahead of them. The dog was bouncing in and out of the undergrowth, occasionally yelping in excitement. ‘Look at him. He’s having a marvellous time.’ Clare interpreted Sam’s comment as a subtle hint to get him under control before they reached the orchard, and the dog trampled over his windfalls. She stopped, patted her pocket, then took out a plastic packet, holding it up and rustling it noisily. ‘Sit!’ she said, then in a lower voice. ‘Sit, good bully boy. Sit,’ she said encouragingly. Sam gave her a sideways, puzzled look. She called out, this time in a high, excited voice. ‘Sit. Oh, sit!’
Sam smiled. ‘Why not use the more conventional “come” command?’
Stop-it appeared at her feet. She fed him a few biscuits, then hooked him onto the lead.
‘Doesn’t work,’ she said. ‘People think this breed is stupid, but he’s actually smart, just stubborn. He understands “come” but associates it with a reprimand. Sit and he gets a biscuit. Which would you respond to?’
Out of the blue, he asked the question she’d been expecting since he appeared. ‘I must ask this, Clare – can you really fund an EIA?’
Her head told her it might be an elegant moment to offer an olive branch, but her gut still told her to fight, and she wanted a defiant message to reach Richard. ‘We’ll get there,’ she said, despite having no idea how they would. ‘Yes.’
‘So, you’ve got the money for an EIA?’
She blushed. She’d never been a good liar, so answered to her shoes. ‘We’ve got enough to start with, and we’ll raise the rest.’
‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘Don’t gloat.’
‘I’m not. The Planning Inspector won’t be swayed by local opposition like the Council was.’
‘I’m a lawyer, Sam. I know how to present a decent case.’
And that was the problem. In her career, effort had been enough to win; the currency had been knowledge – how to use the law effectively – but that wouldn’t be enough against Hastings. She needed money to pay for expert advice.
To do:
· Find someone local to juice apples
· Buy more chicken and pig feed
· Agenda for BARS meeting: Ivy and Fred to step back; fundraising
· Farmhouse renovations list
Another BARS meeting. Another lemon drizzle cake. This time the fire was kicking out a gentle warmth.
‘Are you saying we’re not pulling our weight?’ demanded Fred.
‘No,’ said Clare, drawing out the word. ‘You’ve been a huge asset, both of you. We’d never have managed the bridge evening without you. But I don’t want you risking your homes. So far, we can blame it on the Council, but now it will be us, BARS, who will be on the front-line facing Richard. He’s an evil monster.’
‘I’m not running away from him,’ spluttered Fred. ‘Anyway, it’s too late, he knows who’s behind BARS.’
Ivy clasped the cross at her neck. ‘God never sends me a challenge he doesn’t think I’m able to face.’
Clare blew out a sigh. They were both behaving as if they were little children out playing an exciting game and she was Mum spoiling the fun, calling them in for bathtime. ‘Richard is ruthless.’ She bit her lip and looked at Anna. ‘Help me,’ she said.
Ivy reached out a hand and patted one of Clare’s. ‘I know you mean well, but we both know what we’re doing. We’re in the same position as other tenants reporting a broken boiler; we’re just complaining about something different. We all run the risk of landlord revenge. I pray he doesn’t do it, and I don’t think he’s that nasty.’
Clare tutted. Hastings was a Machiavellian monster, the nastiest man she’d ever known. Her instinct was to protect anyone vulnerable, but she counted Fred and Ivy as friends too. She wished they weren’t so determined to remain on the front line.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Ivy. ‘Villagers keep offering me donations, asking if there’s a JustGiving page. Why don’t I set one up?’
‘Let’s do it,’ said Clare. She had an image of an old-fashioned paper bank statement, a page of BARS lines recording scores of donations. ‘We can leave the details in all the places we left the leaflets. That’s such a good idea.’ Clare bounced up. ‘Anyone for a glass of wine?’
‘Sorry, but I told Roger I would only be an hour. Do you mind if we crack on?’ said Anna.
‘What’s this on the agenda about drafting a submission?’ asked Ivy.
Clare looked around at the blank faces. ‘I’m not writing it alone,’ she said, a note of desperation in her voice.
‘Bit busy putting the dahlias to sleep for winter – got to dig them all up before the frosts start.’
‘I’m covering for the interregnum of one of the Exmoor parishes. It’s quite exhausting,’ mumbled Ivy.
‘Don’t fortify yourself with food, Ivy,’ warned Fred.
Clare looked at Anna and received an apologetic look.
‘Bit flat out,’ said Anna.
Clare sighed. She had the harvest to move. She’d calculated there were thirty trailer loads; it would take her more than a week to transport those to Bude. Her friends rose, shrugging on their coats – she understood why they expected her to draft the document. She was a lawyer. Just one with no spare time. How could she squash in a submission document? Of course, if she used Sam to juice the apples, instead of going to Bude, she would save days. She would swallow her pride and ask.
Later that week Clare was standing in Sam’s Cider barn listening to the splash of water, the clatter of apples rolling along sorting belts and the occasional dull thud of an imperfect apple being tossed aside by Sam. It was a precise process, choosing the good and discarding the bad, and you needed to recognize which was which. Given the mess Clare had made of her life, she didn’t think she’d be very good at it.
‘Don’t laugh,’ she said, despite doing so herself, ‘but I had no idea that the harvest needed washing and sorting before pressing.’
He grinned at her. ‘You don’t crush the apples themselves. You mill them into a pulp called a pomace, then crush that to release juice. You’re welcome to watch but it might make more sense if you fetch me another trailer load.’
After delivering the final batch of apples, Clare rejoined Sam. Inside the barn there was now an overpowering smell of apples: it was rich and slightly tannic. She could hear the creaking of the press, the slow rhythmic squeezing, then the gush of juice as her mother’s efforts were released. She caught herself – this wasn’t just her mother’s effort. Clare had cared for those apples in the crucial summer months, it was Clare who’d kept the sward low, Clare who’d harvested the crop. This was a joint enterprise of mother and daughter, just as her mother had always dreamed.
She shook the thought away and focused on helping Sam decant the apple juice into fifty litre containers. Using a sack truck, Sam wheeled them to the edge of Clare’s trailer. He hefted each one as easily as if it was empty and loaded them onto the trailer.
‘I think I’m busier in Devon than I used to be in London,’ said Clare. ‘You never get a day off as a farmer, do you?’
He turned, flashing her a smile that made her feel warm despite the autumnal chill. ‘It’s a way of life. You don’t take days off from life,’ he said.
‘I’m supposed to be having a year off from life. It’s my sabbatical year.’
‘I heard you’d had to cancel your trip.’ That would be Fred , thought Clare. It must be awkward for them being friends caught either side of a planning battle. ‘Is someone helping you with these at the other end?’ Sam asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. I used to deadlift fifty kilos at the gym.’
‘Hmm. Borrow this,’ he said, putting the sack truck onto the trailer. ‘Do you miss London?’ Clare thought about the question, picturing her small glass box of an office, then her neat tiny flat where nothing ever needed fixing. In London, she could walk to a supermarket or send out to dozens of local restaurants for food, and she used to have the income to fund both.
‘I miss the restaurants. I’m not much of a cook and there’s the most fabulous local Indian. I’m so flat out just now and am craving a tandoori paneer tikka masala.’
‘As you may remember, I love cooking with spices,’ said Sam, making Clare cringe. Did he think she was fishing for an invitation? ‘Come for dinner tonight. We can discuss cider making. I can tell you what to do, and when, with that juice,’ he said.
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but her mouth was already watering at the thought of a proper curry. ‘What can I bring?’
‘Nothing. I enjoy cooking. No, you can bring something – you can bring Stop-it. I like having a dog around the house.’
At Orchard Farm, Clare backed the apple juice up to a barn. She climbed onto the trailer, pushed and jostled a container to the edge. She jumped off, hugged it and, tensing her stomach muscles, lowered it to the ground. She wiped a hand across her sweaty brow and limbered up to repeat the exercise. By the third container she was slick with sweat, her legs were trembling, and she was laughing – farmhands didn’t need personal trainers. She moved the last container into the barn and collapsed on to her back on the floor, recovering her breath and feeling pleased with herself. Sam would tell her how to start cider making and she had found someone to finalize that process – if she could find the money to pay them.
She rolled onto her front and plucked out her phone. The first email she read dampened her mood. Richard’s appeal had been validated. She wasn’t surprised, but what did surprise her was the announcement of a public hearing. She sat up and read the details. The hearing would be in March and ‘interested parties’ had until the end of the year to submit their arguments to the Planning Inspectorate. Working backwards, BARS would need an EIA completed before Christmas, which meant site visits at least a week before then, giving them just six weeks to raise the money. Clare let the phone drop to her chest, feeling the enormity of the task weigh down on her.
She forwarded the message to Ivy, Fred and Anna, suggesting they meet tomorrow to discuss tactics in Prosecco and Prose. Clare checked her coffee jar and counted her egg money – ￡85. That wouldn’t dent the BARS target. After showering and blow-drying her hair, Clare stood in front of her wardrobe, staring at the contents for inspiration. Jeans or a dress? She shut the door and slumped on the bed. What was she thinking? Learning about cider making with Sam in the barn today had been fun, but this wasn’t a date; it was a business meeting. Even if she was interested in him, it was obvious his interest was purely professional – he’d made that clear decades ago, after that night in the Smugglers Inn.
It had been a busy night; she and Trish had felt like they’d run a marathon behind the bar. All evening her eyes kept meeting Sam’s, each glance lingering a bit longer. When he leaned over to place his order, his fingertips brushed her arm, sending a spark up her spine. ‘You’ve got a way of lighting up this place,’ he murmured, his voice warm. She blushed, dropping her eyes to hide her smile, her pulse racing in reply.
Clare had taken a tray to clear a booth. Bending over to collect glasses, she felt arms encircle her waist and as she turned, she looked up into those startling blue eyes. Sam kissed her. It was deep, long and sensuous, and she melted into his arms. She pulled away, muttering, ‘Sam, I’m working!’ His warm breath was in her hair as he whispered, promising to meet her the following night after her shift, to go for a walk on the beach where they could be alone. The whole of the next day she had felt a bright glow of anticipation. She skipped into the pub and her boss handed her a note. The unfamiliar writing was neat and the message clear: Sam, a Hastings, could never be serious about a ‘village girl’. Even now, thinking about the cruelty of his words caused her insides to shrivel with shame. Why would he be serious about someone like her, if he could date confident, outgoing, beautiful women like the Woman in Pink?
She should probably wear a suit tonight. Keep it professional. Except she wanted to dress comfortably, so she settled on her best jeans and a jumper, a light touch of make-up and the faintest spray of perfume. She dithered over taking Stop-it, but he was already waiting by the back door with a sort of ‘I promise I won’t be any trouble at all’ expression on his face, so she grabbed a dozen eggs as a gift, hooked the dog to his seat harness and drove with a peculiar feeling of anticipation and dread.