Chapter Thirty-Four
I drove along the busy West Malling High Street, eyes scanning left and right in the hope of securing a parking space. Unfortunately, not a single bay was to be had streetside.
Taking a sudden left turn, I dipped into the carpark at the rear of Tesco. Cheeky, but needs must.
After feeding the pay and display machine, I pinged up my brolly and dove into the hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfare. A minute later, I took a right turn into Swan Street. This was where the restaurant was located.
Once a fifteenth century coaching inn, the pub was now a hugely popular contemporary brasserie. Save for a few beams, the place had been totally refurbished to blend old with new. Fashionably distressed tables – a combination of wood and steel – were strategically placed amongst a backdrop of neutral tones and soft fabrics.
I shook out my umbrella, then went inside. Dylan was already standing at the bar. His eyes lit up upon seeing me.
‘Maggie,’ he said. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for him to drop a kiss on my cheek. I was momentarily privy to the scent of his aftershave as his lips touched my skin. Zinggg! ‘Mm,’ he said, sniffing appreciatively. ‘You smell lovely.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ I grinned. ‘About you. Not me. Obviously.’ I gave a shrill laugh.
Settle down, Maggie.Greg’s voice.
Oh no. What was my husband doing here? And then I told myself to stop being ridiculous. It was just my mind. The inner voice. Playing tricks again. Some called it one’s conscience. Others, the ego. At times I appreciated the inner voice sounding like Greg. Like earlier. It was comforting. But at other times it was a nuisance. And then there were the other other times when I simply worried that I was halfway round the bend.
Don’t mind me. Greg’s voice again, this time faintly amused. I’m going to eavesdrop on those two young lads over there. One of them is bragging about becoming a famous motorcycle stuntman. I might have a bit of fun – knock the upstart’s beer down his front.
‘Good idea,’ I said, without thinking.
‘What’s a good idea?’ said Dylan.
‘O-Oh, sorry, I thought I heard you say… cider,’ I finished lamely. ‘Although, on second thoughts, I’d prefer that Prosecco you mentioned last night. I’m not really a fan of cider. It’s a bit… gassy.’ Oh, terrific, Maggie. First, talking to thin air. Second, casually telling Dylan that cider makes you fart. ‘Anyway’ – I said, keen to get off the subject of my gurgling intestines – ‘how are you?’
‘I’m good, Maggie.’ His mesmerising blue eyes held mine for a moment. ‘All the better for seeing you.’
A barman interrupted, asking what he could get us. As Dylan set about ordering our drinks and asking for a table for two, I fiddled nervously with the strap on my handbag. I wondered when it might be a good moment to ask about Jemima.
There was a roar of laughter on the other side of the bar. One of the young lads had somehow managed to tip half his lager down himself while his mate convulsed with laughter.
‘You want to be the next Evel Knievel?’ the lad hooted. ‘You can’t even hold your glass, never mind the handlebars of a motorbike.’
My eyes widened, and my mouth formed a perfect O.
Greg? I said silently. Did you just do that?
Silence.
‘Are you okay, Maggie?’ said Dylan. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Bloody hell. I mean, bloody bloody hell.
‘Fine,’ I chirped as the barman set my drink before me. ‘And I’ll be even better when I have this inside me.’
Terrific. Now I was coming across as not being able to function without alcohol coursing through my veins. Even so, that spilt beer was too coincidental. Or was it? Could it be that I wasn’t going potty and that, in fact, Greg was haunting me? Or, even worse, that a ghost pretending to be Greg was making mischief?
Omigod, did I have a poltergeist trailing me? Maybe I’d hit Google later – when I was home and on my own. Type in Ghost Busters in the Little Waterlow Area.
‘Cheers,’ said Dylan, raising his glass. He lightly clinked it against mine.
‘Bottoms up,’ I said.
Did one say bottoms up when having bubbles at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? It wasn’t a phrase I’d ever used, and I had no idea why I’d uttered it now.
I took a few swift glugs in the hope that it would calm me down. Right now, I felt like a nervy racehorse about to embark on the Grand National. An older nervy racehorse, obviously. I was more than aware that it had been a long time since I’d been a filly.
An aproned girl tapped Dylan on the shoulder. She apologised for interrupting our conversation and asked if we’d follow her through to the restaurant.
‘After you,’ said Dylan, inviting me to go first.
A moment later and I was parking my derriere on a sumptuously upholstered chair. The two of us were handed menus.
‘I know what I’m having,’ said Dylan. ‘Full English. I’m starving.’
‘Me too,’ I said. Well, I had been ravenous up until the moment that lad’s beer had gone everywhere.
‘Another Prosecco?’ asked Dylan.
Steady, Maggie, my inner voice cautioned. I was pleased to note that it sounded just like mine and nothing like Greg’s.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, mentally sticking two fingers up to my conscience.
I’d have a Full English too. Blotting paper would be required. That and a strong coffee afterwards.
The waitress returned, took our orders, and then disappeared again.
‘How’s Bess settling in?’ asked Dylan.
‘Fantastically,’ I beamed. ‘It’s so strange, but I feel like I’ve had her for years. And how’s Charlie?’
Dylan laughed.
‘He’s… adjusting.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, he gets on the sofa, and I tell him to get off. Then he climbs into an armchair, and I tell him to get off. And then he jumps on the bed, and I tell him to get off. He’s also learnt that the refrigerator is where his opened tin of dog food resides during the day. His current strategies have failed to bust open the fridge. However, he did manage to upend the kitchen bin. He scoffed a load of vegetable peelings and a teabag. He is totally food obsessed. That aside, he’s very loving. Whenever I step over the threshold it’s like dealing with both a welcoming committee and a press conference – with me as the star.’
‘Aw, that’s nice,’ I smiled, as the waitress delivered my second Prosecco. I was now starting to relax. ‘And did Charlie behave himself while you were at Terry’s wedding yesterday?’
Dylan gave a wry chuckle.
‘It wasn’t the smartest move rescuing a dog the day before my daughter’s wedding. However, sometimes you just have to go with the flow. No, I didn’t leave him alone.’ Dylan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have dared. I discovered almost immediately that Charlie has a low boredom threshold. My neighbour kindly agreed to look after him. In fact, Charlie is with Denise now. She has a very energetic cockapoo who has become Charlie’s BFFL. Together they loll around on her sofas, eat endless treats, and generally do all the things Charlie isn’t allowed to do at home,’ Dylan laughed. ‘What about Bess?’
‘Yesterday, my youngest came over and dog-sat.’ I took a sip of Prosecco. ‘That said, Bess seems very laid back. I’ve left her on her own while I’m here with you. I suspect she’d have been fine on her own yesterday too, but I didn’t want to stress her. Just in case. Thankfully, she’s not interested in monopolising the sofa or raiding the biscuit tin.’
‘An older dog,’ Dylan acknowledged. ‘Calmer and very refined.’
‘And talking of refined’ – I twinkled – ‘you looked very debonair yesterday.’
‘Why thank you.’ Dylan inclined his head graciously. ‘I like to think I scrub up well.’
‘You did,’ I assured, emboldened by alcohol on an empty stomach.
‘I got the surprise of my life when I saw you standing there, pointing a camera at Terry and me,’ Dylan smiled. ‘And then I remembered you saying – when we walked the dogs – that you were a photographer. But, somehow, I hadn’t connected you with wedding photography. For some reason I imagined your subject matter to be wildlife or landscapes.’
‘Oh, I’ve done plenty of those,’ I said with a light shrug. ‘Sold them online too. Blown them up. Framed them. But mostly it’s portraiture. Like a new mum wanting to capture three, sometimes four, generations in one shot. That said, my bread and butter is weddings. Terry made a beautiful bride. How did your speech go?’
‘I kept it short and sweet,’ said Dylan. His tone had changed. A shift. ‘Terry requested, prior to the wedding, that I refrain from giving a lengthy speech. She didn’t want to hear anything that would tug heartstrings. She said she knew her mum would be watching from Heaven, and that was good enough for her. She didn’t need any reminders. So, I honoured that.’
‘That’s good,’ I nodded. ‘And surely a relief for the lady by your side.’ Dylan looked baffled. ‘The blonde,’ I pointed out. ‘In the ceremony room.’ He continued to look confused. Come on, Dylan. Don’t try and pretend she wasn’t there. ‘Clinging to you as if her life depended upon it,’ I tinkled, then immediately regretted the comment. It sounded catty.
‘Oh, you mean Jill,’ said Dylan eventually.
Jill.Not Jemima.
‘I didn’t catch her name,’ I said lightly.
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ Dylan agreed. ‘Jill was grateful that I didn’t wax lyrical about my late wife. It would have been hard for her too.’
A part of me instantly deflated. Ah. So, Jill was a significant other. And my presence with Dylan today at The Swan was merely a friendly rendezvous. And all because I’d turned up at his daughter’s wedding. This wasn’t a date. There was no chance of this leading to romance. It was simply a catchup. And afterwards? Well, who knew when I might bump into Dylan again?