Chapter 15 #4
When they get to the Cotswolds, Mebel’s spirits lift even higher.
She has never been to a place quite like it before.
Whenever she and Henk and their friends have traveled, they have always stuck to glamorous big cities.
Paris, Shanghai, Dubai, places dominated by shiny towers.
The Cotswolds is an entirely different place.
The houses are cottages straight out of a fairy tale, with steepled roofs and flowerpots overflowing with blooms under the windows.
Alain finds parking near the center of Northleach, and they climb out of the car.
“I think we should go to market square, ah, there it is,” Mebel says, hurrying ahead.
The town, already charming on its own, becomes straight-up enchanting when Mebel arrives at the market square.
Since it’s a Saturday morning, it’s bustling with people going around, perusing the locally made goods.
The stands are all selling things one would expect at a local farmer’s market.
There’s fresh produce, with some of the biggest heads of garlic and glossiest bell peppers that Mebel has ever seen.
There’s freshly baked loaves of sourdough bread and baguettes, and there are baskets of fresh fruit and berries, and for a good while, Mebel is distracted by all of the goodies she’s surrounded by.
Finally, she arrives at a stand selling pots of honey. She looks up at the stand’s name, and sure enough, it says “Clover Lover Farm.”
“Hi, would you like to try some of our clover honey?” the lady behind the stand says when she spots Mebel.
Mebel nods, and the lady unscrews a jar of honey that looks like milk and has the consistency of a paste rather than the usual golden syrupy honey that Mebel is used to. She dips two wooden spoons into the jar and hands them to Mebel and Alain. Mebel puts it in her mouth.
“Mmm,” she says, not expecting the texture at all. It’s a lot more solid than normal honey, almost like a chewy candy, and she can taste the subtle flavor of clover in it. The sweetness is soft and gentle rather than an over-the-top kind that hits your tongue at once. “Ah, is delicious.”
“Yes, it is,” Alain says. “The flavor notes in this are very distinct.”
The honey seller beams. “Thank you. It’s my family farm. It goes back three generations.”
“I will buy ten jars, thank you.” Mebel takes out her wallet.
“Oh my! Lovely,” the seller says, packing up ten jars for them.
“Do you happen to know my friend,” Mebel says, “her name is Gemma Stevenson, and she is a—”
“Oh, Gemma! Yes, of course,” the honey seller says, her eyes lighting up.
“Such a sweetheart. She buys honey from us all the time. She came up with the most delicious recipe for a honey cake that we sell here, actually.” She points to a cake stand on which, sure enough, is a pale yellow cake with the sign: Honey Cake, ￡5 a piece.
“Oh!” Mebel says. Her heart twists at the sight of it. She hasn’t realized just how much she has missed her friend. “Can I buy a slice?”
“Of course.” The lady packs up a slice and hands it to her. “It’s a crowd favorite. We’ve gotten so many orders for it since we started putting it on the market.”
“Gemma live nearby, right?” Mebel says, trying to look casual.
If this lady, like Agatha, is all about privacy, then Mebel will have no choice but to go knocking on every house door until she finds Gemma’s house.
She glances up at Alain and sees his tense expression.
He probably feels awkward standing there listening to her.
A quick flash of inspiration makes Mebel add, “Actually, I am just on my way to see Gemma. I’m buying some groceries for her—I think she say her house is over there, right?
” She points down a random side street and does her best to look innocent.
“No, actually, she lives on Grace Drive, over there. Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Mebel. I am very good friend of Gemma. Okay, thank you for honey and cake, I tell Gemma you say hi.” Before the honey seller can say anything else, Mebel grabs Alain’s hand and walks off.
Once they are out of sight, she takes out her phone, opens Google Maps, and types in Grace Drive. “Okay, this way.”
Alain shakes his head as they leave the market. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“What?”
“You got her street address from that woman so easily.”
“Oh?” Mebel says with doe eyes. “Is it easily? I don’t know, I just speaking normally to her, just making chitchat.”
The left corner of Alain’s mouth rises into a smirk as he gazes down at her. “You are something else, Mebel.”
Mebel bites down on her lip to keep from smiling.
What most people don’t know is how vital it is for trophy wives to be able to finagle information out of anyone.
Having wiles and infallible charm is essential for any self-respecting trophy wife.
She could probably teach CIA operatives a few lessons in how to dig information out of an unsuspecting victim.
It is a beautiful walk down crooked lanes lined with cobblestones, and Mebel is so glad that they made the trip here.
Even if she fails to find Gemma, it would have been a nice little day trip out.
When they make the turn onto Grace Drive, Mebel brushes her hands down the front of her outfit and takes a deep breath.
“You’re not really going to knock on every single door here, are you?” Alain says.
“Why not?”
“Because—” Alain rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s kind of intrusive, don’t you think?”
“No, is not,” Mebel says with all the confidence in the world.
Before Alain can argue, she holds up the bag of clover honey.
“Because I give these out.” She grins at Alain’s shocked expression, then turns and walks down the lane.
At the first house, she rings the doorbell and stands there holding a jar of clover honey.
The door opens and an old man peers out. “Yes?” he says, looking suspiciously at Mebel and Alain.
Mebel holds out the jar of honey. “Hello, I am here to give out free sample of Clover Lover honey. Is our best product, here you go.”
The old man takes the jar from her, then stands there looking a bit confused. “Are you looking for a donation?”
“No. Is a free sample. I hope Gemma enjoy it.”
“Gemma? She doesn’t live here. She’s down at number four.”
“Thank you. Enjoy the honey!” With that, Mebel walks away.
Alain hurries after her. “I can’t believe that just happened,” he says in amazement. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mebel.”
“No, but”—Alain catches her hand—“are you an MI5 agent?”
“If I am, why I tell you for what?”
“True,” Alain says. “Hang on, you’ve got nine jars of honey left, what are you going to do with those?”
“I give to Gemma. She like this honey.” Mebel finally locates house number 4.
It’s a small terraced house sandwiched in the middle of a row of houses, its stone walls bare.
The front yard is tiny but well maintained, with a row of asters growing along the fence.
The door is painted a navy blue and the knocker is in the shape of a cat.
The house number has been hand-painted onto a ceramic plate that is decorated with painted flowers.
Everything about it screams Gemma, and the sight of it unexpectedly makes Mebel nervous.
What if Gemma isn’t here? Or worse still, what if she is, but she doesn’t want Mebel here?
There is, after all, a reason why Gemma has chosen to leave the school without a single word.
“It’s not too late to turn around,” Alain says, reading her mind.
“Nonsense.” Mebel doesn’t give herself time for second thoughts before reaching up and ringing the doorbell.
The sound reverberates through the house, and as Mebel stands there waiting for the door to open, her heart rate doubles, then triples.
She forces herself to take a long, deep breath for six seconds.
Then she holds it for another six seconds before releasing it slowly.
She’s read somewhere (or watched a reel, more likely) that this is how snipers slow their heart rate down.
The door clicks open and there, finally, is her dear friend Gemma.