Chapter 2 #3
“Well, we must be off. We just came in for some fish and chips, as I’m not much of a drinker, not like you, Arden,” Odette said. “Come along, Tatiana, mummy needs a lie-down. I shouldn’t be on my feet for such lengthy periods in my condition, and Arden’s kept me talking too long.”
They toddled off, and Tommy threw us a filthy look as they left.
Ollie stared at me.
“What?” I asked, stopping Kennedy from getting up on the table.
He was still staring at me.
“I wasn’t exaggerating about the people around here,” I said.
“Yes, I’m seeing that now.”
At that moment, Kennedy escaped my grip and made a beeline for Cytrine, who was bringing out some banana sundaes that were about to make a child’s day.
She squealed and tried to hold them as high as she could out of Kenny’s way.
Both Ollie and I rushed over. “Cytrine, I’m so sorry. Bad, Kennedy. Very bad dog!” I yelled.
I looked up to see a slightly taller woman take the two sundaes out of Cytrine’s hands. She yelled “Heel!” at Kennedy, and he did exactly what he was told. He sat on the ground and waited obediently for his next command.
“Good boy,” said Nigella. She whistled, and her two sons, Archie and Luca, ran over to us and each grabbed a sundae. “And what do we say?” she asked them.
In unison, the two little dark-haired boys recited in perfect RP: “Thank you, Mummy, thank you, Mrs Hughes, hello Mr Forrest, hello Mr Forrest’s friend.”
“Good boys, now go back to the table and eat them – slowly!” She turned to Cytrine, who was glaring at Kennedy. “Are you alright, darling?”
“Train him, Arden!” Cytrine said and returned inside.
Nigella laughed and turned to me and Ollie. She walked between us and looped an arm around each of our elbows, and led us back to our table. “Well, well, well. You must be the ex,” she said to Ollie.
Ollie blushed. “Um …”
“I was going to come over the moment you walked in, but then I saw you being accosted by Odette. I would’ve come to save you, but I’d just had half an hour of her telling me about remedies for morning sickness she’s found from a group on Facebook, and I had lost the will to live.
” As she said this, Cytrine came to our table and deposited a large glass of wine in front of her.
“Ah, my will to live has returned,” she said, and we clinked glasses.
She took a sip and continued talking. “Darling, it’s wonderful to have you back out and about once more. We were all very worried you were going to sell up and move back to London after, er, you know, what happened.”
“I needed some time.”
“He fell off the face of the earth,” Ollie said to Nigella. “I almost drove down here several times to see if he was still alive.”
“I …” I decided not to say any more.
Nigella gave me a long look. “Whatever you needed to do, let that be the end of your self-imposed exile. No one around here is blaming you; I want you to know that. The only conversation topic in the shop was how worried we all were about you. The Hetheringtons wanted to give you a medal for saving Ellie.”
I blushed. I had been trying not to think of Ellie. Because it led to thoughts of that night. I traced the scar on my head where there was a bump from the tyre iron Tarquin had bashed me with.
“Anyway, you’re not even the biggest conversation topic anymore because of Sheridan,” said Nigella.
“Mmm, big drama there,” Ollie said, nodding along as he supped his pint.
“What or who is Sheridan?”
They both stared at me in confusion. “Arden, did you crawl out from under a rock?” Ollie asked.
“Macauley Sheridan,” Nigella said to me slowly.
I shook my head. Was I supposed to recognise that name?
“The MP. Our MP,” she added.
Oh. “Did he get caught doing something?”
“No, he died,” Ollie said. “In Parliament. His secretary found him in his office one morning a couple of months ago. He’d had a heart attack while working late.”
“How did you not hear about this? It was in the news for weeks,” Nigella said. “The tabloids had a field day with their puns.”
“He was a hardcore Brexiteer Conservative, so they’ve been celebrating his life,” Ollie added.
“The Daily Star even tried to say it was murder for a hot second,” Nigella said, rolling her eyes.
Cytrine brought us our meals. A ploughman’s lunch for me, a steak for Ollie.
“Yes, and now we’re going to have a by-election,” Cytrine said as she placed the dishes down. She gave Kennedy a withering look. “Enjoy!”
“I hadn’t heard any of this,” I said, admitting my ignorance.
“Oh, Arden,” Nigella said in a matronly manner.
She looked over to her children, and my eyes followed hers.
At her table, Archie and Luca were tucking into their sundaes while Nigella’s husband, Matteo, sat on his phone looking bored.
His eyes met Nigella’s, and he mouthed something to her before gesturing at the children.
“I think I’m due back,” she said. “But, on a side note, the first hustings for the election campaign are tomorrow at the Sittingston village hall. There are going to be a few surprises, let me tell you.” She eyed me. “Come with?”
“I’m not political.”
Ollie rolled his eyes. “He’ll be there,” he said. “Because he needs to leave the house more.”
I glared at him. “Fine,” I said, as Nigella stood up and made to go back to her family. “I’ll join.”
“Great! I’ll text you the details.”
She placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “Lovely to finally meet you.” Then turned to Kennedy – “Good boy, no – stay.”
As she departed, I moaned at Ollie. “What did you do that for?”
“Stop being a sulky git,” he said. “You’re at risk of becoming an asocial hermit. One of those men who hoards newspapers and keeps boxes of milk bottles.”
Those men were very sensible if you asked me.
“You seem popular down here,” he said after a minute.
I shrugged. “I’ve been welcomed.”
The truth was, I had been made to feel welcome. In the beginning. But after Tarquin, I’d seized up. I couldn’t do it anymore.
“Just as long as not too welcome,” he said with a wink. Ah, there it was.
In the past few months, I’d slept with two men. One of whom I couldn’t bear to think about, and the other, well, he was an enigma.
Then there was Guy Frobisher, who had once asked me out.
There were three of them. Three men who seemed keen on me at one point. Three men with whom I could see myself being content. Oliver – with his perfect light brown hair. Gym-built muscles. His middle-class values. His job in law. Brimming with effervescence and self-confidence.
Then there was Guy. The upper-iest crust of the crust. Old money. Blond hair, a lean body, a craggy face from a love of the outdoors. The country gent. Slightly awkward. Slightly bewildered. But always in charge and always treated with deference.
And then there was Simon Anson. The man who had used my body like a glove.
Sent me to heaven and back on my living room floor and had me seeing stars and panting.
Big. Bulky. Arms so broad you couldn’t get your hands around.
Ginger hair and blue eyes. Some kind of Celtic outdoorsman.
An educated man from a good family who slummed it as the village handyman, drove a pickup truck, and wore a toolbelt over practical clothes.
Surly and unrefined. True, he didn’t seem to like me very much, but his sweetness that day, after he’d rocked my world, couldn’t have been faked. I was sure of it.
Three so very different men. I didn’t understand any of them.
And if you asked me to pick one, I couldn’t.
I tore my mind away from such matters and focused back on Ollie.
We talked for another hour or so. We finished our meal.
Ollie asked for a tour of the church. We walked in the sunshine.
I briefly considered taking his hand. The lubrication of a pint or two in the sun, a nice meal. Being out of the house.
“Why do I do it to myself?” I asked.
“Hmm?” He glanced over as we made our way back up the hill.
“Hide away when anything goes wrong.”
“Babe, I wish I knew. You’re far too entertaining and smart to take yourself off into the corner when it all gets too much.”
Maybe I should try a different strategy? My life seemed to be in a constant ebb and flow. Hell, it was mostly ebb.
We arrived back at my house, and Ollie looked up at it expectantly. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He clung to me for a hug. “It was good to see you,” I whispered.
“Please don’t be a stranger.” He let me go but leaned forward again to brush an eyelash from my cheek.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Ollie sighed and then got back into his car. He gave me a long, searching look. For a brief second, I changed my mind and wanted him to come inside. To lie in my bed with me and never leave. But instead, I waved.
He pulled away. As he did, he rolled down his window. “Be sociable!” he yelled and drove off.
Sociable. I could be sociable. It wasn’t that hard.