Chapter Eight
Devon’s image of a homely middle-aged lady who drew pictures of cutesy mice for a living was pushed straight out of the window when he spotted the rather neat backside in jeans, long legs and blonde hair cropped in a gamine style.
He pushed his way through the pub, towards the dartboard, managing not to spill his pint. Mouse Lady still had her jacket on and the sort of stance which suggested she might bolt at any second.
It looked as if she and Bets were getting a quick bit of practice in as she held a dart experimentally, weighing it up. Practice? Not the right word. It suggested some level of experience that was being honed. God help them, they were going to get absolutely slaughtered.
‘Devon, there you are.’ Bets strode over and tucked a hand under his elbow, pulling him closer into the small circle – her usual mother hen, making sure everyone was included. ‘I was beginning to think you’d double-crossed me and signed up to be on call.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he drawled. ‘Not that me being here is going to make a blind bit of difference.’
‘Being so positive keeps you going! How do you know Ella here isn’t a ringer?’
‘Is she?’
‘No,’ admitted Bets with a sad little moue to her mouth. ‘But we’re quorate or whatever the technical term is for a full team. The vicar’s just finishing his tea. Not that either of you could hit a barn door with a rocket launcher if you tried.’
‘Ella,’ Bets tapped the other woman on the arm just as she was about to launch her dart. She threw it wildly, the dart bouncing off the board with a thud. ‘Oops. Sorry. This is Devon, my boss, landlord, brother-in-law to be and,’ she shot him a cheeky look, ‘friend, on a good day.’
‘Be careful, otherwise I’ll get my rocket launcher out, you cheeky mare. Hi,’ he stepped forward with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’
As if a cloud had covered the sun, the expression on Ella’s face closed down. Her lips thinned and her chin lifted as she studied him with what he would have said was barely veiled disgust, but maybe he was being paranoid.
‘Yes,’ she said ignoring his outstretched hand and turning back to the dartboard on the wall. With one fierce, brutal throw, she speared the dart into the board. He winced.
This was going to be an interesting evening. It looked like Bets’ new friend was some kind of man-hater. He wasn’t on Marina’s Christmas card list at the moment but he’d never had the impression she wanted to nail his balls to a dartboard. Although there was still time, he supposed.
‘We’ve met,’ said Ella giving him a pointed, almost triumphant look.
‘We have?’
Her fierce expression darkened further.
He didn’t remember but he could tell that admitting that was only going to make matters worse. This girl radiated brittle anger. Any moment now she might breathe fire all over him.
Bets watched the two of them, amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘Come on, you can buy me a drink,’ she said to Devon, already heading towards the bar.
‘Would you like one, Ella?’ asked Devon politely.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Her clipped tones had bite to them.
‘Be right back.’ Bets tossed the words over her shoulder as she led him to the bar.
‘What’s her problem?’ he asked. ‘You’d think I’d insulted her or something.’
Bets’ eyes widened a shade too innocently and her gaze slid away. ‘I might have told her that you thought she’d be ordinary and not an artist at all. But it’s all right,’ she added hastily, ‘because what Greta said was far worse.’
‘Ah, if I’ve upset her artistic sensibilities that might explain it.’
‘I think she’s just a bit sad at the moment.’
‘Sad? And you surmise this how?’
‘There’s just this look in her eye sometimes and I get the impression she might burst into tears at any second. Magda didn’t say what the problem was. You need to be nice to her. I had to force her to come out this evening. I think she’s lonely.’
‘Lonely! I’m not bloody surprised.’
‘No, seriously. I think she’s lost.’ He shook his head and took his pint. ‘Please be nice to her, Devon.’
‘All right then, as it’s you.’ Bets was usually a pretty good judge of character.
Greta, the landlady, nodded at them as they approached the polished wooden bar, brass pulls gleaming in the low light, tugging at the denim straps of her ubiquitous dungarees.
Apparently, she modelled herself on eighties band Bananarama, which also explained the red and white head scarf tied around her bird’s nest of bright hair, pink this week.
‘What are you having, Bets? Nothing too strong. You’re our best bleedin’ player.’ Greta shot Devon a dubious look. ‘Unless Mr Vet here has hidden talents.’
He put up his hands in surrender. ‘Not a one. I’m just here to make up the numbers.’
‘Christ alive. You and the vic, the dream team of disaster.’
‘And Magda’s goddaughter,’ chipped in Bets.
‘Ah, yes, the artist. What’s she like? Is she a lesbian?’
Devon exchanged a look with Bets and raised an eyebrow.
‘She doesn’t like men, that’s for sure.’
‘Bacardi and Coke please.’ Bets ignored them both. ‘And no, she isn’t. But guess what? She’s the Cuthbert Mouse illustrator lady.’
‘Is she now? And can she play darts?’
Bets shrugged. ‘Of course not, I just invited her. She doesn’t know anyone—’
‘And you needed the numbers.’ Greta shook her head with a knowing smile. ‘Although to be fair it’s brought a few extra bums in. Having the vicar is a real bonus. The blue rinse groupies are out in force. I had to send young Barry out to stock up on sherry and dust off the schooners.’
Devon sat down on the opposite side of the table to Ella. Unfortunately, Bets had been waylaid by the late arrival of the vicar. The minute he eased himself into the seat, he watched her stiffen. Ella’s body language spoke fluently. Some perverse instinct made him push for conversation.
‘So I hear you’re staying at Magda’s.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘No.’
‘I guess it’s tricky when you’re at sea.’ OK, he’d officially bored himself to death with this conversation but she wasn’t making it easy. Not like Marina, who sparkled in front of an audience, held them spellbound with every word and tilt of her lovely head and smashed his life apart.
A sense of bleakness cast its familiar shadow and his diaphragm clenched in response.
He looked at his watch. Please God, let the other team turn up soon. This was excruciating.
He should have given up then, but he had a habit of flogging dead horses.
‘Bets says you’re an artist. What sort of art do you do?’
Cold unfriendly eyes turned his way. ‘I’m an illustrator. I draw pictures of mice for a series of children’s books. Small. Fat. Chubby. Rotund mice.’ She enunciated each with word with a dart of venom.
‘Right.’ Nothing wrong with fat mice. This girl was lining up to be the queen of crazy town.
‘So how long have been you been here?’
‘It feels like for ever.’ Her mouth twisted and for a moment sheer unhappiness illuminated her face. She looked so lost and alone in that second. And he knew exactly how it bloody felt.
‘God, I wish Bets hadn’t roped me in for this. I’m bloody hopeless at darts,’ he said.
‘So why did you agree then?’ She stared hard at him.
‘Community spirit. And you know Bets. Besides,’ he shrugged, ‘the other option was Gerry, who has about as much control over his right arm as a boom on a boat in a force nine gale. I thought me making a complete dick of myself was preferable to spending the evening having to tend to people’s injuries.
People around here tend to value their eyesight. ’
She looked up and for the first time met his gaze, her teeth worrying her lip as if trying to bite back any semblance of a smile.
‘I thought you were a vet?’
‘I am but people automatically assume I can deal with humans as well as animals.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I usually volunteer the information about how I take an animal’s temperature and they quickly change their minds. Although obviously if it was an emergency, I’d help if I could.’
‘Unless it was four in the morning.’ Ice filled her voice.
‘Sorry?’
‘I phoned a vet recently. He wasn’t very helpful. It was the middle of the night, I was desperate. I didn’t know whether it was an emergency or not. I’ve never looked after a dog before. I was looking for help from a professional.’
The beer he’d swallowed seconds before stalled in Devon’s gut.
‘Ah.’ Now that explained things.
She stared at him, an eyebrow quirking in dangerous question. Foreboding gnawed at him. He was in quicksand up to his neck. Even though it was far too late to save himself, he tried anyway.
‘It was four o’clock in the morning. You woke me up.’ That sounded pathetic.
‘It was four o’clock in the morning because I was worried sick I was doing something wrong with a dog that I don’t how to look after.
’ She shot him an oddly superior look which wasn’t right because he was the professional and he’d told her the facts, albeit a tad sharply.
‘Plus, it’s not my dog. I’m looking after it while Magda’s away.
So if it’s overweight, which you so kindly pointed out the other day, that’s not of my doing.
However, if I’m overweight, in your opinion, not that it has anything to do with you whatsoever and I couldn’t give a .
. . what you think, that’s my business.’
What the hell was she talking about now?
She tilted her head to one side, assessing. The silent study, as if she could see beneath the surface of him, made him want to squirm.
‘You don’t remember meeting me the first time, do you?’
Oh God. Cold panic flashed. As far as he knew, he’d kept track of every woman he’d slept with or tangled tongues with and there weren’t that many of them.
Admittedly quite a few drunken fumbles at university and two unmemorable one-night stands which had reinforced his view that fleeting sex left a nasty taste and a yearning for something more. ‘I’m sorry . . . no.’