Chapter 5
Saturday morning, the sun was shining and although there was a distinct chill in the air, it looked like it could be the perfect day for tractor ploughing. Not that she knew anything about ideal conditions for ploughing fields.
Laughing to herself, she checked over the outfit she had laid out the night before on the old printed floral chair in the corner of her room.
She had been trying to find something that looked like she hadn’t arrived straight from London, whilst still looking well put together and passably fuckable (you never knew who you might meet).
Predicting she would be about thirty years younger than most people there, Eliza felt that going under the radar with her wardrobe, bar her pink wellies, was probably the best way forward.
Once she had downed her hundredth cup of tea since arriving in Farmington, she slipped on her jeans and battered blue linen shirt, grabbed her old but sexy grey cashmere jumper and headed for the door, feeling slightly nervous and excited.
She had wanted adventure and here she was, off on her own, to do something completely alien and Nancy was coming down that afternoon.
At least now she’d have more to tell her than just how many times she hadn’t cried about Henry.
Judging a tractor ploughing competition, that should give them something to discuss.
Well, it was going to send Nancy into fits of giggles if nothing else.
Driving into Stanley’s, she cast her eye over the ancient tractors, surrounded by all the old rusty discarded farming equipment which was probably worth a fortune, and wondered what the story was behind it all.
Everything about the place felt so full of history, and made the converted barn hiding around the corner feel even more magical and secretive.
She could feel all the raw potential here – it’s the kind of thing her rich city clients would’ve gone crazy over – authentic and cool.
That was, of course, if she hadn’t quit her job in such a moment of drama, which had felt so right at the time, but also resulted in her having no clients and no paycheque.
But that was the past, and this right here, was the present.
And it was exciting! Anyway, her ego was nowhere near ready to face going back to her old job or her old colleagues, even if her bank balance felt differently.
As she entered the café, she was struck by how much busier it was today than it had been when she had popped in a few days ago – obviously the ploughing competition was the place to be at the weekend.
There was such a buzz in the air, and today definitely felt less yummy mummy and more hillbilly farmer with the odd ageing rocker thrown in.
She’d take this over the crowded London cafés any day.
She ordered an Ethiopian blend flat white from the menu, and although tempted to tell Mia that Luke had offered her one on the house, she decided she’d save that for a less hectic day.
She could still just about afford a coffee!
And anyway, assuming he didn’t offer that to just anyone, she didn’t want the rumour mill to start just yet .
. . she still had a lot of groundwork to put in.
Dan saw her arriving and beckoned at her from across the yard. ‘Eliza, over here,’ he yelled. ‘Come and meet the boys.’
‘The boys’ was the most wonderful description for what appeared to be an extraordinary-looking group of three men in their sixties, one even wearing dungarees and a checked shirt.
They looked like they’d been parachuted in from a cowboy ranch for the day.
She immediately wanted to become best friends with them all.
‘Aha, so this is the lovely Eliza we have been hearing so much about,’ said one of the more bearded checked shirt men, stepping forward to shake her hand. ‘Let me introduce myself, I’m Bill, one of the local farmers here and very happy to be sitting on the judging panel with you.’
He had the most enchanting smile and a very firm handshake.
‘Bill, how lovely to meet you.’ Eliza smiled. ‘I’m hoping Dan’s told you I know nothing about farming or ploughing!’
‘He did mention that,’ laughed Bill, ‘but he also said you didn’t know anyone around here, so what better way to get involved with the community and meet some new people? We’ve all been here for years, so we should be able to give you all the gossip. I guess it’s either us or the church!’
Before she could say anything, the suave-looking gentleman in the group stepped forward, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
‘Mademoiselle, I am Jean Pierre, delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘Jean Pierre, that sounds very exotic,’ flirted Eliza, thinking how this was much more fun than hanging out with the boring wine buffs Henry always dragged her out with, and definitely even more fun than hanging out with her old neurotic event planning colleagues in London.
‘He’s French,’ Daniel butted in, ‘the most cultured of the four of us. Or at least he likes to think so; he’s the most eloquent if nothing else.’
‘But can he hold a nine-minute plank like you, Dan?’ teased Eliza, referring to the Pilates session she’d attended on Thursday morning when the whole class had stopped to cheer Dan on as he attempted to beat his own record.
‘Puft! That’s Dan’s only claim to fame. Me? I grow vines locally and make British wine with a French flair. Did you know rural England is the new place to grow vines?’
‘Well, I had heard something about that on the grapevine . . .’ replied Eliza to a few stifled giggles, ‘and I know a bit about wine so that’s something I would love to hear more about when you have time.
’ Feeling rather pleased with her joke, she wondered whether Henry had come across Jean Pierre’s wine.
And then she realised it didn’t matter, because she had decided this morning that instead of missing him, she was going to hate him.
Yup, she had officially moved on. Today was a fresh start!
‘Then, please! You must come to my chateau for a tasting – my wife Vivi would adore it; she is closer to your age than mine, so maybe you will be friends, too!’ Okay, this sounded intriguing thought Eliza.
And after realising that Bella was a little frostier than she had first thought, she was still on the hunt for some friends, and anyone who married a man like Jean Pierre was definitely someone she wanted to be friends with.
‘Right then,’ said Dan, in a rather authoritative tone, ‘enough gossiping. Let’s get this show on the road!
Eliza, finish your coffee and then follow us over there to the judging tent.
I want to introduce you to Tom Stanley, who is the main man.
Although he seems to have wandered off somewhere, no doubt to give some last-minute advice to his son! ’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Eliza, downing the last of her coffee, ‘I’m ready!’
She didn’t want to get left behind and was keen to garner as much information as she could from the old boys.
The landscape around them was so beautiful – it was just miles and miles of green space, all with varying types of tractors getting ready to plough their fields.
Old ones, new ones, red ones, blue ones and green ones, and even one a very gorgeous yellow – she stopped to admire it.
The sky was a bright blue, spectators were starting to gather, and she suddenly felt quite flattered to be involved in such a popular local tradition.
‘Like the look of that one, do you?’ she heard a sexy voice behind her. She only hoped he was as hot as he sounded. Farmington appeared to be a who’s who of hot farmers if her last few days were anything to go by.
Without turning to look, she responded, ‘Well, it’s the same colour as my faithful old Citroen, and I’m a sucker for anything yellow. In fact, now I think about it, they would look good together.’
‘It’s a Ferguson 57,’ came the voice again. ‘An old vintage, total beauty, and still ploughs a good line.’
Eliza turned to introduce herself, and there standing right behind her, bent over a tyre he seemed to be rolling, was Luke. She went scarlet.
‘Well, hello again, Eliza Fox. This seems to be becoming quite a habit. Unless you’re stalking me of course.’
‘Hi!’ she squeaked, whilst simultaneously thinking OH MY GOD, he’s actually here! And he remembers my name!
‘So, what brings you to the annual tractor ploughing competition – I wouldn’t have thought this place would have been of much interest to a city girl like yourself.
You really must be desperate to fill your time, or at the very least get your boots muddy.
’ He didn’t smile, just looked at her quizzically.
Maybe it was passive flirting – she had heard of that. Where men flirt by not flirting.
He was hard to read. Was he being dismissive of her, baiting her, or actually really interested in her story?
She reminded herself that just because he was hot didn’t immediately mean he was also a dick – those things didn’t always go hand in hand.
And just because Bella had implied that he was a total lothario, it didn’t mean he was.
She was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Well, believe it or not, because I hardly believe it myself, I’m judging the competition today,’ she said with a hapless smile on her face.
‘You’re judging this, the ploughing contest?’ he said with surprise. ‘Who asked you to do that? No, wait, before you answer, let me guess. Dan?’
‘Yup! How did you know? He’s my next-door neighbour and he thought it might be a nice way for me to meet people, which it turns out it is. I mean, I’ve met you again, haven’t I?’ she chirped with a sideways glance.
‘Classic Dan. He always likes to mix things up – he’s already brought Jean Pierre on to the panel, who knows as much about ploughing as he does about women his own age,’ he said, laughing. ‘But somehow it works. There are a few people on there who know what they’re talking about at least.’