Chapter Three
Three champagnes later, I’d perked up enormously. My children kept urging me to consume some blotting paper in the form of dainty cucumber sandwiches, or to eat one of the many mini wholemeal rolls full of exotic fillings. It was all a far cry from my usual choice of cheese and pickle.
‘I’ll have something later,’ I said to Joy, as she brandished a plate of picky bits.
‘There won’t be anything left later,’ she tutted. ‘Please take this.’
‘If you insist, darling,’ I chirped, whipping away her champagne and leaving her holding the plate.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she huffed, as I blew her a kiss and walked away.
I scanned the hall. Who to mingle and talk with next? So far, I’d done the duty talks with my in-laws:
‘Awful, Majorie… just horrible Bertrum… no parent should ever outlive their child…’
Peter’s colleagues:
‘Yes, absolutely devastated… I’m sure the office will sorely miss him…’
Peter’s siblings:
‘Bearing up, thanks... and my condolences to all of you… (even though none of you have ever had much to do with each other)… we must keep in touch… (we know we won’t)…’
My siblings – well, just Sally because I only had the one sibling:
‘No, I do not think I look like a merry widow, Sally… you caught me laughing with Peter’s colleague out of politeness, not hilarity… ’
Tilly and Milo, my immediate neighbours:
‘Sooo kind of you to come along and say goodbye to Peter…’
And many more village residents, all of whom had offered their condolences, and which I’d graciously accepted, as any widow surely would. And then I’d found myself face-to-face with Hetty Cartwright. This was one villager I’d been anxious to avoid.
‘Jen, dear,’ she’d said, her voice full of sympathy, but her eyes conveying… well, something. Just something.
‘Hetty!’ I’d responded, attempting nonchalance but inwardly jittery.
‘Thank you so much for coming… hugely appreciated… I’m sure Peter would be delighted to know that Starlight Croft’s oldest resident is here to pay her respects,’ I’d gabbled.
‘Don’t think me rude, but I think my son is trying to get my attention. I’ll catch up with you later.’
I’d given her forearm a quick squeeze before hastening over to James who was in deep conversation with his sister.
‘I’m not sure,’ he’d been saying. ‘I simply can’t choose between Briony – who is truly sweet and has lovely brown eyes – or Amanda, who is a pneumatic blonde with incredibly big tits.’
‘For God’s sake, James,’ Joy had chided. ‘Why do so many men keep their brains in their boxers and-’
‘Darlings,’ I’d interrupted.
‘What?’ Joy had looked rather cross.
‘I need rescuing. Carry on,’ I’d nodded at James. ‘Why were you talking about men’s underpants?’
‘Er, that’s classified information,’ he had quickly answered.
Joy had glared at her brother.
‘Do enlighten me, bro. What is that insensitive bit at the base of a penis called?’ She’d frowned theatrically. ‘Oh, yeah. It’s a man.’
‘Eh?’ James had been oblivious to his sister’s dig.
Joy had given him a withering look.
‘Sometimes you are so dense.’
Eyes flashing, my daughter had then turned on her heel and stalked off to see Sally who – possibly by proxy – had been buttonholed by Hetty.
‘What’s up with Joy?’ I’d asked my son.
‘Search me,’ James had shrugged. ‘Anyway, why did you need rescuing?’
‘Er, I think Hetty was revving up to give me one of her mystical speeches.’ I’d pulled a face. ‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Fair enough,’ he’d nodded.
Every resident of Starlight Croft knew that Hetty Cartwright was somewhat eccentric.
The old lady had piercing blue eyes. If you were fanciful – and I was – you might say that they looked straight into your soul.
Some might say her eyes were all knowing.
Others, that they were simply the eyes of a geriatric whose brain was heading for the stars.
In other words, a touch of dementia. However, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with Hetty’s marbles.
She had a mind sharper than the shaving razors that still graced my dead husband’s bathroom cabinet.
Hetty had once been the owner of Fern Farm.
Upon her husband’s demise she’d signed over the entire property, along with all its outbuildings and land, to her son and daughter-in-law, Hugo and Linda.
Mr and Mrs Cartwright Junior were now the ones who looked after the many acres that were home to grazing cows and sheep.
Their stock provided milk and other produce locally and stocked their shop – The Strawberry Shed.
Hetty had been born and raised in Starlight Croft, as had her parents and forefathers.
There was nothing she didn’t know about the village and its residents – me included.
She fancied herself as an intuitive, so much so that at local fetes she’d man a stall.
Her table was always covered in a purple cloth and crystal ball.
Oracle Hetty was a crowd puller because, somehow, she had the knack of making random guesses and wild speculations that always came true.
Consequently, the last thing I wanted was Hetty pinning me against a wall, those bright blue eyes boring into my psyche, and possibly sussing out my secret. That would never do.
I went to corner my son again, but his eye was on someone across the room.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he shrugged. ‘But would you mind terribly if–?’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I sighed. ‘You’ve been distracted by a pretty face.’
‘Something like that,’ he grinned.
‘Fine,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘I’ll find someone else to talk to.’
As James hastened away, I turned on my heel and literally bumped into a guy who’d been walking the other way.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gasped, as some of my champagne slopped down his shirt. Two buttons were undone revealing an area of skin that had been sunkissed by some recent warm weather.
‘Couldn’t matter less,’ a gruff voice assured.
It wasn’t the voice of someone I knew. As I glanced up to acknowledge the man, I realised I didn’t know him from Adam.
Nor had I spotted him earlier when I’d been mingling, which meant he hadn’t exchanged any words of commiseration with me.
I now braced myself for his pity speech while rapidly trying to place him.
Was this chap one of Peter’s lesser-known colleagues? Or possibly even a distant relative?
‘Um, have we met before?’ I said cautiously. A pair of mesmerising green eyes met mine. I found them rather unsettling. ‘Only, if so, I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember you.’
‘Liam Lancaster,’ he said, sticking out a hand. None the wiser, I shook it and, as I did so, a zinger shot up my arm, taking my breath away. ‘And no’ – he continued – ‘we’ve not met before.’
‘Right,’ I said, slightly winded.
I wasn’t surprised to hear this. As any heterosexual woman not quite past her sell by date will verify, Liam Lancaster was a man who’d be hard to forget.
He stood well over six feet tall. With his tousled dark hair, moss-coloured eyes, and rugged good looks, he looked like he’d stepped straight off the pages of a man mag.
In other words, the guy was pure sex on legs.