Chapter Seventy-Two
Much later, sated, but not exhausted, Milo turned to me with a lazy smile. He kissed me again, then suddenly looked horrified.
‘What?’ I said in alarm.
‘I nearly forgot,’ he said.
‘Forgot what?’
‘Our date!’
‘What date?’ I said, now thoroughly confused.
‘Come on,’ he said, getting up from the sofa bed. ‘Get dressed.’ He hopped about, putting on his boxers back to front and nearly overbalancing as he hastily posted his legs into his jeans. ‘We’re meant to be supporting the Starlight Croft mini mafia. Remember? The village hall.’ I gazed at him blankly. ‘The craft fayre,’ he reminded. ‘Yesterday, Cilla said Starlight Hall needed TLC but readies were required, especially as the local council aren’t keen to splash out. So, there’s a fundraising event. Cilla is expecting our support.’
‘Is Hetty part of the Starlight mafia?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Absolutely,’ said Milo. He briefly disappeared inside his shirt – which was still buttoned up – before reappearing again.
‘Ah,’ I said as realisation dawned. ‘That’s what Hetty meant when I saw her earlier. She said something about going somewhere to support her village.’
‘That will be it,’ Milo nodded, tucking shirttails into his denims.
At that moment, my stomach growled noisily.
‘Good heavens,’ Milo laughed. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast,’ I confessed, hauling myself upright. ‘And that was some time ago.’
‘In which case’ – Milo pulled me towards him and kissed me on the nose – ‘let’s quickly have a bowl of that delicious grub that’s simmering in the hotpot, and then we’ll head off to the hall.’
A little later, stomachs full and coats on, we set off along the lane, but this time without the dogs. Rambo had flashed me an appalled look.
Have you noted the length of my legs? They’re still aching from being out earlier.
The craft fayre was synonymous with that of every village fete. From homemade cakes, jams and chutneys to local artwork and bric-a-brac. A competition was going on for who had grown the biggest marrow. Hugo Cartwright, owner of the Strawberry Shed, was favourite to win. And no fete would be complete without its very own inhouse fortune teller.
Hetty was stationed at one end of the hall. She looked rather incongruous with a jewelled turban on her head. Her wrists jangled with cheap bracelets and her fingers sported huge rings. Their fake diamonds glittered and sparkled under the hall’s lights. She was seated before a small table. Centrepiece was a crystal ball and a small sign. This informed members of the public that Oracle Hetty gave accurate readings for the modest sum of thirty pounds.
Milo immediately got waylaid by Cilla. Uh oh, young Polly was here too. As she spotted Milo, her face looked strained. She made towards him, no doubt keen to hear if Milo had heard anything from JJ – her gallivanting boyfriend.
I drifted away to give Polly her some privacy, and found myself gravitating towards Hetty.
‘Hello, again, my dear,’ she beamed.
‘Hetty,’ I smiled warmly. ‘You look… incredible.’
She inclined her head graciously.
‘And so do you.’ She patted the empty chair opposite the crystal ball. ‘Come and sit down.’
Goodbye thirty quid , I inwardly sighed . Ah well, it’s for a good cause.
I parked my bottom, then regarded her. Those eyes! That vivid blue. So strange. Even in this light they seemed unusually intense. If I was being fanciful, I’d even say… supernaturally bright.
‘Your aura is radiant, Tilly,’ Hetty began. ‘Positively radiant. ’
‘Is it?’ I said innocently.
Hmm. That would be the sex. The post-coital glow. And no wonder. Milo had certainly put me through my paces. He was an exceptional lover. And I couldn’t wait to go home and do it all over again.
‘Since I saw you this morning, another silver lining has been revealed.’
Yup. Milo’s boxer shorts. They’d revealed something rather wonderful. My eyes glazed at the memory.
‘A romance,’ said Hetty, giving me a knowing look. ‘A new man.’
‘Oh?’ I said, feigning innocence.
‘You’ve already met him.’ Her eyes slid past me and landed on Milo. ‘I see the M word.’
Nooo! Could that be… M for Milo? I stifled a giggle and endeavoured to take her seriously.
‘That’s M for marriage ,’ she said, wiping the smile off my face.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Hetty,’ I asserted. ‘Been there, done that, as they say.’
‘Your ex-husband was never The One,’ she countered. ‘And you need to tell your friend at work that the man from overseas isn’t The One either.’
‘Juan?’ I gasped.
‘Tell your friend to see me. I’ll put her straight. But back to you.’ She patted my hand. Gave it an encouraging squeeze. ‘It’s all good, my dear. Marry your new man. This time it’s for keeps. One big happy family,’ she assured.
I gulped. Crikey. I hadn’t even thought about that side of things. We’d only just got together, and I dared not presume too much. It was too early. Too soon. Too brand new and shiny. And as for referring to one big happy family, well, I hadn’t even got around to telling my parents about Jake – never mind Milo. What would he think when I crept up behind him, put my hands over his eyes and trilled, “Surprise! Turn around now and meet your new stepson!”
And then there was the matter of Milo’s son. Fingers crossed – when we eventually met – that we’d get along. Right now, I still had him down as a good-time guy who put his jollies and mates before his sweet girlfriend.
‘It will all come good,’ Hetty assured, as if she’d been privy to a video of my thoughts. ‘You’ll see.’