The villagers emitted a collective and deeply impressed, “Oooooh!”
“Sally dear,” Henry began, but he had no chance of interrupting Sally, who was in full flow.
“My Henry is too humble to toot his own horn, so I’ll toot it for him,” said Sally. “One of Dabney’s motoring friends is a theatrical agent. His name is Arty Barnes—”
“The scrawny little chap with the big nose?” Dick Peacock asked. “He was in my pub last week. Likes his lager, does Arty. Good storyteller, too.”
“Arty has an eye for talent as well as a way with words,” Sally said, beaming at Dick. “He thinks Henry is the next big thing. Thanks to Arty, my husband-to-be will make his return to the stage at a comedy club in Bristol on Tuesday night.”
“It’s just one gig,” said Henry, looking very uncomfortable.
“One gig leads to another,” said Sally, patting his arm. “After he finishes his run in Bristol, Henry will take his show on the road and who knows what will happen next? His own television series? A lead role in a movie? Anything’s possible! When my Henry hits the big time, we won’t have to live in a pokey little flat above a shop. We’ll buy a proper house as far away from the Grand Poohbah”—she pointed at Peggy—“as we can get!”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Peggy asked.
“I have complete faith in my Henry,” Sally replied. She whipped off her frilly pink apron and threw it at Peggy’s feet. “Go ahead. Buy the building. The tearoom is all yours. Let’s see what a dog’s dinner you make of it.” She turned to the villagers. “The rest of you are invited to see Henry perform at the Lots O’ Laughs club in Bristol on Tuesday night at seven o’clock. There’ll be free jelly doughnuts to celebrate the stellar occasion—and my jelly doughnuts won’t poison you!”
While Peggy prepared a rejoinder, Elspeth’s niece received another lesson in good manners.
“Oof!” Jemma grunted as she bent double and clutched her side.
“Were those your ribs, dear?” said Opal. “I’m afraid I caught you with my elbow. Do forgive me. I didn’t see you creeping up behind me.”
Elspeth’s jaw was set and her face was crimson as she hurried forward, put an arm around Jemma’s waist, and hustled her toward the safety of her cottage. As they departed, a stocky, bearded man in blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and tasseled loafers put his head out of the tearoom, caught sight of Sally, and strode across the green to address her.
“Mrs. Pyne?” he said, tapping his wristwatch impatiently. “We really must be getting on. Mr. Holdstrom will want at least ten more shots of you and your summer pudding. As I explained earlier, he likes to choose from a variety of images when it comes time for him to make his final selection.”
“Sorry, Rick,” said Sally. “I’ve been replaced. If you want to photograph the tearoom’s owner, you’ll have to deal with the dragon lady.” She bent her head toward Peggy, then clapped Rick on the shoulder. “Good luck, young man. You’ll need it.”
“Pah!” Peggy said scornfully. She flicked a hand at Sally, as if she were shooing away a gnat, then wheeled around and sailed majestically toward the Emporium.
“Er, Mrs. Pyne?” said Rick, looking utterly befuddled. “We can’t change course in the middle of a shoot.”
“You’ll have to,” said Sally.
“What about my jams and marmalades?” said Opal Taylor, stepping forward. “You could photograph them.”
“I’m not here to photograph jams and marmalades,” Rick said curtly. “I’m here to photograph Mrs. Pyne and her summer pudding.”
“Sally and her pudding are no prettier than me and my marmalades,” Opal said obstinately.
“It’s not a matter of prettiness,” Rick informed her, sounding exasperated. “An assignment is an assignment.”
“Change the assignment,” Opal commanded. “I can be ready for you in two ticks.”
“Come, Henry,” said Sally. “I need to speak with my solicitor.”
“Mrs. Pyne!” Rick said, stretching his arms toward her beseechingly. “You can’t walk out in the middle of a shoot.”
“Watch me,” said Sally.
She and Henry hotfooted it to my husband’s office, Sally bouncing on her toes like a boxer, Henry dawdling behind her with his head bowed. Opal attempted to pursue her argument with the hapless Rick, but he ignored her, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and spoke into it rapidly as he retreated to the tearoom.
“Is Bill Sally’s solicitor?” Mr. Barlow asked as the villagers dispersed.
“I hope not,” I said fervently. “Can you imagine him brokering a truce between Sally Pyne and Peggy Taxman?”