Gabe gave his trademark, arrogant laugh. ‘Jealous? Please. Anyway, he’s not getting Laura’s attention,’ he added proudly. ‘That’s the only female I’m interested in.’
At the top of the meadow, Laura Baxter, Gabe’s pretty young wife, mopped her brow with a handkerchief. Christ it was hot today! The weather at least seemed to be on Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s side. At this rate the fete would raise a fortune, and Tati would get all the credit.
‘I’ll ’ave five tickets for a pound, please.’ Mr Preedy, the proprietor of Fittlecombe Village Stores, gazed appreciatively at Laura’s breasts, straining for escape from her pale pink linen shirt-dress.
In the grip of some temporary fever, Laura had agreed weeks ago to man the tombola, without doubt the most boring job at the entire fete. She passed a handful of tickets to the little bald shopkeeper and watched as he carefully unfolded and examined each one.
‘Look at that! I’ve got a winner!’ Practically hopping with excitement, Mr Preedy handed his last ticket back to Laura. ‘Five hundred and ten. Winners end in a zero, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, what’ve I won, then? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
Laura looked along the table. She found the appropriate ticket taped to a peeling packet of Yardley bath salts.
‘Erm … these?’ She handed them over apologetically.
Unperturbed, Mr Preedy beamed as if he’d just won a luxury cruise. It was so sweet, Laura quite forgave him his earlier breast-ogle.
‘Smashing! I never win anything, me. You must be my lucky charm. I’ll give ’em to the wife,’ he said, clutching the salts to his chest. ‘Earn meself some brownie points. You can’t put a price on that now, can you?’
‘Indeed you can’t.’
Laura smiled as he disappeared into the crowd. She loved the way that such small things seemed to give people here pleasure. Especially on days like today. The Fittlescombe fete really was a throwback to another, gentler, happier world. And what a wonderful turnout this year, thanks to the combination of the glorious bank holiday weather and the undoubted star power of Miss Flint-Hamilton, returned from her jet-setting life in London to ‘recommit’ to the village.
Not that Laura, of all people, had a right to judge Tati for that. This time two years ago, Laura had been living in London herself, working all hours as a television writer, completely immersed in city life as she climbed the greasy pole. But she too had returned to the Swell Valley, the place where she’d been happiest as a child, at a low point in her life. And now here she was, utterly immersed in the rhythms of the countryside, married to Gabe – a farmer’s wife, no less – and happier than ever. It was incredible how quickly, and totally, life could change.
Of course, she and Gabe had their moments. He could be a terrible flirt sometimes, but Laura wasn’t really worried by it. She knew he loved her, and was faithful. It was annoying though, especially after he’d had one too many drinks at The Fox. Then there was his ambition, which for some reason always surprised her. He’d already started talking about trying to buy some of Furlings’ farmland from the new owners.
‘Rory Flint-Hamilton swore blind he’d never sell a single blade of grass. But he mismanaged that estate something terrible. Maybe the new bloke’ll be more amenable? Just think what we could do if we owned all that land along the valley.’
‘Go bankrupt?’ offered Laura.
The unfortunately named Wraggsbottom Farm had been in Gabe’s family for almost as long as Furlings had been in the Flint-Hamiltons’ hands, and was just as beautiful in its own way. It was, however, altogether a more modest enterprise. Like all the working farming families they knew, Gabe and Laura struggled financially, a fact that Gabe conveniently forgot during his fantasies of empire-building.
‘We’re barely breaking even as it is,’ she reminded him. ‘You’re talking about doubling the size of the farm.’
‘I know,’ Gabe grinned. ‘We’d be a real estate. If I can only convince this Aussie to let me buy those fields …’
‘With what money?’ Laura asked, exasperated.
‘Mortgage.’
The nonchalant shrug with which Gabe offered this solution sent chills down her spine.
‘I don’t want to be lady of the manor, darling.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘I just want a lovely, quiet life here. With you. Preferably not in a debtors’ prison.’