‘Bloody crass.’ Dylan Pritchard Jones, sober and in a foul mood, whispered in Maisie’s ear after the roars of laughter subsided. ‘Cranley should know better in mixed company. There are children and old people here.’
‘Oh, do pull the stick out of your arse,’ said Maisie, slightly more loudly than she’d meant to, triggering sniggers from Santiago de la Cruz, the famous local cricketer, and his fiancée Penny, who were standing next to them.
‘Maisie!’ Dylan flushed indignantly.
‘Sorry, darling. But you can be such a teacher sometimes. Try and relax and enjoy yourself.’
‘Like you, you mean?’ snapped Dylan. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice you “relaxing” with Danny Cipriani. You made a complete fool of yourself, you know.’
Maisie shot him a look of utter disdain.
‘Bugger off Dylan,’ she said roundly, and stormed off.
‘Dear oh dear.’ Gabe Baxter, a late arrival, appeared at Dylan’s shoulder like an unwelcome ghost. ‘Trouble in paradise?’
Despite being teammates from the village cricket eleven, there was no love lost between Gabe and Dylan.
‘Sod off, Baxter,’ Dylan snapped back. ‘I saw Chumley, the new bank manager, at the bar earlier. You’d better make a run for it, before he repossesses your dinner jacket.’
Gabe’s financial troubles were well known in the village. Only last week he and Laura had had a furious row in The Fox, which ended in Laura storming out in tears and Gabe lashing out and causing a few hundred quids’ worth of damage with a bar stool. Everybody in Fittlescombe knew that Gabe had overstretched himself to buy that huge chunk of the Furlings estate the year before ago. Now, mortgaged to the hilt, and under pressure to pay for private IVF for Laura, who still hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant, Gabe could barely afford to keep himself in baked beans.
‘Go after your wife,’ he told Dylan, choosing to ignore the jibe. Dick-Hard Jones was an arsehole, but his wife Maisie was sweet.
‘Why should I?’ Dylan pouted. ‘She was flirting outrageously with that little oik.’
‘So what?’ said Gabe. ‘You’re the worst flirt in Fittlescombe.’
‘Second worst.’ Dylan looked at Gabe meaningfully. ‘Talk about pot calling the kettle.’
‘Whatever. Maisie’s a bloody good wife to you and you know it. More importantly, if you don’t go after her, the next time you’ll see her she’ll be in Heat magazine, falling out of China White at four in the morning with her knickers round her ankles and rugby boy in tow.’
Dylan hesitated, glared at Gabe, then hurried up the hill towards the house.
‘Maisie! Maisie! Wait!’
His voice was swallowed by the roar of chopper blades overhead.
Gabe looked up.
‘Who do you think that is?’ he asked Laura, who’d returned from the bar to join him with two flutes of champagne. They were late because they’d had yet another row, followed by incredible make-up sex on the dilapidated farmhouse stairs.
‘Paparazzi I should think,’ said Laura, kissing him. She knew she looked flushed and dishevelled in a green taffeta evening gown that was a good decade past its prime, but she was too happy and sated to care. ‘Trying to get a shot of David Beckham’s new mistress, I imagine. Alleged mistress, I mean,’ she added with a wink.
‘The Sports Illustrated chick?’ Gabe brightened visibly. ‘Really? Is she here?’
Laura sighed. You couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Even if it was your dog.
‘Yes, darling. She was in the Ladies’ loo a few minutes ago, boosting the Colombian economy. Either that or she’d had a serious accident with the talcum powder.’
Gabe grinned and hugged his wife tightly.
As the chopper noise faded, Logan Cranley sauntered over, doing her best ‘grown-up’ impression in a stunning, very short red dress.
‘Logan.’ Laura’s eyes widened. ‘I hardly recognized you.’
Over the past year Logan had become a semi-regular presence over at Wraggsbottom Farm, often popping in to ‘help’ or chat just when Laura was finally sitting down to write, or about to make an important telephone call to a producer in London. It was hard enough to carve out any time in the day for her own career. Life as a farmer’s wife, especially a poor farmer’s wife, meant early starts and constant mucking-in. Having to deal with Gabe’s pre-teen groupies didn’t make life any easier. But Logan was a sweet girl at heart, affectionate and funny and, Laura sensed, a bit isolated up at the big house with only her mother and much older brother for company. She felt sorry for her, and liked her, despite her all too obvious passion for Gabriel.
‘My goodness, you look gorgeous.’
‘Thanks.’ Logan smiled.
‘Doesn’t she, Gabe?’
‘Mmm.’ Gabe nodded. ‘Very sophisticated.’
The smile turned into a mile-wide grin. ‘It’s Topshop.’ She tossed her long dark hair back with a devil-may-care insouciance that she hoped made her look like Selena Gomez. ‘Mum thinks it’s too short, but I like it.’
I’ll bet she does, thought Laura.
‘Can I have a sip of your champagne?’