Clearly, she was not a nice person. Because she had rarely enjoyed any sight more than that of Richard Troy at a village fête, wedged between two of the more terrifying representatives of the local Women’s Institute. He looked as if he’d accidentally fallen through a portal into the third circle of hell.
A young woman with questionable maternal instincts shoved her defenceless infant into Richard’s arms, ignoring his furious response while she unearthed her phone. While she took a series of images, musing aloud on the best one for Instagram, Lainie wandered over to appreciate the spectacle at close range. It was debatable who looked more wrathful: Richard, or the infant he was dangling at arm’s length like a mud-splattered football.
“You do realise you’re holding a baby, not a leaking bucket?” she asked conversationally, and he gave her a look that could splinter wood. “Against your chest, hand under his bottom. Honestly. You must have had a cuddle before.”
“Yes, but women don’t appreciate a hand under their bottom until I’ve at least bought them dinner,” he retorted, and the WI president tittered into her jam scone.
Lainie pulled out her own phone and also took a picture. “Like I’m going to miss this opportunity,” she said in response to his glare. “If the acting thing doesn’t pan out, I can always hock this photo to the tabloids as evidence of your secret love child.” She flipped the screen around to see how the image had turned out. Wow. Portrait of an Irate Actor.
The mother laughed as she retrieved her son. The baby was well wrapped and adorably squishy in his furry onesie. “My husband would probably come after him with a meat cleaver. That’s him over there.” She nodded toward the field where a rugby match was taking place against the neighbouring village. Lainie had no idea which player she was pointing at, but they were all equally well-endowed in the thigh department.
“Now there are two reasons to keep it.” Lainie wiggled her phone at Richard, and he scowled at her.
“Delete it.”
“Not a chance. I may make it my screensaver. I especially like the smear of drool on your shoulder.”
He looked down at his coat and swore, swiping at the stain with his hand.
“Sorry,” Lainie apologised pointedly to the group of women clustered about them. “His manners are a work in progress.” She grabbed Richard’s arm and dragged him away. “It’s not the most promising beginning for your career in rubber-stamping and paper-pushing, is it? I think charming elderly women and chucking babies under the chin is part of the job description.”
“I’m campaigning for the presidency of the RSPA, not running for mayor in the sticks.” He cast a scornful look around the village green. The fête had opened an hour earlier, the ribbon cut by a bashful-looking Johnny Blake. Away from his vlogging camera, he was as awkward as the next teenage boy, but the young girls in the crowd had seemed to appreciate his stammered speech. And it was nice of him to make an obvious effort when he was out of his comfort zone.
Unlike some males twice his age.
Richard was poking at a chipped teapot on the table for the white elephant stall. “This is junk,” he said, without even bothering to lower his voice.
“It’s a white elephant stall. That’s kind of the point. And who are you, the Antiques Roadshow?” Lainie cast a quick, embarrassed look around. She would estimate the ratio of people staring at Richard to be about ninety percent. It was too much to hope they were all hard of hearing. “If you could develop some sort of filter and a volume button in the next thirty seconds, it would really help me out.”
“Exactly how long do we have to stay?” Richard stared in disbelief as a pig walked past with a blue prize ribbon around its neck.
“Until the last cup of tea is drunk and we’ve helped with the cleanup.” Lainie was rapidly losing her sense of humour about the situation. “These people are kindly giving up their time, money and goodwill to help out a charity that means a lot to me. And sulking at a fund-raiser for children with cancer is a total dick move. FYI.”
Once again, Richard reddened slightly. A week ago, she wouldn’t have thought him capable of changing colour without the aid of cosmetics. He thrust a hand through his tumbled black curls and looked away from her. All broody in an open-necked white shirt, and set against a pastoral background, he looked like a still from Wuthering Heights. She refused to be softened by the image. He could look as handsome as he wanted; it didn’t make his behaviour any more attractive.
And he needed a shave. There was a fine line between designer stubble and scruffiness.
“Of course I’ll support the cause,” he muttered, and then added impatiently, “but I don’t see why we can’t just write a cheque.” He repeated his derisive survey of the merrymaking. “You’ll be lucky to break a thousand quid with this lot.”