Lainie wasn’t sure whether “this lot” referred to the fairground goods for sale or the villagers themselves. It was offensive either way.
“Because there are dozens of people here who care enough to want to contribute—” and a good hundred more who’ve come along for the sole purpose of seeing your sour face, thanks to the social media grapevine “—and they can’t all afford to just ‘write a cheque.’” She had the satisfaction of seeing his flush deepen. “And all of these events help raise the profile of the charity. We’re trying to turn a spotlight on Shining Light. Not on the fact that Richard Troy has opened his fat wallet for something more philanthropic than a new sports car.”
His face was unreadable. “You’ve made your point.”
Not quite. “For the record, you’re behaving exactly the way Will would.”
Not that she would have got Will down here in a million years, PR stunt or no.
A nerve twitched above Richard’s right eyebrow. “Is that blatant insult supposed to make me re-evaluate my life choices?”
She shrugged. “It would make me think twice.”
He said nothing in response, but refrained from openly sneering when they went to greet the women running the cake stall. He even bought a bag of chocolate chip biscuits. He almost immediately handed them off to a thrilled middle-aged woman with a teenage daughter in tow, but it was the gesture that counted.
“I suppose,” she muttered, choosing a plate of small sandwiches for herself from the savoury section, “it would be too much to ask you to judge the jams and chutneys.”
“You suppose correctly.” Richard took her elbow and steered her out of the way of the crowd. “Don’t push your luck.”
But his voice was surprisingly mild.
He even stood still for over twenty photographs with fans before impatience began to flicker at the edges of his smile and temper. Seeing the signs of an impending snap, Lainie excused them with a polite murmur. They each purchased a cup of hot cider—which was very good—and strolled toward a marquee that promised excessively large vegetables.
“Is that a joke?” Richard was reading a sign inscribed Largest Pumpkin Competition. We Hope You’re Having a Gourd Day.
Lainie winced. “Well, it’s a fairly cringe-worthy attempt at one.”
“Not the god-awful pun. The competition itself. There’s actually a contest for the largest pumpkin?”
“Oh, yes. Vegetable size is a cutthroat category, I gather. You know men. Always obsessed with the girth of their courgettes.”
He ignored that and reached for her arm, foiling her attempt to take a sandwich from her plate. As ordered by Pat, he had picked her up outside her flat at an unearthly hour of the morning in order to beat the weekend traffic out of London, and she hadn’t had time for breakfast. She was starving.
“Come on, then.” He towed her toward the entrance of the marquee. Yet again, she was doing her best impression of a tugboat in the wake of the S.S. Troy.
“Arm,” she said, looking wistfully at her sandwiches. “Attached to shoulder joint. And I’m trying to eat here.”
“It’s kind of a dick move to whine at a fund-raiser for cancer patients,” he said without turning his head. “Just saying.”
Touché.
“Jesus,” he said inside the tent. “Look at the size of that thing.”
Lainie looked from an admittedly sizable pumpkin to the gleam of reluctant fascination in Richard’s blue eyes.
Escorting her to a party: no interest. One of her more expensive dresses: totally unimpressed. Acting with her in a play: distinctly underwhelmed.
And then bowled over by a gigantic vegetable.
She chose to be amused.
“Do you think they use a special kind of fertiliser?” Richard went down on his haunches, looking at the pumpkin’s bulbous backside.
Lainie unwrapped her sandwich plate and poked through the contents. “I expect they use hormone therapy. Like with chickens,” she lied, and lifted a triangle of thinly sliced bread, hoping for cheese. Cucumber. Disappointing.
“Do they?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask someone? Do you like cucumber?”
“What?” He glanced at her, distracted. “Oh. Yes. I suppose.”
She handed him the sandwich and went back to her search for cheese. She would also settle for ham and chutney. Someone had got a little carried away on the jam front.