Richard ate the dainty triangle in one bite before he cornered one of the farmers. Presumably to enquire how he too could grow such a large gourd. The elderly man looked as taken aback as she felt.
One of the organisers of the fête stuck her head through the entrance flap of the marquee. Her brow cleared at the sight of them and she came over to update Lainie on their takings so far. Her name was Mary, and she was a nice woman. They had been corresponding by email for several weeks. It was her niece, a young local girl named Lexie, who had recently died. Lainie looked at a photo of a cheerful teenager with pretty brown hair and offered Mary her sincere sympathies. There was a lump in her throat. Lexie had been only a couple of years older than Hannah. So many kids. So much stolen potential.
After Mary had gone, Lainie studied her feet for several moments. She concentrated on her breathing exercises, which had proved a useful tool in more than pacing a monologue. She had regained her composure when an elbow nudged her, making her jump.
“Are you all right?” Richard’s question was abrupt. When she looked up, he was frowning slightly and there was a trace of concern in his eyes. They had darkened to almost indigo.
He also had an air of impatience and wariness, and she felt the subtle shifting of his body as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. His body language screamed of reluctant, uncomfortable male. He obviously suspected her of imminent tears and was ready to dash up the nearest hill if they appeared. Or just order her, in his iciest tones, to stop being so female.
He would probably tell her she was habitually overplaying the sob scene. She almost laughed, and then wondered if she was becoming hysterical.
It must be the oddity of the setting. Standing in a marquee in the Cotswolds with a plate of depleted tea sandwiches, surrounded by pumpkins that would do Cinderella proud for transport, in the company of Richard Troy. Who was holding a plant pot in each hand.
Surreal enough for a Max Ernst painting.
“I’m fine,” she said. In her confusion, the words sounded cold, and he stiffened at the apparent snub. “Thank you,” she added, which seemed to make the situation worse. In a desperate attempt to change the subject, she nodded down at the plants. “What are those?”
He was eyeing his booty with the smug satisfaction of a small boy collecting a box of chocolates from the Tombola.
They were herb seedlings he’d bought. For his window boxes.
Herbs. For his window boxes.
The opening bars of The Twilight Zone were circling her mind on repeat.
A prickling at the back of her neck brought her head around, and she spotted a familiar sight lurking just outside the marquee.
“Photographer,” she said quietly, and her lips accidentally brushed Richard’s earlobe. She shivered involuntarily at the feel of the soft skin there, and he made a strange jerking movement. His shoulder came up as if to shrug off her touch.
He glanced over her head at their Peeping Tom. Then he casually put an arm around her, and she automatically leaned her cheek against his chest. They managed the embrace a bit more organically than their awkward clinch at the benefit. Lainie realised it didn’t seem quite so unnatural today. It was just another role after all. If she could simulate a passionate love for Will in front of a crowded theatre, she could do this. Richard lowered his nose to the top of her head, as if he was pressing a kiss there, and they heard the snapping of the camera. He wasn’t kissing, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he was sniffing, which made her paranoid about the smell of her shampoo and when she’d last used it.
It was surprisingly relaxing, just taking a moment to prop herself up against Richard. She liked the smell of his cologne, and the wool of his coat felt luxuriously soft against her face. Things had been so busy lately, an endless carousel ride of performances and late nights, interviews and appearances, that she hadn’t had the time to just stop and breathe. A manipulative cuddle with Richard seemed to be her best alternative to a spa day, with the sound of his heartbeat subbing in for the soothing oceanic soundtrack at her favourite salon. He had shifted his seedling pots to one arm. The fingers of his free hand were spread against the small of her back and he moved his palm in a slight rubbing, circular motion.
They realised, simultaneously, that the photographer had gone and they were just standing there. Dreamily groping one another.
His quick retreat was unnecessary. She was already leaping back when a familiar voice said from behind them, “Lainie?”
Sarah was standing in the entrance of the marquee, watching them with obvious interest. Lainie inwardly groaned at the gleeful speculation on her sister-in-law’s face.