The White Horse was the perfect country pub. Perched on the river just outside Peasebrook, on the road to Maybury, it was rough and ready but charming. There was a small restaurant with wobbly wooden tables and benches, serving hearty rustic cuisine: game terrine with baby pickled onions and home-made Scotch eggs and thick chewy bread and pots of pale butter studded with sea salt. The bar had a stone floor, a huge inglenook fireplace, and a collection of bold paintings by a young local artist depicting stags and hares and pheasants. It was frequented by locals and weekenders alike and you could turn up in jeans or jewels: it didn’t much matter.
Dillon had been coming here ever since he could remember. His dad used to bring him and his brothers in on a Sunday while his mum cooked lunch, and it had become part of his life now. There was always someone he knew at the bar. If you didn’t know anyone, it wouldn’t be long before you did, because the atmosphere was convivial and everyone mucked in. It was easy to strike up a conversation.
That evening Alice was in there with Hugh and a horde of their friends. Dillon immediately felt tense.
Dillon loathed Hugh Pettifer with a vengeance. He could tell how difficult Hugh found it to treat him with politeness. He knew that if Hugh had his way, Dillon would never be allowed to speak to any of the Basildons and would bow and scrape and tug his forelock all day long. But that wasn’t how the Basildons worked, and whenever Alice saw Dillon she threw her arms round him and chattered away, teasing him in a manner some might consider flirtatious but that Dillon knew was just Alice.
Hugh would look at him with distaste, just about managing to acknowledge him with a nod and a smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes, and would draw Alice away at the first opportunity. It was all Dillon could do not to put two fingers up to Hugh’s retreating back.
Once, Sarah had asked him what he thought of Hugh. He wanted to say what he thought, but he would never say the c-word to Sarah.
Of course Hugh wanted to marry Alice. She had social standing, which Hugh didn’t, and was due to inherit quite the prettiest manor house in the county. She would be a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. Dillon could imagine a clutch of sturdy blonde-haired moppets stomping around Peasebrook in their wellies, with puppies and ponies galore.
Dillon couldn’t help wondering what was in it for Alice. Good genes? Hugh was pretty good-looking, if you liked that minor-royalty-polo-player sort of look: thick hair and year-round tan. Was it money? He was wealthy, certainly, but Dillon didn’t think Alice was that superficial. Maybe Hugh was a demon in bed? Maybe it was a combination of all three?
He made Dillon’s teeth go on edge. He told himself he was jealous. He would never have that kind of pull. A mere underling, on a fairly paltry salary, with no power or influence.
He and Alice got on like a house on fire when they were alone at Peasebrook Manor, but he felt awkward when she was out with her gang. They were spoilt and loud and drank and drove too fast.
‘They’re all really lovely,’ Alice would protest.
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Dillon. ‘But when they’re in a big crowd they come across as tossers.’
Alice looked wounded. Dillon knew he had to be careful. There was a limit to how horrible you could be about someone’s friends without it being a reflection on them.
So he tried to slink up to the bar and get a pint without her seeing him, but she did. She leapt out of her chair and came to give him a big hug. ‘Hello, Dillon! We’re all a bit sloshed. We’ve been to the races.’ She beamed and pointed over to a crowd of her friends around a big table in the window. ‘Come and join us.’
Dillon declined, as politely as he could. ‘Got to see a man about a ferret.’
This wasn’t a lie. He had a pair of ferrets at home, and the jill had just had a litter of kittens. He wanted to get shot of them before too long. A mate of his was interested.
Alice wouldn’t give up. ‘Come on. Come and meet everyone. I bet they’d all love a ferret. How many are there?’
Dillon sighed. Alice just didn’t understand, God bless her. Her friends were no more interested in him than he was in them. They had absolutely nothing in common except Alice. And they certainly wouldn’t want a ferret.
Alice was a little sunbeam who loved everybody, saw the bad in no one and treated everyone the same. To her, life was one long party. She fizzed with fun and bonhomie and that was why she was so good at her job. She understood what her clients wanted and did her utmost to get it for them. But she was shrewd underneath it. She knew how to get the best price for everything, and how to get the effect her clients wanted without paying over the odds.
That was how Dillon had really got to know her. She had become tired of paying astronomical sums for flower arrangements. After every wedding she looked at the florists’ handiwork and sighed. And she came to Dillon, and asked him to plant her a cutting garden.