A Summer of Secrets (9 page)

‘Just been for a run,’ he informed her. ‘Like to keep the pounds at bay.’ While he patted his incredibly flat stomach, Jenny wondered how anyone could look so pristine when they’d been out running. She looked a sweaty mess just walking from her house to the car. Why, oh why, hadn’t she washed her hair that morning, instead of just clipping it up any old how? But she knew why. Because her mother had been particularly awkward that morning, insisting the milk was off and she couldn’t eat her porridge. Jenny had therefore had little choice but to make an impromptu dash to the village to purchase more milk, all of which had resulted in her sartorial work preparations being reduced to precisely eight minutes.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Um, I’m, er, fine, thank you,’ she blustered, her hand moving instinctively to her slightly greasy tresses, completely forgetting in the process about the carrier bag she was holding. The bag fell to the ground and four cardboard toilet-roll tubes rolled across the pavement, stopping at Len’s very shiny white training shoes.

‘Oh, God. Sorry,’ she apologised with a grimace. ‘Craft day today.’

Len smiled and bent down to retrieve the items. ‘Sounds like fun.’

‘Fun and messy,’ Jenny informed him, still silently cursing Phyllis for the milk saga earlier. While never in the same league as Buttersley’s skinny yummy mummies, she did – or at least she hoped she did – turn out clean and tidy most days.

‘I’m just on my way to see Judith in the library. She ordered a couple of books about the area for me. I’m going to collect them.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Right. That was nice of her. And I can lend you some of mine if you like. I’ve amassed quite a collection over the years.’

‘That would be really kind,’ replied Len, flashing her a dazzling white smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hollywood movie. ‘I’ve loads of questions about the place already. In fact, the more I look around, the more history I discover.’

‘Well, the area has certainly had its fair share of dramas over the centuries,’ Jenny informed him. ‘Hence all the books. I’ll dig a few out and bring them along to the next meeting for you.’

‘Oh, but why wait that long? The next meeting seems an age away. Perhaps we could meet for a drink or something before then.’

For a brief second Jenny’s heart stopped. Did he mean
meet
as in a date
meet
? But no. He couldn’t possibly. For one thing, no one had ever asked her out on a date. And for another, why would a sophisticated man like him be remotely interested in an overweight frump like her? A surge of panic swirling about her, she tentatively met his gaze.

‘Sorry,’ he said, obviously sensing her discomfort. ‘I just thought it might be nice to have a chat about the village in a more relaxed setting than the meeting.’

Jenny released a breath of relief. Of course he did. She was overreacting. Being completely ridiculous.

‘That sounds like a lovely idea,’ she replied, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘I finish at lunchtime tomorrow if you’re free then.’

Len nodded. ‘Perfect. Just tell me where and when and I’ll be there.’

During the intervening hours between arranging the meeting with Len and its actual occurrence, Jenny’s nerves steadily intensified. For heaven’s sake, she remonstrated with herself, as she licked the remains of a lemon limoncello cupcake from her fingers, it was only a drink with a new friend to hand over a couple of books. And let’s face it, if she hadn’t suggested loaning him the books, he most likely wouldn’t have had the slightest interest in meeting her. So why, then, had she worked herself up into such a tizz that she’d not only dropped a full tube of glitter over both her and the floor during the school’s craft session, but failed to notice that she’d spent the greater part of the afternoon with a loo-roll insert glued to her skirt. Thank God it wasn’t a proper date. If it had been, she most likely would have required medical assistance at some point in the proceedings.

Nevertheless, despite the lack of real-date status, the issue over what to wear still loomed over her like a threatening black cloud. Normally, given today’s temperate weather, she would’ve shrugged on a T-shirt and her cream linen jacket. The same cream linen jacket she’d shrugged on for far more years than she really should have, as the “shrugging” could now be more accurately described as “tugging”. Examining it this morning, Jenny had condemned it as far too tight. In fact, subsequently examining the other limited contents of her wardrobe, she’d condemned everything as far too tight. And scrutinising her full-length reflection in the mirror – an activity she normally avoided at all costs – she could see why. As slim as a reed in her teens, her constant nibbling and snacking over the years had – unsurprisingly – resulted in far too many pounds for her five-foot-three frame. And despite all her best intentions to exercise and lose weight, she just never seemed to get around to it. On the rare occasion she did have a couple of “good days”, it only took one barbed comment from her mother, and she found herself scuttling back to the biscuits. Of course she knew that was a pathetic excuse. And she knew the solution: to unceremoniously banish the biscuit barrel. To toss it into the bin, refrain from buying the calorific products she crammed therein, and thereby remove all temptation from her life. She’d tried that once. She’d even swapped the sweet delights of Annie O’Donnell’s cake shop for sugar-free, healthier options. She’d lasted all of three days before suffering a major panic attack, leaping into her car and roaring down to the village to replenish supplies. She’d felt like someone had cut off her oxygen supply – a classic symptom, apparently, of the stereotypical comfort eater.

Thankfully, though, the picture wasn’t completely grim, she assured herself before depression completely engulfed her. Her skin, despite being slathered in nothing more than the same cheap supermarket brand of moisturiser for the last two decades, remained relatively wrinkle-free. And although a little more silver than she ideally would have liked lurked in her thick, dark-blonde hair, on the whole it wasn’t faring too badly, either. Maybe she should have it restyled. Although, given it didn’t adhere to any particular style at the moment, hanging non-descriptively to her shoulders, she should perhaps drop the
re
.

Feeling slightly mollified, her gaze dropped southwards again and so, consequently, did her spirits. As much as she attempted to appease herself, the fact remained that most of her clothes no longer fitted her. Well, there wasn’t anything else for it. She’d have to go shopping in Harrogate next week. Buy a whole new wardrobe. But, in the meantime, what on earth was she going to wear today?

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Phyllis, her terrifying perspicacity unnerving Jenny the moment she appeared downstairs half an hour later.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’m simply going into the village like I do every Wednesday afternoon.’

Phyllis’s beady eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t normally get dolled up to go into the village.’

Jenny tugged down the sleeves of the mint-green cardigan she’d unearthed in the bottom of a long-unopened drawer. She’d teamed it with a relatively forgiving pink, floral, empire-line dress she’d forgotten about, and a pair of beige sandals. Not exactly chic, but at least she felt feminine.

‘I’m not
dolled up.
I’m simply wearing appropriate seasonal attire. It is summer, after all.’

Phyllis’s eyes contracted to two slits, almost imperceptible in her heavily lined face.

Jenny sucked in a deep breath. Her nerves were jangling enough. The last thing she needed was an inquisition from her mother. Determining to escape the house as quickly as possible, she swiped up her handbag. ‘Now, is there anything in particular you’d like me to pick up for you today?’

Phyllis balked. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

Jenny affected her sweetest smile. ‘Just thought you might like something different.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ muttered Jenny. ‘Oh, and I’ll be back later today,’ she added, scurrying out of the door before Phyllis had a chance to reply.

Len had suggested the Duck Inn for their meeting and Jenny had immediately agreed. She loved the village pub: its history as a coaching inn; the mix of people who frequented it; its position on Buttersley’s quintessential village green with its prerequisite pond and smattering of ducks. Not that she was a frequent visitor. Indeed, the only times she ever went there were with work – for someone’s birthday, or a farewell drink on the rare occasion anyone ever left the school. To be there without her work colleagues would be decidedly odd. To be there with a man, odder still.

Attempting to control her quaking legs, she managed to drive down to the village and into the pub car park without serious incident. Len’s powder-blue Jaguar was already there, sunlight bouncing off its gleaming exterior. Not wishing to humiliate her little Panda by parking next to it, she squeezed into a space diagonally opposite. Turning off the engine, she sat for a moment composing herself. Before a horrific thought struck her. So preoccupied had she been with her wardrobe that she’d completely forgotten the books she’d promised him. What an idiot. Well, there was nothing else for it, she’d have to dash back home and pick them up, otherwise goodness only knew what Len would think of her. And God forbid he should suspect her reason for forgetting them. After all, if it hadn’t been for the books, they wouldn’t be meeting at all. The thought of facing her mother again though, however briefly, filled her with dread. There would inevitably be another inquisition, and Jenny’s nerves, already in tatters, would be subjected to yet another shredding. Which was the lesser of two evils? Of course, she could always tell Len a little lie. That she’d come to the pub straight from work and hadn’t had time to nip home and pick up the books. That, she decided, would be better than facing Phyllis. And although she wasn’t prone to fabrication, it might conserve what little pride she had. So, sucking in a deep breath, she clambered out of the car.

It took Jenny a while to locate Len in the pub. Never thinking for one moment that he’d have been lucky enough to find a table in the small garden overlooking the village green, she’d searched the interior first. But there he was, at the best table in the garden.

‘Jenny,’ he gushed. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it.’

He stood up and held out his hand to her. Jenny accepted it, noting how smooth it felt. Smoother than hers, probably, given her sporadic relationship with hand cream.

‘I took the liberty of ordering us a bottle of Quinta de Azevedo,’ he said, pulling out the chair next to his. ‘It’s one of my favourites and perfect on a glorious summer’s day like today.’

Jenny wouldn’t have known a Quinta de Azevedo if it had nipped her on the bum, but no way was she about to admit that. Anyway, it didn’t matter if the wine tasted like Toilet Duck. She could suffer one glass. She was driving, after all, and had shopping to do afterwards. ‘Lovely,’ she replied, in what she hoped was a knowledgeable tone. ‘Thank you.’

As Len removed the bottle from its ice bucket and began filling her glass, Jenny settled into her seat, slipped off her cardigan and smoothed down her hair. Before leaving the house she’d felt presentable. Now, next to Len in his immaculate chinos, which looked as if they’d come straight from the trouser press, and his pristine, short-sleeved, checked shirt, she felt chubby, scruffy and ungroomed. Which didn’t help her nerves at all.

‘There you go.’ He replaced the bottle in the bucket and pushed the glass over to her. ‘Now, how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ Jenny picked up her glass and took a fortifying sip. Yuk! Although not quite as bad as she’d imagined Toilet Duck would taste, the wine was bitter. Not half as nice as the cheap plonk she purchased from the Cash and Carry every year for the staff Christmas party. Not that she would have dreamed of voicing her opinion. To do so would be to expose her palate as cringingly uneducated.

‘Wine okay?’ enquired Len.

Oh, God. Jenny so hoped this wasn’t the opener to a sommelier conversation. The last thing she wanted was to be exposed as a philistine in the first five minutes. ‘Excellent,’ she replied. Then, swiftly changing the subject. ‘And how are you? Enjoying this glorious weather?’

Len nodded enthusiastically. ‘Indeed I am. Especially today. I’m so glad I had the foresight to phone ahead and reserve an outside table for us. Nothing worse than being stuck indoors on a day like this.’

Jenny’s eyes widened as she set down her glass. ‘You reserved the table?’

‘Of course. Why? Are you surprised?’

Surprised?
Jenny’s flabber was gasted. What a brilliant idea. It would never have occurred to her in a million years to do that. ‘I’m very impressed,’ she confessed. ‘I think that’s what you call excellent forward planning.’

Len puffed out his chest. ‘I like to be organised. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ And Jenny wasn’t lying. For all she rarely
was
organised, she really would like to be. In fact, along with losing three stone, to be more organised had been one of her New Year’s resolutions. For the last six years. ‘So,’ she continued, deciding it best not to dwell on that topic, either, ‘What brings you to Yorkshire?’

Len waved an airy hand, indicating the view of the green. ‘Need you ask?’

Jenny smiled. ‘I suppose not. We’re very lucky living here. And the countryside is spectacular.’

‘Not to mention the fabulous history.’

Oh, crikey. The books. Well, that disorganised faux pas wouldn’t impress him in the least, but she would have to fess up at some point. Might as well get it over with and do it now. ‘Actually,’ she began, contorting her features into an apologetic expression, ‘I have a confession to make. What with one thing and another today, I’ve forgotten to bring the books I promised you. But I can pop back home and pick them up after –’

Len cut her off. ‘Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter about the books. You can bring them next time we meet.’

Jenny’s heart faltered. Heavens. Was he saying he’d like to see her again? With or without books? And if so, what did that mean exactly?