Tempted by Trouble (11 page)

‘You're saying that he's used the money to start me—well, Gran—up in business?'

‘He didn't normally do more than one or two events a month. He wouldn't have needed that much.'

She frowned. ‘But…'

‘It was a hobby for him, not a business and he turned away a lot more bookings that he accepted. With all the bookings he's lined up for the next couple of months… Well, it suggests he might have been thinking along those lines.'

‘I thought he'd taken the money and run,' she said dazedly.

‘Apparently not.'

‘But if that's the case, why didn't he give us the paperwork on his clients?' she demanded. ‘Explain what he was doing more clearly? Why did he just disappear?'

‘I've no idea, but I suspect he knows a lot more about you than you realise. Maybe he thinks it's time you got out of the Blue Boar and chased your dream?'

‘I promise you,' she said frankly, ‘I never dreamed I'd be driving an ice cream van for a living.'

‘But that's not what you'll be doing,' he pointed out. ‘You've got bookings from a film company, for a wedding, and didn't you say there was some kind of business do as well as the more usual kids parties?'

‘A business do and a retirement party,' she admitted.

‘Then you haven't got an ice cream round, Elle. What you have is an events business.'

She opened her mouth to protest, closed it again. Then she looked at him. ‘Where is he, Sean? What is RSG? I'm getting really worried about him.'

Sean took her hand for a moment, an instinctive gesture of comfort. But, even as he did that, he began to suspect that what Basil was doing was playing games. The old man wanted to be back in the comfort of his family home, the centre of attention, but he'd made some promise he couldn't break.

 

Upper Haughton was the kind of picturesque village that decorated biscuit tin lids. No intrusive modern street lighting or yellow lines painted on the road and, since there was only one way into the village from the main road, there was no through traffic to cause problems.

All it needed to become the fictitious village in a nineteen-sixties drama series was for the modern cars and signs to be removed before the cameras could roll. Since it had already been used in a picturesquely rural detective drama, and the parish council had been handsomely rewarded for the inconvenience, the villagers knew the ropes and were, on the whole, happy to co-operate.

Elle had become intimately acquainted with every part of it throughout a very long morning.

‘An hour should do it', Kevin Sutherland had said. Ha!

She'd turned up in good time but it had been two hours before anyone took any notice of her. She'd then spent an age trying to teach the idiot actor how to produce an ice cream that anyone would want to eat, trying not to think about Sean, his arm around her as he'd taught her to do the same thing.

Finally, she'd driven around the green dressed in a white coat and peaked cap so that from a distance it would look as if it was the actor driving the van while the director filmed ‘establishing' shots. Playing the jingle and trying really, really hard, not to think about how she'd kissed Sean. Bold as brass. A proper little hussy…

It would have been fun but for the fact that she was supposed to be at work at twelve and it was already half past. She couldn't even phone and let Freddy know she'd be late. The production assistant had locked her cellphone away before she was allowed on the set. The last thing they needed, apparently, was for one to start ringing in the middle of a ‘take'.

And now, just when she could escape, she'd been grabbed by a reporter from the
Country Chronicle
, the monthly county magazine. She assumed it was because everyone else was too busy, but apparently not.

‘We're doing a major feature on the filming and we're particularly interested in any local businesses that are involved,' she said. ‘It'll be good publicity for the county. Bring in visitors.'

She doubted whether a picture of her and Rosie would do much for the local economy but, irretrievably late for work, she answered questions and posed for pictures with Rosie, ice cream in hand.

Then, before she could escape, the local television news team took her place. She smiled and went through the same routine with them. This time with the ice cream dripping over her fingers.

She binned the ice cream, licked her fingers and took the sheet of paper that the production assistant handed her, along with her phone.

‘Thanks, Elle. Sorry it took so long, but you were great.'

‘No problem.' She looked at the paper. ‘What's this?'

‘The shooting schedule for the rest of series one. I've marked the days we'll need Rosie.'

‘Series
one
?' Elle looked at the list, saw half a dozen days highlighted. ‘I thought this was a one-off?'

‘Good grief, no. The ice cream guy is having an affair with the wife of the landlord of the pub. Lots of tension.' She smiled. ‘It's edgier than the usual nostalgia stuff for this period—mostly sex and horses combined with crooked local politics and murder. The networks are salivating.'

Elle wasn't quite sure what to say, other than
help
.

‘Rosie is part of the cast,' the woman continued, as if this was something she should be glad about. ‘And, heaven forbid, even if the show does fold after series one, it'll still be great publicity for you.'

Publicity!

‘Here's your payment pro forma. I've attached my card. Send your invoice direct to me and I'll make sure it goes through quickly.'

On the point of telling the woman that the last thing she needed was publicity, Elle saw the amount on the pro forma.
Three hundred pounds, less the seventy-five that Basil had already been paid as a deposit. For one day. And not even a whole day.

She swallowed. Hard. Managed a strangulated, ‘Thanks.' Cleared her throat. Three hundred pounds. An events business. ‘I'll get right on to it.'

S
EAN
couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was Elle. How she'd looked as, relaxed, her bare feet dangling over the edge of his dock, she'd lifted her face to the sun. Her concentration as she'd tried to fill her first ice cream cone. The pink flush to her cheeks as she'd leaned across him to reach the chime, looked up, kissed him. When he'd kissed her.

He should be grateful to his brother for coming along when he had or the heat they'd been generating would have melted the ice cream.

Fortunately, there was nothing like a meeting with Henry to remind Sean why he never got involved with anyone. And Elle didn't have time, even if he'd wanted to. She'd needed to get back to Longbourne to be there when her sisters got in from school. Another good reason not to get carried away.

She was not his kind of girl. Not free to flirt, free to stay or go as she chose. And yet this morning, when he should have been focusing on building plans for an extension to the dairy, all he could think about was whether she was managing Rosie on her own and how the filming was going. The softness of her lips. Her fingertips walking along his collarbone…

It was as if she'd taken up residence in his head, distracting
him, filling his thoughts in ways that no other woman had ever managed.

He picked up the phone to call Olivia, suggest she come down to Haughton Manor so that they could discuss her ideas for the stable block. Anything to take his mind off Elle. And he found himself dialling Elle's number instead.

His call went straight to voicemail.

Instead of hanging up, he listened to her voice, seeing her face, her eyes as she invited him to leave a message. Remembering the way she'd licked her upper lip, seeking out a crumb of chocolate, and how he'd hardened in immediate response.

‘Elle…' He hadn't intended to leave a message, but her name escaped him before he could stop it. ‘Just checking that everything went okay this morning. I'm doing my best to chase down Basil.' And still he didn't hang up. ‘See you Saturday.'

He tossed the phone on the desk.

Pathetic. A fifteen-year-old boy could have done better.

 

‘What's for tea?' Geli asked as she walked through the back door.

Elle looked up. ‘Good grief, is that the time!' She usually heard the Maybridge bus pulling into the village, had the kettle on before her sisters had crossed the road, but the afternoon had flown by.

She hadn't taken Sean's suggestion that she had an embryo events business seriously but when she'd got home yesterday afternoon she'd unloaded most of the boxes from Rosie's interior, ready for the film set this morning. Tucked away behind them, out of sight, she'd found a box file containing Basil's paperwork.

There wasn't much. Simple accounts, his invoices, receipts from suppliers, an account card for the local cash and carry. She hadn't had time to look at it then. She'd barely had time to put together supper before she'd left for work, but as soon as she'd got away from the film set she'd called Freddy and, claiming
a family crisis—Basil
was
family and he'd disappeared; that surely had to count as a crisis—apologised for missing her lunchtime shift.

He'd been so concerned, insisting that she take the evening off as well, that she knew she should be feeling a lot guiltier than she did. But today she had other things on her mind.

Sean, for one…

He'd asked for her number in case he heard from Basil, but she hadn't expected him to call her just to ask how things had gone this morning.

She'd longed to call back, tell him about it, that it wasn't a one-off contract, that it was more important than ever that Basil was found so that she could be sure what he'd meant when he'd transferred Rosie to her. His casual ‘See you Saturday' suggested he didn't expect—or want—that and she pushed away the memory of standing beside him, working together as they made a sandwich for lunch.

Refused to dwell on the small joy of sitting beside him on the dock as he'd told her about his family. Shared his pain. Tried to forget how he'd wrapped his arms around her to demonstrate how to produce the perfect ice cream…

It was the possibility of starting her own business that was the big one.

Her mind might keep wandering off, wondering what Sean was doing right now, counting off the days until Saturday, but she'd yanked it back into line. Done what she'd always been good at and concentrated on reality.

‘What's all this?' Sorrel asked, picking up the sheet of paper on which she'd been brainstorming names for her embryo company.

If she was going to have a business, it wasn't going to be a hobby.

‘Scoop? What's that?'

‘Not Scoop, but
Scoop!
In italics, with an exclamation mark.'

‘I'm starving,' Geli said, dumping her bag. ‘What's for tea.'
‘Open a tin of beans,' Elle said distractedly, waiting for Sorrel's reaction to the name.

‘Scoop!'
Her sister lifted an elegant brow. ‘This is for Rosie, I take it?'

‘You're not going to start an ice cream round?' Geli demanded, horrified.

‘No, an events business. I've got some bookings.'

Geli rolled her eyes but Sorrel put her laptop on the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You know there's a big market for this kind of thing. A lecturer at college hired an ice cream van for her little girl's birthday party last month.' She thought about it. ‘It could have been Rosie.'

‘Where's the tin opener?' Geli asked.

‘For heaven's sake, it's in the same place it's been for the last fifteen years.'

She got a ‘huff' and a noisy opening of drawers in response.

Maybe Sean was right. She did do too much for them. She hadn't expected anyone to open a tin for her at that age. On the contrary. She'd been the one coming in from school and getting tea for everyone else.

‘What kind of bookings?' Sorrel asked.

‘A surprisingly wide range.' She ran through them, determinedly ignoring the bad-tempered clatter from Geli. ‘And the icing on the cake is that Rosie is now a member of the cast on the television drama series they're filming at Upper Haughton.'

‘What?' Geli's scorn dissolved in an instant. Beneath the bored exterior, the pale face and black charity shop clothes, there apparently lurked an ordinary teenager who was just as impressed with fame as the next girl.

‘That's what I was doing all morning. The
Country Chronicle
took photographs.'

‘Excellent,' Sorrel said. ‘We can use that on flyers and the website.'

‘Website?' Whoa…

‘I think we should have a blog, too.
Rosie's Diary
?' She
looked up. ‘Time to put your IT skills to good use, Gel. You
can
spare us some of your precious time to design something and get us online?'

‘Will I get paid?' she demanded, quickly recovering her disdain.

‘Of course you'll get paid,' Sorrel replied before Elle could stop her. ‘You'll be tax deductible. Make a note of the time you spend. We'll work out an appropriate hourly rate later. We'll need letterheads and invoices, too. Something simple, neat…'

‘Okay, but I can't work on an empty stomach,' Geli said pointedly.

‘You'll have to be registered for VAT,' Sorrel said, ignoring her. ‘I can probably do that online.' She lifted her laptop onto the table and began to makes notes. ‘This is so great. Exactly what I need for a project.
Setting Up a Small Business
.' Then the cool mask slipped and she grinned. ‘You do realise that we are going to need a broadband connection?'

‘What?' Elle looked at the pair of them. ‘Let me get this right. You'll help me, but only as and when it suits
you
? For money, or because it will make a neat college project and it means you'll get broadband? Well, thanks. Thanks a bunch.' She stood up. ‘You know what? This is
my
business and if I'm going to have to pay someone “an appropriate hourly rate”…' she did that really irritating quote mark thing with her fingers because she wanted everyone else to be as hacked off as she was ‘…I'll get a professional. Someone who knows how to open a can of beans.'

The room fell silent and, without warning, she could hear Sean saying, ‘You really hate taking help, don't you?' She'd denied it, but it was true. She just didn't trust anyone else. It wasn't only about money, it was everything. Shopping, cooking, cleaning. If she didn't do it herself, it wouldn't be right…

For years she'd done it all. Been not only sister, granddaughter, but mother to all three of them. They took and took and took and it was her own fault for letting them. For not making
them do their own washing, get their own food. Because she wanted to make it up to them. Losing their mother, the stuff that they took for granted. Be…perfect.

But Lavender had been
her
mother, too. Adorable, funny, warm, but not perfect. Far from perfect. And she wouldn't have done all this. Wrapped them in cotton wool. Spoon-fed them.

‘It's…um…done,' Geli said tentatively. ‘Shall I open another tin? Make beans on toast for everyone?'

‘That would be great,' Sorrel said. ‘And put the kettle on. I think we could all do with a cup of tea.'

Elle, torn between the need to curl up in a corner and bawl her eyes out or burst out laughing, sucked her cheeks in.

‘You think you can buy me off with baked beans and tea?' she asked, trying to be tough.

‘It's a start,' Sorrel said. ‘Now, tell us about
Scoop!
, which is a totally brilliant name, by the way. We'll listen and then you can tell us how we can help.'

‘Actually, you were just about there,' she admitted. I realised I'd need a website, but the blog is a great idea, especially with the filming.'

‘What are you going to wear?' Sorrel asked.

‘Well, Rosie is early nineteen-sixties vintage and I thought… Do you remember the trunk full of our great-grandma's clothes we used to dress up in? They are the right era. Late fifties, early sixties.'

‘Oh. My. Goodness. You're right. They would be just perfect. They'll need a good wash. Shall I see to that?' Sorrel offered.

‘Maybe you should start with something a little less challenging laundrywise,' Ellie suggested. ‘But I'd welcome a hand with the formalities.'

‘I'll make a list.' Then, ‘Are you going to give in your notice at the Blue Boar?'

‘Not immediately. Let's see how it goes. Is something burning?' Elle asked.

Before either of them could answer, the door opened and
her grandmother appeared from the morning room where she'd been dozing away the afternoon in front of an old movie.

‘Elle,' she said, looking surprised. ‘You're here.'

‘I've been here all afternoon, Gran.'

‘But…' she looked back into the morning room ‘…you're in there. On the television. Talking to a reporter on the local news.'

They all rushed into the morning room, but the news had already moved on to another item.

‘You
were
on the television,' she insisted. Elle was about to explain when the telephone rang.

Sorrel picked it up. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Gilbert. Did she?… Did you?… For your granddaughter's birthday? I'm afraid Elle isn't here at the moment,' she said, cool as a cucumber, holding Elle off. ‘I'll ask her to check the diary and call you back first thing in the morning. No problem.' She turned to Elle. ‘That was Mrs Gilbert. The woman who owns the garden centre? Mrs Fisher was talking about Rosie in the post office—'

‘I'll bet she was,' Geli interjected dryly.

‘—and then she saw you on the television. I would have taken the booking but I had no idea when Rosie's free, or what to charge.'

‘How old is her granddaughter?' Elle asked.

‘Good point. And I should have asked how many children they've invited. That's going to affect the cost. We're going to need a see-at-a-glance wall chart for bookings. And a price list,' Sorrel said.

‘I can work that out now I have Basil's paperwork.'

‘Who's Basil?' Geli asked.

‘Basil…' Her grandmother grabbed for the back of an armchair but, as Elle and Sorrel exchanged a desperate look, she seemed to gather herself, straighten her back. ‘Basil,' she said, ‘is Grandpa's brother. Your great-uncle.' Only then did she let Elle ease her back into the armchair.

‘But…Grandpa didn't have any brothers,' Geli said.

‘Just one. They were chalk and cheese. Bernard was an
engineer, captain of the local rugby team. Big, strong, sports mad. The kind of man every girl wanted to be seen with. Basil was a couple of years younger, artistic, a bit of a clown, but all the girls adored him, too. He was so easy to be with.' She shook her head. ‘It was all an act, of course. The clowning. I found him one day by the village pond trying to work up the nerve to end it all. Silly boy.'

‘Why?' Sorrel asked. ‘Why would he do that?'

Elle threw her a warning look, but her grandmother was oblivious. In a world of her own as she remembered the past.

‘He'd been going out with a girl from Lower Haughton, but only so that he could be near her twin brother. He knew he was gay and it terrified him.'

‘But that's awful,' Sorrel gasped.

‘The law had changed by then, but attitudes hadn't. He couldn't bear the shame of his parents knowing. Bernard… He was his hero.'

‘So what happened? Where has he been all these years?' Geli asked.

‘I let out his secret. The girl he'd been going out with was my best friend. She adored him and I didn't want her to get hurt,' their grandmother revealed.

‘
You
told her?'