The Lost Guide to Life and Love (23 page)

‘Sandro has called twice. He’s so sweet. He really wants to see me again soon. He wants me to go down to London!’

‘That’s brilliant, Becca!’ I said. And it was, because she looked so happy. ‘Great news. I’m really pleased.’

‘But he’s up here again soon. Oh Tilly! He is just so lovely, isn’t he? He’s not just a typical footballer, is he? Just gorgeous, and kind, and gentle, and—’

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘he’s just a lovely Italian boy who happens to be brilliant at football.’

Despite his bravura, huge price tag and mammoth wage, Alessandro seemed a little lost in his new world, and wary of the many predatory girls who fluttered round him so eagerly. Maybe down-to-earth Becca was just what he needed.

I left the computer and walked back into the bar where Dexter was serving. I waited till he’d finished and then spoke, uncertain of what his response would be. Did he still think I’d tipped off Jake? My conscience was clear, but while I’d been in London I had kept thinking about it, and hoping there would be no misunderstanding between us. ‘Brilliant move with the pics, Dexter,’ I said, sounding more confident than I felt. ‘Took the wind from their sails a bit.’

There was a long pause while he sorted out the change in the till drawer and I waited nervously for his reaction. Then he looked up at me and grinned. ‘Yeah, good, wasn’t it? Helluva rush, though. And not exactly ideal conditions, but Matty is a real professional. As is Kate.’

‘Kate?’

‘Oh God, yes. She was wardrobe mistress and make-up consultant as well as assistant director. She had a great time. The whole family was involved. Tom and Guy were the techies and lighting men and the twins were running round as gofers. It was fun really. And the picture desks really came through for us.’

‘They must rate you highly.’

‘Yeah, well. Still got a few contacts. And when you’re offering pics of Foxy, well…So well done, Tilly. If it hadn’t been for your boyfriend telling us what was going on, we’d never have beaten them to it.’

‘Sorry?’ I didn’t understand at first. I’d still been thinking they were blaming me for blowing Matty’s cover, but in fact I was now a heroine for saving the day. What a turnaround. And definitely a load off my mind.

Now all I had to worry about was Clayton. And getting some sleep. Dexter was offering me a drink, but I shook my head.

‘Right now,’ I yawned, ‘I really must get a shower and get to bed.’

I wanted to wait at the pub as long as possible in case Clayton rang, but I couldn’t. I tottered out to PIP and back through the ford and up the track to my second home.

He hadn’t rung. I had gone back to the cottage, fallen straight into bed and slept till nearly midnight. When I’d woken to go to the loo, I’d slipped my jeans and fleece on and driven PIP up to the road to check my phone. Nothing. I was surprised at how disappointed I was as I bumped back down the track, slipped off my clothes and back into the still-warm bed.

At first light, I was back up at the chapel again to try my mobile, but there was no message. Definitely a signal. But definitely no message. I sat there in the van for a while, gazing at the boarded-up chapel and the fading sign saying ‘Local Education Authority Outdoor Centre’, but however much I stared at that and the stunning view and then back at the phone, there was still no word from Clayton.

I realised I cared. I had spent about ten hours in the company of Clayton Silver but I was beginning to admit to myself that I wanted to spend more. True, he was a bit full of himself. But I guess if you were one of the country’s top footballers, you were entitled. True, he cared about winning more than anything else. But I guess that was part of the game too.

On the other hand, there was the man who had started out with precious little and achieved an awful lot, who could laugh at himself when he got stranded in a stream,
who liked books and pictures and fine wine, who was generous to his friends and to waiters, who could be gentle and funny and kind and who cared about his mum and who one day wanted to be a good dad.

Should I text him again? I sat shivering in PIP—the monks were right, the weather
had
changed, it was distinctly sharp—and weighed up the pros and cons. Oh, what had I got to lose? Slowly—because my fingers were freezing—I tapped out, ‘Hope embarrassment has faded and all is OK.’ Then I reversed PIP on the frosty grass and went back along the track.

I could see a tall figure working in the corner of the farmyard. Even in the dim light, and even though she was bundled up in layers of clothes, I recognised Kate. I gave a little toot and she straightened up and waved me over. I edged into the yard and called out, ‘Good morning! I bet you’ve been up for hours.’

‘Of course,’ said Kate, her long hair bundled up under the sort of flap-eared cap worn by American hunters in cartoons, ‘I don’t think I could lie in bed even if I wanted to.’

I couldn’t make out what she was carrying, dangling from her hands.

‘Moles,’ she said. ‘Just been seeing to the traps.’

‘Oh.’

‘Just let me get rid of these and I’ll be ready for a coffee. Want some?’

‘Er, yes please,’ I said, trying not to look at the limp velvet bodies.

I went into the kitchen, and while Kate removed her top layers of clothing and scrubbed her hands at the stone sink in the scullery, I filled the kettle and put it on the Aga so it was boiling by the time she came in. As she made the coffee and we waited for it to brew I had to ask her. ‘Why do you kill moles? They’re so pretty.’

‘Ha!’ she snorted, ‘pretty damaging too. They burrow into the soil and then into the barn and that lets moisture into the hay, which then rots. So yes, they might be pretty, but they’re also lethal. Looking pretty doesn’t get you very far up here.’

‘Did all right for you and Matty,’ I smiled. ‘I gather you have a new career as assistant director for Dexter Metcalfe.’

Kate laughed. ‘What a day that was! And I gather we have you to thank for the tip-off. You gave us just enough time. When Matty came back and said what had happened and what Dexter had suggested, I didn’t think it would stand a chance. But it had to be worth a go. Dexter was brilliant. Made me quite nostalgic for my modelling days. The twins thought it was great. Ruth was in her element.’

‘What about Tom and Guy?’

‘Oh, they muttered a bit about seeing to the stock but they worked wonders rigging up lights in the yard.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s still a great shame now that they know who she is and where she’s from. But I’m pretty sure it will be a nine-day wonder. Thanks to Dexter. And you. We can all get back to normal now.’

‘How’s she getting on in Egypt?’

‘Oh, fine. Though she says it’s far too hot.’ She glanced out through the windows at the chilly grey morning. ‘Not like here.’

I sat at the table, my back to the Aga, my hands round the big mug of coffee. But Kate was busy going to cupboards, setting out scales and a mixing bowl and lining up ingredients, pausing only in passing to take a glug of coffee. Her hair was piled up into a loose knot on the top of her head. She wore twinkling silver studs
in her ears and as she moved elegantly round the big kitchen she could have been posing for one of our swish photo shoots of celebrity kitchens. She certainly didn’t look as though she’d just been killing moles a few minutes before.

She must have noticed me staring at her earrings.

‘One of my vanities,’ she said. ‘The others are using bucket-loads of moisturiser and always wearing gloves, a thin pair for protection and a thick pair for warmth. As does Matt. When you’ve been dealing with the sheep you’re liable to end up with indelible blue dye all over your hands. And I’m still vain enough for that not to be a good look.’ She smiled. ‘We’re not all Hannah Hauxwell, you know.’

I dimly remember that television series about an old lady in a man’s raggedy coat and boots, struggling to keep her tiny farm, high in the Pennines, going. Absolutely nothing like Kate, who was now briskly measuring out ingredients into a bowl.

‘Chapel anniversary tea,’ she explained. ‘Next village down the dale. Special service, brass band, tea afterwards. Social event of the year.’

‘Chapel?’ I said wonderingly, chapels not exactly figuring prominently in my world.

‘I know. We don’t go very often, but it’s a link with the past, and people come back for it—so it’s a sort of reunion of those who’ve left the dale long since. So many chapels have closed, including ours, so we try and support those few that are left. Anyway, how’s your mum? Have you persuaded her to come up and see us?’

‘I hope so. But not until she’s a bit more mobile.’ I told her about Bill trying to help and how she refused all offers.

‘That’s an Allen family trait, I’m afraid, ’ she laughed.
‘That line where independence becomes bloody-mindedness. The Allen women are known for that. I sometimes think it’s not always a good thing. We must miss out on things because we’re too stiff-necked to compromise. Or even to listen. Granny Allen has a lot to answer for.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I said as I put my mug on the draining board, thanked Kate for the coffee and went back out into the cold.

But I didn’t remember, of course.

Although I kept checking my phone, there was still no message from Clayton. Back in The Miners’ Arms at lunchtime, I checked through all the papers. Those pictures again. And yes, he did not look his best. He’d hate that, I thought. Really hate it. Most of the comments were good humoured. There were a couple of good cartoons too. But in one or two there was just that underlying niggle of the ‘no-smoke-without-fire’ school of journalism that would make you think that maybe Clayton Silver was involved in something dodgy. They linked him with Sim Maynard’s questionable dealings too. I thought back to the men he’d met the day of the helicopter trip. And all that Jake had warned me about. Maybe they were right. Maybe I
was
being ridiculously naive. Maybe I’d been just like everyone else and fallen under the spell of a rich football star. I almost threw the papers across the room, just as Becca came in for her shift.

‘I’ve finished the scarf for your mum,’ she said, handing me a carrier bag.

I opened it and pulled out the most wonderful scarf. It was black, as I’d asked, but tucked into the lacy pattern was a riot of brightly coloured flowers—vivid pinks, scarlets and purples, almost but not quite clashing and looking gloriously vibrant. And at the centre of each one was a
piece of cherry-red velvet, so bright that it seemed almost to glow.

‘Is that all right?’ asked Becca anxiously. ‘It was the best way I could think of using the velvet.’

‘It’s brilliant, Becca, absolutely brilliant!’ I said. Despite the black background it was wonderfully cheerful, the sort of scarf that made you smile just to look at.

‘Mum will love it,’ I said. How could she not? ‘I can’t wait to give it to her. In fact…’ I had to go down to the next village to the little shop and post office for bread and milk. ‘I’ll send it to her today. It’ll cheer her up.’ I looked at it happily as I carefully put it back in its carrier bag and then got out my purse to pay Becca.

‘And tell me all about Sandro.’

‘Oh, he is just so nice,’ said Becca, blushing. ‘He’s rung twice and he just likes to talk. I think he gets a bit lonely. He lives in this block of flats where there was another Italian footballer, but he’s moved away. He’s learning to play golf because a lot of players do that and he’s never played before, so he’s hoping he can join in. Clayton took him to a driving range for practice last week. Did he tell you?’

‘No. He didn’t mention that.’

‘Sandro said it was good fun. He likes Clayton.’

I felt unaccountably pleased. Though why should it matter to me, especially as he hadn’t called?

‘Look, I don’t seem to be able to get hold of Clayton. If Sandro rings again, will you ask him how Clayton is, for me, please?’

‘Of course. But I don’t think he’ll ring today. They’ve got a big match tomorrow, so they’ll be travelling. But if he does, yes, of course I will.’

I went off to the post office. There was a sampler there
too.
God helps those who help themselves
, it said. Only underneath someone had added:
‘…but not from the stock, please
,’ which made me smile. I posted the packet to my mum, stocked up on bread and milk and ham and some locally made chutney, went back to the cottage and started writing up the piece about the monks and their orchard, while I munched on ham sandwiches. I took a break and listened to
The News Quiz
. It was full of jokes about Clayton. Somehow, I didn’t think he’d find them funny…

This time he wanted to take her a present. But had no idea what. His wife had always been easy to buy presents for—brooches and ornaments, frivolous things for show. But Matilda Allen was different. He thought about it as he printed up the last of the photographs before he set out on his journey again. He would like to buy her a shawl, not the practical one she wore as she went about her work, but a splendid shawl in extravagant reds to pick up and chime with her hair.

But she wouldn’t like that. Too personal, too premature. In the meantime, perhaps there was some small thing, neither too personal nor too practical, that would be a suitable gift. He went back into the shop area at the front of the studio and then stopped. Of course. She had photographs of her sons but they were tucked away in her Bible. He would take her some frames. Then she could be surrounded by pictures of them. Just the thing. He picked out a selection from the stock in the large cabinet in the shop.

Next morning as he walked round to the stable to harness up the pony and load up the cart, he had to tuck in to the narrow pavement to let the brewery dray and its heavy shire horses pass. As he squeezed into the
haberdasher’s doorway, his eye fell towards the window and its crowded display. One small section caught his attention. Quickly, before he had time to think about it and change his mind, he ducked in through the tiny door.