Seeing Stars Page 4

  ‘Er – um – yes. That is … No … I mean … This is my luggage – er, the heavy stuff, like the telly and things, went separately and, er, yes, I’m Amber Parslowe.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Lewis grinned again. His teeth were very white and – endearingly – slightly crooked. ‘I can manage the suitcases in one trip – do you want to hang on while I bring the truck down here for the rest?’

  ‘I, er, think I’ll be able to carry them.’

  ‘Great. It’s not far. If you take the holdall and those squashy ones, and all your glossy magazines and –’ he laughed ‘– that industrial size vanity case thing. I’ll do the heavy stuff. OK?’

  Amber nodded. Intelligent words seemed to be way beyond her capabilities. Instead she watched as Lewis made short work of hefting her bulging suitcases away up the cobbled incline, her heart sinking to the bottom of her pink suede slouch boots.

  She might fancy Lewis like mad, but there had been no reciprocal spark in his eyes, his smile or his body language.

  He’d been friendly and polite – and totally disinterested.

  Maybe he was gay, Amber thought, as she heaved the holdall strap on to her shoulder and followed him beneath the glare of the unrelenting sun. And then again, maybe he wasn’t.

  Oooh, damn. There was nothing more humiliating than being rebuffed before you’d even got past the opening flirt.

  The truck, parked at the top of the cobbled incline in a no-waiting area, turned out to be a sort of minibus painted in bright primary colours and with the words ‘Hayfields Tribe On Tour’ embossed across the sides.

  Amber looked at it in trepidation. Was it some sort of tour bus? Was Hayfields the rustic equivalent of Cold Play? Clearly Lewis’s resemblance to Jim Morrison wasn’t merely a coincidence. She was probably going to make her entrance to Fiddlesticks knee-deep in discarded groupies.

  ‘OK?’ Lewis made short work of stacking what was left of her life’s possessions in the minibus. ‘Hop in quick then.

  The wardens are shit hot round here and I don’t want another ticket.’

  Amber hopped in quick and almost hopped out again. The front seat scorched her bare legs and the inside of the van was stifling. It was clearly too much to hope that there was air-con. It was not only hot but also very scruffy, being filled with empty coke cans and screwedup sweet wrappers and several grubby T-shirts. Someone had scrawled “haYFieLds rOCkS” on the dashboard in scarlet felt tip and a total disregard for either upper or lower case, and a similar hand had added “sO DoEs lEWis” with a lot of hearts and kisses underneath it.

  Maybe she’d been right about the groupies.

  While she was still struggling with her seat belt and her make-up case and her zillions of magazines, Lewis had roared into reverse, negotiated a scary amount of traffic and was driving away from the station. He had, she was miffed to notice, not even glanced in the direction of her ruckedup skirt.

  The city centre roads were like a maze, with vehicles coming in all directions, but Lewis was clearly used to driving in the area and, with an apologetic look at her, merely kept up a stream of non-stop staccato conversations on his hands-free mobile which shrilled into life the minute he switched it on.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed across at her as one call followed another. ‘Work.’

  Despite Amber being able to hear both sides of the rapid conversations, they all sounded as though they were in code. Nothing made much sense. However, the name Jem cropped up in most of them.

  Work my eye, Amber thought darkly.

  No wonder he hadn’t given her more than a cursory glance. Lewis only had eyes for Jem.

  Was that short for Jemma, like her friend back home? Or Jemima? Or maybe it was just a lover’s nickname?

  Whatever. It was obvious that Jem was the love of Lewis’s life. Sod it.

  Within minutes the multiple lanes of fume-belching traffic in the town centre had been left behind and they were tearing along a dual carriageway towards what looked like real countryside.

  Even though the phone was now switched off, with the windows open and the radio blaring, conversation was a non-starter. Lewis didn’t seem inclined to talk to her anyway. As the sweat trickled between her breasts and beaded her upper lip, Amber stared out at the unfamiliar scorched fields and dry dusty trees and tried to swallow her mounting wave of homesickness.

  She’d love to ask him about Fiddlesticks, and what Gwyneth was like and what sort of band Hayfields was. Although that last one was possibly self-explanatory. With a name like that, they had to be Country and Western. Her absolutely least favourite type of music. Lots of gingham and boots and wailing about broken hearts and lonesome train whistles and men who knew how to be men.

  There was possibly even bloody line-dancing. And Jem was probably a blonde and buxom Fiddlesticks’ answer to Dolly Parton.

  She blinked back a rare tear and suddenly wished she was sitting cramped in the camper van with Coral and Topaz and her parents. They may well be going to live in the dark ages in a strange country, but at least they’d be going together.

  For the first time in her twenty-seven years, Amber was alone. Without friends or family. She’d wake up every morning and see only strangers. It should have been a spine-stiffening moment of glorious self-discovery, but it wasn’t.

  Oh, for goodness sake get a grip, she thought. Now’s not the time to be wallowing in self-indulgent loneliness. She was a grown-up. She was simply going to live in a new place for a while and it would be exciting and uplifting. It would. It really would. Think about women like Ellen MacArthur, sailing single-handedly round the world, alone at the mercy of the wildest oceans, facing all manner of terrors. On her own.

  They’d left the main road behind and were now hurtling along narrow, high-hedged country lanes which all looked the same. The occasional small cottage or imposing house swished past and out of sight, leaving nothing but sweeping fields and hills and clumps of tired trees.

  ‘OK?’ Lewis looked across at her quickly, raising his voice above the radio. ‘Not too hot?’

  She shook her head. She felt as though she was melting and knew her make-up had run and her hair was clinging in sweaty rat’s tails, but she was damned if she was going to show how miserable she was.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Er – Reading looked lively. What’s the nightlife like? Any good clubs?’

  Oooh – how bad had that sounded?

  ‘Not that – I mean … I just wondered about—’

  ‘Reading’s got some great bars and clubs – not that I have much time for that sort of thing, but you might enjoy them. Anyway, we won’t be long now,’ Lewis grinned. ‘Everyone’s dying to meet you. You’ve been the main topic of conversation in the village for weeks.’

  Amber smiled weakly. ‘I hope they won’t be disappointed.’

  Damn! Why had she said that? It sounded like a major fishing for compliments remark.

  ‘They won’t be,’ Lewis said gallantly, clearly trying not to laugh. ‘Trust me. Oh, sorry …’

  Mercifully the phone interrupted not only the embarrassingly awful conversation but also a particularly sad song on the radio.

  ‘Hi,’ Lewis said. ‘Fern? Not problems?’

  ‘Only the usual. Jem can’t bear to be apart from you for a minute, as you know. Wants to know how long you’ll be and if Amber is pretty.’

  Lewis laughed. ‘Tell Jem not to be so nosy! And I’ll be a few minutes. We’re just skirting Bagley-cum-Russet now so we’ll be in Fiddlesticks before you can blink. I’ll drop her off at Gwyneth’s and come straight over. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Fern chuckled. ‘I’ll pass it on. Ta. See ya.’

  Amber tried to look disinterested. Who was she to interfere in what was obviously a very under-the-thumb relationship? She was off men anyway, wasn’t she?

  ‘There.’ Lewis switched off the radio. ‘Or rather, here … This is Fiddlesticks.’

  They’d hurtled round yet another cloned, high-banked lane and into a sort of clearin
g. There was a circular green, parched beneath the midday sun, with a shallow, fat, brown stream and a lot of drooping shimmering silver trees and a pub on one corner, a small shop on the other, a church which looked like it should belong in Lilliput, with a handful of red-brick houses and whitewashed cottages dotted around the circumference.

  Amber swallowed. ‘Er – this bit looks very pretty. Like a picture on a calendar. What’s the rest of it like?’

  ‘What rest of it?’ Lewis grinned as he screeched the minibus to a halt outside three ramshackle cottages almost hidden behind a rainbow explosion of flowers. ‘What you see is more or less what you get. This is the village. A few cottages round the green, a couple of streets of houses at the back, and the council estate on the Winterbrook Road, the church, the pub and the corner shop. Oh, yes, there’s a bit more new residential stuff for the incomers behind the pub – and a couple of lanes which lead to Hazy Hassocks and Bagley-cum-Russet, two farms and a few more biggish houses, but other than that, this is the lot. Hardly a metropolis. Still, you’ll probably find more of what you’re used to in Reading. Welcome to Fiddlesticks.’

  Amber looked at him in disbelief, but knew he wasn’t joking. Her friends had been right. This truly was the back of beyond.

  Oh, God. What the hell had she done?

  Chapter Five

  Give Me the Moonlight

  ‘What the heck is this supposed to be?’ Billy Grinley waved his glass under Zillah’s nose, taking the opportunity to leer down her cleavage across the gleaming bar of The Weasel and Bucket. ‘How many years have you been serving me, Zil? Since when have I been drinking halves of diet Coke? Blimey, love, get a grip – you’re miles away.’

  ‘Sorry, Billy. Sorry …’ Zillah took the offending glass, managing to avoid Billy’s hopefully groping fingers, replaced it with a pint pot and started to yank at the Andromeda Ale pump.

  Various other lunchtime customers at the bar had watched the exchange with interest and were now keen to add their own pertinent opinions.

  ‘No wonder she ain’t concentrating, she’s thinking of old St Bedric’s Eve and what to wear on Saturday night, you mark my words. Gels is all the same when it comes to clothes.’

  ‘It’s not just the gels. Let’s face it, we’re all a bit stumped when it comes to the wearing of the green. It don’t flatter the majority. No wonder Zil’s mind is on St Bedric’s.’

  ‘I don’t reckon she’s thinking about Saturday night at all. I reckon it’s because it’s so bloomin’ hot. Don’t know why Timmy don’t get air conditioning like they’ve got in Tesco. Mind, I likes to see young Zil in them vests …’

  ‘Mebbe she’s got a man on ’er mind. Is that it, Zillah? You thinking of the love of yer life, duck?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. Let me think – who is it today? Pierce Brosnan? Johnny Depp? Jude Law? Little Leonardo? I’m spoilt for choice. None of them will leave me alone for a minute.’ Zillah flashed them her second-best barmaidy smile and wished they’d all shrivel up and disappear. ‘Right – who’s next?’

  Lunchtime at The Weasel and Bucket was always a rumbustious affair. Due to the majority of Fiddlestickers being either retired or in part-time employment, the pub was the midday meeting place of choice. In the evening, it was packed with customers from all the neighbouring villages too. Some of the regulars, like Billy Grinley who drove the bin lorry and had finished work by noon, were middle-aged. The majority weren’t. And as they were in the main lonely and slightly deaf, as soon as they got together they all yelled happily at each other non-stop without ever listening to the replies.

  Zillah always thought the clientele suited The Weasel and Bucket admirably, being sort of ancient and dark and gnarled and unchanged for centuries. Timmy Pluckrose, the pub’s current landlord, had resisted the trend for wide-open drinking spaces and light bright eating areas. So the huge fireplace, the inglenooks, the uneven polished floors, the odd corners, the rickety tables and chairs, the tiny leaded windows covered in ivy, and the low beams which all had ‘duck or grouse’ signs pinned to them, hadn’t altered in living memory.

  ‘Billy giving you trouble, Zil?’ Timmy Pluckrose, tall, thin and balding, appeared from the kitchen. ‘I can always bar him you know.’

  ‘As if,’ Zillah grinned, dropping lemon slices and ice cubes into three glasses of house gin and low-cal tonic for the elderly Cousins Motion. ‘You’ve never barred anyone in your life. And I gave him the wrong drink so he had every right to grizzle.’

  ‘Did you?’ Timmy’s pale eyebrows arched towards his non-existent hairline. ‘Not like you. Are you feeling poorly?’

  Poorly didn’t even come close. It was nearly one o’clock. Amber would have arrived at Reading station. Lewis would have met her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Zillah lied, then smiled at two of the three ancient Motions. The male third had slipped off, clearly unnoticed by his cousins, to the gents for a crafty fag. ‘Not having a sandwich today, ladies?’

  They shook their heads in unison.

  ‘Go on,’ Timmy wheedled. ‘I can do you a nice bit of ham off the bone and some mustard.’

  ‘We’re not paying your inflated prices, Timmy Pluckrose,’ Constance made a prim moue with thin lips made even more mean by a slash of unflattering crimson lipstick. ‘A fortune for a couple of slices of white loaf and a scrape of marge and a bit of ham you can see through – I don’t think so, thank you all the same.’

  ‘You get crisps and a salad garnish as well. Tasty, well balanced and healthy-ish, not to mention exceptional value for money. And the surroundings are second to none. You could go and sit out the front in the garden in this glorious sunshine, beside the stream, and watch the world go by …’

  ‘No thank you – ouch!’ Constance stopped and glared at her younger cousin. ‘Why did you jab me like that, our Perpetua? I know money slips through your fingers like water but we are not – definitely not – eating out again.’

  Perpetua, grey and wispy, half Constance’s height and a quarter her width, stood on the tiptoes of her sturdy sandals and whispered urgently in the area of Constance’s ears. As Constance’s ears were always hidden by a glazing of fat, lacquered, bleached curls it was a wonder anything penetrated.

  ‘Ah …’ Constance nodded slowly. ‘Ah, right.’ She beamed at Zillah. ‘We’ve changed our minds. Three rounds of ham and mustard, please. We’ll take one for Slo even though he says the ham gets stuck in his dentures but it’s no good giving him cheese because of the flatulence and anyway he’s been so good about giving up smoking that he deserves a bit of a treat although I’m a touch worried about the amount of time he spends in the lavatory these days – can’t be too careful with your prostate at his age. We’ll be out in the garden.’

  Mrs Jupp from the corner shop pushed her pointed face over the bar top. ‘Now that the flaming Motions have made up their flaming minds, I’ll have two pints of Pegasus Pale please, Zillah. Some of us is sole traders and only has our lunch hours. We can’t—’ she shot a cutting look at Constance Motion ‘– all swan out of work as and when we choose.’

  ‘Come along,’ Constance gathered her cousin to her, ‘don’t rise to her bait. We know that some of these small business people are simply envious of the nature of our business empire. Of course, all it takes is damn hard work and—’

  ‘What it takes in your case madam, is a flaming business what’s been set up for a couple of generations handed to you three on a flaming silver plate along with a bucketful of inherited money,’ Mrs Jupp muttered as the Motions filed away. ‘Hard work my eye!’

  Timmy frowned as the Motions pushed two-abreast through The Weasel and Bucket’s door. ‘What was all that about? Not the spat with Mrs Jupp, that’s ongoing. Their change of heart over the food, I mean. Not that I’m complaining of course, but I wonder what Perpetua said to change old Con’s mind?’

  ‘No idea,’ Zillah blew strands of hair away from her sweating face as she heaved at the Pegasus Pale pump. ‘But whatever it was it seems to
have caught on …’

  As the Pegasus Pale foamed merrily over the top of the glasses, Timmy and Zillah watched as at least a dozen customers, gathering up their drinks and snackettes, followed the Motions and headed for the beer garden.

  Mrs Jupp’s nose wrinkled like an inquisitive kitten’s as she paid for her two pints. ‘I’ll just go and find out, shall I? I quite fancy having me lunch in the fresh air. I’ll have one of your pasties, Timmy, if you don’t mind. Zil can bring it out when she fetches the sarnies for the flaming miserable buggers.’

  ‘Yes, milady,’ Zillah muttered as Mrs Jupp clattered out of the door.

  Timmy paused in the kitchen doorway. ‘When you’ve got a minute, Zil …’

  ‘Sometime next year, then,’ Zillah hissed as she attacked the next order of three pints of Andromeda, a half of Hearty Hercules and a bitter lemon with a dash of Worcester sauce.

  In fact it was about ten minutes before all the customers had been served, by which time Timmy was just putting the final prettying touches to the lunches arrayed across the kitchen table.

  The Weasel and Bucket’s spotless kitchen was the only part of the pub that had been dragged into the twenty-first century. Timmy was very proud of his granite and stainless steel and multitudinous gadgets, not to mention his lunchtime snacks and rather more adventurous evening menu. Not that the Fiddlestickers had ever really got to grips with blanched leeks, sweated onions, sun-dried tomatoes, balsamic vinegar or lemon-drizzled sea bass, being steak and kidney pie and chips people to a man, but vis-itors from Hazy Hassocks and Bagley-cum-Russet, or even Winterbrook, certainly appreciated them.

  Timmy looked at Zillah with some concern. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? If you’re feeling off-colour you know you can go home. I can manage.’

  ‘I told you I’m fine,’ Zillah slid the plates of sandwiches up her left arm and took Mrs Jupp’s pasty in the other hand. ‘It was just a simple mistake. It’s so damn hot and you know what Billy’s like – can’t keep his eyes or his hands off the merchandise.’