‘God, I didn’t even realise what I was doing.’ Maddy let out a wail, snatching the letter and shoving it back into her pocket. ‘I hate it when you’re right!’

‘So there you go, you have my permission to see him. And wear something sexy.’

‘We’re only going to talk.’

‘ Good grief, are you mad? If he’s as gorgeous as you say he is, and meeting him is this risky, what on earth’s the point of just talking?’ Nuala raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I mean, if Marcella’s going to go ballistic anyway — not that she will find out, of course, but if she did — you may as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’ Pausing, she frowned.

‘You know, I don’t actually understand what that means. I mean, why would anyone want to hang a sheep or a—’

‘ Time’s up,’ bellowed Dexter like a sergeant major from the back door of the pub.

‘Honestly, he’s such a bossy-boots,’ Nuala grumbled, but she was already on her feet, gathering up their empty glasses.

Maddy, wondering why on earth she was asking advice from someone whose idea of a perfect partner was Dexter Nevin, said, Will you two end up getting married, d’you think?’

‘Good grief, no.’ Vigorously, Nuala shook her head. ‘Not a chance.’

Oh well, that was something to be grateful for.

‘I’ve already asked him,’ Nuala went on, blowing her fringe out of her eyes. ‘He turned me down flat.’

‘What are you, a three-toed sloth?’ bawled Dexter. ‘Get a bloody move on, woman, there’s customers dying of thirst in here!’

Wishing she’d thought to bring Sophie’s potato gun along with her, Maddy shook her head and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nicer to have a boyfriend who isn’t horrible to you the whole time?’

‘Dexter isn’t horrible,’ Nuala said fondly. ‘That’s just his way. It’s only a bit of fun.’

Chapter 12

‘Lunch? We stop serving lunch at two.’ Dexter jerked a finger in the direction of the clock on the wall. ‘It’s five past.’ Bolshy pub landlords didn’t faze Oliver Taylor-Trent. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said jovially. ‘My wife burned ours to a cinder. We’re starving. My invited guest here is starving. I’ve told him all about your miraculous bouillabaisse – he’s a documentary maker, by the way. Will, meet Dexter Nevin. Dexter, this is Will Gifford.’

‘Blimey, you must be really hungry.’ Dexter’s dark eyes glinted with sardonic humour.

‘More than you can imagine. Cooking’s never been my wife’s strong point. We’ll have a bottle of Laurent Perrier, by the way. Oh, and would you have any objections to Will doing a spot of filming here in the pub?’

‘For TV? What, now?’ Dexter looked taken aback.

‘Not now.’ Will spread his arms reassuringly. ‘See? No camera. But within the next few days.

The thing is, I’m making a film about Oliver,’ he explained. ‘And Ashcombe’s such a great place. I wouldn’t want to leave the pub out of it. Could be good publicity for you,’ he added with a winning smile, ‘but don’t worry, feel free to say no if you’d rather not.’

‘Two bouillabaisses?’ said Dexter, who wasn’t stupid.

‘I think we’ll take a look at the menu,’ Oliver replied with satisfaction. ‘And there are three of us.

My daughter’s waiting outside.’

See and be seen was Oliver’s motto. Despite the fact that the Fallen Angel had a perfectly good restaurant area and a ravishingly pretty rear garden, he had insisted they eat at one of the tables at the front of the pub. Kate, waiting self-consciously for her father and Will Gifford to re-emerge, watched as one of the locals ambled past and turned to stare at her. Oliver had persuaded her, against her far better judgement, to join them for lunch while Estelle set about the task of fumigating the kitchen and scraping cremated salmon fillets off the baking tin she had put into the oven and promptly forgotten all about until the smoke alarm had gone off. Oh well, she couldn’t hide away for ever.

Safety in numbers and all that.

‘Quite a character, that landlord,’ announced Will, sitting down next to her and handing her a menu.

Glancing at it, Kate prayed no one passing by would assume they were a couple. More specifically, she hoped Jake Harvey in his workshop across the road wouldn’t think it.

‘I’ll have the steak in port. And a glass of red.’

‘Your dad’s on his way out with another bottle of champagne. What it must be like to be wealthy,’

Will marvelled. ‘You wouldn’t believe the lengths I normally have to go to to get a glass of champagne — blagging my way into celebrity parties, getting turfed out on my ear when they realise I haven’t been invited, the humiliation of realising I’m actually a pint of bitter man through and through — excuse me, but is that dog all right?’

Norris was snorting and grunting at her feet. Kate shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He always breathes like that.’

‘He might be thirsty. I’ll ask for a bowl of water while we’re ordering the food.’ Unfolding his long legs, Will said, ‘Backin a sec. By the way, you don’t happen to know the name of the pretty barmaid, do you? Curvy redhead, cute dimples?’

Honestly, what was it with men? One-track minds or what?

‘I only moved back here this week. I don’t have a clue.’ This was perfectly true; she and the barmaid hadn’t got as far as exchanging names, only insults.

‘Fine, fine.’ Will raised his hands in mock terror, as if dodging a poison dart. ‘No problem anyway, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.’

Kate wondered if he was capable of a brilliant idea. Bored, she said, ‘What?’

‘I’m going to call on my expertise in the field of investigative journalism.’ Will’s brown eyes sparkled. ‘And ask her.’

The champagne helped, which was something to be grateful for. Before long, Kate’s knees were feeling nicely relaxed. When Will realised that the bowl of water hadn’t arrived for Norris, her father said brusquely, ‘Kate, go and sort it out,’ and she found herself rising automatically to her feet.

The abrupt transition from bright sunlight to dim smoky gloom was disorientating, not helped by the fact that she was still wearing her dark glasses. Removing them and blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust, Kate saw the door from the kitchen swing open and heard a voice saying, ‘Back in a moment, there’s something I forgot to — ooh.’

The curvy redhead with the dimples, carrying something in both hands, had caught sight of Kate in the pub and frozen for a millisecond. Sadly, a millisecond was all it took for the swing doors to swing shut again, before she had a chance to escape them. Realising too late what was about to happen, the girl lunged forward, getting caught anyway. She let out a squeak of alarm as the bowl ricocheted out of her hands, sending up a beautifully choreographed fountain of water before hitting the flagstones with a loud craaacckk. Kate gasped. The girl gazed in dismay at the shattered remains of the bowl, now strewn across the floor, and at the sopping wet front of her white shirt and navy skirt.

A roar of fury made them both jump. Erupting out of the kitchen like a maddened bear, the landlord bawled, ‘You bloody idiot, can’t you do anything right? Is a bowl of water too difficult for you?’

‘I’m sorry, the doors swung shut on me.’ Flushing, the girl knelt and began frantically scooping up the scattered shards, wincing as a splinter of china dug into her knee.

‘Possibly because they’re swing doors,’ jeered the landlord. ‘But then you’ve only been here for two years, haven’t you, so how could you possibly be expected to have known that? Oh, for crying out loud, stop faffing about and clear it up. Get a dustpan and brush, if you know what they are, and try not to get blood all over the flagstones ... Yes, can I help you?’ As the girl scurried off, the landlord turned his attention to Kate for the first time. ‘My apologies for the scene of carnage — you can’t get the staff these days.’

‘It was an accident,’ said Kate.

He gave a snort of derision. ‘She’s the accident.’

‘No wonder you can’t get the staff,’ Kate bristled, ‘if this is the way you treat them. Why do you have to be so rude?’

The landlord smiled, but not in a friendly way.

‘Because it’s fun. I enjoy it. Why, what’s your excuse?’ Eyeing him with contempt, Kate retorted,

‘At least I’m not a bully.’

‘No? Hardly Julie Andrews though, are you?’ He was openly smirking at her now. ‘I mean, forgive me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one who was in here the othernight hurling insults at Nuala?

Calling her a fat cow and reducing her to tears?’

‘I didn’t call her a fat cow.’ Kate was seriously regretting coming here now, but she was damned if she’d back down. ‘No?’

‘No. Just ... fat.’ Thank goodness the barmaid — Nuala — was still off somewhere hunting down the dustpan and brush.

‘You made her cry.’

Oh God, she hadn’t, had she?

At that moment the kitchen doors swung back open. Surveying the scene — Kate and the landlord facing each other across the wooden bar — Nuala said, ‘That’s not true.’ Turning to Kate she added, ‘Don’t take any notice of him, he’ll say anything to win an argument.’

‘Been listening at the door, have we? Very classy,’ drawled the landlord as Nuala bent down and began sweeping up the bits of broken bowl.

Not to mention embarrassing, thought Kate. Addressing Nuala, she said in disbelief, ‘Why do you let him speak to you like this? I mean, what are you doing here, working for someone who treats you like dirt?’