One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon (11 page)

Gazing up at him, stroking his face with her hands, Laura wondered how long she’d wanted him and realized that it had been a very, very long time.

‘So.’ She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

‘So.’ Gabe smiled back, and slowly began to undress her.

In the distance, the bells of St Hilda’s began to ring out, summoning the villagers to midnight mass. The sound mingled with Gabe’s breathing as he pulled off his shirt and expertly unfastened Laura’s bra. She had never felt happier in her life.

It was going to be a very Merry Christmas indeed.

Harper

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Ltd

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This ebook first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins
Publishers
Ltd 2012

Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2012

Cover images © Simon Wilkinson/Getty Images (woman);
Shutterstock.com
(illustrations)

Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Epub Edition © December 2012 ISBN: 9780007472543

Version: 2013-11-27

Table of Contents

‘All right, so let’s run through it again. Who’s going to open the batting with Will?’

The five men considered this all-important question in the beer garden of Fittlescombe’s prettiest pub, The Fox. This Saturday was the big match, an annual cricketing fixture between Fittlescombe and the neighbouring village of Brockhurst. Dating back more than a hundred and fifty years, the Swell Valley cricket match was older than the Ashes, and every bit as hotly contested. For the last six years in a row, shamingly, Brockhurst had trounced the home team. Indeed, almost since the match’s inception, Fittlescombe had been perceived as something of a gentlemanly shambles, gracious losers in the great tradition of affable, British sporting failures. The village had produced only two county players in the last century, in comparison with Brockhurst’s six, and no Test cricketers at all (Brockhurst could boast two). But this year the men of Fittlescombe were confident the tables would be turned, thanks in no small part to the return to their ranks of William Nutley, a brilliant batsman whom many locals considered good enough to play at county level. Will had grown up in the village, but his family had moved away a few years back, after old man Nutley lost the family fortune in a string of bad investments and was forced to sell his gorgeous Elizabethan manor house. But now, aged twenty-two, Will was back, living modestly in a rundown farmworker’s cottage, and playing better than ever.

‘It should be one of the older lads. Someone steadying, to calm the boy’s nerves.’

It was George Blythe, the local carpenter and Fittlescombe’s captain, who made this observation, but it was greeted by universal nods and murmurs of assent from his table mates – namely Dylan Pritchard Jones, the handsome young art teacher at St Hilda’s School in the village; Gabe Baxter, a local farmer and handy fielder with a first-class bowling arm; Timothy Wright, a retired stockbroker who lived in the village and who in his youth had been a star bowler at Eton; and Frank Bannister, the sweet-natured church organist, who was frankly an appalling cricketer but was far too nice a person to be kicked off the team. The Fittlescombe XI ranged in age from fourteen (Seb Harwich was coming home from school for the match) to sixty-five-year-old Timothy, and the levels of ability were equally diverse. Not all of the players had been able to make it to tonight’s get-together at The Fox. But all had agreed that the five men present would settle on a batting and bowling order, as well as arranging a schedule for the week’s practices. The key question at issue, however, was whom to pair with Will Nutley. Everybody knew that, while Will was their great white hope, he was also prone to terrible nerves. Especially when playing in front of his beautiful ex-girlfriend, Emma Harwich, who was sure to be there on Saturday supporting her brother. One silly mistake, one lapse in concentration on Will’s part, and all Fittlescombe’s long-cherished hopes would be dashed. The choice of batting partner was crucial.

‘I vote Tim,’ said Gabe Baxter. Blond and stocky, like a handsome pit-bull terrier, Gabe was considered the sexiest player of the tournament, closely followed by the good-looking but terribly vain Dylan Pritchard Jones. ‘You’re our safest pair of hands. And you’ve known Will forever.’

Timothy Wright smiled ruefully. Bald and paunchy, with a permanently red nose and cheeks latticed with broken red veins after a lifetime of hard drinking, Timothy was
not
one of Fittlescombe’s heart-throbs. ‘I’m flattered, dear boy, but an opening batsman I am not. I’m afraid I’m very much a one-trick pony.’

‘Lionel, then?’ said George Blythe, the thin and wiry village captain.

Lionel Green, owner of Green’s Books on the high street, was the next oldest player after Timothy at fifty-seven, and a competent, if not spectacular, batsman.

‘I think he’d be a better bet,’ said Timothy. ‘He should steady the lad’s nerves. Although the very best thing would be to think of a way to stop the Harwich girl from coming at all.’

‘I doubt you’ll succeed at that,’ Dylan Pritchard Jones said archly. At thirty-two years old, with a thick mop of curly hair and twinkly, lapis-blue eyes, Dylan was considered almost as much of a catch as Gabe Baxter; although, like Gabe, he was spoken for, married to the patient and lovely Maisie. ‘Emma Harwich could give Tatiana Flint-Hamilton a run for her money when it comes to loving the cameras. There’s bound to be a ton of press here on Saturday. She won’t miss a chance to get her pretty little face in the papers.’

Local teen Emma Harwich had been signed to a London modelling agency last year, since when her career had taken off exponentially. A few months ago Emma was named as the new face of Burberry, and was rapidly eclipsing Tatiana Flint-Hamilton as Fittlescombe’s most famous beauty. Emma and Will Nutley had briefly dated a few years ago. But that was back when Emma was an unknown, and Will had expected to inherit a not-so-small fortune.

‘Shhh,’ Timothy Wright hissed. ‘He’s coming.’

Will Nutley emerged from the bar back out into the garden, carrying a tray laden with beers. Six foot five, with broad shoulders and enormous hands and feet, Will had been nicknamed BFG at school. With his red hair, freckles and big amber eyes, fringed with lashes as long and thick as a camel’s, Will was not what one would call classically handsome. But he was funny and self-effacing and blessed with immense charm – what his father Donald called his ‘likability factor’. It was this that had helped him find work as a recruitment consultant, despite his conspicuous lack of A-levels or degree. A country boy at heart, Will loathed his city job, but he was smart enough to be grateful for the income it afforded him. At least he earned enough to live in Fittlescombe and commute.

Will lived for long warm summer evenings like this one, spent with friends in the idyllic garden of his favourite pub. Picking his way unsteadily along the winding stone path, bordered on either side by towering hollyhocks and foxgloves, he made his way to the large table by the pond. Overhung by a hundred-year-old willow tree, whose gnarled trunk leaned towards the water and whose long green fronds provided shelter for the dragonflies that darted across the lily pads like kamikaze bombers, this was the farthest table from the playground and the distracting whoops and shrieks of local children.

‘You took your time,’ said Dylan Pritchard Jones good-naturedly, relieving Will of the tray and handing round the heavy pints of warm, half-spilled beer. ‘Hey, I was only joking,’ he added, catching Will’s stricken face.

‘It’s not you,’ said Will, sitting down heavily at the table. His team-mates exchanged worried glances.

‘W-what’s the matter?’ asked Frank Bannister, the organist. ‘Has something happened?’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,’ added Gabe Baxter.

‘I was just talking to Danny,’ said Will gloomily. Danny Jenner was The Fox’s landlord and a Fittlescombe institution. With the honourable exceptions of Graham the barber and Mrs Martel the chemist, Danny Jenner was the biggest gossip in the Swell Valley. ‘You won’t believe who Brockhurst have brought in at the last moment.’

Five beer glasses thudded down on the table simultaneously.

‘Who?’ the men asked in unison.

‘Only Santiago de la bloody Cruz,’ said Will, putting his head in his hands. ‘Can you believe it?’

They couldn’t. Santiago de la Cruz was a world-famous name in cricket, and for all the wrong reasons. Preposterously handsome, with olive skin, hair as glossy and blue-black as a raven’s, and a proud aquiline nose that gave him a predatory air, Santiago had been born to an Argentine mother and English father. Raised in Buenos Aires, Santiago was at least as well known for his advertising contracts and playboy antics as he was for his prowess as a fast bowler. Argentina not being a Test-cricketing nation, de la Cruz had transplanted himself to England, where he’d promptly been snapped up to play for the Sussex county team. Not since Imran Khan’s captaincy had cricket in Sussex had such a high profile. Ticket sales had gone through the roof, with a huge surge in female fans flocking to the stands at Hove to catch a glimpse of their idol, with his soulful eyes, so dark they were almost black, and his sensual mouth, set in a semi-permanent expression of sardonic amusement. It was well known that Santiago had ambitions to play for England, although, at thirty-one and without an international cap to his name, that looked like a long shot. In the meantime, however, he already made more in sponsorship deals than international stars like Freddie Flintoff and Kevin Pietersen, thanks to his good looks and media savvy alone.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Timothy Wright. ‘I think Danny must have been pulling your leg. The rules are quite clear: all players for both teams
must
live in their respective villages. Santiago de la Cruz doesn’t live in Brockhurst. He lives in Brighton.’

‘Not any more, he doesn’t,’ said Will. ‘He’s rented that thatched place on Woodbury Lane. Moved in yesterday, apparently, on a one-year lease.’

‘That’s outrageous!’ said Gabe.

‘Shipping in professionals like that – it’s bloody cheating is what it is,’ agreed Dylan.

‘It’s not cheating,’ Will said reasonably. ‘They don’t have to confirm their final line-up till Wednesday.’

‘It’s completely against the spirit of the thing,’ chipped in Timothy Wright. ‘Typical bloody Brockhurst.’

Will shrugged. ‘Whatever. He’s here, he’s playing and he’s opening the bowling for Brockhurst on Saturday. Charlie Kingham was overheard at the Black Swan last night, boasting about it. Apparently, the landlord over there’s running a book on how many overs it’ll take de la Cruz to take my wicket.’

‘Are they, now?’ As captain, George Blythe felt the onus was on him to defend Will’s reputation, and by extension Fittlescombe’s chances. ‘Well, don’t you worry about it, William. Pride comes before a fall. De la Cruz is such a peacock, I expect he’ll be too busy worrying about his hair and make-up to see you coming.’