Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (16 page)

‘I tried helping about the house, but I’m as good as useless,’ Sara smiles as though reading my mind. ‘I cooked some meals and took them round but half the week I’m in London. Jed’s mum tried to get him to go to theirs for dinner but he wouldn’t.’

‘London?’ I say, feeling pangs of homesickness.

‘Yes, I’m studying there. I’m a mature student. I’ve finally decided to go into veterinary pr
actice. I bet you miss London?’

She grasps her feet from behind and stretches backwards. I attempt to reach my own, but my arms must have shrunk. Either that or someone has chopped my feet off.

‘Do what you can Alice,’ advises Lydia while pulling my arms back.

If I do what I can I’d be doing sod all. I hear a crack and pray it didn’t come from my body.
I find I can’t help liking Sara. I imagine she and Edward would make a lovely couple. I’m tempted to ask why they’re not together, but resist. Anyway, once I do that I’ll probably end up telling her about Charlie and then I will no doubt get all maudlin. I really must stop thinking about Charlie. Fifteen minutes later I am dragging my sweaty body towards my old Beetle. I feel quite respectfully exercised and am almost proud of the sweaty hair tendrils that stick to my neck. All I need is a paper cup of coffee and a towel around my neck and I would be the image of Princess Diana. I see in the side mirror that my cheeks are warmly flushed. I feel quietly smug, knowing that I must have shed a few pounds. If I go on like this when Charlie does see me again he will no doubt drop the brunette like a hot brick. I’m about to get into the Beetle when I see Sara rushing towards me. My knickers seem to be pushing themselves into the crack of my bum. The nearest pair that I grabbed this morning was the freebie G-string panties that Justine had popped into the bag with the bras. I feel sure they will disappear up my arse any minute. That’s all I need. What size did she give me for goodness sake? If only she had studied my backside as well as she did my breasts, I wouldn’t be in this uncomfortable state. This is what comes of exercise. I’ve probably dislodged more than my underwear. I know women end up at A & E with stuck tampons but not many with a G-string lodged up their arse. Of course, they never believe you at the hospital when you say something has got accidentally lodged, do they? It’s always presumed to be the result of some kinky sex game. As if sticking a thong up your backside is pleasurable. I don’t recall ever being part of a kinky sex game. In fact, I wouldn’t know kinky if I met it. The closest to kinky I’ve come is receiving an obscene phone call about ten years ago and I’ve not been called a ‘dirty bitch’ since, although it would be rather nice to be, I suppose.

‘Hey, I nearly missed you. You dropped this in the hall. I hope you don’t mind that I looked inside. I didn’t know who it belonged to,’ she says handing me my purse.

‘No, of course not,’ I answer while struggling to recall the contents. There was the four hundred quid for a start. No doubt word will get around the village that I’m loaded. Oh yes, and the photo of Charlie. I really should tear that up. God, I hope she didn’t see all the store cards, not that I use them mind you. I just can’t resist when they offer ten per cent off my first purchase. I even have a Harrods card. Everyone will think I’m a posh snob. The truth is I’m as poor as a church mouse. Although why church mice are considered poorer than any other mice is beyond me. She probably saw all my Waitrose receipts too and now knows I really am a posh snob.

‘I should go,’
I say. ‘I have to get to Lidl.’

I move towards the Beetle and feel the G-string embed itself further into my backside.

‘Do have a cream tea first. They do a lovely one in Polly’s. Come on. What’s the point in sweating buckets if you can’t treat yourself afterwards?’

Sara is without doubt a good
-looking woman. No matter what she wears, in this case an unflattering tracksuit, she always seems to glow. Her cheeks seem to have a permanent blush. I find myself being gently pulled across the street and away from my little Beetle. Polly’s is lovely and the smell of freshly ground coffee immediately halts my protests and I enter the fragrant room and instantly collide with a farmer. I know he is a farmer because he is wearing a flat cap. I’m getting good at this country lark. He bows and apologises.

‘Sara,’ he ack
nowledges and then looks to me.

Now this is the kind of man I could go for. Clean cut, good looking, very much in control and extremely well mannered. He has strong
features, sultry blue eyes and the most beautiful mouth. When he smiles his nose wrinkles in a cute way. Sara seems to sigh.

‘Alice this is Dominic Montfort. He owns Lower End
Farm and is a born flirt, and a man to avoid at all costs. He is also unscrupulous in business. This is Alice, Edward’s new housekeeper and much too lovely to get involved with you.’

‘What a lovely introduction Sara, how can Alice possibly resist me now? Very pleased to meet you Alice. Sorry to hear that you’re working for the old grump though
…’

I gasp.

‘Dominic!’ chides Sara.

‘Well, when is he going to give up on that farm and sell it to me? He’ll be forever trying to get that milk licence back. It was rather careless to lose it in the first place.’

‘Okay Dominic, you’ve made your point.’

‘Let me buy you fine ladies a cream tea. It’s the least I can do for being slightly ungracious.’

I go to decline but Sara has nudged me to a table and the next hour is passed laughing while listening to their farm stories. Dominic explains how to properly prepare a cream tea the Cornish way.

‘This is the correct order of course. Jam always goes first. They do it all wrong in Devon,’ he laughs.

I sip at my third cup of coffee and check the time on my Nokia.

‘I should go,’ I say hurriedly.

‘Already, was it something I said?’

‘Alice is making rabbit stew,’ reveals Sara.

‘I’m sure you’ll do marvellous things with that rabbit,’ he says laughing.

He makes it sound like I’ll be pulling one out of a hat.

‘I’m pretty clueless when it comes to animals and farms,’ I say.

And teat buckets and hens and calving and crows in the attic. Not to mention Lidl. Oh God, Lidl. I’ve yet to cook the rabbit stew. And there’s the calf to feed as well. At this rate dinner won’t be ready until midnight. How long does a rabbit take to cook anyway? They are tender little things aren’t they? I feel so cruel. How could I even consider buying
a rabbit, let alone cooking one? The thought of pushing it into a casserole dish seems like the final insult to the poor little bunny rabbit. I’ll buy some rubber gloves in Lidl so I don’t have to touch it. If I tell Edward dinner is late because I spent the morning doing yoga and didn’t get to Lidl till lunchtime he may well ask for my pay back. God knows I need it at the moment. I also need to buy some suitable country clothes, although what ‘suitable country clothes’ are, I have no idea. The butcher waves from his doorway and gives me a saucy wink. Heavens, the country air must be inducing a ferocious release of my pheromones. Either that or I am more sexually appealing than I ever dreamt. Or, most likely, the men in the country are quickly aroused. You know all that earth and back to nature stuff. I bet they’re at it like rabbits here. Talking of rabbits, I must get to Lidl.

***

I feel myself hyperventilating. In fact, I feel quite sick and my heart is thumping. On a scale of one to ten on the catastrophe ranking this really isn’t that bad. In fact, later I shall, no doubt, look back on this and laugh at myself. But right now as I hit the Lidl car park a sickening feeling of déjà vu hits me and I’m back at the Taunton Deane service station. It feels like all those people must have followed me. A police car zooms into one of the spaces. There must have been a stabbing or something. Knowing my luck it is a crazed gunman who will come running out any minute. Most likely I will get taken hostage. That will make Charlie regret his actions. After all, it is his fault I am here anyway. My body goes rigid as I watch the police climb from the car. Thank goodness I didn’t witness anything. I’d have to have given a statement and everything. I feel my stomach clench and my hand reaches for the key in the ignition. Perhaps it would be safer to find a little village store. They emerge from the panda car laughing and talking loudly. One looks over to me and I slink down in my seat. Oh dear, my tyres are okay aren’t they? I daren’t drive away now, not in my usual cloud of smoke, they’ll do me for a faulty exhaust. I can’t sit here all day, what about the rabbit stew? I feel like my whole life revolves around a rabbit. What has my life come to? Perhaps I shouldn’t slink, it makes me look guilty. I sit up and pretend to rummage through my handbag. One of the policemen shrugs and they walk on into the store. Oh that’s good. At least with them inside I should be safe. I attempt a few of the deep breaths that Lydia had shown us in the class and feel my heart rate slow down enough for me to find the courage to get out of the car. I make sure it is locked and, with head held high, walk purposefully towards the store. Crikey, there are a hell of a lot of lopsided women here and I’m not just talking breasts. Okay Alice, you need to get some perspective. It’s a supermarket. It may be full of a different class of people than you usually mix with at Waitrose, and no doubt there will not be a nice little green charity chip at the end, but that doesn’t mean they are not nice people. You can’t judge a supermarket by what it does or doesn’t give to charity. You must stop being such a snob. All the same I’d better zip up my bag and hold it close to my chest. I feel like I’m walking into the heart of Harlem instead of the local Lidl. As I reach the trolley park a lady approaches me. I hope she isn’t going to ask me for money.

‘
Do you want this trolley dearie?’ she says pleasantly.

That’s nice. Now that’s what I’m used to at Waitrose. Perhaps I will get a green chip at the end after all.

‘Thank you,’ I say politely, taking it from her.

She stands looking at me and her smile seems to get stuck on her face.

‘Thanks again,’ I repeat and begin walking towards the entrance. Surely she doesn’t want paying for giving me a trolley.

‘I’d l
ike my pound, if you don’t mind,’ she shouts.

She does?
What a cheek. Not a bit like Waitrose then. How stupid am I even thinking that?

‘I’m sorry but I’m not paying you a pound just because you gave me your trolley,’ I say firmly.

It is like those people who dive on your car and frantically slosh dirty water on your windscreen when you stop at the lights, and then they ask for money for the privilege.

Another woman gasps and gives me a dirty look as she takes a trolley from the park. I watch horrified as she pushes a pound coin into it. Shit and double shit. That’s something they don’t do at Waitrose. Before I can apologise and fish in my bag for the money the trolley is snatched from my hands.

‘Bugger you,’ she snaps and waltzes off with it.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise about the pound thing …’

This is awful. Instead of entering the place with as low a profile as possible I have become the centre of attention. I spend an unnecessary amount of time fiddling in my handbag pretending to
find a pound coin until all the people who saw the trolley incident have gone inside. Once inside I am astonished. Things are quite cheap here, amazingly cheap actually. In fact I’m only in the third aisle and my trolley is full. They’re practically giving away the wine at £3.99 for a box of four. I put two in the trolley, along with three boxes of Coca Cola and by the time I reach the till I can barely push it. Edward will be pleased with my thriftiness. I’m feeling so chuffed with myself that I also throw in a copy of
25 Beautiful Homes
. Maybe I can sort out the farmhouse at Trenowyth. I should have shopped here before. In fact, now I think about it, maybe I could do this in London and then I would have enough money for rent. Of course, I’ve got to find a job. Still, it gives me hope that I can go home and won’t have to stay here too long. I’ll get some money behind me and meanwhile Georgie can send me the local rag, and I can apply for jobs. Shopping at Lidl hasn’t been so bad after all, and there hasn’t been a shooting or anything. I begin putting my things on the conveyor belt ready for the assistant and the next thing I know she is scanning like mad.

‘I need bags,’ I hear myself pant as I struggle to put the items on as fast as she is scanning.

‘Zere is ze bags,’ and she points below me.

What did she say?

‘The bags are in front of you,’ says a woman behind me.

I look down to the mass of carrier bags and grab several feeling the G-string yank itself even further up my backside.

‘Could I have help packing?’ I ask, banging the trolley into the oversized backside of a woman in front of me. I could park my trolley there, never mind my bike. Oh, dear that was so rude. Why do these places turn me into such a snob?

‘Ve don’t pack,’ says the assistant.

‘This isn’t bloody Waitrose,’ says the lady in front rubbing her ample backside.

You don’t say? Blimey if the assistant scans any faster the scanner will blow up. I’m surrounded by half-full carrier bags, and free flowing provisions when she says,