Rumor Has It (2 page)

    'So you are actually quite glad Gavin's gone,' said Erin.

    'Well, it wasn't working out. He was so set in his ways. I did feel kind of trapped,' Tilly confessed. 'But his mother kept telling me what a catch he was and I didn't have the heart to say, "Yes, but couldn't he be a bit less boring?"'

    'But you moved into the flat with him,' Erin pointed out. 'Was he boring from the word go?'

    'That's just it! I don't know! I think he probably was, but he hid it well. He definitely didn't tell me he belonged to a model airplane club until after I'd moved in,' said Tilly. 'And he completely forgot to mention the bell-ringing. Oh God, I'm so ashamed. How could I have gone out with someone for six months and not known they were a secret bell-ringer?'

    'Come on.' Erin's tone was consoling as she put the empty pudding bowls on the coffee table and stood up. 'It's stopped raining. Let's go to the pub.'

THE JOY OF LIVING at one end of Roxborough High Street was that the Lazy Fox was situated at the other end of it, far enough away for you not to need earplugs at home if they were having one of their karaoke evenings but close enough to stagger back after a good night. Tilly enjoyed the atmosphere in the pub, the mix of customers, and the cheerful staff. She loved the way Declan the landlord, upon hearing her just-been-chucked story from Erin, said easily, 'Fellow must be mad. Come and live in Roxborough. Fresh country air and plenty of cider—that'll put hairs on your chest.'

    Tilly grinned. 'Thanks, but I'm a townie.'

    'Damn cheek. This is a town!'

    'She means London,' said Erin.

    'That's a terrible place to live.' Declan shook his head. 'We're much nicer.'

    'I've got a job up there,' Tilly explained.

    He looked suitably impressed. 'Oh, a
job
. Prime Minister? Director General of the BBC?'

    Erin gave his hand a smack. 'Declan, leave her alone.'

    'Our newspapers have proper news,' Tilly riposted, enter tained by his sarkiness and poking at the copy of the
Roxborough
Gazette
he'd been reading between customers. 'What's that on your front page? Cow falls through cattle grid? On your front page!'

    'Ah, but isn't it great that we aren't awash with terrorists and murderers?' Declan winked at her. 'That's why I like it here. And I lived in London for thirty years.'

    'What happened to the cow anyway?' Tilly leaned across, but he whisked the newspaper away.

    'Oh no, anyone who laughs at our headlines doesn't get to find out how the stories turn out. Was the cow winched to safety by the fire brigade, lifted up out of the grid like a parachutist on rewind? Or was it left dangling there to die a horrible death? Now that's what I call a
moo
-ving tale…'

    Declan relented as they were leaving two hours later, folding the
Gazette
and slipping it into Tilly's green and gold leather shoulder bag. 'There you go; you can read the rest yourself. It may not be the
Evening Standard
but our paper has its own charm, you know. In fact, in some ways it's
udder
ly compelling.'

    The awful thing was, after three pints of cider Tilly secretly found this funny. Somehow she managed to keep a straight face.

    'So that's why you were drummed out of London. For making bad puns.'

    'Got it in one, girl. And I'm glad they did. In fact,' said Declan, 'I'll be for-heifer grateful.'

    Once outside on the street, closing time hunger pangs struck, and they were forced to head up the road to the fish and chip shop. While they waited to be served, Tilly unfolded the paper and read that the cow—a pretty black and white Friesian called Mabel—had indeed been winched to safety by the Roxborough fire brigade and reunited with her calf, Ralph. Ahh, well that was good to hear. Better than a lingering death with its legs dangling through the grid and poor baby Ralph mooing piteously…

    'Oh sorry, one haddock and chips, please, and one cod and chips.'

    Back out on the pavement, Tilly greedily unwrapped the steam ing hot parcel and tore off her first hunk of batter.

'Mm,
mmm
.'

'I'm going to save mine until we get home,' said Erin.

    'You can't! That's what old people do! Fish and chips taste a million times better in the open air.'

    'I'm twenty-eight,' Erin said happily. 'I'm knocking on. And so are you.'

    'Cheek!' Outraged, Tilly threw a chip at her. 'I'm not old; I'm a spring chicken.'

    A couple of teenage boys, crossing the street, snorted and nudged each other. Tilly heard one of them murmur, 'In her dreams.'

    'For heaven's sake!' Indignantly Tilly spread her arms. 'Why is everyone having a go at me tonight? Twenty-eight isn't geriatric. I'm in my prime!'

    The other boy grinned. 'In two years' time you'll be thirty.
That's
geriatric.'

    'I can do anything you can do,' Tilly said heatedly. 'Pipsqueak.'

    'Go on then, try peeing up against that wall.'

    Damn, she hated smart kids.

    'Or do
this
,' called out the first boy, taking a run-up and effort lessly leapfrogging the fixed, dome-topped trash can just down from the chip shop.

    Oh yes, this was more like it. Peeing up against walls might be problematic, but leapfrog was practically her specialist subject. On the minus side, she was wearing a fairly short skirt, but on the plus side, it was nice and stretchy. Dumping her parcel of fish and chips in Erin's arms, Tilly took a run up and launched herself at the bin.

    Vaulting it went without a hitch; she sailed balletically over the top like Olga Korbut. It was when she landed that it all went horribly wrong. Honestly, though, what were the chances of your left foot landing on the very chip you'd earlier thrown at your best friend after she'd called you old?

    'EEEEYYYYAAA!' Tilly let out a shriek as her left leg scooted off at an angle and her arms went windmilling through the air. She heard Erin call out in horror, 'Mind the—' a millisecond before she cannoned into the side of the parked car.

    
Ouch
, it might have broken her fall but it still hurt. Splattered against it like a cartoon character, Tilly belatedly noticed that it was an incredibly clean and glossy car.

    'Hey!' yelled an unamused male voice from some way up the street.

    Well, it had been incredibly clean and glossy up until five seconds ago. Peeling herself away from the car, Tilly saw the marks her fish and-chip greasy fingers had left on the passenger door, the front wing, and the formerly immaculate side window. With the sleeve of her jacket she attempted to clean off the worst of the smears. The male voice behind her, sounding more annoyed than ever, shouted out, 'Have you scratched my paintwork?'

    'No I haven't, and you shouldn't have been parked there anyway. It's double yellows.' Glancing over her shoulder and checking he was too far away to catch her, Tilly retrieved her fish and chips from Erin, then did what any self-respecting twenty-eight-year-old would do and legged it down the road.

    'It's OK,' panted Erin, 'he's not chasing us.'

    They slowed to a dawdle and Tilly carried on eating her chips. As they made their way together along the wet pavement she said, 'Lucky there was no one around to take a photo. In a place like this, getting greasy fingers on a clean car could've made the front page of next week's
Gazette
.'

    'You know, Declan's right. You'd like it here.' Erin, who was still saving her own chips, pinched one of Tilly's. 'If you wanted to give it a go, you can stay with me for as long as you like.'

    Tilly was touched by the offer but knew she couldn't. During the years of nursing her mother, Erin had slept on the sofa in the living room while Maggie occupied the only bedroom. It hadn't been ideal by any means. She knew how claustrophobic Erin had found it. Coming down for the weekend and staying for a couple of nights was fine, but the flat was small and anything more would be unfair.

    They'd reached the bottom of the High Street. All they had to do now was cross the road and they'd be home. Still greedily stuffing chips into her mouth, Tilly waited next to Erin for a bus to trundle past, followed by a gleaming black car—

    'You sod!' Tilly shrieked as the car splashed through a puddle at the curbside, sending a great wave of icy water over her skirt and legs. Leaping back—
too late
—she glimpsed a flash of white teeth as the figure in the driver's seat grinned and raised a hand in mock apology before accelerating away.

    'It was him, wasn't it?' Shuddering as the icy water soaked through her opaque tights, Tilly hugged her bag of fish and chips for warmth. 'The one who yelled at me.'

    'It's the same car,' Erin confirmed. 'Some kind of Jag.'

    'Bastard. He did that on purpose.' But she was inwardly im pressed. 'Quite clever though.'

    Erin gave her an odd look. 'Clever how?'

    Tilly pointed at Erin's unsullied cream coat, then at her own soaked-through skirt and tights. 'The way he managed to avoid you and only get me.'

    Tilly made herself a mug of tea and a plate of toast before hauling the duvet back on to the sofa and crawling under it. Next she switched on the TV, then rummaged through her bag for her phone, to see if there were any messages on it. No, none, not even from Gavin. Which was just as well really, because the last thing she needed was for him to start having second thoughts and regretting his decision.

    Plumping up the pillows and taking a sip of tea, Tilly pulled the
Roxborough Gazette
out of her bag and smoothed out the creases where it had been scrunched up. The cow story still made her smile.

    She leafed through the paper and learned that two sets of twins had been born to women living in the same street. Now how was that not a front-page newsflash? There was a piece about a tractor auction—be still, my beating heart—and a whole page devoted to a charity bazaar at Roxborough Comprehensive. Tilly flicked past photos of wedding couples, an article about an overhanging tree branch that could be really quite dangerous if it snapped off and landed on someone's head, and another about a bus breaking down in Scarratt's Lane, causing the road to be blocked for—gasp!—three and a half hours. There was even a photograph of the broken-down bus with offloaded passengers standing alongside it looking suitably downcast, apart from one lad of about five who was grinning from ear to ear.

    Actually, it was quite sweet. The worst thing that appeared to have happened in Roxborough in the last week was that a man had collapsed and died while digging up potatoes in his allotment, but he'd been ninety-three, so what did he expect? Sipping her tea, Tilly turned the page and came across the jobs section. Garage mechanic required, washer-upper needed in a restaurant, bar staff wanted for the Castle Hotel, lollipop lady required for the crossing outside the infants' school. She skimmed through the rest of the list—office work… taxi driver… cleaner… gardener… hmm, that could be the widow of the 93-year-old needing the rest of her potatoes dug up.

    That was it, brief and to the point. Tilly wondered what fun job meant; after all, some people might call Chancellor of the Exchequer a fun job. Ozzy Osbourne might regard working as his personal slave a fun job. Or it could be something dodgy, like entertaining slimy businessmen.

    She took a bite of toast, turned over the page, and began reading the articles for sale—a size eighteen Pronuptia wedding dress, never worn… an acoustic guitar, vgc apart from tooth marks on the bottom… fifty-nine–piece dinner service (one plate missing—thrown at lying, double-crossing ex-husband)… com plete set of
Star Trek
DVDs: reason for sale, getting married to non-Trekkie…

    Tilly smiled again; even the ads had a quirky charm all their own. Finishing her toast, she scooted through the Lonely Hearts column— male, sixty-three, seeks younger woman, must love sprouts—then the houses for sale, all of them out of her league financially, then the boring sports pages at the back.

    She reached the end, then found herself turning back to the page with
that
advert on it.

    Almost as if it was beckoning to her, calling her name.

    Which was ridiculous, because it didn't even say what the job involved and the money was rubbish, but a quick phone call to find out wouldn't do any harm, would it?

    Scooping up her mobile, Tilly pressed out the number and lis tened to it ringing at the other end.

    'Hello,' intoned an automated voice, 'please leave your message after the…'

    'Tone,' Tilly prompted helpfully, but the voice didn't oblige. All she got was silence, no more voice, no tone, nothing. The answering machine was full.

    Oh well, that was that. Whoever had placed the ad had been inundated with calls and was beating potential employees off with a stick. It was probably a vacancy for a topless waitress anyway.