The Way to a Woman's Heart (12 page)

Ella edged her way across the crowded café, and took a closer look at the poster.

Gabby and Tom Dewberry, teeth twinkling and eyes sparkling, loomed large, looking for all the world like the happiest couple ever, um, coupled. They were very handsome, Ella had to admit. And smiley. She wondered again just how much of the on-screen carping and bitching was an act.

‘
Love good food? Love home cooking? Live within a five mile radius of this poster? Then what are you waiting for? We want you to cook dinner for us and the whole country in your own home
,’ Tom and Gabby oozed in unctuous unison from a star-spangled speech bubble. ‘
We can’t wait to meet you and watch you create your best dishes, on live television, just for us. If you can wow us with your food, we can change your lives forever. Don’t miss out on the foodie opportunity of a lifetime. See you very soon in your own kitchen.
’

The closing date for applications was only two weeks away. There was a London phone number and a website address for further information.

Knowing that she wouldn’t do any more about it, but also knowing that Poll would never forgive her if she didn’t at least take down the contact details so that they could discover
who the Dewberrys’ unfortunate local victim was going to be, Ella quickly scribbled down the details.

‘You surely ain’t going to go in fer it, are you?’ Patsy frowned from behind her counter. ‘Not with what young Poll’s already got on her plate? You wouldn’t risk looking a prat on telly, surely? And God forbid that you’d let all them fillum people crawl all over Hideaway – there’d ’ave to be lights and electrics and cameras and what ’ave you. Surely, in God’s name, you ain’t going to risk any of that? Not when you’ll already ’ave a houseful of villains and ne’er-do-wells.’

‘Nooo.’ Ella shook her head. ‘Of course not. But Poll’s a big fan and she’ll be interested that the programme is being filmed locally. I’m not going to
apply
for heaven’s sake – this is for information only.’

‘You make sure it stays that way,’ Topsy Turvey advised darkly. ‘You don’t know Poll as well as we do. That gel hasn’t had it easy. Mind, she’s her own worst enemy half the time with her dappy ideas. She’s had enough trouble. She certainly don’t need you to go encouraging her into no more daft schemes.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Ella said cheerfully, tucking the phone number into her back pocket and making her way back to a rather sticky Ash and George and a third demolished sugar-lump castle. ‘Goodness, that’d be the last thing I’d do.’

The next morning, Poll sang happily to herself as she swept the kitchen floor. She had the house to herself having despatched Ella, Ash and George on a further tour of the local countryside.

Bless her, Poll thought dreamily, Ella was such a lovely girl. She’d already fitted in so well, and George clearly adored her. Sad about the boyfriend, Mark, not wanting children though. That was a hugely insurmountable problem. Still, hopefully, he’d miss Ella so much during her time here at Hideaway that he’d be prepared to change his mind.

Anyway, right now, there were more important things to think about, because today her new family would be complete.

Poll, wearing a baggy, saggy skirt, a well-past-its-best shirt, her blissfully comfortable but falling apart espadrilles, and with her newly washed hair covered up with a pair of George’s pants clean from the laundry basket, beamed to herself.

Trixie would be here this afternoon, and before long, Billy Booker would be arriving…

Her heart gave a little skippety-skip of excitement.

Dust motes swirled and danced around her in the shafts of sunlight on the increasingly hot May morning, and Poll stopped sweeping for a moment and leaned on her broom to gaze at their twirling prettiness. They looked like tiny sparkly fairies, twinkling and darting in the sun. A sprinkling of Trixie’s fairy dust to bring magic into her life? No, she laughed to herself, that was far too fanciful – even for her – but she was so looking forward to seeing Billy Booker again.

Everything was, she thought, resuming her sweeping, going to be absolutely perfect for Billy’s arrival. There was very little left to do. Billy’s room was all ready, with fresh flowers, spare linen, tea, coffee and little packets of homemade biscuits, gung-ho books and blokey magazines – and everything else anyone could want. Poll was sure Billy, like all the disenfranchised newcomers, would be feeling very strange to start with, and wanted to make him completely at home.

And this time she’d be doing it without the welcoming committee as she’d rather cunningly, she thought, suggested that before today’s marathon cook-in, Ella and Ash would like to investigate the neighbourhood further, and if that involved finding somewhere for George to paddle and indulge in ice cream on this scorching morning, so much the better.

‘Fiddlesticks would be perfect,’ Poll had said artlessly. ‘It’s not far and a lovely fat shallow stream runs right across the
village green there. Crystal clear, a little bridge where you can sit and dangle your feet in the water, and perfect for paddling. And the Weasel and Bucket on the green do superb ice cream sundaes. All the local children gravitate there on days like this. I wish I could join you, but I must wait for Billy.’

Shortly, Poll thought now, as soon as this last-minute sweeping was done, she’d be able to shower off the sweat and grime and turn herself into a proper neat-and-tidy hostess. She’d wear her best Indian print frock and her amber beads and her favourite flip-flops, the purple ones with the sequins, and she’d be ready to welcome Billy Booker into his new home.

And later Trixie would be here too and then her new family would be complete. It was going to be a lovely fresh start for all of them.

Ah… but, nooo, surely not? Poll dragged herself from her reverie – surely that wasn’t a car on Hideaway Lane, was it? Yes, it was, and it had stopped. Outside the farmhouse. Oh, Lordy, surely it couldn’t be Billy arriving, could it? He’d said late morning but – was it? Already? Poll had lost all sense of time.

Propping the broom in a corner, wiping her grubby hands on her skirt and blowing the dust from under her nose, Poll, accompanied by two of the dogs, hurried through the cool, sweet-scented house to find out.

Billy Booker’s car, standing rumbling outside Hideaway Farm’s front door, was an ancient rusting Austin Allegro in an unfortunate shade of cowpat.

Billy, early fifties, shortish, with plentiful fair hair, a cherubic face and the gentlest of dark brown eyes, was fiddling with the handbrake.

Poll’s heart gave a little leap of pure pleasure. Silly, she told herself sternly. Very, very silly indeed.

‘Hello!’ Billy struggled out from the driver’s seat, holding out both hands. ‘Not too early, am I? It’s wonderful to see you again, Poll. And what a fabulous place you’ve got here. I’m feeling at home already.’

‘I hoped you would.’ Poll grinned delightedly, taking Billy’s hands in a sort of confused squeeze-cum-shake, then belatedly remembering the rag-bag housework clothes and the grime. Too late. Way, way too late. Damn it. ‘Oh, please ignore the dogs.’

‘I love dogs.’ Billy continued to smile, releasing Poll’s hands as he patted and stroked. ‘All animals are better than most people in my opinion.’

‘And mine,’ Poll said with feeling. ‘Anyway, we’ve got the place to ourselves at the moment, so you’ll be able to get settled in without having to face a million other people.’

‘A million?’ Billy’s pale-blue eyes twinkled. ‘I knew you were a generous lass, but even so…’

They laughed together, and then in a slightly less chaotic rerun of Ella and Ash’s arrivals, Poll helped Billy with his luggage – a hotchpotch collection of elderly suitcases, zip-up shopping bags, and black bin liners this time – through Hideaway Farm and into his room next door to Ash’s.

‘Blimey…’ Billy looked around him in wonderment.
‘This is like the Ritz. You have no idea how grateful I am, Poll, love.’

Poll blinked quickly. She always cried when people were nice to her. It hadn’t happened very often.

‘You’re very, very welcome. Now, I’ll leave you to get settled in and then I’ll be downstairs. Would you like something to eat? A drink?’

‘A nice cuppa would go down a treat,’ Billy said. ‘Although I can see you’ve given me all the stuff up here to make my own. I honestly don’t know what to say – I didn’t expect anything like this.’

Poll blinked quickly again. ‘I’ll go and make a pot of tea. We can have it in the garden. Come down when you’re ready. Shall I put out some cake? Biscuits?’

‘Not for me, thank you.’ Billy was still staring round his room with something close to awe. ‘I stopped off at the Little Chef on the way here and had one of them Olympic Breakfasts – filled me up a treat that did.’

Poll smiled. ‘George loves going to Little Chef. He likes the pancakes.’

‘Ah, me too. Specially the cherry ones with ice cream.’

‘We’ll have to get Ella to make us some. She’s living here too, and you’ll meet her later, because she loves making puds. And Ash and, er…’ Poll hesitated for a minute, then decided the identity of Roy could wait until another time. ‘Er, yes, Ash, he’s next door to you just along the corridor, his speciality is soups – and yours is bread of course. Oh, there’s an ancient bread oven in the kitchen; I’m sure it’d love to be put to good use again.’

Billy beamed. ‘Sounds perfect to me. I’ve missed kneading the old dough. And what about you? Do you cook as well?’

‘Every chance I get. Robust main courses are my thing – nothing fancy. I couldn’t do nouvelle cuisine if you paid me – not that anyone would of course. I love dishing up big dinners. Hearty stuff.’ Poll nodded eagerly. ‘Pies are probably my best things, really. Dennis – my ex – rarely complimented me but he did say that my pastry was the lightest he’d ever tasted.’ She stopped. Did that sound like bragging? She hoped not. And could mentioning Dennis-the-ex sound like she was advertising herself as single? Oh, Lord… Blushing madly, she swallowed. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to settle in and you come down when you’re ready.’

‘I’ll do that, thanks.’

Still blushing, Poll turned away and caught sight of herself in the triptych mirror on the dressing table.

Aaargh – noooo!

She was still wearing George’s pants on her head.

‘Bugger!’ Rushing towards the staircase, Poll wrenched the underwear from her hair and shoved it up her sleeve. ‘Oh, God, what must he think of me?’

Still smarting with embarrassment, Poll quickly showered and changed, scooped up George’s discarded toys from their potential death-trap positions on the twisting stairs, made tea in her mother’s fat china teapot – the one with the scattered roses and forget-me-nots – and set out the matching tea set on the wooden table in the garden.

And in what seemed next to no time, looking outwardly
calm at least, Poll sat beside Billy on the canopied garden swing.

‘This,’ Billy said, looking around the sun-drenched garden, happily sipping milky tea with three sugars, ‘is heaven on earth.’

‘I want you to be happy. I know you’ve had a rough time.’

Billy nodded. ‘Ah, it’s been pretty hard lately.’

‘Oh, yes. Losing your business must have been an awful blow.’

Billy nodded. ‘But then, with all them superstores doing their own bread, and the high streets being like ghost towns, you can’t really blame people for abandoning the little independent shops, can you?’

‘I suppose not. Mind you, we’re lucky round here. Hazy Hassocks still has a bustling high street, and all the smaller shops survive happily even though they’ve got Big Sava in their midst. It’s a lovely village.’

Billy sipped the tea appreciatively. ‘Everything around here seems lovely, Poll. I know I’m going to be very happy. And after what I’ve been through I could do with some happiness. After Mary died –’

‘Yes, of course. You poor thing. You’ve been through so much. Losing your business and your wife.’

Billy set down his cup and saucer. ‘Oh, me and Mary were never Romeo and Juliet. I missed having her around, course I did, because you get used to things being as they are, but truth be told she was a mean-spirited woman.’

‘Really?’ Poll pulled a face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Billy crinkled his gentle dark eyes. ‘I was just
glad we never had any kids. She’d have given them a hell of a life like she gave me. To be honest, the last two years without her have been a bit of a relief. She never stopped nagging and complaining. Not that she deserved to go before her time, poor lass, but there you are.’