“I think I’ll just go and talk to him, no kidnapping required.”
As we approach, the author and the jam lady eye us eagerly. Then the woman in a wax jacket behind the coffee urn at the WI table calls to Ted.
“Ted Palmerston, is that you under there?” she asks. “What’s all that hair? You shouldn’t hide your lovely face, boy. What would your mother have said?”
I smile at the fact someone seems to know Ted everywhere we go. As he walks over to talk to the woman, I make a beeline for the JBCS stall, where I find honey for sale, leaflets about bee conservation, and even a beekeeper’s hat to try on.
“Hi!” I beam. “I’m Laura, I wonder if you could help me?”
“You’re interested in supporting the bees?” asks the man, glancing down at my chocolate-stained dress.
“Oh yes, big bee fan.” I grin.
“I’m Keith, Chairman of the JBCS. Can I give you a leaflet about membership?”
“I would love a leaflet, Keith, and some honey. Hook me up with some of the sweet stuff, ha-ha!” I’m babbling. “But where you could really help me, Keith, is I’m trying to track down some people who may be members already. Do you know the Le Maistre family? I think Mr. Le Maistre might have raised money for you running the marathon, and his mother has a particular interest in beehives?” I look at the man hopefully. Now I’ve said it out loud it doesn’t feel like a lot to go on. I can’t imagine an episode of Luther starting with a lead like this.
“Maude Le Maistre. I’ve just finished building a beehive for her birthday tomorrow,” says Keith, pronouncing it “Le May-tch,” a broad smile creasing his round, ruddy cheeks.
Yes! He knows her! He’s not looking at me like I’m a crazy stalker. I clench my fists in excitement. Then, just as I’m about to ask Keith for more details, an alarm goes off on my phone. Two minutes to twelve—what did I set that for? What does “IL” mean? Then, as it dawns on me, my throat starts to feel as though I’ve swallowed a pint of wet cement—in two minutes, I’m supposed to be doing an Instagram live from a beautiful, scenic Jersey location.
“Oh, Ted! You’ve got to help me,” I call over to him. The WI woman is examining his beard from every angle, with a distinct look of disapproval. Ted looks grateful for the opportunity to escape. “I need to do a live broadcast for work, right now. Please, could you just hold the camera for me?” I ask, searching for a remotely scenic backdrop, but it’s literally a choice of the recycling bins or the road. “Just frame out the background as much as possible.”
I quickly log on to the work account. Suki will kill me if I miss this.
“What about your top?” Ted nods toward the chocolate stain on my dress.
He’s right; I can’t represent Love Life looking like this. I search frantically for something to cover me. All I can see is the beekeeping hat, perhaps I could make a kooky feature out of it?
“Keith, would you mind if I borrowed this hat, just for two minutes? Lovely, thanks.”
He nods slowly, but his wispy eyebrows dip into a suspicious V.
I quickly pull the large mesh sheath down over my head; it covers the top of my dress perfectly. Hopefully the hat part looks like a cool, wide-brimmed sun hat, the kind Audrey Hepburn might wear on a holiday to Rome. I try to own the look, taking the advice of Vanya’s book and channeling my inner tigress. Handing the phone to Ted, I flap my hands for him to point it at me and then press the button to go live.
“Hello—I’m Laura Le Quesne from Love Life, and I’m coming to you live from Jersey—the land of milk and honey! Ha-ha. There are beaches galore and much to explore—” What is coming out of my mouth? It’s like a poem made up by a six-year-old. “And I’m here visiting some of the most romantic places on the island. It’s a personal story for me, as my parents met here—so I wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for the island’s aphro-aphrodesy . . .” memory blank, memory blank! What’s the word? “Ecclesiastical properties.” Damn, no, that’s churches. “I mean aphrodisiastical qualities—SEXY QUALITIES, nothing religious, ah! Though I’m sure some people here are religious.”
I usually pride myself on my ability to wing interviews or presentations, but I’m not used to being center stage. The focus is usually on the people I’m interviewing, and Ted’s sympathetic eyes and grimacing mouth are not instilling me with confidence. I turn frantically to Keith.
“Keith—tell us, what is romantic about bees? Jersey is famous for its delicious honey, isn’t it?”
Ted swings the camera around to Keith, who looks nonplussed.
“Not really. I wouldn’t say it was famous for honey. Milk and potatoes, yes. Honey no.”
“Well, I don’t bee-lieve you, Keith—he’s being modest. So, what got you into bees? You just love those little black-and-yellow buggers, hey?”
Keith frowns, then looks back and forth between me and the camera phone with such a perplexed expression, you’d think I’d just asked him to yodel me the square root of eighty-seven.
“I am interested in conservation and I have an experimental breeding program that I devised with a specially constructed hive—”
Oh wow, Keith is not helping me at all, he’s speaking at the pace of an asthmatic snail. I’m going to have to cut him off. “Oh, that sounds so romantic, Keith.” Seeing he’s wearing a ring, I think on my feet; I need to divert this conversation away from bloody bees. “I see you’re married. How did you meet your partner?”
Keith now looks at me as though I’ve propositioned him for sex. He frowns suspiciously, then says, “I met my wife through a mutual acquaintance. We had a shared interest in ordnance survey maps.”
Possibly the most boring How Did You Meet? I’ve ever heard.
“So, she found the map to your heart, aw!”
Ted winces. Keith looks as though he’s watching some kind of pagan goat sacrifice take place on his trestle table. I imagine the comments full of question marks flashing up on the screen. I need to save this somehow. Think, Laura, THINK!
“Now, you might have been expecting to see me at a gorgeous beachside location, but at Love Life, we’re all about supporting local business, that’s why I thought I’d come to the community village fete and discover genuine Jersey.” I walk over to the jam lady, a woman in her fifties, who is sitting behind a cardboard sign that reads jenny’s jam. She’s wearing a pale green cloche hat, with an eye-catching gold-and-green dragonfly hatpin. Ted follows me with the camera.
“What are you selling here, Jenny?”
“Homemade jam, all berries from my own garden. Farmhouse black butter too,” she says, pointing to a small dark brown pot, tied with a red ribbon.