“Ah, my grandmother asked me to get her some of this, but I wasn’t sure what it was.”
“It’s a medieval recipe for applesauce, made from cider apples. Delicious on a bit of cheese,” Jenny explains.
“Well, I will take three!” I say, filling my arms with jars. “How many customers have you had today, Jenny?”
“Just two,” she says mournfully. “Including you.”
“Just two! Look at this stuff. Come on, Jersey—if you’re watching, come out and support local produce at the Trinity Community Fete. Love Life believes in the charm and importance of local businesses, so come and buy something from someone with a name—you’ll make their day. From Jenny—” I wave to the woman behind the goat’s cheese stall. “From . . .”
“From Lou,” says the cheese lady cheerily.
“From Sophie,” says the author.
“Aaron,” says the man dressed as a guide dog.
Ted gives me a thumbs-up, and I try to wrap things up.
“Well, there’s a hive of reasons to visit! Ciao for now.”
Ciao for now? I do a little pirouette, and Ted stops recording as I yank off the beekeeper’s bonnet. Wow, it was hot as a witch’s armpit under there.
“How bad was that?” I ask Ted, whose face looks both genuinely impressed and bewildered at the same time.
“I think you rescued it,” he says.
I’m not sure Suki is going to think so. Right on cue, my phone starts to rings.
“Suki, hi!” I say with forced excitement.
“What was that, Laura? Why are you standing next to some bins, dressed as a lunatic, talking to some senile old man about bees and fucking jam?” She’s shouting loud enough for Keith to hear, and he looks suitably offended. I back away, out of his earshot.
“Well, I was going for something experimental,” I say, the cement now set dry in my throat. “People love bees, they’re very on trend.”
“I do not like bees, Laura, and we do not support local business, we support big business who have budgets for advertising. What the hell are you trying to pull here? I was expecting you in a bikini, on a beach, eating oysters—SEXY! ASPIRATIONAL! HOLIDAY! Not bee feces in a car park.”
“Honey isn’t actually bee feces, Suki. They make it from—”
“Thin ice, Laura—skinny Frappuccino thin.”
She hangs up on me. My chest flutters with panic as I feel Suki’s faith in me vanishing like a rapidly retreating tide.
“FUCK! Fuckity fuck, fuck pants,” I scream at the phone.
Then I turn to see everyone at the sad little fete watching me. Ted’s WI friend has a hand pressed to her mouth in horror. I swallow my work-related terror. I just need to finish the conversation with Keith, get the Le Maistres’ address, and get the hell out of here. I’ll worry about Suki later.
“So, Keith, sorry about that. Um, as you’d started to say, Maude Le Maistre—any chance you could give us her son’s full name and contact details?”
Keith is now looking at me as though I’ve admitted to being a serial killer who’s trying to hunt these people down in order to stuff both their decapitated corpses into one of his homemade beehives.
“Maybe I should give your number to Maude, let her know you’re trying to get in touch with her son.” His voice comes out at rather a high-pitched squeak. “The bee club takes data protection very seriously.”
Ted tries to reason with him, we explain all about the suitcase, but Keith isn’t budging and then the guy dressed up for the guide dogs asks Keith “if these people are bothering him.” I end up leaving with a promise from Keith that he’ll call Maude with my number as soon as he gets home. Then I dole out the last of my cash on black butter and goat’s cheese, and compliment the author on the bluebell-shaped earrings she’s wearing, all in an attempt to make amends for my sweary outburst.
Back in the car, Ted is biting his lip, trying not to laugh.
“What?” I snap. I am nowhere close to laughing about this yet. Interviewing people is the one thing I thought I was good at. I don’t understand how that went so badly wrong. “Sorry,” I say. Ted is the last person I should be angry with.
“We just don’t see a lot of ‘fuckity fuck fuck pants’ at the community parish fetes.”
“Gah! And we were so close. He was about to offer up Maude on a plate before I cocked it up.”
I close my eyes, wondering why the universe is intent on making this so difficult. If I am destined to meet J. Le Maistre this weekend, it could just have been a very simple suitcase exchange.
“Look, don’t worry. We have a name. She’ll be easy to find now,” says Ted.
He reaches out to put a consoling hand on my shoulder. Now we’re looking at each other face-to-face, I can better see Ted’s eyes again, his facial features beyond the beard. His honey-brown irises contain flecks of gold and maybe it’s because the rest of his face is hidden, but his eyes radiate real warmth. When his hand drops from my shoulder, I feel a strange coldness, like taking off a cozy coat in a cold foyer.
“For the record, I thought your broadcast was excellent.”
A phone starts to ring. I’m so used to it being mine, I start to root in my bag, but it’s Ted’s phone that’s ringing. His eyes flash with concern as he sees the caller ID.
“Dad, what’s happened?” he asks, answering the phone with one hand, the other gripping the steering wheel. I watch him as he listens, then says, “OK, stay there, I’m on my way.”
TIGER WOMAN ON FAILURE
Tigers are expert hunters, yet only roughly one in twenty hunts ends in a kill. After an unsuccessful hunt, do tigers go home and lament how bad they are at hunting? Do they call their friends and wonder how they’ll ever eat again, because they are clearly such failures? They do not. They get back out there and try again.
Chapter 10
“Is everything OK?” I ask Ted.
“My dad had a fall.” His face has clouded over, all levity from the fete gone. He pulls the car into gear with two sharp thrusts of his elbow.
“I’m so sorry. Drop me anywhere, I don’t want to be in the way if you need to go to him.”
“The neighbor is with him, but I should go.” Ted clears his throat, then says quietly, “Dad has Parkinson’s.”
We’re driving fast now, out of the village, onto another tree-lined country road.