The Great Village Show. Alexandra Brown

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      ‘Exactly.’ I nod in agreement. ‘It’ll do me good to get involved in the village show and keep myself busy.’

      ‘Sure will. And broaden your horizons,’ Lawrence says slowly, as if gauging my reaction to a plan that he’s cooking up.

      ‘What is it?’ Silence follows. ‘Come on, what are you up to?’ I laugh, giving him a gentle dig in the ribs.

      ‘Later,’ Lawrence does a cryptic smile. ‘Let’s have some cake first,’ he adds, carefully lifting a scrumptious-looking individual lemon drizzle cake from the bag.

      I retrieve two bird-patterned tea plates from the dishwasher. Grabbing a couple of forks, too, I place them on the kitchen table and we sit adjacent to each other on the long padded window seat in the sun, arranging the assortment of homemade cushions behind us, plumping and patting until we’re both comfortable. Suddenly I feel lighter and more optimistic than I have in ages. ‘So, what’s new, Lawrence?’ I ask him, conspiratorially. ‘Any interesting guests at the B&B?’ I take a bite of the cake, which tastes divine – citrusy and sweet, but with just the right amount of sharpness too; Kitty sure is a cake-making queen. And Lawrence has been like a fairy godfather to me since he came to Tindledale twenty or so years ago – so, still a relative newcomer, compared to most of the other villagers whose families have been here for generations – and opened Tindledale’s first bed and breakfast, which has proved to be very popular with tourists, and a welcome boost to Tindledale’s economy. You’d be surprised how many pints of cider visitors can get through in the Duck & Puddle, and then there’s the locally sourced produce they all go mad for in the butcher’s and the fruit & veg shops in the High Street. And not forgetting Kitty’s tearoom – tourists can’t get enough of her afternoon teas with melt-in-the-mouth fruit scones, strawberry jam and deliciously thick cream, churned by Pete on his cattle farm down in the valley near Cherry Tree Orchard.

      Lawrence takes another mouthful of wine before doing a furtive left-then-right glance.

      ‘What is it? Or, should I say, who is it? Why are you looking so sheepish?’ I ask, my interest instantly piqued. I bet it’s someone famous – it must be; I’ve only ever seen Lawrence behave like this once before, and that was when the novelist Fern Britton checked in. They were doing some filming for a TV programme nearby in Market Briar, but she wanted to stay somewhere quieter. Lawrence said she was a true professional, very gracious and down-to-earth.

      ‘OK, but you must promise not to tell a soul.’

      ‘I promise,’ I say right away, now dying to know who the famous guest is.

      ‘Okaaaaaay,’ Lawrence pauses. ‘It’s Dan Wright!’ he announces impressively, as if I’m bound to know who Dan Wright is. Lawrence’s face drops when he realises that I’m struggling to place him. ‘Come on, you must know him, Meg.’

      I lick my fingers before jumping up and running down the hall to retrieve my laptop. After lifting the screen into place, I go to type Dan Wright into Google and I get as far as the W.

      ‘Look,’ I tap the screen to show Lawrence. ‘Google has found him right away. And he has a Wiki page,’ I add, gradually piecing together a jumble of half-remembered facts and images.

       Dan Wright, celebrity chef and owner of The Fatted Calf, three-Michelin-starred restaurant in London’s Mayfair …

      ‘Of course it has. He’s famous. So, do you recognise him now?’ Lawrence says, standing up and joining me at the end of the table.

      ‘Yes, I think so … but when do I ever go to fancy restaurants in London?’ I shrug, remembering the last time I went out for dinner – at the Oriental Palace, a Chinese restaurant and takeaway in Market Briar. Jack chose it, citing a desire for a lovely last chicken chow mein with his mum before heading to uni – it was such a fun evening, us and four of his friends, all laughing and being silly with our chopsticks.

      ‘Fair point! You must have seen him on TV – he had his own show for a bit; though not for a while now, to be fair.’ Lawrence swivels the laptop towards him, pulling up another chair and clicking on to YouTube. He does a quick search. ‘Here.’ There’s a short silence while we both sit with our buffer faces on, waiting for the film to start. ‘Isn’t he handsome? In a filthy, Kit Harington about to do battle in Game of Thrones kind of way …’

      A young guy pops on to the screen, sniggering about something the interviewer has just said, before sweeping a hand through a thick, unruly thatch of black hair.

      I crinkle my forehead, staring at the image. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Blimey, he’s very young to be a three-Michelin-starred chef, isn’t he? Barely older than Jack,’ I muse, but Lawrence smiles.

      ‘Oh no, this film clip is ages old – twenty years, at least. I reckon he must be mid forties perhaps, by now. Sorry, I should have explained.’

      ‘Hmm, oh right.’ I turn to face Lawrence and see a strange expression on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not thinking I might fancy him, are you?’ I laugh. I’m quite used to people trying to match-make for me, so I learnt ages ago to put my foot down right away. Mum is the worst culprit. Whenever I’m with her in Tenerife, she always tries to palm me off with some lost soul – usually divorced with a big chip on his shoulder and a long boring story about how the ‘ex-missus stitched me up like a kipper’. Lawrence looks a bit guilty but faces me down, tilting his head to one side and giving me a curious look. ‘Well, would it be so bad if you did?’

      ‘Weeeell, I don’t know, he just doesn’t look my type.’ I fold my arms and look away. The fact is, I’ve hardly had any good experiences when it comes to men – my own father did a disappearing act before my fifth birthday and Jack’s dad, Liam, didn’t even last that long. He left before Jack was born, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a father – he needed to travel the world and find his passion before he could even contemplate settling down. But then when Jack was about eight, I met Will. Sexy, talented Will, who played in a band and was rather gorgeous – but who ended up being almost as free-range and untrustworthy as Liam, and who finally decided he wasn’t doing either me or Jack any good. And since then, five or so years have passed and I’ve just not had the heart to begin dating again, even though Jack has intermittently told me that I should put myself on Match.com before I get ‘like reeeeeally old’.

      Lawrence knew Will, and was really fond of him, and knows how hard his departure hit our little family at the time, and he looks suitably sympathetic. ‘Look, I know it’s really difficult, but Jack has moved on and so should you.’

      ‘I know that,’ I tell him, and I really do. ‘It’s more that I just can’t be bothered with it all. Getting your heart broken, and all that. It’s so overrated.’

      ‘Ahh, I get it!’ Lawrence persists, clearly still bemused. ‘You’ve made an assumption based on watching just a few seconds of an old YouTube clip and now that’s the end of it! Dan Wright isn’t your type!’ He holds his palms up in the air in an ‘I-give-up’ pose.

      ‘No. But look, he’s a celebrity chef from swanky Mayfair,’ I pull a face. ‘Worlds apart from me. I can’t even remember the last time I went to London.’ I pause to think and then it comes to me. ‘I know, Jack was about ten years old and Will and I took him to see the sights – Big Ben, Tower of London, Madame Tussaud’s, that kind of thing,’ I start, feeling very provincial indeed.

      ‘Marvellous! Seeeee …’ And Lawrence smiles. ‘You have the perfect icebreaker. You can ask Dan СКАЧАТЬ