Valentine's Day at the Star and Sixpence (2 page)

‘Good,’ Alyssa said, glancing at Owen with renewed curiosity. ‘Because I’m going to need some help. Unless you have plans for Valentine’s Day?’

Nessie held her breath, suddenly feeling nervous. News travelled fast in a village the size of Little Monkham and widower Owen was a prize catch; she would have heard if he was seeing anyone.
Wouldn’t she?

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘No,’ he said, his eyes flickering towards Nessie. ‘No plans.’

‘Then it’s settled,’ Alyssa said. ‘You can be my sous chef for the night.’

Relieved, Nessie lingered at the cottage doorway as Sam took Alyssa back to the pub.

‘You don’t really have to help with the cooking,’ she told Owen. ‘It’s enough that you’re giving up your kitchen.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t mind. Besides, I might pick up some tips. It’s not every day you get the chance to watch a superstar chef at work.’

She smiled back. ‘You haven’t been over to the pub for a few days. Busy?’

Owen grimaced. ‘That, and Kathryn has been out a lot in the evenings. Did she tell you the band has a new drummer? He’s taking a bit of breaking in apparently.’

‘She did mention it,’ Nessie said wryly, remembering Kathryn’s grumpy rant earlier that week. ‘Are you going to their gig in Gloucester on Saturday?’

‘I can’t – no babysitter.’

‘I could look after Luke.’ The words were out of Nessie’s mouth before she could stop them. ‘Um . . . you know, if you wanted to go.’

He frowned. ‘Won’t you be needed in the bar? It might be busy.’

Nessie shook her head. ‘We’ve taken on a new barmaid – Martha’s daughter, Tilly. Sam is spending the night in London but Joss will be around; they can manage without me
for a few hours.’ She hesitated as another possibility occurred to her. ‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Owen said. ‘I’d be more than happy and I know Luke would be over the moon. But it’s a lot to ask and you’ve got enough to
do.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Nessie said. ‘You’re lending us your kitchen, it’s the least I can do.’

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay then. Around seven o’clock, would that be all right? He goes to bed at eight-thirty and I’ll be home before midnight.’

The warmth in his voice filled Nessie with happiness. ‘Looking forward to it already,’ she said.

Sam’s Kensington flat looked the same as always from the outside. The elegant cream-walled and wrought-iron exterior was picture-postcard perfect and the intricately
tiled communal hallway was as pristine as ever. Weary from the long drive and the battle with Saturday traffic, Sam climbed the stairs to the top floor and thrust her key into the lock.

It wasn’t untidy. The caretaker had a key and had been popping in to leave her post: it was neatly stacked on the hall table. The flat was cold, though, and there was a faint mustiness in
the air. Sam walked from room to room, flicking on the lights and opening the windows to let the sharp evening air blast away the staleness. Finally, she sat on the sofa and looked around. This had
been her home for several years, her first and only big purchase, and she’d always been happy here. Or at least she thought she had. Had it always felt so drab and impersonal? She’d
never been one for clutter but when she compared it to the warmth and vibrancy of the Star and Sixpence, she found her old home lacking somehow. Perhaps it was the silence – there was always
noise in the pub even when it was empty: the hum of the glass machine or the rumble of the boiler. She shook her head wryly – who knew a country pub would be noisier than a London
cul-de-sac?

Sighing, she went to the bedroom and shook out fresh sheets. She didn’t plan to be there for long – a quick shower to freshen up, then out to meet an old friend, the actor Nick
Borrowdale, for dinner. In the morning, she’d collect Alyssa and her cooking equipment before driving back up to the Star and Sixpence. After a few glasses of champagne with Nick the
atmosphere in the flat wouldn’t bother her so much.

An hour later, she was on her way out again. She paused in the hallway to flick through the mail: nothing that needed her attention, the bills were all paid automatically and everything else was
junk. Franny at the Post Office had suggested she set up a redirect but Sam had put it off – from the looks of things she didn’t need to. And the truth was, she had good reason to be
hard to reach. It had been four months since the mistake that had sent her scurrying away from the bright lights of London and into the anonymity of the countryside – time enough for the fear
of discovery and public shaming to start to fade. But it never went away entirely.

Shivering a little, Sam dropped the post back onto the table and headed for the door.

The Soho restaurant Nick had booked was full of people Sam either knew in person or recognised from the big and small screen, although she was relieved not to spot any
ex-clients. Even so, she felt all eyes were on them as the
maître d’
led them to their discreet table tucked away at the back of the room. Well, she was with the star of
Smugglers’ Inn
, the hottest show on TV. What else had she expected?

‘That’s quite an impact you have,’ she said to Nick once they were seated. ‘Does it bother you, being so super famous?’

‘What makes you think they were looking at me?’ he said, grinning. ‘At least half of them were eyeing you up. You look amazing.’

Sam batted away the compliment. ‘At least half the men in here are gay so they were imagining you topless, just like most of the women. And every single one of them hates me simply for
sitting here.’

‘Let’s just agree that we’re both sex on legs and leave it at that,’ Nick said, as a waiter appeared at their table, holding the wine list. ‘Champagne?’

Sam tipped her head. ‘You read my mind.’

‘So,’ Nick said, once the waiter had gone. ‘How’s life at my favourite country pub?’

Sam filled him in on the past few weeks, making him laugh with her descriptions of Franny’s extreme nosiness and the village gossip network. Once they’d ordered and the starters had
arrived, she asked him how filming was going and they talked and laughed and argued their way through three delicious courses and two bottles of champagne. Sam sat back, feeling more than a little
tipsy. She shouldn’t have drunk so much but it was hard when the waiter was constantly topping up her glass and she was enjoying herself so much. She’d forgotten how much she loved
Nick’s dry sense of humour and razor-sharp observations. But underneath the fizz of the alcohol and her enjoyment of Nick’s company, there was a nagging sense of disquiet, a feeling
that she didn’t quite fit into this life any more. Chinatown had been packed, still decked in red and gold from the New Year celebrations, but the glitz and crowds hadn’t blinded her to
the creeping commercialisation around her. Soho was changing. Several quirky shops were gone and some of her favourite places to eat had closed, replaced by chain restaurants. She couldn’t
help feeling it lacked the charm of Little Monkham, where every shop was family-run and had been for decades. The Star and Sixpence was at the heart of the village, a sixteenth-century coaching inn
that had rarely closed, until the death of Sam and Nessie’s father. Then they’d taken over and coaxed the rundown building back to health. Sam had lived in London for her entire adult
life but it felt distant and unfamiliar now, like she’d run into an old friend and found they had nothing in common. She realised, with a start, that the Star and Sixpence had become
home.

‘You know, I’ve got another bottle of this on ice back at my place.’ Nick tapped the champagne bucket, his gaze meeting hers. ‘We could drink it together and have some
fun, for old times’ sake.’

Sam looked into his gorgeous deep brown eyes. Two months ago she wouldn’t have hesitated – it wouldn’t be the first time they’d indulged in a no-strings night of passion
and satisfaction was definitely guaranteed. But she was surprised to discover she wasn’t remotely tempted. He wasn’t Joss. ‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’

Nick didn’t appear in the least upset. ‘You do realise you’re probably the only woman in the country who would turn that offer down, right?’

Sam laughed. ‘Exactly why I don’t feel bad about leaving you to it. All you have to do is smile and you’ll have someone to take my place.’

Nick shook his head. ‘The trouble is, they don’t want to leave the next day. Whereas you and I have an understanding.’ He grinned. ‘Fabulous sex, excellent company and
zero chance you’ll sell your story to the newspapers.’

Sam felt heat flood her cheeks.

Nick groaned. ‘Shit, Sam, that didn’t come out the way I meant it,’ he said, looking stricken. ‘I’m an insensitive moron, sorry.’

Forcing herself to stay calm, Sam dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘It’s fine. Honestly, don’t worry about it.’

He took her hand. ‘Are you sure? God, I’m an idiot.’

She summoned up a smile, knowing he’d meant nothing by the comment. And realistically, the chances of her seeing her own face splashed across the newspapers with damning headlines grew
less and less with each week that passed. She’d made a mistake, trusted the wrong person, and been forced to hide away at the Star and Sixpence. Even Nessie didn’t know everything and
that was the way Sam planned to keep it. But although her lapse of judgement had cost Sam a lot, it had also opened the door to change. It had given her Joss too and she was gradually starting to
realise what a gift he had been. A vision of his summer-blue eyes flashed in her mind and she suddenly wished it was him sitting across from her. She’d been unfair, pushing him away when all
he’d tried to do was show her how much he cared, and in denial about how much he was starting to mean to her.

Shaking her head, she reached across and touched Nick’s hand. ‘Really, don’t worry. But we should probably call it a night. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course. Wall-to-wall romance, right? I bet you can’t wait.’

By the time the bill arrived, Sam had the start of a headache. They had the usual tussle over who would pay but she was tired so didn’t argue as much as she might have done and let him
pay. The sooner she slept, the sooner she could go home.

Nick kept a solicitous hand on the small of her back as they wove through the tables. It felt as though everyone was firing covert glances their way. Nick was clearly used to it but being so
obviously on display was a sensation Sam had forgotten about. It was a relief to slip into her coat and reach the door.

She wasn’t prepared for the explosion of lights when she pushed back the door. Confused for a second, Sam blinked hard, and then the barrage of voices began.

‘New girlfriend, Nick?’

‘Over this way, darlin’, so we get your face.’

‘Smile, sweetheart! What’s your name?’

Nick’s hand pressed against her back once more. ‘Head down, keep walking,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Pretend they’re not there.’

The shouts continued as they hurried forwards. Seconds later they were through and Nick was hailing a cab.

‘Night, lads,’ Nick called as they climbed into the back, his tone friendly. ‘Have a good one.’

Settling into the leather seat, Sam closed her eyes and waited for the sickening flashes behind her eyelids to fade.

‘Sorry about that,’ Nick said. ‘I had no idea they’d be hanging around.’

Wearily, Sam nodded. She’d seen clients get ambushed by the paparazzi before but it was the first time she’d been caught up in the spotlight herself. Nick’s advice had been
spot on – in fact, she’d probably taught
him
how to deal with the cameras back when his career had just been taking off. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t with anyone
newsworthy,’ she said, opening her eyes.

Nick grinned and took her hand. ‘That’s what I love about you, Sam. You’re always thinking of the angle.’

Nessie liked the living room of Snowdrop Cottage. The sofa was deep and comfortable, the kind that supported and cradled you at the same time. Soft lamps chased the darkness
into the corners and a fire burned cosily inside the woodburner. Snuggled up at one end of the sofa, surrounded by cushions and with a book in her hands, Nessie felt a sense of deep contentment and
her shoulders relaxed for the first time in months.

Owen’s son, Luke, had been a delight. She’d been worried he would try to play up, refuse to go to bed or trick her into doing something he wouldn’t normally be allowed, but
he’d been an angel. She’d listened as he told her all about his Lego character collection and helped him with his English homework, although she was sure he knew more about writing the
perfect haiku than she did. Then at bedtime, she’d read a chapter from the book he was reading with Owen and Kathryn, and watched as his eyes grew heavier and heavier until she’d said
goodnight and left him to sleep. She doubted whether every evening was as smooth but for her first effort at babysitting, it seemed to have gone pretty well.

There was a photograph in a frame on the coffee table beside the sofa. It was a family shot, sunshine framing two laughing parents and a much younger Luke. Nessie picked it up and felt her heart
ache. She’d glimpsed it before, of course, but had never had the time or the opportunity to study it so closely.

The Owen in the photo seemed much lighter than the one she knew, although he was as black-haired as ever. Perhaps it was the fairness of Luke’s mother, balancing out his darkness, or
perhaps he was simply untouched by the sorrow to come. There was no mistaking who the woman was: she was so like Luke, asleep upstairs, that Nessie thought she would have known Eliza Rhys even
without the giveaway of Luke and Owen in the picture with her. She was beautiful, caught in such a moment of pure happiness that Nessie’s eyes welled up with tears. It wasn’t fair that
she’d died so young. It wasn’t fair that Luke had lost such a mother, or that Owen had been robbed of a wife he clearly adored. And another realisation dawned, something that made the
hope Nessie had been cherishing since New Year’s Eve crumble away. There was no way she could compete with the memory of Eliza. Not timid, mousy Nessie. Not when half the village women
thought they were competing too.