Making Your Mind Up (11 page)

Lottie was having a wonderful time in the supermarket reveling in the air-conditioning and filling her cart with all manner of tempting food. The fifteen-minute drive from Hestacombe had been hot and sticky, but in the store, the air was blissfully cool. Best of all, having forgone breakfast this morning in favor of an hour of paperwork in the office before setting out, the fact that her stomach was empty and she was ravenous had rendered practically everything in the store irresistible.

Well, apart from the cat food.

Now, lustfully eyeing trays of just-baked croissants and pains au chocolat, she was wondering how many of each to buy—would half a dozen be enough?—when out of the corner of her eye she became aware that she was being watched. Turning, Lottie saw a man gazing at her with undisguised amusement. He was tall and rangy, wearing a faded denim shirt over baggy khaki shorts and leaning against an empty cart. His hair was surfer's blond, his teeth white, and his bare feet shoved into a pair of battered turquoise flip-flops, yet the watch on his tanned wrist was unmistakably expensive.

Which probably meant he was a mugger.

Turning back, inwardly enjoying the attention, Lottie peeled open two bags and helped herself to three croissants and three…no, four…OK, five pains au chocolat. It made quite a change to see such a good-looking man in the bread section of the supermarket at eleven fifteen on a Sunday morning. Was he still looking at her? Why was his shopping cart empty? Was he waiting for his wife and kids who were busy around the corner in fruit and veg?

Glad she was wearing her pink spindly-strapped dress and had bothered to brush her hair this morning, Lottie chucked the pastries into her cart, then super casually swung it around so she could catch the good-looking blond stranger's eye again and maybe acknowledge his interest with a brief super casual smile of her own.

Except he was gone; neither he nor his cart were anywhere in sight. The pair of them had vanished, which wasn't exactly flattering. So much for getting her hopes up.

Bugger.

Twenty minutes later Lottie was in the wines and spirits section engrossed in the labels on the special offers. The trouble was, the labels all tended to waffle on about fruity undertones this and refreshingly zesty that, when what you really wanted was one that said: OK, I know I'm only £2.99 but I promise I won't be bitter or gross or strip the top layer off your teeth.

But since none of them did say that, Lottie was in the process of narrowing them down by other methods. The one in her left hand claimed to be spicy, peppery, and red, while the one in her right hand claimed to be crisp, summery, and white. This one would probably win because it came in a cobalt-blue bottle with a pretty silver label, plus it had been reduced by an enticing £1.50, whereas the other was only down by—

“Don't do it,” said a voice behind her, and Lottie almost dropped both bottles. She knew at once who the voice belonged to.

When she swung around he was shaking his head at her. “You deserve better than that.”

“I know.” Lottie tried not to breathe too quickly, but it wasn't so easy when your heart was going this fast. “The trouble is, my bank manager might not agree.”

“Cheap wine is a false economy. Better one decent bottle than three nasty ones.”

“I'll remember that when I've won the lottery.” She put the blue bottle with the silver label into her cart and the other one back on the shelf. The man promptly reached past her and swapped them around.

“And never
ever
buy wine because it comes in a pretty bottle.” He looked pained. “That means it's bound to be horrendous.”

“You've lost your cart,” Lottie pointed out, having observed that he was unencumbered.

“It's very badly trained. Should really keep it on a leash.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, startling the other customers in the vicinity.

Amused, Lottie said, “Will it come to heel?”

“Oh, I should think so. Sooner or later, when it's finished chasing after all the other carts…ah, see what I mean?” He tilted his head as a cart came skittering around the corner of the aisle, steered by a skinny Knightsbridge blond in a crisp blue shirt with a turned-up collar, immaculately pressed jeans, and full makeup.

Ah. Bugger again.

“Seb, there you are,” the blond chided. “We've already done this aisle. Now, just the cocktail sticks and we'll be finished. I promised Mummy we'd be back by twelve.”

Lottie was doing her best not to boggle at the cart the blond was pushing. There had to be sixty bottles of champagne in there. Precariously balanced on top of the bottles were packets and packets of smoked salmon and Parma ham, boxes of quails' eggs, and half a dozen cartons of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“And this is bloody heavy,” the girl chirped, shoving the cart at Seb. “You can jolly well push.”

“Party,” Seb drawled, Lottie's boggling not having gone unnoticed. “It's Tiffany's birthday today.”

Automatically Lottie said, “Happy birthday.”

Tiffany heaved a harassed sigh. “It will be, when we get out of this bloody place.”

“It's a
Breakfast at Tiffany's
party,” Seb went on, indicating the contents of the cart. “Only it doesn't start until three, so it's
Breakfast at Tiffany's
in the afternoon.”

“Why not?” Lottie flashed them both a bright smile and prepared to move off.

“Actually”—Seb put out a hand to stop her—“you could come along. If you're not doing anything else this afternoon, we'd love to—”

“Thanks, but I'm busy.” This was true, she would be swimming in the lake with Ruby and Nat, but the look of alarm in Tiffany's perfectly made-up eyes hadn't escaped Lottie. Briskly reversing her cart and wishing it didn't contain cans of beans, cartoon pasta shapes in tomato sauce, and a mega pack of toilet paper, she said, “Have a good time anyway. Bye.”

And headed for the checkouts as casually as if being invited to a glamorous party by a complete stranger in a supermarket was the kind of thing that happened to her all the time.

“Honestly, Seb, you're so bloody thoughtless. All you ever think about is yourself.” Tiffany's voice behind her was high-pitched, tinged with irritation, and carried like nobody's business. “It's
my
party, OK? You can't just go inviting people willy-nilly. I mean, who
is
she?”

Lottie slowed, she couldn't help herself.

“Not the foggiest.” Unperturbed, Seb drawled, “But she's got a sensational arse.”

As always, Lottie managed to choose the checkout that looked as if it would be the quickest but turned out to be the slowest. She was still packing her cans of Batman pasta shapes and packets of cookies into bags when she glanced up and saw Seb and Tiffany leaving the store, because of course couples like them always magically chose the right checkout. Tuh, they probably had a chauffeur-driven limo waiting outside to whisk them home.

“Got your saver card?” said the bored cashier.

“Hang on. Yep, here it is.” Lottie bet that people like Seb and Tiffany didn't bother with saver cards either. When you were that posh, no doubt a platinum Amex did nicely.

Five minutes later she was out in the parking lot unloading her cart when another car drew up behind her.

“Hey.”

Straightening up and thinking that he'd just been getting a peerless view of her sensational backside, Lottie turned to see Seb behind the wheel of a filthy green Volkswagen Golf with Tiffany next to him in the passenger seat.

So much for the chauffeur-driven limo.

“Hey.” Lottie wondered if he was planning to persuade her to change her mind and come along to the party after all. Her gaze flickered in the direction of Tiffany's left hand to see if there were any significant rings on view.

Spotting the glance, Seb said, “She's my sister.”

“Worse luck.” Tiffany rolled her eyes.

Maybe for you
, thought Lottie, inwardly fizzing with anticipation. It was no good. She still couldn't go to their party, but he'd stopped his car, which meant he was definitely interested. If he asked for her phone number, she could scribble it on the back of his hand with one of Ruby's felt-tip pens and then he could ring her and—

“Here. Don't drink that red crap.” Cutting into her excited thoughts, Seb thrust a bottle of Veuve Clicquot through the Golf's open window. “Drink something decent for a change.”

Taken by surprise—and because he was dangling the bottle perilously by two fingers—Lottie reached out and grabbed it before it could slip to the ground. “Why?”

“Because I like your eyes.”

“And my bum.”

He laughed. “That too.”

“Well, thanks.” Lottie waited for him to ask for her number.

“My pleasure. Enjoy it. Bye.”

Flabbergasted, she watched the dusty Golf shoot out of the parking lot. He'd gone.
Gone!
This wasn't supposed to happen, unless…

Feverishly Lottie scrutinized the bottle, telling herself that of course he must have scribbled his phone number somewhere on the label so she could ring and thank him properly. But, unbelievably, he hadn't. There was nothing. He'd just handed over a bottle of rather expensive champagne and driven off, leaving her with no way of contacting him or even discovering who he was.

Why? Why would he do that?

More to the point,
bugger.

Jeff Barrowcliffe lived in a 1930s bungalow painted sky blue and adorned with bright hanging baskets and window boxes. As Freddie clicked open the front gate he saw Jeff on the driveway at the side of the bungalow, tinkering with the engine of a motorbike. It was ridiculous to say he hadn't changed a bit, but he was still instantly recognizable—albeit bald, wirier, and more wrinkled.

Straightening up, Jeff wiped his hands on an oily rag and waited for Freddie to reach him. They'd never hugged each other in their lives—back in the fifties, hugging was strictly for homosexuals—and Freddie wasn't sure he had the courage to give it a go now. Thankfully, by clutching the oily rag in front of him, Jeff ensured this wasn't an option.

“Jeff. It's good to see you again.”

“You too. Took me back the other day, hearing from you out of the blue like that.” Rubbing a grimy hand over his tanned head, Jeff said, “Still don't know why you called.”

“Curiosity, I suppose. We're all getting on a bit now”—Freddie shrugged—“and none of us is going to live forever. I just wanted to catch up with people from the past, find out what happened to my old friends.”

Jeff said drily, “Lost touch with a fair few of them then, have you?”

Since he deserved the jibe, Freddie simply nodded. “Yes.” Then he said, “The other reason I'm here is to apologize.”

“The last time I saw you, you were flat on your back with blood running down your face. And I had bruised knuckles.” There was a glimmer of a smile on Jeff's face as he recalled the occasion. “Do I have to apologize as well?”

“No. I deserved it.” The memory of that day was etched indelibly in Freddie's mind. Giselle had told Jeff about the incident the night before, then had gone on to announce that their engagement was off and from now on she and Freddie were an item. Freddie, chain-smoking in his bedroom, had heard the sounds of arguing coming from Jeff's house next door. The next thing he knew, Jeff was hammering on his front door demanding to see him and threatening to punch his lights out, and Freddie had gone downstairs to face him. Under the circumstances, it had seemed the least he could do.

That was the last any of them had seen of Jeff. He had packed a rucksack, left Oxford that same night, and joined the army.

In a way it had been a relief.

“Coming in for a cup of tea?” Jeff said now.

“I'd love that.” Freddie nodded. There was so much to catch up on, he barely knew where to start. Prompted by the abundance of hanging baskets he said, “Are you married?”

“Oh yes. Thirty-three years, two daughters, four grandkids. The wife's not here today.” As he led the way into the bungalow Jeff said over his shoulder, “Thought it best to keep her out of the way while you're around. Wouldn't want you running off with her.”

Freddie saw that he was joking and relaxed. “Those days are long gone.”

“How about you then?” In the tidy, newly decorated green and white kitchen, Jeff set about making a proper, old-fashioned pot of tea. “Did you end up getting married too?”

“Yes.” Freddie nodded, then said drily, “But not to Giselle.”

“So you got your nose broken for nothing.”

“We just weren't right for each other. Well, we were only kids. Twenty years old—everyone makes mistakes. Thanks.” Freddie took the cup of tea Jeff was offering him and reached for the sugar bowl.

“They do that right enough.” Nodding in agreement, Jeff lit a cigarette. “And now we've got our kids making mistakes of their own. Still, nothing we can do to stop them, is there? That's what life's all about.”

“We didn't have children. It never happened.” Freddie found himself envying Jeff his family, wishing he could meet them. “But I married the most wonderful girl. We were so very happy.” A lump materialized in his throat and he willed himself to get a grip. “I was a lucky man. Almost forty years of marriage before she died. Couldn't have asked for a better wife.”

“So we ended up with the right ones in the end,” said Jeff. “I'm sorry your wife died. How long ago?”

“Four years.”

“You've still got your own hair and teeth. Might meet someone else.”

“That won't happen.” Freddie had no intention of telling Jeff about his illness; the last thing he was here for was sympathy. But talking about Mary had affected him more than he'd expected. Damn, he was getting soft in his old age.

Evidently having noticed that he was struggling to control his emotions, Jeff said, “How about a drop of brandy in that tea?”

Freddie nodded. “Sorry. Sometimes it catches you off guard. Ridiculous.” Breathing out slowly, he watched as Jeff fetched a bottle of cognac from one of the kitchen cupboards and sloshed a generous measure into his cup. “Aren't you having one?”

Jeff returned the bottle to the cupboard and sat back down.

“Not for me. I gave up the drink.”

“Good grief.” Freddie was instantly diverted; this was something he could never imagine doing. “Really? When?”

“Two years after I last saw you. Mind you, I drank twenty years' worth in that time.” Jeff spoke with characteristic bluntness. “Of course that was to get over the fact that Giselle had left me for you, and that she'd told me I drank too much. Ha, I thought, you reckon
this
is too much? I can drink
plenty
more than that.”

“In the army?”

“Bloody hell, especially in the army. Then I got myself another girlfriend, and she ended up leaving me too. Said I was a drunken waste of space. Funnily enough, so did the next one and the one after that.” Pausing to drink his tea and take another drag on his cigarette, Jeff said, “In the end, I suppose it just hit me one morning that they might be right. Then again, it may have helped that I'd woken up in a hedge in someone's garden with their dog peeing on my best coat.”

“So you stopped? Just like that?”

“There and then. Just like that. So, ironically, I don't even know what my last alcoholic drink was or where I drank it. But I realized I probably wouldn't see forty if I carried on the way I'd been going. So I stuck at it and managed to get myself sorted out. I'm not saying it was easy, but I did it in the end. And life's been good to me. I'm still here, and I'm happy. Can't ask for more than that, can you?”

“And there was me, wondering if I'd ruined it.” For Freddie, the relief was tremendous.

“You weren't my favorite person for a while. To put it mildly. But that's all in the past now,” said Jeff.

“Good. You don't know how glad I am to hear it.” Closure, Freddie realized. This was what he'd so badly needed. Feeling better than he had in weeks, he smiled across the table at the friend he hadn't seen for so many years. “Now, I hope you'll let me take you out to lunch.”

* * *

“It's been a great day.” Tired but happy, Freddie hadn't been able to resist calling into Piper's Cottage on his way home that evening. Lottie, who had just finished putting Nat and Ruby to bed, gave him a hug and opened the bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Eyeing it with astonishment he said, “I say, look at this. Been shoplifting again, darling?”

Honestly, just because she'd once happened to walk out of Topshop with a purple and black zebra-print bra and panty set hooked to the back of her sweater. They hadn't even been her size, but it hadn't stopped Mario branding her the naughty panty stealer and gleefully warning everyone in Hestacombe to keep an eye on their credit cards.

“Shop-flirting, actually. I met this rather gorgeous chap in the supermarket. Then he came up to me in the parking lot afterward and I thought he was going to ask me out.” A frustrated Lottie said, “But he didn't! He gave me this bottle instead and just—
zoooom—
drove off.”

“His loss, darling. Our gain. Anyway, let me tell you about Jeff.”

Far too enthralled by his own successful day to be remotely interested in her anonymous champagne-wielding admirer, Freddie launched into how he and Jeff had gone to lunch together, talked nonstop about everything under the sun, and caught up with each other's lives. Lottie learned about Jeff's alcoholism, about his beloved grandchildren, and—more than she needed to know, frankly—about his motorcycle repair business. All in all, the reunion had been a stupendous success, and the difference in Freddie was heartwarming.

When the champagne was finished, Lottie said, “So who are we going to look for next?”

Freddie's eyes twinkled. “Do you even have to ask?”

“Giselle?”

He nodded. “Giselle.”

Consumed with curiosity—OK, downright
nosiness—
there was something else Lottie was desperate to know. “You were in love with her. But you broke up. Why?”

“Ah well. Something happened,” said Freddie.

Well, obviously it had.

“
What
happened?”

Freddie rose to his feet, collected his car keys, and bent to kiss Lottie's cheek. “I'm afraid I was a bad boy. Again.”

“If you don't tell me,” said Lottie, “I won't find her for you.”

He smiled. “I broke Giselle's heart. She thought I was about to propose, and I finished with her instead.”

“Why?”

Freddie turned in the doorway. “Because I'd fallen head over heels in love with someone else.”