‘Thank you,’ Tarnia simpered, her trout-pout not
moving. ‘Marquis and I have always worked extremely hard for our little community.’
Mitzi sniggered.
Amber bravely tried to ignore the sniggers. ‘And your husband has been knighted for services rendered, has he?’
Mitzi giggled.
‘Not exactly, no.’ Tarnia’s rigid gaze flickered slightly. ‘Apparently you need to be a slip of a girl and sail single-handedly
round the world, just the once, or win Olympic golds to get that sort of honour without even trying. My poor Marquis, slaving
his fingers to the bone for the common people for years and years, merely got an MBE.’
‘But that’s really good,’ Amber said. ‘Isn’t it? And if he’s a marquis already …’
‘She calls him that,’ Mitzi hissed, her shoulders shaking with mirth. ‘It’s made up. We still know him as Snotty Mark round
here.’
Amber grinned. Tarnia didn’t.
‘Mitzi and I have known one another from schooldays,’ Tarnia grated. ‘Sometimes she feels it’s amusing to remind me of that
fact. Illustrating, of course, that while I’ve moved on she’s remained firmly rooted in the playground. Now, if you’ll excuse
me I have important meeting and greeting to attend to.’
‘Superb,’ Mitzi chuckled as Tarnia furiously click-clacked away across the tiles. ‘Absolutely superb. Now, Amber my love,
let’s get to work …’
The sandals had been discarded within an hour. Amber, in a pair of trainers borrowed from a cupboard under Tarnia’s kitchen
staircase which were just a bit too small, promised Mitzi she’d find something more suitable for their next sortie. Streams
of pretty waiting staff of both sexes flowed in and out of Tarnia’s spacious never-been-cooked-in kitchen, bearing away piled-high
plates of Mitzi’s creations. Amber seemed to have spent hours on a treadmill
circuit from the fridges and freezers and table. In the too-tight trainers, her feet were killing her.
‘You must have spent weeks preparing this,’ she puffed to Mitzi in a lull. ‘Do you do all the cooking yourself?’
‘At the moment, yes. It’s been a bit of a trial and error experiment. I started off at home, but due to health and safety
regulations and all sorts of hygiene laws and EU directives, once I made Hubble Bubble a commercial venture, I had to find
proper premises. Currently I’m operating from a small hut on Hazy Hassocks High Street. Beside the library.’
Amber looked at the umpteen empty Tupperware boxes strewn across every surface. The labels intrigued her: Midsummer Marvels;
Dreaming Creams; Summer Surprises; Full Moon Fricassees; Solstice Supreme – and then some dishes clearly prepared for the
announcement of Marquis’s honour: Celebration Cakes; Royal Risotto; Tansy Titles …
‘And they’re all
magic?
Surely not … I mean, aren’t they just old country recipes. How can they be magic?’
‘Depends what you understand by magic,’ Mitzi shrugged. ‘They’re all from my grandmother’s cookery book. They all use herbs
and natural ingredients which can, if combined properly, apparently cause all sorts of things to happen.’
‘But if you don’t believe?’
‘You don’t have to believe. The effect is the same.’
Blimey … Amber shook her head. No doubt Lewis would tell her the same about the stars on Saturday. It was all rubbish, of
course, but if the shrieking and laughing and general merriment outside was anything to go by, Mitzi’s cooking had certainly
made the party go with a swing.
‘So?’ Mitzi looked hopefully. ‘Have you enjoyed it so far?’
‘Loved it,’ Amber nodded. ‘Have I been all right?’
‘You’ve been brilliant. No one could have worked
harder. And this was a bit of a baptism of fire – most of my functions are much smaller. So – are we in business?’
Amber grinned. ‘Too right we are.’
Starlight and Sweet Dreams
‘So, which of the local brews haven’t you tried yet?’ Fern leaned across the table in The Weasel and Bucket and ticked them
off on her fingers: ‘Andromeda Ale? Hearty Hercules? Pegasus Pale?’
‘I haven’t tried any of them, at least not knowingly and while conscious,’ Amber pulled a face. ‘I’ve told you I’m not really
much of a beer girl – and don’t go all beady on me. I’m certainly not going to start now, so don’t even try. I’ll have another
glass of Chardonnay, please. Small. Very small. I’ll need to keep a clear head tonight.’
Fern giggled. ‘Because of Lewis?’
‘Because of the star stuff.’
‘Yeah, whatever …’ Fern pushed her way through the Sunday evening crowd towards the bar and laughed with Timmy as he served
her.
It was a blessing, Amber reckoned, that this was Zillah’s Sunday off. OK, she’d been much more friendly recently, but somehow
it would have been too embarrassing spending an evening with Lewis – however much of a non-date it was – with his mother in
the audience.
She’d rooted around in her still-unpacked bags and come up with what she hoped was a suitable outfit. Her jeans were designer
worn and torn, her flimsy camisole top was
a wisp of pink and cream chiffon that weighed nothing and had cost almost a month’s salary in the New Year sales, and her
sandals were again stilt high and sparkly. She’d managed to get her hair to dry bone straight in the sun in Gwyneth’s garden
and her make-up had taken forever.
Gwyneth had said she looked like a model straight off the telly, and Fern had whistled and declared the whole thing far too
Uptown Girl for words. To a man, The Weasel and Bucket regulars had stared at her, open mouthed, and continued staring.
She hoped Lewis would feel the same way.
‘This’ll have to be my last drink.’ Fern plonked a pint and a wine on the table. ‘I’m sitting in with Jem tonight as well
as Win. He’s cooking lasagne for us all and I’ve got to supervise. I trust you realise,’ she added, ‘that you’re very honoured
to be seeing Lewis without his sidekick.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded Jem being here. I think he’s great and—’
‘Hey.’ Fern grinned. ‘I know. Don’t get defensive. And it’s Lewis’ night off anyway.’
‘And you don’t mind?’ Amber took a mouthful of wine. ‘About him – well, meeting me? Tonight? I mean, it’s not a date and I
know you fancy him and—’
‘What?’
Amber smiled. ‘You can’t deny it. You told me you fancied him when we first met – on St Bedric’s Eve. With the Lucky Cake
thing. You said you’d made it your green-cheese wish – again. You said something along the lines that it was the thing you’d
been wishing for every year and that one day he’d realise that you existed and—’
‘Not
Lewis!’
Fern hissed, blushing. ‘God, not Lewis! I didn’t mean Lewis. Yes, he’s beautiful and sexy and a fantastic bloke and all that,
but he doesn’t press my buttons in that way. I’m not in love with Lewis.’
‘You’re not? Who, then?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Fern whispered, glancing towards the bar. ‘And if you promise, cross your heart and
hope to die promise, that you’ll keep it to yourself.’
‘Promise.’ Amber made all sorts of chest-crossing movements.
‘Him.’ Fern jerked her head towards the bar. ‘Timmy. I’ve been mad about him ever since I came to Hayfields – but he’s besotted
with Zillah who doesn’t give a fig for him. It’s too Shakespearean to be true. Which is why I’ve been relying on the stars
to sort it all out.’
Timmy? Timmy Pluckrose? Amber managed to keep silent, trying not to look shocked as she squinted across the pub. Nope. However
hard she tried, she simply couldn’t see the attraction.
Fern sighed. ‘See – you don’t understand. I knew you wouldn’t.’
‘What makes people fancy other people is always a mystery,’ Amber said kindly. ‘Um – I take it he hasn’t – er – reciprocated?’
‘Well, obviously not. Oh, he’s always really nice to me, and we have a laugh, but he never sees me as a
woman.
I mean while Zillah still keeps him dangling I think there’s still hope for me – but one day I’m sure she’ll just give in
and take the easy option and marry him, and then he’ll never know what it could be like with someone who really, truly loves
him and my heart will be broken for ever.’
‘Er – yes, I can see that … but – um – he’s quite old and—’
‘He’s twenty years older than me, that’s all. And what’s age got to do with anything?’ Fern took a frantic gulp of Andromeda
Ale. ‘Love transcends age and creed and – oh, all that stuff. I know what you’re thinking – that he’s a tall, thin, bald,
middle-aged man with very little going for him. Go on – admit it.’
‘No – well, um, yes.’
‘But I love him for all that! For it, despite it, because of it – I don’t know! I just love him. I’d lie for him, cheat for
him, steal for him – even bloody die for him. I love him that much. OK?’
Amber took a deep breath. She’d never, ever, loved anyone like that. Not unconditionally. Not with that intensity. Not even
Jamie – especially not Jamie.
‘But – does he even have an inkling how you feel?’
‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Fern sighed heavily. ‘What would be the point? He’s in love with Zillah.’
Amber thought for a moment. ‘And isn’t this what the star magic is all about, then? Sorting out tangles like this which seem
insoluble? And isn’t it what you’ve asked for over and over again? And nothing’s happened. Which just goes to show that it
doesn’t work. What you need to do is the good old-fashioned earthbound stuff – you know, vamping, flirting – letting him know
that you’d be a much better bet than Zillah.’
‘No one ever said the star magic worked instantly.’
‘Flirting would be quicker.’
‘I can wait.’
‘But—’
‘I believe the stars will sort it out.’ Fern drained the last of her pint. ‘I’m pinning all my hopes on Cassiopeia next weekend.
And, even if you are my new best friend, if you breathe a word of this to anyone I will never, ever speak to you again.’
Amber smiled. ‘It’s safe with me. I think it’s just a bit sad, relying on all that hocus pocus stuff.’
‘That’s because you don’t love anyone,’ Fern said as she stood up. ‘One day you will and then you’ll understand that desperate
remedies are called for when things don’t pan out. Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow?’
Amber nodded. She was working for Mitzi again the next day, but only for the afternoon. ‘Tomorrow evening? In here?’
‘Yeah, great.’ Fern cast a longing glance towards the bar. ‘At least I can look at him even if I can’t touch. Such sweet torment
…’
Amber watched Fern – all curves and curls and Matalan – bounce out of the door and into the musky dusk, then
glanced across at Timmy again. She shook her head. How weird this love thing was.
‘Anyone sitting ’ere, duck?’
Amber looked up. A stocky man with a bristly black moustache was leering down at her.
‘Er – well, no – but I am expecting someone.’
‘Ah, yes. Lewis. And no, duck, there ain’t nothing mystic about me.’ He held out a swarthy hand. ‘I’m Billy Grinley. Bin man
at your disposal. I hears all the gossip in Fiddlesticks and surrounding area. A pretty little thing like you wants to be
careful with young Lewis – he’s a bit of a love rat.’
‘Not like you then, Billy.’ Goff Briggs lurched up to the other side of Amber’s table and winked scarily with his one eye.
‘Don’t listen to him, young lady. And whatever you do, don’t invite him to sit at your table. You’ll never get rid of him
and – oh, hello Slo – come to join us?’
‘Come to see if anyone’s got a spare ciggie.’ Slo Motion, wearing a check vyella shirt and a Fair Isle tank top, with stripy
braces over both despite the heat of the night, smiled with stained teeth. ‘And to say hello to this little minx.’
Minx?
Amber clamped her lips together.
‘She’s going to be doing a function for us tomorrow,’ Slo continued, his fingers twitching over Billy Grinley’s packet of
Bensons. ‘With Mitzi.’
‘Am I? I know we’ve got a private party booked, but I didn’t realise it was for you. Is it for your birthday?’
‘No, bless you.’ Slo lit the cigarette at the speed of light, coughed extensively over Goff, and finally blew a luxurious
plume of smoke into the air. ‘Ooooh, that’s better. It’s a wake. For old Bertha Hopkins.’
A wake? A funeral tea? Amber blinked.
‘Ah,’ Slo continued, calmer once the nicotine had started coursing through his veins. ‘Mitzi does all our wakes – for them
as doesn’t just want to go down the pub or put on a bit of a spread themselves. You’ll be sure to wear black, won’t you? Old
Bertha’s lot hold all the traditional values
dear to their miserly hearts. They don’t want none of this all wearing bright colours and smiling and doing the hokey-cokey
up the aisle after the coffin malarkey.’
Amber was still stunned. She’d had no idea that Hubble Bubble catered for such a wide range of occasions. She’d only ever
been to one funeral – her grandmother’s – and she’d been absolutely devastated by it. Would Mitzi sack her if she cried over
Bertha Hopkins?
‘Anyone seen Zillah?’ Yet another middle-aged man suddenly joined the group round her table. ‘Don’t tell me it’s her night
off. Damn – I only comes in here to look at the barmaid.’ He stared down at Amber. ‘Blimey – you’re a corker. You don’t fancy
popping behind the bar for a bit to gladden an old man’s heart, do you, darling?’
‘No she doesn’t,’ Slo wheezed round his filter tip. ‘She’s gainfully employed by young Mitzi Blessing and therefore subcontracted
to us. She don’t want to do no bar work …’ He coughed spasmodically, then beamed at Amber. ‘This is Dougie Patchcock – local
builder and handyman – or so ’e says. He’s another one you’ll need to keep an eye on.’
‘Do I have to join the queue to speak to Amber – or are you issuing tickets like the deli counter in Tesco?’ Lewis grinned
from behind Slo. ‘And I’ll tell my mum of you, Billy Grinley – flirting with another as soon as her back’s turned.’
Amber grinned back at him, hoping the grin looked casually ‘pleased to see you’ rather than the ‘bloody hell – he’s sooo fit’
that she felt inside.
She hadn’t seen him since he’d dropped her off at Tarnia Towers. Annoyingly, at the end of the night Mitzi had bundled her,
Gwyneth, Big Ida and Pike into her mini for the rather squashed return journey.