Winter Wishes (25 page)

She stood on the edge of the crowd, listening to old Jonny St Milton thanking whoever the generous mystery benefactor was who had already donated five hundred pounds to the charity. Applause rippled through the room and Tara joined in, trying to imagine what it must be like to have so much money that you could donate huge chunks to worthy causes. Unless she had a major lottery win, she guessed she’d never know.

The raffle took place next, after which the band struck up a medley of Christmas tunes and the partygoers returned to the serious business of drinking champagne and eating canapés. Handsome men escorted glossy women onto the dance floor, where they twirled under the twinkling lights like
Strictly
stars. Chief among these glossy women was a tall and very slender woman in a crimson one-shouldered number that fell in immaculate pleats to the tips of her blood-red toenails. Her blonde hair was straightened to perfection and her nails were beautifully manicured, unlike Tara’s chipped ones. It was Ella St Milton, granddaughter of the hotel’s owner Jonny, and tonight’s hostess. As usual she was surrounded by a crowd of beaux who were hanging on her every word. One of these was Richard, Tara’s dog-walking landlord, and Tara watched him from across the room with interest. He seemed relaxed and was chatting effortlessly, with none of the awkwardness that he sometimes had when Tara spoke to him.
He fits in here
, she thought with admiration. His air of gentleness and his ability to listen drew people to him with an ease she could only marvel at.

I’m just useless
, Tara concluded sadly,
and it’s all my fault. Nobody wants me here and I don’t blame them.
If they knew the truth they’d hate her even more. How on earth could she make up now for all the mistakes she’d made? Danny was right: it was way too late. What was she doing back in this village?

Richard caught sight of Tara and instantly broke away from his group, mid-conversation, to join her.

“Hello, lovely tenant lady! It’s a nice surprise to see you here.” He leaned forward to kiss her. He smelled of fresh air and raindrops and salty sea breezes.

“I’m here by default,” Tara confessed. “I’ve been helping Symon with the catering, so I’ve sneaked in through the back door.” She glanced ruefully at her outfit. How come she’d never noticed just how faded and tatty her dress was? “To be honest I was thinking about just catching a cab home. I’m hardly dressed for this kind of thing.”

“Nonsense, you look wonderful.” Richard took her elbow and gently steered Tara through the chattering throng into the orangery, where waiters were circulating with flutes of champagne and glasses of hot mulled wine. Collecting one and handing it to her, he added, “I think it’s time you had a night out. We hardly see you in the village.”

“That’s got a lot to do with having a nine-year-old and working nights,” Tara sighed. “I think my partying days are over. I’ll probably get a cat and take up knitting.”

Richard looked shocked. “You’re far too young to shut yourself away. I won’t allow it. Come and enjoy the free champagne and mingle a bit. Everyone’s having a wonderful time. Look at Alice dancing with that old rogue Jonny St Milton. She looks like a teenager.”

Sure enough Alice, dressed in a long floaty grey dress and with her silvery hair piled up on her head, was waltzing with the elderly hotelier. They were lost in their own world and watching them made a lump rise in Tara’s throat.

“They look so elegant don’t they?” Richard remarked. “I can’t imagine what our generation will look like when we dance at that age. OAPs headbanging could be asking for trouble.”

“Or imagine them in a mosh pit!”

He winced. “The NHS will never afford all the replacement hips and knees. How about we make the most of being young and fit and take to the dance floor ourselves?”

Tara was on the brink of protesting that she had two left feet, when they were interrupted by the arrival of her peculiar writer neighbour. He was dressed from head to toe in flowing black velvet and clutching a sheaf of papers in his hand. He seemed to be making a beeline for her, and a huge manic grin crinkled his face as though he was thrilled to see her. This was a little disconcerting; they’d hardly exchanged more than the odd hello on their respective doorsteps.

“Tara! I never thought I’d see you here!” Caspar was at her side now and Tara couldn’t help herself stepping back. His eyes were so bright. Surely he couldn’t be drunk already? It was only early evening. “This is wonderful! Wonderful!”

It was?

“Err, nice to see you too,” she said.

“I’ve seen you around the village,” Caspar continued, oblivious to Tara’s lack of enthusiasm, “and I’ve admired you from afar. In fact, you’ve inspired me to write one of the best books of my life. You’re my muse, Tara!”

What on earth did a girl say to that? She was still struggling to think of a suitable reply when Caspar dropped to his knees and began to declare theatrically:

“Oh beautiful eyes, oh angelic face,

You’re a beauty wild and free,

The eagle of my soaring heart,

The one who means the world to me!

Mistress of my eyes, I long for your smile—”

Tara couldn’t help it; she started to laugh. The poetry was just so dreadful and he looked so ridiculous kneeling on the floor, with his arms raised to heaven and his eyes rolling like those of a dying horse, that giggles rose up in her chest like bubbles in a hot spring. The situation was absurd, and the more he recited his poetry the more comical it became.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped as Caspar’s words petered out. “But seriously? What on earth are you on about? You don’t know me, and if you did you’d never say I’m angelic. Is this a joke?”

“Don’t you like the poem?” Caspar looked crestfallen and more than a little stupid kneeling on the floor. People were starting to look and, taking pity on him, Richard tugged the would-be bard to his feet.

“To be honest,” said Tara, “I’m a bit creeped out. Are you a stalker?”

“A stalker?” His mouth fell open with shock. “I’m not a stalker! I’m a poet! I write from afar, like Petrarch to Laura, like Abelard to Heloise, like…”

“Like Stan to Slim Shady?” suggested Richard. “Maybe it would be better if you just stuck to writing the novels instead?”

Caspar threw his papers to the air, creating a blizzard of A4 sheets with lilac ink, and slammed his fist against his heart.

“I have never been so insulted in my life! I’m a writer, a wordsmith, a bard. Not a stalker! This was poetry! It was Art!”

“I’m flattered, I really am,” Tara said quickly. “It’s very sweet of you.”

“
Sweet
! Flay me to the quick with such a word,” he gasped. “The
Belle Dame sans Merci
. I laid my heart at her feet and she has trodden it into the earth.”

This sounded very messy to Tara and she felt awful. Oh dear. Weren’t artists supposed to be sensitive and a bit mad?

“I will never get over this. Never!” Caspar wailed. “My great novel is nothing but an illusion. Not art but smoke and mirrors!”

“What on earth’s going on?” Jules Mathieson, surprisingly sexy in black velvet and with a cleavage that made Tara want to race home and fetch her chicken fillets, was at Caspar’s side, looking horrified at the snowstorm of notepaper that had just settled on the floor. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “Caspar, you didn’t show your latest muse the poetry did you?”

“Latest muse?” Tara asked.

“And there you were thinking you were special,” Richard whispered, nudging her.

“It’s how he writes,” Jules explained as Caspar huffed out of the room. Even his cloak looked outraged. “Caspar needs a muse to inspire him, otherwise he has terrible writer’s block. He’s hopelessly romantic, you see, and his novels are even more so.”

“He writes romances? I had him down as writing gothic stuff.” Tara was surprised.

“The cloak and the hair are very
Twilight
,” Jules agreed. “Oh dear, I’m afraid this is all my fault. Since his girlfriend left him he’s been very down, which meant he couldn’t write. The hours we’ve spent talking about writer’s block!”

“So that’s why you’ve been spending so much time with him!” Richard shook his head. “We all thought there was something going on between you. Danny was convinced.”

Jules looked stunned. “Something between me and Caspar? No way. I’m a vicar. Hardly muse material.”

Danny might disagree, Tara thought. Intuition and that sexy black dress told her that men saw Jules as far more than just a vicar.

“I suggested that he admired somebody from afar and made them the heroine of his novel,” Jules explained. She looked mortified. “What a muddle.”

“I’m afraid I laughed at him,” said Tara. “I’m really sorry.”

“He’ll survive,” Jules assured her. “Honestly. He’ll be over you in about twenty minutes and onto the next muse, I guarantee it.”

“Story of my life,” Tara sighed.

Richard threaded his arm through hers. “You can be my muse, Tara. After a few glasses of fizz I’m sure I can come up with some couplets.”

The rest of the evening seemed pretty tame after this episode, but Tara found that it flew by. She danced and drank champagne and, to her surprise, found that she was actually having fun. Richard was such good company that she quickly forgot to feel inadequate about her rather ordinary-looking attire and just enjoyed chatting to him. It felt good to have a friend at last. Even their shared taxi ride back to the village was filled with conversation and laughter. When she lay her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes it felt like the most natural thing in the world. There was a strange fluttering sensation in her chest, which didn’t go even after he’d said goodnight and brushed a chaste kiss on her cheek – a pleasant change from guys like Anthony who tended to lunge in for a Hoover-style snog and then try to barge their way inside for a “coffee”.

Richard was such a gentleman, Tara thought – and, besides, he only saw her as a friend anyway. He had a kind heart and she was the single mum he’d taken pity on. That was why he’d rented her the cottage. There was nothing more going on. Anyway, he wasn’t even her type.

Although, he did have the most amazing eyes – dove grey and with a dark outline around the irises – and that full and kissable-looking mouth…

Lord! Just how much champagne had she drunk?

Laughing at herself, Tara locked up the cottage and headed up the stairs, reflecting that pity and just-friendship or not, this had been one of the nicest evenings she’d had for ages. The fluttery sensation simply refused to go away.

It was only when she was tucked up in bed, with the light off and the heavy feather duvet pulled up to her chin, that Tara was able to identify the feeling. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it; this was an emotion that had eluded her for a very long time.

She was feeling happy. Happy! The churning anxiety and that gnawing guilt had finally left her in peace and it was absolute bliss. Even the strange episode with Caspar hadn’t spoiled the night. In fact she couldn’t help but feel flattered. Nobody had ever written poetry for her before.

With a smile on her face, Tara Tremaine finally drifted into a sweet and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 17

Tuesday didn’t start well for Jules. The shrilling of her mobile at five in the morning had dragged her from a heavy and exhausted slumber, the kind that only a vicar who’d been overseeing yet another nativity dress rehearsal could sleep. Having been deep in a dream where the Pollards had tea towels on their heads and Ivy Lawrence was hiding the tinsel, Jules awoke with her heart hammering and reached out blindly for her phone.

It was Caspar.

“Jules! I’ve done a stupid thing! A really, really stupid thing!” His voice was cracking with emotion.

“Like call somebody at five in the morning?”

“Ah, sorry about that. No, even more stupid. Oh God! If only I hadn’t! I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

He paused and Jules yawned. It was still pitch black, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t be up this early. Even the seagulls were still asleep!

Caspar paused for dramatic effect, bursting for her to ask what this dreadful thing was. For a moment Jules was tempted not to ask, but then her vicarly instincts kicked in and she reminded herself that she was supposed to listen to her flock.

Maybe tonight she’d put the phone on silent?

“Go on, what have you done?” she asked dutifully.

“I’ve deleted my book!”

“What?” Jules couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The book you’ve been slaving over for the past twelve days? The one you said was your best yet? The one you’d nearly finished? The one I can’t wait to read?”

“Err yes, ’fraid so. That one.”

Jules sat up and rubbed her eyes. They felt as though somebody had tipped grit into them.

“Have you gone nuts? What on earth did you do that for?”

There was a heavy sigh. “After Tara laughed at me I couldn’t bear to write another word. Every time I thought of my heroine all I could see was the scorn on her beautiful face. I detested myself and my novel even more.”

It was early, she’d tossed and turned for hours stressing about the bishop’s impending visit and not fallen asleep until the small hours, and Jules wasn’t in the mood for self-indulgence.

“Of course she laughed at you. You behaved like a total idiot, Caspar. In fact you’re pretty lucky she hasn’t taken a restraining order out thinking you’re some kind of deranged stalker.”

“I thought she’d be flattered to be immortalised in literature,” he said sulkily.

Jules sighed. “That won’t happen now you’ve deleted the book. So, now you’ve told me, can I go back to sleep?”

“No! I need you to help me get it back!” Caspar cried. She could almost hear him tearing at his wild hair. “If I don’t deliver it I’m in serious trouble. Come on, Jules, there must be a way.”

“I’m a vicar, not Bill Gates. I’ve no idea how to do that. Anyway, I thought you said you wanted it gone?”

“No! That was just the artistic temperament in me.” He was sounding more frantic by the minute. “Please would you come and help me? Please?”