‘Oh we are, just really good, long-term friends,’ Harri said, aware he was labouring his point.
‘So you won’t be doing a Jude and Elliot, then?’ Mrs Crocombe went on.
Annie cocked her head. ‘A what?’
‘Jude met ’er husband at the Bookshop when she was on ’oliday. Fell in love inside of two weeks. Now they both live ’ere. Elliot’s our top vet. Jude’s our resident baker.’
‘Umm…’ Harri began, clueless as to what to say next.
The man Estée had referred to as Izaak returned, now with a drink in his hand and a handsome man on his arm. They both looked to be in their thirties. Izaak introduced him as his husband, Leonid, before saying, ‘You’re not matchmaking already, are you Mrs C.?’ He gave Annie and Harri an appraising look.
‘Me?’ said Mrs Crocombe innocently. ‘I’m only telling them the story of Jude and Elliot.’
‘And what about Austen and Patti?’ Izaak said. Harri realised he talked with a softly Polish accent. ‘They’ve been together for a while now, ever since Austen’s bookshop holiday.’
‘Woah!’ Annie was enjoying this. ‘Is this village some kind of hotbed for romantic liaisons?’
‘There was the other ones as well.’ Mrs Crocombe was clicking her fingers and circling her wrist, her eyes closed. ‘The Icelander and the girl who washed ashore?’
‘Magnus and Alexandra,’ Minty put in.
‘That was before my time here,’ said Estée.
‘All Borrowers,’ Mrs Crocombe confirmed with enthusiasm. ‘Then there was Joy and our Monty Bickleigh! Not one of them could resist the magic of Clove Lore.’
‘Are you sure it didn’t have something to do with your betting book?’ Leonid added softly.
Harri didn’t like the way Mrs Crocombe was looking between him and Annie like they were part of some new salacious project she was devising. She drew a book from her handbag.
‘Annie and… Harri, isn’t it?’ Mrs Crocombe asked, her eyes narrowing. She produced a pencil from behind her ear. What was she up to?
‘And what about you and Mr Bovis?’ Izaak was saying with a look of cunning, directed right at Mrs Crocombe. ‘Another big Clove Lore romance? Hmm?’
‘Well, I reckon it’s time to start the meeting, isn’t it?’ chirped Mrs Crocombe shiftily, hastily shoving her notebook and pencil away again.
‘Ah, indeed!’ cried Minty, checking a slender watch and turning towards the circle of chairs in the middle of the ballroom. ‘Quick quick!’
Annie and Harri hung back with the waitress as the crowd obediently followed the lady of the manor.
‘Why do I get the feeling we narrowly avoided getting involved in something…’ said Harri, watching the villagers settling in the circle but speaking to the girl with the tray. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Samantha,’ the girl replied. ‘You want to watch Mrs Crocombe. She runs a betting book on all the incomers.’
‘A betting book?’ replied Annie.
Samantha’s voice dropped lower. ‘That lot are forever placing bets on who’s going to get together next. And you Borrowers are fresh meat. She won’t stop ’til she’s won a tenner on you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Annie asked, incredulous, but not nearly as horrified as Harri.
‘I mean, her and Izaak will either want the pair of you loved-up and together by the end of your holiday or they’ll have you paired up with one of the village spares!’
Annie spluttered her juice as she laughed.
‘Sparesdoesn’t sound very nice,’ said Harri.
‘That’s how she sees them. No single person is safe when Mrs C.’s around. And that nosy parkerboyfriendof hers, Mr Bovis, is just as bad. Those two shacked up a while back and they’re pretending to be just good pals, but the whole village knows the truth. Two peas in a pod, and forever up in everybody’s business, pair of stickybeaks.’
‘And what about you, Samantha? Has she paired you up?’ Annie asked, laughing, like this was all just quaint, small-village custom and perfectly delightful.
