‘Thanks Cerys.’ I chuckle, unoffended. You can always rely on teenage girls to both tear you down and build you up in one singular sentence.
‘You gonna try and pull Our Eddie’s son?’ Her bluntness I’m used to, but any talk of ‘pulling’ is a sure-fire way to set a blush alight across my cheeks and neck.
‘Despite whatever the girly magazines are saying, he’s nothing special. And when would I have time, eh? Your mother works me like a dog.’ I wink at Tracy as she finishes polishing glasses that have been lined up along a shelf for so long, I was quite sure they had rotted into the furniture.
‘Oi, you spend more time sat on that bar stool yappingaway than most of my punters do,’ Tracy jests and I shrug guiltily.
‘You know it’s illegal to marry livestock, right? I’m not quite sure on the laws on marrying root veg but that’s pretty weird too.’ Cerys continues her analysis of my shockingly dry dating life. ‘You know you’re going to have to shag a real human at some point, Bea. And why not the sexy son of your favourite actor?’ She attempts to wiggle her eyebrows but they’re still growing back from a failed experiment with a razor as her mother slaps her softly across the arm with the nearby tea towel.
Living, working, and socialising in the same village that, as Cerys kindly pointed out, is either made up of old-age pensioners or my entire extended family, it’s hardly a hotbed for eligible bachelors. And as much as she tries, I categorically refuse to go on a date with Barbara’s forty-year-old fisherman grandson.
But that isn’t the reason I haven’t so much as kissed another human since I came back from London. It just felt like, after everything that happened, love should be the least of my worries. How could I come home after everything that happened with Tommy and just downloadTinderas though nothing ever happened? Of course, one can swipe through the entirety of Lincolnshire’s meat market in one slow afternoon in the pub so it would hardly be worth it anyway, but that’s not the point. How could I just live a normal life? Falling in love and finding some soppy ‘happily ever after’ just didn’t feel right then, nor does it feel any better now. Even if the new bachelor in town is Artie Cavendish.
‘Nope, my days shall remain unchanged. I’m quite happy with the cabbagey nun thing I’ve got going on. No one’s son is getting in the way of that, even Eddie Cavendish’s.’ I return momentarily to my dusting but the silence that falls through the pub is short-lived. The door swings open and clatters into the umbrella stand, and a fleeting voice sticks around just long enough to inform us that Mr Cavendish has in fact arrived and it is with every urgency that the entire population be ushered out onto the streets to greet him.
Cerys, abandoning both her post and her faux teenage seriousness that makes everything uncool, charges out of the door and her mother is fast behind her. With petty cash in the till and a few cheeky residents who wouldn’t mind taking advantage of an unmanned bar, I decide it’s best that at least one of us hang back to hold the fort.
Trying to resume my dusting, and contain my own excitement, I pace across the carpet, running my feather duster over any and every surface. After mere minutes of this, as though my body betrays my mind’s decision to be indifferent about the whole matter, I find myself peeping from behind the drawn curtains.
The road is bloated on both sides with residents. Though there are few of us in this village, the turnout is immense. Thanks to the stack of old road signs local light-fingered lad Jack Swan has pinched from the various roadworks we’ve seen over the years, the whole main road is closed off and traffic diverted away. Leaving the crowds to swarm the car from every direction. I can’t seehimthrough the array of fascinators and flags, but the thought of him steppingout to greet them all like long-lost friends, to show his gratitude for such a welcome, to acknowledge the enormity of all of their efforts (even the farmers have taken a day off for this; the farmers never take a day off …), it tickles in my stomach like something’s dancing and I squeeze at the curtains to try and expel some of my pleasure.
The village hasn’t felt like this for an age. Never mind dusting the tankards in the pub, this news has seemingly cracked the fossil that had formed around our community for so long. They’re all normally so preoccupied with saving enough of their pensions to heat their homes, or trying their best to make sure the pub, the village hall, the chapel, all remain open as an epidemic of dying villages spreads ever closer. So I take it back; I do get the fuss. Arthur Cavendish’s arrival is the best thing this village has known in years, and the thrill I feel clutching these damp-stained curtains is excitement for those people, out there, lining that street like children, waiting for a flash of hope, a little glimpse of something thrilling. It’s a shot of happiness that will see them through the rest of the winter, and I suppose I have to be grateful to Master Cavendish for that.
Amidst the thick of it all, I finally see him. Sliding out from the car, he stretches up to his full height, and looks out over the crowds, his thick, dark curls only missing a crown for his royal address. But he doesn’t smile, and his eyes flick erratically across the crowd until they settle for the longest time on the tarmac. That’s when I notice Barbara beside him. I could have guessed she’d be first in, probably giving him her classic ‘everyone calls me Auntie Babs’. No one calls her ‘Auntie Babs’.
Tracy, as usual, is next to save the day, and after a short conversation, Arthur waves to the crowd and follows behind the landlady. In this direction.
They’re coming inside. And I’m here, feather duster still in hand, crouched like Gollum in the window. Act natural. What is natural in this situation? Do I sit? Stand? Lounge? Voices grow louder as they near the door and I panic.
Half sitting, half lounging with my feet precariously perched on the bench, I am dusting the table in front of me when they arrive. Tracy first, then Arthur, and Cerys brings up the rear with a grin slapped on her face.
‘And this is … Beatrice?’ Tracy concludes her brief tour with a look of confusion as her eyes settle on me. Arthur’s gaze hits me instantly, with lashes so thick and dark, they rest against his brows as his eyes widen. He’s like a deer in the headlights, as though I am the guest of honour and it is him who’s starstruck. As much as Idefinitelydid my hair and make-up for myself, it’s nice to know I’ve still got it.
‘Bea.’ Cerys coughs and points to my hand. The feather duster is upside down and, in the fuss, my black dress is covered in all of the cobwebs I have gathered throughout the day. As I right my mistake, Tracy’s blush only grows, and Cerys coughs again, motioning to my legs.
So used to overalls, tatty jeans and man-spreading like a middle-aged bloke, I have forgotten the most important rule when wearing a dress: don’t flash everyone your comically large underwear.
‘Bollocks!’ I exclaim and jump to my feet, scattering more of the cobwebs over myself and the pub around me. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Cerys titters in the corner, Tracy looks at me with sympathy, and Arthur Cavendish rolls his eyes, not even trying to hide the complete second-hand embarrassment crossing his face that I had foolishly mistaken for attraction.
I have seen his face so many times in photos, on the TV, that I thought it would feel as though meeting him would be like reconnecting with an old friend. Yet as I look at him here and now in the flesh, he’s a stranger. There is no hint of the smile he shares on red carpets, no charming glint in his eye when he’s flirting with interviewers. The man in this pub is an empty husk.
‘It’s nice to see you’ve put on your best underwear for the occasion.’ He finally speaks, as he fixes his expression and seems to remember who he is supposed to be. My cheeks burn and bile rises in my throat. I’m on my period. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all caught a glimpse of a stray wing clinging on for dear life. The thought makes me retch, and I hide it with a cough. Still, Arthur Cavendish watches me closely, refusing to release me from his unrelenting gaze.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Cavendish?’ Tracy recalls his attention and I could kiss her.
‘Erm,’ he begins, looking around the pub as though weighing up whether to trust whatever may be on offer, ‘yeah, I’ll just have a bottle of water, please.’
Safe option – can’t catch anything from a sealed bottle of water. Still, I take the opportunity to scarper from my seat and fetch his request from behind the bar. Putting another six feet and a car length worth of mahogany barbetween us feels like the right idea; hiding even just the lower, offending part of my body is better than nothing.
As I hand him the bottle, he sets it down almost instantly as though burned by the plastic. ‘I just need to make a call,’ he says, more to Tracy than me. ‘You mind?’ He gestures to the snug, an adjoining room with a fireplace and a couple of chesterfields that is mostly reserved for a select few regulars.
‘Go ahead.’ Tracy nods and he strides away, sliding his phone out of his pocket as he goes.
Closing the door behind him, Cerys, Tracy, and I can finally let go of the breath we’ve all been too afraid to release in his presence.
‘Nice one, Bea.’ Cerys chuckles, renewing my blush. ‘Bold. Unexpected. Never let them know your next move. Like it.’
