Page 9 of The Only Way Is Up

Tom raised his eyebrows, not wishing to get into idle speculation on the state of Melanie Forbes-Glover’s hosiery.

‘And she never sings during the hymns,’ added Miriam in a stage whisper. ‘Gerald sings, but Melanie mimes.’ She gave Tom a significant look, like mouthing the words to ‘Lead Us Heavenly Father Lead Us’ was a recognised cry for help.

Tom drained his mug and gathered his coat and Henry’s lead. Once Miriam got the bit between her teeth about something, she could keep you in Church House until Evensong.

Tom spotted Melanie Forbes-Glover as he closed Miriam’s front door behind him. She was standing on one leg on the opposite pavement as she removed a shoe and pulled a pair of holey tights over an exposed toe. He turned away and pretended to rummage in his bag, not wanting her to know he’d seen her. Somehow seeing the bare toes of a woman like Melanie felt oddly intimate.

‘Hello, Tom.’ Melanie sounded breathless, like she was speaking for the first time that day. ‘I was just on my way to see Miriam.’ She reached down to pat Henry, who licked her hand.

‘I’m just leaving,’ said Tom with a warm smile, taking in Melanie’s limp hair and shapeless clothes. She couldn’t be a day over forty, but she dressed like a woman thirty years older and twice her size. Tom wondered, not for the first time, what on earth had happened to her. If she’d ever confided in Tessa, she’d never shared the details.

‘Have you met our new celebrity neighbour yet?’ he asked, hoping to hold her in conversation a little longer.

‘No. Have you?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, conveniently ignoring the whole puddle incident. ‘I’m not sure Shipton Combe has much to offer someone like her.’ Melanie’s eyes widened, and he realised he probably sounded a bit snarky. ‘Not much celebrity nightlife, you know,’ he added lamely.

‘Well, maybe that’s part of the appeal. I was thinking of taking over a rhubarb crumble. Should I knock, do you think? Or just leave it on the doorstep?’

Tom considered the question for a moment. ‘I’d knock. But take a note in case she doesn’t answer. Leave your address or number, so she can say thank you. She probably won’t, but at least she has the option.’

Melanie nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. Poor woman, being all over the papers. Must have been so humiliating.’

‘Hmm.’ Tom wondered if Melanie was actually talking about herself. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’

‘Enjoy your Sunday,’ said Melanie with a weak smile. Tom returned it, feeling a wave of sympathy for Will’s mum and wishing he could say something that might make her day better. But he’d already committed to helping her son, and Gerald was a whole other mess. It wasn’t his job to rescue the whole family; some days he could barely help himself.

Tom crossed the road with Henry and slipped through the school gates. He’d pop in on Justin, then head home to microwave a roast dinner and watch the rugby.

As he knocked on Justin’s door, Tom couldn’t resist a glimpse at Willow Cottage, but the curtains were drawn and the house was silent. Perhaps Daisy Crawford had already left the village. Marcus appeared in the doorway, which was no surprise – he often popped over on a Sunday after Justin’s tennis lesson.

‘Is that Tom?’ yelled Justin from the kitchen. ‘We were just talking about my new neighbour.’

Tom left Henry to settle down on the ancient rug in front of the wood burner and wandered into the kitchen, where Justin was chopping onions for yet another chicken soup. ‘Smells good.’

‘It needs salt,’ said Justin glumly. ‘Doesn’t matter how many fucking herbs I throw in, everything needs salt. Should have done this stupid stunt near the coast. Could have made my own.’

‘How long have you got left?’ asked Tom.

‘Less than four months. First of February is my freedom day. I’m going to spend it stuffing my face with Dairy Milk and Pringles, as far away from this dump as possible. Just need to get the book finished first.’

He looked so depressed that Tom hurried back to the lounge before Justin launched into another monologue on the bleak state of his unfinished book. ‘How are you?’ he asked Marcus, who was sitting on the sofa with his arm stretched along its back.

‘Fine,’ he replied, raking his hand through his dirty-blond hair. ‘I’ve just been telling Justin about my connection to Daisy Crawford.’

‘Oh, you’ll love this,’ shouted Justin from the kitchen. ‘It’s proper juicy.’

Tom sat down on the other sofa, hoping he wasn’t about to hear about one of Marcus’s many sexual conquests. He was considerably younger than Tom and used his ridiculous good looks and talents as a tennis coach to get into the knickers of every bored housewife in the county. Tom had never particularly warmed to him, but male company was quite hard to come by in Shipton Combe. Most of the time, Marcus made a refreshing change from a bunch of stuffy teachers, and it meant he got to hang out with Justin, who he considered a friend.

‘I know her boyfriend,’ Marcus drawled. ‘Well, fiancé now. Christian Walker. He beat me in the Wimbledon Boys’ Final in 1999.’

‘Wow,’ said Tom, grudgingly impressed.

‘Anyway a few days later I was replaying the final set in my head when I got knocked off my bike by a car,’ continued Marcus. ‘Broke my leg and pelvis and never played at that level again.’

‘Shit,’ said Tom, his eyebrows raised. ‘Why do I get the impression that’s still an open wound?’

‘Stealing his fiancée would be worthy revenge, don’t you think?