Page 43 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

She looked down at her Filofax and wrote, We play Scrabble. ‘And then?’

‘We… play some more Scrabble?’

‘Oh, come on, Ras. And then…?’

‘We… go to the pub?’

‘Do we play Scrabble in the pub? Or have a drink?’

Ras laughed. ‘Or both?’

‘I think we need to come up with something that’ll put Hebbleswick on the map,’ said Jo.

‘Let’s think it over. Talk about it next week at Scrabble club.’

That was one advantage to David having chosen Leona instead of her to go on that shoot; if Jo had gone, she’d have been away next Friday at that festival…

‘I’ve got it,’ she said suddenly. ‘A Scrabble festival.’

Ras had his glass to his lips as she said this. He took such a large gulp of shandy that Jo could have sworn she could almost see it descending down his throat like a cartoon cat swallowing a mouse. She decided not to mention this in case he pointed out that it was medically inaccurate.

‘A festival?’ he said, with a bit of a splutter. ‘That sounds rather… large-scale. Could we manage that?’

Could they? Or was she being ridiculous?

But then a television programme was a bit like an event. She mightn’t be the creative brains behind anything they did at Pop! Productions but now she was the organisational power behind most of it. The person who booked everything from taxis to camera crews. The person who ensured that every piece of music that a director chose to use was cleared for copyright. That the celebrities they interviewed had every single item they wanted in their dressing room, whether that was waffles, whisky or Werther’s Originals.

‘I’m not thinking Glastonbury,’ she said.

‘What no bands? No mud? No stinky toilets?’

‘Not sure about bands but I can probably sort out mud and stinky toilets if you want them.’

Ras laughed. ‘So, what are you thinking, Jo? What’s your vision?’

‘Something like a church fete or a village show. Only over an entire weekend and with letters rather than lettuce.’

‘Lettuce?’

‘Don’t they have vegetable growing competitions at those events? Biggest marrow? Most knobbly carrot? We’ll need some kind of competition too to inject a bit of drama to the proceedings. A tournament perhaps.’

Ras frowned, his lips pursed as if he couldn’t quite work out what to say. ‘It’s… a little bit… competitive. That’s not the ethos of the club. It’s not about who wins. It’s about bringing people together and enjoying the game.’

‘The tournament could be one element. There’d be all sorts of other things going on at the same time. We can have one room devoted to more casual games. With several tables so people can wander in and play. In another room, we could have Scrabble-themed crafts and in…’

‘Sorry to stop you, Jo, but where are all these rooms?’

‘In our venue.’

‘Sounds expensive. I’m not sure, Jo.’

Jo lifted her wine glass to her lips and took a mouthful. And swallowed. Her Sauvignon Blanc. And her disappointment.

‘Okay,’ she said, standing up. ‘We’ll do it your way. Saturday afternoon Scrabble club meeting. Shall we have another drink?’

The landlord didn’t engage Jo in any conversation, let alone show her his rash. When she returned to the table, Ras looked deep in thought.

‘Crafts,’ he said. ‘You mentioned crafts.’