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“We have to go,” Harriet reminded her, far from the first time. “We promised Diana, and she’s expecting us.”
“I don’t like leaving Dad—”
“He’s fine, and we’ll be back in a couple of hours at the most. Plus, he can call us if he needs us.”
Rachel knew their father was too proud to do that. She also knew he would probably be fine, but she still didn’t like leaving him alone. And, she acknowledged, she didn’t like being here, on a wet Wednesday evening, about to face a whole load of people she’d rather not see. Especially one in particular.
“I don’t care,” she told Harriet, folding her arms and sticking her lower lip out, as stubborn as a small child.
Harriet sighed. “What is the big deal? It’s just a ceilidh.”
“I actually hate ceilidhs. Like, really hate them.” Rachel spoke matter-of-factly, without emotion, even though everything in her was wincing and cringing with awful, squirming horror and humiliation. Shecouldn’tgo in there. She absolutely could not.
It had been a week since her meal with Ben and that absolutely mortifying moment she could not bear to think about, and so, quite simply, she hadn’t. She’d focused on work and spending time with Harriet that wasn’t overtly hostile, and sometimes even friendly, and making meals and taking long walks with Fred and absolutely avoiding Ben Mackey in any way, shape, or form. But if she went into the village hall, she knew she’d see him. And then she’d see the pity flash across his face, and she just couldn’t bear that. She’d run away from him once before to avoid that awful look. She could do it again. Easily.
“Rachel,” Harriet said. “Sorry, but you’re being a bit ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
“Youare. What’s the big deal? So you have to dance Strip the Willow with a few pensioners.” She raised her eyebrows, shrugging. “Big deal. There are worse things, surely.” Harriet’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Rachel. “Unless there’sanotherreason you don’t want to go…?”
Darn Harriet for her sisterly Spidey sense. Rachel could see the thoughts ticking over in Harriet’s head, putting two and two together and making about twenty-seven…which, unfortunately, was right, more or less. Or really, she thought bitterly, thinking of how Ben had so firmly pushed her away from him when she’d been desperately hoping he’d kiss her, making a big fat zero.
“No reason,” she said as firmly as she could, knowing she’d been backed into a corner, and probably the only way to get out of it was to come out step dancing. “I’ve just never been very good at dancing.”
“Who is?” Harriet returned, rolling her eyes, and then she grabbed Rachel by the elbow and more or less marched her into the crowded hall.
The music, fiddle and flute, Scottish small-pipes and guitar, drum and even accordion, all set up on the small stage on one end of the hall, was powering through a merry tune as a caller gave instructions in a jovial tone, to the beat of the music, one hand slapping his thigh, and couples whirled and flew around them, breathless and laughing. Rachel immediately looked for the bar.
“There’s Diana,” Harriet remarked, her tone resigned. “And she’s heading this way with a beady look in her eye. I think she’s going to make us dance straight away.”
No, no, no, no.Rachel looked around wildly, seeking escape. Diana, all well-meaning, steely bonhomie, would instruct Ben to partner Rachel for the next round or reel or whatever it was. And then they’d be twirling the Gay Gordons and trying not to look each other in the eye. At least, she would be trying. Heaven only knew what Ben would be doing.
“I’m getting a drink,” she announced, and slipping from her sister’s grasp, she walked swiftly in the opposite direction of Diana Mackey, straight to the bar. “Gin and tonic, please,” she announced to the fiftyish, comfortable-looking woman behind the bar, one elbow propped on it as she gazed at Rachel with a faint smile on her lined face. She looked vaguely familiar, but Rachel was trying not to remember the faces or names of the people in the room, most of whom looked familiar. She could not handle the onslaught of memories, or the prospect of several dozen ‘so you’re back, eh?’ conversations. “And make it a double,” she added for good measure.
The woman reached for a glass. “That kind of night, eh?” she remarked with a chuckle. “I’m not surprised, Rachel Mowbray, after all this time.”
Greeaaat.Rachel closed her eyes briefly before snapping them open. “Do I know you?” she asked bluntly, and the woman chuckled again as she poured two generous measures of gin into the glass.
“You should do. I taught you year three.”
“Mrs Coombs,” Rachel stated dully, and the bartender nodded.
“That’s the one.”
“Are you still teaching at the school?”
“Retired last year.”
Rachel nodded slowly before she steeled herself to turn and face the room. How many people here did she know but had tried to forget? The faces of her past, the people who had known her as Rachel Mowbray, gawky, geeky try-hard, before she’d become glossy and successful and self-assured. Who all saw right through her now, and always had.
“Here you go, love,” Mrs Coombs said. “That’ll be four pounds fifty.”
“Do you take card?”
The other woman just chuckled, and Rachel wondered if she’d thought she’d been joking. Didn’t everyone take a card these days? It was cash that was usually the problem.
“Here you go,” a voice said to her right, and to her horror she watched Ben hand the woman a fiver. He turned to Rachel with a steely smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s on me.”
