The Great Village Show Read online

  ‘Right! Yes. Juice bar. Your wine cellar.’ Dan seems to pull himself together. His face changes. Relief? I can’t be sure. He is all businesslike now. ‘Right, where is it? Let’s mix up some flavours and have some fun!’ He seems to be back to his usual, confident, gregarious self now.

  ‘Um, sure,’ I say, feeling disorientated as I try to keep up with his changing demeanour. ‘It’s just here, next to the pantry.’ I point to the stairs before lifting up the flowers. ‘I’d best put these in water first; it would be a shame for them to wilt in this wonderful, warm weather.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Go ahead,’ he instructs. ‘They’re only to … you know …’ He shrugs and looks away.

  ‘Well, they’re lovely,’ I say, and I think Jessie could have a point. Dan Wright does appear to be nervous – he’s acting offhand now, like he’s not bothered, or maybe he’s giving me a glimpse of his much younger self, as a cover, perhaps? And I’ve seen the look on his face before. Jack, on his first day at university, behaved in exactly the same way: upbeat and in control, then casual and laidback, before indifference; but he wasn’t fooling me. I knew he was nervous. And I have to say, seeing this side of Dan is actually quite refreshing. Far nicer than the persona he’s portrayed when we’ve previously met. And I can’t remember the last time a man bought me flowers … in fact, you know, I actually don’t think I’ve ever had flowers bought for me – certainly not by Liam, and Will just wasn’t that kind of guy; picking wild flowers from the hedgerow was more his style – so it makes a nice change, thoughtful too.

  But then I let my cynical side get the better of me, and I start to wonder what Dan is really up to, turning up with flowers, touching my arm; it’s nice and flattering, but then I remember his ‘country bumpkin’ line, him pretending to hang himself with boredom over the prospect of living here in Tindledale. And what was that panicky look on his face just then all about? Hmm, I think I need to be careful.

  Dan lifts up two carrier bags that he’d placed on the floor behind his legs. ‘Oh, I brought lunch too!’ he says casually, like it’s the obvious thing to do. ‘Well, it will be when I’ve cooked it. Don’t mind, do you?’ And he turns on his heel and lifts a giant chunk of clingfilm-covered Parmesan cheese up in the air, before dumping it on the counter and pulling a paper-wrapped package from the other bag. ‘Crab carbonara,’ he says, enthusiastically, opening the paper to show me a glorious whole pink crab. ‘How do you fancy that? Fresh from Billingsgate – had my fish man deliver it this morning.’ Dan cocks his head to one side before closing the paper, strolling over to my fridge and placing the crab inside, apparently making himself at home. He then unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, as if limbering up to cook – like he really can’t wait to get stuck in. Passionate. And it sure is very appealing. My pulse quickens. And I can’t help staring as he loads the rest of the ingredients into my fridge.

  Suddenly Dan pauses and whips a shrink-wrapped packet of hot dogs out of my fridge, as if pulling a rabbit from a hat.

  ‘Do you actually eat this crap?’ he demands to know, seemingly outraged. He pushes the packet towards me as if it’s an exhibit in a murder trial.

  ‘Err, no! They’re for Jack, my son …’ I quickly explain.

  ‘You feed this to a child?’ Dan roars, horrified, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Well, he’s not a child exactly. And he’s old enough to make his own mind up about what food he eats,’ I say, jumping to Jack’s defence. ‘He’s a student at Leeds University,’ I add, proudly.

  ‘Really? You have a grown-up son?’ Dan says, incredulously. ‘Blimey, were you a child when he was born?’ and he laughs, his nice laugh this time, and I actually think he might be paying me a compliment, so I grin and pull a face.

  Dan drops the hot dogs in the bin.

  ‘But, hang on, you can’t do that,’ I splutter. ‘Jack might turn up; I like to make sure I have his favourite foods in. Just in case …’ I trail off.

  ‘Trust me! You’ll thank me for it in ten years’ time when his blood pressure isn’t sky high from all the sodium they shove inside this processed junk,’ Dan informs me in a matter-of-fact voice as he inspects – and then turfs out – a giant jar of mayonnaise.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask, going to retrieve the mayo. It was in the pantry and I only opened it last week to add to some tuna.

  ‘It expired in April.’

  ‘Oh.’ Come to think of it, I did feel a little queasy after lunch on that day. ‘Hmm, well … fair enough,’ I shrug, making a mental note to check the contents of my fridge more frequently.

  ‘Don’t bother. You’re much better off making your own. Dead simple. And my two boys love it!’

  ‘Two boys?’ I ask, curious to know more about him.

  ‘Yes, Jacob and Charlie – twelve and thirteen. They live with their mum mostly, but come to me for weekends … where the food is better, they tell me.’ He laughs and I smile, liking that he’s sharing this with me. ‘Have you got any eggs?’ he then asks, changing the subject and scanning the kitchen. ‘Don’t tell me you keep them in here!’ and he sticks his disapproving face back into the fridge to search. I place the flowers on the table and then lift the lid of my chicken-shaped earthenware egg store, which I keep on the windowsill.

  ‘Ta-dah! Freshly laid this morning,’ I say proudly, thinking, ha! I bet he can’t source food this fast for his restaurant in London.

  ‘Great,’ Dan nods, ‘but get the chicken out of the sun.’ And he lifts the earthenware pot and relocates it into the pantry. ‘Perfect.’ He turns to face me, planting his hands on his hips. ‘So, are you up for lunch with me, or not?’ And then he looks at his watch, as if, on second thoughts, he might have somewhere else more important to be.

  ‘Um, well, seeing as you’ve asked me so nicely …’ I start, and then stop when he purses his lips, tightens his jawline and a look of sheer exasperation covers his face.

  ‘For crying out loud, woman. Why are you so –’ he pauses as if searching for the most suitable word to describe me – ‘infuriating!’ he settles on.

  ‘Me?’ I exclaim. ‘Err … take a look in the mirror, why don’t you?’ Did I really just say that? I sound ludicrous, like a silly schoolgirl. I instinctively look away. A loaded silence hangs in the air. And then, to my surprise, Dan holds up his palms.

  ‘I don’t need to!’ he grins, sheepishly. ‘Look, I know I can be an obnoxious bell-end. But I’m under a lot of pressure and I’m used to giving orders and answering to nobody but myself …’ he states, and I stay silent, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. ‘Will you please do me the honour of letting me cook for you? I’d really like to.’ His eyes soften, making his whole demeanour seem so much lighter, less highly strung. His shoulders even realign themselves downwards by about two centimetres. The transformation is remarkable. And, of course, he’s bound to be stressed. He’s opening a new restaurant! Maybe that’s why he’s so volatile. Stress can have the most debilitating effect on a person. And he is a chef – a famous one off the telly, as Mary said – and the ones I’ve watched do seem to be permanently furious. Maybe it’s a creative thing! Either way, I made a promise to myself … benefit of the doubt, and all that, so I take a breath and smile sweetly.

  ‘Err, well, yes, that would be wonderful … if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,’ I start, now feeling very spoilt indeed. And it really is a treat, to have a celebrity chef cook for me, in my own kitchen.

  ‘Trouble! Of course it isn’t. Why would you think it’s too much trouble?’ he says, the thunderous look from our first meeting on the bridge making a rapid return. Oh dear. He really needs to learn to calm down. Never mind being concerned about my son’s blood pressure, Dan really should be worried about his own.

  ‘No reason,’ I quickly say, my head spinning now. He’s so volatile and I’m struggling to keep up.

  ‘Yeah, well, we got off on the wrong foot, and Lawrence said freesias are your favourite,’ Dan points to th
e flowers. ‘And everyone loves my crab carbonara! They go mad for it in my restaurant.’ He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, looking suddenly despondent – he even rolls his eyes and pulls a face. How strange! And it makes me wonder if he’s brought the flowers purely out of some misplaced sense of obligation. Hmm, maybe I was right to feel cynical after all. But then, Dan didn’t need to go to the trouble of cooking lunch for me, sourcing fresh crab all the way from Billingsgate. And the flowers are gorgeous. I know Lucy doesn’t open up her florist shop on a Sunday, as it’s the only day she can spend with her new granddaughter, so Dan really must have gone to a lot of trouble to get them.

  ‘The flowers really are beautiful,’ I say, picking them up and popping my nose into the bouquet to breathe in their divine scent, but wondering why Lawrence would tell Dan they’re my favourite, when I’m sure we’ve never discussed flowers before. Oh well, it’s very sweet … of both of them. ‘Thank you.’ I lay the flowers on the counter before ducking down to the cupboard under the sink to rummage for a vase, and then busy myself with unwrapping and arranging the freesias in an ascending height and colour coordinated order until I have them just so. Perfect.

  I turn around to look at Dan. He’s shaking his head and trying not to laugh.

  ‘What?’ I frown.

  ‘Nothing!’ he says, his face a picture of innocence now. ‘You’re just … so, err … precise. As well as infuriating!’ he adds, cheekily. Instinctively, I open my mouth to retort, but Dan tilts his head to one side and raises a cheeky eyebrow, so I mumble ‘sorry’ instead.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s nice. Charming. Endearing. And makes a change from the horrors I usually have hanging around me.’ He pulls a pretend scared face.

  ‘Oh!’ I fiddle with my necklace. That was definitely a compliment. I reckon I’m starting to figure out Dan Wright. I smirk and poke out my tongue, and he laughs.

  ‘Come on, let’s get down to that cellar of yours!’ And he actually grabs my hand and practically runs me across the kitchen and down the stairs, so fast it almost takes my breath away.

  Downstairs, and the atmosphere hots up, literally. It’s stifling here in the airless cellar and Dan’s body, so close to mine in the confined space, is like a furnace right in front of me.

  ‘Oops, um, sorry,’ I say, bumping into his broad back as I step forward to find the cord for the light.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Dan breathes, turning to face me. ‘Here, let me help you,’ he adds, and I realise that he’s still holding my hand, which he gently lets go as he reaches an arm up and across me, feeling his way along the wall for the light switch, and treating me to a quick burst of his delicious signature scent. I feel my cheeks flush in the darkness.

  ‘It’s over here,’ I say, stepping around him, my thigh tingling as it brushes the side of his leg and I very nearly gasp, but manage not to. Instead, I push a stray strand of hair from my face, which is now burning from the intensity of this very close encounter.

  With the light on, we stand and stare at the assorted array of demijohns and bottles.

  ‘Blimey, you sure do like making wine,’ Dan grins, turning to look at me, folding his arms, and then, on quickly deciding against it, he puffs a long gust of cooling air up over his face before pulling his shirt out of his jeans. ‘And it’s hotter in this cellar than it is in my kitchen!’ He fans the bottom of his shirt around, attempting to create a breeze for his hot body.

  ‘Um … err, is it?’ I manage, feeling flustered as I try not to stare on catching a glimpse of his very tanned and toned abdomen.

  A short silence follows. I busy myself by bending down to retrieve a bottle of wine – more as a distraction than for any real purpose, but I can’t just stand here and gawp at Dan’s beautiful body, plus I can’t work out if he really is oblivious, or not, of the physical effect he’s having on me. I’ve never met anyone like him before. The men I’ve known in the past were far more obvious than Dan appears to be. They were more black and white – there was no real courtship with Will, he just came right out with it, that he wanted to sleep with me, and then Liam … well, we were young and he asked me out; in fact, I seem to recall that it was his friend who first told me Liam fancied me.

  Dan stops fanning and coughs to clear his throat before stepping forward and crouching down next to the nearest wine rack, and the intimate moment vanishes, leaving me feeling confused and extremely flustered indeed. I’m usually rubbish at reading signals, but I know something just happened between us. What exactly? I’m not sure. Hmm, the feeling lingers …

  Half an hour later, and after lots of bumping into each other and more intimate moments in the confined space, we’ve counted up twenty-seven bottles of elderflower wine; nine bottles of sloe and blackberry gin, left over from last summer, which I hadn’t even realised were still there; four bottles of a vibrant orange-coloured liquid that could be carrot and honey cordial, and a demijohn full of purple fluid with a cloudy white foam on top which, on tasting – Dan volunteered for the job, I didn’t fancy it seeing the foam – he declared to be a magnificent beetroot wine that would just need skimming and straining. Oh, and we also have a case of mixed fruit cordials.

  ‘Right. Well, we sure have enough for the juice bar!’ Dan exclaims, carrying the last crate across the floor from the cellar door, before hauling it up on to the kitchen table, which is now completely covered with wooden crates and wine bottles. ‘I’ll start the lunch and have a think about a drinks menu – warm beetroot wine with a cinnamon stick perhaps,’ he laughs, and I screw up my face. ‘Whaat?’ He does his nonchalant shrug. ‘It could work!’ Dan winks at me and pushes a hand through his hair, before striding across the kitchen to the fridge to gather all the ingredients together. ‘Where’s your wok?’ he asks, flipping on the tap with his elbow like a pro – which of course he is – to wash his hands.

  ‘Here.’ I dive into a cupboard to retrieve it, and quickly hand it to him.

  ‘Chopping board?’

  ‘Yes chef,’ I laugh, bringing my right hand up to the side of my head in an exaggerated salute. But before I can grab the wooden board and hand it to him right away, like a proper, efficient, fast-thinking kitchen assistant, Dan spots it next to the kettle, takes it, flips it over, and starts doing that super-fast slicing thing, making exceedingly quick work of a box-load of mushrooms.

  ‘For the entrée … butternut squash velouté with sautéed cep and Parmesan crisp,’ he explains, wiping his hands on a tea towel, which he then slings on to his shoulder for use throughout the whole culinary creative process, I assume.

  ‘Ooh, I can’t wait,’ I say, wondering what velouté and cep are. I hope I like them.

  ‘So, are you going to work this juice bar with me on show day?’ Dan asks, casually.

  ‘Um, sure, if I can … I’ll most likely have my hands full with making sure everything else stays in order and runs to time, but I’m always happy to help out if I can,’ I say, knowing there’s already a list as long as my arm of school mums who’ve already volunteered for this particular task on show day – working with Dan. ‘But won’t you be busy with your food truck?’ I ask.

  ‘We could always combine the two – a food truck with an impressive wine list. In actual fact, that’ll work better – we can flog the food and recommend the right wine or cordial accompaniment.’ He stops chopping to ponder. ‘And if it’s a sell-out success, then we could make it a permanent thing, what do you say? Could work well for you if they do close down your school!’ he grins and nudges me with his elbow.

  ‘Err, um, yes … I guess so,’ and I’m perplexed, yet again, by his bluntness. I guess he doesn’t realise how much my school means to me. ‘But what about your new restaurant?’ I quickly recover. ‘Surely you’ll be very busy with that?’

  Dan gives me a blank stare and puts down his knife. ‘What new restaurant?’

  ‘You know, the one you’re opening in Tindledale. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you?’

  ‘No! What the hell
gave you that idea?’ And the thunderous look he does so well makes a very rapid return.

  ‘Err …’ I gulp, thinking: that’ll teach me for speculating. And my heart sinks as I take in this news, wondering what it means for Tindledale then, and for my school. No exclusive Michelin-star restaurant to attract more people to the village to help boost the other local businesses. No celebrities helicoptering on to the village green. No media or TV channels doing special documentaries about Tindledale, the ‘best place to live’. No ‘putting us on the map’ after all! I can feel my cheeks flushing again as I fiddle with my rabbit necklace, and I can hardly tell Dan that Lawrence and I have been, um … gossiping about him! And if Dan isn’t here to open a new restaurant, then what’s the real purpose of his visit? To Tindledale, the place he’d rather die than have to actually live in! ‘Weell, I just assum—’ But before I can answer properly, the back door bounces open, throwing me off kilter. I swivel my head to see who it is.

  And gasp.

  ‘Muuum! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Playing gooseberry, by the looks of it!’ Mum exclaims, in her usual extra-exasperated voice, eyeing up Dan as she swings off her pashmina and drops her handbag on to the window seat, before propping her purple-patterned wheelie suitcase against the table leg. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had moved a boyfriend in, darling?’

  Mum walks across the kitchen and engulfs Dan in a heady embrace, flinging her arms around his neck and pulling him in tight, her super-strong perfume permeating the air. And I’m aghast. Dan’s face is a picture of surprise and intrigue.

  ‘And quite the looker, aren’t you?’ Mum says, squeezing his cheek. ‘Very Hugh Bonneville after a bacchanalian night out.’

  I want to die.

  Right here on my kitchen floor, clutching Blue for comfort. Talking of which, where is he? Panicking, I near body-slam the back door shut, but Dan realises what I’m worried about and, quickly freeing himself from my mother’s clutch, he grabs my hand to stop me from racing out into the garden.