to clench everything to stay upright.
The villager had seen me, and Joss took his cue from the shift in his gaze and turned around.
‘Lucy,’ he said, very warmly, too warmly, holding out his hands.
‘Did you book?’ I asked, looking past him to what was once the Lounge Bar, now the restaurant.
‘No need. They always fit me in. Come on, let’s go and sit down.’
He nodded a goodbye at the villager and led me out to the patio tables, overlooking the newly landscaped garden. No more rusty old swing set. Now there was a pretty pond full of koi carp, and a fountain. Overhead was a trellis gazebo festooned with climbing roses and each table held scented candles in artisan-decorated glass jars.
‘I bet they don’t even serve Vimto any more,’ I said, pulling out my own chair before he could try and do it for me. ‘All bloody elderflower cordial and cloudy pink lemonade now.’
‘You haven’t lost that chip on your shoulder, then?’ he said, quite politely but with a glint of challenge in his eye. ‘Always ranting against anything remotely poncey or posh.’
‘Actually, I’ve developed a few poncey, posh tastes over the years,’ I confessed, fidgeting with the menu. ‘I’m very snobby about sausages now, for example, having lived in Hungary where the sausage is taken very seriously.’
Joss chuckled, his eyes brightening.
‘You have to be snobby about your sausages,’ he said. ‘Inferior sausages are quite intolerable.’
‘Well, yes.’
We ordered drinks and then sat, looking at each other until the tension almost cracked the artisan glass candle-holder.
‘So,’ he said, at the same time as I said, ‘Well.’
I looked away.
‘You aren’t here to reminisce about old times, are you, Lucy?’ he said softly, drawing my attention straight back to him.
‘My memories aren’t exactly fond,’ I snapped.
‘No. So why are you here?’
‘It’s been nine years. Perhaps it’s time to let bygones be –’
‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’ It was so abrupt, I started.
‘Cut to the chase, why don’t you?’ I said.
‘I didn’t want all that bygones crap to drag on,’ he said, accepting his champagne cocktail from the waiter while I took my, yes, elderflower fizz. ‘I know why you’re here.’
‘Do you? Please enlighten me.’
‘You’ve scented a story and you want to use your old connection with me to get at the heart of it.’
Very nicely deduced. I had to hand it to him, along with his scalpel of truth.
‘You’re not denying it,’ he said after a pause.
‘Why bother?’ I said. ‘If that’s what you want to think.’
‘It isn’t, actually. What I want to think is completely different.’
‘What, that I’ve come running back into your arms, ready for you to stab me in the back again? What do you take me for?’
‘Are you ready to order?’ the waiter asked.
We pinched our lips and muttered our food orders with flaming cheeks.
‘So you heard about somebody leasing the Hall,’ said Joss once the waiter was out of earshot.
‘Everybody’s talking about it. Of course I did.’
‘And you want to know who?’
‘And why.’
‘Of course, why. Lots of rumours out there, I hear.’
‘Tons. Are you going to put a stop to them? By telling me the truth of it?’
I sipped at my elderflower fizz, waiting for Joss to pull one of his trademark petulant strops. I guessed we’d be going Dutch on the meal now a shag was out of the question.
Instead he surprised me. After stroking his beard-thing for a moment or two, he said, ‘I can do better than that.’
‘Really?’
‘I can get you in there. Exclusive access to the Hall – and its mysterious lessee. And he’s a big fish, Lucy, a very big fish. This’ll be the scoop of your life.’
‘Who is he?’
Joss shook his head, peering fearfully around as if scouting for eavesdroppers.
‘If I tell you that you’ll be straight on the phone to your editors. No, you have to come into the Hall and see it for yourself.’
‘That’s an invitation, then? As simple as that. Why would you let me?’
‘Let’s say I’m not entirely happy with the situation. A big press exposé might blow the whole thing apart and give me back my birthright.’
‘Birthright,’ I scoffed. ‘You’re such a little prince.’
‘Do you want this or not?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted – needed – something that would get me off the Village Fete Desk, but this sounded risky and strange.
‘Right. Come into the estate office on Monday morning and we’ll discuss it further.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Are you wearing a wire?’
I burst out laughing.
‘Joss, this isn’t a spy drama! Wearing a wire! For God’s sake!’
He looked discomfited by my mirth, and knocked back his champagne cocktail until he fell into a coughing fit.
I took advantage of it to click off my mobile phone’s ‘Record’ setting in my handbag.
‘So, can you give me a clue?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘I’ll tell you on Monday.’ He paused, looking at me too intently for comfort. ‘You aren’t married or anything, are you?’
‘God forbid. You?’
He shook his head.
‘Came close, last year,’ he said. ‘Until she saw my bank statements and ran a mile.’
‘Oh, dear. Did she break your heart? What a shame.’
