defender of property rights (an Englishman’s home is his castle, after all) or an elitist snob who begrudged ordinary villagers, and even the parish vicar, a harmless stroll through his fields.
Laura had tried to keep out of it as much as possible. Gabe was right, in her view, but as usual he’d lost his temper and been horribly rude to people that they ran into in the village every single day, which didn’t help their cause, or make Laura’s life any easier. Still, these sorts of spats were part of village life. Not the first time, Laura felt as if her life was morphing into one long episode of The Archers.
Claire Leaman, the rambler’s daughter, was still caterwauling.
‘Sorry,’ said Gabe. ‘That’s it.’ With a mortifying clattering of bar stools, Fittlescombe’s best-looking farmer made his way noisily to the door, earning himself a furious look from Claire’s father and envious ones from just about everybody else.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Laura whispered to her neighbours as she followed him, blushing furiously. ‘He’s got a migraine.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ grumbled the old man near the door.
Outside, Laura found Gabe huddled beneath a willow tree, trying unsuccessfully to light a damp roll-up.
‘That was rude,’ she chastised him. ‘Poor girl.’
‘Poor girl?’ Gabe’s eyes widened. ‘What about the rest of us? Good grief. She’s got no more business singing in public than I have stripping naked and streaking through the House of Lords. Or going for a Sunday walk in somebody else’s garden. It’s just … wrong.’
He pulled an indignant face that made Laura burst out laughing.
‘You’re just wrong! Selfish arse.’
‘I’m so wrong, I’m right.’ Gabe grinned, lifting up an arm so that Laura could slip beneath it. ‘Right?’
Even after nearly ten years of marriage, Laura Baxter found it almost impossible to be close to her husband without touching him. Leaning into his broad chest, she breathed in his familiar, musky smell. Gabe was so handsome, it was almost offensive – blond and brawny and with the sort of smile that could light up even a dreary, drizzly January night like this one. Laura had moved to the Swell Valley to be with him, despite a very rocky courtship, and they were now the parents of two small boys. The Baxters were often broke and always exhausted, but Laura wouldn’t have traded their life for anything.
‘Traitors.’
Santiago de la Cruz – cricket star, valley local and Gabe’s close friend – slipped out a few moments later, nursing a glass of Laphroaig. Santiago was also gorgeous, although in a very different way from Gabe. Tall, dark and quintessentially Latin, he was always perfectly groomed, a thoroughbred racehorse to Gabe’s mud-splattered mustang.
‘How could you leave me in there?’ He rubbed the side of his head ruefully. ‘I think my ears have started to melt.’
He was followed by his wife, Penny. Widely agreed to be both the kindest woman in Fittlescombe and the worst dressed, Penny de la Cruz was almost invisible tonight beneath about six layers of sweaters, her wild, Pre-Raphaelite hair spilling out at the top like a fountain. Penny, bravely, had been on the side of the ramblers in the great ‘right-to-roam’ debacle. Santiago felt strongly that they should all be shot.
‘Honestly.’ Penny looked at Gabe, Laura and Santiago disapprovingly. ‘The three of you look like naughty schoolchildren, smoking behind the bike sheds. Come back inside before you catch hypothermia.’
‘Has she stopped?’ Gabe asked.
‘She’s stopped.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes,’ said Penny. ‘And … I have gossip.’
That was all it took. Two minutes later the four of them were seated round a corner table, ignoring the next act while Penny spilled the beans.
‘Riverside Hall at Brockhurst has finally sold,’ she whispered importantly.
‘That’s it?’ said Santiago. ‘That’s the gossip?’
‘Nooooo.’ Penny shushed him. ‘The gossip is the new owners.’
She smiled cryptically.
‘Well, go on then,’ said Laura. ‘Who is it?’
‘Guess.’
‘We can’t guess. How are we supposed to guess?’
‘Simon Cowell,’ said Gabe.
Santiago gave him a look. ‘Simon Cowell? Why would Simon Cowell move to Brockhurst?’
Gabe shrugged. ‘Why not? You did. All right then. Madonna.’
‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’
‘What? She loves the English countryside,’ said Gabe. ‘She wears flat caps and drinks pints, remember?’
‘That was in her Guy Ritchie stage. Now she dates Brazilian teenagers and photographs her armpit hair,’ Laura reminded him. ‘Do keep up, darling.’
Never let it be said that she was behind on her celebrity gossip.
‘I’ll put you out of your misery,’ said Penny. ‘It’s Sir Edward Wellesley.’
There was a stunned silence. Gabe broke it first.
‘Isn’t he in prison?’
‘He gets out next week.’
‘Blimey. That wasn’t long. I might avoid my own taxes next year if that’s all you get.’
‘You have to have income to pay taxes,’ Laura reminded him sweetly.
‘Good point.’ Gabe squeezed his wife’s thigh.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Santiago asked Penny. For some reason he found it hard to imagine England’s most notoriously flamboyant, disgraced politician settling down to the quiet life in the Swell Valley. Especially in Riverside Hall, a grand but isolated old building that had stood empty for well over a year.
‘Positive. Angela Cranley saw Lady Wellesley with the estate agent last week. They completed ten days ago, apparently.’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be a nightmare?’ Gabe asked. ‘The wife?’
‘God yes. She’s a horror, a terrible snob. Do you remember how “Let them eat cake” she was at his trial?’ said Santiago.
‘I’m sure she was under immense pressure,’ Penny said kindly. ‘We must all give them a chance.’
Laura sipped her gin and tonic and felt a rush of pure happiness. She loved Penny and Santiago. She loved this pub, and village life, and the tight, gossipy world of the valley, a world where a new arrival with a scandalous past was ‘big news’. But most of all she loved Gabe and their
