marmalade on a third slice of toast. ‘With a wife like that, I’m not surprised he played away. She looks about as much fun as a bag of nails.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you that having a lying, philandering husband might not make a person feel full of the joys of spring?’ Penny said crossly, clearing away Santiago’s plate before he’d finished. ‘Eddie’s the one who behaved badly, but Lady Wellesley gets the blame. It’s sexist and it’s awful. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’
‘You’re a lovely person.’ Grabbing his wife around the waist, Santiago pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her neck and deftly retrieving his plate of toast at the same time. ‘You always see the good in everyone. It’s one of the many things I adore about you.’
Penny smiled to herself as Riverside Hall loomed into view, thinking for the millionth time how ridiculously gorgeous her husband was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Women half her age and with much flatter stomachs and perkier boobs still fell over themselves to try to get Santiago into bed. But for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t interested. He loves me. Idly she wondered whether Fast Eddie Wellesley loved his wife, and what had really gone on in that marriage. Perhaps we’ll all become friends and I’ll find out? The Swell Valley was a small community. It was hard to imagine a family as high profile as the Wellesleys not becoming an integral part of it.
Seeing the scrum of press gathered around the gates, Penny slipped down to the river. Hopping across the stepping stones at the back of the house, she found it easy enough to worm her way through the thinning hedge and emerge into the kitchen garden. She knocked cheerfully on the back door.
‘Hello? Anybody home?’
When there was no answer she tried the latch. It was open. Stepping into the kitchen, she immediately felt a pang of envy. The room was gorgeous, bright and colourful and tidy, with pretty cushions and china scattered around in that effortless way that Penny herself could never quite get right at Woodside. A real fire crackled in a wood-burner in the corner. Everything smelled of something amazing. Cloves or cinnamon or … something.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Lady Wellesley had appeared in the doorway with a face like fury. In a black polo-neck sweater and chic cigarette trousers, with her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, she looked elegant, thin and utterly terrifying.
‘I’m so sorry to startle you.’ Penny proffered her basket of biscuits and cakes nervously, like a peace offering. ‘I’m Penny.’
‘You’re trespassing.’
‘Oh, no no no.’ Penny blushed. ‘My husband, Santiago, and I live over at Woodside Hall. We’re your neighbours.’
Clearly this explanation did nothing to ease Lady Wellesley’s fury.
‘The door was open,’ Penny continued sheepishly. ‘I didn’t want to come round the front in case those reporters … I brought you some goodies. A sort of “Welcome to Brockhurst”.’
‘You came to snoop, more like,’ Annabel said rudely. ‘Report back to the village gossips. Or to the press, I dare say.’
Penny looked horrified. ‘I would never do that! I just thought …’
The words trailed off lamely. Looking down at her boots, she realized belatedly that she’d made a line of muddy footprints all over the beautiful flagstone floor.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You should be. We moved here for a bit of privacy. Walking into someone’s property uninvited! It’s outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’
‘Please don’t.’ Penny sounded close to tears. ‘I truly didn’t mean … I’ll go.’
She turned and fled, slamming the kitchen door shut with a clatter behind her.
A momentary frown flickered across Max Bingley’s face as Angela Cranley handed him a magazine.
‘Hello!? Really, darling. Must you?’
‘I’m afraid I must.’ Angela smiled sweetly as Max slipped the offending gossip rag underneath his armful of newspapers. ‘Man cannot live by the Financial Times alone. Or, at least, woman can’t. Don’t you agree, Mrs Preedy?’
‘I do indeed.’ The proprietress of Fittlescombe Village Stores smiled broadly. Partly because she liked Mrs Cranley – everybody liked Mrs Cranley, and Max Bingley, headmaster of the village school and Mrs C’s husband in all but name. And partly because today had been quite marvellous for business. What with the sun coming out, and the disgraced Eddie Wellesley on his way home from prison to his new house in Brockhurst, it seemed the entire Swell Valley had made a collective decision to go forth and gossip. Everybody knew that the Preedys’ store was the epicentre of Swell Valley gossip. And so here they came, buying their papers and magazines and Bounty bars and home-made coffee and walnut cakes while they were about it. ‘That’ll be seven pounds and eight pence in total, please, Mr Bingley.’
Max handed over a twenty. At the back of the store there was an almighty crash as a shelf-ful of baked-bean cans clattered onto the floor.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Gabe Baxter’s voice rose above the din. ‘Hugh! How many times have I told you to look where you’re going?’
Max and Angela walked over to where a frazzled Gabe had started picking up the mess. Next to him a dirty-faced toddler babbled happily in his stroller, while his four-year-old brother clutched a die-cast Thomas the Tank Engine toy and surveyed the chaos he had created in a nonchalant manner.
‘I did look where I was going,’ said the four-year-old. ‘I was going over there.’ He pointed to the sweetie aisle. ‘The cans were in the way.’
‘Yes, but you can’t just knock them over, Hugh.’ Gabe sounded exasperated.
The little boy sighed and said sweetly, ‘For fuck’s sake.’
Angela giggled. ‘Hello Gabe.’
He looked up at her ruefully. ‘Tell your husband he’s not allowed to exclude children from St Hilda’s just because they’ve got bloody awful language.’
‘If I did that we’d have no kids left,’ Max grinned. ‘They’ve all got mouths like French truck drivers.’
‘I blame the mothers,’ said Gabe.
‘Where is Laura?’ asked Angela, deftly removing a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Hugh’s greasy little hands and placing it out of reach.
‘Working.’ Gabe put the last of the tins back and stood up. ‘Unfortunately we need the money, but I’m going out of my mind with these two.’ He looked at his sons with a mixture of affection and despair. Changing the subject, he asked Angela, ‘Has he arrived yet, then?’
‘Fast Eddie, you mean?’
‘Who else?’
Max Bingley looked disapproving. ‘Honestly, listen to yourselves. Like a couple of gossiping fishwives.’
‘Not yet,’ Angela told Gabe, ignoring her other
