Jed would have loved the Battenberg. She stamped the sand off her feet, exasperated at how her thoughts kept circling back to him.
She unlocked the café door and inhaled the familiar sweet smells. Forcing herself to think positively, she grinned down at a sand-covered dog. ‘At least Dora is back in town, though, eh Trevor?’ Going through to the kitchen to switch on the kettle, she called back, feeling a little more cheerful, ‘And life’s never boring with Dora around!’
If one more person pulled her duck’s tail or made one more lewd remark about ‘little duckies’ Dora would seriously lose it. She tugged at her escaping tights and waddled through the White Bear’s public bar, rattling her money tin. ‘Buy a number for the duck race,’ she called. ‘Raise some money for a good cause.’ She’d have serious words with Millie later. How the hell did she get roped into this? It was little more than ritual humiliation.
‘Oi oi,’ called a man in a lecherous voice. ‘What have we got here?’
What got into these men? It was barely nine o’clock. Had she been away from her home town so long she’d forgotten all about these riotous Friday night drinking sessions? No, alcohol alone couldn’t excuse their behaviour; it must be the duck outfit that got them going. Male hormones obviously went into overdrive at the sight of a woman dressed in yellow feathers and red tights.
Dora adjusted her duck head to peer down at her latest assailant. He reached out and pulled her tail hard.
‘That’s enough,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve had enough. You can buy a duck for that.’ She held out her money box as a demand for payment. And swore. Hard.
‘How much?’
‘They’re a pound a duck.’
‘I don’t see any ducks,’ he sniggered. ‘Apart from you.’
‘No,’ Dora explained, for what seemed the thousandth time that evening. ‘You buy a number and then come along to the river tomorrow afternoon. All the ducks will have a number on them. We set them off and if yours wins, you get a prize.’
‘What’s the prize? You?’
Dora was having difficulty containing her temper. Her feet hurt, her head was sweaty from wearing the ridiculous duck headdress and she wanted to go home. Why was it such hard work separating people from their money? It was only a measly pound.
‘You get a fifty-pound voucher to spend at Millie Vanilla’s, the café on the front.’
‘So tell me again why I’ve got to buy a duck?’
‘I think the idea is it raises money,’ another voice interjected. ‘For the Arts Workshop. Am I right?’
Dora froze. She knew that voice.
With difficulty, she turned her head to the left. The drunk man had a friend. A man who was sitting next to him and who had been screened out of her sightline by her ridiculous duck head.
Shock reverberated through her. It was him.
It was not the way she wanted to bump into the guy she’d fallen so hopelessly in love with in sixth form. Whose heart she had broken when her parents had insisted that Berecombe’s bad boy wasn’t good enough for her. The years spent acting in the States vaporised. She was seventeen again.
Mikey Love.
Still with that gypsy-dark hair, although it was now threaded through with silver and not quite so unruly. Still with those wicked blue eyes and the grin that made you go weak at the knees and completely at his mercy. Whatever that involved. Sheer charisma. She’d never met a man with as much, even in the torrid world of American television. She hadn’t seen him for years. Since leaving Berecombe. Had never set eyes on him again. Until this moment.
‘Someone up there must really have it in for me,’ she muttered, the yellow felt headdress muffling her words.
Someone really had got it in for her. Millie and Tessa chose that moment to catch up with her. They’d obviously been treated to a drink and had given up all thought of fund- raising. Both held a glass of white in one hand, their duck head in the other. Deeply uncool, seeing as it was Tessa’s Arts Workshop they were raising money for.
Her bad temper was affecting her judgement. It seemed she was wrong.
‘Ooh, laters, babes,’ Tessa cooed. ‘Just spotted Dennis. A local councillor should be good to cough up a few bob.’ She made her way through the crowded bar, cheerfully batting off the stares and wolf-whistles.
Dora could admire the woman’s self-confidence, even if she found her loud voice grating. They must breed them tough in Birmingham.
Millie came up to her with a kind smile. ‘Just sold my last number. What’s been holding you up?’
Dora glared at her through the yellow. ‘Maybe you weren’t being molested all night,’ she hissed. ‘My legs will be black and blue after this.’
‘Oh I know, my lovely,’ Millie sympathised. ‘Me too. Swiped more than one bloke with a wing and then guilted them into buying a duck. How many tickets have you got left?’ she asked. ‘I’ll take a few and sell them for you. Actually,’ she reconsidered. ‘You know your trouble? You’re getting all hot and bothered. Take your head off.’ Without warning, Millie yanked off Dora’s headdress, leaving her marooned like a headless chicken, or rather duck. If anything, Dora now felt even more of a fool. At least, with her outfit complete, she made sense. Now, with an enormous yellow body out of all proportion to her head, she knew she must look ludicrous. What was more, with red hair and pale skin, Dora did not do heat in any way that was attractive. She knew perfectly well her face was scarlet and shiny with sweat and her hair flattened and greasy-looking. She scrunched up her eyes, waiting for the inevitable and tried to brave it out. With any luck, in this state she might be unrecognisable.
‘Dora!’
‘Fuck.’
‘Oh my God. It is isn’t it? It’s Dora Bartlett. Or should I say Theodora Bart?’ Mike sounded amused. ‘You’ve learned to swear in a very unladylike way since you left school.’
‘Oh my,’ said his friend. ‘Now we can see what the filly looks like. Or should I say duckling?’ He roared at his feeble joke.
‘That’s enough, Phil.’ Mikey stood up. ‘Forgive him, he’s had a bit too much to drink.’
‘Well, I had to try the cider now I’m in the West Country,’ Phil protested and turned to someone. Dora heard a very female giggle.
She opened one eye to see Mikey staring at her. Oh, how she remembered those naughty blue eyes. What the hell was he even doing here? The last thing she’d heard, he was working in London.
‘Hello Mikey,’ she managed eventually. How could he still make her legs go weak, her insides churn around in the most delightfully revolting fashion, just as he had when she’d been seventeen and in his thrall.
He came closer, or as
