Chapter 16
Marnie slept soundly in the back bedroom of Little Raspberries and strangely what nudged her awake was the silence. Her ear was attuned to the sounds of Redbrook Row: the traffic, the opening and closing of garage doors, gates squeaking open and then shutting again, Mrs Barlow’s dog yapping as they set off for their walk at eight precisely every morning. She opened her eyes to a strange room flooded with warm light as the morning sunshine pushed through the pink curtains and, keeping her head on the pillow, asked herself what the bloody hell she was doing here.
This time last week she was head of Beverage Marketing, a suit, loved up, with her eye on world domination. She’d had a game plan: she would get on the board and who knows, might even be sitting in Laurence’s chair when he moved on to turn another sinking-ship company around. Now she was in the middle of nowhere, having flown here on a whim, living in a house owned by an old lady she barely knew and was about to embark upon a ‘career’ making secret cheesecakes for a wage that might keep her in pints of Guinness, but her Lulu Guinness days were definitely gone. This was all beyond madness.
Her mobile, charging on the bedside cabinet, showed that she’d received a voicemail. A message had been left by Fiona Abercrombie. They were coming to inspect her kitchen that afternoon at one o’clock. Could she please confirm that was all right?
Cilla Oldroyd had scrubbed the kitchen clean for Marnie but she still gave it an extra once-over before the formal inspection. Mrs Abercrombie would need sunglasses because the gleam from the worksurfaces was so bright.
She arrived at precisely one, carrying a serious clipboard and wearing white gloves, which she proceeded to run along, under, on top of and inside the cupboards, surfaces and appliances in Jessie’s ex-pie factory. She scribbled things down, looked serious a lot, studied whilst chewing the top of her pen and then declared that Marnie’s kitchen was Abercrombie-friendly and had more than passed muster.
Over a relaxed coffee, she went over her requirements. Marnie was to supply twelve foot-square cheesecakes of three different flavours every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, unless otherwise directed. These would be collected by a refrigerated van at eight o’clock on those days. The office would dictate what flavours they required four days in advance. Payment would be made by BACS. The first van would arrive on Monday morning, unless Marnie could manage Friday. From the extensive flavour list that Marnie had supplied, first-off they would require, four apple crumbles, four cream teas and four rum truffles. Marnie said she could get a Friday order ready, no problem.
Did Marnie have a business name for her records alone, Mrs Abercrombie asked. Something nice and anonymous, i.e. not ‘the Secret Cheesecake Maker’.
‘McMaid’s?’ suggested Marnie; it just came to her. That would do, said Mrs Abercrombie.
Mrs Abercrombie offloaded a stack of flat-pack boxes bearing the mendacious words ‘Tea Lady Instore Bakery’ and then she zoomed off in her Audi TT.
Marnie had told her that a large separate fridge for Tea Lady usage only was on order. It wasn’t, but it would be by the end of the day. She also needed to buy a lot of ingredients and cake tins. The day was taken up with shopping for those. It kept her mind away from what happened exactly a week ago: Suranna Fox storming the building, her life falling down a well – and one that felt as deep as any Margaret Kytson was thrown into.
But thanks to Mrs McMaid and Lilian Dearman, she hadn’t quite reached the bottom. Yet. She had a ledge to rest on, to recoup and rebuild. She had no idea how permanent the ledge was, but it was holding for now.
The fridge was delivered the next morning. She’d had to pay forty pounds more for it to happen, but that was okay. It was either that or wait until Monday and she needed the kitchen to be fully operational as soon as possible.
She had hoped to relax in the garden and read a couple of chapters of Country Manors down by the stream, but the heavens opened that afternoon and so she read at the kitchen table instead whilst eating a baked potato. The lord of the manor – Manfred Masters – (who it was suspected had warlock’s blood in him) had just seduced the gamekeeper’s wife, Eunice, who had shown herself to be – in plain parlance – a right goer, despite making all that jam for the local WI. Manfred could have charmed the knickers off anyone, but the author had still managed to make him sound like a decent bloke. It was fairly obvious that Eunice was merely using him, though. Marnie couldn’t wait until Manfred, who was falling in love with her, found out.
Just as Marnie was reaching a very juicy part, there was a knock on the door. She was surprised to find the May Queen herself on the doorstep, clutching a bunch of flowers.
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ asked Ruby.
‘No, not at all,’ fibbed Marnie.
‘I brought you these. Moving-in present.’
‘Thank you very much. That’s so sweet.’
It became obvious after an awkward silence that Ruby was angling to come in and Marnie was too polite to say, ‘cheers then’ and shut the door in her face. So she invited her inside.
‘Can I get you a coffee or a tea?’ She remembered Lionel’s gift. ‘Or a glass of wine, maybe?’
‘Thank you, a glass would be lovely. Mr Temple’s is it?’
‘That’s right.’
Marnie noticed how preened Ruby was, as if she was dressed for business rather than pleasure. She’d done a Body Language and Presentation course at Café Caramba and it had been rather insightful.
There was a prickle in the air as they waded through conversational niceties. Marnie played the game, until Ruby revealed her real reason for being there. She also made sure that she sipped the industrial-strength wine very slowly herself, but refilled Ruby’s glass in the hope that it would oil her tongue and they could get to the nitty-gritty.
Information was duly traded: Ruby’s family had always lived in Wychwell. Her father and mother were divorced and he’d moved back to Skipperstone. Ruby was a twenty-nine-year-old primary school teacher and was a member of Skipperstone’s am-dram society. She liked to sew, knit and read but not trashy stuff like the Country Manors thing that everyone was talking about. Her mother – Kay – worked part-time both in Plum Corner post office and in a mini supermarket in Mintbottom.
Marnie was more than careful with the information she gave out and forgave herself the odd untruth. Had she enjoyed the May Day festivities? – yes (true). How had she met Lilian? – on a baking site on the internet (true). What brought her to Wychwell? – she was in between jobs and taking some time out from the rat race (half-true). The line of Ruby’s questioning then become very telling: was Marnie single – yes (true). How long was she planning on staying – not that long (true). When was the last time she’d had a boyfriend – too long ago to remember (lie). Was there anyone she had her eye on? Marnie wanted to answer, ‘Herv Gunnarsen,’ and watch Ruby spontaneously combust, but she answered ‘absolutely not’ instead. If Ruby Sweetman wasn’t here to warn her off Lilian’s rugged Viking gardener, Marnie would have not only eaten someone’s hat, but the head inside it as well.
Ruby was knocking back the wine under the impression that Marnie was drawing level with her. If Marnie had had so much as a full glass of the stuff, there would have been a repeat of what had happened with Lilian on the confessional night she couldn’t remember. She wouldn’t have bet that her secrets would have been as safe with Miss Sweetman as they were with Lilian.
Eventually the H-word reared its mane-like head.
‘Have you met Lilian’s groundsman yet – Herv?’ Ruby asked. A discernible sigh was tagged onto the end of his name, Marnie noticed.
‘The bloke with the hair and the beard?’ Marnie played dumb. ‘I just said hello at the May Day event. Lilian introduced us.’
‘He’s gorgeous isn’t he?’ Ruby let Marnie fill up her glass again and then Marnie pretended to top up her own.
‘I can’t say that I really noticed,’ sniffed Marnie. ‘I go more for the dark, slim, short-haired-type myself.’
‘I heard him asking about you up at the manor house,’ said Ruby with a smile stapled to those thin lips of hers.
‘Oh? Can’t think why. Maybe he’s just nosey.’
‘Expressing an interest, possibly?’ Ruby began to run her hand around the rim of her glass until it made a really annoying sound.
‘It’s not reciprocated, in case you’re asking,’ Marnie mirrored the fake smile. ‘I’m not interested in men.’
‘Oh, you’re gay?’ Ruby’s relief was obvious.
‘No, not gay, just not interested. Especially not in a handsome man who would probably be more in love with himself than he ever would with me.’
Marnie didn’t mean to say that. She suspected Ruby Sweetman was the sort of person who would store such a slip of the tongue for later use. She tried to rectify the situation immediately.
‘I mean . . . not every man as good looking as him will be an arse . . .’ She was aware she could be making things worse. ‘I’m sure he’s great but . . . I wouldn’t be his type anyway, even if I wanted a man, which I don’t . . .’ She was digging herself a hole and she’d need a sixty-foot ladder to get out of it if she didn’t shut up. ‘Are you and him . . . an item? I thought you looked . . . er . . . nice together at the May Day event.’
‘Really?’ Ruby looked delighted by that.
‘Yes, when he was putting the crown on your head. He looked at you quite . . . quite . . . er . . . tenderly.’
‘We’re very good friends,’ said Ruby with emphasis, smile not stapled on now; rather it was adhering to her lips with the glue of joy. ‘He’s my best friend, in fact. We’re keeping it platonic, though. For now. He moved here after his marriage broke down. His bitch of a wife left him for his best friend so he needs time to heal before he starts another relationship. Early days.’
‘Yes, you could understand him wanting some cooling-down time after that sort of betrayal,’ nodded Marnie. ‘How long has he lived here then?’
‘Three years, six months.’
Marnie snorted and tried to convert it into a sneeze. My, he was a slow healer. Or not. Her third-last boyfriend had used the same line, that he liked her but he didn’t feel ready to get back on the relationship horse. But sex was permitted. Strangely enough, not only did he get back on another horse but he ended up marrying the horse and getting it pregnant within two months. They’d had twin foals by that Christmas.
‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he’s ready to love again,’ said Marnie diplomatically, thinking that Herv Gunnarsen was keeping Ruby at arm’s length for good reason because if he gave her the nod, she’d have shinned naked up his drainpipe before his neck had straightened up. She bet anything that Ruby had already chosen her wedding dress.
‘It’ll be nice to have someone in the village who is the same age as me,’ said Ruby. ‘Apart from Herv there’s no one else, they’re all old farts.’
‘What about Zoe Oldroyd?’ asked Marnie.
‘She’s only eighteen. I have nothing in common with a cleaner over ten years younger than me.’ Ruby’s words had a definite slur to them now. Her nicey-nicey mask was slipping. ‘. . . Although I do feel a bit sorry for her having to work up at the manor when she wants to go to university and do languages. She got really good A-level grades, but she can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Probably because she has to take over from her mum when she retires. They’ll lose their house if not. They’ve worked for the manor for generations. It’s tradition.’ Ruby gave the word a scathing tone. ‘Stupid people. Little people. Lilian Dearman pays them a pittance and they’d all line up to wipe her backside if they could. Lionel and Derek hang on her every word, that silly Emelie won’t hear a word against her, it’s like living in medieval times. I hate it here.’
‘Why don’t you leave then if you dislike it so much?’
Ruby didn’t answer but really she didn’t have to – because Herv Gunnarsen lived here, that’s why. And she was waiting for him to make his move.
‘I think I need your toilet,’ Ruby said, standing up and then falling straight down again. ‘Whoops.’
‘Upstairs to your left,’ said Marnie, hoping that Ruby would decide to go home now. She’d obviously done what she set out to and it was less to do with being part of the welcoming committee and more to do with warning Marnie off. She might as well have lifted her booty like a cat on Sunday and sprayed Herv Gunnarsen as he crowned her. Well, Ruby had no worries on any score. Let her crack on.
To Marnie’s relief, when Ruby came downstairs her first words were, ‘I’d better go. I’ve got an early start in the morning. We’re taking the children to the Viking museum in York.’
‘That sounds like fun,’ lied Marnie. She wondered if Ruby would be imagining Herv in the costumes, running at her intent on ravaging her.
Ruby picked up her bag. ‘Thank you for your company. We should do it again soon. Do you like the theatre and acting?’
If Ruby was angling for her to join the am-drams, she had another think coming. But Marnie wasn’t an idiot. She was all too aware of the adage ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ and knew which one Ruby thought she was more likely to be.
‘I occasionally go and watch a play, but I wouldn’t want to be in one myself.’
Nor did she want to be sitting watching Coronation Street in Little Raspberries comparing cross-stitching projects. She had secret work to do in here for the Tea Lady which involved a few very early mornings per week and no one snooping around her space. Especially not someone who gave off such hostile vibes.
‘Alas, I work unsociable hours. I’m a . . . freelance . . . copywriter in high . . . er demand,’ Marnie added. That would get her safely out of any future invitations, she hoped. She opened the door and forced out a yawn. ‘Thank you so much for the flowers, Ruby. It was very kind of you to make me feel so welcome.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Ruby. ‘Lovely to meet you properly. Lilian was gushing about you so much, we were all quite intrigued.’
I’ll bet you were, thought Marnie. ‘Enjoy the Vikings.’
She shut the door and fought the urge to slide down it. This was what she hadn’t factored into the equation – typical village life with nosey people wanting to pry into her business, bringing a jar of jam (or rather flowers) and demanding part of her soul in exchange. She poured out the last of Lionel’s bilberry wine, closed the curtains and locked the door. Then she picked up her book and slid back into her story of an untypical village life where no one was curious why Manfred Masters’ manor rocked with ear-splitting sounds of intercoital ecstasy, especially when the moon was full.