Chapter 7
‘Pheeeeewwww.’ I exhaled slowly through my teeth.
‘What’re you doing that for?’ Tom asked.
‘Doing what?’
‘Making that weird noise. Deano’s cheese souffle’s not repeating on you, is it?’
‘It’s a breathing exercise, dumbass. I’m psyching myself up.’
‘Wish I’d psyched myself up with a stiff drink,’ he said, huddling further back into his corner. ‘Oh God, they’ll start arriving any minute. Another fine mess you’ve got me into.’
‘What? You were the one who said it was a good idea!’
‘Suddenly it’s not looking quite so hot. Why the hell did we come so early?’
Ok, so perhaps it had been a mistake, arriving at Egglethwaite Temperance Hall – or the Temp, as locals tended to call it – a full half-hour before the Tour de France meeting. We’d wanted to avoid entering to the stares of a packed room. But now we were there, cowering in the hideous tangerine meeting room as we waited for anyone else to arrive, I was desperately wishing we’d called at Holyfield Farm for Gerry and Sue on the way. Now we just had more time to worry about this bloody presentation that according to Gerry wasn’t a presentation but clearly, clearly was.
‘Oh. Evening, you two.’
I summoned a weary smile for the chairwoman of the WI as she flounced in. Or rather, no longer Egglethwaite Women’s Institute but Egglethwaite Ladies Who Lunch, as they’d rebranded since Yolanda Sommerville – Sue’s best friend and bitterest enemy – had been elected chair.
Yolanda had pink hair. She liked shawls, Heat magazine, men half her age and being the most shocking person in the room. She made me want to gnaw off my own earlobes and fry them in garlic.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hello, darling.’ She shot a suggestive smile at Tom. ‘Tall and dark, just how I like them. How are we then, Tomasso?’
‘Still gay, love, sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind. I do so relish a challenge.’
‘Yeah. It doesn’t actually work like that.’
‘I’ve a bottle of elderflower gin in my larder says it can, handsome,’ she said, grinning. ‘Try everything once except incest and morris dancing, as the saying goes. Don’t tell Gerry I said so, of course.’
I shook my head. ‘For God’s sake, Yo-yo, give the lad a break. You know, sexual orientation aside, you’re old enough to be his mother.’
‘They call us cougars these days, my lovely,’ she said, tossing her shawls affectedly. ‘We’re very now, you know.’
‘You’re very deluded, you know,’ I muttered. But our conversation was cut short by the arrival of Gerry and Sue with a handful of society members. Gradually the room filled, until there was a standing crowd of about 30 people.
I felt a hand grip my wrist.
‘How the hell do I let you talk me into these things?’ Tom muttered.
‘How the hell do I talk myself into these things?’ I scanned the expectant crowd in a panic. ‘Oh bollocks. Look at them all. I bet they think we know what we’re talking about and everything.’
‘Oi. Language. No swearing allowed at meetings, Gerry said.’
‘No fucking swearing, are you fucking kidding? There’s a room full of assorted morrismen and their mates staring at me. And I bet that joke about it having bells on isn’t going to ice any turnips either.’
‘It never did.’ Tom patted my shoulder. ‘Well, don’t worry, sis, you can do it. I have every confidence in you.’
‘Me? Us! Don’t you dare pull out on me now.’ I grabbed his arm as he tried to sidle off. ‘Stay put or I throw you to Yo-yo.’
The chairman, Roger Collingwood, was clearing his throat for quiet. Tom and I put on our best calm-and-confident faces as we waited to be introduced.
‘Hm-hmmm,’ Roger began. ‘Ladies and gents. Welcome to this extraordinary meeting of the Egglethwaite Village Society. There is no agenda tonight, or rather – ’ he laughed nasally, ‘or rather, the agenda is an agendum. Only one item is before us. As we all know, Le Tour leaves Yorkshire next year, and we wish to consider how it could in any way benefit our little village. We have gathered you together, residents and business owners, to give your views.’
There was a buzz of conversation among the assembled crowd.
‘If we could get on the route it’d put a lot of custom my way,’ called Billy, landlord of the Sooty Fox. ‘Are there wheels in motion to get us under consideration or what, Rodge?’
‘It might bring custom your way, son, but it’ll do me no favours.’ Kit, one of Gerry’s farmer friends, leaned across the crowd to talk to Billy. ‘You don’t have land to worry about. I don’t fancy my fields trodden into muck and my cows scared into miscarriage by a load of oblivious townies.’
‘He’s got a point,’ Gerry said. He shrugged in our direction. ‘Sorry, kids, but he has.’ Sue glared at him.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Roger said, holding up his hand. ‘You’ll have an opportunity to say your piece when we’ve heard – oh.’ He broke off to acknowledge the man who’d just entered. I caught a brief flash of a too-familiar face, topped with sandy curls, before it blended into the crowd. ‘The new cycle shop owner, I assume? We’ve just started, you haven’t missed anything.’
I pressed my eyes closed.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I muttered to Tom in Italian.
‘Yes. It’s him. Sorry, Lana.’
Stewart McLean. The man who never called. He was back.