Mating the Llama Read online

  *

  Lucy stared round at the milling crowd. She'd spoken to their hostess when, escorted by Flick, they'd arrived. Melanie, tall and thin and with a perpetually harassed expression, had thrust a glass containing a pale pink opaque liquid she still hadn't identified into her hand, and rushed away to greet some more arrivals. Flick, wearing her usual clashing colours, this time a purple and orange striped top and mustard skirt, had been pounced on by three young girls who wanted to know when the next rehearsal for something was. What the something was Lucy hadn't discovered, since Kate had dragged her across the big hall and through wide double doors into a huge drawing room.

  'They'll be in here,' Kate said airily, steering her towards a shabby chintz-covered armchair in a corner. As Lucy sank down into it, wondering why all the chairs she encountered were so reluctant to let her go, Kate whirled away and walked across to a small group of men standing beside the french windows.

  Lucy watched her, and smiled inwardly. Kate had succumbed to the lure of the little black dress. Little was the operative word. It had a mini skirt and micro bodice. Why had black become so chic in the twentieth century? Before then it had been the sign of mourning, of widowhood when life was deemed to be over. Maybe today life began with widowhood, and black was a signal both of availability and experience. Should divorced women wear black for the same reason? Then Lucy shrugged off her analysis of the symbolism and told herself to get on with the job in hand. She needed to circulate, to introduce herself to potential clients. She was only available to them, no more widowers. As she struggled to her feet, the still unidentified, and largely untasted, drink swooshed precariously round the edges of the glass, but though she knew how ungainly she looked, Lucy managed to hold onto it and escape from the swamping comfort of the cushions.

  A small elderly woman was perched on the edge of a hard chair, one of a row otherwise unoccupied, and almost hidden by one of the open doors. She had her feet tucked neatly under the chair, knees pressed together, handbag clutched in one hand, untouched drink in the other. Her dress was a timid fawn, ageless, timeless, and fashionless, and her pepper and salt hair not much better, even more vapid. Lucy began to feel optimistic. She looked so out of place amongst this sophisticated, well-dressed and on the whole much younger crowd, and so uncomfortable, surely she'd welcome someone to talk to.

  'Hello,' Lucy said, sitting down on the adjacent chair. 'I'm Lucy Latimer. I've only just come to live here, and I don't know anyone yet.'

  'Then how did you get invited to this affair?' The woman glared at her. 'Though Melanie's not particular, like her aunt used to be. Standards slipping, all the time.'

  Lucy took a deep breath. 'Flick Burroughs brought me,' she said, trying to control her resentment. The woman probably didn't mean to be insulting. And she couldn't afford to offend the locals.

  'If you know that one, you do know someone. Though it's hardly something to boast about. The woman's a disgrace, and what her poor mother would say to her goings-on, if she were here, I don't know! But then, young women these days are shameless. Do you have a family?'

  'A sister. She's at university,' Lucy said briefly. Could she walk away so soon? Would she be eternally damned if she deserted this obnoxious creature?

  'Hotbeds of political propaganda. In my day sensible gels didn't want education. What would they do with it? They stayed at home and waited for Mr Right.'

  Lucy shot an involuntary glance at the woman's ringless hands. How on earth could anyone be so antediluvian? Yet her day couldn't have been all that long ago. The woman was still in her sixties. She felt a moment's satisfaction that no Mr Right had appeared on this particular doorstep. Or had he, and swiftly run away? Was her sour attitude the cause or the result of her spinster's estate?

  'Not every girl wants marriage,' she said.

  'Humph. That's what they say, but present them with a rich, and if possible handsome looking man, and they soon change their tunes. I'll call on you. Introduce you to some of the right people.'

  'Thank you,' Lucy said abruptly. Not if she could help it. She had to get away before she was unpardonably rude to this old battleaxe. She'd hate to have to do her hair, and suffer all the undoubted complaints. 'I ought to circulate,' she murmured, standing up.

  'Like the Burroughs slut, no doubt.'

  Her face hot from suppressed fury, Lucy clamped her lips together, and moved away. What a dreadful old woman! Then the humour of the situation struck her, and she relaxed. Kate and Flick would hoot with laughter. But she still didn't know the woman's name. She was looking round for Flick, in the hope of enlightenment, when Kate appeared in front of her.

  'Hi, Lucy. You haven't drunk that. Don't you like it?'

  She took another cautious sip. 'I still can't identify anything, but it's growing on me.'

  'There's ordinary white wine somewhere. Shall I get you some? While you talk to the hunks,' she added in a low voice, jerking her head over her shoulder.

  'No, don't bother,' Lucy said. Somehow, she wanted Kate beside her. It was pathetic wanting the support of her younger sister, but her confidence was so low she needed Kate's brash, up-front attitude to bolster her.

  She glanced at the two men tagging along after Kate. They were considerably older than her sister, and she was surprised. She'd have expected Kate to home in on some of the younger men, of whom there were plenty. Then she realised the one on the right was the handsome one she'd encountered in the market, the one she'd been dreaming about ever since. In a suit that shrieked expensive bespoke, he looked more handsome than ever, and her insides performed some kind of gymnastics. She considered making a dash for it, then decided that in the first place there wasn't room to get away swiftly, and in the second, she would look even more stupid than she had before. Besides, she wanted to meet him again, didn't she?

  'Good. This is my sister, Lucy Latimer. I've been telling Robert and Doc here about the cottage, how much we love it here,' Kate said.

  Lucy nodded a greeting, trying to look nonchalant. She dragged her mind away from thoughts of what her dream man would be thinking, meeting her here, and tried to concentrate on Kate's assertion. Did she love it here? And Kate had only been in the place for less than a day, so what basis did she have for her opinion?

  Forcing herself to behave as normally as possible, she spoke. Or rather, croaked, as there seemed to be some sort of lump in her throat.

  'Yes, I do,' she managed, then coughed and found her voice growing stronger. 'Though I've been so busy getting sorted this is almost my first venture outside. Which one of you's the doctor? I haven't registered yet. That's one of the many things I still have to do.'

  Inwardly Lucy cringed. If her dream man was the doctor, she couldn't face the thought of being examined by him. She'd be a quivering wreck as soon as he laid hands on her, and he'd know, and despise her. Didn't all women fall for their doctors – if, that is, they were young and handsome?

  The slightly older man, in his early forties, with a rugged face and the broad shoulders of a rugby player, shook his head. 'I'm Robert Sinclair, and this is Doc Finlay. But he's not a medic.'

  'We did meet briefly,' Doc said, 'but didn't have a chance to swop names. Welcome to Shorter's Green, Lucy.'

  Breathing a sigh of relief she considered Doc. She was thankful he didn't start relating to the others how they'd met, in excruciatingly uncomfortable detail. He was just as gorgeous as she remembered. Sometimes she'd wondered. She'd been so flustered when they met she could have been imagining things. He would have looked good in one of those TV dramas where the handsome surgeon is always saving the lives of patients everyone else has given up on. He was tall, with broad shoulders, slim hips, and long legs, and his clothes, though casual, screamed hand made and expensive. His face was tanned, his eyes crinkled at the corners as though he spent a long time looking into the distance. Was he a skier? Or perhaps a yachtsman.

  She wouldn't mind being snowbound in a ski chalet with him. On the other hand, a yacht in the Medit
erranean or Caribbean, with opportunities for sunbathing on deck, might be preferable. She bet he stripped down well. But her bikini figure wasn't all she'd like it to be. She vowed to join a gym, or at least do some exercises at home. In a fit of enthusiasm years ago, when Karl had been more scathing than usual about her clothes getting tighter, Lucy had bought the books and the videos. When her efforts elicited nothing but scorn from Karl, she'd lost heart. But maybe it would be worth resurrecting the books and the videos, or even looking for some new ones. It seemed a growth industry these days, slimming aids.

  She dragged her mind away from fantasies of lying naked on the deck of a luxury yacht. She was off men, remember. Though her resolution seemed to waver whenever she thought of him. For this man she'd certainly change her mind. He really was gorgeous, and she suddenly realised she didn't want to spend the rest of her life on her own. Doc was speaking and she tried to concentrate, but watching those perfect, kiss-worthy lips made it difficult.

  'It happens to be my initials, but they also call me that after the old TV character. Didn't they repeat some of the series a little while ago?'

  She did vaguely recall a Scottish series with a grumpy older doctor and a handsome young one who wowed the local housewives. Was he the Finlay?

  Doc was still speaking. 'Robert's the medic. You live in Orchard Cottage, I hear?'

  'Not much orchard left,' Lucy said regretfully. 'Just one pear and a couple of old apple trees.'

  'But they are good ones. You'll be swamped with fruit. There's a wild damson or two in the hedge, as well, I think,' Doc said. She grimaced, recalling the damson-coloured hair and armchairs in Cuticurls. 'They can be very sweet,' he added encouragingly.

  'It's not the damsons she's averse to,' Kate put in, giggling. 'It's the owner of Cuticurls.'

  'Who?' Robert demanded. Doc's lips twitched and the men exchanged amused glances.

  'Lucy's planning to set up a mobile hair salon,' Kate explained. 'She was sussing out the competition and saw the owner, an utterly ghastly poofter with damson-coloured hair, drifting around the place. He even had a unisex name, Evelyn. I wonder where his Adam was?' She giggled again, and for a moment looked like a teenager, not the sophisticated woman of the world she'd aimed for. 'I must go in and explore. It sounds just too good to miss. Great for a laugh.'

  Both Robert and Doc were laughing.

  'Yes, you must. Weren't you impressed with our local beauty parlour?' Doc asked, turning to Lucy.

  'I'm amazed women will pay such prices,' she replied. 'I doubt if the hair styling and treatments are superior to those in salons charging a quarter the price.'

  'But, Lucy, they pay to be flattered by the owner,' Kate said. 'To have any man take an informed interest must be a change for most of them.'

  Robert shook his head in mock despair. 'Are all the young such cynics? Do you want another drink, Lucy? No? How about you, Kate?'

  'I'll come with you to find it. You should start with Doc, Lucy,' Kate added. 'His hair needs a trim, and I presume you'll be unisex.'

  'I'm sorry, that was rude of her,' Lucy stammered, knowing her face was red, and trying to keep her gaze away from the longish hair curling over Doc's collar. It was crisp, a very dark brown, and attractive. But she had to be realistic. She didn't want to find any man who was unattainable attractive. Doc was probably married. How could such a man possibly avoid it? Even if he had managed to stay single, he almost certainly had girls falling over themselves to get close. 'Being so near the end of her exams seems to have gone to her head.'

  'Will you take men as clients? If so, I must arrange an appointment. But you'll find your best customers amongst the women. You need to join some of the local organisations. The WI, for instance.'

  'I haven't made jam for years,' she muttered. 'And I'm sure I can't remember more than the first line of "Jerusalem", if that!'

  'They do much more esoteric things these days, I'm told.' He put his hand under her elbow and urged her forwards. 'Come, let me introduce you to the doyen of the local branch. I think she's called the President. Miss Flora Brown. She's sitting over there by the door.'

  She halted abruptly. 'No! I mean, I've already met her. She threat – I mean promised to call. I thought that went out with the Victorians, and she can't be that old!'

  'In her ways she is. Disapproves of everything modern. She clearly means to take you in hand. She loves a challenge, and my family have defeated her.'

  His family? Of course, as she'd thought, such an attractive man was bound to be married, and probably had several children. Her heart plunged into her shoes, and her voice wasn't very steady.

  'Are they all like her?' she asked hurriedly. 'In the WI, I mean.'

  Doc chuckled. 'By no means. Her father used to be the Rector here, and she's always run everything, since her mother was an invalid. Or tried to. In the process she's managed to offend almost everyone, but for some reason no one ever leaves her out of affairs like this. And she always comes!'

  'To sneer and be rude, I suppose.'

  'She really managed to offend you, didn't she? OK, you're reprieved. A few groups, like the drama society, have managed to survive on their own. I think she deserted them when they cast her as the wicked witch in a pantomime. My sister goes to the evening WI branch, which is mostly younger working women, or young mums, I believe, who find it difficult to get to afternoon meetings.'

  'They'd suit me far better, I'm sure,' Lucy said firmly. 'They'd want a flexible hairdresser too, one who'd work evenings and weekends.'

  'Let's go and get something to eat. Melanie's a wonderful cook, she usually finds something original to give us.'

  'Not ostrich steaks, I hope,' she muttered, hanging back as he tried to lead her into the dining room, from where she could hear the cheerful clatter of cutlery on china.

  'What have you got against ostriches?'

  'Nothing, that's the point. I just don't want to eat them. Or zebras. Or kangaroos. I'm off exotic livestock at the moment,' she added, and when he raised one eyebrow – he had fascinatingly mobile eyebrows, she discovered – she told him all about the llama. 'I can't see why you’re laughing,' she protested, but grinned herself. 'OK, it was funny, afterwards. But I don't see why Flick's brother has to keep any at all.'

  'I expect he likes them. There might be the ubiquitous prawns in the buffet here, or exotic salmon,' he offered. 'Perhaps there's snails, or frog's – '

  'I get the picture!' she said through gritted teeth. 'I might even prefer ostrich!'

  'Come and see.'

  As they were eating, unexceptional quiches and sausage rolls, nothing she might not have in her own home, Lucy was thankful to discover, they chatted and he told her about the other people in view. They were perched on an old oak chest in the entrance hall, balancing plates and glasses rather precariously, when a much older man stopped beside them. Still good looking, though in his late fifties, Lucy guessed, his face, what could be seen of it behind a greying, pointed little beard, was deeply tanned.

  'Doc, nice to see you.'

  'Jeff, back from your travels already? Meet your new neighbour. Lucy, this ladykiller, Jeff Bryant, lives next door to you. Lucy Latimer, Jeff, you lucky devil.'

  'Hello there. Sorry I wasn't at home to say welcome when you moved in. I hope you like the place. Sing out if there's anything you need.'

  The two cottages were on the edge of the town, along a narrow lane and separated by a couple of yards of garden. Though it was only a five-minute walk to the High Street, to Lucy it felt like real country. There were no other houses in the lane, which meandered up the hill and, she assumed, to the farm where Flick lived. Jeff would be her nearest neighbour, and she was relieved to find him so pleasant and friendly. If it had been Miss Brown living next door to her she'd have considered moving, She really would.

  *

  Chapter 4

  It hadn't been as daunting as she'd feared, Lucy thought as she was dropping off to sleep some hours later, even though she'd felt rather
bereft when Doc excused himself, and Jeff had been pounced on by a sturdy woman close to his own age. Flick had soon reappeared and taken charge. Almost everyone had been friendly, she'd met several women who seemed intrigued with her proposed venture, and at least two who'd asked for her card. Flick, driving them home later, had offered to introduce her to the Women's Institute, 'the non-stuffy one,' she'd promised, giggling, and reeled off a list of other local groups they must join.

  'I wouldn't have time for work if I became involved with all that lot,' Lucy protested.

  'That's where you'll find clients. The more the merrier. Cuticurls needs some competition.'

  The next morning Kate eyed her approvingly. This was rather a pleasant change from her usual slightly long-suffering attitude towards her activities.

  'You were making out fine with Doc,' she remarked, then gave an exaggerated sigh. 'He seemed to like you, too, more's the pity.'

  To hide her flushed face Lucy turned away. 'Pity? What do you mean? Want some toast?'

  Kate poured herself more coffee. 'I'll do it. Sit still. Well, if he's not married, I had him in mind for myself.'

  *

  Married? Somehow Lucy felt it was inevitable Doc was married, and it was stupid of her to dream of a closer relationship with him. Such a man, handsome, rich, and attractive, was bound to have been snapped up by the first canny female he encountered. She didn't have a chance, she told herself, even if he were free. Then she realised what she was thinking. Stupid, foolish Lucy!

  'For – for what?' she managed.

  'Marriage, of course. Lucy, pay attention. If he's rich enough, and from his clothes and what people said he's rolling.'

  'He – he's almost old enough to be your father!'

  'So? Older men like to have young wives, it gives them back their lost youth, the theory goes.'

  She stared at her sister in fascination. 'I thought you were all set to become a rich accountant on your own behalf.'