One Summer’s Afternoon: A perfect summer treat!

‘Well, it’s turning into a bit of a war as far as the television networks are concerned,’ Piers chimed in. ‘Now that de la Cruz is playing, Sky Sports have crawled out of the woodwork with a whopping bid for exclusive coverage.’

‘They won’t get it, will they?’ asked Penny. ‘I can’t imagine the Swell Valley match not being on BBC Two. It would be like telling the BBC they couldn’t cover the Boat Race.’

‘They won’t push the Beeb out, but they might see off ITV,’ said Piers, cheerfully. ‘Either way, it’s good news for the valley, and the constituency as a whole. Money’ll start pouring in now.’

‘Yes, but it’s not about money,’ said Seb. ‘Only a Brockhurster would think like that.’ Piers Renton-Wank-Stain seemed to understand even less about the spirit of cricket than Seb’s sister. He was surrounded by Philistines.

‘Whatever,’ said Emma, sighing dreamily, and already imagining herself on Santiago de la Cruz’s well-muscled arm. ‘I think it’s wonderful that Santiago’s playing.’

‘“Santiago?” What are you, best friends now?’ snorted Seb. ‘He won’t be interested in you anyway,’ he added, slurping up the last of his fusilli. ‘You’ll only make a fool of yourself, throwing yourself at him.’

‘Throwing myself?’ Emma tossed back her golden mane and laughed loudly. ‘He should be so lucky.’

‘He’s in his thirties. It’s disgusting! He’s almost as old as Mum.’

‘All right, Seb, that’s enough,’ said Penny, who didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. She agreed that a playboy like Santiago de la Cruz was the very last thing Emma needed in her life. But she knew her daughter well enough to know that, if she dared to say as much, she might as well be delivering Emma naked and wrapped in a bow into the unsuitable Argentine’s bed.

‘What about poor Will?’ said Seb, getting to his feet to clear away his empty bowl. ‘You know he’s still in love with you. It’s vile the way you keep him hanging.’

‘I love Will too,’ said Emma, a trace of nostalgia creeping into her voice. ‘But it’s complicated. Our lives are so different now. We’re so different.’

‘Yeah,’ snorted Seb. ‘He’s nice and you’re a total cow.’

He stormed off.

‘What’s got into him?’ Emma asked guilelessly, helping herself to her brother’s leftover salad. ‘He wasn’t this moody and obnoxious the last time I came home.’

‘I think,’ Piers said tentatively, ‘he might be a bit wound up about the match. De la Cruz polling up like this at the last minute might be good for the local economy, but it’s not exactly cricket, if you’ll pardon the pun. This game means a lot to your brother.’

‘How would you know?’ Emma shot back rudely. Pushing her plate away, she lit another cigarette. ‘You’re not family, you know.’ She too got down from the table and stalked out of the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry.’ Penny blushed. ‘I know it’s been a year. But it’s been hard for Emma. She was so close to her dad.’

Piers Renton-Chambers put a hand over Penny’s and squeezed, in a slightly more than friendly manner.

‘You’ve nothing to apologize for, my dear. She’ll grow out of it. They both will.’

I do so hope so, thought Penny. And I hope Emma was joking about setting her cap at Santiago de la Cruz.

With her brother and her besotted ex-boyfriend both playing for Fittlescombe, that really would set the cat among the pigeons.

*****

Later that afternoon, having parked his cheery red Mini Cooper on Brockhurst High Street, Piers Renton-Chambers crossed the street to the village shop with a spring in his step. Piers loved his life as MP for Arundel and South Downs. He’d grown up in West Yorkshire, but this part of the Sussex countryside was so stunning, Piers had had no qualms about moving here. Of course, it also provided the added benefit of being one of the safest Tory seats in England. Barring some spectacular scandal, Piers had landed the closest thing British politics offered to a job for life. All he had to do was fix a few potholes and keep the ladies of the local Conservative Party Association sweet. Piers flattered himself that keeping ladies sweet was one of his key political talents, and he wasn’t entirely wrong in that assumption. Unfortunately, it was a different matter when it came to finding a wife.

The Swell Valley was renowned as a home, or second home, for a plethora of England’s more attractive and eligible women. One could barely step outside one’s door without bumping into a famous actress, model, socialite or heiress and, as the local MP, Piers had a built-in excuse for approaching all of them and engaging them in conversation. Yet for some reason, when it came to asking a woman out for dinner, or ‘making a move’, as the tabloid writers put it, he found himself hamstrung. Inexplicably, the opposite sex seemed to find Piers’s chat-up lines cheesy and his romantic approaches were invariably rebuffed.

Since becoming a regular visitor at Woodside Hall, he’d taken things much, much more slowly. Here, for the first time in years, was a real chance: a chance to make a marriage that would be the envy of all his friends in Westminster and at the Carlton Club. Piers couldn’t entirely put his finger on it, but he felt sure that today, in some subtle way, he had advanced his case and improved his chances.

A bell above the door rang as he walked into Upton’s Stores. Mrs Upton, the shopkeeper, was chatting to a pretty young brunette whom Piers recognized as Laura Tiverton. Laura was a successful television writer who lived at Briar Cottage in Fittlescombe, who had inexplicably thrown herself away on a piece of local beefcake by the name of Gabriel Baxter. Gabe and Laura’s engagement party last week had been the talk of villages for miles around.

‘Is he really that ill, then? Shame,’ Mrs Upton could be heard saying to Laura.

‘I don’t know any details. But I saw the local GP making a house call to Furlings yesterday and again today. And he wasn’t at church last Sunday. That’s the first time he’s missed a service in more than ten years.’

Furlings was the ‘big house’, set on a hill above Fittlescombe with panoramic views of the village, the green and the South Downs beyond. Its master, Rory Flint-Hamilton, was the local lord of the manor. It must be Rory Flint-Hamilton they’re talking about, thought Piers.

Rory’s failing health had been the talk of all the local villages for months now – especially as his daughter and sole heir, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, was a well-known party girl and all-round tearaway. If Tatiana and her fast crowd of London friends were to move into Furlings when the old man died, who knew what would happen to the grand old estate, never mind the village?

‘Has the young Miss been home, then? Tatiana?’ Mrs Upton asked.

‘Not as far as I know.’

An irritated look crossed Laura Tiverton’s face. Laura’s path and Tatiana’s had crossed last Christmas, when Tatiana had run off into the night with Laura’s then boyfriend, a little toad by the name of Daniel Smart. Laura was delighted to be shot of Daniel, but she was not a fan of Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. Few local women were.