Alfie passed the leather-bound menu to Betty.
“Have whatever you want,” he said expansively. “Your last meal in Bunburry should be special.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “My last meal in Bunburry? You make it sound like ‘the condemned woman ate a hearty dinner’. I’m planning to come back, you know.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Alfie. “The Green Party meetings are going to be sad affairs without you. Just me and the vicar staring into our pints, and we’re not even party members.”
“Thanks for spelling it out.”
Alfie was confused. “Spelling out what?”
“How little difference I’ve made.”
That wasn’t what he had meant at all. This was their first dinner together, and he’d wanted her to know that he would miss her. Now the evening seemed to be going wrong as soon as it had started.
He could point out all the work she did as an environmental activist, the lectures and seminars, the articles, the tireless organising of meetings and events. But there was every chance that she would just call him a patronising jerk. You had to tread warily where forthright American feminists were concerned.
He looked round the pub. The tourist season was almost over, but The Drunken Horse had no problem attracting locals. Two barmaids and a barman were busy serving under the supervision of Edith, the elderly mother of The Horse’s owner. But there was no sign of either the owner or his wife.
“I wonder where William and Carlotta are,” he mused.
“They’re in Italy, visiting Carlotta’s family,” she said. “They left yesterday. Edith couldn’t wait to see them go – she loves being in charge.”
In a few months, Alfie would have been in Bunburry for a year. But it still amazed him how everybody seemed to know everything about everybody else, and he didn’t. Perhaps there was a secret village website. Perhaps after a year’s residence he would be given the password.
Betty closed the menu.
“So, what would you like?” Alfie asked.
“An omelette.”
Alfie blinked. If Betty had been another kind of woman entirely, he would have assumed she was on a diet. But Betty was too active to need to go on a diet, and he suspected she would have ethical objections to women dieting anyway.
“Cheese,” she elaborated. “With chips.”
He had to admit that The Drunken Horse’s hand-cut chips were outstandingly good, and he had already decided to have some along with a medium-rare fillet steak, one of his favourites. And probably mushrooms and broccoli with almonds as well. A cheese omelette paled in comparison.
“Have something more exciting than that,” he urged.
“A cheese omelette will be just fine.”
He picked up the menu and scrutinised it. Now he could see the problem. Edith was indeed in charge. Gone were all Carlotta’s pastas and risottos, which Edith constantly disparaged as “foreign muck”. Instead, the menu was a carnivore’s delight, with vegetarians like Betty confined to an omelette – cheese or mushroom, since the other options were ham or shrimp.
And he should have been thinking more tactfully. She had never tried to impose her vegetarianism on him but marking her departure by tucking into a juicy steak wouldn’t impress her.
He stood up. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”
“But … we can’t. You booked the table. What will Edith think?”
He grinned down at her. “What will Edith think? I’ll tell you exactly what Edith will think. She’s already convinced that you’re my girlfriend, so she’ll think we’ve decided to spend your last evening doing something much more exciting than having dinner in The Horse. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
She hesitated. “I don’t –”
He grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and pulled her to her feet. “Come on! Edith’s not looking – we can make a run for it.”
He tugged her out of the pub and into the cool evening air.
She snatched her jacket from him and put it on.
“So,” she said, “what are we doing that’s more exciting than dinner in The Horse?”
“Dinner where vegetarian cooking is a speciality,” said Alfie. “Follow me.”
They walked through the narrow, cobbled streets to the village’s Indian restaurant, From Bombay To Bunburry.
It was packed, and for a dreadful moment, Alfie thought they were going to have to slink back to The Horse and order cheese omelette and chips for two.
But Rakesh Choudhury rushed over to them. “Betty, Alfie, what a pleasure. Sit in or takeaway? Sit in, good, good, I have one table left, specially for you. So sorry, we’re a little busy this evening. Here we are. I’ll leave you to look at the menu. Any drinks? Yes, of course, two Indian beers, right away.”
He shot off to attend to another set of customers.
Betty watched him go. “Wonder what’s up with him. He’s not himself.”
Alfie knew the answer to this one. Liz and Marge had told him. Feeling part of the Bunburry news network at last, he said: “Missing the family. His wife and children are in India for a month.”
“I know,” said Betty impatiently.
Alfie felt considerably deflated.
“It’s not that,” she went on. “Something’s wrong. He’s on edge.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen the place so full, and he doesn’t have his wife to help out.”
Betty shook her head. “It’s more than that.”
Alfie wasn’t sure how he had envisaged the evening progressing, but he knew he hadn’t planned to spend it discussing Rakesh Choudhury.
For the second time that evening, he handed Betty a menu. “Perhaps you could order for both of us?”
“Sure, I can do that. Now this is what I call a proper choice.” She scanned the menu. “Okay, got it, you’re going to love it.”
A young waitress, a diamond stud in her nose and a multi-coloured string bracelet on her wrist, appeared with the beers and a plate of freshly-made poppadoms with a small dish of chutney. “Ready to order?”
“Totally,” said Betty. “We’ll have a palak paneer dosa, a tarka daal and a baingan achari, pulao rice, a couple of peshawari naan, and some raita.”
“I’ll bring it as quickly as I can, but there might be a bit of a wait,” said the waitress apologetically.
“We’re in no rush,” said Betty. “And we’re quite happy with the poppadoms. Take your time.”
Alfie still had no idea where Betty was going. She had simply said she expected to be away for a while, in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion. But she might be more forthcoming now.
“Where are –” he began, just as Betty said: “You never –”
“Sorry,” said Alfie.
“No, go ahead.”
“Hello, you two!” A third voice joined the embryonic conversation, and the coy tone suggested that this was someone who had fallen for Edith’s fantasy that Alfie and Betty were a couple.
“Debbie,” said Betty. “How are you doing?”
The owner of Bunburry’s beauty salon beamed at them. “Great. Fantastic. And I’ll be even better after Rakesh’s mango lassi. I always come in for one after I close up. They’re so good for re-energising.”
“Hope you don’t need re-energising any time soon,” said Betty. “They’re run off their feet this evening.”
There was a spare seat at their table. Alfie stood up and held it out for Debbie. “Please, join us while you’re waiting.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you.”
“I’m not disturbed,” said Betty. “Al, are you disturbed?”
Debbie looked slightly puzzled. Betty was the only person who called him Al – she wouldn’t use the name Alfie because she said it reminded her of the womanising anti-hero of the classic film of the same name.
“Debbie, we’d be delighted to have your company,” Alfie said firmly, and the salon owner sat down with a murmur of: “Well, if you’re absolutely sure.”
Alfie offered her the plate of poppadoms, but she waved it away apologetically.
“Not for me, thank you, I don’t eat anything fried.”
Betty leaned over and took another, snapping it in two.
Alfie glanced at his watch. “Did you say you’ve just finished work? Isn’t this late for you?”
“Oh yes,” beamed Debbie. “I’ve been preparing the salon for tomorrow – got my first lady coming in for the Royal Blowtox Treatment.”
She seemed to be waiting for a response and Alfie hoped he looked politely interested. Betty just looked blank.
“Oh,” Debbie said. “So, you haven’t seen my advertising campaign?”
“Al,” said Betty accusingly, “how could we have missed that?”
Debbie gave a small giggle. “Perhaps you only have eyes for each other.”
“That must be it,” said Betty.
Debbie’s smile didn’t falter; apparently she didn’t do sarcasm. “It’s a special four-hour treatment, a cut and blow-dry, Botox, and lots of lovely pampering.”
Betty choked slightly on the last bit of poppadom. “So, who’s the victim – customer?”
Debbie beamed proudly. “Mrs Mosby.” Then she quickly changed her expression to one of respectful sorrow.
“Ah, the merry widow,” said Betty.
Debbie looked a little uncomfortable. “It was so sad, her losing her husband.”
Betty picked up another poppadom and bit into it. It was difficult to hear what she said through the crunching, but Alfie was pretty sure it was: “She seems to be doing okay.”
“You should pop into the salon some time,” said Debbie in what Alfie reckoned was an attempt to change the subject from merry Mrs Mosby.
“And why would that be?” asked Betty.
Debbie flapped her hands apologetically. “Oh no, I didn’t mean - just that all us ladies can improve on what nature gave us, can’t we?”
Alfie prayed that Debbie’s mango lassi would arrive in the next couple of seconds. But it didn’t, and Debbie moved her chair closer to Betty, studying her as though she was a specimen in the lab.
“Your skin’s beautiful, but there’s a little dryness in the T-zone. What range are you using for your cleanser, toner and moisturiser?”
“The range of soap and water,” said Betty curtly.
Debbie gave a small shriek. “Oh no, you mustn’t do that! You’re stripping all the natural oils off your face, and while you might get away with it when you’re younger, you really can’t afford it at your age.”
Alfie wondered whether he should leap up and shout: “One mango lassi to go!” to muffle Betty’s response. But Betty was apparently too stunned to speak.
Debbie warmed to her theme. “You could use just the tiniest touch of Botox.” She leaned forward and delicately placed her fingertips on Betty’s brow. “You’ve got a few little frown lines, and if you don’t do something now, they’ll only get worse.”
Then she ran a forefinger along one of Betty’s eyebrows. “Very good shape, but because you’re blonde, the colour’s a little too light. We would recommend microblading.”
“First Botox, and now you want me to go under the knife?” Betty said.
Debbie laughed delightedly. “Oh, goodness, no, it’s semi-permanent make-up, and it would give you that extra little bit of definition that you need. Your lashes are very light as well. We could tint them, but for the best effect, we would advise eyelash extensions. They’re quite expensive, but they last for at least eight weeks, so it’s worth it. And your hair –”
Betty was wearing her long fair hair loose this evening, rather than in its usual pony-tail.
“Gorgeous colour, good condition, lovely length. But it’s not really doing anything.”
“Why, what’s it supposed to be doing?” asked Betty.
“Oh, so, so much! We could change your centre parting and have some choppy layering to give you quite a sassy look.”
“No change to the parting and no choppy layering,” said Betty. “I can do sassy perfectly well without that.”
Debbie looked momentarily disappointed but recovered quickly. “A French plait would work – classic, or accented, or wraparound …”
She studied Betty still more closely and in a sudden move, gathered her hair, expertly twisting it into a coil, and arranging it on top of her head like a coronet.
“There!” she breathed. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
“She always looks gorgeous,” Alfie responded automatically.
Debbie let go of Betty’s hair and clasped her hands together. “What a lovely thing to say!”
“Isn’t it just?” agreed Betty. “Once he’s trained to give the correct answer to ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ he’ll be perfect.”
Debbie gave an uncertain laugh and seemed relieved that the waitress arrived at that very moment with the takeaway mango lassi. Rakesh was just behind with the food.
“Enjoy your meal,” said Debbie, and fled.
“I’m so sorry for the delay,” Rakesh said.
Betty inhaled deeply. “It smells absolutely superb. Well worth waiting for.”
“Too kind,” said Rakesh, already moving towards another table.
Betty emptied a container of fragrant rice onto Alfie’s plate and began dividing up the lentil curry and spicy aubergine.
“I could never have Botox,” she said.
“You don’t like needles?”
“It’s not that. If I couldn’t frown, how could I show my disapproval of women who go to beauty salons? I despair of my sisters sometimes. Why can’t they just be happy with the way they look?”
Because they don’t all look like you, Alfie thought.
“Botox is a poison, a toxin – the clue’s in the name. It’s crazy, the things women do because they’re scared of the ageing process. They should be celebrating it. I’m proud of my wrinkles.”
Alfie scanned her face. There were slight frown lines between her brows – brows that seemed a perfectly acceptable colour – but it gave her an intense look that he found attractive. And she had a crinkle of laughter lines beside her eyes. Beyond that, he couldn’t see a single wrinkle.
“It’s okay for men,” she continued. “You’re allowed to age as disgracefully as you like. You’re never going to be found anywhere near a beauty salon.”
Alfie, who had recently been contemplating approaching Debbie, thought he had better change the subject. His guilty secret was going to have to remain secret as far as Betty was concerned.
He passed her the dish of raita. “You were asking me something when Debbie came in?”
Betty spooned some raita on to her plate. “I was? Oh, yes, I asked you about it once before, but never got an answer. That ghastly couple you knew from London – they were talking about Vivian. Who is she?”
Alfie’s mouth went dry. “Nobody – nobody important.”
He should be struck dumb for blasphemy.
He reached for the beer and took a long draught. Betty was watching him closely and he mustered a smile. “Tell me about the merry widow,” he said.
“Eve Mosby? Not a nice person. She owns most of Bunburry and half of Cheltenham.”
“Really?”
“I may be exaggerating slightly. But she’s a filthy rich property magnate, and all she’s interested in is the profit margin.”
Betty tore off a triangle of naan. “She has a handsome young personal assistant, half her age, who assists her personally.”
Alfie put on the slightly disapproving expression he thought was expected, although he had absolutely no interest in Eve Mosby. How could he have said that about Vivian? But how could he have said anything else? This wasn’t the time or place.
He wasn’t sure how he got through the rest of the meal, but the conversation seemed to flow well enough. Perhaps Betty’s attention was also elsewhere since, when Rakesh came with the bill, she put her hand on the restaurateur’s arm and asked: “Everything okay?”
With his customary smile, Rakesh said: “Everything is more than okay, all the better for seeing you.”
Betty was thoughtful as she and Alfie set off towards her cottage. “I’m worried about Rakesh – something’s wrong, I’m sure of it.”
He had seemed fine to Alfie, but Betty had known him for a lot longer.
She rallied. “Anyway, before we were so rudely interrupted by the Botox queen, you were asking me something?”
“You haven’t said where you’re going.”
She didn’t reply, and Alfie rushed on: “With William and Carlotta and Rakesh’s family visiting relatives, I wondered if you were as well.”
“Yeah, that’s likely.” Her tone was acid. “My mom will prepare the fatted calf since she knows I don’t eat meat, and my dad will move state to avoid me. But I guess you’ve forgotten about my family situation.”
“I haven’t,” said Alfie, more sharply than he intended. “But you’ve still got family, and it’s never too late to mend broken bridges.”
“Al.” She linked her arm through his. “I’m sorry.”
He had an overwhelming urge to put his arm round her and pull her close. But that would be a mistake. She was only being apologetic.
“You’ve had it tough,” she went on, “losing your mom and never even knowing your dad.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “I don’t.”
But he did. Liz and Marge had known his father, or at least knew something about him they were refusing to tell him.
Betty gave his arm a little squeeze. “Okay then. Changing the topic completely, how are you getting on with your Open University course?”
Alfie stopped dead. He hadn’t told a soul about the OU, not even Oscar. He had found his psychology studies fascinating, and criminology seemed a natural progression. But it wasn’t something he wanted to publicise.
“How do you know about that?” he asked.
She started to laugh, leaning against him, and he had an even greater impulse to put his arm round her.
“I didn’t,” she said. “But everyone in the post office has been wondering why you’ve been getting correspondence from the university, and it turns out I’ve guessed right. What are you studying?”
“Underwater macramé.”
She nodded. “A useful skill. But seriously, I’m amazed you’ve got time.”
He thought she was mocking his status as a gentleman of leisure now that he had sold his start-up, but she was looking at him with something akin to admiration, which he found quite disconcerting.
“You really remind me of Gussie,” she said, as they began walking again. “You’re turning into a mainstay of this community, just like she was.”
“Hardly,” he muttered.
“But you are. We couldn’t have kept the animal shelter open without your support. Thanks to you, the library’s re-opened. You’re driving all round the countryside delivering fudge for Liz and Marge. You’re directing Agatha’s Amateurs, and I hear that for the first time ever they’re performing something that isn’t The Mousetrap. I also hear you’re volunteering at the hospice.”
“It’s good to keep busy,” he said awkwardly.
“At least you’ll have some free time now you don’t have to come to the Green Party meetings.”
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing,” he reminded her.
He thought that this time she was the one who sounded awkward.
“Some stuff for Greenpeace.”
“Lectures?”
She glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised, and he felt a tremor of disquiet.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.”
“How long will you be away?”
“As long as it takes.”
He paused, then asked: “Is it legal?”
“Can something be illegal, yet morally justified? Discuss.”
They had reached the outskirts of the village and were nearing the rough track that led to Betty’s isolated cottage. She stopped and let go of his arm. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
She obviously didn’t want an emotional farewell.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Goodnight.” He bent down to kiss her on the cheek. But she turned her head so that he kissed her on the mouth instead.
After a time, very gently, she pulled away from him. “I should go. I’ve got an early start.”
She gave him a quick hug before turning and heading towards the cottage.
“Stay safe,” he called after her, trying to keep his voice even.
And then he set off back the way he had come, feeling a disturbing mix of elation and guilt.