Page 2 of The Player

“You mentioned it,” I say, hovering awkwardly. “You said it raised money for the village and then went on about people’s obligations who live in a village blessed by tourism.”

“Oh, I’m sure I didn’tgo on,” she says, a steely note in her voice.

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “That would never happen,” I add and then give a nervous-sounding laugh.

She waves her hand graciously as if to forgive my insult, but I know she’s got a memory longer than a fucking elephant, so I’ll suffer for it at some point. However, that’s a concern for future Frankie as my more immediate problem rears its head.

“So, when you say you have my name down on your list, you mean as someone you want to talk to about the event?” I say cautiously.

“Oh no. I have your name down as aparticipant. Your house was always such a popular stop-off point when Mr Finchley had it. The hollyhocks are a thing of beauty.”

I gulp because I’ve got a feeling those were the purple flowers I mowed down when I fell in them one night after a few too many glasses of wine.

She sighs tragically. “Such a shame that Mr. Finchley retired to live with his daughter.”

I have a feeling that he’d have happily retired to live with Vlad the Impaler if it got him away from Lucy.

“I’m afraid I might be busy,” I start to say and then sigh when her eyebrows rise queryingly. They look like startled caterpillars on her forehead. “But I’ll make sure I’m here,” I say, sighing. “My garden is your garden, Mrs Scrimshaw.”

She smiles triumphantly. “It’sLucy, Frankie. I’ve told you so many times. Wonderful. You’re such a welcome addition to the village, young man. Now, if only we could get Conrad to do the open weekend.”

That’s about as likely as Chris Hemsworth begging me for a date, but I just nod and move a few paces away.

“Yes,” I throw over my shoulder. “He’s away so much, though,” I offer vaguely, unwilling to throw my best friend to the wolves.

“Well, he’s back now,” she says, and I stop dead, feeling energy run through my body.

“He’s back,” I gasp, and she smiles knowingly at me. A smile that tells me I’m going to be the subject of gossip as soon as I’ve gone. I examine her and her friend’s faces. Maybe before I’m even out of earshot.

“Oh yes. Philippa and I passed his house earlier, and the gates were open.”

“That’s definitely a sign,” I say, trying for a hearty voice. “Like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory gates.”

She blinks. “Is Conrad thinking of branching into confectionary, then?”

I bite my lip. “No, he’s still making guitars. Well, I must be off,” I say quickly before she can say anything else. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Lovely to speak to both of you.”

I make it three steps down the pavement before her voice reaches me. “I’ll be around tomorrow to inspect the garden, Frankie.”

“I’m sure you will,” I say under my breath. I wave my hand. “I’m looking forward to it like a tooth extraction.”

“Pardon?”

“I said I hope I won’t be a distraction. Your work issoimportant, Mrs Scrimshaw.”

I move away, picking up my speed before she can speak again.

Even though I’ve lived in the village for a few years, the beauty of it still surprises me. The long high street is filled with a seemingly never-ending stretch of honey-coloured cottages. Lead windows sparkle in the sunlight, and although the architectural details of the cottages may vary, they still mingle in harmonious design helped by the ubiquitous heather-green paint on windows and doors. Everything looks pristine andcontent this morning. A relic from a long-ago time in England’s history.

I wander along the road, enjoying the tranquil early morning atmosphere before the tourists disembark from their cars, clutching cameras and ready for a day of peering into people’s windows with no sense of shame. They’re so different from the hikers who tend to emerge from their cars with a sense of steely purpose, unconcerned by everything apart from the Cotswold Way that starts outside the village.

I dodge around an old couple who are coming out of the Co-op. Even that looks like it’s a building in a BBC drama. It’s very easy to imagine a group of Jane Austen heroines giggling and wandering along the high street, ready to buy ribbons rather than the bottle of wine and packet of Hobnobs that are my usual purchase.

The old lady tuts at me for daring to be in her way. Her husband is wearing a pair of the salmon-pink chinos that most of the old men seem to wear around here. It’s as if when they got their house deeds, they were also issued with a pair of pink trousers and told very sternly to wear them at all times.

Finally, I turn the corner, walking down the side street and seeing the familiar bulk of the building that houses our business. I smile involuntarily at the sight of it. It’s two converted barns joined together by a glass walkway. A big sign sways in the breeze. On it is the silhouette of a guitar and the wordBridges.

Over the years, that word has meant more work than I’ve ever done before, a fair amount of heartache and worry, but most of all, a place in the world that is half mine and a business that had got me out of bed when I thought the world had ended. Mine and Conrad’s business.

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