Page 19 of Best Man
“And what does a vicar’s son seem like?”
“Well …” He searches for words. “Pious,” he finally says. “Quiet and studious and humble.”
I start to laugh. “Well, my dad must have lucked out, then, because none of us conform to that.”
“None of you? How many are there?”
“I’m the youngest of eight children.”
“Eight?” His voice goes slightly high. He coughs and clears his throat. “Eight children,” he says in a marvelling voice. Silence falls for a second until he nods. “No wonder you’re so loud.”
I laugh. “That’s true. I had to be loud or I’d have been forgotten and left at a service station somewhere.”
“Was that a thing?” he asks cautiously. “Did that happen?”
“Oh yes,” I say cheerfully. “It was likeHome Alonebut with handy slot machines and a WH Smiths.”
“Oh my God. How long before they realised?”
“Luckily they hadn’t got out of the car park, which is a good job because it was another twenty miles before the next slip road.” I sigh. “I was doing so well on those slot machines too. If they hadn’t come back, I might have been a millionaire.” That startles a laugh out of himand I smile. “My family is loud, gossipy, and in your face. No wonder my dad went into the church. It’s the only peaceful place apart from the loo.” I look over at him. “How about you?”
He jerks slightly. “Oh, there’s just me,” he says lightly. “My mum died having me and my father died about ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty about mentioning my family.
He shoots me an embarrassed look. “No need to be,” he says brusquely. “It was all a long time ago.”
I sense there’s a story here, but his voice tells me I won’t be hearing it. I open my mouth to say something, but he says, “We’re here” with a strong note of relief in his voice.
He clicks the indicator and steers down a long drive that weaves in and out of trees, offering occasional glimpses of a huge golden-stoned building. Finally, we enter a straight stretch and the hotel is in front of me. It’s four storeys high and set in acres of landscaped grounds, including, according to Zeb, a fishing lake. It’s made of Cotswold stone that glows in the sunshine and the paintwork is a soft heather grey. The leaded windows twinkle in the light.
“Wow,” I say faintly.
He shoots me a glance. “I think you’ll like it,” he says as he pulls to a stop. “The staff are very friendly, and it’s comfortable.”
“You’ve been here before, then?”
He nods. “Patrick and I used to spend our anniversaries here.”
My mouth drops open, but before I can express my amazement at the unending depths of crassness that his ex possesses, he exits the car and I see a uniformed man coming towards us. I jump out, inhaling the scent of freshly mown grass, and smile at Zeb and the member of the staff.
“Peter will take the car round for us, and they’ll bring the bags in,” Zeb says.
“Lovely,” I say happily. “This doesn’t happen at a Travelodge.”
Zeb laughs, and the man smiles kindly at me.
I stand back, looking around me as Zeb slips the man some money, and the car peels away, crunching over the gravel. Zeb comes up beside me.
“Are we near anywhere?” I ask, looking out over the green fields spread before me like a verdant carpet.
He nods. “We’re not far from anywhere. Stow-on-the-Wold is a few miles away, as are most of the famous Cotswold villages.”
“It’s really pretty around here.”
He smiles. “It really is. We’ll shoot off if the group gets a bit much, and I’ll show you around.”
I smile gratefully at him, and he must sense the slight nervousness I’m feeling because he frowns. “It must be a bit intimidating,” he says. “But I’m here.”
