‘Shit, is that the time? I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date down the pub. Thanks for the cream, lover. Ciao for now.’
Her escape was so rapid that Adam almost reached out to stop her, but she had gone before he could rise from the desk.
He sat rigid and sweating, for a long time. His moment had come and he’d let her ruin it. Still, the idea was there, a seed planted in her mind. He had pointed out an alternative path to her. Now he had only to convince her that reformation was in her best interests, and that he was the man for her.
But what of this date?
He got up, seized his jacket and headed out.
The sun was setting and there was a smell of barbecue smoke in the air. From the Fleece, at the far side of the green, came the sounds of laughter and outdoor carousing.
He was obstructed in his path by a prostrate figure, clutching a gate post and groaning faintly.
Crouching down
to investigate he saw that it was Julia Shields, very much the worse for wear.
‘Julia,’ he said, putting a hand on her upper arm. ‘Julia, are you all right?’
‘Wassit look like? Don’t go drinking with journos, I tell you. You’ll lose.’
‘You’ve been in the pub since I saw you this morning? Hold on to me. Up now.’
He managed to pull her to her feet and supported her swaying figure along the lane to the small new-built flat she now rented on the outskirts of the village.
She fumbled for her keys for so long that eventually Adam took her handbag and extracted them for her. She collapsed on to her sofa, face in the cushions.
‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ said Adam. ‘Then I’ll leave you to sleep it off.’
‘Don’t go,’ she mumbled.
‘Sorry?’ He placed the glass on the coffee table. ‘I can’t stay, Julia.’
‘You on a mission again?’ she slurred. ‘That’s you. Mr Missionary. Go on, stay with me. I think you’re …’ She hiccupped and subsided back into the cushion.
He tiptoed away, then stopped by a bookshelf, his attention captured by a huge, leather-bound volume entitled Saxonhurst: A Village of Secrets.
He turned to the almost insensible Julia.
‘Do you mind if I borrow this?’
But her only reply was, ‘Awful cute,’ followed by another hiccup.
He held the book to his chest and left.
The Fleece wasn’t terribly busy – yesterday’s May Fair lingered in the livers of the villagers – so Adam was easily able to find a secluded alcove table in the snug. He set down his bottle of tonic water and his book and peered around the sparsely populated room. No sign of Evie. Had she been lying about her date?
His fingers drummed nervously on the hand-tooled cover of the book he’d borrowed. Only the village’s most dedicated imbibers could be seen propping up the bar. Perhaps she was in the garden.
He strode over and peered out of the door. A large group of middle-aged people, non-villagers, possibly walkers, sat with their pints of real ale at the favourite tables. Other than that, there didn’t seem to be anybody out there.
Oh no! Oh, what was that? At the top of the children’s climbing frame, two people all wrapped up in each other, snogging fit to wipe each other’s faces off.
He sidled closer, taking care to remain at an angle that wouldn’t be visible from the play area. The girl’s legs were bare, in ribbon-tied espadrilles, and that mane of curls gave her away immediately. It was Evie all right.
But who was her beau? He looked familiar. Clothes you’d never see the village lads dead in – a fitted blazer, very tight jeans, a fringed scarf round his neck. And an expensive camera at the top of the slide! It was that London journalist, Travesty, or whatever his name was.
Adam kept out of sight, sipping the tonic water in the gathering dusk, avoiding the attention of the walking group as best he could. It would only take one villager’s cheery cry of “Oi! Vicar!” and Evie would know he was stalking her.