A Bitter Feast(29)
Craft cocktails in hand, the luncheon guests chatted on the terrace or drifted about the garden admiring the herbaceous borders, waiting for the signal to take their seats. The long pine tables on the pergola lawn, red-and-white-checked cloths tossed casually across them, looked just rustic enough to offset the delicacy of the mismatched vintage china and glassware. Multihued dahlias mixed with bronze rose hips spilled carelessly from the large jam jars scattered along the tables, but Melody, recognizing her mother’s fine hand in the arranging, knew that the artlessness was carefully achieved.
A little sigh escaped her. She felt awkward, as always, held up to her mother’s talents. Doug, she saw, was still admiring the garden—and her mum—with wide-eyed rapture. Before she could go too far down that resentful road, Gemma appeared beside her, having fetched two drinks. She handed one to Melody and raised her own glass. “Cheers. We deserve this. Wow,” she added, eyes wide, when she’d taken a sip. “That’s fabulous. What’s in it?”
Melody took a meditative swallow. “Local gin, I’m sure. See, that’s the distiller over there.” She nodded discreetly towards a young man with shaggy brown hair who was deep in animated conversation with a small round woman in an unfortunate russet tunic that made her look like an apple. “Mixed with local craft-distilled ginger beer. And fresh lime, I think. And”—she studied her glass—“something to make it pink and slightly bitter. Aperol, maybe. I think it’s Viv’s recipe from the pub.”
“Whatever it is, I like it.” Gemma sipped some more. “Who are all these people?” she asked, surveying the crowd.
“Local VIPs from the parish and the villages. The vicar. Farmers and food producers. The woman by the dishy distiller makes the most amazing cheeses. And see that tall, dark, brooding bloke over by the pergola, the one that looks straight out of a romance novel? He owns the cider orchard. Unfortunately for his single admirers, he’s happily married and has four kids. Mum is serving some of his cider at lunch, so be warned—that stuff is straight out of the cask and will hit you like a sledgehammer.”
Gemma grinned. “Point taken. But some of these people look like city types to me.”
“There are some food bloggers and restaurant critics. I don’t know them, but I saw the guest list. And that man”—Melody gave another nod, this time in the direction of a middle-aged, balding man in a seersucker jacket who was waving his glass as he held forth to Addie—“is the food critic for the paper. Dreadful taste in clothes, but he’s a big gun.”
“So lots of pressure—and big opportunities—for Viv,” Gemma said thoughtfully. Melody, familiar with Gemma’s thought processes, sipped her pink drink and watched her, waiting to see what would come next. “Your dad,” Gemma continued. “How’s he going to handle the death of a celebrity chef practically on his doorstep?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Melody had seen her dad arrive with Kincaid. “I don’t think he can afford to have another source scoop the paper. And if he leads with the story, it’s bound to come out that Mum and Dad live in the village, but it would at least give him damage control.”
“Surely they don’t try to keep that secret?”
“No. But they don’t advertise it, either, and it’s not usually newsworthy . . .”
“Awkward for Viv, though,” said Gemma. “Won’t it cast a pall on this lunch?”
Melody shrugged. “Maybe not. You know what they say—”
“Any publicity is good publicity,” Gemma finished for her.
Thinking of Viv’s stricken face, Melody wasn’t so sure. What exactly had Viv’s relationship been with Fergus O’Reilly, and why had she never mentioned it?
Well, people had their reasons for keeping things to themselves, as she very well knew. But the thought of relationships had struck a nerve. She’d managed to keep the photo Doug had shown her that morning pushed to the back of her mind as long as she was busy. She knew that she and Andy had agreed from the beginning not to make their relationship public. She, because she didn’t want the attention at work or from her parents. Andy, because both his and Poppy’s managers had stressed that fans liked to imagine there was a hint of romance between the two. But that photo? Really? What was he thinking?
Damn Doug for showing it to her. And damn Andy for prostituting himself for the tabloids. Assuming that was what he was doing. But what if what the camera had captured had been real?
Her mobile, tucked in the little bag she’d thrown over the shoulder of her sundress, rang. When she fished it out, Andy’s face popped up on the lock screen as if summoned. Melody stared at it for a long moment, aware of Gemma’s gaze.
Then she swiped Decline and dropped the mobile back into her bag.
Kincaid had spotted Gemma as soon as he stepped out on the terrace. She’d been adjusting the chairs at one of the long, decorated tables, but as soon as she saw him she hurried to him, her brow creased in a frown of concern.
“Darling, did Ivan take you to hospital after all?”
“No. Just his doctor in Cheltenham. She says I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Don’t worry.” He pulled her in for a hug with his good arm and kissed her forehead. “I’ve seen Kit, but where are the rest of the hooligans?”