Anything but Vanilla(44)

‘No, it’s Elle who features me. Sorrel is more like her mother, although where she gets that hair...’ She shrugged as if to say that was anyone’s guess.

‘Maybe, but the smile is unmistakable.’

‘Is it?’ Rather than flattered, she looked bothered. ‘Oh dear. It used to make my husband so cross...’

‘You missed a jolly good pie last night,’ Basil said, rescuing him.

‘I’m sure,’ he said, grabbing the lifeline. ‘Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have made very good company.’

‘Better than Graeme. Such a fuss about a few dog hairs,’ Lally said.

Graeme?

‘It’s a shame about the beads,’ she continued, ‘although they wouldn’t do at Cranbrook Park. The boys are wearing white tennis shorts and polo shirts.’ She eyed him up and down, then shook her head. ‘Have you got a pair? Basil’s won’t fit you. Your waist is too narrow.’

‘Only by an inch or two,’ Basil protested.

‘An inch is all it takes, darling,’ she said. ‘You can’t hold a tray when you’re hanging on to your trousers.’ She turned that lambent smile on him and he could well see why a husband might get edgy... ‘It’s not a problem, Alexander. Jefferson’s are supplying the clothes for the boys. Just pop in and tell them that you’re part of the Scoop! team. They’ll fix you up.’

Fortunately a customer arrived at that moment and, seizing the opportunity to escape, he said, ‘I’ll just pick up the books.’

* * *

Alexander hadn’t come. Sorrel hadn’t expected him. She didn’t want him to come. He was a disrupting influence on her life.

He’d been quite clear that ‘goodbye’ had meant just that last night. Which was fine. It had been unreasonable of her to expect him to help out someone he didn’t know. He’d done more than enough yesterday.

Her hand went to her lips and she snatched it away.

Everything was fine. She’d come prepared to fill the gap left by Basil herself. She’d even remembered to bring her camera to take photographs for the blog and, before the guests began to arrive, she lined up her well-drilled team of catering students from the local college in front of a mini Roman temple.

They were standing up close, girl, boy, girl, boy, half turned towards the camera, the girls’ ice-cream coloured, full-skirted frocks billowing out to hide the rather pale legs of a couple of the young men who hadn’t exposed them to the sun that year. Unfortunately, by the time she’d seen the problem it had been too late to send them to the local tanning salon for a quick spray, but once the lawn was filled with celebrities no one would be looking at their legs.

‘Big smile, everyone,’ she said, checking the screen to make sure she hadn’t cut off any heads or feet.

She took half a dozen shots, but as she was about to tell them to relax a voice behind her said, ‘Hold it. I’ll have one of those.’ She glanced round as one of the press photographers, prowling the grounds for atmosphere shots, came up behind her. ‘You’ve got a good eye for a picture. Who are you?’

‘Sorrel Amery from Scoop!’ she said, checking his identity tag. ‘We’ll be serving the champagne tea. Who are you with, Tony?’ she asked.

‘Celebrity. Do you mind if I help myself to your pose?’

‘Not if you promise to use the picture,’ she said, slipping out one of the cards she had tucked at the back of her own identity badge and handing it to him, so that he would remember who they were.

‘That’s up to the picture editor, but a row of pretty girls always goes down well.’ He glanced at the card. ‘Ice cream?’ He looked her up and down with a knowing grin. ‘What flavour are you? Pistachio or mint?’

‘Neither, she’s cucumber.’

Her entire body leapt as a hand came to rest possessively on her shoulder.

‘Alexander...’ Calm, calm, calm... ‘You’re late. You very nearly missed your photo call.’

‘I don’t believe you actually mentioned a time.’

‘Didn’t I?’ she asked, lifting her head to turn and look up at him, conscious only of the warmth from his fingers spiralling deep down inside her, spreading through her veins with a champagne tingle. ‘You had my number. You could have called.’

‘You could have called to remind me,’ he replied.

‘I assumed you’d slept through the alarm,’ she said dismissively, making an effort to gather herself, step away from his drugging touch, ‘and took pity on you.’ Her brain responded. Her legs didn’t. ‘You must have been exhausted. It can take days to recover from jet lag.’