glass of Prosecco and a catch-up. Which reminded her, she wanted to call in on Chrissie later to see how things had gone with Sam. Chrissie had told her that he was coming back and that they were going to be seeing each other for the first time in ages. Jude wished she could understand where things had gone wrong between Chrissie and Sam. They had so much going for them. Of course, no marriage was perfect, and they were quite different people. Chrissie was much steadier than Sam, who Jude secretly thought was a bit of a dreamer; a carefree, creative, surfer type, if they’d lived near the sea. She could see him now in a pair of shades, sliders on his feet, a MacBook under his arm and lots of ideas. He was an accomplished architect, but had always been a bit unfocused. That was until the last few years when he’d really thrown himself into work, especially after Holly’s diabetes was diagnosed. Jude wondered if that was where the connection was? She couldn’t even begin to imagine how it must feel to have your thirteen-year-old daughter with a serious condition like diabetes; it was hardly surprising that it had put a strain on their marriage.
Jude let out a long breath and shook her head, as if to create a feeling of equilibrium once more.
‘What?’ A gruff male voice asked to open the conversation, bringing her back to the moment and the telephone call.
‘Pardon?’ she replied, taken aback.
‘Is that the antique shop?’ the man demanded in a London accent.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Err, yes, quite sure,’ Jude confirmed, wondering if this was some kind of prank call.
‘But you just called me darling—’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did!’
‘Darling is my name and I sell antiques and … things for interiors such as—’
‘What kind of a name is that?’ the man cut in rudely. ‘Are you having me on?’ He sounded as if he might be laughing at her. Jude contemplated hanging up, but before she could decide, he added, ‘Can you come and see me? I might have some work for you.’
‘Depends,’ she said, not missing a beat.
‘Depends! What sort of way is that to talk to a potential customer?’
‘The sort of way that means … I don’t know who you are, or what work you would like me to do. So, until I have that information, I can’t decide if I want to come and see you.’
Silence followed. Jude caught sight of her face in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall near the little desk where the phone was and mouthed ‘idiot’ to herself. He might be cocky and rude and making fun of her name, but here was a potential customer. That’s what he had said, and she was being flippant. ‘Err, what I actually meant was,’ she quickly pulled back the conversation, ‘how can I help you?’
‘That’s better!’ And he actually laughed again. A big belly laugh this time. Jude hated him immediately. ‘So will you come or not?’ She looked again at her face, her cheeks all flushed and florid like two bruised tomatoes. How dared he? Who the hell did he think he was? And then, as if telepathically accessing her mind, he announced, ‘I’m Myles King. Rock legend! Will that do you?’
A short silence followed. ‘You’ve probably heard of me …’ More silence. Jude’s jaw dropped. There had been a rumour going around in the village. Her dad had told her last night over drinks in the pub that the megastar of the Noughties, albeit faded now, had bought the old Blackwood Farm Estate. Lord Lucan (not the infamous one who disappeared all those years ago, of course) and his wife, Marigold, had sold the estate and retired into the lodge house at the edge of the wildflower meadow, for a slower pace of life.
‘Can’t say I have,’ she said nonchalantly, unable to resist. Of course she’d heard of Myles King. Everyone had. And here he was on the end of her phone proclaiming to be a ‘potential customer’. But she’d seen it all before in LA. The obnoxious behaviour and oversized egos.
‘Where have you been then? Living in a cave?’ Myles chortled at his own joke. ‘Or, oh don’t tell me … you haven’t been banged up, have you? But then again, I thought they let you have radios and tellies in there for good behaviour.’
Jude exhaled, willing herself to get a grip. ‘Namaste. Namaste,’ she chanted over and over inside her head, as she been taught to do by her yoga teacher back in LA, for when dealing with unexpected ‘moments of heightened stress’. But, feeling like an utter arse, she promptly stopped, balling her free hand into a boxer’s fist instead, perfectly poised to land a right hook.
‘When would you like me to come and see you?’ She almost choked on the words, before adding, ‘Mr King,’ as sweetly as she could muster.
‘Now. See you in ten.’ And the line went dead. Jude stared at the receiver, just like they do in films when somebody hangs up unexpectedly, as she got her head around what had just happened. Is he for real? Talk about rude. And entitled. And pleased with himself. She’d never heard anything like it. And she had met some very high-maintenance characters in her time, travelling around the world working with exceedingly wealthy clients, some of whom seriously thought manners were just for the minions and not something that they needed to be bothered with at all.
But she had to admit that her curiosity had been well and truly piqued. Plus, she really couldn’t afford to pass by an opportunity to get her fledging business off the ground. So, she reluctantly blew out the fabulously fragranced candle, slipped her handbag over her shoulder and scooped Lulu off an armchair and into her arms.
After putting the Be Back Soon sign in place and locking the shop door behind her, she headed over to the Duck & Puddle pub to track down Tony. He was bound to be in there with his best mate, Barry, owner of the locksmith and hardware shop, with it being a Saturday afternoon. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t have started on his second pint, so would be in a position to give her a lift in his van down the lane to the Blackwood Farm Estate. But she knew she would need to be quick – Tony and Barry had been friends since school, in other words, donkeys’ years. So when they got going in the pub, there was no stopping them from reminiscing about the much-feted ‘good old days’, when nothing bad ever happened in Tindledale. Or so their respective memories seemed utterly convinced of. When, in actual reality, those days were most likely pretty much the same as – or similar to – how they were now. Tindledale was hardly a buzzing metropolis at the sharp edge of popular culture, always one step ahead of the current trends.
An hour later, and Jude had just got off the bus at the nearest stop to the entrance of the estate. Tony hadn’t been in the pub. ‘Got called away to sort out a potential leaky pipe over in the village hall,’ Cher, the pub landlady, had told Jude as she put his silver tankard back behind the bar for later. So, after trekking back across the village green, and past the paddlers by the duck pond, Jude had just missed the bus. On the hour every hour. She cursed herself for forgetting this important reality of growing up in the countryside, whilst marvelling at how some things never change, especially in the sleepy, rural idyll of Tindledale. She’d then had to wait for the next bus, all the while vowing to buy a car as soon as possible, which wouldn’t be any time soon, seeing as she had sunk all her cash into getting the shop up and running.
She gingerly went to push open the mildew-covered old wooden gates at the entrance to the estate, then thought better of it on seeing how dilapidated they were. The gate on the right-hand side was half hanging off the hinges. So she stepped through the little arched side entrance that was barely bigger than a Hobbit’s front door and went to put Lulu down on the soft grass. But the pampered pooch sniffed around disapprovingly, probably getting a whiff of the crusty, dried-up cowpats dotted around, and promptly went to scrabble her way back up Jude’s jean-clad legs in a bid not to get her carefully groomed paws dirty.
‘Oh, come on then, you spoilt madam,’ Jude laughed as she helped Lulu up and under her arm. ‘I’m going to have to get you one of those pet carriers if you keep on like this.’
‘What are