guy pops on to the screen, sniggering about something the interviewer has just said, before sweeping a hand through a thick, unruly thatch of black hair.
I crinkle my forehead, staring at the image. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Blimey, he’s very young to be a three-Michelin-starred chef, isn’t he? Barely older than Jack,’ I muse, but Lawrence smiles.
‘Oh no, this film clip is ages old – twenty years, at least. I reckon he must be mid forties perhaps, by now. Sorry, I should have explained.’
‘Hmm, oh right.’ I turn to face Lawrence and see a strange expression on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not thinking I might fancy him, are you?’ I laugh. I’m quite used to people trying to match-make for me, so I learnt ages ago to put my foot down right away. Mum is the worst culprit. Whenever I’m with her in Tenerife, she always tries to palm me off with some lost soul – usually divorced with a big chip on his shoulder and a long boring story about how the ‘ex-missus stitched me up like a kipper’. Lawrence looks a bit guilty but faces me down, tilting his head to one side and giving me a curious look. ‘Well, would it be so bad if you did?’
‘Weeeell, I don’t know, he just doesn’t look my type.’ I fold my arms and look away. The fact is, I’ve hardly had any good experiences when it comes to men – my own father did a disappearing act before my fifth birthday and Jack’s dad, Liam, didn’t even last that long. He left before Jack was born, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a father – he needed to travel the world and find his passion before he could even contemplate settling down. But then when Jack was about eight, I met Will. Sexy, talented Will, who played in a band and was rather gorgeous – but who ended up being almost as free-range and untrustworthy as Liam, and who finally decided he wasn’t doing either me or Jack any good. And since then, five or so years have passed and I’ve just not had the heart to begin dating again, even though Jack has intermittently told me that I should put myself on Match.com before I get ‘like reeeeeally old’.
Lawrence knew Will, and was really fond of him, and knows how hard his departure hit our little family at the time, and he looks suitably sympathetic. ‘Look, I know it’s really difficult, but Jack has moved on and so should you.’
‘I know that,’ I tell him, and I really do. ‘It’s more that I just can’t be bothered with it all. Getting your heart broken, and all that. It’s so overrated.’
‘Ahh, I get it!’ Lawrence persists, clearly still bemused. ‘You’ve made an assumption based on watching just a few seconds of an old YouTube clip and now that’s the end of it! Dan Wright isn’t your type!’ He holds his palms up in the air in an ‘I-give-up’ pose.
‘No. But look, he’s a celebrity chef from swanky Mayfair,’ I pull a face. ‘Worlds apart from me. I can’t even remember the last time I went to London.’ I pause to think and then it comes to me. ‘I know, Jack was about ten years old and Will and I took him to see the sights – Big Ben, Tower of London, Madame Tussaud’s, that kind of thing,’ I start, feeling very provincial indeed.
‘Marvellous! Seeeee …’ And Lawrence smiles. ‘You have the perfect icebreaker. You can ask Dan what his favourite waxwork person is.’ He laughs to lighten the mood.
‘Ha-ha, very funny,’ I smirk. ‘And just look at how he’s sitting.’ I tap the laptop screen where the film is paused, showing Dan on the TV sofa with his legs wide open.
‘Sitting?’ Lawrence laughs harder. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Everything! He’s a spreader. And spreaders are inconsiderate, with no respect for personal space,’ I inform him, sounding far haughtier than I actually intended to. I cringe inwardly.
‘Ha! Well yes, I can see what you mean. But honestly, I’ve not seen him sitting like that at the breakfast table – in fact I think he had his legs firmly crossed, and on the few occasions when we’ve chatted, he actually seemed quite nice. Plus, you have to agree, you aren’t exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to meeting a new man here in Tindledale.’
‘Hmm, this is very true,’ I say, loath to agree, but Lawrence has a very valid point. I grew up with most of the Tindledale men – went to school with them – so any charm or sexual attraction they might have had got lost somewhere along the way, likely when they were busy picking their noses in class or attempting a snog at the end-of-year disco, having scoffed all the prawn cocktail crisps from the finger buffet only moments earlier. Eugh. No, the mystique and magic just isn’t happening. ‘Anyway, like I say, I really can’t be bothered with all that.’
‘Truly? Isn’t it what we all want? To love and be loved! Oh come on, Meg, wouldn’t it be brilliant for you to be wined and dined? A gorgeous creature like you with your peaches-and-cream complexion and curves in all the right places …’ He grins, sounding very corny indeed.
‘Oh stop it, you old smoothy,’ I laugh, giving his arm an affectionate bat.
‘Weell, it’s true, and how marvellous would it be … swept off your feet and whisked away to his restaurant in Mayfair? Very romantic! And he has three Michelin stars, so you’d know you’d be in for a gourmet treat,’ Lawrence adds, brightly, for good measure.
‘Maybe, but what’s he even doing here in Tindledale?’
‘Good point …’ Lawrence pauses. ‘I actually don’t know …’ He looks thoughtful.
‘Ooh, you’re slipping, Lawrence,’ I tut, pretending to admonish him. ‘I’d have thought you would have found out by now – you usually know everything that’s going on in the village.’
‘Are you implying that I’m a gossip?’ He feigns hurt.
‘Of course not, but it’s true, you do often seem to know stuff.’
‘That’s because people confide in me – I can’t help that,’ he smiles, pausing to contemplate, and then adds, ‘There is a rumour going around that Dan is here scouting out the village with a view to opening a new restaurant.’
‘Really? And do you think that might be the case? Has he said anything about it? But where?’ I ask, racking my brains to think of a suitable spot for a high-end restaurant somewhere in the village. There are a couple of empty places – the one next to the fruit & veg shop is probably too small, and there’s definitely a rodent problem in there – I saw the pest control man’s van outside there just last week. But then it’s inevitable in the countryside with all the fields around us; I often have to put the mice powder down to stop them overtaking my cottage.
‘The shop at the end overlooking the village green is reasonably sized,’ Lawrence suggests.
‘Oooh, yes. And it’s double fronted, with lots of space to sit outside, which would be nice in this gorgeous warm weather, and very cosmopolitan, I imagine – sitting underneath a parasol enjoying an expensive bottle of wine with a ten-course tasting meal – that’s what they have in London …’
‘Hmm, but Tindledale is hardly Mayfair.’ Lawrence pulls a face.
‘True. And my fizzy elderflower wine is definitely not a fine Sancerre.’ We both sit silently for a few seconds, pondering the possibilities. ‘But, we have the village green right opposite – perfect for when the movie stars and celebrities helicopter in for their fine dining experience. And I’m sure your actor friends will come. You could call Dame Judi – or what about Helen? You said that she’s a great dinner companion.’
‘Ha!’ Lawrence laughs. ‘But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves,’ he adds, always the voice of caution. ‘Dan Wright hasn’t actually said anything to me about a new restaurant. We are just speculating. But if he is planning on opening one here, then even better – he can appoint a manager, a head chef or whatever, at The Fatted Calf in London, and then move here. Then you can both live happily ever after together in Tindledale,’ Lawrence finishes with a flourish, ever the romantic, having seemingly worked it all out.
‘Hold on, slow down a minute. It’s