Still, it was a smart event. I’ll need something to wear, thought Laura. She was going up to London that night to see Daniel. It was his birthday and he’d asked her up to town for dinner and a show, which she took as a positive sign. Perhaps she could squeeze in some shopping while she was there and look for a dress. That way, the subject of the Furlings Hunt Ball would come up naturally.
‘That’s a pound.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Times.’ Mrs Preedy, the shopkeeper, smiled at Laura kindly. ‘It’s a pound. You’re miles away, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry.’ Laura fumbled in her purse for the coin.
‘No need to apologize, my love. If I were your age and spending every day rehearsing with Gabe Baxter, I’d spend a lot of time daydreaming too!’
The women behind Laura in the queue all laughed loudly. It was infuriating the way that three-quarters of the village seemed to view Gabe as Fittlescombe’s answer to Ryan Reynolds. No wonder the man’s ego was so big.
Blushing, Laura paid for her paper. ‘Believe me, Mrs Preedy, Gabriel Baxter couldn’t be further from my mind.’
‘Whatever you say, love.’ The shopkeeper winked. ‘Whatever you say.’
* * *
Rehearsals that afternoon went better than expected. The schoolchildren did a first run-through of their candlelit procession from the school to the church, where the play itself would take place. Laura had confidently expected at least one child’s hair to catch fire, à la Michael Jackson, but in fact everything went smoothly. Better yet, the reception infants had finally learned the words to all three versus of ‘We Three Kings’, and had sung something loosely approximating to a tune.
‘It’s coming together, isn’t it?’ Laura said excitedly to Harry Hotham, who seemed almost as amazed as she was that his pupils had made such strides. Wearing a beautifully cut wool suit with a yellow silk cravat, his greying hair slicked back, St Hilda’s headmaster had clearly made an effort this afternoon. He reminded Laura of a 1950s English film star – David Niven, perhaps. She prayed his smart get-up wasn’t for her benefit.
‘All thanks to you, my dear.’ Harry smiled wolfishly. ‘Now listen, what are your plans this weekend? Can I tempt you to dinner in Chichester? There’s a new chef at Chez Henri who’s supposed to be the best on the South Coast.’
‘I’m afraid I have plans.’ Laura struggled to hide her relief. ‘I’m going up to London tonight to stay with, er, a friend.’
‘Ah. The playwright. Smart, isn’t it? Lucky fellow,’ Harry Hotham said amiably. There was no such thing as a secret in Fittlescombe. ‘Still, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.’
At home with your wife? Laura felt like saying. But she held her tongue. After all, she was hardly in a position to judge people for having affairs, not after the wreckage she’d caused by dating John Bingham.
The adults’ rehearsal went equally well. Lisa James was sick, no doubt exhausted by Gabe Baxter’s insatiable demands, so Laura had to stand in as Mary, reading all Lisa’s lines. She’d naturally assumed that Gabe would capitalize on this turn of events and play her up even more than usual. In fact, he was remarkably subdued; a little distant, perhaps, but he made it through the shepherds’ scene without a single snide aside or smart-alec remark at Laura’s expense. He’d even learned his lines.
‘I’m impressed,’ Laura told him when they broke for tea and hot mince pies, a Nativity play rehearsal ritual. ‘If you’re that good on the night, we’ll bring the house down.’
‘I’m always that good on the night.’ He fixed her with the moss-green eyes that had so captivated the rest of Fittlescombe’s womenfolk. Laura felt suddenly naked.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit hard on you.’
‘If?’ Laura spluttered.
Gabe frowned. ‘I’m apologizing. Don’t interrupt.’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Actually, that’s it. If you want we could have a drink tonight, bury the hatchet and all that.’
Laura looked at him suspiciously. Was this some sort of setup? Some sort of joke? He seemed sincere. The awkward shuffle of the feet, the clumsy way with words. Daniel was a master of communication, firing off witticisms and insights like a champion archer shooting arrows. Gabe Baxter was the opposite, a farmer from the top of his blond head to the soles of his muddy work boots. He certainly wasn’t stupid. The annoying truth was that he’d run rings around Laura ever since they’d started this play; he was an expert manipulator. But Gabe was a man’s man. Verbal communication was not his strong suit.
Laura decided she might as well meet him halfway. ‘That would have been lovely, but I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I’m going up to London later for the weekend.’
Gabe’s face instantly darkened. ‘To see Daniel, I suppose.’ He spat out the name like a mouthful of rotten meat.
‘Yes, to see Daniel.’ Laura stiffened. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing.’ Gabe turned away, helping himself to another two mince pies and mumbling ‘none o’ my business’ through a mouthful of crumbs.
Laura was so frustrated she could have hit something, preferably Gabe’s broad back, now turned towards her beneath his thick, hole-ridden Aran sweater.
‘If you must know, it’s Daniel’s birthday,’ she found herself explaining, unnecessarily. ‘We’re going to dinner and a show and I’m going to go shopping for a dress for the Furlings Hunt Ball.’
For some reason this got Gabe’s attention. ‘You’re going to the ball?’
‘Of course.’
‘With him?’
‘Probably,’ said Laura. ‘What do you care, anyway?’
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Gabe said nastily, his olive branch of a few minutes ago now apparently withdrawn. ‘Not in the least. I’m sure you and Daniel will have a lovely time shopping in Harvey Nicks.’ He mocked Laura’s accent with ruthless accuracy, laughing as he walked away to join the shepherds on the other side of the room.
Counting to ten to stop herself from screaming, by the time Laura got to eight her mobile rang. Seeing Daniel’s name flash up on the screen, she felt her spirits lift. Fuck Gabe Baxter and his childish mind games. What do I care what he thinks?
‘Hi,’ she answered happily. ‘I’m just finishing up here. I should definitely make the six thirty train.’
* * *
From across the room, Gabe watched out of the corner of his eye as Laura took the phone call. From her smile, and the way she cupped the phone, turning away like a child with a precious new toy they don’t want to share, he knew at once who must be calling.
He was angry, at himself more than anything. Ever since they were kids, Laura Tiverton had had the power to unnerve him, to throw him off stride. He’d envied her so much then, with her beautiful house and her happy family and her perfect, Enid Blyton-esque existence. Gabe’s parents had divorced acrimoniously when he was eight. The summers that Laura had found so idyllic and perfect, Gabe remembered as times of ingrained domestic misery, of shouting and crying and plate throwing. He was out on his bike all day because he couldn’t bear to go home. Against the backdrop of his own, crumbling