Just Not Cricket Read online

  A stockbroker then, Jenny mused. Or a banker. Given that description, he could be either. Or a bookmaker? Satisfied with the state of her jam and confident that it would set in time, she took it off the heat and set it to one side to cool. As she did so, a shadow passed over her, making her look up in sudden surprise, but it was only a young lad, passing by the back window outside.

  Tall, with a mop of dark hair, he looked too slim for Jenny’s liking, but he had a sulky, brooding profile that she suspected probably drove all the teenage girls for miles around hormonally potty.

  As Jenny watched, he disappeared from sight around the back of the building, only to reappear at the front a moment or so later. Through the expanse of the locker room, she watched him through the front windows as he crossed over the field and started to help James Cluley fill the chalk machine.

  ‘Nice-looking boy, isn’t he?’ Caroline, who, with a bottle of vermouth in each hand, had paused to follow Jenny’s line of sight, smiled benignly. ‘Only seventeen, and already breaking the village maidens’ hearts. He’s James’s grandson, Mark Rawley. Took it hard, what Tris did to his granddad. Especially since he always used to hero-worship Tris,’ Caroline said sadly and somewhat confusingly.

  Jenny longed to ask exactly what it was that Tris had done to the lad, but didn’t have a chance, as her chatterbox companion was already talking once more.

  ‘Still, there you are, you have to live and learn in this life, don’t you?’ she said philosophically, if somewhat grimly. ‘We all of us get our knocks.’ And so saying, she stashed the last of the spirits in the last of the coolers and thoughtfully shoved them out of the way under the wooden table, where Jenny wouldn’t be constantly tripping over them.

  ‘There. Now, my old boy will bring the beer and the lager when he arrives, but they can stand in big tubs of iced water outside under the steps in the shade, so they won’t be in your way, either,’ Caroline said, making Jenny sigh with relief.

  The small kitchen was already cramped enough without her having to make way for stacks of beer cans.

  ‘Good grief, something smells good. What is that?’ Caroline demanded as she straightened up, sniffing vigorously.

  Jenny smiled. ‘Probably the spiced apple and sultana fingers in the oven. They’ll be done in another three minutes.’

  Caroline’s twinkling brown eyes swept up and down Jenny’s majestic figure with definite approval. Her old ma had always said that you couldn’t trust a skinny cook.

  ‘You know, I reckon the boys are in for a real treat – no matter what moody Mavis has been saying.’

  And with that rather devastating exit line, Caroline finally flitted off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Who was that masked woman?’ Jenny muttered wryly to herself and with a little smile, as the whirlwind of chatter abruptly ceased, and the pavilion fell blissfully silent. And who, for that matter, she thought with an even wider grin, was the cheeky Mavis, to cast aspersions on an unknown cook’s prowess?

  Jenny only hoped that this impertinent Mavis woman would be around and forced to eat her words (as well as Jenny’s perfect cooking) later on this afternoon.

  Leaving the first batch of breads to cool on a large baking tray, Jenny glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon, and perhaps a little early for lunch, but with two skinny men in eyesight, what did that really matter? Making up a tray that consisted of a little of everything that she’d baked so far, she made another two mugs of tea, and stepped outside into the warm sunshine.

  James Cluley’s face lit up as she approached and he spied what she was carrying, but the young lad with him had his back to her, and thus hadn’t yet seen her. They’d finished marking out the boundary lines, and were in the process of pushing a heavy roller over the ground nearest where the stumps lay ready, presumably to iron out any bumps on the pitch. Both men, not surprisingly, were beginning to sweat in the scorching heat, and Jenny made a mental note to herself to keep everyone well supplied with lemonade.

  ‘I still say you should talk to Lorcan about it,’ the old man’s grandson was saying sharply. ‘If what even half he says is true, then he’s the one who can—’

  ‘Hello there,’ James Cluley said loudly, very obviously and deliberately cutting off his grandson in mid-tirade before he could say more. The lad visibly jumped a little, and quickly looked around, his face an angry scowl. Not taking it personally, Jenny smiled at them both widely.

  ‘Hello – I thought some elevenses might go down a treat, after all that hard work you’ve been doing.’

  Mark Rawley’s eyes dropped to the cake selection first, his eyes gleaming in a way that made Jenny smile. Budding Romeo or not, the handsome lad still had enough child left in him to be beguiled by proper jam tarts and strawberry scones.

  ‘That looks lovely.’ It was the older man who spoke first, however, reaching for his mug of tea. ‘Thank you, Miss Starling.’

  ‘Oh please, call me Jenny.’

  ‘Mark, take the tray off the lady,’ he admonished. ‘Like your mum says, manners cost nothing.’

  The boy flushed in embarrassment, mumbled something incomprehensible in typical teenage style, and relieved Jenny of the tray.

  She smiled at them, but didn’t tarry long. They were clearly in the middle of a private conversation, and a somewhat fraught one by the sounds of it, and she didn’t want to be in the way. Nevertheless, as she walked away, she heard the lad pick up exactly where he’d left off, and couldn’t help overhearing what he said.

  ‘Not that I entirely trust that lying, thieving little toe rag, either, but maybe there’s something in it,’ the boy grumbled.

  ‘The money’s gone, and the solicitors don’t think we’ll be getting it back, and that’s all there is to it,’ she heard his grandfather say flatly. ‘You’re just going to have to accept it, lad. Things don’t always go your way in life, and it’s no use thinking that they do, so you might as well get used to it now. Look, I know you’re disappointed about uni, when we said we’d help you out and all, but you can still go. You’ll just have to take out one of them student loans like everyone else, that’s all. It may make things a bit harder …’

  His voice faded in the distance as Jenny went back to the pavilion and contemplated the walnut bread that was in its second proving. Yes, it was risen enough and just ripe for the oven. She relieved the oven of its latest batch of savoury turnovers, and popped in the bread.

  Now, for the meringues. Cooking in a single oven was a bit of a pain, but at least it kept her on her toes! In circumstances like these, timing was king.

  As time wore on, the players began to arrive, and she became aware of the growing noise coming from the changing rooms. She jumped as a discreet cough sounded behind her, and turned to see a tall, handsome man, with silvering hair and the beginnings of a slight paunch around his middle, standing in the doorway behind her.

  He smiled and held out a hand. ‘Hello, Max Wilson, the cricket captain,’ he introduced himself, holding out his hand. Jenny shook it with a smile. ‘If you don’t mind, I think it might be wise if we closed this door for ten minutes or so, just while we get changed,’ he carried on. ‘Just to spare your blushes!’

  Jenny smiled widely. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d blushed, but she was pretty sure that it hadn’t been the sight of any naked man that had caused such a phenomenon. Actually, if she remembered right, the last time she’d felt herself blush had been when someone had tried to tell her the correct way to glaze baked carrots. And the ensuing tide of red that had followed this impertinence had been caused solely by her effort to hold on to her tongue!

  ‘Of course,’ she said obligingly.

  ‘I’m glad you don’t mind.’ Max gave what he no doubt considered to be a very charming smile. ‘Wouldn’t do to get in the cook’s bad books, would it?’ And so saying, he moved back into the main room. And although he did, in fact, close the kitchen door behind him, thus cutting off her field of vision, the thin wooden barrie
r did nothing to shut out much sound. Which meant that she could clearly hear him start to talk to the woman who had arrived with him, presumably his wife.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know when Tris and Sir Robert will be coming?’ Jenny heard him ask.

  ‘And why should I know that? I’m not their social secretary.’ The voice that shot back the answer was curt and clearly spoiling for a fight, and made Jenny wince – and she hadn’t even been the recipient of it.

  She sighed wearily. So it looked as if Caroline’s gossip was right on the money when she said that the Wilsons’ marriage was in a bit of trouble. Unless, of course, they were one of those couples who actually liked to fight. She could never see the point of that, herself, but she had friends who swore scrapping helped keep their marriage lively and cemented.

  ‘I don’t know why I have to come and cheer you on anyway. You know I loathe sport,’ the female voice continued scathingly.

  ‘Not all sport, or so I hear,’ Max snapped right back.

  There was a short, ominous silence after this evidence of retaliation, and Jenny frowned at the obvious rancour going on between them. She only hoped that the old wives’ tale that marital spats had the ability to curdle milk was untrue, since she’d just set aside some home-made vanilla and elderflower custard to cool. She intended to make little individual trifles with it, with broken coconut macaroon bases and a white chocolate cream on top. She eyed the pale, cooling mixture thoughtfully.

  It didn’t look curdled. Which was good. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide it was lumpy custard.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so childish,’ Michelle Wilson’s voice came clearly through the wooden walls once more. ‘I’m going outside to set up a deck chair and do a spot of sunbathing. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do around here.’ And she must have been wearing shoes with some sort of a heel, for the sound of her clumping off fairly rattled the wooden floorboards under their feet.

  Jenny sighed over her custard. So this was the couple who were supposed to be celebrating their ten-year anniversary soon. She wouldn’t have wanted to be the caterer at that party, no matter what the fee! Anything she would have cooked would be far more likely to end up being flung at a spouse’s head, than eaten with the proper respect that her food deserved!

  Over the next half hour the spectators began to arrive, and the noise level just beyond her little kitchen rose to a general babble, making it impossible to pick out any individual conversations. Which was a circumstance that suited Jenny admirably.

  So when there came another quick tap on the door and Max once again stood there, looking more handsome than ever in his white cricket togs, she wasn’t particularly fussed to be told that everyone was now ‘decent’ and that she could come and go once again as she pleased.

  Jenny did, however, need a specific spatula from her van, so she stepped out into the main room, and immediately found herself the focus of several pairs of interested eyes.

  Caroline Majors quickly introduced her to her husband, and several of the others. Most of the men had that surprised-to-find-themselves-interested look that most men wore when they first looked at her, and tried to remember why it was that only women who resembled stick insects were supposed to be attractive. Others were merely friendly, whilst one or two just seemed to have other things on their mind.

  And one of these was a forty-something, rather podgy sandy-haired man called Lorcan Greeves. His grey eyes assessed her vaguely as they shook hands politely, and for a moment Jenny wondered why his name should sound so familiar, and then remembered Mark Rawley telling his granddad that they needed to talk to Lorcan about their financial woes.

  Jenny smiled politely at the various men in cricket whites, and went off to her van to collect her spatula. When she came back, however, a very handsome couple indeed were standing at the foot of the wooden stairs, blocking her way.

  The woman was a stunning redhead, only a few inches shorter than Jenny herself, with a slim athletic build and flashing green eyes. She was wearing a pair of elegantly fitted emerald green trousers of such a super lightweight material that it was almost – but not quite – transparent, and that must have cost something well into three figures. With it she wore a tightly fitting powder-blue tube top that hugged her full breasts lovingly, and over that she had donned an unbuttoned, elegant, long-sleeved, pure silk blouse in various shades of green, blue and white, interlocked in geometric patterns. The whole colour scheme complimented her fiery hair and pale-as-milk skin perfectly.

  She was also holding what looked like a glass of white wine in one hand, her blood-red nails contrasting sharply against the glass. This somewhat surprised Jenny – not because the woman looked teetotal, exactly – but because she had assumed that the booze was being kept back strictly for the buffet supper only. Still, she supposed peaceably, the sun had to be over the yardarm somewhere on the globe, and if the lady felt like she needed a stiff drink, who was she to judge?

  ‘Don’t be so damned spiteful, Tris,’ the woman was saying heatedly, taking a rather large gulp of her wine, and then reaching out to put her hand on her companion’s arm in a more mollifying manner. ‘Look, there’s no need to upset your father just now. You know he’s worried about work.’

  So this was the famous Tris, Jenny thought, amused, and regarded the Lord of the Manor’s disreputable son thoughtfully. In his late twenties, Jenny gauged, he was around her own height, with dark brown, slightly curly hair and dark blue eyes. He had the elegant but masculine strong-chinned, dark-browed, sharp-nosed classically handsome features that were usually depicted on the front of the old Mills & Boon novels.

  His body was lithe and fit, and probably boasted a modest six-pack. He looked young and sexy and immortal, and exuded a powerful allure that no doubt turned any female head within spotting distance.

  And he almost certainly knew it.

  Now he flashed a lazy, white-toothed smile at his companion, one which effortlessly combined sardonic humour and mild irritation.

  ‘Oh come on, Mommy dearest,’ he drawled, making Jenny do a classic double-take, since the last thing she would have guessed was that this precocious pair could possibly be mother and son. ‘You and the old man were washed up long before—’

  ‘Oh, Tris, there you are at last.’ Another woman, tall, slender and blonde, waved from one of the deck chairs that had been set up against the pavilion and facing the pitch. ‘I’ve been looking out for you for ages.’

  ‘Michelle,’ Tris said, giving the blonde woman a long, lazy and wickedly knowing smile. The look he cast over Michelle’s bare arms and the length of her long, tanned legs hardly needed an interpreter in body language to translate the sexual chemistry that was sizzling between them.

  Jenny saw the redheaded woman’s face suffuse with a dark, ugly colour. And since she couldn’t (even with the aid of the best plastic surgeon in the world) be any more than maybe thirty-two or maybe thirty-five at the most, Jenny surmised that, unless she’d been a very precocious child indeed, she simply had to be Tris’s stepmother. And from the way she was shooting daggers at the woman in the deck chair, whom Jenny guessed must be none other than Michelle Wilson, her feelings for her stepson fell a very long way short of the maternal.

  Which was all very interesting of course, except that Jenny had spinach and Roquefort quiches in the oven that would need to come out in a few minutes. So she coughed very loudly and pointedly.

  Tristan Jones glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting eyes every bit as big and blue as his own, and what’s more, on his own level. Instantly, his look altered appreciatively as he assessed her curvaceous figure. She could almost read his thoughts exactly as sexual speculation instantly lit up his face.

  Jenny flashed him her clearest ‘on your bike sonny/no way, Jose’ smile, and indicated the steps pointedly. Then she waved her spatula in the air, nodded at it firmly, and jerked her chin towards the pavilion doorway behind him. With a grin and a mock bow, Tris stood aside, exaggeratedly
breathing in to allow her room to pass him on the steps.

  The cheeky little sod.

  His stepmother, Erica, barely glanced at her, but also took a small step to one side, allowing Jenny to be able to brush past both of them.

  As she did so, Erica hissed quite clearly at Tris, ‘If you think your father will believe you, you’re insane! He knows just what you are, Tris, and exactly what you’re capable of. So if you’re hoping you’ll be able to fool him, then think again. He has no illusions about his precious only son, let me tell you.’

  ‘Quite right, Mommy dearest,’ Tris drawled. ‘Alas, that’s all too true. Unfortunately for you, he has no illusions about you, either, does he? Why else do you think he was so insistent that you had to sign a pre-nup, hmm?’

  Jenny, hearing the other woman draw in a short, sharp breath, no doubt in preparation for delivering yet more vitriol, determinedly strode on through the fast-emptying changing rooms and into the safety of her kitchen, an angry scowl creasing her forehead.

  If people were going to insist on arguing with one another, why couldn’t they do it in private, she wondered grumpily. She never could understand this modern phenomenon for airing your dirty linen in public. Nowadays, they even did it on the television, in so-called reality programmes. Or else plastered it all over social media. Why?

  Irritated at other people’s sheer bad manners, Jenny shrugged off her bad mood and emptied her oven of its latest goodies, then loaded it with the next batch, which was ready and waiting to go in. Then she glanced quickly at her watch. Good, nearly one o’clock. Soon they’d kick off, or start serving, or whatever it was they did in cricket, and hopefully then she’d get some peace and quiet around here.

  So far she’d been subjected – vicariously – to a marriage on the rocks, an old man and his family’s struggle with financial disaster, and now a mother-and-son spat that made Oedipus and his family look mildly dysfunctional.