Paradise Fields (8 page)

‘I'm not going to tell you! It's none of your business.'

‘It must be Weight Watchers. I don't know why you bother. You've got a lovely figure.'

‘Oh f—' Nel bit down hard on her lower lip as she realised what she had been about to say.

‘Don't apologise. I expect I deserved it.'

‘I wasn't going to apologise. And you certainly deserved it.'

‘It's just you're not in the usual run of women, you know.'

‘No woman is “just in the usual run of women”, that's a terrible thing to say,' Nel retorted indignantly.

‘You do seem to make me say terrible things. And I obviously have the same effect on you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You were going to tell me to – er – how shall I put it?'

‘Don't tempt me to help you out! See you in court!'

As Nel made her way back through the now thinning crowds to Suzy she didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry. However hard she tried, she couldn't ignore the fact that Jake Demerand was not only the most attractive man she had met in years, he was one of the most attractive men she had met
ever
. And the fact that there was obviously some sort of spark between them was not helping. He was the enemy. She held him responsible for the building plans even more than she did his clients. He probably gave them the idea.

‘I'd better go,' said Nel when Vivian had been given a quip by quip account of her meeting the other evening with the chairman of the football team, aka Jake Demerand, over a hurried drink. ‘It's the dreaded WW tonight, and I haven't been since before Christmas. I've probably put on a stone.'

Vivian yawned. ‘You'd have noticed your clothes getting tight if you had.'

‘I think they've just stretched. I'll give you a ring if anything of interest crops up.'

‘
Anything
of interest,' said Vivian. ‘Not just anything to do with the hospice or the farmers' market.'

‘They are closely linked, you know. The farmers' market is a nice little earner for the hospice.'

‘Oh, go away and torture yourself!'

Thus, late, aware that the white wine she'd drunk might smell on her breath, and not wearing suitable light clothes, Nel fell into Weight Watchers just before the talk was due to start.

Getting out her wallet, she searched for her card, finally finding it buried beneath all the other stuff in her handbag. She handed over a note, then, carrying
everything in one hand, she pulled off her boots with the other and went to the scales, where the leader was waiting. Then, throwing it all onto the floor, she said, ‘I'm terribly sorry, I just got all behind. Well, I've always been that, really . . .' As usual at this nail-biting moment, Nel made pathetic jokes, as if low humour could somehow stave off the ghastly truth. ‘I haven't been since before Christmas, but, then, you know that.'

‘Never mind, you're here now,' said the young and lovely girl, who, rumour had it, had produced three children without adding a single pound to her svelte hips. ‘How did you cope with the festivities?'

‘Well, to be honest, I didn't think about dieting. I just ate whatever I wanted.'

She stood on the scales, holding her stomach in and not breathing, in an attempt to make herself lighter.

‘Well! That must be a first! You've lost two pounds! Do you know what you did?'

Nel shrugged, delighted but mystified. ‘Just rushed around a lot, I expect.'

‘Exercise.' The group leader handed Nel back her card. ‘I'm always telling my ladies to get out there and exercise!'

Nel smiled, taking the booklet which followed her card and picking up her boots. Would watching a football match count as exercise, she wondered? Or did you actually have to play it?

Not wanting to hold up proceedings, Nel bought several boxes of Weight Watchers chocolate bars and piled them up under her chin, anxious to escape before the group leader made her feel obliged to stay for the talk. It wasn't that she didn't know it helped to stay, she did, but she just didn't have time. So she staggered
out of the door under the boxes of chewy bars, holding her boots, aware she was red in the face.

What
had
she done that was different? she wondered. She'd eaten out so much over the holidays. Perhaps it was because if she ate out she always had salad, and if she stayed in she often had pasta. Maybe she should write a diet book called
Eat Out Every Night
– it could be a companion volume to Viv's
Fit for an Affaire
.

Nel stopped dead. She couldn't believe her eyes. As if by some sinister alchemy she had summoned up the very man who had made her think she wanted an affaire. She was so shocked, she dropped all her boxes and her boots.

Jake didn't look shocked, he was frankly laughing, his face alive with merriment. Devil or not, his laugh was too infectious not to respond to. She'd been found out, and Nel was always ready to laugh at herself. ‘I am so busted!' she said. She picked up a boot and pulled it on.

He was in his squash kit: black shorts, white shirt, and a fetching gleam of moisture. As he knelt to pick up her boxes, she noticed how enormous his feet were in his squash shoes. What was it they said about men with big feet? She suppressed the thought.

‘You are indeed busted!' He straightened up, handed her the chocolate bars and looked down into her eyes. ‘I'm sure you don't need to come to Weight Watchers, but I'm quite pleased you did. Would you like to come for a drink? Or am I still the enemy?'

In some ways, he was even more of the enemy than ever, because he was flirting irresistibly, and making her do it back. ‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

If only he wouldn't look at her like that! He was doing it on purpose, to torment her! She knew he wasn't interested in her, so why was he being like this? Well, she wasn't going to give in. He could practise his charm on Kerry Anne, she'd be much more receptive.

‘I've got to get back.'

‘Why?'

She took a deep breath. ‘There's a television programme I promised to record for Fleur, and I can only do it if I'm there when the programme's on.'

He nodded. ‘That's a real shame. Next week, perhaps?'

She definitely couldn't handle this. He was the opposition. She couldn't go out with him: she mustn't even see him if he was going to have this effect on her. Nel decided that she was never going to that Weight Watchers again. She'd find another class somehow – or give up.

‘I don't think so.' She wedged her boxes more firmly under her chin. ‘Now I really must go, or I'll miss the beginning of the programme.'

It was Saturday morning, Nel was in the chemist, studying the buy-two-get-one-free offers, trying to decide whether it was really good value to buy six months' supply of toothpaste in one hit, when she saw the only person in the world she loathed.

Vivian always told Nel that she was very dull when it came to disliking people. People Nel declared she couldn't stand would, after Nel had got to know them a little better, become, ‘She's all right when you get to know her. She's just not a very good communicator.'

This time, Nel determined, observing Kerry Anne
Hunstanton inspecting body scrubs, she was going to keep right on hating her, and not find out about her difficult childhood, her alcoholic father, and end up either feeling sorry for her, or worse, liking her. She glanced at her; why did she marry Pierce? For his money? For his crumbling stately home?

Suppressing her sudden curiosity Nel scooped three giant tubes into her basket and moved on to the section euphemistically referred to as ‘feminine hygiene'. Here the special offers were very bulky and it was while she was trying to apply logic to the packing of them that she looked up and saw Kerry Anne right in front of her.

‘Oh, hello.' Maybe, she suddenly realised, if I took the trouble to get to know this girl, I wouldn't come to like her, but I might be able to find out what's going on. It was too much to hope that Kerry Anne'd be able to stop the building, but Nel smiled anyway.

‘Hi! Nel, isn't it? I wonder if you can help me. I can't seem to find any decent beauty products in this place. What I really want is . . .' She named a brand Nel had barely heard of, and would certainly not be available in a small branch of a chemist in a small town.

‘I'm afraid you'd have to go to Cheltenham for something like that.'

Kerry Anne shook her head impatiently. ‘I was there yesterday. Nothing. I tried every shop, and none of them had anything I would care to put on my face.'

‘Well, as you see, this is a small branch—'

‘So where do you go for moisturisers and stuff like that? London? You have lovely skin.'

This last was clearly not meant as a compliment, more a statement of fact, but Nel was still flattered. She also
just might have the key to getting on Kerry Anne's good side. It would be a shame to waste it.

‘I buy all that type of thing from someone who makes their own products. She sells them at the market,' she added. She was tempted to say that unless Kerry Anne got her husband to withdraw all plans to build on the water meadows, and go on allowing the market to be in their backyard, she wouldn't tell her where she could buy these products anywhere else.

‘Makes all their own products?' repeated Kerry Anne. ‘How bizarre! I'm really interested in cosmetics. I mean, it's so important not to put crap on your skin.'

‘Absolutely,' murmured Nel.

‘But it seems weird to make your own.'

‘Not really. After all, all these companies' – she gestured to the counter – ‘make all their own products. My friend just does it in her home instead of in a vast factory. She uses natural, pure ingredients, combines them, and then sells what she makes in blue glass jars.'

‘And are they any good?'

‘Oh yes. Her anti-wrinkle serum is really excellent. Not that you need to worry about wrinkles – yet.'

Kerry Anne shuddered, even at the word. ‘Well, where can I buy these things? If they really are so good?'

Nel thought fast. Kerry Anne was rich, and obviously a woman prepared to spend a lot of her money on keeping herself beautiful. If Nel took her to where Sacha made her products, Kerry Anne would spend a fortune. Sacha would be thrilled to have such a big-spending customer and visiting her might soften up Kerry Anne beautifully – and not just on the outside. Perhaps it would change her mind about building on the fields.

‘Well,' Nel began. ‘You could just wait for the next market. Or go to Bath. I think Sacha sells her stuff there . . .' She paused enticingly.

‘Or what?' To Nel's satisfaction, Kerry Anne immediately picked up the implication of an alternative.

‘Or you can go to her outlet and buy them direct.' Nel was not surprised to see Kerry Anne's eyes widen in interest. Almost all women liked bargains, and the word ‘outlet' did sort of imply cheapness. Nel would of course warn Sacha in advance, and make sure she charged Kerry Anne double what everyone else paid.

‘Could you tell me where to go?'

‘I could, but I'm too well brought up,' Nel mumbled and then went on, louder, ‘It would be better if I went with you. It's rather difficult to find. Or you could wait for the next market. It's due in three weeks.' The words ‘deferred gratification' came into Nel's head, and she realised this concept would be totally foreign to a woman like Kerry Anne.

‘I don't think Pierce wants it to happen,' said Kerry Anne. ‘We think it would be better if people got used to the idea that the fields are no longer available to them.'

‘In which case,' said Nel, sweetly, ‘I can't really take you to my friend. You couldn't expect her to welcome you when you're planning to cut off her main customer base.'

Kerry Anne's gaze narrowed. She seemed torn between disappointment and wanting to make it clear she did not respond to blackmail.

‘It's only fair to let there be one last market, don't you think?' Nel went on. ‘It would give stallholders a chance to tell people where else their products can be
bought. After all, you're not going to be living there by next month, are you? Probably not even a year next month. It wouldn't make any difference to you.'

Kerry Anne sighed. ‘I guess not. I could talk to Pierce about it.'

Nel smiled sweetly. ‘Talk to' and ‘tell' were obviously interchangeable for Kerry Anne. ‘Do. And then, if he agrees with you, you can get in touch if you want me to take you to where my friend makes her products. You can't call it a factory, exactly. I really think it would interest you.'

Kerry Anne fumbled in her Prada bag and produced a card. ‘Here. It has my cell phone number on it.'

Nel found a broken pencil and a crumpled receipt in her pocket and wrote on it. ‘And here's my telephone number. Try and persuade Pierce, won't you?'

‘Great, thanks.' Kerry Anne looked into Nel's basket, where the toothpaste and the shampoo were buried under packets of sanitary protection. ‘Do you still need all that stuff?'

Nel bridled. ‘Oh yes. I'm using it to insulate a chill-out room in my house, so I can practise my primal screaming.' She smiled in a sickly way and moved on, not sure if the sarcasm was obvious, and aware that Kerry Anne might now think she was not only ancient, but a witch as well. The wretched woman probably thinks I'm about sixty. No wonder she said I had good skin. I wish I was a witch. I'd send her cellulite.

Exiting onto the street at roughly the same time as Kerry Anne, it was somewhat embarrassing for Nel to see Jake Demerand. Why on earth did he turn up everywhere she was? She couldn't get away from the man. More annoying still was the fact that he saw both
women. Supposing Kerry Anne told him what she'd said? He'd think she was a mad old crone, too.

‘Oh, are you two getting to know each other?' he asked, sounding surprised but pleased.