Pitch Imperfect (18 page)

* * *

Anjuli stared at the letter in front of her in rising horror. It wasn’t possible. After all this time, all the delays and requests for more information, the bank could not be refusing to lend her the full amount she’d asked for. Fifty grand would simply not cover it.

And Rob was happily on schedule.

Head in her hands, Anjuli’s elbows struck the bar with a loud bang. It was lunch time but the pub was empty except for her and Ash. Most of the village lined the streets outside, waiting for the beginning of the second week Common Riding parade. She’d brought the letter into Heaverlock, thinking to open it and celebrate the “good news” with her sister, and now...

Ash read the letter and gave Anjuli a hug. Her case was at the front door, and Viking due any minute to take her to hospital. Her blood pressure had been high during her doctor’s appointment and he’d decided to induce her the following morning. Viking was Ash’s birthing partner, a development she was unwilling to expand on but about which Anjuli was secretly pleased. The new barmaid hired to take his shifts would start tonight.

Before Ash left, she gave Anjuli a stern look. “Go outside and get some sunshine. We’ll think of something.”

“Like running out in front of the horses?”

“Drama queen.”

Anjuli stood in front of the pub and watched the parade advance down the high street, unable to enjoy the spectacle. She didn’t feel the excited buzz or see the green and white bunting decorating the streets, or the colourful flags in onlookers’ hands. The mounted riders seemed a mass of brown and black doom, coming to engulf her as punishment for her lies. Her mismanagement of everything, from her finances to her relationships with the people she valued the most. Drama queen indeed, but how was she to tell Rob she was thousands short of what she owed him? That she couldn’t pay for the rest of the restoration, that she had lied about her finances, hoping she would get the loan. That she had made a mess of everything.

Almost two weeks had passed since he’d gone to America, two weeks which had seemed like years. No matter the time difference or his schedule he phoned every night at eleven. Tempting fate, maybe, but she always answered. She could hardly ignore him, could she? They had Castle Manor to discuss, and email didn’t cut it. Surprisingly, their conversations had been relaxed and easy, as if Rob had tacitly agreed not to mention everything that lay between them.

She told herself she could convince him to forget about her secrets and about her, when he returned. She’d thought she had it under control, just as she’d convinced herself the bank would come through. Rob would be back in two days and then he would know what she had done. And he would be disgusted.

Scanning the crowd Anjuli crossed gazes with Betty McCullough, who stuck her nose in the air and turned away. Rude and out of character, or was her desperate state of mind interpreting Betty’s look—and that of several other villagers—the wrong way? Anjuli watched the lead riders trot past her to the end of the village, where they would begin their gallop across the moors. In a few hours they would reach the common land boundaries, where family and friends would meet them for a picnic. In the evening they would ride back through the village, to many cheers and shouts.

As much as she sometimes wished she were participating, Anjuli hadn’t given in to Mac’s urgings to ride her other horse. They’d bumped into each other at the post office and Anjuli had barely managed to speak to her without hyperventilating from guilt. She sighed. She’d been doing too much hyperventilating lately, mainly about Rob.

Farther down, Anjuli spotted Damien talking to Kayla Roberts. The young hairdresser looked as if she’d been handed a slice of treacle tart, greedy and unwilling to share. When she saw Anjuli looking, she said something to Damien and he frowned and walked over. A peck on the cheek, and he drew her hand through the crook of his arm.

“No attempt to steal a kiss?”

“Let’s keep them guessing.”

“I hear Kayla Roberts is single again,” Anjuli said. “She’s pretty and smart, and I’m sure she fancies you.”

Damien put on a martyred look. “Life as a gorgeous man is tough. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to be constantly pursued for my masculine attributes.”

“I just want your doggie skills.”

He waggled his brows. “If you insist.”

In spite of her bad news, Anjuli managed a small smile—until Damien’s next words wiped it off her face.

“When is Rob coming back?”

“Too soon.”

He looked at her intently. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

He clucked his tongue. “Can’t lie to a doctor, gorgeous, but your luck is in. The best way to forget someone is to sleep with an Irishman. We have magical powers.”

“Can you turn back the clock?”

Damien leered. “My magic wand can do anything.”

Anjuli gave him a playful shove...and found herself staring directly into Ben’s glowering face. He was riding past on an enormous chestnut stallion, looking down at her as if he wished he could trample her to pieces. What the hell was his problem? Oh, yeah,
she
was. All the same he looked incensed, not merely angry she was back in Heaverlock.

As the parade continued, more people gave her irate looks, the kind that try, condemn and hang you from the nearest tree. The Johnsons were on the other side of the road and when Anjuli waved, Mrs. Johnson scowled back. Then Phillipa Weensland brushed past her, muttering something that sounded very much like “slut.”

After the evening return parade, the Heaverlock Arms was packed to the rafters and she forgot about the villagers’ strange glances—until Sarah Brunel walked in. Damien’s face grew taut when he saw her.

“I just wanted you to know it wasn’t my fault,” Sarah said, not sounding the least apologetic or looking her in the eye. “My editor saw the photos and made the decision. There was nothing I could do. Sorry.”

Bemused, Anjuli stared at her retreating back. “What was that all about?”

“The village will get over it,” Damien said, but his face said otherwise. “People enjoy believing the worst of others, and if it’s in the paper then they think it must be true.”

“Get over what? What do they believe? What’s in the paper?”

“You don’t know?” he asked, brows raised. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it so I didn’t.”

Damien retrieved a crumpled copy of
The Borders Chronicle
. The paper looked as though it had passed through the hands of every person in the pub. Not surprising, since the headline was about the wind farm being turned off for the ride-out, and everyone wanted to read the about the festival.

Damien followed Anjuli to the back office. “Page three,” he said grimly.

“Oh God.”

The headline read Celebrity Gives up Singing for Swinging and underneath, in full colour taking up most of the page, three pictures of Anjuli kissing different men. Brendan, outside the seedy café in Glasgow; Damien, while they slow-danced at the ceilidh and—
oh shit
—it looked as if she was kissing Craig in her dressing gown.

Her back was to the camera but it was obviously her. Long brown hair, huge arse and the Redesburn moors in the background. Horrified, Anjuli read the scathing article, a comparison between the three men and a question as to which one owned her heart. Sarah must have pulled the paparazzo’s photo from a magazine, taken pictures at the ceilidh and snapped a shot of Craig’s assault before announcing her presence. Questions ricocheted in her mind but she had other, more important concerns to think about.

“I have to talk to Mac and explain, tell her that picture isn’t what it seems and the article isn’t true.”

“She won’t want to hear you right now, gorgeous. Nor will she believe anything you say. Give it a few days before you try to talk to her.”

Anjuli looked at Damien’s scowling face, her alarm rising. Did he believe this dreck? Would Rob, when he heard of it? Because he would. Nothing travelled faster than gossip in Heaverlock, and an ocean was no impediment. “The blond is my ex-husband, saying goodbye to me in Glasgow,” Anjuli explained. “It was one, brief kiss. A sort of farewell. And that picture with Craig is him trying to keep me from punching his lying, cheating face. Sarah happened to come along and she took a picture. No matter what her article implies, I’m not having an affair with him. I despise him.”

“Bastard.” Damien punched his hand with his fist. “I know you’re not having an affair with Craig and I also know he’s the father of Ash’s baby.”

Anjuli gawped at him.

“I saw Craig go up to the flat with Ash one night. Then I saw him leave the following morning.” He looked uncomfortable. “It wasn’t hard to work out who the father was when news of Ash’s pregnancy went around the village.”

And he’d never said anything, not a peep. Still waters might run deep, but seemingly shallow ones could be equally unfathomable. “Thanks for not saying anything.”

Damien’s voice was bitter. “I keep my nose out of other people’s business, but that doesn’t mean I like what I see. People like Craig always leave innocent victims behind. They don’t care who they hurt, or how much.”

“All I can think of is how Mac must be feeling.”

Damien hugged her and for once, there was no flirtatiousness in his demeanour. “Me too.”

“I’m so angry with Ash for sleeping with Craig and getting pregnant I could throttle her sometimes. But the person I’m worried most about is Mac. She adores Craig and she always has, ever since we were teenagers. They have two great kids and she’s happy, you know? If she thinks that he and I—ugh,” Anjuli shuddered in revulsion. “And when she finds out about Ash and the baby she’ll be devastated. I won’t be able to help her through it.”

Damien sighed heavily. “It’s a shitty mess.”

“Rob is going to hate me also,” Anjuli said dejectedly. “What the hell am I going to do?”

He tilted her chin up. “You’re going to get back out there and put on that smile you’re so good at. I’ll stay until the end of your shift in case you need me. Don’t shake your head. All I have to do is walk thirty paces and I’m home. You never know when the morality police will strike.”

Chapter Fifteen

Anjuli crouched, restocking the small fridge with mixers and answering Damien’s questions about Ash’s induction the following morning. “The only good thing to come out of this awful situation would be a healthy baby,” she said. “Ash is happy the moment has finally come.”

A harsh, ugly laugh brought her to her feet. Mac was at the bar, standing next to Damien.

“Like she was happy sleeping with my husband? Or did it upset her when you took over fucking him?”

Mac was purple with rage. Her long, black hair was loose, hanging in tangles around a ravaged, tearful face. People retreated as if from around a boxing ring. Gone was the sparkly, gentle woman Anjuli knew and in her place stood a pillar of fury. She looked half-wild.

This was another side of Mac, one Anjuli had never seen before. Damien put a tentative hand on Mac’s arm and she shook him off, eyes flashing with hatred. “I thought you were my friend!”

Anjuli reached out her hand. “We can talk privately in back...I can explain.”

Mac looked at the staring villagers. “Why should I want privacy? The whole village is already laughing behind my back. Sweet, stupid Mac. So trusting. So foolish. Well, they might as well know everything. Ash is a home-wrecking slut who slept with my husband and is having his bastard. And you, Anjuli Carver, are a callous bitch.”

“It wasn’t like that, Mac. I didn’t know until—”

Mac banged her meaty fist on the bar and Damien stood up, face taut.

“And to think I urged Rob to tell you why he never followed you to America. I thought you two belonged together and wanted you to be happy. But you don’t care about fucking people over as long as long as you get to fuck.”

Jaws dropped, and nobody made a sound as insults rolled from Mac’s mouth like slime from a gutter. Helplessly, Anjuli watched Mac fall apart, powerless to stop her.

“I hope you rot in hell and I hope Ash dies and the baby along with her!”

“That’s enough!” Damien said. He grabbed Mac’s shoulders and gave her a small shake. She stopped shouting to look up at him, her face crumpling.

“It’s time to go,” he said more gently.

Damien glanced at Anjuli and she nodded, hating Craig, Sarah and most of all, herself. Whatever he murmured to Mac seemed to wash the rage from her body and make her slump against him. The sound of her sobs filled the pub until they were cut off by the heavy wooden door shutting behind them.

Anjuli took off her apron and addressed the new barmaid. “I’m taking a break,” she said, glaring at the gawping villagers around her. Fuck putting on a public face.

She didn’t care what people thought or about pretending that all was well when it bloody well wasn’t. Ash needed her and Mac despised her, just as she’d feared. She didn’t have the money she needed, and she had to find a way to stall the building work on Castle Manor until she could pay for it.

What excuse could she possibly give to Rob for her lie and her omission? And what had Mac meant when she’d said he should tell her why he hadn’t followed her all those years ago?

Anjuli let herself out of the pub’s back door and whistled for Reiver. He’d recovered well from his surgery and accompanied her to the village. “C’mon, boy.”

The day’s warmth had disappeared with the setting sun, and while the air was crisp, Anjuli didn’t feel the cold. She walked down one of the narrow, cobbled streets that led off from the village green. The small row of cottages on her right had their lights on and she could smell several meals cooking as she walked past.

The Elliots were having fish and chips...Something Italian with lots of garlic at Mr. Crawford’s...Mrs. P. had burnt her steak with onions. Reiver licked his chops and ran up to her door, barking loudly.

“Shush, you gluttonous dog,” Anjuli called, but it was too late. Mrs. P. was at her doorway, beckoning her inside. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and neither would Anjuli’s disobedient, aggravating dog.

Mrs. P. led the way to the front room, where a bone-thin Mr. P. sat reading the newspaper. She greeted him politely and he nodded in response. She’d never heard Donald Peterson speak before, and he didn’t break the habit now.

“We’ve just finished our meal but there’s some scraps in the kitchen for your young friend,” Mrs. P. said. “My, my, don’t you look like you need a nice cup of coffee. Be a darling, Donald, and make it with plenty of sugar. You’re not watching your figure, are you, Anjuli? There’s nothing like a bit of sweetness on a bitter night.”

The delicate, flowery armchair sagged and creaked as Mrs. P. made herself comfortable and pointed at the sofa next to her. “How’s the manor coming on?”

Oh, thank God. Mrs. P. must not have heard about Craig yet. Handling her censure would be more than she could bear. “The masonry is finished and all the floors are repaired. The glass conservatory looks just as it used to when it was first built and...”

Anjuli’s voice trailed off. Mrs. P. wasn’t really listening. She’d leaned down and picked up a copy of
The Borders Chronicle
, opening it right to page three. Oh. She’d already seen the article and had been biding her time, itching to tell her what an awful woman she was. Maybe she would join the ranks of the “brazen hussies.”

Mrs. P. lifted her glasses from the chain around her neck and tsked a few times. “The rock star doesn’t look very healthy.”

Anjuli returned her frank look. “We’re not together, and I’m not having an affair with Mac’s husband, either, much as Sarah Brunel’s picture says otherwise.”

Mrs. P. huffed. “That woman is a...a bitching ho. Nobody with any sense believes you’re carrying on with Craig Scott and I’ll give them a piece of my mind if they dare suggest otherwise. That boy has always had a heart as black as tar. He tried to court my Lindsey, you know, right after Mac had their first baby. Disgusting behaviour, even if he is the only grandson of one of my best friends.” Mrs. P. raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Dear Catherine is probably turning in her grave.”

Clucking her tongue, she perused the newspaper photos once more. “That Dr. Mitchell is the exact opposite of Craig. He’s got integrity as well as being good...oh dear, what is the term? I learned it the other day, but my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Never mind, Dr. Mitchell is looking for love although he doesn’t know it.”

She pointed at the picture of Anjuli and Damien kissing and winked. “He’s certainly a manly man, isn’t he? Running every morning and doing his stretches on the village green before he checks in on Mrs. Wilson. He never fails to knock on her door bright and early to make sure she hasn’t expired. After that it’s down to the newsagents. He gets
The Dublin Times
especially ordered in.”

Did Mrs. P. have her binoculars trained on Damien?

“Vagina treat!” Mrs. P. exclaimed happily, and Anjuli’s coffee went down the wrong way. “Oh, no, pardon me. It’s pussy candy. I knew I would remember it without having to ask Donald. He falls into that category, doesn’t he?”

Somebody tell me she’s not asking me about Mr.
P.

“D-Damien?”

“Of course, dear. I’ve always liked the muscular ones, you know, but Donald isn’t like that. He is such a lovely husband though, if a little dense. Forty years of marriage tomorrow and in all that time he’s never understood why I like Sean Bean. I’ve seen all his performances except for that dark fantasy romp,
Game of Thrones
. Donald didn’t tell me it was on Sky until I’d missed all of Sean’s episodes. He can be jealous like that.”

Anjuli put her cup down. “Thanks for the coffee, but I should get back to the pub. Please don’t get up, I can see myself out.”

Mrs. P. heaved herself off the armchair with surprising agility. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice and I hope you take it, dear. I’ve lived all my life in this village—never been abroad and never wanted to go—but I don’t need to be a woman of the world to see what happens in my own back garden. Dr. Mitchell is ‘hot.’ He’s ‘buff’ and...’phwoar,’ but Robert Douglas is the man for you.”

Smile rigidly in place Anjuli turned to face her. “He’s just a friend.”

“Pish-tosh. My godson has loved you since he was twenty. Tell him the truth about these pictures and tell him you love him. Ah-ah, dear, don’t try to deny it. A woman my age knows these things. Silly misunderstandings and handsome vets shouldn’t get in the way of true love.”

Maybe I should get a T-shirt made.
“He’s just a friend.”

“Well, he looks like he wants to hop on your skeleton.”

Anjuli wanted to laugh and she wanted to scream. “You mean jump my bones.”

Mrs. P. patted her arm. “There, you see, such a smart girl. Don’t waste your life regretting the past. Close that Chapter and embrace the present, with Rob. Everything will fall into place.”

Really? Why hadn’t she thought of that? So simple, so easy. All she had to do was forget what she had done to Chloe and—poof!—instant happiness. She could “close the chapter” and “move on.” Write the next chapter. Hell, she could write a whole book, spewing useless platitudes and psychobabble. Obtain “closure.” How she hated that empty, ridiculous word, diagnosed as if it were a miracle cure.

Would anybody who’d experienced her loss ever find peace and move on? Would Mac, after discovering Craig’s true character?

Anjuli clamped her lips together, containing her irritation while she waited for her dog. If Mrs. P. wanted to feel insulted by her lack of gushing appreciation she could go right ahead. Then she could find somebody else to shove her advice at.

Where the hell was Reiver, anyway? She called out sharply and he padded up to her, tongue lolling happily. Mrs. P. scratched him behind the ears and made crooning noises.

“You take good care of your mummy, now, okay handsome boy? All alone in that huge manor with nobody but you to protect her until Rob gets back.”

Anjuli felt instantly ashamed. She really was a bitch if she could be rude to Mrs. P. She was only trying to be kind—in her busybody sort of way, but she meant well. And maybe she
should
phone Rob and tell him about Craig before he jumped to conclusions.

“Thanks for the advice,” Anjuli said sincerely. “And happy anniversary for tomorrow.”

Mrs. P.’s eyes glinted. “Sainsbury’s in Halton has a special offer on DVDs.
Game of Thrones
, season one, is only eight ninety-nine.”

* * *

“Flight BA 765 to London, Heathrow please proceed to gate number fourteen.”

Rob’s mobile rang as he entered the airline lounge but he didn’t answer. Anjuli had phoned him the previous day, several times, but he wasn’t ready to talk, not yet. Mac had cried inconsolably, telling him about Craig and Ash, and he’d read the article on the newspaper’s website. Seen the pictures.

There were more pictures on
The Borders Chronicle
website, and another photo of Anjuli and Craig. She was in her dressing gown and—God damn it, her hair was tousled like she’d just been fucked. Craig was all over her, hand on her arse and dick pressing into her.

His nostrils flared and a vein pumped in his jaw. A mature man, one in control, would hear what Anjuli had to say. He was mature enough, but he needed the nine-hour flight to London, the transfer to Edinburgh and the drive to Heaverlock to assume control of his anger. And he had to give Mac the support she needed, first and foremost.

He’d never liked Craig, but Mac had adored him and he and Ben had turned a blind eye to his faults. Philandering wasn’t one they’d known about. Craig was aloof but even so they’d wondered why he’d taken a lectureship so far from Heaverlock. Now they knew why. Every bone in Rob’s body told him Mac was wrong about Anjuli and Craig though, in spite of that damn photo. She was lashing out, not thinking straight. And yet...what the fuck was Anjuli doing in Craig’s arms in her dressing gown?

And what about the baby girl Ash had given birth to? His brother had phoned him about it, telling him that Mac was beside herself with rage. The news was spreading around the village like wildfire, and she was going off the rails. Had Anjuli known who the father was?
Of course she had
,
man
,
how could she no’ be aware?
Rob stared at the Boeings lined up in the morning sun, wishing he could be home in a snap of his fingers. Wishing he could understand the woman whose actions tore him to pieces.

Could Anjuli really spend time with Mac, pretend to be her friend when all the while she knew Ash and Craig were lovers? Could she really play his sister so false?

His heart said she wouldn’t, but his mind begged to differ, remembering her behaviour in London. As for his blood, it boiled every time he thought of her hypocrisy, every time the newspaper images of her and his brother-in-law crashed into his skull.

Maybe Anjuli had kissed Craig because...Hell, he couldn’t think of a reason unless Mac’s suspicions were right and Craig’s occasional lecture tours to London had included stop-offs at Anjuli’s and he’d been screwing her for a long time.

Rob’s hands clenched into fists. Could his brother-in-law be the reason Anjuli had moved back to Heaverlock? The reason she looked so tormented?

He burned with the need to smash his knuckles into Craig’s jaw. He felt like a fraud, a savage in a suit, ready to forget everything that made him civilised and turn into a mindless, violent animal. And like an animal, he was unable to rationalise why Anjuli would sleep with Craig. Her own sister was having his baby, for fuck’s sake. Rob let out a low curse. Maybe such things were common in the glitzy, hedonistic world of international celebrity. Maybe everything he’d read about Anjuli over the years was true.

And what about the picture of her kissing her ex-husband? He hated even thinking the word, hated the intimacy it conjured between Anjuli and the famous guitarist. Couldn’t stand the image it evoked of them laughing and sharing meals. Having sex. The photo was recent, taken after she’d moved back to Heaverlock.

Was she still in love with him? Didn’t she care he had re-married or did they get it on whenever the “lonely” rock star was within driving distance? Rob’s vision blurred. He’d been so confident, so cocksure Anjuli had called out Brendan’s name to deliberately turn him away. And now...he didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to hear her admit she’d slept with Brendan or Craig. Hell, it was both by the looks of it.