Summer at the Star and Sixpence (2 page)

Their host tonight was razor-sharp comedian, Shania Khan, and Nessie was looking forward to her banter enormously. As always, they’d had to squeeze some extra tables in to accommodate all
the teams and Sam had refused entry to a couple of late-arriving teams, although she’d said they were more than welcome to watch from the bar and answer the questions unofficially. An
expectant hush settled over the pub as Shania raised the microphone.

‘Okay, teams, welcome to the Star and Sixpence Monday Night Quiz,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Answer sheets ready, biros steady? Then let’s do it.’

She worked her way through the first round. Whispered conversations broke out after each question and some fierce hissing could be heard over on Franny’s table. She was sitting with her
usual team-mates: Henry Fitzsimmons, Martha White from the bakery, and Owen. Nessie didn’t envy them – ever since the team had won the very first quiz, Franny had been cracking the whip
and chasing further glory. In April, they’d been beaten into second place by a team from Purdon and Owen had laughingly admitted to Nessie that Franny had scheduled cramming classes to ensure
they retook the title this month.

‘Round two – geography,’ Shania called. ‘Question one: There is actually only one lake in the Lake District. What is it called?’

Heads beetled together and murmurs filled the room. Nessie took the opportunity to glance over at Owen. He was whispering to his team-mates, his dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Martha
didn’t appear to be listening; she was staring at Owen with a dreamy expression on her face. Nessie couldn’t say she blamed her – with his gentle Welsh lilt, almost everything
Owen said sounded like poetry.

Shania lifted the microphone again. ‘Question two: There are two landlocked countries in South America. Can you name their capital cities?’

The questions went on. The music round was always entertaining – this time, their quiz setter had sourced ten advert jingles and the teams had to identify both the product and the decade
the advert had first aired. Sam and Nessie patrolled the pub for this round; no one had been caught cheating yet but Franny demanded they were extra vigilant against mobile phone use. By the time
they’d reached the final round, Franny’s team was neck and neck with Purdon.

‘Our last round is history,’ Shania announced, glancing over at the scores. ‘It’s looking very tight at the top. I’m told that in the event of a tie, the quiz will
be settled by a duel to the death. So, for the sake of Sam and Nessie, let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen. Blood is tough to clean off a wood-beamed ceiling.’

The questions were the hardest yet, Nessie thought. Even Henry looked stumped a few times and he was the village history buff. Relieved conversations ensued once the last answer sheets were
collected and teams began to talk to each other, sharing their answers. Franny sat straight-backed and rigid, waiting in dignified silence. Nessie shared a conspiratorial smile with Owen. She was
meant to be neutral but she couldn’t help hoping all the extra revision had paid off.

The sheets were marked and checked by scorers of unimpeachable good character; this time Father Goodluck and a fellow vicar from a neighbouring church had been enlisted. A tense silence fell
over the crowd as Shania held up the microphone. ‘I’m pleased to say that we have a clear winner, so no blood will be spilled tonight. In third place, we have – and I’m not
sure I can read the team name without groaning – Agatha Quiztie.’ Cheering broke out from one of the tables, everyone else clapped politely. ‘In second place we have . . . Purdon
Warriors. And in first place, it’s The Inquizitors!’

The Purdon Warriors put their heads in their hands while Franny’s table celebrated. Martha and Owen high-fived and Nessie was amused to see Franny tentatively copy the action with Henry,
although it was possibly the most awkward celebration she’d ever witnessed. She made her way over to congratulate them.

‘Well done,’ she said warmly, holding up the trophy. ‘Who’s having it this time?’

Franny reached out and took it. ‘It will be on display in the Post Office, the same as before.’

Nessie bit the inside of her cheek and avoided Owen’s gaze; woe betide anyone who came between Franny and her prize.

Bill, the captain of the Purdon Warriors, came across and held out his hand to each winning team member. ‘Congratulations,’ he said in a grudging tone. ‘You know, our local pub
has a quiz night too. Maybe you’d like to come to our home ground, see how well you do there?’

Franny’s eyes gleamed. ‘Is that a challenge?’

‘Yeah, I reckon it is,’ Bill said, raising his chin. ‘Last Thursday of the month, if you’re not too chicken.’

‘We’ll be there,’ snapped Franny. She waited until he had gone back to his own table before rounding on the rest of her team. ‘This means war. Cramming sessions every
Wednesday and you’ll be set homework, too. There’s no way I’m losing to that jumped-up little general.’

Nessie leaned closer to Owen. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, trying not to laugh. ‘I think we’ve created a monster.’

‘It wasn’t you,’ he murmured back. ‘Wait until the Britain’s Best Village competition gets going in August. She takes competitiveness to a whole new level
then.’

Nessie watched Franny drawing up a battle plan on a spare answer sheet and grimaced. ‘I can hardly wait.’

Sam’s mobile rang as she sat on the living-room sofa after lunch on Friday, poring over a copy of
Woman and Home
in search of inspiration for the guest rooms. She
glanced without interest at the screen – gone were the days when she was ruled by her phone – and saw with a frown that it was the same City number that had called several times over
the last few days. PPI calls, she assumed, or a salesperson; certainly no one she knew. She’d changed the number when she left her PR job in London and only a handful of people had the new
one. Whoever was calling, it wasn’t a friend. She blocked the number and went back to her magazine. Could they get away with a roll-top bath in one of the rooms, she wondered, admiring a
scroll-footed tub in one of the glossy photos. Or was it asking for a flooded ceiling?

Her phone buzzed and rang again. Sam glared at it, noting the similar but not quite the same number on its screen. ‘Go away,’ she muttered, hitting the mute button.

Almost immediately, it vibrated and rang once more. She stared at it, uneasiness creeping over her. An automatic redialler? she thought. A lot of cold-call companies used them; it must be
something like that. She tapped the number into Google – surely she wasn’t the only person being harassed by them. But the search returned no definitive hits. Either the caller was
targeting her specifically or they were minnows at whatever business they were in. Sighing in irritation, Sam closed the browser window and blocked the second number.

When it rang again, something snapped in Sam. She snatched up the handset. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

There was a pause. ‘Sam? Is that you?’

Sam felt as though someone had tipped a bucket of icy water down her back. It was a man’s voice, well spoken and perfectly pitched. The last time she’d heard it, it had been telling
her it couldn’t live without her. And then she’d discovered what a liar and a cheat it belonged to and she’d never wanted to hear it again. In fact, she’d banned its owner
from ever contacting her again. Right after she’d been
encouraged
to leave her job and warned to stay away from the press.

‘Listen, Sam, we need to talk—’

She didn’t wait to hear any more. With a savage stab, she ended the call and switched the phone off. A second later, she buried it beneath a cushion and went back to her interior design
plans. But she could sense it there, glowing like a radioactive particle, poisoning her with its presence. Abruptly, she stood up and went downstairs.

She left the phone where it was.

‘The wedding caterer called,’ Nessie announced later that afternoon in the bar. ‘They want champagne and Pimm’s for welcome drinks, more fizz for the
speeches, plus Chablis for the starters and Shiraz for the main course.’

Sam wrinkled her forehead. The bride, JoJo, had grown up in Little Monkham, although she was now a journalist in London, and both Sam and Nessie had got to know her during her frequent visits to
plan the wedding. The day was going to be a whole village celebration, with the ceremony at St Mary’s Church and a huge marquee on the green outside the Star and Sixpence afterwards. Her
parents were stalwarts of the Preservation Society and Franny had let it be known that anything less than a perfect day would not be tolerated. The rumour was that she’d even considered
getting the grass on the village green dyed, to make the wedding photographs look even more stunning. The PR girl in Sam thought it was a great idea.

‘So let’s say a hundred bottles of champagne, thirty Pimm’s and fifty each of the Chablis and Shiraz. Joss is setting up beer and cider kegs on the green but I’ll get him
to double stock everything else in the cellar too, just to be safe.’ Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘We don’t want the wedding of the year to run dry.’

Her sister looked anxious. ‘I’m not sure our credit limit will stretch to all this.’

‘Just explain that we’re catering for a big wedding and need a temporary increase,’ Sam said patiently. ‘They’ll understand. Oh, and we’ll need a few bottles
of vintage champagne – some for the bridal party before the wedding and one to leave in the bride and groom’s room.’

‘And that’s another thing,’ Nessie said. ‘Are you sure the rooms are going to be ready in time? I don’t want JoJo and Jamie to spend their wedding night in a
building site.’

Sam took a deep breath. It was just like Nessie to fret when there really was no need. ‘This time next week the builders will be finished. Then we can get the new carpets laid and the
furniture in. Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.’ She smiled. ‘In fact, it’s going to be perfect. What better way to launch a B&B than by hosting the travel
editor for
The Observer
on her wedding night?’

Nessie hesitated, then smiled too. ‘Okay, I’ll stop worrying and phone the wholesaler.’

‘Great. Don’t forget Joss and I won’t be around tonight.’

‘Doing anything nice?’

‘Not exactly,’ Sam replied wryly. ‘The Friday Night Film Club is showing
Star Wars
in the church hall. Hey, Owen and Luke are going, why don’t you come too?
We’ll be the only sane people there.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a good—’ Nessie said, shaking her head.

‘Of course it is,’ Sam cut her sister off before she could think of a plausible excuse. ‘Tilly can cope here, especially since most of the village will be over at the hall. And
we’ll only be a few minutes’ walk away.’

‘Even so—’

Sam swallowed a groan of frustration. Nessie was her sister and she loved her dearly but sometimes she wished she could shake the caution out of her. ‘Nothing’s going to happen
between you and Owen unless you spend more time together,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘And tonight is a perfect, no-pressure way to do that. So come and watch the
film.’

Conflicting emotions chased each other across Nessie’s face before she finally nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good,’ Sam said in satisfaction and fired a wicked look her sister’s way. ‘And who knows, if you’re really lucky he might show you his Millennium
Falcon.’

Joss had dressed up. He wore a beige wraparound tunic, baggy cream trousers and his coppery blond beard had been groomed to perfection. From the look on his face, he also
expected Sam to know which character he was.

‘The lightsaber is a clue, isn’t it?’ she said as they walked to the church hall.

Joss stretched out a solemn hand towards her. ‘The force is strong with this one.’

Sam tried a guess. ‘I don’t know. Are you Harrison Ford?’

His fingers dropped to his side. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never seen
Star Wars
.’

‘It’s a bit before my time. I’m more of a
Toy Story
girl,’ she said. ‘If the film club ever show that, believe me I am
there
. You should see my Bo
Peep.’

‘But it’s a classic!’ Joss insisted. ‘Everyone’s seen it. Nessie!’ he called, as they reached the hall. ‘You’ve seen
Star Wars
,
right?’

‘Oh yes,’ Nessie said. ‘Approximately three million times, I think.’

‘See?’ Joss said. ‘How can your sister have seen it that many times when you’ve never even watched it once?’

Sam spread out her hands. ‘Because Nessie married Patrick and Patrick was a nerd. I have never dated a nerd so I’ve never been forced to watch dodgy sci-fi films.’ She
grimaced. ‘Until now.’

He stared at her, outraged. ‘Take that back.
Star Wars
is the best film of all time. It’s got everything – adventure, thrills, laser swords that sound like a swarm of
bees on speed.’

Nessie laughed. ‘You’ll get no argument from me, I love it too.’

Owen appeared behind her, with eight-year-old Luke at his side. ‘And obviously we’re fans.’ He ruffled his son’s white blond hair. ‘It’s where this one got
his name, although if his grandmother ever asks, he’s named after the saint.’

Luke was dressed like a smaller version of Joss and carried the same blue lightsaber. Sam’s gaze flickered back to Joss. ‘Luke . . . Stormtrooper?’

Joss shook his head. ‘Come on,’ he said, leading her towards the door of the hall. ‘It’s time to begin your education.’

Inside, Sam groaned when she saw Owen’s sister, Kathryn, had saved them front row seats – no sneaking out unseen halfway through. Kathryn had also dressed up, as the princess with
the ridiculous hair. Sam waited until the opening text began to roll across the screen before leaning towards Nessie. ‘I’ve changed my mind about Owen – the Rhys family are
clearly a bunch of nutters. Get out while you still can.’

Nessie grinned. ‘Give in to the dark side, Sam. We’ve got popcorn.’

‘So, are you a convert?’ Joss asked as they strolled with the rest of the filmgoers beneath a sliver of moon on their way back to the pub. ‘Can I tempt you
with
The Empire Strikes Back
on DVD?’