Guilty Pleasures by Judith Cutler

well,’ he said, pulling himself up short, probably because he’d seen my expression, ‘what shall we do with the snuffbox?’
    â€˜Pop it into the safe. In fact, let’s pop it into the extra-safe safe, the hidden one.’
    His eyes rounded. ‘Your vibes must be working overtime if you think it’s as precious as that!’
    I didn’t argue. I just took it up to my bedroom and popped it in the place that only four people knew about: the man who’d installed it, Griff, me – and Morris. It wasn’t quite alone. There was something of my father’s too precious to lose in there too.
    Which left the pattern book to worry about. But not today, because I had a pile of restoration work to do, everything needing a steady hand. So all thoughts of anything else had to be banished, until supper time at least.
    â€˜What I’d really like to do,’ I told Griff as we finished our prawn risotto, with the last of the season’s asparagus seared and served on top, ‘is find out how the snuffbox came to the fête. Marjorie, the woman in charge of the stall—’
    â€˜Till you came along.’
    â€˜â€”mentioned a Colonel Bridger. He might be able to cast some light on both that and the book.’
    â€˜Are you proposing to doorstep him?’
    â€˜ Please would you like your snuffbox back ? I don’t think so. But it’d be nice to know if he lives in a house old enough to have furniture and fittings copied from the book.’
    â€˜Robin will know,’ Griff said, deadpan.
    So might Google. On the other hand, I’d been quite abrupt with Griff, and it would be nice to make amends.
    â€˜I’d better contact him, hadn’t I? At least I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.’
    â€˜Indeed. The dear old C of E might not go in for confessions, but its parsons must know not to blab. Why not make the call now, my love, while I bring out our fruit salad. I suppose I’m not allowed ice cream?’
    â€˜Half-fat crème fraiche,’ I said.
    I texted Robin that I planned to go and visit my father the following day and wondered if we could meet up there. I’d take something for lunch, I added. Using my father as a reason for my journey might keep Robin where I wanted him – more or less at arm’s length. A nice friendly kiss in the car park after a concert was one thing, sounding as if I was thinking of seeing him regularly entirely another.
    He agreed to meet me at Bossingham Hall at about noon. So I texted my father – yes, he’d latched on to the idea pretty quickly, largely because it didn’t interrupt his TV-watching, not to mention any less legal activities.
    â€˜We’re on,’ I told Griff as I filled the kettle for his peppermint tea. ‘And you know what, I might show my father that pattern book too.’

SIX
    A t one time my father would rather have swallowed razor blades than anything except his beloved Pot Noodles. Now, however, he rubbed his hands with glee at the prospect of one of Griff’s savoury flans. So too did Robin, who also registered the home-made bread and the fresh salad. Griff had thought of sending along a bottle of a very good rosé, which would suit the lovely weather, but we agreed that my father would much rather stick to his usual champagne, which Robin would regard as much more of a treat. I’d let Griff send a cake too, although I’d make sure Robin, thin as a lath, got the lion’s share to take back to the rectory.
    Robin was so good at conversational nothings that lunch went swimmingly. What a shame he hadn’t been able to help me out on Monday evening. Funnily enough, I’d still not got round to asking the name of the guy I’d been talking to, but now wasn’t the moment, and in any case, there had been several portly clerics there and I couldn’t remember anything that might help identify him. I waited till our green tea,