over the glass at him. I wanted to say, ‘Look, sunshine, I’ve drunk plenty of decent wine before you walked in here. My godfather’s restaurant has one of the best cellars in the country and I’m a respected food writer.’ But I dutifully sipped.
The wine slid down, soft and velvety. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the flavour. It was delicious. ‘Oh wow!’ said Becca. ‘That really is good.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Clayton, still gazing at me. His hair was cropped close, revealing the shape of his skull. His skin was the colour of pale coffee. He had a Jamaican grandfather, I remembered I’d read somewhere.
But I refused to be impressed by his glamour andconfidence. Just because he was good at football, and got paid ridiculous amounts of money for it, didn’t make him a god, I thought crossly.
‘Not bad,’ I said about the wine. ‘Though I’ve had better.’
He looked at me and smiled again, as though he knew exactly why I’d said what I had. ‘Lucky girl. But this is still pretty good to find in a pub surrounded by grass and sheep.’
Condescending or what? I’d only just discovered this was my ancestral homeland, but I was already indignant on its behalf. ‘Just because people live in the back of beyond doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate good wine,’ I said, while Becca blinked at me, surprised.
Then Clayton spotted the plate. ‘Sausages!’ he said and helped himself.
Then suddenly he was laughing again about the stream and the sat-nav. ‘That car’s a city car. It needs streets and signposts and lots of nice tall buildings to make it feel safe. That sat-nav lady ain’t a country girl at all.’ And Dexter drew him a little map showing how to get to the shooting lodge and asked him if he was going to be doing any shooting. Clayton grinned and said yes, he knew a bit about shooting, but not those sort of guns, and we smiled because we knew Clayton Silver had grown up on the sort of estate where guns were commonplace.
Just then the door opened again and a tall figure in working clothes—boots, jeans, shabby waterproof and a woolly hat—came in and went up to the side of the bar. Dexter’s eyes seemed to light up for a moment. ‘You’re back!’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘I’d heard.’ But the other person muttered something, looked in our direction and walked out again. Dexter’s expression was weird. He looked pleased and almost disappointed at the same time and watched as the figure walked back to the car park and jumped into anold four-by-four. Then he smiled to himself and went back to drawing his map. Funny. I didn’t have him down as gay.
But his face had definitely lit up.
Becca suddenly remembered the knitting she’d just put down on the bar and carefully picked it up and put it away in a big hessian bag.
Alessandro, who’d only been in this country since the start of the season, watched her and then smiled shyly and said that his mother and his sisters liked to knit, to make things. So Becca reached into her bag again and unwrapped some tissue paper to show him a finished scarf. The scarf was brilliant—the lacy knitting interspersed with big appliquéd flowers in bright sunshiney colours of yellow and orange—and looked wonderful.
‘Is beautiful,’ said Alessandro. He placed it gently round Becca’s neck. ‘Is more beautiful on you.’ He grinned while Becca blushed. The charmer.
I was still holding my coat, ready to go, but Clayton asked me if I was local and I said no, just staying up here writing for a food magazine, but I knew the stream where he’d got stuck. Despite myself I was soon chatting to him like an old friend—about London and restaurants, about roads and sheep. Apparently the footballers were only up here for two days because they had to get back to training, and suddenly the wine bottle was empty and they were leaving. Clayton picked up his car keys and walked out, just assuming Alessandro would follow him, which he
The wine slid down, soft and velvety. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the flavour. It was delicious. ‘Oh wow!’ said Becca. ‘That really is good.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Clayton, still gazing at me. His hair was cropped close, revealing the shape of his skull. His skin was the colour of pale coffee. He had a Jamaican grandfather, I remembered I’d read somewhere.
But I refused to be impressed by his glamour andconfidence. Just because he was good at football, and got paid ridiculous amounts of money for it, didn’t make him a god, I thought crossly.
‘Not bad,’ I said about the wine. ‘Though I’ve had better.’
He looked at me and smiled again, as though he knew exactly why I’d said what I had. ‘Lucky girl. But this is still pretty good to find in a pub surrounded by grass and sheep.’
Condescending or what? I’d only just discovered this was my ancestral homeland, but I was already indignant on its behalf. ‘Just because people live in the back of beyond doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate good wine,’ I said, while Becca blinked at me, surprised.
Then Clayton spotted the plate. ‘Sausages!’ he said and helped himself.
Then suddenly he was laughing again about the stream and the sat-nav. ‘That car’s a city car. It needs streets and signposts and lots of nice tall buildings to make it feel safe. That sat-nav lady ain’t a country girl at all.’ And Dexter drew him a little map showing how to get to the shooting lodge and asked him if he was going to be doing any shooting. Clayton grinned and said yes, he knew a bit about shooting, but not those sort of guns, and we smiled because we knew Clayton Silver had grown up on the sort of estate where guns were commonplace.
Just then the door opened again and a tall figure in working clothes—boots, jeans, shabby waterproof and a woolly hat—came in and went up to the side of the bar. Dexter’s eyes seemed to light up for a moment. ‘You’re back!’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘I’d heard.’ But the other person muttered something, looked in our direction and walked out again. Dexter’s expression was weird. He looked pleased and almost disappointed at the same time and watched as the figure walked back to the car park and jumped into anold four-by-four. Then he smiled to himself and went back to drawing his map. Funny. I didn’t have him down as gay.
But his face had definitely lit up.
Becca suddenly remembered the knitting she’d just put down on the bar and carefully picked it up and put it away in a big hessian bag.
Alessandro, who’d only been in this country since the start of the season, watched her and then smiled shyly and said that his mother and his sisters liked to knit, to make things. So Becca reached into her bag again and unwrapped some tissue paper to show him a finished scarf. The scarf was brilliant—the lacy knitting interspersed with big appliquéd flowers in bright sunshiney colours of yellow and orange—and looked wonderful.
‘Is beautiful,’ said Alessandro. He placed it gently round Becca’s neck. ‘Is more beautiful on you.’ He grinned while Becca blushed. The charmer.
I was still holding my coat, ready to go, but Clayton asked me if I was local and I said no, just staying up here writing for a food magazine, but I knew the stream where he’d got stuck. Despite myself I was soon chatting to him like an old friend—about London and restaurants, about roads and sheep. Apparently the footballers were only up here for two days because they had to get back to training, and suddenly the wine bottle was empty and they were leaving. Clayton picked up his car keys and walked out, just assuming Alessandro would follow him, which he
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