The Real Katie Lavender by Erica James Page A

what kind of a man he was. Again, she didn’t really know how she would manage to do that, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. She had seen several photographs of him online, along with his brother, but they were artificially posed – typical examples of corporate portraiture. They told her nothing about him. He was merely a tanned, silver-haired man in a suit. He could be anyone. Certainly he bore no resemblance to her. She could detect nothing in his face that she recognized, nothing that suggested he had passed on any of his genes to her.
    With a plan of action now securely fixed in her brain, some of her anger had cooled. She wanted to believe that she was beginning to think more rationally, but she suspected that she had grown tired of being angry. It didn’t suit her temperament. She wasn’t one of those people who thrived on drama and high emotion; she needed a steady equilibrium to her life. Some might say that was a boring way to live, but she had always been that way. Over the years, friends had described her as being rock-solid and dependable, the one they could turn to in a crisis. She hadn’t liked it last Saturday when Zac had described her as being sweet and adorable and as edgy as an After Eight mint; he had made her sound dull.
    Being cool-headed was, she knew, what had enabled her to cope with the deaths of her parents. When Dad had died, she had put her own grief to one side and helped her mother through hers. Then when Mum had died last year, she had had no choice but to keep it together and cope. What was the alternative?
    Undoubtedly her emotions had got the better of her last night with Ian. She had been anything but sweet and adorable. She had been horrid. She really shouldn’t have spoken to him in the way she had, or insisted that he leave. He had only been trying to help her; she could see that now. But it was as if all the tensions of the last week had collided and found a release in being cruel to him. She should ring him later and apologize.
    The village of Sandiford was the last word in picture-postcard perfection: it was Midsomer Murders territory with a dash of Vicar of Dibley thrown in. Immaculate thatched cottages rubbed shoulders with Georgian and Victorian houses, and the narrow lanes were lined with overblown cow parsley and a generous sprinkling of buttercups. Ignoring the satnav, which was instructing Katie to prepare to take the next right, she turned into the car park of a thatched pub called the Riverside, the front of which was decked out with overflowing wall troughs and hanging baskets – petunias, lobelia, busy Lizzies, nasturtiums and geraniums cascaded in a blaze of colour. There was a sign declaring that wholesome food was served all day. That was handy, because she was starving and it was late afternoon, long past lunchtime.
    In the cool, dimly lit interior of the pub, she was greeted with a cheery smile from the woman behind the bar and enough boating paraphernalia to make her think she was in a chandlery. There were coils of ropes behind glass cases, oars crossed and attached to the beamed walls and ceiling. Shiny copper lanterns hung from hooks and photographs of boats and strapping young rowers, mostly black and white, adorned what wall space was left. Above a cavernous fireplace there was a glass case containing a very large and very dead fish of some sort. Painted and varnished to a high sheen, it had a beady eye that would probably follow Katie round the bar if she put it to the test. Actual customers seemed to be somewhat thin on the ground. Perhaps the fish didn’t make for good company.
    The woman behind the bar took Katie’s order of a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich, poured her a glass of wine and pointed her in the direction of the beer garden, saying that her sandwich would be brought out to her shortly.
    Outside it was a very different matter: the garden was thrumming with customers. With only a few tables free, Katie picked the