Wedding Tiers. Trisha Ashley
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sure Maria Cazzini would manage to persuade her at least to turn up on the day and be polite. I hoped so, because otherwise Libby would be devastated and it would ruin her big day.
I rang her straight away and gave her an edited version of what Pia had said, because I knew it would be a huge relief to Libby just to know she was safe and well. Whether Pia turned up for the wedding would all depend on Maria Cazzini’s persuasive skills.
At dinner last night (Spanish omelette followed by a blackberry version of Eton mess), I said to Ben that he seemed to have an awful lot of calls on his mobile lately, and was everything all right?
I could tell something had been on his mind since he’d come back from London, even after he told me about Mary being pregnant, but I thought perhaps it had to do with his parents. He tends not to mention them to me; they’re a thorny subject.
He took a deep drink of elderberry wine and said, Actually, darling, there is something worrying me and I haven’t known how to tell you. In fact, I thought it would just sort of…well, fizzle out on its own.’
That was typical of Ben. He’d let problems slide in the hope they’d either simply go away or I would sort them out for him, by which time they had generally escalated.
I leaned my elbows on the table and said encouragingly, ‘So, what is it?’
‘You’ll probably think this sounds silly, but I’m being…well, stalked.’
‘Stalked?’
‘Pestered—followed—rung up and harassed. By this woman who has been buying my work—you know, the patroness?’
I nodded.
‘Now she seems to want to acquire me too. She must have a mental problem, because in her head she’s convinced that we’re already having some kind of relationship. It’s getting a bit embarrassing.’ He looked at me appealingly ‘I’ve tried distancing myself, but it’s very awkward.’
‘Yes, it must be! The poor thing,’ I added charitably, because I could see how easy it would be to fall for Ben and, if you were inclined to mix reality and fantasy, dream up a whole relationship in your head.
‘The Egremont Gallery must have given her my number, because she keeps phoning me up. I’m just afraid she might call the house too, and she’s so unhinged she sees you as the usurper, darling, so goodness knows what she might say.’
‘Do you know, there have been a lot of calls lately where the phone’s been put down the moment the caller heard my voice,’ I said. ‘Do you think that might have been her?’
‘Possibly.’ He leaned back, looking relieved. ‘I’m really glad I’ve told you about it now, Josie!’
‘Yes, but shouldn’t we tell the police or something? I’ve read of cases where stalkers can get quite nasty—even dangerous.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure she isn’t the violent type. And, after all, she’s not going to turn up here—it’s too far away—and in London I avoid her as much as possible. Let’s wait and see,’ he suggested.
He was probably right. For all we knew she made a habit of imagining herself in love with personable men and would soon lose interest in Ben and be off after someone new. And since after getting that off his chest he reverted back to being the good-natured, easy-going Ben I was used to, I felt much, much happier.
On Halloween I had a whole tray of small toffee apples to offer any young ghoul who turned up on my doorstep—and quite a lot did, attracted to my pumpkin lantern like moths to a flame.
I’d dipped the tops of the apples in dark chocolate and they were really yummy. Ben, who has a sweet tooth, ate three before the first trick-or-treater rang the bell, and there were only just enough to go round.
Since the Country at Heart article I had had an increasing number of enquiries about wedding cakes, though luckily once I made it clear that I only delivered locally, most of them lost interest. But not all. I was having to harden my heart and only take the ones I really wanted to do, because I didn’t want to spend all my time making weird and wonderful wedding cakes!
At the moment, Libby’s Pisa Tower cake was taxing my skills to the limit…
Round here, on Guy Fawkes Night, we still tend to carve turnip heads to put our candles in, rather than pumpkins. The smell of hot turnip, the exciting tang of gunpowder in the air and the taste of hard, home-made, splintery treacle toffee—those are the things I associate with 5th November.
Sometimes we go over to the bonfire at Middlemoss, a few miles away, where they have the strange tradition of burning an effigy of Oliver Cromwell instead of Guy Fawkes…
‘Cakes and Ale’
Libby finally left for her shopping trip to London early next day, which, considering her wedding day was now less than three weeks away, was pushing it a bit. I was not even going to think about what monstrous bridesmaid’s creation she might bring back for me…
Later that morning I was standing at the sink washing up the equipment I’d just used to make parsnip wine, when I glanced out at the tranquil Green and spotted Aggie, the escapologist hen, wandering up the road. Without stopping to take off my red rubber gloves, I shot out of the front door.
A large, maroon car was sweeping up towards me and the unaware hen, who was ambling along in its path in an aimless, hesitating sort of way.
‘Aggie!’ I yelled, and, without thinking, leaped forward into the road to make a grab for her. Behind me, the car slammed on its brakes with a squeal, but Aggie, squawking loudly, shot off across the grass, with me in hot pursuit.
Luckily, all the titbits I’d given her made her too fat to keep up any kind of pace, so I soon scooped her up and tucked her under my arm. She gave in instantly, and made amiable clucking noises.
The driver of the old Jaguar that had so narrowly missed us was now standing next to it: a tall, slender man with short, ruffled black hair and an olive complexion that contrasted startlingly with his light grey eyes. As we approached, he had the cheek to whip a camera up and click away with it!
I was already cross and this didn’t improve my temper, so I marched up to him and let rip: ‘Are you mad, driving so fast in a village? You could have killed Aggie—in fact, you could have killed both of us!’
‘Ooo-er!’ agreed Aggie, softly.
‘I wasn’t actually driving fast,’ he said, with a hint of amusement in those grey eyes that made me feel even crosser. ‘In fact, I was crawling—and I’d seen the hen. I just wasn’t expecting a madwoman in red rubber gloves to hurtle out right after her.’
Aggie made another throaty crooning noise and he lifted his camera—an old-fashioned one, I noticed, not a new digital job—and clicked the shutter.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘Sorry—habit. Do you mind?’ He had a very charming, apologetic smile that tilted upwards at one corner, but I wasn’t at all beguiled.
‘Yes, I do mind!’
‘Once a photographer…’ he drawled, looking at me assessingly with half-closed eyes. ‘And you do make rather a unique picture, standing holding that hen.’
I became conscious that my hair was blowing out in the wind like a banner, my feet were bare and frozen, and my red rubber gloves did little to add to an ensemble that consisted of a rather pulled green fleece over torn dungarees. ‘Maybe, but you should ask permission first!’
‘Sorry, it really was just impulse. Actually, I’m looking for a house