Wish You Were Here (34 page)

Throwing herself wholeheartedly into village life, she's determined to start over. And sure enough, everyone from Luke the sexy church-organist to Bob the resident oddball, is taking note.

But just as she's ready to dip her toes in the water, the discovery of a dark secret about her late husband shatters Poppy's confidence. Does she really have the courage to risk her heart again? Because Poppy wants a lot more than just a rural affair …

For better or worse …

Ella was nineteen and madly in love when she married dashing young artist Sebastian Montclair. But that was a long time ago. Now Ella and the kids live in a ramshackle farmhouse while Sebastian and his paintings inhabit the outhouse next door – a family separated in every way but distance. Is it a marvellously modern relationship – or a disaster waiting to happen?

So when charming gardener Ludo arrives on the scene and Sebastian makes a sudden and surprising decision, Ella sees a chance at a fresh start.

Yet with two teenagers and her parents on the verge of their own late-life crisis, will Ella be allowed to choose her own path? And how long can she hide from the truth which haunts her broken marriage?

A house in the south of France. A holiday of a lifetime.
What could be nicer? What could possibly go wrong?

When Flora, James and their two teenage daughters are offered the holiday of a lifetime in a chateau in the south of France in return for one simple good deed, hey jump at the chance to escape the confines of Clapham, the weight of the mortgage and anxieties over their future for a blissful break.

But Flora didn't anticipate a mysterious guest and a whole heap of family baggage coming along too.

And with James developing a schoolboy crush on a famous singer and Flora distracted by ghosts from her past, their dream holiday suddenly takes some very unexpected turns …

Connect with Catherine on the Alliott Country Facebook page to get regular updates and the latest news from Catherine, extracts from all her books, behind-the-scenes content and enter exclusive competitions.

Like Catherine on Facebook

www.Facebook.com/AlliottCountry

I sat down and ran a practised eye over the ten people sitting opposite me. I saw at once that it wasn't a good day. In fact, it was a particularly bad day. Six women and only four men, and as if that wasn't bad enough, all four of the men looked as if they'd narrowly survived major car crashes. A singularly unpromising selection and I had to go to bed with one of them. Damn.

I sat back in my seat narrowing my rather myopic eyes and studied the four contenders: Too Fat, Too Young, Too Chinese and Too Ginger. Typical. Where was Too Handsome when I needed him most? Still, it was no good belly-aching about lack of talent; rules were rules, and one of these lucky guys was about to get even luckier. I gritted my teeth and appraised them individually, searching for hidden depths. I was going to have to dig pretty deep.

Number one was a fat slob masquerading as a businessman. The buttons of his blue nylon shirt were doing sterling work as they strained under the pressure of his ample bosom, and the waistband of his trousers was nowhere to be seen as his gut spilled out over the top of it. Lovely. Not only that, but he was bald too. Long flowing locks had been grown from somewhere beneath his left ear and swept carefully over the top
à la
Bobby Charlton, but that didn't fool anyone. Sensing early depression,
I dismissed him out of hand and moved smartly on to number two.

I suppressed a shudder. This callow youth was still grappling with something I'd got to grips with long ago and I didn't fancy going through it again. Puberty. As I cast a cold eye over his acne-festooned, hormone-infested face, his upper lip suddenly curled into a leer, a lazy eye winked at me, and a lolling hand scratched at the fly of his jeans. Good grief, the very idea! I tossed my head in disgust. Bloody nerve.

I swiftly turned my attention to number three. Ah. Now this was a tricky one. You see, I've nothing against Chinese men
per se
, in fact the one in my local takeaway couldn't be nicer, it's just that – well, on balance I prefer my men to be, er, you know – English. I'm quite sure the Chinese make wonderful lovers but, as I said, my personal preference is for something a little closer to home, like – well, like Harry, of course.

For one blissful moment I allowed a fleeting glimpse of the divine Harry Lloyd-Roberts to seep into my consciousness. Ah yes, there he was, with his mop of blond hair, his tanned, smiling face, his bright blue eyes, his long lean legs, his broad shoulders, his – I gave myself a little shake. Concentrate, Polly, Harry is not on the menu this morning, but this Oriental gentleman is and you'll have to do a little better than simply admitting to a preference for Englishmen.

I grudgingly appraised him again and realized, with joy, that he had a mighty peculiar set of teeth. I seized gratefully on his unusual dental arrangement. Oh no, I'm sorry, I simply have to have straight teeth; they must be regular
and they must be white, I make a point of insisting on it. No, I wasn't being racist at all, I was just – yes, I was just being a little toothist, that was it!

As I rejected him I realized with a sinking heart that I was now left with only one contender and – oh, horrors, I was about to be gingerist too. I studied the red-headed gentleman before me and sighed. But not deeply. Because, hold on a minute, Polly McLaren, not so fast. On closer inspection this one wasn't so bad. Ginger, certainly, but not flaming carrots or nasty nasturtium red, more of a – well, more of an autumnal russet really. And was I seeing things, or weren't those features remarkably regular? And wasn't that face rather attractively tanned? And didn't we have here a particularly piercing pair of blue eyes? We did! Complete with crinkle-cut laughter lines at each corner! That very nearly did it, I'm a sucker for crinkle cuts, but I had the good sense to run an eye over the rest of the goods before I clinched the deal. Shoulders broad, legs long, no sign of a paunch, good.

He was wearing a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt topped with an expensive navy jacket, a good quality leather belt and heavy cotton trousers – not too baggy, not too tight – and, more to the point (and how foolish of me not to have spotted it before), he was sporting a signet-ring on the little finger of his left hand. I leaned back in my seat, heady with relief. I had myself a winner.

There was no true competition, but I gave the opposition another cursory glance just to ensure fair play. Too Chinese and Too Young had never got off their starting blocks, Too Fat was definitely Too Bald and, let's face it, a girl has to have something to run her fingers through,
even if it is red, so Ginger – I charitably omitted the ‘Too' – it was. He'd run an easy race and won by an absence of baldness, hormones and buck teeth. What a lucky guy!

I stood up, flushed with success and pleased with my prize. So pleased, in fact, that I did something unforgivable. I smiled at the victor. It slipped out before I had a chance to retract it or even to turn it into something like a nasty little twitch. There it was, all turned up at the corners, wide and welcoming, teeth flashing away like beacons. Ginger looked up in surprise and returned the smile, blue eyes crinkling as predicted.

Horrified with myself, I wrapped my scarf around my flushing neck and made for the sliding doors, just as – thank God – the tube pulled into South Kensington station. There was a nasty moment when the doors stuck for a second, but a minute later I was off and running – well, walking fast – in the direction of the escalator.

How ghastly! He must have thought I was sizing him up for real, propositioning him even! I glanced nervously over my shoulder as I joined the moronic trudge for the exit, but thankfully there was no sign of his russet locks hovering hopefully behind me.

But that was a lucky escape, Polly, I told myself sternly; don't do it again, for God's sake – who knows what sort of trouble it could get you into? It's bad enough that you stare at them every morning, without giving them the come-on too.

I grinned sheepishly as I thought of the way I amused myself on the way to work. Blind date without the blindfold, and without, of course, the actual date. Harmless fun, but these days increasingly depressing. Take yester
day, for example. I shuddered as I recalled. Yesterday, due to an unprecedented number of women commuters, I'd been forced to climb between the imaginary sheets with a slack-jawed octogenarian with bubbles on his lower lip. There'd been a moment back there when I could have become a lesbian, but no, I played the game. After all, it was my game, and I couldn't cheat on myself, could I?

As I jostled for position in the line up to the escalator, I spotted the leering Too Young ahead of me in the queue. Oh dear, he really didn't know the ropes did he? There he was, pushing his way through, and committing the unpardonable sin of standing firmly on the left which, as every urbane traveller knows, is for climbers only. I had the satisfaction of seeing him being bundled over to the right by a hoard of embattled commuters amidst a sea of shaking heads and tutting tongues. ‘You stand on the right,' someone muttered by way of explanation – only muttered, you understand, no one who did this on a regular basis would be so gauche as to talk. I joined in the ‘glare past' on the way up to complete the ritual humiliation. To my surprise, he had the balls to leer back at me.

Oh well, I thought, as I trudged on up the moving staircase, it's always nice to be ogled, even if it is by a spotty fourteen-year-old: I must be looking quite good today.

We reached the top and I geared myself up to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the photo-booth mirror that everyone looks in and pretends not to. Christ, I thought as I caught my millisecond's worth, he must be desperate. Bad hair, bad make-up (too hurried) and a very bad jacket covered in dog hairs. Lottie's fault for buying a bloody Yorkshire Terrier. I brushed myself down, cursing my
impulsive flatmate. At least it was all superficial. The hair could be washed, the jacket changed, and the make-up carefully reapplied in time for tonight's little excursion with the divine Harry. Please God, let there be an excursion! Please God, let him ring!

I allowed myself a moment's luxury as I considered the joys of going out with the utterly mouth-wateringly delicious Mr Harry Lloyd-Roberts. My heart pranced around in its usual foolish manner, but after an initial burst of skippy enthusiasm, sank a little too. I sighed. If only he wasn't so elusive. If only every date wasn't such a trumpet-blowing-red-carpeted-big-deal because they were so few and far between. If only – oh well. Don't bang on, Polly.

And that was another thing, I thought bitterly as I barged and elbowed my way towards the ticket barrier, it was all so time-consuming. I really didn't want to be the sort of girl who only thought about boys, but until I'd well and truly ensnared this one, I honestly didn't think I could get my mind around anything else. Of course it went without saying that once he was as besotted with me as I was with him I'd spend a lot more time thinking about – oh well, you know – Shakespeare, art, starving orphans, charity work, that kind of thing; but until that glorious, glorious day came, I'm afraid I just didn't have the time.