Interesting choice of clothing for an English publican in a Scottish village, but then, Heaverlock had always considered the Carver family “those eccentrics from England,” and Ash said she enjoyed living up to their expectations.
Anjuli grimaced. Her sister had eclectic tastes, and her newest quirk seemed to be their mother’s Indian cast-offs. But how many times had she told her that orange wasn’t her colour? Ash’s skin looked pasty green in the dark, low-ceilinged pub.
“Ashton Pelham Carver,” Anjuli said, smiling at her sister’s sour look.
“You should’ve been the soldier—I’m the pretty one.”
“Primogeniture rules.”
Ash snorted and poured a pint. Their parents were fascinated by all things India, and their mother’s favourite novel was The Far Pavilions. Pamela Carver had named Anjuli after the selfless Indian princess heroine, and when she had produced another daughter two years later, she’d shrugged her shoulders and named her after the British officer hero.
Anjuli looked at the platform. “What’s all the fuss about?”
“The wind farm proposal has everybody riled up.” Ash poured Anjuli a double shot of Malibu and jerked her chin towards the crowd. “Rob’s in the corner somewhere.”
“Maybe I should leave it till tomorrow. My thighs feel like jelly and I have some shopping to do before cycling back. Besides, I’m not dressed for begging.”
Ash twisted her index finger, and stared at it. “I think big sister is about to wimp out on us, don’t you?” She bent her finger into a nod. “Didn’t she make me promise not to let her?” Another nod.
Oh, God. “Have you told a shrink about these little conversations with your finger friend? My Dr. Coren would sort you out in no time.”
“You’re the basket case,” Ash said tartly. “Didn’t you say you wanted lots of people around when you talked to Rob? Well, half the village is here so go forth and grovel, and make it eight years’ worth of forgive my sorry arse.”
Anjuli flinched. Eight years and one heart-wrenching night in London, but who was keeping tabs? She sure as hell hoped Rob wasn’t.
Anjuli watched Ash serve her customers. She read the headlines in the newspaper rack, glanced at the row of spirits on offer and looked at the Specials board. Her stomach churned as she deciphered Ash’s swirly handwriting. Her sister could take seemingly harmless ingredients and produce a meal you’d rather see on Kitchen Disasters than on your own plate.
Smoked salmon and raisin sushi with parsnip mash; mutton and pineapple pie with nutty polenta; curried beetroot and kidney bean stew on a bed of lemon kashi and—ick.
The Heaverlock Arms was the only pub and restaurant in the village, and Ash had mentioned her Monday specials, disgruntled the only person to eat her experimental food was the Polish barman, Viking. The young, blond six-footer had been a weight lifter in Krakow and needed lots of food, she’d said, but having met him briefly, Anjuli thought he gave Ash’s dishes a go because his English was so poor. He simply couldn’t defend himself against her demands.
Ash harrumphed. “Get over there, sis. What happened between you and Rob was a long time ago.”
“If only.”
“Relax. You know Rob’s not the type to hold a grudge for so many years.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why the hell not?”
Anjuli bit her lip. She didn’t want to revisit her recent encounter with Rob and she certainly didn’t want to tell her little sister about it.
“Please tell me you didn’t do anything impulsive or stupid,” Ash said.
“I can’t.”
“But you apologised, right?”
I never want to see you again. “Uh, not exactly.”
“Okay, not the end of the world because you’ve carefully thought out your apology attack plan.”
She needed an apology attack plan? “Of course.”
A pitying sigh. “I bet you a shift at the pub you don’t handle seeing him the right way.”
“You’re on,” Anjuli said with a sniff. “I am cool, calm and collected.”
“And oh so screwed. Not just because of your hair.”
What was wrong with her hair? Oh. A quick pat told her it had evidently decided to enter a barbed-wire-gone-wild competition. The bike ride into the village had taken a gruelling forty-five minutes and the early March wind had thrust her mop into contention for first place. Anjuli pulled her hair into a ponytail. She smoothed down her figure-hugging cashmere top, suddenly unsure whether the blood-red V-neck and designer hipsters had been the right choice. She was under no illusions about her so-called beauty.