Pitch Imperfect(30)
“What?” Anjuli squeaked.
Florinda looked pleased at her reaction. “I have it on good authority that she offered whatever they wanted as long as they didn’t sell to Rob Douglas. I know his secretary, an old biddy who should have retired years ago, and she confided that he’d already invested a lot of time and money, making drawings and paying for surveys based on his understanding with the sellers. He was furious when they pulled out. Nobody knew who the new owner was until Jules Carver announced it to the village, brazen as can be.”
Anjuli made a garbled noise that spurred Florinda into more gossip, but she was no longer listening. No wonder Rob had been so tight-lipped and irritable! How was she supposed to know he was the other bidder for Castle Manor? Did he think she’d deliberately outbid him? Clinging to the idea of living in Castle Manor had been the only thing that had made her days bearable.
She’d wanted the house so desperately she’d bid for it blind, instructing her solicitor to go over and above the recommended purchase price. No surveys or viewings and she would pay for it in cash. The vendors had jumped at her offer and she’d been ecstatic. That is, until she’d received the devastating news that Lordship Wealth Management had lost her fortune. She’d kept a relatively small amount in a separate savings account, and most of that had paid for the house and the hefty stamp duty, as well as funding the move up from London and the lawyer who had represented her against the financial advice firm.
Anjuli smothered a groan. If only she’d kept more money in her savings account! But no, another singer had recommended Lordship, and she’d been too quick to trust. Maybe she should have stuffed her mattress with her cash, the way people used to hundreds of years ago.
Her smile was ironic. Buying the stately Victorian manor had taken the pea from under the mattress and turned the princess into a pauper.
“Everybody is buzzing with the news that Jules is back,” Florinda said, snapping Anjuli out of thoughts about money. “Wondering if she’ll try her wiles on Mr. Douglas. She’s quite promiscuous, you know.”
Anjuli narrowed her eyes. “And you have that on good authority also?”
“Everybody knows what she got up to at those glamorous parties, surrounded by other addicts and sexual deviants. I remember reading an article once that said she—”
“Anjuli!” Mac rushed up from behind them and embraced her warmly. “You look great.”
“Old friends?” Florinda asked.
“Yes, and my name is Anjuli Carver, actually. Not Jules. If you’ll excuse us I’m taking my flighty, promiscuous self to do some mumbo-jumbo with Mrs. Scott in the staff room. And if she can find a CD player, I’ll mime to one of the tracks.”
With a flounce she’d learned from an American diva, Anjuli turned on her heels, leaving the red-faced librarian behind.
* * *
Mac chuckled all the way to the staffroom, then ushered Anjuli in, asking for a few seconds to put away the poster in her hand. Anjuli sank into one of the chocolate-brown sofas and eyed the light green walls. What was the interior designer thinking? If she’d got the teaching job she would quickly have become a mint chocolate junkie. Was that why Mac had put on so much weight? Minty chocolate had always been a particular favourite of hers.
Her old friend was almost unrecognisable. Where was the athletic, slender girl she’d known? And who had sabotaged her dress sense? Mac looked more like an overweight Postman Patricia than the Yummy Mummy she’d expected. The functional black trousers, light blue top and clunky brogues made her wish she had the money to fly Mac to Paris and hit the boutiques.
Polyester? Puh-lease! In her mind, Anjuli dressed Mac in a burgundy silk that enhanced her pale skin, ink-black hair and clear grey eyes.
“That’s the only time I’ve seen Florinda speechless,” Mac said, laughing, and her face was transformed. Her eyes brightened and her mouth curved upwards in a mischievous smile that swept away the years.
Anjuli answered her laugh with a self-mocking smile. “She didn’t recognise me. And there I was, thinking I’m famous. My ego will never recover from being considered an unfeeling bitch.”
“You’re as far from an unfeeling bitch as Florinda is from a fuzzy bunny,” Mac said vehemently, then took Anjuli’s hand and pressed it. “I’ve never been able to thank you...for the roses.”
Anjuli knew immediately to what she referred. “Jamie’s favourite,” she remembered sadly.
The third Douglas son, Jamie, had died at eighteen. He’d been a year or so above her in school and had been a good friend, as sensitive and shy as Rob and Ben were confident and outspoken. But shortly after moving down to London for university, Jamie had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Anjuli would never forget the look on Rob’s face when he got the phone call that his brother had overdosed. The anniversary of his death was coming up, but this year she could take him his flowers herself, instead of sending them via courier.