Pitch Imperfect(71)

The day’s warmth had disappeared with the setting sun, and while the air was crisp, Anjuli didn’t feel the cold. She walked down one of the narrow, cobbled streets that led off from the village green. The small row of cottages on her right had their lights on and she could smell several meals cooking as she walked past.

The Elliots were having fish and chips...Something Italian with lots of garlic at Mr. Crawford’s...Mrs. P. had burnt her steak with onions. Reiver licked his chops and ran up to her door, barking loudly.

“Shush, you gluttonous dog,” Anjuli called, but it was too late. Mrs. P. was at her doorway, beckoning her inside. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and neither would Anjuli’s disobedient, aggravating dog.

Mrs. P. led the way to the front room, where a bone-thin Mr. P. sat reading the newspaper. She greeted him politely and he nodded in response. She’d never heard Donald Peterson speak before, and he didn’t break the habit now.

“We’ve just finished our meal but there’s some scraps in the kitchen for your young friend,” Mrs. P. said. “My, my, don’t you look like you need a nice cup of coffee. Be a darling, Donald, and make it with plenty of sugar. You’re not watching your figure, are you, Anjuli? There’s nothing like a bit of sweetness on a bitter night.”

The delicate, flowery armchair sagged and creaked as Mrs. P. made herself comfortable and pointed at the sofa next to her. “How’s the manor coming on?”

Oh, thank God. Mrs. P. must not have heard about Craig yet. Handling her censure would be more than she could bear. “The masonry is finished and all the floors are repaired. The glass conservatory looks just as it used to when it was first built and...”

Anjuli’s voice trailed off. Mrs. P. wasn’t really listening. She’d leaned down and picked up a copy of The Borders Chronicle, opening it right to page three. Oh. She’d already seen the article and had been biding her time, itching to tell her what an awful woman she was. Maybe she would join the ranks of the “brazen hussies.”

Mrs. P. lifted her glasses from the chain around her neck and tsked a few times. “The rock star doesn’t look very healthy.”

Anjuli returned her frank look. “We’re not together, and I’m not having an affair with Mac’s husband, either, much as Sarah Brunel’s picture says otherwise.”

Mrs. P. huffed. “That woman is a...a bitching ho. Nobody with any sense believes you’re carrying on with Craig Scott and I’ll give them a piece of my mind if they dare suggest otherwise. That boy has always had a heart as black as tar. He tried to court my Lindsey, you know, right after Mac had their first baby. Disgusting behaviour, even if he is the only grandson of one of my best friends.” Mrs. P. raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Dear Catherine is probably turning in her grave.”

Clucking her tongue, she perused the newspaper photos once more. “That Dr. Mitchell is the exact opposite of Craig. He’s got integrity as well as being good...oh dear, what is the term? I learned it the other day, but my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Never mind, Dr. Mitchell is looking for love although he doesn’t know it.”

She pointed at the picture of Anjuli and Damien kissing and winked. “He’s certainly a manly man, isn’t he? Running every morning and doing his stretches on the village green before he checks in on Mrs. Wilson. He never fails to knock on her door bright and early to make sure she hasn’t expired. After that it’s down to the newsagents. He gets The Dublin Times especially ordered in.”

Did Mrs. P. have her binoculars trained on Damien?

“Vagina treat!” Mrs. P. exclaimed happily, and Anjuli’s coffee went down the wrong way. “Oh, no, pardon me. It’s pussy candy. I knew I would remember it without having to ask Donald. He falls into that category, doesn’t he?”

Somebody tell me she’s not asking me about Mr. P.

“D-Damien?”

“Of course, dear. I’ve always liked the muscular ones, you know, but Donald isn’t like that. He is such a lovely husband though, if a little dense. Forty years of marriage tomorrow and in all that time he’s never understood why I like Sean Bean. I’ve seen all his performances except for that dark fantasy romp, Game of Thrones. Donald didn’t tell me it was on Sky until I’d missed all of Sean’s episodes. He can be jealous like that.”

Anjuli put her cup down. “Thanks for the coffee, but I should get back to the pub. Please don’t get up, I can see myself out.”

Mrs. P. heaved herself off the armchair with surprising agility. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice and I hope you take it, dear. I’ve lived all my life in this village—never been abroad and never wanted to go—but I don’t need to be a woman of the world to see what happens in my own back garden. Dr. Mitchell is ‘hot.’ He’s ‘buff’ and...’phwoar,’ but Robert Douglas is the man for you.”