his broad of shoulder, svelte of hip. Seth, who seemed to know all the paths, took her arm. She froze for a second but didn’t shake him off.
‘“In such a night/Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,” ‘ murmured Seth. ‘Ker-ist!’ He leapt behind Trixie as a great white face loomed over the half-door. ‘It’s the ghost of Beau Regard.’
‘It’s darling Wilkie.’ Showing tenderness and animation for the first time, Trixie rushed up and patted her.
‘Oh lucky horse to bear the weight of Trixie,’ sighed Seth.
To her surprise, given he had such a terrible reputation, Seth didn’t try to kiss her.
Once home, she texted Dora. ‘Granny’s got a thumping great crush on Mr Bulging Crotchester.’
Feeling rather flat, Etta made herself a cup of tomato soup and a piece of toast and decided to watch Much Ado, but she couldn’t find the DVD anywhere. Perhaps Priceless had stolen it.
Aware of Seth’s lethal charm, Alan didn’t want his mother-in-law to get hurt. The following evening, glad to have an excuse to stop writing, he gathered up a couple of bottles and wandered down to the bungalow. Here he found a shattered Etta trying to referee a squawking match between Drummond and Poppy on whether they should watch Shrek or Harry Potter.
‘You stupid bumhole,’ yelled Drummond, hurling a green glass paperweight at his sister.
‘Out!’ roared Alan, ‘O-U-T.’ Then, getting four pound coins out of his pocket: ‘You can each have two of these if you bugger off until I tell you to come in.’
‘Go and see Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Etta, giving them her last two carrots.
Outside the back door, she had been sorting out her indoor bulbs, seven white ones in one blue bowl, pink in another, dark blue, pale blue and more white in others. Like making sloe gin, it was one of the rituals of late summer to ward off the cold and darkness of the coming winter. Pocock had very kindly given her the bulbs for looking after Gwenny, but she was not sure she’d be able to afford the gin to go with the sloes.
After pouring two large glasses of red, Alan handed Etta some cuttings. ‘Your boyfriend’s all over the newspapers today.’
Etta went crimson, had she been rumbled? Then, glancing at them, her face softened. ‘Oh Valent, how lovely.’
Valent had been very busy launching a robot made in his Chinese factory called the Iron Man, which ironed everything from shirts to sheets and would forever transform the lives of women.
‘And men too,’ said Alan, perching on the tenth of the sofa not occupied by Priceless. ‘My wife, your daughter, has never liked ironing.’
‘How is she?’
‘Eruptive. When both the women in my family are at the wrong time of the month, I make myself scarce.’
‘How’s Depression going?’
‘Nearly finished,’ lied Alan. ‘I wish Mrs Wilkinson would get off her arse so I could get on with her life story.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Etta guiltily. Across the valley, she could see Marius’s horses relishing the sun on their backs, lying flat out on the grass with just the occasional flick of their tails. When the sun went down they would all gallop round – to show how much horses enjoy racing each other.
‘I’m sure Wilkie will be fit soon. Gosh, these cuttings are lovely. The interviewers really like him.’
Previously the press had emphasized Valent’s ruthlessness and killer instinct, dubbing him the ‘Tin Man without a Heart’.
‘Of course he’s got a heart,’ protested Etta. ‘No matter how busy he is he sends postcards from all over the world asking after Wilkie. More than Bonny does. Do you know Seth can’t stand Bonny?’ she couldn’t resist saying. ‘I thought he adored her.’
So did Alan, but he didn’t say so.
‘He doesn’t like Valent either.’
‘Seth doesn’t like competition. Valent’s a heavyweight.’
Alan was full of gossip:
‘Lester, another would-be heavyweight, is due to start filming any moment. He’s determined to use Furious, so Amber is booked as a stand-in for Cindy in the riding scenes. Cindy told me, “Amber’s boobs aren’t as good as mine, but on an ’orse, her ’air will cover them.” Lester’s still interviewing Peeping Toms, the queue went round the village this morning. He even asked Trixie to play Godiva’s handmaiden.’
Etta shuddered. ‘Loathsome little man, I hope she refused.’
‘She did, but only because the money was lousy. As Mrs Wilkinson is off games, Bolton wants his horse, Furious, led up by Michelle, natch, to give pony rides at the fête.’
‘He’s mad,’ cried Etta in horror. ‘Furious would savage all the children.’