“Nothing personal,” I reply, grinning. “And has anyone ever told you you look a bit like Dolly Parton?”
“Funnily enough, I used to make my living as a Dolly impersonator…”
“Really?”
“No. God, you’re too easy. You know that don’t you? Now come on, let’s get you set up. You’ve had a long day.”
I’ve had a long month, I think to myself, as I follow her around the village green, the dog trotting at my feet. He’s had a small bowl of Lottie’s food, much to her annoyance, and seems to feel a lot better for it.
As we walk, Connie keeps up a running commentary on village life, pointing out the hall, and George’s cottage, and Archie’s workshop, where he keeps all his gardening gear and woodworking kit. Archie, it turns out, is the gardener – and goodness, he does an amazing job of it.
“Does he build the fairies too?” I ask, having seen even more of them draped around the village – suspended by wires from tree branches, hiding behind plant pots, peeking out from flower beds.
“Oh no, they’re real fairies,” Connie replies, giving me a nudge. “Most people can’t see them – you must be blessed by the fey!”
“Yep, that’ll be it. Me and the fairy folk go back a long way. I see you have a butcher, and a baker – what about the candlestick maker?”
“Ah. Funny story that. We used to have one, but one day she met this owl, and this pussycat, and they ended up going to sea in a beautiful pea green boat…”
“Hmm,” I answer, “I think you might have mixed up your stories a bit there, Dolly. Is this the pub?”
We are standing outside a handsome two-storey building, made of that gorgeous mellow stone, all mullioned windows and creeping ivy and spectacular hanging baskets cascading with colour. It has a thatched roof, and looks older than some of the other places I’ve been shown, with a distinctly crooked feel to it that tells of centuries of use. There is a painted sign hanging outside, not one made by the girls this time – this one is simply painted black, with vivid stars of gold and silver sparkling against the backdrop. Silver and gold letters announce that this is the Starshine Inn, which makes my question redundant.
“Pub, hotel, meeting room, headquarters for the annual Twister tournament…and now, your home. For tonight at least.”
She pushes open the door and shouts: “Ahoy there!” at the top of her voice. There are several occupied tables, and a few turn around to look at us – none of which seems to bother Connie.
“Now, prepare yourself,” she warns in a much quieter tone. “Pub Daddy is quite the shock to the senses.”
I have no idea what she means by that, so I busy myself examining my new surroundings. I’ve been assured that dogs are very welcome here, but I’m glad when I spot a couple with two Springer Spaniels in a window seat.
As I gaze around, I see a picture-perfect countryside pub – all dark wood and oak furniture, velvet drapes, cosy booths, nooks and crannies and snugs. There’s a huge open fireplace, and an old-fashioned jukebox in one corner, and a long bar area bearing real ale pumps and a world of optics reflecting against a mirrored backdrop. The walls are as higgledy-piggledy on the inside as the outside, painted in a rich shade of burgundy, and the floor has a distinct tilt to it. History comes at a price, I suppose.
By the time I’ve done a visual circuit there is also, as I turn around, a drop-dead gorgeous man standing right in front of me. He’s tall, lean and broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and even darker eyes. My heart does a little flip-flop at the sight, and I stare at him for what is probably way too long to be polite. He seems out of place here – even though he’s only wearing Levi’s and a black T-shirt, something about him feels impossibly glamorous. It’s like bumping into George Clooney at the fish counter in Tesco.
The nickname Pub Daddy had conjured up images of a middle-aged bloke with a beer belly sagging over his trousers, and this creature couldn’t be more different.
“You must be Ella,” he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“Yes, I must be,” I reply, trying to pull myself together. It’s not the first time I’ve met a handsome man. Mark is a handsome man. Some of my colleagues were handsome men. I’ve met hundreds of them – but this guy is in a different league. I now completely get what Connie was talking about – he is indeed a shock to the senses. He even smells good.
“And this must be the famous weresheep,” he adds, crouching down to make friends with the dog. Connie meets my eyes over his head and pulls a ‘see-what-I-mean’ face.
“I believe you had a last-minute cancellation, Jake,” Connie says when he is back with us. “A little bit of Starshine magic for Ella here.”
“Well, Connie,” he replies, smiling indulgently, “I wouldn’t want to argue, but I believe it was as much a toddler with chicken pox as Starshine magic.”
He has a quiet and easy way about him; there is none of the larger-than-life bluster of some of the others I’ve met so far. I find it soothing, to be honest – like he’s a real person, not someone from a panto.
“Ha!” she exclaims, pointing at him. “One and the same and you well know it! Anyway, I need to get home and make sure the kids haven’t burned the house down. I’ll leave Ella in your capable hands. Has Archie dropped the case off?”
“Yep, it’s in her room. Ged’s going to bring the car around to the car park.”
“There’s a car park?” I say, confused. “So, like, there’s a road here and everything?”
“Yeah,” answers Connie, laughing at my expression. “You just came in the back way. If you’d broken down a couple of miles earlier, you’d have been here in minutes. But then you’d have missed out on the fairy woodland, and the weresheep, and burgling my café, wouldn’t you?”
“I didn’t burgle your café,” I point out. “You left the door open. It was…just entering, not breaking.”
