‘She’s sent her apologies, and someone to deputise for her,’ Bella tells him, just as the door pushes open and Bovis skulks in.
‘Who’s that?’ Daniel whispers to me.
‘Minty’s henchman,’ I tell him, and we smirk at each other. ‘Doesn’t look too pleased about being sent in her place. Bet he’s here in case Minty misses any gossip.’
Bovis drops a five-pound note into an empty crystal bowl at the centre of the table and I realise we’re all expected to do the same, so I follow suit, paying for Daniel and myself.
Bovis refuses a drink and takes a seat at the bar, just as the two men I’d seen when I first arrived come in. They’re not in their yellow waders and wellies tonight but are brushed up in short-sleeved shirts and jeans and smelling conspicuously of competing brands of aftershave. They pour themselves beers and Finan introduces them.
‘This is Monty and Tom Bickleigh. You’ll have seen their fishing boat in the harbour.’
The brothers are so alike they could be twins. They pull up chairs on either side of Daniel and me and stretch their legs out before them as if they’re exhausted.
‘Long day?’ Daniel asks Monty on his left.
‘Out on the water by five this morning, as usual,’ he replies, before taking a long drink of beer.
‘Good catch was it?’ I ask, struggling to know what else to say to a fisherman. I’ve never met one before.
‘Paltry,’ Tom tells me. ‘It’s getting harder to make a living off the boats. Some days I’m glad Dad’s not here to see the catch coming in.’
‘It’s their father’s boat,’ Finan explains, as he busies himself laying out napkins and bowls of crisps.
‘Passed away ten summers back,’ Monty adds. ‘My family have been fishermen here for three generations, and we’ll be the last.’
The two brothers give each other matter-of-fact looks before sinking the dregs of their pints. I refill their glasses straight away as I have a feeling they’re here for the beer and not the books.
Mrs Crocombe is the next to arrive, closely followed by her daughter and Monica Burntisland. Mrs C. has her eye on Daniel the second she comes in and she manoeuvres herself round the table and pulls a chair into the space between Tom the fisherman and me, making Tom tut and shift over.
Daniel’s texting Ekon again, absorbed in their conversation, so he doesn’t notice when Mrs C. throws her Vera Lancing paperback onto the table, leans towards me and conspicuously whispers, ‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘That lad? Haven’t seen him around. What’s he doing here?’ Mrs C.’s throwing daggers at Daniel who’s grinning at his phone.
‘Oh, that’s Daniel, from back home. He’s come to see me. We’re staying at the Siren together tonight.’ I’m smiling at the sight of him so happy, and not caring a jot if Mrs C. thinks it’s because I’m his besotted girlfriend.
‘Oh, bother! I’ve lost a tenner because of you.’
‘Eh?’ I squint.
‘I had a tenner on you and Elliot being together by the end of your stay, maybe even staying put in the village for a while after, but that’s out the window now you’ve brought your Daniel.’
‘Me and Elliot? I thought you liked Anjali as a match for Elliot?’
‘I did. But then I saw the way he was looking at you,’ Mrs Crocombe says testily. I can only blink at her. ‘It was clear to see the man was head over heels for you.’
I gulp and keep my eyes on my beer glass. I was enjoying goading the old matchmaker a second ago, but it’s not funny anymore. ‘I’d return all the bets on a bookshop romance involving either of us, Mrs C., if I were you. Nobody’s coming out of this a winner.’
I watch the ice-cream selling, one-woman marriage bureau give me up as the lost cause that I am, and she smiles forlornly with a nod, though it’s not without a hint of sympathy too. ‘Oh well, can’t win them all, eh?’ She sighs and reaches for a sandwich. ‘No sign of Jowan tonight?’ She scans the room, asking nobody in particular.
Bella takes a seat at the table. ‘He’s late, maybe we should make a start without him?’ And that’s how the meeting is called to order.
Bovis turns in his chair at the bar to observe us but doesn’t show any signs of wanting to participate. Mrs Crocombe’s daughter and Monica Burntisland, who I’m realising are colleagues at the primary school and clearly know each other well, reluctantly join the group at the table. They’ve bought a bottle of sauvignon between them and are swigging from large glasses and talking about teething troubles and nits and how Fabian really should speak to his mother about not staying for an entire month every August, it really is too wearing.
Neither of the young mums have their books with them. It’s clear they’re not here for literary enlightenment. They’re escaping the demands of parenting and being a wife for a few hours. They’re both in shades of red lipstick but don’t seem to have brushed their hair and they’ve each grabbed a bowl of crisps and set to work on them without stopping talking once.
It strikes me that the perfect Burntislands are just the same as everyone else, in spite of their Instagram-ready appearance and their perfect-looking family life. They’re just as chaotic and clueless as the rest of us. The same goes for Mrs C.’s daughter, the head teacher, who under the bar lights looks tired and relieved to be anywhere but home or school.
