He softened a little. ‘It’s okay, I’ll wait. As long as you’re not doing a full week’s shopping.’
‘At those prices?’
‘I’ll pop in too,’ said Angie. Lottie rolled her eyes. That was all she needed. She wouldn’t be able to get the pregnancy test for Emily if her mother was spying on her.
‘No need. Let me know what you want and I’ll get it,’ offered Lottie, as casually as she could manage.
But her mother wasn’t going to let it go. ‘No, I’d like a nose around to see what’s changed. What do you need anyway?’
‘Something vegan for Scott’s dinner.’ She had dismissed the sprout curry out of hand.
‘Oh, well then, I should definitely come. I can advise you.’
Lottie balled her fists and thrust them under her thighs. She felt like a teenager – she could easily have gone off in a strop had she not been in a moving vehicle. This was what her mother reduced her to. ‘I’m getting butternut squash, if they’ve got any, to make a curry.’ The village stores’ stock was not the most glamorous, but they had all the basics, as well as things requested and bought regularly by the villagers. Lottie had quite a good insight into the lives of the locals via their purchases. Shirley likeda granary loaf and was particular about her sherry, which she bought quite a lot of; Lottie wondered if it was acting as a preservative, as she was pushing ninety and still going strong. The vicar had a major Curly Wurly habit and Maureen from the tearooms went through enough pickled eggs to sink a flotilla of battleships – or, alternatively, to gas the occupants.
Daniel pulled up by the village green and put on his hazard warning lights. Lottie figured it was more a gesture to her that he wasn’t planning on stopping long, rather than a warning to other drivers. Lottie hopped out and headed for the little shop without waiting for her mother. Inside, there were so many women chatting near the till that it was like a WI meeting. They gave a chorus of warm welcomes as she entered, and she realised that buying the pregnancy test on the quiet really wasn’t going to be possible whether her mother was there or not. While she scanned the vegetable section, the entry bell announced her mother’s arrival. The women turned to look, but then carried on their conversation.
‘Do they have any curly kale?’ asked Angie.
‘Nope. And anyway I’m doing butternut squash curry.’ Lottie was emphatic. Her mother followed her to the freezer. Lottie pondered the ice creams and sorbets.
‘He can’t have anything cream based,’ said Angie, haughtily.
‘I know,’ said Lottie, barely managing to keep her cool. She would be glad when her mother went home tomorrow. She hoped they were booked on an early train. ‘And I’ll get some almond milk, too, so you can have porridge in the morning.’
‘Porridge? Darling, I know you don’t watch your weight, but how many carbs do you think there are in porridge?’
‘More than there are shreds remaining of my patience,’ she said slowly.
‘If you’re going to be passive aggressive, I’m going to wait in the car,’ said Angie huffily, and she stomped out of the shop, making the door chime work overtime. The gathered ladies went on hold for a moment to watch her dramatic exit. The door closed and the chatter resumed. Lottie calmed herself.
The entry door chimed again, the ladies paused their conversation and, fearing her mother had returned, Lottie’s hackles rose. She needn’t have worried. A woman Lottie didn’t recognise walked in and headed to the wine section. Lottie picked up the raspberry sorbet and checked the ingredients, aware that the ladies had resumed their conversation, although now it was hushed, with a decidedly excited tone.
The stranger’s phone rang and she answered it. ‘Hi … Yes, Megan speaking … No.’ She had a strong American accent. ‘Tuesday latest. Can you do that? … Okay. Bye.’
Lottie shut the freezer and glanced at the woman as she headed to the till. She was still studying the wines. She had olive skin and black hair, neatly tied back. Lottie couldn’t help but notice that she was very slim: her waist was tiny; minuscule in fact. And she was dressed like she’d been to a wedding. Lottie smiled, but got no response.
Lottie paid for her items, said her goodbyes to the assembled women and exited the shop. Outside, she did a double take: pulled up in front of Uncle Daniel’s car was an almost identical Range Rover. She clambered into the passenger seat of her uncle’s car and did up her seatbelt. ‘Did you see who got out of that car?’ she asked as Danielpulled away. Lottie could see a man sitting in the driver’s seat.
‘Meghan Markle!’ shouted Angie and she slapped her hand on the window.
‘What?’ said Daniel, making the car swerve a fraction. ‘Bloody hell, Ang,’ he added, full of irritation.
Lottie swung her head around to see a glimpse of the American woman coming out of the village stores. It was difficult to tell, but she did definitely bear a passing resemblance to Prince Harry’s wife.
‘Oh my God. I can’t believe it.’ Angie was jigging about with excitement. ‘Did you see her in the shop, Lottie?’
‘Yeah.’ Lottie was trying to process it as best she could.
‘Did she speak to anyone?’ asked Angie.
‘No, but she did answer her phone.’
‘Did she have an accent?’ asked Nicola. It was like being interrogated.
‘Yeah, a sort of Texan drawl.’ Squealing erupted from the back seat like a classroom full of teenage girls. Lottie turned in her seat. ‘It can’t be the Duchess of thingy. She won’t be here for Christmas,’ said Lottie, totally unconvinced.
‘What did she say, Lottie?’ asked her mother, an edge in her voice.
