‘Devon, there you are.’ Bets strode over and tucked a hand under his elbow, pulling him closer into the small circle – her usual mother hen, making sure everyone was included. ‘I was beginning to think you’d double-crossed me and signed up to be on call.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he drawled. ‘Not that me being here is going to make a blind bit of difference.’
‘Being so positive keeps you going! How do you know Ella here isn’t a ringer?’
‘Is she?’
‘No,’ admitted Bets with a sad little moue to her mouth. ‘But we’re quorate or whatever the technical term is for a full team. The vicar’s just finishing his tea. Not that either of you could hit a barn door with a rocket launcher if you tried.’
‘Ella,’ Bets tapped the other woman on the arm just as she was about to launch her dart. She threw it wildly, the dart bouncing off the board with a thud. ‘Oops. Sorry. This is Devon, my boss, landlord, brother-in-law to be and,’ she shot him a cheeky look, ‘friend, on a good day.’
‘Be careful, otherwise I’ll get my rocket launcher out, you cheeky mare. Hi,’ he stepped forward with a smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’
As if a cloud had covered the sun, the expression on Ella’s face closed down. Her lips thinned and her chin lifted as she studied him with what he would have said was barely veiled disgust, but maybe he was being paranoid.
‘Yes,’ she said ignoring his outstretched hand and turning back to the dartboard on the wall. With one fierce, brutal throw, she speared the dart into the board. He winced.
This was going to be an interesting evening. It looked like Bets’ new friend was some kind of man-hater. He wasn’t on Marina’s Christmas card list at the moment but he’d never had the impression she wanted to nail his balls to a dartboard. Although there was still time, he supposed.
‘We’ve met,’ said Ella giving him a pointed, almost triumphant look.
‘We have?’
Her fierce expression darkened further.
He didn’t remember but he could tell that admitting that was only going to make matters worse. This girl radiated brittle anger. Any moment now she might breathe fire all over him.
Bets watched the two of them, amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘Come on, you can buy me a drink,’ she said to Devon, already heading towards the bar.
‘Would you like one, Ella?’ asked Devon politely.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Her clipped tones had bite to them.
‘Be right back.’ Bets tossed the words over her shoulder as she led him to the bar.
‘What’s her problem?’ he asked. ‘You’d think I’d insulted her or something.’
Bets’ eyes widened a shade too innocently and her gaze slid away. ‘I might have told her that you thought she’d be ordinary and not an artist at all. But it’s all right,’ she added hastily, ‘because what Greta said was far worse.’
‘Ah, if I’ve upset her artistic sensibilities that might explain it.’
‘I think she’s just a bit sad at the moment.’
‘Sad? And you surmise this how?’
‘There’s just this look in her eye sometimes and I get the impression she might burst into tears at any second. Magda didn’t say what the problem was. You need to be nice to her. I had to force her to come out this evening. I think she’s lonely.’
‘Lonely! I’m not bloody surprised.’
‘No, seriously. I think she’s lost.’ He shook his head and took his pint. ‘Please be nice to her, Devon.’
‘All right then, as it’s you.’ Bets was usually a pretty good judge of character.
Greta, the landlady, nodded at them as they approached the polished wooden bar, brass pulls gleaming in the low light, tugging at the denim straps of her ubiquitous dungarees. Apparently, she modelled herself on eighties band Bananarama, which also explained the red and white head scarf tied around her bird’s nest of bright hair, pink this week.
‘What are you having, Bets? Nothing too strong. You’re our best bleedin’ player.’ Greta shot Devon a dubious look. ‘Unless Mr Vet here has hidden talents.’
He put up his hands in surrender. ‘Not a one. I’m just here to make up the numbers.’
