Lynne would suggest that a very private person would not go out for dinner or drinks with a stranger every Saturday, and that by doing so she was selling herself short. Rosy didn’t quite understand this point of view. Dross and gold, frogs and princes – surely everyone knew how these things worked? And she had to start somewhere.
Then her friend would tentatively pitch the ‘nice young farmer down Wherry’s Lane’ or (God help her) Miles’s father or maybe Ellie’s dad. Blurring of professional boundaries was not an argument Lynne seemed to understand. But regardless of whatever her friend had to say about this date, it was still going to be nice not to have to go home early, lonely and deflated.
Maybe she should do as her friend suggested, not stop the Saturday night date thing forever, just take a break for a bit? There was only so much weekly disappointment a girl could take. Surely having her face licked by a stranger, and in public, was reason enough to pause?
However, as Lynne answered the door to Rosy, all wrapped up in her dressing gown, with something a bit too fluffy for Rosy’s taste on her feet, she didn’t look at all prepared to launch into her usual anti-dating rant. Instead, she grabbed Rosy by the arm and dragged her into the living room.
‘Are you all right, Lynne?’
‘Yes, yes, sit down. Oh, it’s so exciting!’ Lynne was pulling her onto the sofa and scrabbling with her fingertips, like a cat, on Rosy’s knee.
‘For God’s sake, woman! I haven’t seen you this hyped up since you saw your fruit bowl in Kirsty Allsop’s kitchen.’
‘Oh my. Rosy, this is even more exciting!’ Lynne pointed to an array of celebrity news magazines spread all over her coffee table. She was completely freaky over such things. She could tell you the details of every single family member of anyone who had ever appeared onMade in Chelsea. She could list the nail colours of each woman onTOWIEin chronological order, going back a full three months. She could probably tell you the inside leg measurement of the Duchess of Cambridge, if pushed.
Rosy loved her friend, her loyalty, her forthrightness, her patience, but just didn’t understand the celebrity obsession thing. Yes, she too could leaf through a magazine and enjoy grimacing at an overdecorated house or a dress that was cut out a bit too much but Lynne, well, Lynne was obsessed. And for the life of her she wasn’t sure why.
‘Go on, guess. Guess what has happened today?’
‘Um, you bumped into Colin Firth in Asda?’
Lynne giggled good-humouredly. ‘No, although that would have been amazing! It could happen one day.’
‘Probably not!’
‘Don’t be so negative. That’s not like you. Of course it could. It happens all the time. Especially with all the filming down here. Debbie Anderson’s mum bumped into the guy fromPoldarkin the pub the other night.’
‘Poor bloke.’
‘Yeah, I know, he might not come back. But anyway, this is like that. But better.’
‘Better than the bloke inPoldark?’
‘Well, OK, maybe not. But I am a happily married woman so there’s not much I could do if I bumped into him anyway,’ Lynne said, nodding over at Dave, who was gently snoring in the armchair.
‘Dream, Lynne. You could dream. That’s what the rest of us do.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Her friend smirked. ‘Anyhow, you’ve lost focus. Guess what happened today?’
‘How on earth can I do that? It’s a mile open. The answer could be anything. Did you sell Dave’s kidney? You found out Marion Marksharp is an international arms dealer? I don’t know. Give me a clue.’
‘Oh, I can’t, I’d give it away.’
‘Well, can I get up and put the kettle on whilst I pretend to guess?’
‘No, no. Oh well, yes of course, but I’m going to tell you.’ Lynne took a deep breath and clasped Rosy’s arm for support. ‘I saw Angelina in the village! That’s right! Angelina! In this village!’
‘Angelina Jolie in Penmenna? Are you sure?’
‘Angelina Jolie… No, don’t be daft! Just Angelina. You know, Angelina!’
‘Lynne, you can say it five times or twenty but no amount of repetition or inane grinning is going to make this clearer to me. If you don’t mean the only Angelina I have ever heard of – oh no that’s not true, there’s the ballerina, of course – then I don’t know who you are talking about. Unless you’re trying to tell me there’s a human-size fictional dancing mouse wandering around the village.’
‘Oh my God, you’re so useless.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, you are, about the important stuff, I mean.
