Katie Oliver - Mansfield Lark

Holly James opened the cartons of Chinese takeaway and took down plates from the cupboard. As she dumped the Szechuan green beans, brown rice, and crispy beef into bowls and yanked the silverware drawer open in search of serving spoons, she wondered if there was any diet soda in Alex’s fridge.

But a quick hunt unearthed only a half-open bottle of flat champagne and two bottles of stout. Good thing she’d ordered a couple of bottles of ginger beer along with their meals.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ she called out. The sound of explosions and gun blasts in the sitting room stopped abruptly as Alex switched off the TV and wandered, barefoot, into the kitchen.

‘Yen Ho’s,’ he said as he picked up a spring roll and bit into it, ‘or Dim Sum Palace?’

‘Neither. It’s Buddha Garden.’

As Alex sat down and dished out rice and crispy beef, he glanced over at Holly. ‘Remember when we were dating, and you actually used to cook for me?’

‘Remember when we were dating, and you actually used to spend time with me?’ she shot back. ‘We’d spend an entire evening together, just the two of us.’ She pushed some green beans and a tiny bit of rice onto her plate. ‘Imagine that.’

‘We spend time together,’ Alex said, defensive. ‘In fact, we could’ve spent Friday evening together at the club, but you begged off at the last minute. Again. That’s hardly my fault.’

‘I had a long day, Alex. I was tired. And I didn’t feel like listening to you and your friends drone on about due diligence and compos mentis, okay?’

‘On the contrary, I do understand. Because that’s exactly the way I feel about spending time around your friends.’ He speared a piece of crispy beef and thrust it in his mouth.

‘What’s wrong with my friends?’ Holly demanded. ‘They’re fun. Certainly more so than yours.’

‘Fun?’ Alex laid his fork aside and raised his brow. ‘Well, if you consider conversations about BB Cream and shooties and Gok Wan to be the apex of intelligent discussion, then yes, your fashion friends are quite scintillating.’

She dropped her own fork with a clink and glared at him. ‘Fashion is my life.’

‘And the law is mine,’ he returned tightly. ‘I’m sorry if you find my interests – and my friends – so tedious.’

Holly reined in her temper. ‘It’s not that I don’t like them, Alex. I do. Well enough,’ she amended. ‘But your friends and I have nothing in common. We’re chalk and cheese.’ She took a sip of her ginger beer. ‘And then there’s Camilla.’

‘What about her? She’s made every effort to be friendly.’

Holly said carefully, ‘I’m sure she has. But when you and she start talking about constituents and surgeries and by-elections, I feel completely left out. And I hate it.’

‘Oh.’ Alex was taken aback. ‘I hadn’t realized. I suppose it is a bit dull for you. All right – I promise to curb the legal talk when you’re around, fair enough?’

‘Thanks. More rice?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll skip the Groucho on Friday, and we’ll go out to dinner instead. Just the two of us, like we used to do.’

‘I’d love that.’

‘You decide where you’d like to go, and I’ll make the arrangements,’ he promised, then added, ‘On one condition.’

Holly paused, a forkful of rice halfway to her mouth. ‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘No fashion talk allowed,’ he said firmly. ‘Not a word about Gok Wan, or quilted handbags, or platform sneakers.’

‘I promise,’ Holly said. ‘Oh, Alex – time alone is exactly what we need.’ She leaned forward and took his hand. ‘I’ve missed you. I’ve missed us .’

He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘And I’ve missed you.’ He kissed the back of her palm and released her hand, then reached for his ginger beer and lifted it up. ‘Here’s to an entire evening without a single mention of Jil Sander.’

‘Or the PM,’ Holly added, lifting her own bottle and clinking it to his.

‘No Magic Lifting Creams.’

‘No by-elections.’

‘No spring collections.’

‘No Camilla Shawcross,’ Holly finished, and stood. ‘Now help me clear up.’

‘Leave it,’ Alex ordered, and pulled her into his arms. ‘I’ve just proposed an amendment to the bench that states we should make wild, passionate love, right here, right now. And the dishes be damned.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Holly murmured.

‘Let’s adjourn to the bedroom, shall we?’ So saying, Alex swung her up into his arms and carried her off, giggling, to his bed, where he threw her down and did exactly as he had promised.

And Holly thought that perhaps the law wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Chapter 6

The Jaguar’s engine juddered, heaved a sigh of profound regret, and died.

Natalie Dashwood clutched the steering wheel and stared in consternation at the various instruments on the Jag’s dashboard. Although the car was new and meticulously maintained, it made the odd noise now and again. And it was doing it now…again!

She’d told Rhys, her fiancé, about it; but of course the bloody car didn’t make the bloody noise whenever he drove it.

She eased the Jag off the road. Not only was the engine making odd ticking sounds; it refused to take her any further. She stared at the instrument cluster in dismay. This couldn’t be happening.

But of course it was happening, and of course it would do when she was smack in the middle of nowhere in sodding south Warwickshire. The sun was a rapidly sinking, orangey-red ball on the horizon. Mum’s house was an hour behind her, and there was nothing around for miles but the ribbon of roadway, and fields dotted with cow parsley and sheep.

Bad enough she’d been unable to land the wedding reception venue she’d wanted. She’d left it too late, and now every decent venue in London was booked up. Now, this.

Oh, well…there was nothing for it but to call Rhys to come and fetch her. She chewed her bottom lip. It was Sunday night and he worked tomorrow, plus she’d interrupt the football on TV, so he’d be put out, to say the least. Natalie rummaged in her handbag until she unearthed her mobile to ring Rhys.

No service.

Crikey . She must be in the middle of a dead zone, or something. Perhaps if she got out of the car and walked for a bit, the phone might pick up a signal. She eyed her platform pumps doubtfully and wished to hell she’d put on the jeans and trainers she’d worn on the trip from London up to Mum’s. But she’d wanted to look nice for Rhys when she got back home tonight…

…which she wouldn’t do, now. Bloody hell.

She slid out of the driver’s seat and stood up, mobile phone clutched in hand. It would be dark soon. She had perhaps forty more minutes of daylight before the sun, like the bloody car engine, gave up the ghost.

Right , she told herself nervously, don’t even think about things like ghosts, or you’ll run screaming into the cow parsley, never to be seen or heard from again…

She began to walk rapidly – well, as rapidly as her shoes would allow – northward along the edge of the road. Not only did her mobile refuse to connect to a transmitting tower; after a moment it, too, blinked and died.

Shit! Bloody technology, you could never depend on it when you needed it the most—

Suddenly Natalie realized that she’d not charged her phone last night at mum’s. She’d been so busy catching up on family gossip, and so gobsmacked by the news of her mum’s newfound romance with the local vicar, that she’d completely forgotten.

She groaned. She could just imagine what Rhys would have to say about this latest oversight of hers. Shit, shit, shit …