from being blondish.’
‘I’ve always said she was a changeling – she’s never looked like anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe I created her all on my own, like a frog?
Is
it frogs that can do it themselves if they have to, or something else?’
‘You’re nearly as barmy as Dottie,’ Nia observed. ‘And I wouldn’t show the viewers round the cottage tomorrow singing “There Are Fairies at the Bottom of My Garden”, either, unless they’re the sort you want to put off.’
Before leaving the house next morning for Plas Gwyn I put on the dark wraparound sunglasses I picked up at a charity shop and then tied on a headscarf with the ends knotted round my neck in a very
Dolce Vita
way, as though someone might be going to whisk me away to the Italian Riviera in an open sports car at any moment and show me a good time.
Although heaven forbid, because Gabe Weston’s already shown me one of those (even if the sports car was actually a camper van and the Riviera a pub car park), and it certainly made me realise I was not cut out to be the proverbial good time had by all.
With my hair and eyes hidden I looked very nondescript, especially once I put on my warm hooded pink duffel coat with the rather ratty fur trim, another second-hand bargain. (Fake fur, of course, for until genetic engineering plumbs new depths, animals don’t come in mauve.)
Quite sure even my nearest and dearest wouldn’t recognise me, I set out for Plas Gwyn with a knot of strange excitement in the pit of my stomach and that song about being a second-hand Rose on my lips. I was feeling cheerful despite it being a wet and breezy day, until I saw the Wevills’ car parked so far across my drive I would have to ask them to move it if I wanted to get mine out.
‘Is that you, Fran?’ called Mona from her front window as I skirted her car, but I ignored her and set out on foot. I am certainly not asking permission to use my own drive or complaining: last time she said smugly that Mal told her it was fine with him as though she were scoring points, and then Owen emailed him forgivingly about my strangely unneighbourly attitude.
Suddenly there seem to be four people in this marriage, two of them deeply devious and one consistently batting for the wrong side. Mona is clearly motivated by jealousy: of my marriage to Mal, my being younger and prettier than she (not hard) and successful with my work. But what makes Owen such an Evil Weevil?
And, for a clever man, Mal can be very stupid about people. At some point very soon I am going to have to have this out with him, because I have definitely had enough and the campaign has evidently only just started to hot up.
My mood was now much more Aretha than old-time music hall and I could hear her belting out ‘Think!’ in my head as I plodded up the drive to Plas Gwyn – so Mal had better think what
he’s
trying to do to
me
.
‘There he is,’ Nia said, peering through the shifting veils of rain that coyly granted us – and presumably Gabe Weston too – unexciting glimpses of grass and strangely shaped trees.
I pushed my shades up on top of my head and watched him park his big silver Mercedes next to Dottie’s steaming and battered Land Rover and get out, stretching, but there was no sign of Dottie, who had vanished into the house on her arrival a few minutes before.
‘Where
is
she? She should be there to meet him!’ Nia muttered, resignedly reaching for her mack.
‘Quick, Nia!’ I said urgently. ‘He must have spotted the light and he’s coming this way – head him off.’
But now the rain was coming down harder, and he sprinted across and burst in just as I flattened myself against the wall behind the door. My sunglasses slammed down hard on the bridge of my nose, making my eyes water copiously.
‘Hi,’ he said to Nia, shaking rain off his hair in all directions like a dog. ‘What a day! I’m Gabriel Weston. Are you … ?’
‘You’re looking for Dottie Gwyn-Whatmire,’ Nia said
‘I’ve always said she was a changeling – she’s never looked like anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe I created her all on my own, like a frog?
Is
it frogs that can do it themselves if they have to, or something else?’
‘You’re nearly as barmy as Dottie,’ Nia observed. ‘And I wouldn’t show the viewers round the cottage tomorrow singing “There Are Fairies at the Bottom of My Garden”, either, unless they’re the sort you want to put off.’
Before leaving the house next morning for Plas Gwyn I put on the dark wraparound sunglasses I picked up at a charity shop and then tied on a headscarf with the ends knotted round my neck in a very
Dolce Vita
way, as though someone might be going to whisk me away to the Italian Riviera in an open sports car at any moment and show me a good time.
Although heaven forbid, because Gabe Weston’s already shown me one of those (even if the sports car was actually a camper van and the Riviera a pub car park), and it certainly made me realise I was not cut out to be the proverbial good time had by all.
With my hair and eyes hidden I looked very nondescript, especially once I put on my warm hooded pink duffel coat with the rather ratty fur trim, another second-hand bargain. (Fake fur, of course, for until genetic engineering plumbs new depths, animals don’t come in mauve.)
Quite sure even my nearest and dearest wouldn’t recognise me, I set out for Plas Gwyn with a knot of strange excitement in the pit of my stomach and that song about being a second-hand Rose on my lips. I was feeling cheerful despite it being a wet and breezy day, until I saw the Wevills’ car parked so far across my drive I would have to ask them to move it if I wanted to get mine out.
‘Is that you, Fran?’ called Mona from her front window as I skirted her car, but I ignored her and set out on foot. I am certainly not asking permission to use my own drive or complaining: last time she said smugly that Mal told her it was fine with him as though she were scoring points, and then Owen emailed him forgivingly about my strangely unneighbourly attitude.
Suddenly there seem to be four people in this marriage, two of them deeply devious and one consistently batting for the wrong side. Mona is clearly motivated by jealousy: of my marriage to Mal, my being younger and prettier than she (not hard) and successful with my work. But what makes Owen such an Evil Weevil?
And, for a clever man, Mal can be very stupid about people. At some point very soon I am going to have to have this out with him, because I have definitely had enough and the campaign has evidently only just started to hot up.
My mood was now much more Aretha than old-time music hall and I could hear her belting out ‘Think!’ in my head as I plodded up the drive to Plas Gwyn – so Mal had better think what
he’s
trying to do to
me
.
‘There he is,’ Nia said, peering through the shifting veils of rain that coyly granted us – and presumably Gabe Weston too – unexciting glimpses of grass and strangely shaped trees.
I pushed my shades up on top of my head and watched him park his big silver Mercedes next to Dottie’s steaming and battered Land Rover and get out, stretching, but there was no sign of Dottie, who had vanished into the house on her arrival a few minutes before.
‘Where
is
she? She should be there to meet him!’ Nia muttered, resignedly reaching for her mack.
‘Quick, Nia!’ I said urgently. ‘He must have spotted the light and he’s coming this way – head him off.’
But now the rain was coming down harder, and he sprinted across and burst in just as I flattened myself against the wall behind the door. My sunglasses slammed down hard on the bridge of my nose, making my eyes water copiously.
‘Hi,’ he said to Nia, shaking rain off his hair in all directions like a dog. ‘What a day! I’m Gabriel Weston. Are you … ?’
‘You’re looking for Dottie Gwyn-Whatmire,’ Nia said
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