As Gerry walked past the window, Mel switched off the vacuum cleaner and shot out to the hallway. ‘Did you get everything? The lemons, the Parmesan, the coconut milk?’
He ushered her towards the kitchen, shooing her along with the bulging carrier bags. ‘Yes, yes, and yes. Calm down, Mel, this isn’t royalty you’re entertaining, just a few of your book-club bods.’
‘Bods!’ she protested. ‘It’s Angie, Lorraine, and Caroline. They have standards. I’m the newcomer here. They’ll expect a certain level of sophistication. Believe me, as far as Caroline goes, royalty would be the easier call.’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘She’s married to a local councillor, not an aristocrat.’
‘Try telling her that!’ Mel shot back. ‘As she never seems to tire of telling me, her husband’s chair of the Rotary Club and spends every Sunday playing golf with Barry Neeson.’
‘Who?’ Gerry asked vaguely.
‘The jockey,’ Mel said. ‘He’s the village’s most famous resident. He and Rex are like this apparently.’ She entwined her fingers.
‘Great. I still don’t see why you have to be all of a dither at the thought of his missus coming here. I’m sure even they enjoy a sneaky beans-on-toast off a lap tray once in a while.’
Mel raked a hand through her tufty blonde hair. ‘They have a Chippendale dining table, silver place mats and a cut-glass cruet. No way does Caroline ever eat off her lap.’
‘Then she doesn’t know what she’s missing.’ Gerry slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘We may have only been able to afford this place thanks to that
