A Village Affair Read online

  A VILLAGE AFFAIR

  Julie Houston

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About A Village Affair

  Cassie Beresford has recently landed her dream job as deputy head at her local, idyllic village primary school, Little Acorns.So, the last thing she needs is her husband of twenty years being ‘outed’ at a village charity auction – he has been having an affair with one of her closest friends.

  As if that weren’t enough to cope with, Cassie suddenly finds herself catapulted into the head teacher position, and at the forefront of a fight to ward off developers determined to concrete over the beautiful landscape.

  But through it all, the irresistible joy of her pupils, the reality of keeping her teenage children on the straight and narrow, her irrepressible family and friends, and the possibility of new love, mean what could have been the worst year ever, actually might be the best yet…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About A Village Affair

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  About Julie Houston

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  1

  How I Lost My Husband…

  It was the first Saturday evening in September, the weekend before the long school summer holiday finally came to a close. Before we knew it, the nights would be drawing in and the supermarkets would be stocking up with the euphemistically termed ‘Seasonal Goods’, determined to be the first to roadblock both ends of each aisle with garishly purple octagonal tins of sweets. I leant forward to catch the light in the mirror and smiled at my reflection, accepting that the sales girl at the Charlotte Tilbury franchise in the newly opened John Lewis in Leeds had been right about the lip colour after all.

  ‘Nice lipstick.’ Mark stopped struggling with the ends of the black material, dropped a kiss onto my bare shoulder and lifted his starched-collared neck in my direction, a movement now almost automatic after eighteen years of marriage and the countless black-tie dos we’d attended together during this time. I reached both hands to his tie, deftly tied the fiddly bow and arranged the collar symmetrically before spraying myself with just two squirts of Jean-Louis Scherrer, the perfume that Mark never forgot to buy for me at the airport on his numerous business trips abroad.

  I glanced around my cream-decorated bedroom, at the Jane Churchill curtains and matching cushions, at the neatly folded rose-pink and cream towels in their correct place in the immaculate en-suite. My eyes rested just for a moment on the three subtle pastels arranged neatly above our bed; gone were the tattered ‘Ban the Bomb’, Greenham Common and Led Zepp posters from my adolescence, arranged and stuck haphazardly with rusty drawing pins.

  All was well.

  At almost seventeen, Tom was more than of an age to be left at home to look after himself, although I wasn’t so sure about his ability to babysit his fourteen-year-old sister. I frowned slightly and thought, not for the first time that evening, that maybe I should have asked Mark’s mother to come over and stay. I knew the minute we were off in the taxi, which even now was idling in the drive, Tom would be back in his room, nose in his maths books, and Freya would have unsupervised access to her mobile, computer, TV and the cake tin. I hesitated for a split second longer but, hearing Mark shouting from the garden for me to get a move on, I grabbed my bag – another present from Mark – and told myself the truth: my kids were good kids, sensible, well-behaved and, while they might not spend huge amounts of time in each other’s company, I knew when push came to shove they’d look out for each other and remember to lock doors and close curtains against the darkening September evening.

  I smiled to myself, congratulating myself on my life and achievements. I was with the husband I adored, who adored me right back; I loved my modern, bright and, let’s face it, rather upmarket home in the village of Westenbury; I was realising my professional dream after only a couple of years back in the classroom after several years as a stay-at-home mum, and was about to start as deputy head at the much-revered Little Acorns Primary School just down the lane. And, right now, I was off to spend the evening with the three friends I loved most in all the world: Tina, Fi and Clare.

  *

  ‘You’re looking lovely as usual, sweetie,’ Tina said, pouring champagne for me and admiring the new black skimpy cocktail dress I was wearing in honour of this charity ball and auction. ‘Mark been shopping for you again? You must have the only husband in Midhope who not only knows your size, but knows what will suit you and who isn’t afraid to go into Bows and Belles to search for it.’

  As she spoke I glanced up at Mark, who ran his fingers down my bare back while continuing his conversation with Simon, Tina’s husband.

  ‘Now,’ Tina continued, polishing off her drink before reaching for the bottle and refilling her glass, ‘we don’t want to miss any of this auction. I’ve got my eye on the villa in Portugal that’s up for grabs: one week next August. It sleeps fourteen – can you imagine? – so it’ll be jolly expensive, but it comes with a personal chef…’ Tina thrust the auction pamphlet into my hand. ‘Look, Lot four… If we all club together it won’t be too bad. What do you think…?’

  ‘Sounds heaven.’ I closed my eyes, imagining a week of hot sunshine and no cooking or clearing up into the bargain; being waited on hand and foot while drinking cocktails with my three best friends and our families. ‘Will Clare come, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. She’d be able to bring her man of the moment. Whoever that might be…’

  ‘Should we be bidding on something while Mark is the auctioneer?’ I frowned. ‘I mean, might it not be seen as bending the rules if the auction goes our way?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be fine.’ Tina dismissed my worries with a wave of her hand, which turned into a wave of welcome as Fi, Matthew and Clare made their way across the crowded bar to our table. ‘Simon will bid for us. Anyway, it’s who comes up with the best bid. Mark can’t control that. We’ll just have to make sure we urge Simon on to the bitter end… until we have victory.’

  *

  An hour had passed, the starter – a doughy, tepid mushroom vol-au-vent – had been served and, in some cases eaten with gusto; in most, attempted and left on the sides of plates. Fi and I, enjoying the champagne and Clare’s tale involving her latest conquest – a traffic warden whom she took up to her office in order to avoid a parking ticket – had to be shushed by Tina as Mark took the auctioneer’s stand and someone on the front table affected a drum roll with a couple of side plates on its wooden top.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the 2017 Midhope Families in Need appeal. The majority of us here in this room will never understand what some families have to go through just to sur
vive and stay together…’ Mark paused theatrically and surveyed the room, smiling. ‘… So, dig deep in those pockets, refill your glasses and let’s get going with the first ten lots in your booklet this evening.’

  I felt tears threaten and swallowed hard. Mark had always been determined to put others first, but even so, it was ridiculous to be still so in love with one’s husband after all these years. Fi and Clare were laughing at me: they knew how Mark and I felt about each other.

  ‘Simon, are you ready?’ As soon as the auction for Lot four – the villa in Portugal – was about to start, Tina shook Simon’s arm none too gently and the white wine he’d been about to lift to his mouth spilt over both their hands. Tina glared at him. ‘Look, I really want this. Do you want me to do it? Shall I bid…?’

  Simon was very drunk.

  He staggered to his feet with the auction pamphlet in one hand and, after stabilising himself by grabbing the loose folds of the starched white tablecloth, refilled his glass and immediately downed it in one.

  ‘So, we come to Lot four. A really fabulous villa in Carvoeiro in Portugal…’ The sound of Mark’s steady, encouraging tone momentarily distracted my attention from Simon, who was now standing calmly to my left. Only his eyes, glittering almost manically, portrayed how much alcohol he’d consumed.

  ‘… We’re up to £2,000. Come on, a fabulous villa for fourteen must be worth a lot more than this. Who’ll give me £2,200?’ Mark smiled at the guests in front of him. He wasn’t going to hurry this; he knew he was on to a winner with this villa.

  ‘Mr Auctioneer,’ Simon shouted loudly and the whole room turned, surprised, towards our table ‘… Mr Mark Fucking Auctioneer. Tell you what. You stop shagging my wife, as you’ve been doing for the last… um, let me see… two years isn’t it…? You stop shagging my wife and I’ll give you however much you think that’s worth…

  2

  …And How I Found Him in the First Place

  1998

  ‘Mum, please don’t tell me you’re going like that.’

  ‘Which bit don’t you like?’ Paula turned to the ancient, tarnished mirror that had hung in the exact same position over the mantelpiece for as long as I could remember, baring her teeth in a rictus smile.

  ‘All of it, for heaven’s sake. That hat looks like something from Oxfam.’ I frowned, taking in my mother’s bizarre wedding ensemble, and wishing once again the wish that I’d had ever since my first day at infants’ school when I began to realise, with a five-year-old’s desire to be the same as everyone else, that my mother was somehow different from other mothers. Paula’s dreadlocked hair, pierced nose, flowing orange dress, and open sandals revealing grubby hennaed feet stood out starkly among the business suits, gym apparel, trendy jeans and snow-white shirts sported by my new class mates’ parents and Miss Palmer herself.

  ‘The hospice shop, actually,’ my mother smiled beatifically. ‘A bargain at £2.50 and I have the satisfaction of knowing that my purchase not only helps the planet by recycling someone else’s unwanted goods, but also puts some money into something other than the capitalist shop owner’s pocket.’

  Oh God, did she ever give up?

  ‘I just think you could have made a bit more of an effort for your only niece’s wedding day.’

  ‘Effort? Effort? Do you know how many charity shops I had to trail round in order to come up with matching items that wouldn’t upset your auntie Linda’s strict wedding colour scheme?’

  ‘And you think what you’re wearing won’t annoy her?’ I glanced once more at Mum’s strange aubergine knitted dress, at the purple tights and offending purple floppy hat. ‘At least let me put your hair up and try out a couple of my lipsticks on you; as a family member, she won’t be able to hide you at the back out of the way, will she?’

  ‘No time for that,’ Mum said cheerfully. ‘The taxi with your nan and granddad will be here in a minute. I think we both look pretty good, although…’ she took an appraising look at the little peach-coloured dress and matching collarless jacket I’d spent too many Saturdays looking for, after being inspired by Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, and on which I’d spent far too much of my newly qualified teacher’s wage. ‘… I’ve a fabulous pair of dangly orange earrings that would liven up that outfit – give it a bit of colour…’

  ‘Are we ready for the off?’ My nan appeared at the open kitchen door, frowning up at the gathering dark clouds heading our way and tottering slightly on her new navy court shoes, bunions obviously giving her some gyp. ‘Come on, our Sandra, let’s be ’aving you. Your granddad’s hoping he can have a quick one before the kick-off …’

  I grinned, loving Nan for her words. ‘Letsby Avenue’ and ‘Our Sandra’ – Nan had never been able to get used to my ‘right weird’ name of Cassandra Moonbeam – had been so often uttered over the years I reckoned they’d be engraved on her tombstone if she managed to avoid the willow casket and humanist service Mum had in mind for any of us popping our clogs before her.

  Nan took my arm as we made our way down the garden steps to the beribboned wedding car waiting on the street. ‘What is your mother wearing this time?’ she tutted in a whisper. ‘Our Linda and our Davina won’t be happy. You’d have thought she’d have smartened herself up a bit, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s not every day we have a right big do like this. Linda and Anthony have shelled out an absolute fortune for this wedding, you know. Mind you, Anthony can afford it…’

  ‘Come on, Dot, get a move on,’ Granddad Norman shouted through the open window of the wedding car. ‘Stop telling tales or we’ll be late.’

  ‘Or you won’t be able to sneak off to the Royal Oak, you mean. It’s not the done thing, anyhow, calling for a pint before your granddaughter gets wed. Just behave yourself and wait for t’champagne to be served.’

  ‘Hello, love. You look smashing.’ Granddad leant over the front seat to hug me and I hugged him right back, breathing in the Old Spice aftershave he’d never veered away from wearing and which he regularly sloshed on with a heavy hand. He and Nan were such a big part of my life; the idea that, one day, they wouldn’t be around was unthinkable.

  ‘You look pretty good yourself,’ I said. ‘You scrub up well.’

  Nan snorted. ‘Had to send him back upstairs once he was dressed. He still had muck from the allotment under his nails. Shove up a bit, Paula,’ she went on, inching her not insubstantial behind along the back seat. ‘I can’t breathe in this new corset. The woman in M&S said it was right, that it’d settle down a bit, but…’ she took a deep breath, ‘… I think the next size up would have been better.’

  ‘So, love, how’s the job going? Still enjoying being in Derby? Got a boyfriend yet? Your cousin Davina’s beaten you to it again.’

  ‘She’s welcome to it,’ I said untruthfully at the same time as Mum tutted disparagingly. She didn’t believe in marriage, especially when thousands of pounds were being forked out in order for a woman to enslave herself to some man who’d want his socks washing and his meat and two veg on the table at six every evening. ‘And yes, I love Derby and I love the teaching. It’s just what I’ve always wanted. I’m saving up to buy a house there, Granddad.’

  ‘Property is theft,’ Mum murmured mildly, glancing out at the street through a window of gathering and breaking raindrops.

  ‘But “proper tea” isn’t.’ Granddad turned and winked at me, attempting to lighten any developing tension between Mum and myself, as had been his practice for as long as I could remember.

  ‘You never told me this, Cassandra.’ Mum now turned to face me, head on.

  ‘Well, I don’t tell you everything.’

  ‘I don’t think you tell me anything.’ Mum’s face, the bit that could be still seen under the floppy brim of the vintage purple hat, was momentarily sad and I felt a twinge of guilt. She was right: I rarely told her my plans.

  *

  ‘Hi, I’m Fiona, pleased to meet you. Friend or family?’

  We’d been allowed, finally, to le
ave the interminable photo session outside the church where an unseasonably cold shower had left white streaks in over-the-top fake tans, and sent guests scurrying for umbrellas and waiting cars to head to the reception.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you related to Davina or Luke?’

  ‘I’m Davina’s cousin. Mum and Linda are sisters.’ I knew I was gaping at this rather large woman, who couldn’t have been much older than me, easing herself into one of the twelve chairs decorated with jaunty pink and white balloons and chocolate-box bows in pink netting. They reminded me of the starched pink net tutus I’d dreamt of wearing in the ballet class I never got to go to. Mum was away at Greenham Common, if I remember rightly, and although Granddad had said he’d take me along to the village hall class, it never actually materialised. I knew I was being rude but I continued to stare at Fiona. She was hugely pregnant and blue. Literally. Blue lines, crosses and something that looked remarkably like the outline of a map of India were etched randomly on her face.

  ‘Fell asleep before we set off,’ she grimaced. ‘I’m so knackered…’ she rubbed her lower back in the way of all the pregnant woman I’d ever met ‘… and the two-year-old found the blue felt marker pen. He also, little sod, decided to eat the green colouring I’d left out for the minute I had the energy to make his elf birthday cake and now he’s shitting Martians. Oops sorry, shouldn’t say shit at a wedding. Do you suppose the alcohol mafia will descend if I go for a glass of wine?’

  ‘When’s the baby due?’

  ‘Last week.’ Fiona rubbed her back once again. ‘I’ve carted Van Gogh – obviously in his blue and green period – off to Matthew’s mum so I’m free to go into labour as from this minute.’

  A huge dark-haired giant of a man was in the process of finding his name on the table and once he did so he sat down heavily and looked at his watch. He must have been six-foot-four at least, and broad with it. His white shirt strained across his massive chest and he fiddled uncomfortably with the button at his neck.