What the hell just happened?
Chapter Three
Pub
Nathan wrapped his hands around the chilled base of his pint of Amstel, watching in a daze as a drop of condensation trickled down from the rim. A personal mantra played over and over in his head.
Nothing ever happens in Crumbington.
He had always believed those words should be embossed on a plaque and pinned up beneath the boundary signs. Wasn’t that the point of living in their sleepy haven hidden in the rural English county of what he liked to call Couldn’t-Care-Lessfordshire?
“Are you going to drink that?” came Polly’s voice. They perched at a high bar table—one of the few non-wobbly ones—in the bay window of The Crumbington Arms. “Or are you hoping to read your fortune in the bubbles?”
“What just happened?” he asked, echoing his thoughts to the glass.
“Don’t be such a drama king. You’ve been saying for years the summer fête needed a makeover.”
“A makeover, not defibrillation.”
Nathan took a gulp of cold beer, closed his eyes and allowed the liquid to soothe his throat and nerves. When he reopened them, the rough timber-beamed ceiling, chipped oak panelling and familiar ruby monogrammed carpet on the uneven pub floor—the perfect imperfection—conspired to calm him.
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Polly. “Although I’m not sure I entirely trust Arlene Baxter. Don’t you find her pushiness suspect?”
“You think it’s a good idea because you don’t have to do anything—”
“Now, hold on a bloody minute. Who has to smooth-talk their fellow teachers into sitting on a ducking stool? That is not nothing.”
Nathan thumped his pint down and glared at her.
“Have you been tasked with persuading the local football team to get their kit off and pose naked for a calendar shoot? I think not.”
Polly chuckled. “Did you see Doris’ eyes light up? I hope I’m still that frisky when I reach my mid-eighties.”
“Not helping.”
“You’re their captain, Nathan. They’ll listen to you. Although the thought of seeing Barman Bob unclothed is almost enough to put me off my Merlot.”
When Polly giggled loudly, Nathan glanced toward the bar. Bald, rosy-cheeked Bob the goalie, who had been the pub landlord for the past seven years, was serving one of his Friday night regulars. She had a point. Their Sunday league team was hardlyMagic Mike.
“When Arlene talked about introducing modern events,” he said. “I thought she meant a Wheel of Fortune or Crumbington’s Got Talent. Not naked calendars. And what’s with the ducking stool? The next thing she’ll be proposing is a school jousting competition or putting your headmaster into stocks on the village green.”
“Do not suggest that to Arlene, Nathan. Not even in jest. I’m serious.”
Polly folded her arms to make her point.
“I still can’t believe she snagged Cliffy Hogmore to open the fête,” she said, clearly oblivious that every mention of Clifton’s name felt like a stab to Nathan’s stomach. “Wait until I tell the kids at school. Pimple-faced Hoggy Hogmore is coming to town.”
All through their childhood, Polly had never liked Cliff. Although she’d often denied the fact, Nathan wondered if she’d had a thing for him at school. His puppy fat had lasted longer than most. Unlike Nathan, he had also suffered the blight of adolescent acne. All that had changed one summer when his voice—and balls—dropped and he blossomed into a stunningly good-looking teenager.
“O’Keefe,” said Nathan. “He goes by Clifton O’Keefe now. If you try to impress your students by telling them you used to go to school with a celebrity called Hoggy Hogmore, they’ll think you’re barking. Also, can we please change the subject?”
“Come on, Nathan. He left Crumbington like a hundred years ago.”
“Thirteen years ago. We were eighteen when he fell off the face of the planet.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Then perhaps you’ll finally find out why. You were best mates, weren’t you?”
“We were a darned sight more than that. We may not have done the deed, but we did everything else two gay, oversexed teenagers in love could do without getting caught.”
