Page 29 of All Summer Long

Stewie leaned on the bar in The Siren, resplendent in a billowing Indian kaftan chosen to combat the July heat wave.

‘Not wearing a jot underneath it, chaps,’ he said, winking archly at Jase. ‘Swinging low and free as a whistle under here. Quite liberating, actually.’

‘Behave, Stewie, I’ve just been a bit sick in my mouth,’ Dessy said, fake heaving. ‘Wet wipe that stool when he leaves, Jase.’

Stewie ran his hand down the thick black ponytail that he hoped lent him the air of an exotic tribal chief.

‘Wanted to talk to you two. I think our Robster needs a night out.’

Jase glanced quickly around the bar and shot Stewie daggers.

‘I didn’t say his actual name, did I?’ Stewie said, unabashed. ‘He’s barely left the manor since he arrived here. It’s been weeks, and a man has … needs.’ He looked down at his apparently unfettered nether regions tellingly and then up at Dessy and Jase again.

‘Are you suggesting that we take he who must not be named out to get laid, Stew-pot?’ Dessy said, pouring himself a large gin and tonic stacked with ice.

‘I’m fairly sure that the clubs we go to aren’t really his scene, and your Thursday bridge club ain’t gonna cut it either, Stewie darling,’ Jase laughed, wiping wine glasses dry with the cloth draped over his muscular shoulder and hanging them up.

‘You say bridge, I say …’ Stewie started, and Jase held his hand up.

‘Des, pass me that sick bucket. It’s my turn. I’ll never look at Agnes Turner and her American-tan support tights the same way again.’

‘That woman certainly knows a few unexpected moves,’ Stewie acknowledged, miles away, leaving both Jase and Dessy fervently hoping he was referring to Aggie’s card skills.

The village stalwart only ever came in to the pub to attend church committee meetings and even then had just one schooner of sherry at the vicar’s insistence and left two thirds of it untouched.

‘I bet Davina would be more than willing to visit him on a mercy mission,’ Dessy suggested cattily.

‘I don’t think so, Desmond,’ Stewie sniffed. ‘That woman has had more men than I’ve had wigs.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ Jase said, stating the obvious.

‘Well, if not a night out then a boys’ night in,’ Stewie said, changing tack as Dessy replenished his scotch. He laid a hand over the glass and scowled when offered ice.

‘Boys?’ Jase said. ‘One, two,’ he counted, pointing at himself and then Dessy. ‘And you, three?’ he added, looking at Stewie with an expression that conveyed he was anything but a boy. ‘So four, including the guest of honour? It’s hardly a party, is it?’

Dessy, however, laid a hand on Jase’s solid forearm. ‘Sshh. Let’s not be so hasty, lover,’ he murmured, because the chance to get inside the manor for an evening with their secret superstar wasn’t to be dismissed lightly. ‘I’m sure we could schedule something in.’

‘Top banana,’ Stewie said, drinking the whisky in one shot and sliding down onto his flip-flop-clad feet. ‘I’ll bring curry. Make it myself from goat testicles. Out of this world.’

‘We’ll bring the beer,’ Jase said doubtfully, reaching for the wet wipes as Dessy shot towards the loos, not even needing to fake his heaves this time.

Alice, Niamh and Hazel stood inside the yurt and admired their handiwork at length.

They’d spent the last few days giving the roomy interior a fantasy makeover, aiming for the feel of a spicy Moroccan bazaar and knocking it right out of the ballpark.

The space flowed centrally from the huge, ornately carved bed in a celebration of jewel-coloured soft furnishings and sumptuous sheepskin rugs, with huge floor cushions that invited you to loll on them and read a book, and a low red velvet couch perfect for snoozing.

When night fell the clear central dome over the bed was strategically positioned to stargaze.

‘I’m glad you suggested siting the yurt here,’ Alice said, and Hazel preened with pride.

’It’s a honeymooners’ delight,’ she said in a faraway voice. ‘Many new spirits will be made here, Alice.’

Niamh raised her eyebrows at Hazel. ‘You mean babies, right? Because that bed has baby maker written all over it and I’m not sure it’s anything to do with the spirits, unless you mean gin and tonic.’

Hazel looked at the grand wooden bed fondly and shook her dark curls. ‘Mother nature is a powerful woman, Niamh. She’s here in this space. You mark my words.’

Alice caught Niamh’s eye over Hazel’s bowed head. ‘Drink?’ she mouthed.

Niamh nodded.

‘Time for a glass of wine, Hazel?’ Alice asked, having waited politely for her neighbour to open her eyes and cease communing with the spirits. Hazel shook her head.

‘Better not. Need to get back and keep an eye on that ruddy bird. Bloody Scarlet Pimpernel he is at the moment. Turned up at the post office of all places last week.’

‘At least he came home in the end,’ Alice said, smoothing Hazel’s feathers as they left the yurt and headed through the woods towards the Airstream.

‘He didn’t. Davina locked him in the post office and came down the high street shrieking at me to fetch him.

’ Hazel rolled her eyes. ‘By the time I got to him he was alarmed and had pecked a hole in Davina’s poster of George Clooney in the buff.

’ She leaned in and spoke behind her hand for effect.

‘I won’t tell you which bit of George was missing, but let’s just say that Davina was furious. ’

Parting shot delivered, Hazel wandered away towards the manor, an ethereal vision of strappy tie-dye and long, knotted strings of jangling beads.

The women of Borne had each tailored their individual looks to accommodate the continuing heat wave; Niamh rocked a white denim mini and scarlet Minnie Mouse t-shirt, while Alice stuck with her beloved denim, this time in the form of dungaree shorts layered over a white vest.

Alice dipped inside the caravan, deposited her ever present camera and opened a bottle of white, knowing it wasn’t anywhere near enough reward for Niamh for all of her help with the glampsite, and knowing also that Niamh was a true enough friend not to want any reward at all.

Between the yurt, the tree house and the Airstream they’d amassed three super pretty places for people to stay, and now that the compost loos and a matching rustic shower block had been installed she was getting close to the point where she could think about renting out at least some of the accommodation.

There was more to come too; she cherished the hope of a romantic renovation of the boathouse, and she had one eye constantly on the net looking out for other quirky abodes to add to her collection.

She couldn’t quite believe it was all actually happening, but it was, thanks largely to the support and love of her weird and wonderful crew of neighbours and friends.

‘So how are things going with the naked cowboy?’

Alice settled into the deckchair beside Niamh, kicking off her Converse and stretching out her bare legs to catch the glorious warmth of the summer sunshine.

As English summers went, this one was shaping up to be a record breaker; the weather forecaster had practically swooned over the high pressure charts on breakfast TV that morning and the shops were stockpiling factor 50 sun cream.

The newspapers were happily forecasting hosepipe bans and offering water-saving tips, and people old enough to remember the summer of ’76 were reminiscing wildly about bouts of sunstroke caused by drunken space-hopper races.

‘He’s …’ Alice closed her eyes, the smallest of smiles on her face as she considered how to answer Niamh’s question.

She and Robinson had the strangest of arrangements, really, doing their own thing sometimes, dropping in and out of each other’s lives and beds, although never in the room she’d shared with Brad.

‘We’re just enjoying each other’s company,’ she said in the end, even though it was a poor summary. ‘No pressures, just …’

‘Pleasures?’ Niamh supplied, arching her brows and then slumping back in her chair with a dramatic sigh. ‘Some girls get all the luck.’

‘It’s only a holiday romance, Niamh. He’s got a life to go home to, and I’ve got a home to claim back.’ Alice looked over towards the manor wistfully.

‘Even better, I say. Great sex with no strings attached.’ Niamh slugged her wine. ‘They played one of his songs on the radio this morning. If the man shags as sexily as he sings you must be having the time of your bloody life, Alice.’

Alice laughed into her wine glass, not willing or ready to share the juicy details of quite how eye-wateringly good Robinson Duff was in bed.

‘Shut up and enjoy the sunshine,’ she said instead, laughing as she put her glass down on the grass to braid her hair around her head.

Movement over by the manor caught her eye, and Niamh’s too judging by the way she sat up and lifted her sunglasses to squint in the direction of the house.

‘What’s going on over there?’

Alice shielded her eyes from the sun and leaned forward in her chair.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said slowly. ‘Is that Stewie?’

It was always difficult to know for certain from a distance with Stewie, because one day he might be Elvis and the next he was more Boris Johnson.

‘Think so. Well, it’s either Stewie or Donald Trump,’ Niamh giggled, wine-silly. ‘Maybe he’s helicoptered in to persuade Robinson to join his election campaign.’

‘And is that Dessy and Jase with him?’

Niamh nodded. ‘Who else would risk hot pants like that in Borne?’

Alice slouched back in her chair, perplexed. ‘How very odd.’

‘He’s not expecting them?’

‘Don’t think so.’ Alice picked up her wine. ‘Was Dessy carrying pizza boxes?’

‘And beer,’ Niamh confirmed, sliding her glasses into her hair and turning her face up to the sunshine.