Page 1 of The Player

chapter

one

A summer breeze wakes me. It drifts through my window, rattling the wooden hurricane shutters and bringing with it the soft, sweet smell of the jasmine growing up the wall outside and the sound of Olympic-level gossiping.

“Well, I said to him, ‘Mr Waters, you should feel free to do what you want in your own garden, but I must inform you that I will be reporting the matter to the committee, and you will display those turnips at the village show over my dead body.’”

“Oh, Lucy,” her friend sighs, and I groan and pull the duvet over my head. Living in a Cotswold village might be a dream to many with its chocolate-box appearance and pretty houses, but it’s fucking hell on wheels if you hate people knowing your business. And no one knows as much as Lucy Scrimshaw. She lives two doors down from me, and her reach is immense.

After a few minutes, I venture out of the covers, but they’re still going strong.

“I tell you, I don’t care what she says. Molly Saunders has definitely had breast augmentation. They’re like two cantaloupes topped with cough sweets and always jiggling away under that angora jumper she wears. She should be ashamed. It’s tighter than a straitjacket .”

I give up and slide out of bed, making my way to the bathroom and starting the shower. Fastening my shoulder-length hair in a bun, I step under the cool spray and sigh in relief. It’s been one of those rare British summers where the hot weather has lasted beyond one solitary Saturday in May. It’s September now, and the heatwave shows no sign of dissipating. The nearby fields are bleached, and the flowers in the village are a riot of colour.

Usually, I rush in and out of the shower, trying to get it done as quickly as possible so I can get on with my busy schedule. Today, however, I soap myself with languid movements, and I’m astonished when my cock stirs. I look down at it.

“What woke you up?” I whisper and snort at my stupidity.I suppose it’s healthy to talk to the thing that’s made most of my significant decisions since I was sixteen, but it’s been in hibernation for such a long time, and it’s almost painful to feel the old, sweet desire rush through my body and thrum under my skin.

I fill my palm with shower gel and fist my cock, feeling it in my slippery hand—the hard core and soft skin. It takes an embarrassingly few strokes before I grunt and come over the tiles. I wash the come away, feeling dizzy and almost as if I’ve woken up from hibernation myself.

“I used to have more stamina,” I say to the room, and it seems to echo through the empty house.

The satisfaction lingers inside me, making me feel loose and limber as I dress in black pinstripe trousers and a black T-shirt and scrape my hair back in a topknot. Pulling some shoes on, I wander downstairs and into the kitchen.

This is my favourite room in my tiny cottage.It’s an extension that the previous owner put on the back of the house. The estate agent was rather apologetic over the fact that it had made the garden smaller, but that was a massive relief to me as I’m as likely to embrace gardening as Monty Don is to wear leather chaps and a pink cowboy hat. I’ve worn both in the past, and I smile at the memory.

The previous owner left two walls as exposed brick and opened the room up to the sandblasted rafters. Apart from that, it was an empty shell when I moved in. I installed a mixture of sage and cream painted cabinets and a pine worksurface and painted the remaining walls a light sage. I finished off with a breakfast bar and cream-coloured bar chairs, and the whole effect is one of light and warmth.

I make myself some toast and smear it with a liberal coating of lavender honey and then eat it leaning against the counter as I watch the news on the TV, enjoying the breeze coming through the kitchen window. Toast eaten, I pour some green tea into my travel cup, and, grabbing my keys, I make my way towards the front door. The picture in the silver frame on the bookcase stops me in my tracks.

I step closer and run a finger down the handsome face of my late husband in the frame. “Morning,” I say softly. “I know somewhere you’re laughing your fucking head off at me watching the news and drinking green tea.” I lean closer. “I even do yoga now, David,” I whisper. “That would make you laugh.” I kiss my finger and press it to his lips, where they’re curved in a smile that will never grow old and weary. “Have a good day.” I move away and then pause. “Something is different,” I say. “What is it?”

I realise with a sense of shock that the anger, grief, and then melancholy feelings that have been my companions for three years have gone. I examine myself as tentatively as if poking a wound, but there’s no need for caution. I feel hollow inside but also as if I’ve woken refreshed after a very long sleep.

I stare at David’s photo. “Well, what do you know,” I say softly.

My phone beeps its reminder that I’ve got a meeting in an hour, and I clear my head of the strange thoughts I’m having today and grab my keys.

Letting myself out, I groan as the two women on the pavement stop their character assassination of yet another poor villager and turn with welcoming smiles to me. I falter slightly under the power of their gaze.

“Good morning, Frankie,” Lucy says brightly. She’s in her forties, with dark hair and a long nose that exists to stick into other people’s business. “How are you this morning?”

“Oh, very good,” I say, locking the door and trying not to engage in eye contact too much. Once that’s done, it’s all over. She’ll move in and embark on a quest for answers from me that would put Jeremy Paxman to shame. “Hope you ladies are well.”

Unlike the people you’re talking about , I add silently.

“We’re good,” Lucy says before her friend can get a word in. “Enjoying the weather. It’s going to make the village open garden weekend a huge hit.”

Shit! The open fucking weekend.

“Oh yes,” I mutter, edging past them on the pavement. “It should be lovely for you.”

“And for you too, Frankie,” she says sweetly. “After all, I’m sure I have your name on my list as someone who is going to participate.”

I stop dead, which I know is a mistake as soon as I do it. “You do?”

She nods. “Oh yes. I’m sure I spoke to you about it.”

“You mentioned it,” I say, hovering awkwardly. “You said it raised money for the village and then went on about people’s obligations who live in a village blessed by tourism.”

“Oh, I’m sure I didn’t go on ,” she says, a steely note in her voice.

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “That would never happen,” I add and then give a nervous-sounding laugh.

She waves her hand graciously as if to forgive my insult, but I know she’s got a memory longer than a fucking elephant, so I’ll suffer for it at some point. However, that’s a concern for future Frankie as my more immediate problem rears its head.

“So, when you say you have my name down on your list, you mean as someone you want to talk to about the event?” I say cautiously.

“Oh no. I have your name down as a participant . Your house was always such a popular stop-off point when Mr Finchley had it. The hollyhocks are a thing of beauty.”

I gulp because I’ve got a feeling those were the purple flowers I mowed down when I fell in them one night after a few too many glasses of wine.

She sighs tragically. “Such a shame that Mr. Finchley retired to live with his daughter.”

I have a feeling that he’d have happily retired to live with Vlad the Impaler if it got him away from Lucy.

“I’m afraid I might be busy,” I start to say and then sigh when her eyebrows rise queryingly. They look like startled caterpillars on her forehead. “But I’ll make sure I’m here,” I say, sighing. “My garden is your garden, Mrs Scrimshaw.”

She smiles triumphantly. “It’s Lucy , Frankie. I’ve told you so many times. Wonderful. You’re such a welcome addition to the village, young man. Now, if only we could get Conrad to do the open weekend.”

That’s about as likely as Chris Hemsworth begging me for a date, but I just nod and move a few paces away.

“Yes,” I throw over my shoulder. “He’s away so much, though,” I offer vaguely, unwilling to throw my best friend to the wolves.

“Well, he’s back now,” she says, and I stop dead, feeling energy run through my body.

“He’s back,” I gasp, and she smiles knowingly at me. A smile that tells me I’m going to be the subject of gossip as soon as I’ve gone. I examine her and her friend’s faces. Maybe before I’m even out of earshot.

“Oh yes. Philippa and I passed his house earlier, and the gates were open.”

“That’s definitely a sign,” I say, trying for a hearty voice. “Like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory gates.”

She blinks. “Is Conrad thinking of branching into confectionary, then?”

I bite my lip. “No, he’s still making guitars. Well, I must be off,” I say quickly before she can say anything else. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Lovely to speak to both of you.”

I make it three steps down the pavement before her voice reaches me. “I’ll be around tomorrow to inspect the garden, Frankie.”

“I’m sure you will,” I say under my breath. I wave my hand. “I’m looking forward to it like a tooth extraction.”

“Pardon?”

“I said I hope I won’t be a distraction. Your work is so important, Mrs Scrimshaw.”

I move away, picking up my speed before she can speak again.

Even though I’ve lived in the village for a few years, the beauty of it still surprises me. The long high street is filled with a seemingly never-ending stretch of honey-coloured cottages. Lead windows sparkle in the sunlight, and although the architectural details of the cottages may vary, they still mingle in harmonious design helped by the ubiquitous heather-green paint on windows and doors. Everything looks pristine and content this morning. A relic from a long-ago time in England’s history.

I wander along the road, enjoying the tranquil early morning atmosphere before the tourists disembark from their cars, clutching cameras and ready for a day of peering into people’s windows with no sense of shame. They’re so different from the hikers who tend to emerge from their cars with a sense of steely purpose, unconcerned by everything apart from the Cotswold Way that starts outside the village.

I dodge around an old couple who are coming out of the Co-op. Even that looks like it’s a building in a BBC drama. It’s very easy to imagine a group of Jane Austen heroines giggling and wandering along the high street, ready to buy ribbons rather than the bottle of wine and packet of Hobnobs that are my usual purchase.

The old lady tuts at me for daring to be in her way. Her husband is wearing a pair of the salmon-pink chinos that most of the old men seem to wear around here. It’s as if when they got their house deeds, they were also issued with a pair of pink trousers and told very sternly to wear them at all times.

Finally, I turn the corner, walking down the side street and seeing the familiar bulk of the building that houses our business. I smile involuntarily at the sight of it. It’s two converted barns joined together by a glass walkway. A big sign sways in the breeze. On it is the silhouette of a guitar and the word Bridges .

Over the years, that word has meant more work than I’ve ever done before, a fair amount of heartache and worry, but most of all, a place in the world that is half mine and a business that had got me out of bed when I thought the world had ended. Mine and Conrad’s business.

At the thought of him, I look at the little gravelled car park to the side of the building, but his old red truck isn’t there—just my secretary Joan’s little Polo gleaming blue in the early morning sunshine.

I let myself into the foyer, inhaling the ever-present scent of wood shavings and linseed oil. It seems to permeate the building, giving it a warm feel echoed by the whitewashed walls and sandblasted beams. Mandy, our receptionist, doesn’t start until nine, so her desk is neat and empty. Not that she manages to do a huge amount of work when she’s actually here. Her morning begins with gossip, and then the day really gets into gear with a little online shopping and posting on social media. Sometimes she even answers the phone.

I hear the sound of chinking cutlery and follow the scent of fresh coffee to the tiny kitchen at the back, where I find Joan waiting for the coffee to finish, her mug outstretched in her hand like she’s begging for alms.

She’s been my secretary for about four years now, and she’s a sweet-faced lady with a grey-streaked bob and a kind smile. However, she’s got the personality of a sabre-toothed tiger if she hasn’t had her first coffee, so I maintain a wary distance until she pours the dark liquid into her mug, doctors it with milk and enough sugar to make jam set, and takes her first sip.

Then I step forwards. “Morning, Joan,” I say, smiling at her. “Busy morning.”

I put my travel cup down on the work surface and then become aware that she hasn’t answered me. I turn to find her gaping at me.“Alright?” I ask cautiously.

“You’re wearing red shoes,” she finally says.

I stare at her. “Is that a problem? Is there some sort of Cotswoldian law that says I can’t wear red on a Wednesday? For god’s sake, don’t tell Lucy Scrimshaw. She’s on the warpath already today over Molly Saunders’s new breasts.”

She seems to come out of her trance and gazes into her mug as if searching for the meaning of life. Then she looks up.“You haven’t worn any colour for three years, Frankie.”

I blink and then look down at my red suede brogues. I hadn’t even thought of that when I got up this morning. I’d just grabbed the shoes because they were a nice summery pop of colour.

“I didn’t think of that. I just woke up this morning and?—”

I stop, and she cocks her head to one side. “And what?”

I shrug. “I just woke up this morning.”

She gives me a brilliant smile. “Well, that’s just wonderful,” she says softly. Then she raises an eyebrow. “Do they not make trousers that come down to the ankles now?”

I look down at my outfit. “No. My ankles are my best feature.”

“Isn’t it usually someone’s bum?”

I wink at her. “Joan, I’m quite shocked. You’re obviously far more risqué than I ever imagined. Doesn’t a glimpse of ankles incite lust and depravity? I hope so. That was my main reason for wearing them.”

She rolls her eyes. “That was in the Victorian era. A time that you patently aren’t suited to.” She sighs. “You young people think you invented fun. In my day, we just had it rather than talk about it all the time.”

I laugh, and there’s a flurry of movement, a bright flash of colour, and then Hank Marvin lands on the counter, making her jerk and nearly spill her coffee. I should mention that this is Hank Marvin, the parrot, and not the country and western singer.

“Naughty Hank,” Joan says chidingly, but he gives his familiar little chirruping noise and sidles along the bench towards her, preening and cooing. Joan tickles his head, and he rubs against her fingers.

“He shot Alan three times. Stabbed to death with a carving knife,” he intones. “He lived for another five minutes.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “ Joan. He’s been watching your true crime programmes again.”

“Oh dear,” she says. “He does like that documentary so much. He gets all excited every time I put it on. Hank, you mustn’t keep saying things like that. It upsets the customers.”

“Yes, like the couple buying a guitar for their ten-year-old last week. That was absolutely epic. It took me half an hour to calm the mother and daughter down after Hank regaled them with the charming story of the chainsaw serial killer. He wouldn’t shut up.”

“It’s just that he’s so quiet I often don’t realise he’s in the room,” she says apologetically. “That was such an interesting programme, Frankie.”

“Interesting or disturbing? I’m amazed that you can sleep at night watching those programmes.”

“I sleep like a baby,” she scoffs.

“Why can’t you be addicted to The Archers like most of the people around here?”

“I’d rather pickle my vagina in Sarson’s vinegar.”

I blink. “Oh, me too ,” I say fervently. “We definitely can’t have that.”

I look at the parrot, who is nibbling affectionately on Joan’s ear. We got Hank Marvin when my husband accepted him from a rock star in lieu of payment for three guitars. David loved the bird and taught him to imitate an ice cream van, which has been less useful than you’d think and invariably makes small children cry. Conrad and I had been less enthusiastic because we’d needed that payment for the monthly wages.

Typically for him, David had no idea how to take care of a parrot. Luckily, Hank Marvin and Joan had fallen in love, and he now lives with her, travelling to work on her shoulder and occasionally scandalising the villagers by shouting “fuck off.” Another thing taught by my husband.

I wander into my office, which is at the side of the building looking down on the little car park and into the pretty gardens of a row of cottages. They remind me of Lucy, but I push the horrible thought away. Fiddle de dee , I think with strong overtones of Gone with the Wind . I bet Scarlett wouldn’t have been half as resilient if she’d lived in this village.

Joan follows me in and passes me my diary. “You’ve got the Armstrongs this morning, and then I’ve pencilled you in for a meeting with Mr Fitch’s people this afternoon.”

“Jimmy Fitch the pop star?” She nods, and I whistle. “I wasn’t aware he could walk and talk at the same time, let alone play the guitar.”

She chuckles. “He can’t play at all. Apparently, he’s going on tour, and he wants them to be the same colour as the set and his outfit. Then he’ll just hold them while he mimes.”

I shake my head. “Con’s going to love that.”

Con was my husband’s best friend. They were both born here and were founding members of a very successful pop-folk band. They came home when the band split up and started making custom-made guitars. Well, Con makes the guitars as David couldn’t operate a toaster properly. The instruments are things of beauty. Con was a highly talented musician, but he’s an even better craftsman, having a perfect ear. My husband was much better suited to sales and that only because he had the gift of the gab. Unfortunately, he was fucking awful with numbers, so when I came on the horizon, he swiftly left that side of the job to me and happily jaunted off all over the country, staying in posh hotels to sell the image and leaving me here.

It was lucky that I’d discovered an aptitude for figures because I inherited the Herculean task of getting the business finances back in the black after David’s extravagances.

I think of Jimmy Fitch, the non-singing pop star, and smile. “He’s worth a bloody fortune.”

Joan nods. “And very happy to pay our prices.”

“Even better.” I pause to think. “Let’s keep Con as far away from the initial process as is humanly possible. I don’t think he’s that in favour of creating a musical work of art that matches someone’s trousers.”

She laughs. “When is he back? Has he sorted out Gene’s guitars?”

Con has been away travelling with an old mate of his who’s a famous rock star. Gene doesn’t trust anyone else with his guitars apart from Con, so he’s been gone for a month, and I’ve missed him more than I can say. It’s the first time we’ve been separated since David died, and it’s felt like I’m missing an important limb.

At the thought of the man who has become the best friend I have in the world, I feel my mouth ticking up. “He’s home, according to Lucy Scrimshaw.”

“Well, she’d know,” Joan says sourly. “I bet her perimeter alarms went off the minute he rolled back into the village.” She studies me. “You look happy to have him back.”

“Of course I am. He’s my best friend.”

“Oh, okay,” she says with a note of disbelief in her voice. Joan has always harboured romantic notions about Con and me that our years of friendship have done nothing to dispel.

I hear the sound of a car engine and then the crunch of gravel and whip over to the window.

“He’s here,” I say, looking down as Con’s truck pulls up in a flurry of gravel.

Joan comes next to me, and we both peer out as Con exits his truck. He’s tall, being easily six foot four with golden-brown hair that’s cut short with a quiff. He has the perfect level of stubble to be sexy rather than slovenly, and his eyes are the warmest brown I’ve ever seen. The same brown as a bar of Galaxy chocolate.

I feel my heart pick up speed, galloping away in my chest. The silly organ has been malfunctioning around Con lately. It picks up speed, and my palms get sweaty whenever he stands close, and I’m endeavouring to ignore the implications of that.

I watch him, enjoying the freedom to stare. He’s dressed in his usual faded Levi’s that do wonderful things for his arse, a grey T-shirt, and battered work boots. My eyes skip across his muscled frame, and I lick my lips. Then my eyes narrow as Con’s passenger door opens and a young red-headed man steps out. He stretches idly, showing a slim body, and reaches up to kiss Con.

I don’t know why, but I expect Con to put him to one side and laugh. However, he doesn’t do that. Instead, he kisses him back.It’s a brief, light kiss, but they’re both smiling when they separate.

Joan and I take a simultaneous gasp of shocked air as if we’re synchronising for the Olympic swimming team. Then we stay frozen at the window as the two men make their way to the front door.

I bite my lip, feeling my stomach dip and twist as if I’m going to throw up.Maybe I’m coming down with something. Hopefully, it will come on very soon and I can go home. I suddenly have a desperate need to be curled up in my bed with the covers over my head.

“Well,” Joan finally says disapprovingly. “Who was that with Con? I’ve never seen him before.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “But I think Con has intimate knowledge of his tonsils.”

“Stabbed through the heart with a pencil,” Hank Marvin says mournfully.

“You can say that again,” Joan mutters.