Valentine's Day at the Star and Sixpence Read online




  For Paris, with everlasting love

  Valentine’s Day at The Star and Sixpence

  Little Monkham

  Shropshire

  Sam Chapman and Nessie Blake

  are proud to invite you to a one-night-only

  pop-up dining experience

  7.00pm

  Sunday 14th February

  Featuring an exclusive menu from Superchef winner

  Alyssa di Campo

  and drinks designed by London Cocktail Connoisseur

  Tom Collins

  Tickets cost £40 and include

  a three-course meal plus welcome drink

  BOOKING ESSENTIAL

  Sam Chapman was cleaning the coffee machine when she felt Joss’s arms encircle her waist.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said, kissing her neck.

  For a fleeting second Sam tensed, before forcing herself to relax. The pub had yet to open, there was no one to see them and even if there had been, it wouldn’t have mattered; what she did with the cellarman was no one else’s business. The only person with a legitimate reason to object was Sam’s sister, Nessie, and she’d already made it clear she didn’t have a problem with Joss and Sam’s relationship.

  She twisted round to kiss him, enjoying the soft scratch of his beard against her skin. ‘Anniversary?’

  Joss smiled. ‘Yep. It’s exactly six weeks since you jumped me on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Charmingly put,’ Sam said, trying not to smile. ‘I don’t remember it happening quite like that.’

  ‘I do,’ Joss replied. ‘I went down to the cellar to get more champagne, you followed me and basically admitted you’d fancied me from the very first moment we met. Then you kissed me and we got so distracted that we almost missed the fireworks on the village green.’

  And then they’d spent the rest of the night making their own fireworks, Sam reminded herself. Noisy, tipsy, headboard-rattling fireworks that Nessie must have overheard but had never mentioned. Had that really only been six weeks ago? It felt longer. In fact, she was starting to wonder if her old life as a PR golden girl in London was a half-remembered dream, instead of a career she hoped to go back to one day. Life in the country was certainly keeping her busy.

  She reached up to kiss Joss again, before turning back to the coffee machine. ‘I think we can both agree on that last bit. Happy anniversary!’

  He stepped back, watching her work. ‘How are the big Valentine’s Day plans coming along?’

  Sam hesitated for a brief second, then began stacking the cups on top of the machine. He meant her plan to turn the Star and Sixpence into a restaurant for the night – or at least she hoped he did. Between sweet-talking the up-and-coming chef she had in mind to provide the meals, arranging enough waiting staff to serve the punters and persuading Nessie that this was a perfect PR opportunity, she didn’t have time to worry about grand romantic gestures for Joss – six-week anniversary or not. It didn’t help that she’d never had to think about Valentine’s Day before – she’d always been single. Plenty of cards had arrived at work, of course, but Sam had binned them all. In fact, six weeks was the longest any of her relationships had lasted and she had a sneaking suspicion the same was true for Joss.

  ‘I think it’s all coming along,’ she said. ‘Franny has demanded a table, although I can’t imagine her bringing a date.’

  Joss grimaced and Sam knew he was wondering what kind of man would have the courage to woo Little Monkham’s fearsome postmistress. ‘Me neither.’ He paused. ‘Just to be clear, we’re not doing anything for Valentine’s Day, are we? As in, you and me?’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Joss,’ Sam said, trying not to sigh. ‘No, we are not celebrating. No flowers, no cards, no grand romantic gestures. I’m allergic to romance, remember?’

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, I get it. It’s just that I’ve been caught out before by girls who’ve said that and then accused me of not making an effort. I don’t want any misunderstandings.’

  Sam was well aware that Joss had history with several of Little Monkham’s female residents. It had never really troubled her – until now. Just how many hearts had he broken in the village? But when she glanced up at him she saw a shadow in his blue eyes, making him look younger than twenty-nine. He wasn’t playing a game with her now – this was something he meant. ‘No tricks,’ she said, softening her voice. ‘And definitely no cards.’

  He nodded. ‘Got it.’

  Sam turned round to survey the bar. ‘The chef is coming to inspect the place this morning, to see if it’s up to standard,’ she said. ‘I want her to like what she sees.’

  Joss glanced towards the stairs that led to the rooms Sam and Nessie lived in over the pub. ‘So that’s why Nessie is scrubbing the kitchen walls. I did wonder.’

  Sam bit her lip. She knew Nessie was worried and with good reason – Sam had been so sure she could persuade Alyssa di Campo to travel from London for the pop-up event that she’d started selling tickets before the Superchef winner had totally committed. If she didn’t like what she saw, she might easily pull out, leaving them with no cook and a lot of explaining to do.

  ‘Speaking of which, I’d better go and meet Alyssa’s train,’ she said, dropping her cloth into the bucket of hot, soapy water. ‘Can you make sure this place is gleaming by the time we get back?’

  Joss picked up the bucket. ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘This is the kitchen?’

  Alyssa di Campo stared around the tiny room, taking in the single sink, the cluttered worktops and the slender fridge-freezer. ‘You expect me to produce fifty Michelin-star-worthy meals in a room that is smaller than my shed?’

  Nessie cringed inside. ‘At least the oven is new,’ she said, waving at the shiny chrome and black cooker they’d bought to replace the ancient model their father had left. ‘It’s got a plate-warmer function.’

  The look Alyssa gave her said it all.

  ‘Come on, Al,’ Sam said, linking her arm through the chef’s. ‘You know you love a challenge. It’ll be like the old days, before you had gadgets and sous chefs to dance on your every whim.’

  Alyssa threw her a withering glare. ‘A challenge is one thing, but this? Even Gordon Ramsey would throw the towel in.’

  Nessie pictured the kitchen at Snowdrop Cottage next door, with its cherry-red range and American-style fridge and fairy lights. ‘What if there was somewhere else, somewhere with more space and a killer oven?’

  ‘You’re not thinking of the forge?’ Sam said, her eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘Because that has great PR possibilities.’

  ‘The forge?’ Alyssa repeated. ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘Nessie has a thing going on with the village blacksmith, who just happens to have his forge right next door to us,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure she could persuade him to let you use it to cook on.’

  Nessie shook her head. ‘Firstly, I do not have a thing with Owen. And secondly, I don’t think you could cook anything on the forge. It would burn to a crisp in minutes.’

  ‘You are right, it would be too hot,’ Alyssa said, looking regretful. ‘Where did you actually mean, Nessie?’

  Nessie described the kitchen at Snowdrop Cottage. ‘I’d have to ask first,’ she warned, as Alyssa’s eyes lit up. ‘And we’d have to find a way to keep the dishes hot when we carry them across the yard. But if you think it sounds like an option—’

  ‘Show me,’ Alyssa demanded.

  Nessie felt bad for disturbing Owen at work but his sister Kathryn’s Land Rover wasn’t in the yard, meaning she wasn’t around and Alyssa didn’t seem like the type to be kept waiting. So Nessie had left Sam and the chef waitin
g in the yard while she slipped inside the forge, hoping it might make the intrusion less – well – intrusive.

  The fire blazed yellowy-orange under its steel hood, almost too bright to look at, and she could feel the heat even from across the room. Dressed in a slate-grey t-shirt that clung to his biceps, Owen was fiddling with a dial on the wall, the one she vaguely remembered did something to the air flow across the burning coke. His dark curls gleamed with the faintest hint of copper as he turned and saw her.

  ‘Nessie,’ he said, his deep Welsh lilt wrapping her name in warmth. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

  She tried hard not to stare. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a favour.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, dusting his hands on the leather apron he wore. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s not so much me, more us,’ Nessie said, opening the forge door to a blast of welcome cool air. ‘We’ve got a bit of a logistics problem and I think you might be able to help . . .’

  ‘It’s not perfect, but it will have to do,’ Alyssa announced, once she’d finished her inspection of Owen’s kitchen.

  ‘Kathryn will be delighted to hear it,’ Owen said wryly. ‘This is her domain, although I like to think I can find my way round it when I need to.’

  Sam raised her eyebrows suggestively and Nessie knew exactly what her sister was getting at – he cooks, too! Sam had been encouraging Nessie to see Owen as more than just a next-door neighbour from the very first moment they’d met, viewing him as exactly what Nessie needed to get over her failed marriage to Patrick, and she seemed to be more determined than ever to make it happen. At first, both sisters had assumed Kathryn was Owen’s wife, mostly because of the way she doted on Owen’s son, Luke. Once it became clear she was actually his sister, Sam had been shameless in her matchmaking, much to Nessie’s embarrassment. And then there’d been that moment on New Year’s Eve when Nessie had been sure something was about to happen . . .

  The moment had slipped by and there hadn’t been another. Owen had been his usual friendly, well-mannered self since, leaving Nessie to wonder if she’d dreamed him taking her hand beneath the blanket of midnight stars. But she couldn’t ignore the flutter she felt when she glimpsed him unexpectedly across the yard, or when his dark eyes met hers. Sam was convinced he was interested, but Nessie wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Good,’ Alyssa said, glancing at Owen with renewed curiosity. ‘Because I’m going to need some help. Unless you have plans for Valentine’s Day?’

  Nessie held her breath, suddenly feeling nervous. News travelled fast in a village the size of Little Monkham and widower Owen was a prize catch; she would have heard if he was seeing anyone. Wouldn’t she?

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘No,’ he said, his eyes flickering towards Nessie. ‘No plans.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ Alyssa said. ‘You can be my sous chef for the night.’

  Relieved, Nessie lingered at the cottage doorway as Sam took Alyssa back to the pub.

  ‘You don’t really have to help with the cooking,’ she told Owen. ‘It’s enough that you’re giving up your kitchen.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t mind. Besides, I might pick up some tips. It’s not every day you get the chance to watch a superstar chef at work.’

  She smiled back. ‘You haven’t been over to the pub for a few days. Busy?’

  Owen grimaced. ‘That, and Kathryn has been out a lot in the evenings. Did she tell you the band has a new drummer? He’s taking a bit of breaking in apparently.’

  ‘She did mention it,’ Nessie said wryly, remembering Kathryn’s grumpy rant earlier that week. ‘Are you going to their gig in Gloucester on Saturday?’

  ‘I can’t – no babysitter.’

  ‘I could look after Luke.’ The words were out of Nessie’s mouth before she could stop them. ‘Um . . . you know, if you wanted to go.’

  He frowned. ‘Won’t you be needed in the bar? It might be busy.’

  Nessie shook her head. ‘We’ve taken on a new barmaid – Martha’s daughter, Tilly. Sam is spending the night in London but Joss will be around; they can manage without me for a few hours.’ She hesitated as another possibility occurred to her. ‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Owen said. ‘I’d be more than happy and I know Luke would be over the moon. But it’s a lot to ask and you’ve got enough to do.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Nessie said. ‘You’re lending us your kitchen, it’s the least I can do.’

  He studied her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay then. Around seven o’clock, would that be all right? He goes to bed at eight-thirty and I’ll be home before midnight.’

  The warmth in his voice filled Nessie with happiness. ‘Looking forward to it already,’ she said.

  Sam’s Kensington flat looked the same as always from the outside. The elegant cream-walled and wrought-iron exterior was picture-postcard perfect and the intricately tiled communal hallway was as pristine as ever. Weary from the long drive and the battle with Saturday traffic, Sam climbed the stairs to the top floor and thrust her key into the lock.

  It wasn’t untidy. The caretaker had a key and had been popping in to leave her post: it was neatly stacked on the hall table. The flat was cold, though, and there was a faint mustiness in the air. Sam walked from room to room, flicking on the lights and opening the windows to let the sharp evening air blast away the staleness. Finally, she sat on the sofa and looked around. This had been her home for several years, her first and only big purchase, and she’d always been happy here. Or at least she thought she had. Had it always felt so drab and impersonal? She’d never been one for clutter but when she compared it to the warmth and vibrancy of the Star and Sixpence, she found her old home lacking somehow. Perhaps it was the silence – there was always noise in the pub even when it was empty: the hum of the glass machine or the rumble of the boiler. She shook her head wryly – who knew a country pub would be noisier than a London cul-de-sac?

  Sighing, she went to the bedroom and shook out fresh sheets. She didn’t plan to be there for long – a quick shower to freshen up, then out to meet an old friend, the actor Nick Borrowdale, for dinner. In the morning, she’d collect Alyssa and her cooking equipment before driving back up to the Star and Sixpence. After a few glasses of champagne with Nick the atmosphere in the flat wouldn’t bother her so much.

  An hour later, she was on her way out again. She paused in the hallway to flick through the mail: nothing that needed her attention, the bills were all paid automatically and everything else was junk. Franny at the Post Office had suggested she set up a redirect but Sam had put it off – from the looks of things she didn’t need to. And the truth was, she had good reason to be hard to reach. It had been four months since the mistake that had sent her scurrying away from the bright lights of London and into the anonymity of the countryside – time enough for the fear of discovery and public shaming to start to fade. But it never went away entirely.

  Shivering a little, Sam dropped the post back onto the table and headed for the door.

  The Soho restaurant Nick had booked was full of people Sam either knew in person or recognised from the big and small screen, although she was relieved not to spot any ex-clients. Even so, she felt all eyes were on them as the maître d’ led them to their discreet table tucked away at the back of the room. Well, she was with the star of Smugglers’ Inn, the hottest show on TV. What else had she expected?

  ‘That’s quite an impact you have,’ she said to Nick once they were seated. ‘Does it bother you, being so super famous?’

  ‘What makes you think they were looking at me?’ he said, grinning. ‘At least half of them were eyeing you up. You look amazing.’

  Sam batted away the compliment. ‘At least half the men in here are gay so they were imagining you topless, just like most of the women. And every single one of them hates me simply for sitting here.’

  ‘Let’s just agree that we’re both sex on legs and
leave it at that,’ Nick said, as a waiter appeared at their table, holding the wine list. ‘Champagne?’

  Sam tipped her head. ‘You read my mind.’

  ‘So,’ Nick said, once the waiter had gone. ‘How’s life at my favourite country pub?’

  Sam filled him in on the past few weeks, making him laugh with her descriptions of Franny’s extreme nosiness and the village gossip network. Once they’d ordered and the starters had arrived, she asked him how filming was going and they talked and laughed and argued their way through three delicious courses and two bottles of champagne. Sam sat back, feeling more than a little tipsy. She shouldn’t have drunk so much but it was hard when the waiter was constantly topping up her glass and she was enjoying herself so much. She’d forgotten how much she loved Nick’s dry sense of humour and razor-sharp observations. But underneath the fizz of the alcohol and her enjoyment of Nick’s company, there was a nagging sense of disquiet, a feeling that she didn’t quite fit into this life any more. Chinatown had been packed, still decked in red and gold from the New Year celebrations, but the glitz and crowds hadn’t blinded her to the creeping commercialisation around her. Soho was changing. Several quirky shops were gone and some of her favourite places to eat had closed, replaced by chain restaurants. She couldn’t help feeling it lacked the charm of Little Monkham, where every shop was family-run and had been for decades. The Star and Sixpence was at the heart of the village, a sixteenth-century coaching inn that had rarely closed, until the death of Sam and Nessie’s father. Then they’d taken over and coaxed the rundown building back to health. Sam had lived in London for her entire adult life but it felt distant and unfamiliar now, like she’d run into an old friend and found they had nothing in common. She realised, with a start, that the Star and Sixpence had become home.

  ‘You know, I’ve got another bottle of this on ice back at my place.’ Nick tapped the champagne bucket, his gaze meeting hers. ‘We could drink it together and have some fun, for old times’ sake.’

  Sam looked into his gorgeous deep brown eyes. Two months ago she wouldn’t have hesitated – it wouldn’t be the first time they’d indulged in a no-strings night of passion and satisfaction was definitely guaranteed. But she was surprised to discover she wasn’t remotely tempted. He wasn’t Joss. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’