Trisha Ashley 3 Book Bundle. Trisha Ashley

about other people’s belongings, like a TV game where things slide past you on a conveyor belt and you don’t know what’s coming next.

      But I couldn’t stand there for ever, so in the end I had to carry on walking. Perhaps I should get a dog? They are such a good excuse for nosy-parkering! Only then I don’t suppose Tabitha would ever speak to me again.

      When I got back I knew Jake was home from college and had brought Kat with him, because his long black coat and her half-unravelled-looking woolly wrap thing had been tossed over the back of a chair and then I fell over their bags. There was no sign of them in the cottage, but I could hear Grumps’ voice in the museum, so thought they were probably with him.

      I had a quiet sit-down with a mug of hot chocolate and then poured out three more, added hot milk, and took them next door to see what they were up to.

      Jake was at the top of a stepladder, hanging masks high up on the wall, with Kat steadying it. As usual she was dressed in a frothy, short black frock, black tights and big boots, like a rare species of pretty Goth fairy. So far, Grumps did not so much tolerate her presence about the place as seem entirely unaware of it, but I expect she would impinge on his consciousness eventually.

      Grumps was up at the other end of the room, where workmen were finally installing the tracking for the heavy velvet curtains that would divide off the pentagram area, and had pulled up his Gothic-backed wooden chair to the centre of the floor so he could watch them. This they seemed to find unnerving, but I expect that was because he’d already expressed his displeasure in no uncertain terms about all the delays and broken promises.

      Fortunately, the rest of the curtains had been hung in time for the first magical rite of the season, as it were, so it had gone ahead. (Jake and I had taken care not to venture into the museum while the faint sound of chanting could be heard.)

      Tabitha was sitting bolt upright on Grumps’ knee, her yellow eyes fixed unblinkingly in the same direction as his. I handed out the hot chocolate and then asked the two workmen if they would like some too, or a cup of tea.

      They declined, saying they just wanted to finish the job and get off, which in my experience is almost unheard of. I’d automatically expected a response along the lines of, ‘Tea – milk and three sugars, love.’ I could entirely see where they were coming from, though – and also that their stay would be indefinitely prolonged if they kept nervously dropping things the way they were doing – so I stayed chatting to Grumps to distract his attention. Not that Grumps really chats; he just makes pronouncements, but if you can get him started on a series of those he can keep going for ages.

      The museum was really beginning to take shape and most of the glass cabinets were crammed with all kinds of peculiar things, labelled in Grumps’ almost unreadable handwriting. (I can read it, but that’s from long practice, transcribing his letters and chapters.) His collection was already catalogued, so he was now compiling a glossy brochure and several pamphlets from it to sell to the visitors. I anticipated having to type those up before they went to the printers too.

      I had to leave eventually in order to have time to eat something before getting ready to meet David, though both Jake and Grumps’ unexpressed disapproval made me feel like that song where a husband is begging his wife not to take her love to town. Jake even declined my offer of cooking him and Kat a pizza first.

      Their attitude may have coloured my choice of clothes, for while I didn’t want to look as if I had pulled out all the stops, I did feel it would be very satisfying if I could instil a tinge of regret in David that he’d let so much gorgeousness slip through his fingers.

      Pretty impossible really. In the end, I just chose my newest jeans and a very pretty top sprinkled with sequins in pink and turquoise, and paid a bit more attention to my face than my usual five-minute makeover.

      A pair of turquoise earrings that Mags brought me back from Goa last time she was there completed the ensemble. I suspected a guilty conscience, since her presents to me are always nicer than she gives Poppy – or even Felix, who is her own son. But I suppose it was kind of her to bring me back a gift at all, because my own mother never did…and I wondered if Mum really was in Goa, as I suspected, and that was the reason Mags kept jetting off there for solitary holidays, just like she used to do to Jamaica right after Mum vanished.

      That started me thinking about Mum’s blackmailing activities and wishing I hadn’t seen the letters and still thought Chas was my father, instead of all this uncertainty. I wanted it to be him, but I couldn’t just sweep under the mat the possibility that it might not be.

      By the time I put on my jacket and went across to the Falling Star, David’s red sports car was already parked outside. This was a wiser move than parking in the courtyard, because it doesn’t have a lot of manoeuvring room, due to the small meteorite, after which the pub is named, sitting right in the middle of it.

      There was no sign of Mrs Snowball behind the little desk that evening but her son, Clive, lifted the flap and came through from the busy public bar just as I entered the snug. David was the only person in the room and had been sitting in the window, but got up when I came in and kissed my cheek.

      ‘Hi, David. I hope you haven’t been here long?’

      ‘No, I’ve only just arrived. What would you like to drink? I thought I’d wait until you got here.’

      Behind Clive, who is a small, portly, middle-aged man with hair like grey wire wool, something hissed fiercely. He shifted to one side, proudly revealing a gleaming monster of a coffee machine.

      ‘You might like a coffee, Chloe?’ he suggested. ‘We’ve got one of these now. The tourists all seem to want coffee these days, don’t they? And I thought there’d be a lot more of them once your grandfather’s museum opens. It’ll be right good for business at the Star.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose it will, I hadn’t thought of that. And I’d love a coffee!’

      ‘Wouldn’t you prefer a glass of wine?’ suggested David.

      ‘No, I’m not much of a wine drinker and it’s too early in the day for me anyway. Coffee’s fine.’

      ‘Right you are,’ said Clive, then bellowed at the top of his lungs, ‘Mother!’

      We must have looked startled, because he explained that Mrs Snowball was the only one who could understand the instructions for the coffee machine as yet. ‘I haven’t had time and Molly doesn’t come in today.’

      Mrs Snowball shuffled in, wearing her tartan slippers with the pompoms on the front.

      ‘Customers for coffee, Mother.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you, if I’d known,’ I apologised.

      She gave me a gappy smile and subjected David to a more prolonged inspection, before saying amiably, ‘That’s all right. What’ll it be then, my loves? Capuchin? Express? Frappy-latty-thingummy?’

      ‘I think we’ll have two monkeys,’ David said facetiously, and she looked blankly at him.

      ‘Two cappuccinos please, Mrs Snowball,’ I said.

      ‘And a brandy, if you’ve got a decent one,’ David added.

      ‘I don’t have no complaints about the brandy from my regular customers,’ Clive said. ‘You sit down, I’ll bring the drinks over.’

      ‘One-horse sort of place,’ David said, ‘and they’ll never get the tourists in if they don’t smarten up. I can’t imagine why you prefer it here to the Green Man.’

      ‘We like it just the way it is,’ I said defensively, ‘and we often have the snug to ourselves even in summer, while by mid-evening the Green Man is full of Hooray Henry types and tourists.’

      ‘I often meet my friends there,’ he said slightly stiffly and I remembered that in the past he’d introduced some of them to me, and they were loud Hooray Henry types.

      ‘I’ve heard quite a lot of local people from