One Summer’s Afternoon: A perfect summer treat!. Тилли Бэгшоу

and Will had expected to inherit a not-so-small fortune.

      ‘Shhh,’ Timothy Wright hissed. ‘He’s coming.’

      Will Nutley emerged from the bar back out into the garden, carrying a tray laden with beers. Six foot five, with broad shoulders and enormous hands and feet, Will had been nicknamed BFG at school. With his red hair, freckles and big amber eyes, fringed with lashes as long and thick as a camel’s, Will was not what one would call classically handsome. But he was funny and self-effacing and blessed with immense charm – what his father Donald called his ‘likability factor’. It was this that had helped him find work as a recruitment consultant, despite his conspicuous lack of A-levels or degree. A country boy at heart, Will loathed his city job, but he was smart enough to be grateful for the income it afforded him. At least he earned enough to live in Fittlescombe and commute.

      Will lived for long warm summer evenings like this one, spent with friends in the idyllic garden of his favourite pub. Picking his way unsteadily along the winding stone path, bordered on either side by towering hollyhocks and foxgloves, he made his way to the large table by the pond. Overhung by a hundred-year-old willow tree, whose gnarled trunk leaned towards the water and whose long green fronds provided shelter for the dragonflies that darted across the lily pads like kamikaze bombers, this was the farthest table from the playground and the distracting whoops and shrieks of local children.

      ‘You took your time,’ said Dylan Pritchard Jones good-naturedly, relieving Will of the tray and handing round the heavy pints of warm, half-spilled beer. ‘Hey, I was only joking,’ he added, catching Will’s stricken face.

      ‘It’s not you,’ said Will, sitting down heavily at the table. His team-mates exchanged worried glances.

      ‘W-what’s the matter?’ asked Frank Bannister, the organist. ‘Has something happened?’

      ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,’ added Gabe Baxter.

      ‘I was just talking to Danny,’ said Will gloomily. Danny Jenner was The Fox’s landlord and a Fittlescombe institution. With the honourable exceptions of Graham the barber and Mrs Martel the chemist, Danny Jenner was the biggest gossip in the Swell Valley. ‘You won’t believe who Brockhurst have brought in at the last moment.’

      Five beer glasses thudded down on the table simultaneously.

      ‘Who?’ the men asked in unison.

      ‘Only Santiago de la bloody Cruz,’ said Will, putting his head in his hands. ‘Can you believe it?’

      They couldn’t. Santiago de la Cruz was a world-famous name in cricket, and for all the wrong reasons. Preposterously handsome, with olive skin, hair as glossy and blue-black as a raven’s, and a proud aquiline nose that gave him a predatory air, Santiago had been born to an Argentine mother and English father. Raised in Buenos Aires, Santiago was at least as well known for his advertising contracts and playboy antics as he was for his prowess as a fast bowler. Argentina not being a Test-cricketing nation, de la Cruz had transplanted himself to England, where he’d promptly been snapped up to play for the Sussex county team. Not since Imran Khan’s captaincy had cricket in Sussex had such a high profile. Ticket sales had gone through the roof, with a huge surge in female fans flocking to the stands at Hove to catch a glimpse of their idol, with his soulful eyes, so dark they were almost black, and his sensual mouth, set in a semi-permanent expression of sardonic amusement. It was well known that Santiago had ambitions to play for England, although, at thirty-one and without an international cap to his name, that looked like a long shot. In the meantime, however, he already made more in sponsorship deals than international stars like Freddie Flintoff and Kevin Pietersen, thanks to his good looks and media savvy alone.

      ‘Are you sure?’ asked Timothy Wright. ‘I think Danny must have been pulling your leg. The rules are quite clear: all players for both teams must live in their respective villages. Santiago de la Cruz doesn’t live in Brockhurst. He lives in Brighton.’

      ‘Not any more, he doesn’t,’ said Will. ‘He’s rented that thatched place on Woodbury Lane. Moved in yesterday, apparently, on a one-year lease.’

      ‘That’s outrageous!’ said Gabe.

      ‘Shipping in professionals like that – it’s bloody cheating is what it is,’ agreed Dylan.

      ‘It’s not cheating,’ Will said reasonably. ‘They don’t have to confirm their final line-up till Wednesday.’

      ‘It’s completely against the spirit of the thing,’ chipped in Timothy Wright. ‘Typical bloody Brockhurst.’

      Will shrugged. ‘Whatever. He’s here, he’s playing and he’s opening the bowling for Brockhurst on Saturday. Charlie Kingham was overheard at the Black Swan last night, boasting about it. Apparently, the landlord over there’s running a book on how many overs it’ll take de la Cruz to take my wicket.’

      ‘Are they, now?’ As captain, George Blythe felt the onus was on him to defend Will’s reputation, and by extension Fittlescombe’s chances. ‘Well, don’t you worry about it, William. Pride comes before a fall. De la Cruz is such a peacock, I expect he’ll be too busy worrying about his hair and make-up to see you coming.’

      They all laughed, except for poor Will.

      Santiago de la Cruz’s good looks worried him at least as much as his famous rival’s bowling arm.

      Will had been banking on using this summer’s cricket match to win back the heart of his first love, Emma Harwich.

      If I could score a century, and take home the Swell Valley cup for Fittlescombe, maybe she’d start to fancy me again, he’d argued to himself, night after night for almost a year. But now, with cricket’s answer to David Beckham swooping in to seize the limelight at the last moment, what possible chance did he have?

      It was unlike Will Nutley to hate anybody. But at that moment, listening to the reassuring platitudes of his teammates, Will came close to hating Santiago de la Cruz.

      *****

      Santiago de la Cruz flipped open his vintage Hermès suitcase and lifted out a stack of perfectly pressed, sky-blue linen shirts. Karen, his PA, had done a stellar job packing up his penthouse flat on the front in Brighton and installing him here, at Wheelers Cottage. He’d arrived yesterday to find his bed made, his fridge stocked and his Sky Sports fully operational. Other than hanging up his shirts, there wasn’t a thing for him to do.

      Santiago had never understood what possessed otherwise intelligent men to hire useless, leggy blondes as personal assistants. He was as much a fan of leggy blondes as the next man. But all PAs worth their salt were over fifty and a solid 80 per cent battleaxe. Karen was two stone overweight, wore surgical stockings come rain or shine and had blisters on her hands as tough as barnacles after a lifetime’s heavy lifting. She’d made Santiago’s move to Brockhurst a dream. A good thing, as he’d been having nightmares about it since the day his agent had persuaded him to sign on the dotted line.

      ‘You’ll love it,’ the agent had assured him, over a wildly expensive lunch at the Dorchester that he would no doubt bill Santiago for later. ‘That part of the country’s alive with hot chicks.’

      ‘It’s the middle of fucking nowhere,’ Santiago had grumbled.

      ‘Who cares?’ The agent grinned. ‘You won’t want to leave.’

      ‘I loathe the countryside.’

      ‘No you don’t. You love it. Which is why you’re gonna make the perfect face of the Best of Britain Hotel Group.’

      And there was the rub. Santiago’s year-long prison sentence in some godforsaken Sussex village was going to earn him a cool two million pounds in sponsorship from a leisure consortium that specialized in five-star country-house hotels. They’d originally wanted him to tour the country as an ‘ambassador’ for their various different properties, but as a county player Santiago had to stay in Sussex. Brilliantly, his agent had brokered a deal whereby his client would spend a year in a chocolate-box