A Sprinkle of Sabotage by Fiona Leitch (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

though I’d been enjoying it the night before. I lay back on my pillow and stretched out across the bed, but instead of enjoying the freedom of having the whole thing to myself, I wished that there was a body next to me, someone to snuggle up to or warm my cold feet on.

As if she’d read my mind, Germaine trotted in through the bedroom door. I always left it open slightly; it was a hangover from Daisy’s younger days, when she’d often wake in the night after a bad dream, but nowadays it was just as likely to be Mum I was listening out for. Germaine leapt up on the bed and made herself comfortable in the crook of my knees.

‘Aren’t you meant to be on Daisy’s bed?’ I whispered, stroking her snout, but she just snuffled my hand and settled down even more. If they ever made ‘getting comfy’ into a sporting event, that dog would win Olympic gold. I smiled and reached out my other hand to turn out the light.

I woke the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. Surprising, as I’d tossed and turned all night and had the most ridiculous dream. I’d been back at Parkview Manor Hotel, which was decorated once more for Tony’s wedding. No, mine and Tony’s wedding. I was in my hotel room, getting into my wedding dress – an over-the-top, meringue-like confection of pure white silk and lace, the sort of dress I wouldn’t even wear to my funeral, let alone my wedding – and I was struggling to do the zip up on my own, and it was getting closer and closer to the ceremony, and I wasn’t ready, and every time I tried to ring someone for help my stupid fingers kept dialling the wrong number and not getting through. I gave up and found myself in my jeans, in the hotel kitchen, which for some reason was full of guests (none of whom I recognised). Sergeant Adams, the desk sergeant at Penstowan police station and one of my late father’s few remaining recruits, was officiating. At the altar (which looked somewhat out of place, being next to the big walk-in fridge) Tony turned and smiled at me, only now it wasn’t Tony, it was Jeremy Mayhew, and he was looking a bit peaky. Well, dead.

I was relieved when I woke up. I had the horrible feeling that when Sergeant Adams got to the bit about anyone objecting, Nathan would pipe up from somewhere near the oven and say it should be him, and then he and Tony/Jeremy would ride off into the sunset together. It would have made about as much sense as the rest of the dream.

The dog had deserted me in the night, and I heard Daisy talking to her in her bedroom. I looked at the clock, then relaxed as I remembered that it was Saturday: no school run, and with the shoot suspended, no work either. It was nice to have a lie-in, but not so nice when I thought about the money I was missing out on. I probably had enough now to buy Daisy’s birthday present, but I had to admit that the Gimpmobile, the elderly van I’d bought for Banquets and Bakes, was probably not going to get replaced. It would have to limp on for a while longer…

I crept out of bed and made myself a cup of tea, not wanting the rest of the house to hear me and think it was time to get up, then took it back upstairs and sat in bed, drinking and trying hard not to think about anything in particular. I’d turned my phone off early the night before, not wanting to talk to anybody, but had felt absurdly guilty about it; what if someone needed to contact me? Who? I’d asked myself. Everyone you’re responsible for is right here, under this roof. I’m not a slave to my phone, but I did feel slightly uncomfortable with it sitting on my bedside table, dead, so I turned it on and immediately got a ton of text messages (well, four).

The oldest one was from Debbie.

Oh my God, Tony just told Callum and he told me! Hope you’re ok. Call me if you want to talk.

I toyed with the idea of ignoring her, because I was okay and I didn’t want to talk, but I knew that she had a good heart and would be worried if she didn’t hear from me and, more to the point, she’d be on the phone demanding to know the details if I didn’t reply soon. I sent her a quick message telling her I was fine and I’d call her later. Much later…

The next one was from Tony himself, sent just before bed, just two words:

We good?

My reply was almost as brief:

Yep, we’re good.

The third message had come in about an hour ago, and it took me by surprise: a group text to all background talent telling us the shoot was back on. So much for my day off, but at least it meant maybe my old van was getting replaced after all.

And the last message had come in around the time I’d woken up, from Nathan.

Morning, I hope you’re feeling better now x

I sipped at my tea, trying to come up with a reply that would convey the rush of emotions that swept over me every time I saw him, that had swept over me now just at the sight of his name, for heaven’s sake, without scaring the bejesus out of him and making him run for the hills (or, more to the point, Liverpool), but had to settle for:

Much better, thank you. Think I was just tired. You heard the shoot is back on? Will be at the food truck in an hour or so.

Nathan couldn’t possibly have been waiting in anticipation for a reply, but he must have had the phone close by because within twenty seconds of me hitting send:

Heard about