Practice Makes Perfect Read online

  ‘Morning,’ she said happily. ‘I gather the Mallard’s in play?’

  Dan could only nod as his eyes ranged over this virtual stranger in front of him. Suddenly all the little changes that had been manifesting over the last few months fell seamlessly together. Her figure had been just as trim yesterday in that yellow sundress, he realised, her contribution to the running of The Practice growing exponentially with her confidence.

  She leaned in towards him, the familiar kindness and affection still obvious in her eyes. ‘It’s a haircut, Dan. We can’t have you popping an aneurism trying to work out what looks different about me today.’ She casually laid her hand on his arm and whilst there was nothing flirtatious in her gesture at all, Dan was suddenly aware that he would have rather enjoyed it, if there had been.

  He blushed. ‘Well, it looks really . . . well, just lovely.’ He waved a hand in the air as though to encompass her new look entirely. ‘Is it part of the whole yoga thing?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was getting in the way of my headstands and what with swimming before work . . . This will just be simpler.’

  Simpler, in Dan’s book, being almost always better. He nodded. ‘It’s not just the haircut, Gracie. You look so peaceful and serene. And that rather puts you in the minority this morning.’ Even as he spoke, several harassed parents chased after their offspring, who were determined to splash about in the shallows.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘They look like they’re having fun.’ He could tell that her gaze was fastening on the shrieking toddlers and not the red-faced parents pursuing them, but then that was her talent of late – for Grace could find the silver lining almost anywhere. Grief, he supposed, had a way of focusing the mind like that.

  Now, if only there was a way he could get the focus, without the grief, he mused. He looked up and caught Grace’s expression, making him feel flustered and on edge, as though she were reading his disrespectful thoughts. ‘So, are you officially a yoga bunny now then?’ he blurted, cringing at how oafish he sounded.

  She frowned in confusion at his change of tone. ‘No. It’s helped, that’s all – recently. I get to just be me for an hour or so, without any other claims on my time or attention. It’s quite an addictive feeling. You should try it. I know you rely on your sweaty man-running for some headspace, but we could bend you around like a pretzel too – might give you a little clarity and perspective? It works. For me, anyway. And if you don’t mind me saying, Dan, you look like a man in need of a little time-out from your thoughts.’ She’d answered him honestly and frankly, but Dan couldn’t help but feel she was disappointed in him.

  That feeling only intensified as she made her excuses and left, waving to a few of her friends as they arrived and being swept away to join them, their laughter and greetings full of animation and affection. His own attention, by contrast, was pulled towards the edge of the festivities, where Julia was doing a piece to camera and the crew were avidly capturing every moment of the carnival atmosphere. The intensity they generated around them made Dan feel tired just watching.

  ‘Dan!’ called Taffy, interrupting him. ‘Don’t just stand there like a stuffed muppet; come and help with the Kids’ Race!’

  And so, in moments, Dan found himself running along the river bank with Tom’s tiny, sticky hand in his, falling into step beside Taffy, chasing little yellow ducks.

  ‘Run, Uncle Dan!’ shouted Tom excitedly. ‘I think mine’s winning.’ So Dan ran, bumping along between all the other dads in Larkford and with such mixed emotions he had to swallow the lump in his throat.

  The cheering and shouting reached apocalyptic volume as the finish line hove into view and Dan collapsed gratefully to the grass as all the town’s children huddled round to see who had won.

  There were children and babies in pushchairs everywhere; some of them sporting rather severe haircuts and shooting wary glances in Holly’s direction. Lance and Hattie had pitched up in support with their twins and they waved hello to Dan as they passed. Julia materialised from nowhere and sat down beside him. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ she said, surprising him with her sincerity.

  ‘It really is,’ he replied, loving how many of the local kids were so utterly entranced by an old-fashioned duck race – not an iPad or smartphone in sight.

  ‘It’s going to make some great B-roll footage,’ Julia said happily.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, unwilling to revisit the argument that had erupted over breakfast, ‘but I think the kids might be enjoying it too.’ His sarcasm sailed straight over her head, he noticed, as she simply tucked herself into his side.

  Half his brain was focused on potential means of duck sabotage when his mind caught up with what Julia was saying, casually dropping a bombshell into their conversation.

  ‘I think I missed something there,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I said,’ Julia repeated impatiently, one of her pet-peeves being when Dan zoned out and didn’t listen to her, ‘that we need to talk about work for a minute. I’ve had a job offer.’

  Dan took her hand and firmly guided her away from the crowds, annoyed that she had chosen this moment to talk about work. Shoo-ing away Gerald-the-goose, who resolutely believed that this particular stretch of the river bank should be his alone, Dan sat down on the wrought-iron bench and turned to her. ‘What does Quentin want now? More hours? More access? Are you honestly telling me that this can’t wait until later?’ His eyes skittered past hers to the merriment over her shoulder and it should have been obvious to anyone that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss anything controversial.

  Julia, however, ran to Julia-time. If she’d been bottling something up to discuss then Dan had learned the hard way that they talked about it when she was ready. Whenever and wherever that might be.

  ‘The job’s in London,’ Julia said, with the grace to look almost apologetic. ‘I’ve been trying to work out what I want to do . . . but now Quentin’s pressing me for an answer.’

  ‘So this isn’t something new? You’ve known about this a while?’ Dan said, trying not to bite. ‘All the time we’ve been discussing the Model Surgery implications, in fact?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not all the time. It’s just – well, I’d decided I wasn’t going to take it. But it’s such an amazing opportunity – my own prime time show. And you know there are trains and motorways. I could easily commute to begin with. Come on, Dan – I have to at least consider the offer.’

  ‘You do,’ he said shortly. He wanted to congratulate her. He wanted to be supportive, but she made it just so bloody difficult. He took a moment to marshal his thoughts. ‘This sounds like something we need to discuss properly then, since it’s obviously going to fundamentally affect both our lives . . .’

  ‘Quentin says he needs an answer today,’ she whispered, almost embarrassed.

  ‘Then it would probably have been good to talk about it sooner.’ He could feel himself detaching from the stress of the situation. All his mindfulness practice was designed to deal with his flashbacks, not relationship stress, but clearly old habits died hard.

  She stood up, clearly annoyed. ‘I don’t need your permission to consider a job offer, Dan.’

  ‘You don’t,’ he said, still sitting on the bench, his hands clasped tightly together. ‘But it might have been nice if you’d felt you could share the news, or even that you wanted to . . .’

  Julia floundered. ‘Listen, Dan, it’s not a big thing. It’s just a job. A really, really good job, that I don’t even know if I want.’ She fidgeted uncomfortably and Dan could see that she really was torn.

  ‘And it’s good to be asked, right?’ he suggested. ‘Go buy some time. We can talk about it sensibly this evening. But, Julia, think about what you really want. Not what I want, or Quentin for that matter . . .’

  Even as he watched her walk back along the river bank, even as she yelped as Gerald chased after her, honking, Dan stayed on the bench with a heavy heart. The willow trees beside him ca
st patterns and shade across the water and the shrieks of laughter from the other side of the weir made everything feel a little surreal.

  He scuffed his deck shoes amongst the cut grass and didn’t flinch when Gerald returned and stood a few metres away, staring him down.

  ‘Get used to it, mate,’ Dan told the furious goose, ‘I live here too.’

  Julia may not call Larkford her home, he realised, but for Dan, this was it. And right now, he couldn’t see how they could possibly have such different priorities and agendas and stay together, no matter how much he loved her.

  He stood up and walked back towards the sunlight and to Taffy waving his arms and mouthing, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ with a pair of rubber ducks in each hand.

  He smiled, reconciling himself to the fact that he might as well enjoy his day, because by the time he’d said his piece, this evening would almost certainly not end well.

  Chapter 12

  Holly wiped the twins’ faces clean of the candy-floss that had been pressed into their hands by the Major, despite his wife’s insistence that it was a bad idea. ‘Oh, do be quiet, woman,’ he’d said, ‘and let these youngsters enjoy their childhood before they’re old and decrepit like me.’

  Holly had been unable to bring herself to say no after that, and when it quickly became clear that the unholy pink confection was just as much for the Major’s benefit, she quietly let it go. She knew only too well that getting him to commit to a healthy-eating plan was not going to happen overnight, no matter how hard Marion tried.

  It didn’t take long for distraction to arrive though, as the final lot of the Auction of Promises was about to be sold and Dan clambered on to the hay bales and took the microphone.

  As the lovely waves of laughter and cheering around them died down, Dan cleared his throat, looking uncharacteristically shy. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, just before we get to our main event – the Adults’ 200m Duck Sprint, there is just a small matter to attend to. Dr Jones and I have rallied a few friends for our own personal contest today – a surprise addition to the running order. So we now have this final extra lot for your enjoyment. And the lot itself is actually contingent upon the outcome of our race. A little added jeopardy, if you will.’

  He waved a hand across the crowd. ‘So, if you fancy a punt, many of the gentlemen here have entered our little challenge. The winner of which will give one evening of their time to the lucky bidder of Lot 13. Do with them as you will, ladies!

  ‘Do I hear twenty pounds? Of course, you may get Dr Taffy Jones, or indeed Major Waverly over there with that attractive pink moustache. You may get myself, or actually get lucky and have Teddy Kingsley and his culinary skills at your disposal. Thank you, Madam, do I hear twenty-five?’

  Obviously nobody was taking it seriously, but when Dan called all the gentlemen up to the front, there was a swell of oohs and aahs throughout the crowd. The numbers went up and up, along with the volume on the river bank. A couple of the local farmers lowered the tone a bit, with their dodgy beards and muddy wellies, but generally speaking, it was a strong showing and the bidding went up accordingly.

  ‘And remember, ladies, all this lovely money is going straight into your Health in the Community Scheme this year. Apart from £83, I’m told, for Gladys Jones to get a new hearing aid.’

  ‘What? Did somebody say my name?’ asked Gladys in confusion from the side-lines. ‘I wasn’t bidding! Somebody tell him I wasn’t bidding!’

  Everybody fell about laughing, until Alice crouched down beside Gladys’ camping-chair and slowly repeated what had been said.

  ‘Money well spent, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ said Dan. ‘Now, with this veritable feast of testosterone in front of you, do I hear one hundred pounds?’

  ‘Did he say Toblerone?’ asked Gladys loudly, still utterly bemused. ‘Tell him I can’t eat Toblerone on account of my dentures.’

  Dan lost any credibility as a professional auctioneer then, dissolving into laughter and forcing Taffy to take over. As Taffy drummed up more money and one of the farmers slipped out of his Barbour to do a twirl, it was all Holly could do to restrain the twins from joining in.

  It was fair to say that, if fund-raising always seemed to be this much fun, she’d be back on the teeny-tiny chairs in no time, as Ben and Tom tried to auction themselves off to their class-mates. As if to rain on their parade before it could even begin, she handed them both a carrier bag. ‘Spit spot, you two, litter duty, please.’

  Tom’s eyes widened in disgust as if about to complain, when sweet little Lara Smith wandered past with her newly wonky pigtails and baleful glance. He silently turned his back and started picking up sticky napkins and half-used cups that had been left lying around. Holly smiled to herself; it was no bad thing for them to see that sometimes doing ‘nice things for the community’ included, well, doing yucky jobs for the community.

  ‘Right then, let’s get our ducks in a row!’ said Taffy, with a cheesy grin for the boys as he ambled over, auction complete, and picked up Ben, plonking him on his shoulders to give him a better view.

  It did not go unnoticed by Holly. It was nothing short of wonderful to her that, rather than shying away from her awkward, difficult little boy, Taffy actually seemed to gravitate towards him. For everyone else, Ben was too demanding of their emotional input and Tom presented the easier, more instantly rewarding option, throwing out smiles and laughter like confetti. You had to work harder to get a smile from Ben, often as not in his own little world, but when they came . . .

  Just watching Ben run his little fingers across the peach fuzz on Taffy’s scalp, loving the sensation and looking perfectly content, Holly could see all the positive changes in her little boy. And if that meant playing up occasionally? Well –

  She tactfully averted her gaze from little Ivy Granger’s pixie cut and tried not to think about the foot-long pigtails that had always been her trademark, before stopping dead, and staring hard.

  Even as the childish cheers of delight around her grew, Holly’s attention was no longer on the Duck Race. Making sure that Dan and Taffy had the boys covered, she broke into a run across the water-meadow, her face breaking into wreaths of smiles as she breathlessly approached the bridge, the reeds and grasses brushing against her bare legs as she ran.

  ‘You’re back!’ she cried, as the slight and glamorous figure came into focus. Holly threw her arms around Elsie and had to resist the urge to scoop her off her feet and swing her around. Holly planted enormous kisses on Elsie’s cheeks, making the old lady flush with delighted embarrassment. She’d obviously been worrying for nothing – if Elsie felt well enough to hop straight from an international flight to the Larkford Duck Race, then there was obviously nothing too awful amiss.

  ‘Now that’s a welcome . . . Anyone would think you’d missed me,’ Elsie remarked drily, her casual tone rather undermined by the unshed tears shining in her eyes.

  Holly released her and looked around. ‘No Barry?’ she asked tentatively.

  Elsie shrugged. ‘He was getting a little clingy, to be honest, so I left him in the jungle. I believe a rather lovely American divorcee should be looking after his every need any day now.’

  ‘He cheated on you?’ Holly was stunned at the very thought.

  Elsie flapped a hand lightly in her direction. ‘God no. But I always know when enough’s enough and if you can distract them with a shiny new bauble, they tend to get less emotional when you dump them. Men like to think they have options you see, my darling, and we both know that they’re inherently lazy little buggers . . . Oh, don’t look so shocked. At least this way we’re both happy.

  ‘Now do stop gaping like a salmon, poppet, and we can both head home for a stiff drink. I’m parched and I want to hear all the details about what’s been happening here while I was away.’ She wobbled slightly and casually leaned her hand against the shiny Mercedes that had delivered her here, complete with uniformed chauffeur, who appeared to be patiently awaiting his next instructions.
r />   ‘Are you okay?’ Holly asked, thrown a little by Elsie’s sudden fragility and noticing for the first time her birdlike frame.

  ‘Yes, yes, don’t fuss so – but even First Class travel can be wearing for the soul at my age. Now, do we need a little glamour on the river bank to upgrade proceedings, or can we just go?’ Elsie had a habit of forgetting that not everything on the planet revolved around her, and that, occasionally, Holly might have other commitments.

  ‘Let’s get you back in the car, anyway,’ said Holly firmly, as Elsie’s colour seemed to fade by the moment. She looked over at the river bank where Ben and Tom were cheering like crazy as Taffy was hoisted into the air and paraded along the bank as the ultimate Duck Race champion.

  Holly felt completely torn and Elsie, to her credit, adapted instantly. ‘Phil? Can you drive me around to the River Club? I think there’s a trophy that needs presenting.’ She gestured imperiously at the rather muddy slipway down to the river and Phil, to his credit, only glanced briefly at his beautiful, shiny car in hesitation.

  ‘No problem, Ms Townsend,’ he said deferentially, as he held open the door and ushered them both into the cool, refined interior.

  Holly lifted her legs slightly, trying not to let them stick to the leather upholstery. ‘Oh Elsie!’ she said, as she noticed the perfectly equipped mini-bar between the seats and the half-empty bottle of champagne chilling on ice.

  ‘What?’ said Elsie, a picture of innocence. ‘I was thirsty after the flight!’ She leaned back into the upholstery with a vague smile. ‘A girl has to have a little fun, darling, and I’ve always found laughter and fizz to be the best medicine for everything, Holly, you know that.’ She paused reflectively. ‘Well, except for impotence . . . Then it’s just counterproductive frankly.’