Page 19 of Sparring Partners
Jonathan leant back, a satisfied smile on his face at the excited babble around the table, as if the argument had already been won.
A destination event. Adrian breathed hard through his nose. This was Love’s Harbour, for god’s sake. The village’s fortunes might have taken a turn for the better in recent years, but it was still a small, tucked away place.
“It’s a village fête.” Adrian’s deep voice cut through the chatter, and silenced it. “Stalls selling homemade jam, sponge cakes, and meat pies. Beer and cider tents. Guess the weight of the piglet, and biggest veg in show competitions. That’s the heart of village fêtes in this neck of the woods, not Provençal tasting menus and champagne.” Adrian crossed his arms over his chest.
Jonathan didn’t bat an eyelid. “Yes, at its heart, but there’s no reason why it can’t be a little more ambitious. Don’t you think? A little more outward looking. Not quite so insular. Showcasing the best of what the village has to offer, bringing in people with high levels of disposable income from further afield. And they will come, if we get the comms and the promotion on point, all of it benefiting local businesses. I’m Jonathan Owen-Jones.” He half got up and leant across the pushed together tables and extended his hand, forcing Adrian to take it.
“Adrian Hardy.”
“Of course. I knew I recognised Ladywell Farm. I’ve seen your stall at the weekly farmers’ market. As a businessman engaged in the local food industry, you can’t deny the economic power of an event such as this?”
“The point I’m making is?—”
“That we want an event that stays true to its rural traditions, doesn’t deviate too far, but which can still embrace some fresh ideas.” Luca paused over his note book, his pen raised as he looked at Adrian. “That’s right, isn’t it, Adrian?”
“Exactly right. Luca.”
A palpable tension filled the air. Why the hell had he given in to Eva? But he knew. She’d caught him when he’d been distracted, his head too full of Luca Graham when he’d pitched up at the pub with its order, just after he’d returned Luca’s pen.
“So, a foodie festival or a village fête? I want to know what to note in the minutes.” Joss’ light hearted comment was what was needed to break the tension, as a wave of laughter broke out.
“It’s the Love’s Harbour AutumnFestival,” Eva said. She nodded as though answering some internal question. “I like the idea of food stalls from village-based enterprises — the local business community always welcomes increased custom — but they will be a part of the event, not its focus. And being a proud Devonian village, I think a locally brewed beer and cider tent is more in keeping than a champagne bar.”
“Festival? Festival? Afestivalwill attract hippies and other undesirables. Nobody wants that in the village. We don’t want to become another Glastonbury. It’s always been the Love’s Harbour AutumnFête,” Beryl cried, clutching her hands to her chest.
“I hardly think that’s likely.” Jonathan threw Beryl a look that implied he doubted her sanity. Adrian bent his head forward to hide his smile. It was one point — the only point — in the man’s favour. “But ‘village fête’ does rather conjure up images of the Women’s Institute selling pots of homemade jam and Victoria Sponge cake. Somewhat dated and with limited appeal I’d have thought.” Jonathan laughed, but it fell away when he was met with several pairs of eyes all boring in to him.
Adrian huffed out a short bark of a laugh, not even pretending to smother it. The guy was digging himself into a pit it was going to take a long time to climb out of. Adrian hadn’t been to the fête or festival or whatever it’d be called, for years, and he had no intention of going to this one, especially not when he’d be standing down at the end of the meeting.
“The WI always host a wonderful stall. And the Victoria Sponge sells very well, as do pots of homemade jam. Last year the fête was able to make a very handsome donation to the Devonshire Centre for Distressed Donkeys, and no small portion of that came from the hard work of the WI ladies. Of which I am the Chairwoman.” Beryl wobbled with indignation.
Adrian took a sip of his drink, and met Luca’s eyes across the table, glinting in amusement and making Adrian feel as if they were sharing a secret as the struggle for the heart and soul of the of fête — or the festival — raged around them.
“I do apologise, Beryl, I didn’t wish to offend — I was just merely offering an alternative approach.”
Adrian didn’t think Jonathan looked remotely apologetic, but it was enough to smooth Beryl’s ruffled feathers.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Eva’s gaze swept the table, daring anybody to argue. Nobody did.
* * *
“Come over to the pub and have a drink,” Ryan said, pulling on his jacket, “you look like you need it.” He grinned, as though reading Adrian’s mind.
How the hell had he got talked into judging the biggest veg in the village show, duly noted and carved in stone in Joss’ minutes? He was supposed to be walking away, not getting more embroiled. He’d have the word with Eva he’d always intended to, but she was trying to calm down a hand flapping, agitated Beryl.
Adrian hesitated. He should be getting back, he had an early start the next day, just as he did every morning, but walking into an empty, silent house left a sour taste in his mouth in a way it hadn’t done for a long time.
“Sure, just the one.”
Ryan slapped him on the shoulder. “Luca? Jonathan? Come over for a drink? It’s on the house, to mark the conclusion of another successful meeting.” Ryan laughed, his eyes bright with mischief. “He’ll learn,” he said under his breath. “The Grannies won’t allow too many liberties to be taken.”
Adrian answered with a low chuckle. The Grannies Grapevine, a coterie of Love’s Harbour’s older, long standing residents, and not all of them grannies, or even women. They were a silently acknowledged and formidable force to be reckoned with.
“He’s not been in the village that long, but he’s okay,” Ryan added.
Adrian doubted very much that Jonathan wasokay.“Who the hell is he, anyway?”
“Just another newcomer, really. But he’s keen and is already making waves. He’s got himself on the organising committees of a few of the bigger village groups.” Ryan snorted. “He’s already ruffled a few featherswith all his fancy London ways,” he said, laying on thick the rich, local accent.
