Free Jumping to Conclusions by Christina Jones Page A

of the buddleias. It was a fragile peace.
    'Gillian! Are you in the dining room? Have I missed tea? I was – oh, damn and blast!'
    'Glen.' Gillian's smile was stretched. 'He's probably fallen over the boys' roller-blades.' She raised her voice. 'We're in here, darling! Come and say hello to Jemima.'
    With her very limited knowledge of vicars, Jemima had already conjured up a stern and severe figure in full clerical regalia. Gaunt, she decided, with a dog-collar choking a scrawny neck and cheeks criss-crossed with red-veined over-imbibing. He'd have gimlet eyes and a mouth singed by breathing hellfire and damnation. He'd probably be wearing gaiters – or was that only bishops? He'd – she stopped in mid-fantasy and gawped.
    A stunning Richard Gere lookalike in jeans and a grey sweatshirt smiled sheepishly round the dining-room door. 'Sorry about the curses. It was the roller-blades – again.'
    Jemima closed her mouth with a snap as Glen came into the room. He was probably older than Gillian by at least ten years, but simply oozed sexuality. Her mother would have curled up and died for him.
    'Hello, sweetheart,' he kissed Gillian's cheek and then extended a slim hand towards Jemima. 'And hello to you too. It's lovely to see you.'
    'It's – er – lovely to be here.' Jemima blushed, and sniffed surreptitiously for any signs of alcohol, completely bemused by his golden glory.
    Glen sat in Levi's vacated chair and helped himself liberally to bread and jam. 'I do hope you'll be happy in Milton St John. And after today, the awful meet-the-family bit, I promise you we'll leave you to your own devices. I'm sure we'll all be far too busy to get in each other's way.' He smiled fondly at his wife before nodding seriously at Jemima. 'Despite what you might hear in the village to the contrary, I'm very, very proud of Gillian having her own career, you know. She writes for lots of different magazines, and the money has – well – transformed our lives.'
    A faint blush swept into Gillian's pale cheeks. 'Glen! I don't think Jemima wants to hear about it. Anyway, we're supposed to be above things like money and material possessions. The ladies of the parish would have a fit to hear you talking like that.'
    'True.' Glen poured his tea. 'But you have to admit it is very pleasant to live comfortably instead of scrimping and saving. And I am proud of you, darling, inordinately so.' He beamed at Jemima. 'You probably won't recognise her, of course, because she writes under a pseudonym.'
    Gillian dropped her cake fork with a clatter. 'Sorry! Clumsy of me. Oh, yes – I – I write as Janey Hutchinson for the mags and for the local Am Dram group in Upton Poges.'
    'And very nicely, too.' Glen reached across and patted her hand amidst the bread and butter, as Jemima gathered the crumbs together on her plate. She hadn't got a clue what was going on. She assumed that Gillian's new-found wealth, as well as funding the Monsoon frock collection, meant that Glen could spend even longer in the Cat and Fiddle. But, assuming they had more money than the clergy were used to, why on earth should Gillian have seemed so desperate to rent the attic flat?
    Gillian, still appearing slightly flustered, paused in refilling the teacups and took a deep breath. 'So – how did it go? The meeting?'
    'Wonderfully well,' Glen nodded heartily. 'We've practically got the whole village behind us. I only wish you'd come along and lend your support, darling.'
    'I can't.' Gillian sliced cake with swift jerks. 'I'm far too busy writing. Anyway, with people like Bathsheba Cox and Bronwyn Pugh spearheading the attack you certainly don't need me.'
    'Er – shall I leave?' Jemima pushed back her chair. 'I mean, if this is private –'
    'Oh,' Gillian sighed. 'We're so rude. I keep forgetting you know absolutely nothing about village politics. Glen has been to the Cat and Fiddle –'
    'I think the twins mentioned it.' Jemima bit her lip. 'But, I mean, everyone likes a drink –