Pitch Imperfect (4 page)

Councillor Hamish stood, stretched out his arms and smiled. “Anjuli Carver,” he said warmly. “It’s wonderful to have you back.”

Hamish O’Connell was bald now and more stooped, but he had the same twinkling eyes and ready smile she remembered. And he was still a gentleman, letting her squeeze his papery fingers without wincing at her grip.

“We’ve kept tabs on your success these past years and are proud to call you a daughter of our wee village. Are you sure you don’t have any Scottish blood, lass?”

Anjuli forced a smile at the old joke. “I drink enough whisky to make up for it, Hamish. That must count for something.”

“Aye, and another chance for a dram or two is coming up, hopefully soon. We’re having a ceilidh when the Town Hall renovation is complete. It’ll be good to get back to normal. Dinna’ get me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “We appreciate Ash letting us discuss council affairs here at the pub, but the last few weeks have been bad for my liver. The ceilidh will mark our return to business as usual.”

“I look forward to dancing a few reels with you.”

“I’ll settle for a performance. It’ll be just like old times, eh?”

Anjuli’s smile faltered and she stepped back as a trickle of nausea crept into her stomach.
Remember what Dr.
Coren said.
Slow
,
complete breaths and then deflect the trigger.

“People would enjoy the dancing so much more than my singing. What band have you booked? Anybody local?”

“We’ve got Moor O’ Lass coming from Edinburgh. They could back you for “The Borderer’s Lament” or “Fair Helen of Kirconnel.” I still remember when you sang that at the Common Riding Ball ten years ago and not just because it won us the Best Common Riding prize. We were in buckets of tears by the end of it.”

Anjuli’s throat was dry and short, sharp breaths accelerated her words. “A good reason not to perform if ever I heard one. And Moor O’Lass have a wonderful singer who would be affronted if I took her place. The only toes I should be stepping on are my partners’ so I’ll stick to whisky and dancing and—”

“Nonsense! You’ll sing at our ceilidh and it will be the highlight of the evening. I’ll make sure of it.” His face was animated, eager. “And our Ball will be the envy of all the Border towns. With Anjuli Carver performing the final ballad of the night the judges will be sure to award us all the points we need. The pot is five hundred pounds this year. Much needed if we’re to beautify our village for the Britain in Bloom contest. We’ll make front page news and...”

Councillor Hamish continued enthusiastically, never taking the breath that would allow Anjuli to graciously refuse. The more he talked the more the rum she’d drunk rolled in her empty stomach, little waves of sick swelling higher until they surged to the back of her throat.

“I’m not singing at the ceilidh!”

Shrill and piercing, her voice drilled through conversations and turned heads. Councillor Hamish stared at her, mouth slightly open. Everybody gaped, and Rob frowned at Miss Rude across the platform.

Anjuli lifted her palm, showing Councillor Hamish the glass shards in her hand. “I’m so sorry. I cut myself and it hurts like hell.”

“You’d better get that seen to, lass,” he said kindly.

Anjuli followed his gaze and was surprised to see a thick line of blood running down her wrist. She apologised again and lowered herself off the platform, holding her palm out as the whispering crowd parted to let her through to the ladies’.

Chapter Four

From his table, Rob watched Anjuli pour Councillor Hamish a pint of lager. She looked out the window, said something to Ash and her face went white. Seconds later he followed her progress as she raced out of the Heaverlock Arms. He’d been prepared to speak to her if she approached him, but true to form, she’d chosen the coward’s way out. He should be immune to her after London, but seeing her so unexpectedly had felt like a punch to the gut.

She’d looked tousled. Beautiful. He’d wanted to yell at her for moving back to Heaverlock and he’d wanted to kiss her. That is, right before she’d lowered her strike to his balls and insulted him. He’d never thought of Anjuli as deliberately malicious, but she was the same callous bitch she’d been in London. A woman who would use a man for sex and then discard him; a woman who would publicly attack his character without a second thought.

The fury he’d felt at her flat hadn’t dissipated with time; it had grown and festered. He heard again her sultry voice, telling him that she needed him, moaning in his ear and urging him to make love to her.

Crying out another man’s name when she came.

When Mac told him she’d moved back to Heaverlock he’d thought she might seek him out to apologise for London, but that assumption now seemed ridiculous. Anjuli Carver was arrogant, impervious to her mistakes and incapable of feeling remorse. Nevertheless, he was sure she’d wanted to talk to him today. Desperately. She’d been watching him since she’d come out of the ladies’, helping Ash at the bar and sending furtive looks his way while he shared a drink with Sarah Brunel. Concentrating on the reporter had been difficult with Anjuli only ten feet away.

Could she have been jealous? No, she had looked more apprehensive than anything else. He smiled wanly. Anjuli
should
feel apprehensive if she wanted what he suspected.

Before Christmas he’d made a generous offer on Castle Manor and by the first week of January he had reached an agreement with the trust who owned the house. On his way to Edinburgh for the contract exchange his solicitor had phoned him with the bad news. Without prior warning the trust administrator had received a sudden, higher offer and sold the house to a cash buyer. He’d counter offered, but not high enough. His disappointment had been hard to swallow, and he’d wondered who his competitor was. Then Angus Buchanan had ranted about a “bloody foreigner” buying Castle Manor, having learned about the matter from his second cousin, whose wife worked for the trust’s solicitors in Edinburgh.

Rob tore his thoughts away from his disappointment—and the unwanted twinge of pain in his chest.
Anjuli
was Angus’s “bloody foreigner,” the millionaire who’d swept in at the last minute and outbid him, offering over and beyond what the manor was worth.

Throwing around her money like she threw around her insults.

Rancour tightened his lips into a thin line. How many afternoons had he spent as a child, fishing in the Redes River with his brothers and restoring Castle Manor in his mind? He knew exactly what it should look like, a jewel instead of a stone, with nothing but open moors, a tree-lined river and its forlorn, castle companion. There would be a new roof for the front section and stripped back wood on all floors. Ornate cornices, ceiling rosettes and fireplaces restored to their former glory. Glass panels of yellow, red and blue in fleur-de-lys and diamond patterns, mimicking the original design, would replace the eight or nine missing from the large oriel window.

Angrily, he stared at the doorway. Why had Anjuli returned, and why now? No performances for almost two years, then a sold-out tour in America suddenly cut short. Not that he was keeping tabs. Mac kept him apprised, no matter how many times he’d told her he wasn’t interested. Still...something about her sudden appearance didn’t seem right.

Rob collected his jacket. It was pointless to dwell on losing the house, just as it was pointless to dwell on Anjuli.

On his way out, his mobile rang with a familiar tune and he bit back a curse, letting it go to voicemail. How many times had he asked Mrs. P. not to phone and remind him of his appointments? He wasn’t an irresponsible teenager for fuck’s sake.

In a bid to minimise his elderly secretary’s calls he’d bought her a smartphone and taught her how to text. “Why should I spend ten minutes punching in letters when I can talk to you, dear?” she’d asked.

A couple from Edinburgh wanted him to design and build a house like the one he’d built for himself in Halton Forest. The appointment was in an hour. Mrs. P. had told him three bloody times before he left the office for the wind-farm meeting and her voicemail made a fourth, along with a warning to be careful on the road. Why didn’t he hire a secretary who did as he asked and went home at 5:00 p.m.?

Because you love the old lady and she makes great oatcakes.

Ash looked at him enquiringly. “Y’okay?”

“Mrs. P.’s checking up on me again. I swear if she weren’t my godmother...”

Ash grinned. “It could be worse. She could pinch your cheeks and insist on sloppy kisses every morning. Or interrupt your meetings with embarrassing baby stories.”

Rob laughed and his mood lifted. Ash was a good sort, uncomplicated and kind. She ran the pub efficiently and supplied the village with an environment as warm and friendly as she was. He perused the Specials board and hid a grimace. He’d rather swallow raw haggis than choose any of her Monday night offerings, but her regular pub grub was pretty good.

Rob compared the low-ceilinged country pub to the sleek London bar where he’d bumped into Anjuli. Midnight Dawn was as far removed from the Heaverlock Arms as Buckingham Palace from a crofter’s cottage. The type of place where A-listers congregated away from the prying eyes of the press, rubbing shoulders with royalty and oil magnates.

He’d been invited there by chance. One of his table companions at the architect dinner—a supercilious arse married to a duke’s daughter—had coaxed him along with the promise of new business. He’d been about to decline when the man’s wife mentioned it was Anjuli Carver’s bar of choice. She was agog the reclusive celebrity had turned down the opportunity to sing the new Bond theme.

Rob scowled. As soon as he’d walked into the pretentious club he’d been annoyed at himself. Why should he care where his ex-fiancée went and with whom she associated? He’d looked at her poster, thinking it didn’t do her justice, before he’d become aware of being observed by the real thing. Her glossy brown hair was unkempt and her face pale, but she was just as mesmerising as he’d remembered.

He’d been immediately struck by her haunted expression. She’d looked desolate, as if her world had ended and she would soon follow. And she’d had too much to drink.

Unanswered questions had ricocheted in his mind. Why had she run away on their wedding day instead of talking to him? Surely he had merited more than a two-paragraph “Dear Rob” letter. Had her love for him been a lie? He’d wanted answers, and she was in no condition to give them.

He hadn’t known she could still hurt him, looking at him as if he were the only man in the world. Or how bitter he still was until he’d shaken her hand at the doorway. Her blatant desire had made him furious.

And turned him on.

He’d had a handful of relationships since Anjuli had left him, but nothing he’d ever allowed to last. He’d grown cynical, doubting the entire concept of “forever” despite Mac’s attempts to convince him that he would find it, someday.

Making love to Anjuli in London had reminded him of how it felt to believe in love, to feel complete. Her skin was as soft and supple as he’d remembered, her scent intoxicating and her pussy...it drove him wilder than any woman’s he’d ever slept with. More importantly, he’d felt as if he’d found what had been missing in his life. He’d forgiven her everything.

Then she’d yelled another man’s name, disparaged his performance and kicked him out. He was a bloody idiot. Anjuli had used him, treated him as if he were nothing more than the means to an end so why was he still thinking about her, remembering that night? Women like her only understood money and sex. Anjuli had plenty of money if she could buy Castle Manor outright, but her response to him in London was that of a woman who hadn’t made love—
no
,
screwed
—in a long time.

I
never want to see you again
, she’d said, yet here she was, needing his help so badly she’d seek him out in public. Wanting sex, also, judging by her loaded glances while he talked with Sarah. A quick, meaningless screw to ease her need. Hard and fast. His mouth tightened. If Anjuli could treat sex with him so nonchalantly then he could do the same. Show her how it felt to be used, then leave her wanting, aching...

Ash banged a few glasses she was putting away and looked out of the window, brows furrowed. “Anjuli wanted to stay and talk to you, but with the storm hitting us early she had to rush home. It’ll take her forever to get there on her bike in this weather.”

“Bike?”

Ash tsked. “The madness of townies.”

* * *

The wind whipped Anjuli’s hair into her face, and each new gust made her bicycle wobble, regardless of how tightly she aimed it forward. When Ash had mentioned the coming storm she’d remembered her wide open windows and the little box with Chloe’s things that she’d fallen asleep curled around in the morning room. But where had she put it before leaving the house?
Oh God
,
please let it be safely away from the windows!
Everything she had left of Chloe was inside it, and if she lost it because of her useless trip to the village she would have one more thing she couldn’t forgive herself.

Anjuli relived the scene in the pub, gripping the handlebars and cursing herself. Why hadn’t she gone to Rob’s office to talk to him the way a normal person would?

Because you’re a coward Anjuli Carver
,
as yellow as butter and twice as thick.

Insulting Rob was bad enough, but how could she have been so rude to Councillor Hamish? Of course he would ask her to sing. He’d always asked her to sing. She never used to turn down performing at village festivals and Common Riding Balls. But she would never sing again.

Dr. Coren could prattle on about “time healing her sorrow and freeing her voice.” She knew why she couldn’t sing, and it wasn’t only grief. It was guilt.

She’d thrown away all of her own CDs and collaborations with other artists, avoided radio stations that might play her recordings, and binned all of her awards. The only reminder of her musical career she had kept was her Steinway. Its black and ivory keys provided tepid release but didn’t assuage her guilt. Nothing ever would.

The sky was almost as black as her thoughts, making the landscape on either side of the road appear vivid green. A long streak of silver-white lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a burst of thunder and a sudden heavy downpour. Anjuli gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. She wasn’t alone in her battle against the elements. A bedraggled Border collie had followed her out of town and he weaved in and out of sight, sometimes ahead, sometimes on the moor slightly behind her.

A large vehicle came towards her around the bend, its headlights on full beam. The driver was going too fast and he skidded in her direction. A loud bark, and before Anjuli could react, something nudged her back wheel and she hurtled onto the verge, hitting her hip when she fell. The farm truck sprayed water and dirt into the air, missing her by no more than a foot.

Dazed, Anjuli stared at the retreating truck, then shook herself out of it and looked at the Border collie who’d saved her. Mangy alright, and no collar around his neck so he was probably a stray. Handsome though, black patches over his eyes and most of his body, and what would be white hair, when clean, around his neck and torso. Stray or not, Anjuli patted his head and scratched him behind his ears. She would be splattered tomato if not for him.

“You’re getting the biggest bone I can buy, you brave, clever thing, and you’re going to the vet as soon as I find one.”

The collie gave her two-toned barks as she dragged herself to her feet. A quick inventory proved she wasn’t seriously injured, but the hip she’d fallen on was sore. Painful pricks of water beat down on her like daggers, harder by the second. She spat out the grit in her mouth. Earth, with a hint of diesel and sheep droppings. Lovely.

Anjuli had never felt so isolated as at that moment. There were no convenient cafés to nip into, no abundance of helpful passers-by or even grumpy, reluctant ones. No taxis to flag down and miles of empty moors in every direction. Well, she’d wanted to live the rural idyll and there was no use getting bent up like her bike because she’d got her wish. The collie leapt ahead as if scouting the road for danger, coming back every few seconds to bark at her. He really would be handsome if he got cleaned up and fed regularly. Maybe Ash could find a nice family looking for an energetic pet.

Or should she keep him? It would be nice to have another living being with her at Castle Manor. A friendly face to welcome her when she came home, a warm body to snuggle against while she read a book or watched a film or...Heaviness clenched her heart. She couldn’t be trusted to care for anything living again. She couldn’t even keep Chloe’s little box safe from the rain.

“It’s not near the windows,” she repeated feverishly, hoping her mantra would somehow make it true.

The collie ran back to her and barked a few times, just before the sound of an engine signalled a vehicle coming up from behind. Anjuli jumped onto the verge. Another tumble and she’d refuse to get up, settle into the soil and become a mud monster.

A black Land Rover pulled into the passing place a few feet ahead and cut its engine. Oh, thank God. This was what she loved about the Scottish Borders; it might be isolated but in the middle of a storm people would stop to help a muddy, battered-looking woman with a wrecked bike and a wild dog.

The driver’s door opened and Rob jumped out, his expression as stormy as the gale raging around them.

“Are you daft, woman?”