Billie started by addressing the most glaring misconception that the 'Holyoake wives' had just voiced.
"I'm not a librarian," she said in a low voice. "Not anymore. I just work in a shop."
"Once a librarian, always a librarian," Fiona Holyoake stated. "I'll go get our wine. I think I'll switch to the Shiraz too. What would you like, Sybil? Red or white?"
"Red, please."
Viola chimed in, "Let Federico choose it for Sybil, Fiona. I wouldn't trust Rhys with it. He just goes with what's the most expensive."
"True. And Will just sticks to his whisky." Fiona nodded.
"Oliver is generally disinterested in earthly matters such as drink and food; unless it's pudding," Ulla joked.
"John would know, of course, but he's in London tonight," Fiona continued listing the men in the family and then added, "You've got the most sophisticated of them."
She gave Billie a cheeky little smile. Billie internally screamed that she hadn't 'got' anyone, and Dair especially.
"We're just colleagues," she rushed to clear this new misunderstanding.
"Uh-huh," Fiona and Ulla answered in unison.
"We are!" Billie was starting to panic a tad. She'd been wrong: that was the most troublesome fallacy in the women's minds. "I assure you, that's all that's happening," she insisted. "Ms. Roel suggested me as a liaison between the county and the director of the film - and that's all! And it's going to be over in a couple of weeks."
She shrugged - hopefully, nonchalantly. She preferred not to ponder the fact that if the film did get made, Dair probably wouldn't have time for Billie. Most so, he'd be bored of lugging her around before the end of the fortnight anyroad.
The Holyoakes exchanged meaningful looks - except Billie wasn't sure what said meaning was.
"So, what's new in the world of book sales?" Ulla asked after clearing her throat.
The vicar's partner was known around the county for her proclivity for taking care of the miserably inadequate and the pitifully worthless. It was in the job description after all. Billie gave her a grateful look. The evasion might have been rather clumsy - but full-heartedly appreciated.
For the next few minutes they chatted about the latest releases in mysteries and thrillers. Nana and Viola stayed out of the conversation, while Fiona kept shuttling between the sitting room and the kitchen bringing everyone drinks and confirming allergies and intolerances. Soon, the most delicious smells trickled into the room.
"Could I wash my hands, please?" Billie asked.
"Let me show you the bathroom," Fiona offered.
They made their way into the hallway, but instead of leading her into the more logical direction - towards a couple of doors in the end of the corridor - Fiona beckoned Billie towards the source of jolly male voices, and the aromas of meat, tomatoes, and herbs.
"Mrs. Holyoake, why are we–" Billie whispered frantically.
"Call me Fiona," the other woman corrected Billie in a hushed voice. "Come on, I want a peek."
Billie started backing off, but Fiona kept nodding towards the kitchen and creeping forwards. The reflex to obey red-headed women especially if they spoke in an authoritative tone, kicked in; and Billie soon found herself peeping from around the corner. Thankfully, they were well-hidden by the darkness and an advantageous angle.
The kitchen was massive, in the same Victorian style as the rest of the cottage. It had been renovated, all appliances new and in order, but the styling was impeccable. The surfaces were tile and wood, including a massive spacious island in the centre.
"Do I add beans now?" Rhys Holyoake asked, pointing at a pot on the stove.
"Certo," Dair answered with a nod. He was chopping something bright green on a thick cutting board. "Oli, how's trabaccolara going?"
"I haven't got the foggiest," the vicar said with a merry chuckle, and tapped a long wooden spoon on the edge of a large saucepan. "I'm following your instructions, but whether the result is up to your standard–" The Reverend laughed and lifted his hands in the air in a surrender gesture.
Rhys stopped stirring whatever was bubbling in a pot in front of him and craned his neck to look at his clerical cousin's 'station.'
"I think he can start on his paccheri already," Rhys threw to Dair.
"Quite a kibitzer, isn't he?" Will Holyoake commented.
Unlike the other three men, Will was clearly staying away from all the simmering, sizzling, and sautéing; instead relaxing on a bench in the window recess, just as his wife predicted, with a glass of amber-coloured liquid in his hand.
Dair guffawed and shook his head.
"He's earned it," he said. "His pappa al pomodoro?" Dair pursed his lips in the painfully familiar gesture; his index finger and his thumb formed a circle; and then he opened his hand with a small exhale. "Bellissimo."
The Billie of today knew that that was an expression of praise - and not him mimicking smoking a fag, like she'd assumed twenty-something years ago.
"Schiacciata should be ready, Rhys. Could you take it out, please?" Dair said and then asked without lifting his eyes from a large white bulbous vegetable he was now slicing, "Would you like to try some, cara?"
There was a long pause, and then Oliver chortled and said, seemingly addressing the ceiling, "I suspect he means you, Ms. Harewicke."
Billie stilled like a rabbit, caught pillaging a vegetable garden. Fiona giggled and stepped into the kitchen.
"I can't speak for Sybil, but I definitely want to try the– whatever that beautiful word means," she said and looked back at Billie. "You really don't have to, but I'd jump at the opportunity. Eric and Rhys are wizards in the kitchen."
The vicar chortled again. "I was the one in charge of it, so I wouldn't get your hopes up. And it's a kind of bread."
Rhys deftly put on jolly paisley over mittens and pulled out a baking tray. The bread looked similar to focaccia - and smelled heavenly!
Billie edged into the kitchen. Her mouth watered. There were two massive grazing platters in the centre of the island, with all sorts of meats and cheeses. Fiona climbed on a tall stool next to the counter and then patted her narrow beautiful hand on the second chair.
"C'mon, Sybil, you can't possibly say no to this!"
Billie couldn't.
"The supper's almost ready," Rhys said, covering his pot with a glass lid. "I'll start setting the table."
Fiona was already busily chewing a generous chomp of the bread, daintily holding a circle of some sort of salami between her fingers, a sizeable stack of other delicacies in front of her. Billie threw a wistful look at the food - and then Dair stepped to her with a small plate. He quickly loaded it with all sorts of meats, pickled vegetables, slices of hard cheeses, and some mysterious golden blobs of fried dough, which Billie had just been admiring. The plate travelled into Billie's hands, just before Rhys snatched the platters and carried them out of the kitchen.
"Here, tesorina." Dair smiled at her warmly. "Definitely try frittelle di fiori di zucca."
"Marrow flowers," Fiona commented and sank her teeth into one of the blobs. "So good," she moaned, and Will chuckled from his spot.
Billie accepted her fate and took a bite of the fritter. Flavours bloomed in her mouth, and she silently gawked at Dair, while her jaws moved.
"Com'è? Good?"
Billie nodded enthusiastically, still chewing.
"Buono." Dair nodded, and then leaned in and pecked her lips.
It happened so quickly that she didn't have time to prepare herself. She looked around, but no one seemed to pay attention - or care. Fiona was feasting; her husband was most obviously ogling her. The Rev was cutting the bread. The oldest Holyoake had just disappeared in the direction of the dining room with another load of his delicious cargo. Apparently, Dair shared her impression of their 'audience,' because a velvet rumble bubbled in his throat, and he dove in for another short 'speech therapy session.'
"Eric," Billie hissed at him.
"Polpetta." He rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs in the already familiar gesture. "Sei così carina."
Billie wasn't ballsy enough to ask for a translation; she could hardly handle his odd behaviour even without any clarification of the exact meaning of his purring.
"Eric, check on the pasta," Rhys barked, rushing in.
"I can't, frate. Coeliac, remember?" Dair answered and kissed the tip of Billie's nose.
She opened her mouth to express her embarrassment-fuelled protest, but he'd already moved away.
"Sorry, Fredo." Rhys clapped his spade-like palm to Dair's back. "I keep forgetting. It's just the paccheri, innit? The rest is safe."
Dair nodded. "You do it. I trust your judgement."
He winked at the older man, and Rhys guffawed.
"That's a praise of the highest regard. An Italian trusting me with their pasta." He picked up a giant steaming pot from the stove. "Can't wait to boast to Vi about it."
"Oh, I was supposed to move everyone's wine to the table!" Fiona exclaimed, jumped off her perch, and rushed out.
It was clearly Will's cue, and he followed his wife.
"Are these ready?" the vicar asked, pointing at a bowl of little round peppers stuffed with something white, while balancing the bread plate in his other hand.
"Yeah, they can go," Dair answered, when someone loudly called his name from the other room.
He wiped his hands on a dishtowel, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out of the kitchen.
Suddenly Billie found herself alone with Rhys Holyoake - and she couldn't help but to throw discreet looks at him. Being a voluntary and intentional recluse, Billie still couldn't fully avoid the Fleckney rumour-mill. And it was known in the county that anyone who was getting involved with an offspring of the family, no matter the latter's age or gender, would have to withstand the scrutiny of the oldest son of the Holyoake clan. One would also need to pass the licensure of Nana Holyoake, of course; but the woman did rely on her favourite grandson's judgement; while he only trusted his own.
Holyoake's baritone behind her made Billie shrink on her spot.
"So, Sybil, what is it that you do?"