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sighed and headed off.

Chapter 4
    As I drove through the Hampshire countryside, Sacha’s words echoed in my brain. Most villages are inhabited by the Middle Aged and Already Married. I probably would have been better off at a leisure centre or the local bistro. My last sexual adventure, just after New Year, had been with a guy I met in a wine bar in Windsor. It had been hot – really hot – fulfilling all my fantasies. I’d strapped the guy to a four-poster bed, slithered over his impressively sculptured body – all six-foot-three of him – and had my wicked way. Oh boy. That chiselled jaw, those clenched biceps, his well-toned thighs – all at my lustful mercy…
    Actually, that was a fantasy.
    I’d had to superimpose it over a very dull performance from a tax inspector called Tony.
    Four teams down, two more to go. Next week I could try a few more – maybe. Trouble was, come the autumn, would I find myself hauling arse from one rugby club to another; trawling fire stations or maybe scrutinising any of the armed forces? Still, come the autumn, at least I’d have a delectable all-over tan from that exotic holiday I was going to win, which would surely increase my pulling power. Exotic holiday, yes – romantic, no. I’d promised to take Mum. She’d not had a decent holiday since Dad died. And no amount of persuasion or offers of financial help from the family had shifted her position. She was possibly the most infuriating person I knew. But when I won that holiday, I’d take no argument.
    The sight of Marshalhampton lifted my spirits, slightly. It’s a picture-book location. The cricket pavilion sits on the village green, where a pale, flat, beautifully-mown strip runs down the centre of it. The roads flanking it are dotted with the kind of cottages you find on jig-saw puzzles. Sad to say, there are a couple of garishly out of place chalet bungalows from the seventies, but the general impression left me thinking of a cosy little village school for my future offspring, where they’d be taken on nature rambles through the forest and learn to skip around the maypole, although I’d probably draw the line at Morris Dancing.
    However, Marshalhampton did appear to enjoy some of the hottest talent in Hampshire. And I’m not talking cricketing talent, although the scoreboard did boast an impressive ninety-eight runs. Compared with the previous two matches I’d seen, I decided Marshalhampton was hogging all the tasty guys.
    It was a familiar scene. An elderly chap was seated at a table, writing down the scores and the batting team were chatting quietly while they watched the action. But the main difference here was a much larger number of happy villagers were enjoying the spectacle, and there was an altogether more jolly atmosphere.
    Spirits lifting, and wiser after my experience at Oldersbury, I ventured up to the scorekeeper and asked if I would be allowed to take photographs.
    ‘This for Hello magazine is it?’ he grinned. ‘No problem at all. Maybe if they’re good ones, can we use them on our website, eh?’
    Things were looking up. ‘Of course,’ I beamed.
    Wandering over to the edge of the boundary, away from the spectators, I surveyed the field. There were at least four guys under thirty-five and one definitely under twenty – cute but not eligible. Alongside the pavilion, there were some vaguely interesting possibilities too. But the guy who really drew my eye was out at the crease, preparing to receive the ball. I could see he was tall and definitely built for sport. Not your hollow-chested, beer-bellied, pickle-eating villager at all.
    Crack! He whacked the ball the length of the field and, as it rolled over the edge of the field, a cheer of ‘Four’ went up from his jubilant team members. I watched as he raised his bat in recognition.
    I trained the telephoto on him and heard myself gasp as he came into focus. How would I describe him? Gorgeous springs to mind but is too generic; Golden might do