by Sasha Morgan
He certainly looked intense, thought Finula, as her interest continued to grow. He’d lived in London, but had recently moved to Shropshire, taking a liking to it whilst filming on location there.
‘Shropshire’s the nearest thing to home,’ the article had quoted him saying. ‘It’s green, with lots of space, a real charm of its own. Here I can completely relax and let the creative juices flow. London suffocated my energy with its pace of life.’
Once Finula had started researching Marcus Devlin, she found it hard to stop. Apparently, he had been married once, a long time ago, but didn’t have any children. She’d even watched some of his documentaries and found them moving, invoking real emotion. From the horrific, cold truth of sex trafficking, to the heart-breaking, compassion of organ donation, Finula had been first hooked and then reduced to tears. Marcus had taken real risks, filming in dangerous territory, interviewing victims and exposing the ruthless, powerful gangs that terrorised and controlled the vulnerable. He had followed the plight of a child desperately needing a heart transplant, covering the emotional scenes before his operation and the joyful ones at its success.
Unable to resist, she’d tapped in his address on a satellite map site and homed in on the Tudor cottage nestled in the Shropshire hills. A white building with black timber frame, it was covered with ivy, and the surrounding colourful garden bursting with hydrangeas was utterly charming. It unnerved Finula a little that she had gone to such lengths to find out more about a person she had met so briefly. If Megan had known, after she’d teased her about looking him up, she would have encouraged her to try to contact him. Her best friend was eager to see Finula happy in a relationship, given how awful Finula’s ex-boyfriend, Nick, the hunky local vet, had proved to be. Often Megan and Finula had laughed about ‘a tall, dark stranger, walking into her gin joint’. Well, now it appeared he had…
3
Dylan was sitting at his desk. The window in front of him overlooked the training yard where three of his staff were busy preparing the stables for the racehorses that were due to be delivered that afternoon. Flora, his assistant trainer and girlfriend, had asked for fresh hay, water and clean swept floors. Not that the grooms really needed telling, all having previously worked at Sean Fox’s training yard. Meanwhile, Flora was busy making phone calls, ensuring final preparations for the arrival of the horses were in place. Dylan had opened Delany’s Racing Yard only a few weeks ago and already the stables were half full. He had room for thirty horses, and at this rate they’d soon be training at full capacity and would need more staff.
He couldn’t expect Flora to continue working at her current pace, particularly as she was still recovering from a virus. As Flora’s parents were travelling around Europe and her brother was at university, Dylan had insisted she come and stay with him for a few days until she had recovered, but that few days had turned into weeks. Together they had rubbed along nicely, living and working alongside each other in an easy, uncomplicated way.
Although Flora was only twenty, Dylan held her in high esteem. She had an innocent, honest sincerity about her, which he admired, especially when comparing her to the many crude, licentious women who threw themselves at him. Dylan had a reputation, which up until Flora came into his life he had been more than happy to uphold. He was the sexiest and most successful jockey, both on and off the racecourse. His dark curls, twinkling blue eyes and thoroughly toned body had sent many a lady’s heart pounding, and Dylan had been chased, a lot, sometimes leading to rather unfortunate circumstances. One lover had handcuffed him to the bed and sold her kiss-and-tell story to a newspaper; another, the wife of a client, had been seducing him in the hot tub when her husband had arrived home early. All water under the bridge now, Dylan liked to think.
Flora, however, didn’t. She might be ten years younger than he, but she was well aware of Dylan’s lothario days. Still, she couldn’t fault the care and attention he had shown her whilst she was ill. Like Dylan, Flora had grown to love their living together and, whilst nothing officially had been said, it had gradually become the norm for her to stay at his house. Flora had noticed how clinically clean and ordered Dylan’s home was when she had first arrived but now it had turned into a proper home, which looked lived-in.
Working together, they had flourished, each intuitively understanding the other, and each had a way with horses so it was little wonder that already they had had quite a few runners thundering past the finishing line in first place. In fact, it was all going so well that Dylan was about to announce his retirement as a jockey, to dedicate all his time to the training yard, and keeping Flora happy. She had shown her fiery, stubborn side once and he didn’t wish to see it again.
Now he looked sideways at her whilst she was talking on the phone. His gaze automatically homed in on her pale, flawless complexion. She was biting her bottom lip and frowning slightly, deep in concentration. Her blond hair hung in waves to her shoulders and he suddenly longed to feel its silky touch between his fingers.
Dylan got up from his desk and stood behind her on the sofa. He bent down and kissed her neck and she turned slightly and smiled, continuing to talk into the phone. His lips ran across her collarbone; then, deciding he wanted more of her, his hands started to unbutton her shirt. She giggled slightly, then quickly coughed and carried on her conversation. She playfully slapped his hand. He ignored it and continued to pop her buttons until he pulled the shirt apart, to reveal her splendid creamy breasts, spilling out of a red lace bra. How was he supposed to concentrate on work, knowing she was wearing this? His hands cupped her breasts, which felt soft and warm. His tongue found one of her nipples and slowly licked it and instantly it hardened. He heard her release a sigh. Flora quickly wrapped up the phone call and released another sigh as Dylan’s hand moved further down to delve inside her jeans.
‘Let’s go home,’ he whispered thickly into her ear.
It was so tempting, but how could they, with so much to do? ‘We can’t Dylan,’ she replied faintly, as his thumb rubbed her intimately. She was fully aroused and he could feel she was ready for him. He couldn’t stop now; his need was way too strong. He moved to stand in front of her, then picked her up with ease and placed her on the edge of his desk. His eyes blazed with passion as he pulled her jeans and red lace knickers down over her legs and onto the floor. ‘Dylan, we can’t,’ she protested quietly, knowing full well they could and would.
Dylan didn’t reply, but kissed away her unconvincing objections. As his tongue explored her mouth, she could feel his stubble against her face and smell his aftershave. Intoxicated by him, Flora closed her eyes in surrender as Dylan gently parted her thighs. He’d undone his jeans to fully expose his large, hard erection. He edged himself slowly into her silky heat and groaned with pleasure while she clasped his buttocks and let out a gasp. He pushed further into her, making her cry out again. Dylan wanted more and ground deeper and harder until finally he burst with absolute satisfaction. She clung to him panting, her legs wrapped tightly round him.
‘What if someone had come in?’ she asked, breathlessly.
Dylan was zipping himself up. He looked at her affectionately. ‘Well, nobody did, did they?’ He winked and kissed her hard on the lips until they were interrupted by the phone ringing. Picking it up he answered smoothly, ‘Hello, Delany’s Racing Yard,’ whilst watching Flora quickly fumble with her clothes.
4
Marcus Devlin marched into the office with purpose, a look of determination on his handsome face. He was late and the rest of the production team were all sitting round the table waiting. They had worked with him before and knew exactly what to expect. His tardiness was the least of their problems. He threw down his clipboard with force, making Jamie, the young runner, jump. He then plonked himself down. There was no pre-amble, no cosy introduction with Marcus, just straight down to business.
‘Right, I’ve managed to secure the funding for this documentary.’ There was slight applause and a round of congratulations from the a
ssembled team, which Marcus cut short. ‘Now we have to decide locations, schedules and the budget.’ Silence fell. He glared at the woman sitting on his right. ‘Viola, what you got for me?’ he asked directly, in his southern Irish lilt.
She answered with ease, refusing to be intimidated by him.
‘As the documentary is exploring quaint, English traditions and customs, I suggest we call it Green and Pleasant Land.’ This was greeted with nods and murmurs of agreement.
Marcus didn’t give away any opinion. On the face of it, this documentary didn’t appear his usual, gritty style. He did, however, have every intention of adding his own harsh, stark mix, blowing away any image of ‘a chocolate-box village’.
‘Go on,’ he ordered.
Viola shuffled in her chair and cleared her throat. ‘Regarding the location, for me, this would work best in the heart of some quintessential countryside, steeped in folklore in the olde worlde villages.’ Again, mumblings of encouragement echoed from all the team except the producer.
‘Where?’ interrupted Marcus.
‘I’ve done some research. The Cotswolds.’ This finally seemed to evoke a reaction from Marcus. For the first time since stomping through the door, his face relaxed a little.
‘And?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come up with two villages. Bellebrook and Treweham.’
Now he was interested. He stared straight into Viola’s face intently. ‘Continue.’
‘Both have good stories to tell, with colourful characters. They have history, aristocracy and well-known faces. Both villages have hit the headlines for various reasons, from arson to flash, celebrity weddings. Heard of Christian Burgoyne?’
‘He’s a barrister, isn’t he?’ Marcus raised his eyebrow.
‘That’s him: a top-class barrister who defended a young, single mother accused of harming her child.’
‘I remember that!’ butted in Jamie. ‘The baby had brittle-bone disease.’
Viola nodded and continued, ‘What about Tobias Cavendish-Blake?’
Marcus’ eyes narrowed and there was an awkward pause. ‘That’s the wild child, Lord Cavendish-Blake, recently married,’ he replied flatly.
‘His brother is Sebastian Cavendish-Blake, rising star at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre,’ gushed Jamie, his eyes shining with admiration.
‘Also,’ Viola carried on, ‘there are two country inns oozing with rustic charm. The Bluebell at Bellebrook and—’
‘The Templar,’ finished Marcus.
Viola’s brow furrowed: how did he know that? Typical, always one step ahead.
For Marcus it was a no-brainer. After staying at The Templar a week ago and acquainting himself with the landlord’s daughter, a redhead with porcelain skin, who could have been hand-picked from his home town of Roscommon, his mind was made up.
‘Treweham. We’ll go for Treweham,’ he said decisively.
‘Ri-ght…’ Viola answered, a little perplexed. Normally she would have had to pitch things much harder to Marcus for him to decide and she had been prepared to do so. He’d quite taken the wind from her sails. She knew damn well that being his assistant producer would be taxing. She was originally a researcher, but had wanted to gain further experience and relished the opportunity when Marcus had offered her the position of his assistant on his last documentary. He had done so again, expecting her to act as assistant producer and researcher, thus saving money on a very tight budget.
‘Now, let’s talk schedules. We’ll want to interview the villagers. We need to home in on any eccentrics, recluses, country bumpkins, people that will entertain, or provoke. Viola, you mentioned folklore. I like that, but take it further, exploit it, think… think…’ he narrowed his eyes again, ‘The Wicker Man.’
There was a stunned silence. Libby, the editor, a quiet, middle-aged lady, who had worked several times with Marcus, coughed slightly. ‘Is that really the angle we’re going for, Marcus?’
He looked surprised by her question. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I thought it was more quaint English country tradition we were interested in?’ added Len, the cameraman.
‘We are,’ replied Marcus, ‘but that alone isn’t going to make this a good documentary. We’ll need that twist to give it dimension.’
After consideration, the team began to see his point. Marcus Devlin wasn’t an award-winning documentary producer for no reason. He was going to examine a small, country village and, besides depicting its charm, was going to expose all its idiosyncrasies, even if that meant uncovering its darker side too. He’d seen too many programmes focusing on the idealism of country life. It was boring, repetitive and in his opinion, unrealistic. As if anybody lived the good life to the extent that had often been portrayed! And so smugly, too. It prickled him the way the green-welly brigade lorded over their organic way of life and looked down their snooty noses at those who could only afford everyday supermarket specials. To him, the country set had double standards, wanting a greener, healthier environment, yet they all drove unnecessarily gas-guzzling four-by-fours to take their children to school. He wanted to kick their sorry, tweed-clad arses into the real world, where some poor families were living off food banks. Poverty was on the up. Homelessness was rising. Meanwhile the rich were flourishing in their country estates. Statistics proved this and Marcus wanted his documentary to be the catalyst that highlighted the glaring inequalities.
‘I’ll arrange an interview with Tobias Cavendish-Blake,’ Viola said.
‘You’ll be lucky; he hates the media,’ chipped in Jamie.
‘Leave it with me,’ Viola smiled sweetly.
‘I’ll shoot Treweham Hall, if he agrees,’ added Len.
‘Don’t see why not. He just opened it up to the public,’ replied Marcus.
Again, Viola noticed how he seemed already to know a bit about Treweham village.
‘What about interviewing his brother?’ Jamie asked, his face alight with excitement. ‘He’s currently staring as Richard III at Stratford.’
Viola’s lips twitched: it was obvious Jamie’s latest crush was Sebastian Cavendish-Blake. Why not give him a break and include him? ‘Good idea, Jamie.’ She gave a supportive smile.
‘Hmm,’ replied Marcus, quite liking the Richard III spin they could utilise. ‘Why not? If it doesn’t work, it’ll just end up on Libby’s cutting-room floor.’
‘I’m sure it won’t,’ soothed Libby, who could see Jamie’s face beginning to fall.
‘What about the locals? The landlord of the…’ Viola looked back at her notes.
‘The Templar,’ interrupted Marcus. ‘Leave that with me.’
Viola frowned. She was desperate to ask why he was going to take this on himself, but knew better than to do so.
‘When do we start filming?’ Len asked.
‘A week’s time,’ Marcus answered, as always enjoying making people drop everything for him at short notice.
‘A week?’ they all cried.
Marcus rolled his eyes. What was it with these people? Did they want to make a documentary or not?
5
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Sebastian Cavendish-Blake surveyed the audience as he spoke, his eyes roaming over the dark rows of seats with silhouettes of still heads, all turned to focus on him. It didn’t unnerve him. In fact it thrilled him and he revelled in the attention. When all eyes were on him, adrenalin pumped through his veins, making his performance all the better. And what a performance he had to give when portraying evil King Richard III. The padded jacket he wore contained a small pillow in the back panel, giving him that infamous hump. It dug into him slightly, making him stoop further, but Sebastian didn’t mind as it made him look even more like the character. His crooked posture made his lumbering walk appear more life-like, too, as he hobbled across the stage.
H
e was an absolutely natural performer, and had taken to this role like a duck to water, gaining rave reviews. ‘A Shakespeare star in the making,’ announced the Guardian. ‘Cavendish-Blake’s attention to detail is exquisite,’ opined the Stage, ‘his acting is so credible.’ But the finest, making even Sebastian himself double-take when he first read it was The Times, which simply stated, ‘The new Laurence Olivier.’
His mother, the Dowager Lady Cavendish-Blake, had wept with pride on his opening night. Even his aunt Celia, who was notoriously tough as old boots and hard to please, had had a tear in her eye. Sebastian had excelled himself. After years of acting with a small travelling theatre, he had finally made his mark. Already offers were pouring in, with future roles on the horizon. Sebastian, however, didn’t want to commit to anything just yet, as he was still recovering from a rather bruised heart. Whilst being cast as Richard III had been the distraction he had badly needed, it still didn’t fill his time whilst off stage. Alone in the apartment that he was renting in Stratford-upon-Avon, he could often feel himself slowly edging into a black hole. His last relationship had been turbulent, to say the least. Nick lived in Treweham. He was the local vet and a bit of a heart-throb. The trouble was, Nick hadn’t played fair. Sebastian realised their relationship wasn’t exactly exclusive when he had discovered Nick was also dating Finula from The Templar. In Nick’s mind this shouldn’t have been a problem – after all, what was he supposed to do when Sebastian was off travelling with the theatre? The lack of empathy Nick showed staggered Sebastian. Not only for himself, but poor Finula too, who had been devastated when learning the full facts of Nick’s bi-sexuality. The inability to see things from any point of view other than his own made Nick an unpopular resident in Treweham where, as in many small villages, a kick to one resident meant they all fell.
Landing the role of Richard III had been a blessing, giving Sebastian purpose. He was popular amongst the cast and crew, reducing them to laughter whilst regaling them with tales from his past. He intrigued them. It wasn’t often a member of the aristocracy had a starring role, yet he never lorded his social position over them. He had invited the cast back to Treweham Hall for a weekend before the play opened and it had proved a great success, with the Cavendish-Blake family welcoming this small motley crew, delighted that Sebastian was smiling again. He fitted in at the theatre well. With his sparkling personality and acting skills he had earned the respect of his fellow actors and the director of the play.
