A Country Rivalry

by Sasha Morgan

  Luckily, a number of discerning reporters had gone to great lengths to secure a few rounds of shots through the leafy woods that joined the back of the Treweham Hall estate. As the wedding party had enjoyed champagne and canapés, basking in the sunshine on the lawn, a few hundred yards away, cameras had feverishly clicked and flashed, recording all the day’s events. They caught a radiant, young bride in an exquisite, ivory gown, holding a champagne flute, smiling with utter happiness; an older Seamus Fox, now a loyal husband and doting father to two giggling little girls, which he held in his arms, whilst his wife looked on affectionately; Sebastian Cavendish-Blake holding court, his animated face obviously entertaining the older, grey-haired lady dressed in tweed; but the absolute corker shot, or so Viola thought, was of the groom.

  Tobias looked magnificent in a grey morning suit. He still wore his hair long, and those piercing green eyes shone with love and laughter. His face appeared relaxed, happy and totally at ease, a far cry from the sullen, arrogant looks thrown at the press in the past, or the defiant, devil-may-care smirks for which he was renowned. He still had ‘it’, though, Viola concluded. Men such as Tobias Cavendish-Blake never lost their sex appeal; it just grew with them, maturing naturally.

  Viola was a man’s woman. She naturally preferred men’s company to women’s. By and large she found women either bitchy or just plain dull. Often craving the limelight, Viola was vain enough to soak up any attention thrown her way. She was slim and attractive and her long, caramel-brown hair fell sleekly down her back. Born with sharp features, Viola had had plastic surgery to correct her hooked nose and a cute, small one had replaced it. Her thin lips had been plumped to give a full, voluptuous look, and the boob job she’d had done was her absolute pride and joy. Nobody could accuse Viola of not making the most of herself. She had totally reinvented every inch of herself. Even her name. Being christened Vera was hardly the best start in life. Maybe in the fifties, but whoever had heard of a girl being named Vera in the mid-eighties? Yet another misfortune inherited from her mother.

  One thing Viola had been born with that had remained was her determination. She had true grit and real perseverance. She never gave up and she always got what she wanted. Viola’s force of will knew no bounds, to the point where it was scary. Only once had she had to back down – she had had no choice; not even Viola could ignore a Restraining Order. But that was all in the past, a minor hiccup in an otherwise successful life, she liked to think. There was nothing wrong with ambition, unless you let it drive you to the brink.

  She was set on a career as a producer, just like Marcus Devlin. He interested her too, though not in the same way as Tobias Cavendish-Blake. Instead she sensed her attraction to him was more kindred. Having worked with Marcus before, she had recognised instantly that he was a private man, choosing whom he socialised with on set, if at all. Often she would find him alone, deep in concentration, or quietly talking to only the one or two crew members he had known a long time. Viola suspected there was far more to Marcus than met the eye. A classic case of still waters running deep. Her instincts told her he was camouflaging his life in some way, hiding something, or maybe who he really was deep down. Why did she think this? Because she was doing exactly the same; she recognised the trait.

  Viola started to read the article she had found on-line about ‘Lord Cavendish-Blake-the-rake’. It was pure drama: the handsome, aristocratic hell-raiser finally tamed by a local, fresh-faced girl from the village. Viola’s eyes narrowed. Did a leopard ever change its spots? She very much doubted it.

  9

  Finula steadied herself and took a deep breath. Out of the pub window she watched as two vans pulled in at the front. This was the television crew The Templar had been expecting. Would Marcus be in one of the vans, she wondered, her heart starting to thump slightly. She forced herself to get a grip and concentrate on trying to look relaxed, confident and professional.

  The vans parked and three people got out and gathered together, but Marcus wasn’t one of them, Finula noticed with disappointment. Moments later they came into the pub. A woman with long brown hair headed the small team. She smiled brightly and spoke directly to Dermot, who had approached their newly arrived guests.

  ‘Hi there, I’m Viola,’ she beamed, and offered her hand.

  ‘Good to meet you, Viola,’ he replied. ‘I’m the landlord, Dermot, and this is my daughter, Finula.’ He pointed to Finula, who smiled and waved from behind the bar.

  ‘We’re nearly all here, Dermot. Just waiting for Marcus, the producer, to arrive, but his time-keeping isn’t the best,’ she laughed, ‘and one other, Jamie, our runner, who’ll be joining us tomorrow.’

  ‘Right you are,’ nodded Dermot. ‘Let’s give you a hand with those cases and show you to your rooms.’

  Finula quickly joined them to help. She picked up a large overnight bag from the floor next to Viola.

  ‘No, I’ll carry that.’ Viola quickly grabbed the bag back, then laughed a little awkwardly. ‘Perhaps you could carry Libby’s case for her?’ she added in a softer tone, seeing Finula’s puzzled expression. A middle-aged lady with short, blond hair smiled gratefully.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ Finula replied.

  ‘Thank you so much. I hope it’s not too heavy.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ assured Finula, heaving the case up the stairs.

  Dermot plonked down the luggage he had carried outside the first room on the landing.

  ‘This is one of the twin rooms,’ he stated, fishing in his back pocket for the key.

  ‘That’ll be for me and Libby,’ Viola told him and took the key.

  ‘The next room is for the single occupancy,’ Finula supplied.

  ‘That’s Marcus’,’ Viola informed, ‘so the last room’s yours and Jamie’s.’ She looked towards an older man, probably in his fifties, with thinning grey hair. Dermot handed him his key.

  ‘Thanks, I’m Len, the cameraman.’ He shook hands with Dermot.

  What a nice, friendly bunch they seem, thought Finula. ‘Dinner’s served between seven o’clock and nine,’ she told them, ‘and breakfast from seven thirty to nine thirty.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks,’ smiled Viola.

  ‘Right, we’ll leave you to settle in. Just give us a shout if you need anything,’ Dermot said, turning to go back to the bar. Finula followed, anticipation building for Marcus’ arrival. She didn’t have to wait too long.

  It was early evening by the time he arrived, whilst the rest of the team were sitting choosing their evening meal. It was growing dark outside but from the window Finula could just see a figure emerge out of a Range Rover. He was wheeling a case and had a rucksack slung over his shoulder. Finula fought for composure as Marcus entered the bar and looked straight into her face, then broke into a slow smile.

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said, and his soft, Irish tones melted her insides.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ she replied, desperate to sound casual and failing miserably as her words came out rather forced and squeaky. She quickly went on, ‘Had a good journey?’ That was better. At least the high pitch had disappeared and her normal voice had returned.

  ‘Not bad.’ He moved towards the bar, narrowing the distance between them. Finula could see him clearly now. His dark hair had been cut shorter and his face had grown stubble, giving him an unkempt, sexy look. He had razor-sharp cheekbones and full, wide lips, which were smiling in her direction. His green eyes were glistening brightly, like emeralds.

  ‘Thank you for sending the photograph,’ she said. Now he was directly facing her. Finula’s heart started to flutter.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He gazed into her eyes and for a moment everything stood still.

  ‘Ah, Marcus, there you are!’ called Viola. He turned towards the table where his team were sitting and gave them a curt nod.

  ‘Be with you shortly,’ he answered. Then, turning back to Finula, he said gently, ‘Good to see you again, Finula.’

  She looked at him and couldn’t speak. L
uckily Dermot interrupted her reverie as he came in from the kitchen.

  ‘Marcus, welcome back.’ They exchanged firm handshakes. Finula sensed real affection between the two men, assuming it was because they came from the same county in Ireland. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your room.’ Dermot ushered Marcus up the stairs, leaving Finula to catch her breath.

  10

  Flora rushed into the hallway to answer the phone. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello. May I speak to Dylan Delany, please?’ Flora didn’t recognise the female voice. It was smooth and efficient-sounding.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dylan’s not here at the moment,’ she replied.

  ‘May I leave my number for him to contact me?’

  Flora was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Who was this? Not waiting for an answer, the confident voice continued, ‘My name is Jade Fisher and I’m ringing from Hi-Ya magazine.’

  ‘Oh, I see…’ Flora felt slight relief. Obviously the magazine wanted to interview Dylan as the news of his imminent retirement had spread like wildfire already. After taking down the details, Flora left the notepaper with them on by the coffee machine, knowing that was the first place Dylan headed to after returning from the yard.

  True to form, half an hour later Flora heard the back door slam shut and she joined him in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ he smiled wearily, looking bone tired. Flora’s heart went out to him. She’d be glad when he no longer had to concentrate on two jobs and just had their own yard to look after. He had left earlier that day to talk to a prospective client. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ Dylan’s eyes squinted at the note placed by the machine. ‘What’s this?’ He picked it up, frowning.

  ‘Someone from Hi-Ya magazine called wanting to speak to you.’

  Dylan rolled his eyes. Not another request. Since announcing his retirement from the racing circuit he’d been inundated, as his agent had predicted, with one journalist or another. This Jade Fisher was just the latest writer wanting a piece of him.

  Flora noticed the dismissive expression on Dylan’s face and pondered for a moment. ‘Would you consider an interview?’ she asked.

  Dylan looked at her with his eyebrow raised. ‘After last time I appeared in the tabloids?’ He was, of course, referring to the seedy article that had been written about him, thanks to an opportunist ex-lover called Sadie Stringfellow. The incident had, not surprisingly, caused a real rift between him and Flora, which he had just about managed to bridge. No way was he going to jeopardise their relationship again.

  ‘But what if it’s on your terms? You pick the questions to reflect what you want out there.’

  Dylan was astonished by Flora’s words, especially after all the harm the press had inflicted. ‘I can’t believe you’d want me to be interviewed.’ He poured them each a coffee and passed her a steaming cup.

  ‘Thanks.’ Flora blew on it and continued, ‘You could always put your slant on what’s happened in the past.’

  Dylan looked warily at her, not sure where this was going. ‘Defend myself, you mean?’ He hoped this wasn’t the start of any unpleasantness. He knew he had to prove himself to her. Even now, he sensed she was a little insecure, not that he blamed her. He had been a playboy, but convincing Flora he was no longer often proved difficult.

  ‘In a way, yes.’ Then, after taking a gulp of coffee she added, ‘Could be good for business too.’

  Dylan turned his head sharply and looked again at the notepaper. Flora had a point. An interview where he chose the questions may be beneficial, and coverage for his racing yard could only be good publicity. As for his private life, well, what could be more cosy than a picture of him and Flora at home together? Perhaps it was time to set the record straight and pitch a new, wholesome image, rather than the racing Romeo he was known as by the fans.

  ‘I’ll do it on one condition.’ He put his coffee down and moved towards her with a playful grin.

  Flora knew all too well he was up to something. She’d recognise that roguish look anywhere. ‘What’s that?’ She too put her cup down.

  He pulled her into his arms. ‘That you’re here with me. I want you to be part of the interview, with photographs together.’

  Flora was stunned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why not?’ He leant back to look at her. A smile curved her lips, any apprehensions she may have had now evaporated. ‘I’ll ring and tell her I’ll do it, but only after my last race.’

  ‘Are you sure about me being in it?’ Flora searched his face for any regrets.

  ‘Absolutely. We’re a partnership, aren’t we?’ He stared challengingly into her eyes, hoping to drill home how serious he was about their relationship. As Flora looked down, Dylan caught her chin with his finger and tilted her face up towards his. ‘Flora,’ he whispered, ‘don’t doubt me.’ He leant forward and kissed her gently.

  Flora melted into his arms. Would he always have this effect on her? She feared he might…

  11

  The applause was deafening, the whole audience on its feet, clapping and cheering. Sebastian gulped back the emotion that threatened to reduce him to tears on stage. Being the professional he was, he clenched his jaw and bowed with pride. The rest of the cast bowed too, then turned to Richard III and clapped their fellow actor with admiration. Sebastian was overwhelmed. Never had he had such a reaction. Still the thunderous applause continued, making a shiver run down his twisted spine.

  The restricted jacket he wore with the humped back was virtually crippling him now. Seven weeks of solid bending and crouching had made every muscle in Sebastian’s back, stomach and legs cry out in discomfort. He was desperate to take a long, hot bath, sprinkled with magnesium salts, to sooth his aching body and relax his over-active mind. He had memorised each line for the role of Richard III meticulously and spoken every word naturally, with complete ease, as if it was the common, spoken language, rather than the poetic beauty of Shakespeare’s play.

  This had been the role that had finally made him as an actor, without question. Not one negative review had been made, which was practically unheard of in the acting profession. Each gave acknowledgement to ‘Sebastian Cavendish-Blake’s extraordinary talent’ and yet… there was still something missing for this gifted young actor. Sebastian felt he didn’t have anyone to share all this success with. Yes, he had a loving family and good friends, not to mention the rest of the cast, to whom he’d grown very close; but not that special person, the one he yearned to go home to at the end of a punishing rehearsal, or jubilant performance to talk to. To just be with. As the cheering and whistles bellowed from the crowd, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel a little lost and empty at the thought of going back to his empty apartment. Taking his final bow, he and the cast made their departure from the stage.

  Sebastian walked slowly to his dressing room. ‘Still in character, Seb?’ Jack, the actor who had played Buckingham, patted him on the back.

  ‘Huh?’ Sebastian frowned.

  ‘You’re still limping.’ Jack pointed to Sebastian’s left foot, which was dragging slightly.

  ‘Just exhausted,’ he replied.

  Was it any wonder? After seven weeks of hobbling disjointedly across the stage, night after night, it was a miracle his body was able to unravel back to its former self at all. Although often teased throughout his childhood, especially by his older, bigger brother, for his slim build, Sebastian was actually extremely toned and in good shape. He jogged most mornings (when he wasn’t knackered from a late night’s performance). At home, he loved running through the country estate, giving himself space to collect his thoughts and redress the imbalance in his life.

  He didn’t want to become a recluse, dedicated to his work and socialising with the cast only on a last night. He craved a close relationship, with all that entailed: cosy suppers, one-to-ones, meaningful sex. Instead, Stratford-upon-Avon had made him popular, but he was just attracting shallow groupies who sought friendship in the hope of sharing the limelight. It was because of thi
s transient lifestyle, especially with the touring productions he’d done before, that he had really appreciated a solid, loving relationship back home, a safe place to return to.

  Sebastian was convinced that had he not been playing the leading role, his phone wouldn’t ring quite as much as it had. He was constantly barraged with invitations for lunches, parties and selective dinners. At first, he welcomed the attention and it had provided much-needed distraction. But after a while, when he realised how superficial it all was, the novelty had worn off. Actors could be a fickle bunch and Sebastian hated hypocrisy. As a result, he became choosy about who he mixed with, accidentally making himself even more sought after. If a dinner party had Sebastian Cavendish-Blake at the table, then it was ‘the party’; likewise, if it didn’t, it wasn’t worth attending.

  As this was the last night of the play, it was expected that all the cast would celebrate with drinks. Sebastian didn’t want to cause offence by not joining in. He promised himself he’d stay for just one drink, then make his excuses and go. That long, hot bath was too inviting.

  The roof-top restaurant and cocktail bar at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre provided the theatrical backdrop the cast enjoyed. It gave splendid views of Stratford from the balcony and it was here that Sebastian sipped his tomato juice, having escaped the raucous group at the bar.

  Suddenly, he became aware of someone watching him. He turned sharply and froze.

  ‘Hello, Sebastian.’ Although it was dark out on the balcony, with only gentle lighting from the candles on tables, he knew that profile – would know it anywhere – and that voice.

  ‘Nick,’ Sebastian replied flatly, gripping his glass tightly. The figure moved closer. Now he could see his face, the one that had haunted his dreams for months.