by Jo Carnegie
‘Oh yes,’ said Eunice, her eyes misting over.
Caro made what she hoped was a sympathetic noise. The rumour that had been around since she was little was that Eunice had once been married to a dashing air force pilot who had been killed in a ferocious dogfight over the Channel in the Second World War. Eunice, pregnant at the time with their first child, had miscarried at the shock and vowed never to marry again.
‘Anyway, we won’t keep you, dear,’ said Dora. ‘Besides, The Archers is on in a minute.’
‘Thanks again for the jacket,’ said Caro, quickly putting it under the pram.
‘Bye, dear,’ said Eunice. ‘Say hello to that nice husband of yours.’ She and Dora turned and walked slowly up the path. Caro made a mental note to steer clear of the sisters for a while, before poor Milo was swamped in a sea of itchy woollens.
As Caro got up to the shop, she found an extra fiver tucked in amongst Milo’s bottom wipes. Oh good-oh, she could buy that month’s Tatler as well. The perfect treat to go with her Galaxy. It was always quite tricky getting the stroller through the narrow door to the shop, and even more of a chore to steer it round the cramped aisles. Luckily Babs Sax was coming out, a copy of Watercolour Monthly under one bony arm. She lived next door to the shop in a pretty little cottage rather ambitiously named Hardwick House. (Also known by the locals as Hard-On House, because of the number of arty young men who went through the front door.) Today she was dressed in an aquamarine turban and matching kaftan, her lips and long nails painted firebox red.
‘Darling!’ she exclaimed huskily. ‘You look radiant. And how, er, is the little one?’ She peered into the pram the way a person might look at the sole of their shoe after treading in dog poo. Caro seized her chance. ‘Fine, thanks. Babs, would you mind looking after Milo while I pop in the shop? I won’t be a sec.’
‘Well, er, I . . .’ Babs flapped her skinny hands anxiously.
‘Thank you!’ Caro rushed into the shop before Babs had time to change her mind. Inside, she grabbed her mag and chocolate and an impromptu purchase of a pot of organic honey, and headed to the counter.
‘Miss Caro!’ said Brenda, appearing from under the counter like a genie from a bottle. ‘How are we? Milo? Sebastian? Your parents? Heard from them recently?’
‘Er, yes, I spoke to Mummy and Daddy a few days ago,’ replied Caro, slightly bamboozled.
‘Keeping well, hmm? When are they over next?’
‘I think it will be Christmas,’ replied Caro, thinking wistfully of London, where she could step outside her front door without facing the Spanish Inquisition at every corner. ‘Must be off, I’ve left Milo outside in his pram.’
Brenda raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘You want to be careful of those baby snatchers, I’ve been reading all about it in Take a Break.’
‘Babs Sax is minding him, Brenda,’ sighed Caro.
Brenda gave a snort of laughter. ‘As if she’d be any good! Too busy trying to have it off with the getaway driver, I bet.’
Caro gave a forced smile and headed for the door. Brenda stopped her again.
‘Ooh, have you heard who’s moved in? Devon Cornwall! He’s bought Byron Heights!’
Caro wrinkled her brow. ‘Wasn’t he in Coronation Street?’ she asked, leaving Brenda open-mouthed. Outside, Babs Sax was standing by the pram, trying to look as if it was nothing to do with her. Caro relieved her of Milo, who was starting to squawk hungrily, and trundled home.
Chapter 9
OVER IN FARM Cottage, Stacey Turner was enjoying her third orgasm in thirty minutes. ‘God, you are so good at that,’ she breathed as Jed Bantry looked up from between her legs. They were in Jed’s bedroom at the poky two-bedroom home he shared with his mother. Speaking of whom—
‘You better push off,’ said Jed, not unkindly. ‘Ma will be back from the big house soon.’ He stood up and kissed her quickly on the mouth, then turned to put his boxer shorts back on. Stacey propped herself up on one shoulder looking at him as his firm, muscular buttocks worked in front of her. What an arse! In her eyes, Jed would give Colin Farrell a run for his money. Colin Farrell was Stacey’s favourite actor, and she had seen every film he’d been in.
At the age of eighteen years and two months, Stacey Turner was pert, buxom and curvy. She looked like a poor man’s Kelly Brook. Stacey was a barmaid at the Jolly Boot, where her dad was landlord, and she loved it. She’d inherited her mum Beryl’s flirtatious manner and her dad Jack’s charm and gift of the gab, and she was always the centre of attention at the bar, with men for ever wanting to buy her drinks. If only there were more about like Jed Bantry, she thought to herself, watching him step into his overalls. Stacey had her pick of the local boys, and she’d had a fair few of them, but Jed was definitely the best shag she’d ever had – and the fittest. He never suffered from brewer’s droop or shooting his load too early; Jed could keep rock hard for hours. In fact, he wore her out sometimes, and that was a first. There was something unrestrained and wild about him that none of the others came close to.
Still, Jed was a strange one. Theirs was a strictly sexual relationship, and she never expected anything more, but he’d still barely utter a few sentences when they were together. He just used his mouth to communicate in different ways . . . Stacey shivered at the recent memory of Jed pleasuring her. Getting physical was just fine by her. And besides, she would be the envy of all her mates if they ever found out.
Stacey stretched luxuriantly, her magnificent boobs standing up to attention. Jed glanced at them momentarily and Stacey smiled. That would keep him ticking over until next time. ‘Pass me my bra, lover. I’m working at noon, Dad’ll wonder where I am.’
Jack Turner was notoriously protective of his only child, and had once chased one of the locals down the road with a poker from the fire when they’d made a suggestive remark about Stacey’s chest. ‘You’d better get your skates on then, lass,’ said Jed. No one in the village knew about their fling, and that was just the way Jed intended keeping it.
The market town of Bedlington was five miles east of Churchminster. It lacked the prettiness and charm of the village, but had a functional, rustic charm that hadn’t been completely diminished by the arrival of such places as Iceland and All Bar One. It helped that Bedlington held a very popular organic farmers market each month in the town square.
There was a small council estate on the eastern outskirts of the town, where farm workers had been housed in the seventies when their employers had sold off farm buildings to private owners. Nowadays, the Orchards Estate, as it was known, was home to young, non-farming families as well as some of the original tenants.
It was on the rec, a small, muddy piece of grass at the back of the estate, that Archie Fox-Titt and Tyrone lay on their backs, staring up at the sky in stoned oblivion. Archie had missed college yet again. Tyrone, who was meant to be studying to be a civil engineer, hadn’t been to a lecture since before Christmas.
A fresh wind gusted across the field, making Tyrone shiver. ‘Man, it’s freezing out here. Me nuts are about to drop off.’ He cackled at the thought.
‘Can’t we go back to yours?’ slurred Archie.
Tyrone sucked his teeth derisively. ‘As if!’ He lived round the corner in a cramped house with his mum, her second husband and two stepbrothers and sisters. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat.
In a moment of clarity, Tyrone slapped his thigh. ‘Why can’t we start hanging at yours, man? It’s, like, perfect to get well stoned.’
‘I don’t think my parents would approve,’ slurred Archie again, getting his words out with some difficulty.
‘Use your brain!’ retorted Tyrone. ‘Your place is massive, man! We could chill for days in there and your olds wouldn’t even know. What you say, bro?’ But Archie had passed out, smouldering joint still in his hand.
Tyrone reached across and rescued it, then lay back again and took a decisive drag. As far as he was concerned it was sorted; no more hanging around the poxy rec freezing t
o death. Archie’s place was perfect for a wicked house party as well; he’d just have to find out when Archie’s parents were going to be away.
‘Bring it on!’ said Tyrone to himself.
Chapter 10
IT WAS THE Tuesday before her dinner party and Camilla was in full organizational mode. The small dining room at the back of the cottage was dwarfed by her mother’s Regency dining table and chairs, which her parents had donated to her when they left Churchminster. Camilla hadn’t really entertained there properly since she’d moved in, and for a long time the room had been a dumping ground for more of Calypso’s possessions. She didn’t think Brenda had ever stepped foot in there, preferring to stay next door and run her cloth up and down the mantelpiece as she watched This Morning. But now new life had been breathed into the room. Camilla had cleared all the junk and polished the furniture until it shone like amber. Fresh flowers stood in the middle of the table and pieces of the Standington-Fulthrope family silver sparkled like diamonds in the mahogany cabinet. It was a room worthy of cultured conversation, fine food and exquisite wine, Camilla decided, as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. Then she thought about the dinner guests and winced slightly.
There would be Angus, of course, and Calypso and her new boyfriend Sam, who everyone was very excited about meeting. Maybe she’d found a decent man at last. At least his name sounded normal; Calypso’s previous boyfriends had all had names like Snake, Rabid and Rev.
Caro was coming by herself, as Sebastian was off on a boys’ weekend in Monaco (which was actually the truth, for once). Harriet would be on her own as well. Camilla had been fretting about the male to female ratio, until Angus offered to bring two of his friends, Ed ‘Sniffer’ Clevedon (called that on account of the way he was always after the opposite sex), and someone mysteriously known only as ‘Horse’.
‘Are you sure they’ll behave themselves?’ Camilla had asked Angus anxiously. ‘Caro hasn’t been out properly since she had Milo, I don’t want to scare her off before the first course.’
Angus had winked and slapped her bottom affectionately. ‘No party is a party without the Horse and Sniffer there, they’ll be a riot!’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
The prospect of out-of-control dinner guests aside, Camilla had the menu to think about. She and Caro could put on a jolly good spread, having both done a course at the Prue Leith cookery school. Although Camilla was ashamed to admit she relied mostly these days on M&S and the gourmet range at Waitrose. She was determined, however, not to have a cellophane wrapper or foil lid in sight for this meal. After much deliberation she’d decided to go for smoked salmon mousse for starters, rack of lamb with dauphinoise potatoes for the main course, and the promised lemon meringue pie for pudding. This would be followed by petit fours she was going to attempt to make herself, and cheese and biscuits. Calypso had made a half-hearted offer of help, but after Camilla had come down one morning and found her absent-mindedly dropping cigarette ash into her bowl of Alpen while chatting on her mobile, she had firmly put her on drinks duty in the living room.
Caro had just flopped down exhausted on the sofa after putting Milo down for his nap, when there was a knock at the door. Her heart sank. She really wasn’t in the mood for visitors, but she hauled herself up and went to answer it.
‘Caro! Have you got a minute?’ Caro’s heart sank even more. Standing on her doorstep was Lucinda Reinard, the current owner of Twisty Gables. In her early forties, she had moved to the village three years earlier with her second husband, a rangy laconic Frenchman called Nico, who Caro always caught staring at her bosom. Lucinda once confessed, after one too many G and Ts at the Jolly Boot, that the reason they had moved away from London was to make a fresh start after her husband’s affair with a glamorous blonde boutique owner. Even though the two women were entirely different, Lucinda had taken a shine to Caro, calling them ‘kindred London spirits’. Caro knew they were anything but, but that didn’t stop Lucinda.
‘Er, yes. Is everything all right?’ Caro asked. ‘You look a bit stressed.’ Lucinda was a well-fleshed horsy blonde woman who reminded her of Princess Anne in the throes of a minor breakdown.
‘I am! Bloody Julien’s been at my Cacharel pashmina with the scissors. I just caught the little horror flying around the garden in it pretending to be Superman!’ Julien was Lucinda and Nico’s five-year-old son. She also had a precocious pair of eleven-year-old twins, Hero and Horatio, by her first husband. ‘Anyway, I was just passing and wanted to know if you fancied coming along to the pony club quiz night with me next week. I’m organizing it, thought it would be a good chance for you to meet some of the other girls, see what you think of it all. You’d better not leave it too much longer to put Milo’s name down, they are dreadfully oversubscribed at the moment.’
Caro sighed. Lucinda had made it her mission to try and get Caro to sign up to practically every club and society in the district. ‘Can’t have you at home all day while your husband’s away!’ she had told her. Since decamping to the country, Lucinda had forgone her townie roots with a vengeance. ‘Integrating with the village is so important for one’s family,’ she had insisted. Caro tried to hide her irritation. ‘Milo’s not one until next year, Lucinda, I’m sure it won’t matter just yet. Besides, he might not like horses.’
Lucinda looked at her as though she was speaking some foreign, incomprehensible language.
‘Of course he’ll like horses!’ she cried. ‘The twins are quite besotted with their ponies; I don’t know what I did to keep them from under my feet before.’
At that point, Milo started crying upstairs. Caro had never been so pleased to hear the sound.
‘Look, I’m going to have to go—’ she started. Lucinda looked past her down the hall and smiled sympathetically, revealing large white teeth with a gap between the front ones.
‘Of course, bloody nightmare at that age. Bloody nightmare at any age! Ha ha ha.’ She looked at her watch and panic flittered across her face. ‘Christ, look at the time! I’ve got to take Hero to cello practice and I’ve a mountain of paperwork to get through. Let me know what you want to do about next week.’
I won’t be coming, thought Caro as she watched Lucinda’s ample rear disappear down the path towards a muddy Range Rover. She knew Lucinda was just being kind, really, but the thought of spending the evening in a room full of loud, domineering women and their rowdy offspring held about as much appeal as watching John Prescott do a naked pole-dance. Upstairs, Milo’s cries had developed into blood-curdling yells. Once again, Caro ran up the stairs to placate him.
Chapter 11
THE DAY OF the dinner party arrived, and from midday Camilla had been in the kitchen roasting, basting, tasting and whisking. The smoked salmon mousse now resting in the fridge was a triumph. The lamb had been studded with rosemary and garlic and was ready to go in the oven later. Potatoes and vegetables were under control. Camilla had ended up cheating on the petit fours and buying them from the Swiss confectioner’s when she was dashing through Cirencester on her way home from work, but they were exquisite. The only thing that was a slight let-down was the lemon meringue pie. She had followed Nigella’s recipe to the letter, but it hadn’t looked, well, quite so messy in the picture in the book. Camilla’s version looked more like a pile of vomit than a gastronomic triumph, but she figured she could smother it in cream and dim the lights when she brought it in.
It was 6.45 p.m. The guests were arriving in forty-five minutes. Calypso had just told her Sam was stuck in bad traffic on the M4 and would be there by 8 p.m. at the latest. The Bollinger was chilling in the fridge, and several bottles of red were opened and resting comfortably on the table in the dining room.
Camilla was upstairs in her bedroom getting ready. She had on her favourite black dress from Alice Temperley, her mother’s pearl necklace, and black pumps from French Sole, deciding heels were not a good idea if she was going to be rushing to and from the kitchen all night.
Ca
lypso materialized in the doorway. She was wearing the shortest of T-shirt dresses, with a thick, low slung belt around her slender waist. Her legs were bare, apart from a silver ankle chain and patent stilettos that were easily six inches high. Her streaky blonde hair was pulled back in a high, unforgiving ponytail which only served to highlight her cheekbones and kohl-rimmed eyes. Huge silver earrings in the shape of anchors hung from each ear.
Calypso gave her sister a cursory once-over.
‘You wearing that?’
‘Yes, why?’ said Camilla defensively. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Oh, nothing, it’s just like, a bit . . . blah,’ replied Calypso, turning to walk down the hall. ‘I’m fixing a Screwdriver, d’ya want one?’
Camilla declined. Knowing the strength of her sister’s cocktails, she didn’t want to be on her back before the main course. She turned to the mirror. OK, she might not look as cool as Calypso, but convenience outweighed style tonight. ‘Blah it’s going to have to be,’ thought Camilla, and tugged her dress down a bit before heading downstairs.
The first guest to arrive, at 7.21 p.m., was Caro, clutching a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Camilla helped her out of her coat. Caro was wearing a black skirt that looked slightly too tight, and a purple see-through blouse with a built-in camisole underneath it. She also had a bright red lipstick on that didn’t suit her, so that, unfortunately, she resembled a tacky barmaid, rather than the glamorous model from the pages of Tatler that she had been hoping to imitate. She also had a smear of something white across her right boob, which looked specifically baby-orientated.
‘You look lovely, Caro,’ said Camilla dutifully. ‘There’s some kind of a stain on your top, though.’
Caro looked down. ‘Bugger! I thought I’d wiped all Milo’s sick off me. Bills, can I borrow a cloth?’
Calypso, coming out of the kitchen with her second super-sized Screwdriver, heard the tail-end of the conversation and looked horrified. ‘Urgh, gross!’ she said, and whisked past them into the living room. By the time Camilla had got Caro settled in there with a drink, the doorbell rang again.
