by Jo Carnegie
‘Oh no!’ she had groaned, attempting to sit up. Her head had been banging, and everything had been a little blurry round the edges. She had stood up and fallen over something large lying beside the sofa. Horse. He had been naked except for his tutu, lying on his back snoring gently, a bubble of spit blowing out between his huge teeth. Harriet had looked at him in horrified fascination. God, how could she ever have thought he looked like Colin Firth? Then she had remembered taking the Ecstasy, albeit somewhat fuzzily. She had lived to tell the tale, but there was no way she’d be doing that again. Especially not with the awful Horse; if that’s what E did to her, she might end up in an orgy with him and Sniffer next time. The thought had made her head spin even more.
The rest of the house had been quiet, the clock on the DVD player reading 8.07 a.m. Harriet had scurried around, quietly retrieving her belongings and trying not to wake up Horse. She had poked her head round the dining room door, seeing that Caro had obviously made it home at some point, but Sniffer was still there, snoring loudly, his head encrusted in a half-eaten bowl of meringue. Harriet had dressed, borrowed a large Barbour jacket that was hanging in the hallway and let herself out of the cottage.
As she had walked unsteadily across the green, Dora and Eunice’s curtains had twitched violently, but Harriet hadn’t cared. She had felt a burden had been lifted from her shoulders; even if the man of her dreams hadn’t been the one lifting it, and even though she had been in the throes of a monumental hangover and narcotic comedown. What had Sam said about orange juice? Harriet had kept her head down and hurried home to Gate Cottage, thinking of bath and bed.
Unfortunately for her, someone had been there to witness her arrival home. As she had walked up the path to the front door, Jed had come round the corner with a piece of drainpipe in his hand.
‘Jed, what are you doing here?’ she had squealed. ‘You scared me to death!’
He had eyed her curiously, taking in her dishevelled appearance. Harriet had wrapped the coat tightly around herself; hoping she didn’t stink of raw sex. Whatever that smelt like.
‘Fixing that guttering for you,’ he had said, putting down the bit of pipe and leaning on it. ‘You been out all night?’
‘Of course not!’ Harriet had said hotly. ‘I was just er, taking a walk.’ Jed had looked at her more closely, a smile starting to twitch at the corner of his mouth.
‘Is that spunk on your chin?’
Harriet had turned puce with shameful mortification. ‘NO!’ she had yelled. ‘Let me past. And DON’T tell anyone you saw me.’ She had fumbled with the lock while Jed watched in amusement, finally falling in through the front door. She had slammed it behind her and rushed straight to the downstairs loo to look at her reflection. She had seen she had mascara down her cheeks, but her chin was free of any bodily fluids. Jed must have been winding her up.
‘Little shit!’ she had said to herself furiously, and plonked herself down on the toilet for a much-needed wee.
‘There’s something different about you,’ remarked her mother a few days later, observing her daughter over the huge, polished dining table. Harriet blushed and buried herself in her beef bourguignon. She had been summoned up to the Hall for her weekly dinner with her parents. The family normally ate together on a Sunday evening, but Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser had gone to a charity function in Cheltenham the previous Sunday. ‘I mean, on a Sunday!’ Ambrose had stormed. ‘How bloody provincial!’
He was looking at his daughter as well now, his hair as white as snow against florid cheeks. ‘Still looks hefty to me!’ he said, returning to his plate.
‘Ambrose!’ Lady Fraser chided her husband.
Sir Ambrose Fraser was not a cruel man, but he came from a generation and class that had taught him to bloody well say what he thought and to hell with anyone else’s opinions. He had the tact of a five-year-old and was thoroughly thoughtless into the bargain. His relationship with his daughter mainly consisted of Harriet trying desperately to please him or stay out of his way, with Ambrose overriding her on everything she said, did or wore, always convinced he knew better. It had been his idea that Harriet become his PA, ‘So I can keep a firm eye on you.’ But her role mainly involved being shouted at when her father couldn’t find his reading glasses.
Harriet shrank down further into her chair. ‘Though I do agree with your father, your diet clearly isn’t working still,’ said her mother. As if to make a point about her own self-control and slim figure, Frances purposely put her knife and fork together on her plate, even though she had only eaten half her meal.
Harriet hated these dinners. Every week, she would arrive at the house hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different and she could laugh and joke with her parents like Camilla did with hers. That they’d actually be interested in her day, tell her she looked nice or that she was a good daughter. It never happened. Each week, they would pick apart her appearance and love life and talk about her as if she wasn’t there. The tragedy was that they genuinely believed this criticism was the only way to reach out to their daughter. Harriet left each Sunday feeling fat, worthless, and personally responsible for ruining the centuries-old Fraser bloodline.
‘How was Camilla’s dinner?’ asked her mother, dabbing delicately at the corners of her mouth with a pristine cloth napkin.
‘Any chaps there that would consider taking you on?’ asked her father hopefully.
‘It was good, and no, Daddy,’ said Harriet, hoping she wasn’t going red again.
‘Hmm,’ said her mother cryptically. ‘Well, there is definitely something different about you. You look a bit “off” for some reason.’
Yah, maybe that’s because I took loads of drugs last weekend and had a Horse’s cock up me! Harriet wanted to yell. Instead she replied dutifully, ‘I’ll get an early night and put on one of those face packs you bought me, Mummy.’
‘Good girl,’ said Frances.
Harriet managed to extricate herself some time later, and wearily made her way down the drive to her cottage. She’d left the upstairs landing light on, and a warm glow seeped out of her bedroom window. Suddenly Harriet felt like crying. She let herself into the cottage, shivered, put the heating on, and was just heading to the cupboard to get out the half-finished pot of Green & Black’s organic chocolate spread she’d had for lunch, when her mobile went. Camilla’s home number flashed up.
‘What ho, Bills,’ said Harriet, trying to make her voice sound cheerful.
‘You OK? You sound like you’ve got a cold or something,’ replied Camilla.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ said Harriet, not in the mood to talk. ‘What can I do for you, sweet pea?’
‘Angus and I are going to a Young Farmers’ do next week, and we wondered if you and Horse would like to come and make it a double date?’ Camilla had heard most of the grisly tale from her best friend the day after the dinner party. Now she sounded overly hopeful.
‘God no. I mean, that’s awfully nice of you, but I don’t know, Bills,’ said Harriet falteringly. ‘I mean, I’m sure Horse is a jolly nice chap when he’s sober and everything, but he’s really not my type. Why, has he asked if I’m going?’
‘Er yes,’ lied Camilla. What Horse had actually said to Angus, faithfully translated back to her word for word was: ‘She’s got pubes like tumble-weed but I’d give her another go.’ Camilla, a hopeless romantic, had hoped Horse was just showing off, and secretly liked her friend, but she was becoming less convinced. ‘OK, if we really can’t persuade you . . . I’ll look out for other eligible young bachelors for you, though!’
‘You are a treasure, thinking of me,’ said Harriet, before wishing Camilla goodnight. At this moment in time, she felt so low she’d take chocolate and bed over meeting her Prince Charming any day.
Chapter 16
ANGIE FOX-TITT WAS in a slight predicament. With a good eye for art and an even better one for a bargain, she’d been running Angie’s Antiques at a very tidy profit for years. It had given the Fox-
Titts a comfort blanket to fall back on during the lean times at the Maltings, meaning Angie didn’t have to give up her beloved half-bottle of Taittinger every evening, nor Freddie his caviar sandwiches for lunch.
Now, on a sunny spring morning in Churchminster, her predicament was leaning against the wall in the back room of the shop. Its owner and creator Babs Sax had just dropped it off. ‘Let me know what price you’ll give for it,’ she’d said grandly, before sweeping out of the shop.
Angie had bought a few pieces from Babs in the past out of simple good-heartedness, but had come to regret it. Babs’s avant-garde style had not gone down well with Angie’s customers, who had more conservative tastes. One piece that had been languishing in her store for months was a picture of an African woman’s breasts, made from the excrement of Ghanaian dung beetles especially imported for an extravagant fee. To Angie, the painting could have been produced by a toddler with sticky, chocolate covered fingers, but Babs had insisted the painting represented ‘a fusion and vision of when woman meets earth’. Needless to say it hadn’t sold. Nor had a picture which resembled a vomit-splattered canvas and was simply titled ‘PMT’. The lack of interest in these works had been embarrassing and Angie had had to hide them whenever Babs came into the shop, telling her that a client had put them on hold.
The last thing she wanted was the latest offering, a four foot by six foot monstrosity of swirling reds, nuts and bolts and what looked like bits of string. Babs had explained that it captured Princess Diana’s mood just seconds after she had married Prince Charles. Angie was interested in anything to do with royalty, indeed she’d hunted with Princess Anne on many occasions, but even she doubted that anyone could avoid looking at this picture with distaste and horror. Christ, how was she going to get out of buying the bloody thing?
The shop bell tinkled.
‘Anyone home?’ Caro’s voice called out. Angie left the painting and went out to the front of the shop. She and Caro kissed each other warmly on both cheeks, and Angie stooped down to land a kiss on Milo’s forehead.
Despite the age gap, Angie and Caro got on extremely well. Angie recognized a lot of herself in the younger woman. She could also see Sebastian for what he really was. Not that she would ever tell her friend that.
‘Darling!’ exclaimed Angie. ‘How are you? Looking radiant as always, God I wish I had your skin.’
‘Yah, but not my thighs, I bet,’ said Caro, sinking down into a Regency armchair. Milo threw his dummy on to the floor and Caro absent-mindedly scooped it up, wiped it on her coat and stuck it back in his mouth. ‘I just popped in to say hello and see how you were, darling.’
‘I’m fine, but come and have a look at this,’ said Angie conspiratorially, leading her friend out to the back. Babs’s painting glowered at them like some angry abomination.
‘Oh, heavens!’ giggled Caro. ‘I take it that’s our resident artist’s latest offering?’
Angie nodded. ‘Isn’t it vile? Heaven knows what I am going to do with it.’
‘Maybe you could sell it to Sebastian. It’s the sort of thing he’d go nuts for. Just as long as he kept it in his London flat,’ said Caro.
Angie looked sideways at her. ‘How are things going with his nibs?’
Caro sighed. ‘Oh, you know.’
Angie linked arms with her. ‘Do you fancy lunch at the pub? I’m gasping for a vino, anyway.’
‘Why not?’ replied Caro. ‘But it’s on me, I’ve got Seb’s Coutts credit card.’
‘Better make it a bottle of bubbly, then,’ said Angie wickedly, turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ on the shop door.
The Jolly Boot dated back to 1839 and there had been a Turner running the pub ever since. It was a pretty, quaint building with low ceilings, a roaring fire in the winter, and a delightful, flower-scented garden that opened in the summer. The pub claimed a star-studded past – Joan Collins used to pop in when she had a house in the area – and, in their heyday, film legends like Oliver Reed and Richard Harris had enjoyed raucous, all-day sessions there. It maintained a strong sense of history and occasion, and as soon as you walked in it was impossible not to be charmed by the delicious smell of cooking wafting through from the kitchen, or the gleaming brasses hanging on the stone walls. Owing to the area and the clientele, the Jolly Boot also boasted the most extensive selection of champagne of any licensed establishment in the South West of England.
Angie and Caro found themselves a nice table by the window and tucked Milo in the corner. ‘What can I get you two charming ladies?’ Jack Turner was over like a flash, hovering above them with his huge frame, red hair, and twinkly green eyes.
‘Hello, Jack,’ replied Angie, taking off her pashmina and draping it across the back of her seat. ‘We’d like to see the lunch menu, please. What’s Pierre rustled up today?’ Pierre was the hugely expensive Michelin-starred chef Jack had managed to steal away from the renowned five-star Cartouche restaurant in Knightsbridge. Pierre had transformed the pub’s menu, and now the restaurant at the back was booked up months in advance. But lunchtimes were quieter, and Jack always had a place for locals, particularly when they were as buxom and attractive as Angie and Caro.
‘He’s got some huge prawns on the go. I had some earlier and they were facking lovely!’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get you both menus. What about refreshments? Got some vintage Laurent-Perrier delivered last night, it’s on ice in the cellar . . .’
Jack knew how to tempt his customers. Caro nodded vigorously. ‘Mmm, we’ll have a bottle, thanks.’ The landlord drew himself up like a genie in front of them. ‘Your wish is my command, ladies,’ he said, and disappeared off behind the bar.
Thirty minutes later and three glasses in, Caro was confiding in Angie about her marriage. ‘Things have just changed so much between us, Angie, with me and Milo stuck down here, and Seb up in London, carrying on his life as normal. I try not to feel bitter, I mean, Seb is really very generous, and I don’t want for anything . . .’ she trailed off.
‘How’s the sex?’ asked Angie, draining her glass and nodding to Jack to bring another bottle over.
‘That’s the problem, we aren’t having any,’ said Caro miserably. ‘I feel like a bloody heifer . . .’
‘You are not. At all,’ interjected Angie firmly.
‘Then why won’t Sebastian come near me?’ said Caro. Her eyes clouded over suddenly. ‘You don’t think he’s having an affair?’
That was precisely what Angie was thinking. After all, she knew the warning signs from her own experiences before she met Freddie. ‘Darling, I really don’t know,’ she lied, refilling their glasses. ‘But you must remember you have a wonderful son, a family who love you, and good friends.’ She put her hand on Caro’s and squeezed it.
‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t blame Sebastian for having an affair, I look so revolting at the moment,’ said Caro gloomily.
‘Nonsense!’ said Angie briskly. ‘You’re gorgeous, and Sebastian is bloody lucky to have you.’ She paused. ‘At least you don’t wear shoe lifts.’ Much to her delight, Angie had noticed them one day when Sebastian had crossed his legs in front of her at a lunch.
Caro stared at her, and for an awful second Angie thought she’d gone too far. But to her relief, Caro’s face suddenly creased into a smile. ‘I haven’t even told you what he does to his chest hair!’
Their peals of laughter could be heard all round the bar.
Chapter 17
SPEAKING OF THE devil, at that moment Sebastian was standing butt-naked in a tanning booth in Soho. Watching himself in the mirrors at the gym that morning, he’d decided he was looking a bit off-colour, and promptly ordered his secretary to book him in for a session at the Club Deluxe salon on Berwick Street. Now he could barely breathe through the blasted fumes as the brown mist spray filled the tiny cubicle.
He emerged, spluttering, and after waiting a minute or two to dry off, got dressed again. This had better bloody not rub off on his Turnbull & Asser shirt, or Club Deluxe would be landed w
ith a whopping great dry-cleaning bill. Sebastian slicked his hair back in the mirror, flashed a smile at his reflection, and stalked upstairs, ignoring the camp receptionist behind the counter as he left.
Just then his phone rang. ‘Yah?’ he said, looking up the street for a cab to hail.
‘I’m in the bath soaping myself,’ breathed back a familiar voice. ‘I’m all wet, and rubbing the soap into my nipples . . .’
‘Are you a dirty little girl, then?’ asked Sebastian, flagging down a cab and climbing in, indicating that the driver should turn left.
‘Ooh yes, I am so dirty. Filthy in fact,’ answered Sabrina huskily. ‘When are you going to come back and make me clean again?’
‘Keep soaping those luscious titties for the time being,’ said Sebastian. The cab driver glanced in his rear-view mirror and Sebastian shot him a conspiratorial wink. ‘I’ll be home about seven,’ he said and rang off. ‘Yah, pull over here, driver.’
He threw down a note, jumped out, and was immediately accosted by an equally tanned, pinstriped man, who slapped him heartily on the back.
‘Belmo!’ he brayed. ‘You look like shit!’
Sebastian pretended to pummel his arm. ‘Cleevy, you utter arse! How the fuck are you?’
‘Wankers,’ muttered the cabbie as he drove off.
Later that evening, after he’d shagged Sabrina against every wall in her flat, and finished off with a quickie over the bath, Sebastian took her out for a well-deserved meal. They went to a sweet little French bistro around the corner, a favourite of Hugh Grant’s, that did the most exquisite lobster ravioli. As Sebastian sat down in his chair, he winced. ‘Christ, you really raked my back with your nails, you evil bitch. I better not get blood on this shirt.’
‘Well, my love, no pain no gain,’ said Sabrina, sexily narrowing her eyes at him over the table.
‘Yah, but that doesn’t mean ripping my back to shreds,’ said Sebastian. At that moment, two effeminate-looking men with quiffed hair and fur coats bounded over to their table. Sabrina stood up and squealed. ‘Edgar! Columbo!’
