by Jo Carnegie
Devon carried on walking. The smell of cut grass lingered in the air and he breathed in deeply. An old biplane hummed gently in the cloudless sky above him; otherwise the countryside was restored back to a quiet, lazy serenity.
God, it’s good to be alive, thought Devon. He felt a sudden surge of creativity flash through him, something that hadn’t happened for a long, long time. Devon smiled wistfully. Those days were far behind him. Weren’t they?
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a black horse rounding the corner at a fast trot and nearly trampling on him. Devon jumped up on the verge with a yelp. He was scared stiff of animals, and this huge beast looked like some horse from hell, all flashing eyes and flaring nostrils.
‘Watch where you’re bleedin’ going!’ he shouted at the rider. He put his hands up to shield his eyes from the sun and get a good look. There, looming above him, looking impeccable in snow-white jodhpurs and a blue velvet riding hat, was the elegant blonde from the drinks party.
‘Firecrest, calm down!’ Lady Fraser ordered the horse, as it started pawing the ground.
Devon stared at her. She was just as lovely as he remembered, her light blue eyes looking down at him imperiously.
‘It’s you,’ he finally managed to say, immediately feeling a complete fool. He took a step towards her, and quickly jumped back when Firecrest’s nostrils flared menacingly at him. ‘Er, you were at that party at the rectory?’ he asked, from the safety of the verge.
‘Yes, I was,’ said Frances crisply. Devon thought she sounded like Joanna Lumley.
‘I’m Devon. Devon Cornwall,’ he offered. ‘I’ve moved into Byron Heights.’
‘I know,’ she replied, and her face relaxed slightly. ‘One can’t help but hear everyone’s business round here. I’m Lady Frances Fraser. I live at Clanfield Hall.’ She motioned her head slightly towards the fields at her left. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of it.’
‘Er, yeah,’ lied Devon. He couldn’t stop staring at this aloof, regal woman.
Frances, despite her cool exterior, was trying desperately to think of something to say. That hat made Devon look irresistibly dashing. ‘So, I hear you’ve been asked to sing at our ball?’ she asked.
‘Your ball?’ said Devon.
‘Yah. It’s being held at Clanfield. We haven’t hosted a function since the African orphan night, so I’m rather looking forward to it. Are you going to perform?’ she asked rather bluntly, inwardly cringing at how gauche she must sound.
Devon’s mind was all of a flutter. She looked so sexy in those jodhpurs, the tight fabric emphasizing her long, slender thighs. ‘Er, I haven’t decided yet.’
Frances gazed down at him. ‘It would be wonderful if you could. I mean it.’ She blushed momentarily and corrected herself. ‘I meant we mean it.’
Devon plucked up the courage to give her a rakish grin. ‘I’ll think about it. Not promising anything, mind.’
Firecrest started whinnying impatiently, pawing the ground again with his giant hooves. ‘Please do consider it, you would be a wonderful addition to the evening.’ Frances smiled at him, and the smile softened her demeanour and made her look younger and prettier. She gathered up the reins. ‘Goodbye, Mr Cornwall.’
‘I’ll be in touch, then,’ said Devon, watching as she trotted expertly off down the road. What an arse!
Chapter 31
SUNDAY, 1 AUGUST dawned. The day of the Save Churchminster Fun Run. The sky was crystal clear already, the sun rising steadily in the east. At Mill House, Sebastian was already up, strutting round the bedroom in an obscenely small pair of underpants. To Caro’s surprise, he had signed up for the fun run. She had thought it would be far too small and rustic an affair for him to be bothered with, but Sebastian was trying to push his physical fitness as far as he could. Besides, he had told her loftily, a five-mile run was nothing when one was in such supreme shape as he was.
Watching her sprightly husband getting ready, Caro just felt even more exhausted. Sebastian had banished her to the spare room the night before, to ensure he got his optimum eight hours. Milo had been grizzling, and Caro, terrified he would wake Sebastian and all hell would break loose, had spent most of the night walking around the nursery with him in her arms.
The run was scheduled to start at ten in the morning. At 9.35 a.m. Sebastian, clad in an extremely expensive skintight black and pink running vest and shorts, strutted out of the house. Caro followed, struggling to get Milo down the step in the pushchair. Sebastian stopped at the end of the path and looked back impatiently. ‘Oh hurry up, darling, we’re going to be late.’
‘Morning,’ a gruff voice said from next door. Caro looked up from trying to double-lock the door. ‘Oh, hello,’ she replied, attempting to sound nonchalant.
Benedict Towey was standing outside his own front door. He was wearing a pair of faded blue shorts and a simple white T-shirt, his bronzed forearms and calves rippling impressively. Caro noticed they were sprinkled with blond hair, and wondered fleetingly what they would feel like to stroke. Then she saw he was also wearing running shoes and carrying a water bottle.
Sebastian looked him up and down. ‘Are you entering the race?’ he asked rudely. Benedict looked at him steadily. Next to Sebastian’s over-the-top get-up he looked cool and casual.
‘Sure am,’ he answered. The two men stared each other out for a few seconds. Caro could see what was coming and inwardly groaned. Why were men so bloody competitive?
‘Well,’ said Sebastian lightly. ‘May the best man win.’
Benedict nodded, and without a backward glance strode off down the road.
The fun run was starting on the green. Flags and bunting festooned the grass around it, and a long piece of rope was stretched between two posts. Someone had even found an umpire’s chair – which looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from Wimbledon – for the race starter to sit in. This person was Clementine, who could be seen bustling about in top-to-toe white, and a straw boater with a blue and white striped ribbon round it.
The five-mile route would begin with two laps round the green, then continue down the Bedlington Road before turning left on to a track which ran round the back of the Maltings. The runners would then go along Sweetbriar Lane and back towards the village, ending with a final sprint down the back of the green and through the finishing posts. Crowds of spectators milled around, watching the runners limbering up, while a St John ambulance was on standby in case anyone wilted in the fierce morning heat.
There were still a few minutes to go, and Caro was at the refreshment stall, buying herself a diet coke. She paid, turned round and bumped straight into Benedict Towey. ‘Oh!’ said Caro. Benedict glared at her, his eyes looking incredibly blue against his tanned face. She took a deep breath: ‘I haven’t had the chance to apologize for my appalling behaviour at the French evening. I know you were only trying to help and—’
‘Forget it,’ Benedict interrupted. ‘I have.’ He looked away, as if bored with the conversation.
Caro gritted her teeth. ‘Are you running for the SCBA Fund?’ she asked.
He glanced at her momentarily. ‘No, Meningitis Trust,’ he said shortly, and strode off, leaving Caro standing there clutching her ice-cold can. The least he could do, if he was going to live here, was support the village in its hour of need, she thought crossly. But before she could get any more annoyed, her grandmother was upon her, brandishing the starting pistol.
‘Careful with that thing, Granny Clem!’ cried Caro.
‘Oh darling, it’s not loaded,’ Clementine assured her. ‘Haven’t we had a wonderful turnout?’
Indeed they had. The Bedlington Running Club were there in their entirety, looking very snazzy in their bottle-green and gold running strips. Angus was enthusiastically discussing tactics with Sniffer and Horse, who had obviously managed to repair their friendship. All three were dressed in rugby shirts, shorts and socks, and looked more like they were off to stick their heads between some burly man’s thighs than take
part in a run. Camilla, playing the dutiful fiancée, was standing nearby with Harriet, laden down with energy drinks and towels. Jed Bantry, lean and agile, was stretching out his hamstrings by the side of the road. Even the Revd Goody was taking part; pulling off a pair of tracksuit bottoms to reveal milky white legs, while Eunice and Dora Merryweather clutched each other and looked on admiringly.
Then Caro caught sight of Lucinda, wearing a black all-in-one and looking very trim indeed.
‘God!’ said Caro admiringly to Clementine. ‘Lucinda is looking fabulous! I really must stop being so lazy and get the name of her trainer. Harry or something, I think it was.’
Looking at the scene unfolding in front of them, Clementine guessed correctly that Lucinda’s new shape was to do with a quite different kind of workout. A tall, handsome black man had just strolled up to her, Nico and the three children, and Lucinda had promptly gone puce, a tight smile etched across her face. The newcomer, who had No. 147 tacked to his back, looked like a professional athlete, his carefully honed physique shown off in a tight unitard which left nothing to the imagination. Despite Lucinda’s rictus grin, Clementine could see the sexual chemistry sizzling between them. Nico, who wasn’t taking part in the run, seemed not to notice. He was too engrossed in watching a pert blonde in tiny shorts stretch out her quad muscles.
After a few moments, No. 147 said something to Lucinda, smiled and walked off. Lucinda looked round furtively and made eye-contact with Clementine, blushing again as she waved awkwardly. ‘Just my trainer,’ she mouthed. Clementine nodded and suppressed a smile.
‘Mummy, why did that man have a banana stuck down the front of his shorts?’ Lucinda’s daughter asked loudly, just before Henry was out of earshot.
The loudspeakers crackled into life. ‘Right, can everyone make their way to the starting line please!’ Clementine’s voice boomed over the green. The competitors finished their last-minute stretches and started to walk over, wishing each other good luck. All except Sebastian, who had already positioned himself at the start, a grim look of determination on his face.
‘Quiet, everyone!’ ordered Clementine, sitting aloft in the umpire’s chair. She held the pistol up: ‘On your marks, get set. GO!’ A shot fired, and the spectators cheered as the competitors surged forward, Sebastian at the front. Homemade banners saying ‘Go on Super Dad!’ and ‘Bedlington Racers Do It Better’ fluttered in the air above the crowd as they watched the runners disappear around the green.
After two miles, the pack had separated into three groups along the Bedlington Road. The fastest and fittest at the front, the majority of runners in the middle and the stragglers bringing up the back. Angie Fox-Titt had already retired after slipping on a cow pat and twisting her ankle. Calypso, who had excelled at sports at school and entered despite not doing a minute’s training, was soon mortified to discover her twenty-a-day habit had affected her fitness considerably. In hot pants and cropped vest, she was still attracting a lot of attention from the crowd, and they shouted lewd suggestions to her as she passed. In turn, she smiled sweetly and stuck up her middle finger.
‘Lovely day, Reverend,’ puffed Freddie as he drew alongside.
‘Freddie,’ the vicar wheezed back. His normally pale complexion was bright red and blotchy, and Freddie wondered in alarm if the Revd Goody was about to have a heart attack. He was struggling himself. He had been feeling tired and lethargic for weeks now, and just couldn’t understand why. As he tried to push his tired legs onwards, he made a mental note to book an appointment with his private doctor.
The front group, which consisted of Sebastian, Henry, Jed Bantry, Benedict Towey and several members of the Bedlington Running Club, had already turned off the main road. By now, they really were running at a fast pace, silently concentrating on their rhythm and breathing.
After a few minutes, Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. Some of the runners had fallen back. Now he only had to worry about a scarily fit-looking woman who resembled Martina Navratilova and, just behind him, Benedict Towey. Benedict was looking resolutely ahead, running mechanically and effortlessly.
Sebastian led them left on to Sweetbriar Lane, where a group of spectators cheered them on. They were on the homeward straight now, heading down towards the village. Sebastian’s calves were starting to burn, the searing agony of exhaustion setting in. Christ, this was pushing it! He checked his watch; he’d never run a mile so quickly. He glanced behind him again to see Martina had fallen behind. Great! Now it was just that infernal Towey. Sebastian was pleased to see the grimace of pain on his sweating face; at least he was suffering too.
Finally, the two men reached the village green. The cheers and shouts of encouragement whipped up into a cacophony. Sebastian, hotly pursued by Benedict, started to pelt down the road to the finishing line. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might jump out of his chest. In the distance, the bunting and flags fluttered like the Holy Grail, and the cheering spectators lining the road disappeared into a blur of colour and noise. Gasping and wincing through his screaming muscles, Sebastian put his head down. He was going to win . . .
Suddenly, just a few hundred yards from the finishing line, Benedict appeared like an apparition at his shoulder. ‘You bastard,’ croaked Sebastian, trying desperately to muster up another ounce of energy. But he was running on empty and could only watch helplessly as his rival powerfully surged past. Chest pushed forward and arms outstretched, Benedict crossed the finishing line, the tape trailing behind him.
Moments later Sebastian stumbled across and pulled up short, hands on knees as he gulped in large breaths. Even though the sweat was rolling off him, he could feel the bitterness of defeat coursing through his veins. Caro rushed over with Milo in her arms. ‘Darling, you were wonderful! It was like something out of Chariots of Fire!’
‘I didn’t win though, did I?’ he spat at her. By now other runners were starting to come in, the race officials crowding around them with Mars bars and Lucozade. A shadow fell across him and he looked up.
There stood Benedict Towey, a towel round his shoulders and a gold medal hanging round his neck. Still breathing heavily, Benedict stuck out his hand. ‘The best man won, then.’
‘Fuck off,’ snarled Sebastian, and stalked off towards home.
Chapter 32
SEBASTIAN’S VILE MOOD did not improve. Despite a few cajoling attempts from Caro once they arrived back at the house, he refused to talk to her and stomped upstairs. He disappeared into the en suite bathroom and Caro heard the power shower start.
Twenty minutes later, he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Caro withdrew guiltily from the fridge, where she’d had her hand in a jar of stuffed olives. Sebastian was fully dressed, his hair slicked back. He was carrying his Armani holdall in one hand, car keys in the other.
‘Where are you going?’ Caro was bemused; they were meant to be meeting the Fox-Titts down at the pub for a few post-run bottles of bubbly.
‘Back to London,’ Sebastian informed her.
‘But you’re meant to be staying until tomorrow!’ Caro cried. ‘We’ve got drinks and lunch today, and then I said we’d pop over to Fairoaks later for a drink with Angus and Camilla. Seb, you can’t!’
‘I can, and I bloody well will,’ he said firmly. ‘The last thing I feel like is being round people at the moment. Especially in this festering armpit of a village.’
‘For Christ’s sake, it was just a race!’ Caro shouted at him. Instantly, she knew she’d said the wrong thing. Sebastian’s face darkened even more.
‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ he said icily, and stormed down the hall. The front door banged shut and Caro rushed to the downstairs loo, angry hot tears springing out of her eyes. She pressed her head against the cool tiles, trying to calm herself down.
‘I hate you,’ she whispered.
A few days later, everyone who had taken part in the fun run had collected their sponsorship money.
Eunice and Dora Merryweather gave Calypso a whole lo
ad of ancient, unusable halfpennies, and she didn’t have the heart to point out their mistake. Johnnie and Tink had very generously sponsored their youngest daughter two thousand pounds – but only on condition she gave up smoking for a week. Calypso had begrudgingly accepted, but by 10.31 a.m. on the first day she was already climbing walls. At 11.04 a.m. she’d had a huge screaming match with Sam about something inconsequential, and had locked herself in her bedroom ever since.
Thanks to his uber-rich farming contacts, Freddie had also managed to drum up a fair amount, and with everyone else’s contributions flooding in, by Thursday morning Clementine counted up a grand total of £16,792 to add to the fund. Plus the halfpennies, four buttons, a chocolate coin and something that looked like it had just been wrenched off a car’s engine.
She phoned an uncharacteristically subdued Caro to tell her the good news. ‘I know in the big scheme of things it doesn’t seem much,’ Clementine said, ‘but it is just so wonderful to see the village pulling together. Things like this do so much for one’s morale.’ Actually Caro couldn’t think of a time when hers had been lower. She hated being on bad terms with Sebastian, and even though it was the last thing she felt like doing, she’d actually tried to phone him to make amends. Of course, he hadn’t returned any of her calls, and now she was angry with herself for caving in, and fed up with being fended off by his smug secretary.
Later that evening, the mood was slightly soured for Clementine. She was just settling down with her nightly tipple of Möet, and had switched on the television to get the local news when, to her distaste, Sid Sykes’s rat-like face loomed up in front of her. He was being interviewed by a reporter about his bid to buy the Meadows.
