by Jo Carnegie
‘Darling, I must say you are looking very trim at the moment!’ remarked Charlotte, as they started to pack the car up. ‘Are you still going to Fit 4 U? I hear that trainer Henry is quite a task-master in the studio!’
Lucinda could think of several ways Henry took her strictly in hand, none of which she could tell Charlotte. Her friend leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I hear he’s having a hot and heavy affair with one of his clients!’
Lucinda went cold. ‘Really?’ she croaked. ‘What makes you say that?’
Charlotte was busily packing up the picnic-hamper, oblivious to Lucinda’s paling face. ‘Well, Beverley – she keeps the house tidy for me – has a son Darren, who goes out with Amy, who is the sister of Becky who works in reception. Apparently Becky found a very saucy pair of knickers in Henry’s office a few weeks ago, and empty condom packets behind the cross-trainer two weeks running!’
Lucinda blushed, they were normally so careful. At least she knew where the La Perla French knickers she had bought from the boutique in Bedlington had gone, the bloody things had cost her a fortune.
‘Apparently, one can tell from the bulge in his shorts he has the most enormous member!’ said Charlotte excitedly. ‘Have you noticed it, darling? Ooh, it must be true what they say about black men.’
‘Charlotte!’ said Lucinda.
‘What?’ asked her friend. ‘I’m just saying it. I’m rather jealous actually.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Darling, what did you say about the woman who’s having it off with Henry from Fit 4 U?’ Lucinda cringed. Christ – did the whole county know?
‘I said, when we see a middle-aged yummy mummy in cycling shorts doing the “John Wayne” walk down Bedlington High Street, we’ll know who she is. Haw haw, haw haw!’ Barnaby collapsed into guffaws of laughter, his wife following suit.
Lucinda smiled weakly and pressed her legs together.
Chapter 48
THREE DAYS LATER Caro was unloading the Waitrose shopping bags from the 4×4 outside Mill House, when someone pinched her bottom. It made her jump, and for a fleeting second, the ridiculous thought flashed through her mind that it might be Benedict Towey. She whirled round to find her husband standing there. ‘Boo,’ he said softly.
‘Seb!’ Instinctively Caro looked at her watch to check the date. ‘But it’s Thursday. What are you doing back?’
Sebastian flashed his wolfish grin at her. ‘What, aren’t I allowed to miss my wife any more?’ He looked like he’d come straight from the office: dressed in his black and white pinstripe suit, teeth dazzling against a recent spray tan. His Louis Vuitton overnight bag was casually slung at his feet.
‘Of course not, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting you until Friday,’ replied Caro, heaving the remaining bags out with no offer of help from her husband. ‘I haven’t got much for dinner, I was just going to have lentil soup,’ she said. ‘Oh! The cleaner’s not coming until tomorrow, either, the house is in a complete state. Why are you home, darling, is there something wrong at work?’
Sebastian’s grin disappeared. ‘What are you, the bloody Gestapo?’ he asked. ‘I just fancied coming back today, OK? Anyone would think you’re not pleased to see me.’ He picked up his bag and stalked down the front path into the house. Caro sighed. She’d said the wrong thing again. Seb had caught her off-guard. But it was more than that, she admitted to herself. Maybe she wasn’t that pleased to see him. Sebastian had been spending so much time in London over the past few months that Caro had got rather used to being by herself. She’d even grown to like it. Tonight, she had been looking forward to having a long, hot bath, putting on her pyjamas, and then sitting on the sofa and watching The Devil Wears Prada DVD she’d borrowed from Camilla. Well, that certainly wasn’t going to happen now. Her arms full, Caro kicked the car door shut with her foot, looked longingly at the GU chocolate orange soufflé for one resting on top of the bags, and followed her husband inside.
Sebastian’s early arrival – like most things in his life – did have an ulterior motive. Fed up with London and his mistress, he’d come home to get some TLC and undemanding company from his wife. Dear, sweet, predictable old Caro, at least she didn’t give him constant shit like bloody Sabrina. Or so he’d thought, until she’d started asking him twenty bloody questions as soon as she’d clapped eyes on him. Christ!
That Monday, Sebastian and Sabrina had rowed furiously when he had let it slip that Luciana, the stunning waitress from Italy, was coming to do work-experience at his office. Actually, Sebastian had let the admission out on purpose: Sabrina had become far too bloody demanding recently. She needed a harsh reminder that there were plenty of younger, less high-maintenance options out there.
Usually Sebastian liked having arguments with her, and knew exactly what buttons to press, because of the great make-up sex afterwards. But this time, the silly bitch had actually had the nerve to throw him out of her house like he was some kind of nobody! After hissing imploring words through the letterbox, to no avail, Sebastian’s pride had kicked in and he’d ended up going back to his cold, empty flat and having to make do with a cursory wank under his White Company bed sheets instead.
Sebastian had sent Sabrina conciliatory flowers the next day, even though he was boiling underneath at the way she’d treated him. But he’d learned by now that life was so much less bloody complicated when Sabrina wasn’t in one of her infamous sulks. Plus, at this point his balls were swinging like bloody Space Hoppers, and the only thing to cure that would be to take full advantage of the ‘all off’ Californian bikini wax Sabrina was currently sporting. But the flowers had been ignored and it was only when Sebastian got his secretary to phone with an invite for dinner on the chef’s table at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant the following evening that she returned his call. Stupid, selfish, spoilt Sabrina, he had thought derisively. She was so easy to read, and even easier to buy.
The evening hadn’t started well. Getting ready together at hers, Sabrina had walked in on Sebastian dying his chest hair with a home highlighting kit from Boots. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she asked him, aghast. Mortified, he whirled around from the mirror, plastic gloves on both hands and chest hair covered in great streaks of gloopy white gunk.
‘Haven’t you heard of knocking, you stupid cow?’ he howled. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help giggling. Sebastian looked so angry and absurd with those ridiculous gloves on and a spatula in his hand! She leaned forward to look closer. My God, was that a bit of ginger? How come she had never noticed it before?
‘I am not a fucking ginger!’ he roared defensively, as if reading her thoughts. ‘My chest hair is just a bit auburn in places, OK? I need to dye it to match the rest of my body hair.’ He furiously applied another streak, watching himself in the mirror as he did so. ‘Especially if you keep buying me those ridiculously low cashmere V-necks.’
‘Don’t be so fucking ungrateful,’ Sabrina yelled. ‘It’s not my fault you’re a, you’re a . . .’ Before she knew it, another giggle burst out.
‘I am NOT a ginger. Comprende?’ he bellowed again. By now hysterical with laughter, Sabrina fled the bathroom before he did serious damage to her with the spatula.
Two hours later, after she had spent the entire cab ride telling him redheads were sexy – ‘Think of the actor Damian Lewis, darling, half of London’s dying to sleep with him’ – Sebastian was just about talking to Sabrina by the time they’d reached the restaurant. Anticipation of the evening that lay ahead had raised his spirits even more. His work colleague Charlie Simpson had just closed a lucrative business deal and, to celebrate, had booked Ramsay’s coveted chef’s table. As well as Sebastian and Sabrina, Charlie and his German wife Irina had invited Ferdinand Chatsfield, one of Charlie’s polo-playing friends, and his new girlfriend, a stunning six-foot underwear model called Bunny. Sabrina was not good with competition; Sebastian knew she’d hate the model on sight.
They were met by the maître d’ and led through the restaurant. Sabrina, tanned, tousled and immac
ulately made-up, was wearing a black cutaway dress by Julien McDonald that barely covered her gorgeous body. Revelling in the open-mouthed glances she was attracting as she pouted past a mirror, Sebastian caught sight of his own reflection in his new dark blue Oswald Boateng suit and smiled. He really was a handsome fellow! Ego fully restored, he strode through the restaurant, looking down his nose at those not so well-connected, handsome or rich enough to be able to sit at Gordon Ramsay’s best table.
Then, suddenly, like an apparition in some awful nightmare, Benedict Towey was standing in front of him, wiping the corners of his mouth with a snow-white napkin. Sebastian, momentarily fazed, stood there, mouth agape. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said eventually. A nasty taste found its way into his mouth as he remembered the bitter defeat meted out to him by Towey at the Save Churchminster Fun Run. The bastard!
‘Business dinner,’ Benedict said coolly. ‘You?’ He looked pointedly at Sabrina, who was now smouldering provocatively at this mysterious, handsome stranger. God, he was gorgeous! She didn’t think she’d seen such devastating good looks since an ex-boyfriend had made her watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and she’d ended up lusting after a young Robert Redford. Next to this man, Sabrina thought with a stab of satisfaction, Sebastian looked positively ordinary. And the stranger really was a natural blond!
‘Hello, I’m Sabrina,’ she purred.
‘Hello,’ Benedict said, giving her a cursory once-over. He turned back to Sebastian, who by now was making a big show of looking round the room uninterestedly. ‘Friend of yours?’ Benedict asked him, unsmilingly.
‘Yah, something like that,’ Sebastian said nastily. ‘Now, if you don’t mind? We’re eating at the chef’s table tonight and I’d like to talk to Gordon about the menu.’
‘Of course, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful dinner,’ Benedict replied. ‘Even if Gordon can’t be there. He’s not working tonight. I just spoke to him.’
‘What, best friends, are you?’ Sebastian snarled.
Benedict gave him an amused, quizzical look. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Anyway,’ he stepped back to let them pass.
Irritation, humiliation and disappointment seeping out of every pore, Sebastian gave him one final murderous look and dragged a pontificating Sabrina off in his wake.
His evening went from bad to worse when Sabrina, already shooting daggers at Bunny across the table, found out that Bunny had won a modelling contract that Sabrina herself had been coveting for weeks. ‘Accidentally’ spilling her red wine all over Bunny’s white Balenciaga dress, Sabrina had unconvincingly pleaded a headache and stomped off home to sulk.
Back at the marital home a few days later, Sebastian was watching his wife unpack the shopping. As she leaned up to put something away, her top rose up, showing off her slender shape. Sebastian ran his eyes over her lasciviously. ‘Have you been on a diet?’ he asked. Caro turned round to face him, a packet of couscous in one hand. She blushed, it made her look endearingly pretty.
‘Not really, I’ve just been watching what I eat,’ she half-lied, not having the courage to tell him it was because she was so bloody miserable.
Sebastian slipped off the bar-stool he’d been sitting on and made his way towards her. Caro looked at him uncertainly, almost fearfully. ‘It’s all right darling, I’m not going to bite,’ he whispered. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He was pressed against her now, his hands running greedily over her body. ‘You look fucking sexy,’ he told her, as his hand slid up her jumper and into her bra.
Caro winced as he tweaked her nipple roughly, his tongue hot and insistent in her ear. This was what she’d wanted for months, wasn’t it? To have physical contact with her husband, to feel wanted and loved again. But there wasn’t an ounce of affection in his touch. Caro wished he would just leave her alone. She could feel his rock-hard manhood pressing against her, and knew she should unzip his trousers and take it in her mouth, enthusiastically pleasuring him the way she used to. But instead she just kissed him back half-heartedly, arms hanging by her sides as if paralysed.
Sebastian groaned and slid his hands into the front of her knickers. Caro winced again as he stuck two fingers up her. ‘You’re as dry as a bone!’ he exclaimed. ‘Make a bloody effort, darling.’ He plunged them up her again, merciless and probing.
Caro couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Get off, GET OFF!’ she shouted and pushed him away from her. Shock, then confusion, and finally contempt crossed his face.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ he asked coldly.
‘You haven’t laid a finger on me in months, and then you just turn up and expect it like that?’ Caro was crying now, but she was angry too. ‘It’s not on, Sebastian!’
He stared at her, arms folded across his chest. ‘Well, what do you want, darling? First you’re moaning I don’t come near you, then when I do, you act like a frigid fucking bitch! I mean, cut me some slack here! What am I supposed to think?’
‘What about bloody you?’ Caro shouted at him. ‘It’s always about you! What about me? What about your son? You spend so little time here, you’re like a bloody stranger to him.’
As if on cue, Milo started crying in his nursery upstairs. Sebastian took a step towards her and then stopped. His face was an icy mask. ‘That’s a bit rich coming from you,’ he sneered. ‘Every time I come home or ring, that bloody baby is crying in the background. Handling him a bit roughly, are you?’
That was enough. Caro took the nearest thing she could find – the packet of couscous – and threw it at Sebastian. It hit him squarely on the head, and he flinched as it burst open, grain spraying all over the kitchen.
‘How DARE you!’ she screamed at him, shaking with rage. ‘Get out with your disgusting insinuations. Go on, get OUT!’
Sebastian thought about going over to calm her down, but there was a strange, wild look in his wife’s eyes that made him stop. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said contemptuously, and went over to pick up his bag and the keys to his Aston Martin. He had an old school friend who lived near Oxford in a stately home; he’d crash there. Not that he’d tell Caro that. He wanted her to lie awake racked with guilt all night, wondering if he was shivering in a lay-by somewhere.
As he drove off, Sebastian thought about his week. Kicked out by the mistress and the wife! He laughed out loud. The boys were going to have a field day with this one. Who’d have thought Caro had it in her? At least it spiced things up a bit at home, and he’d win her over soon enough.
Back at the house, Caro held a now-sleeping Milo to her chest. Silent tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t go on like this.
Chapter 49
‘NIGHT, PRINCESS, SPEAK soon, yeah?’
‘Goodnight, Devon, I’ll call you when I can. Look, I’m going to have to go, Ambrose is calling me. Bye for now.’
There was a click and a dialling tone. Frances had gone. Devon slowly put the receiver down. Even though the physical side of their relationship had stopped, they still found strength in phone calls to each other. God, she was a gutsy woman. Frances had thrown herself into running the Hall, preparing for the ball, looking after her husband and ringing the police every day to find out if they had learned anything new about her daughter. Devon didn’t know how she was coping, but he knew he couldn’t have handled it. He was also worried Frances was living in denial.
‘Until they find a body, I won’t think any different,’ she had told Devon shakily a few nights ago.
But by now Devon, like the majority of the village, was convinced Harriet had been bumped off by the Revd Goody’s murderer. It had become an open secret. No one dared bring it up in earshot of the Frasers or even the Standington-Fulthropes, but they were all thinking it. Harriet was such a sweet, home-loving girl. How could she just disappear into thin air?
Just after eleven o’clock that night, Freddie was climbing into his Land Rover outside the Maltings. Angie had retired to bed with a copy of Homes and Gardens, and Archie had been in his bedroom with Tyrone for hours, the
familiar thud of music accompanied by incense smoke wafting gradually downstairs.
For most of the evening, Freddie had been working on his accounts in the study at the bottom of the stairs. He had thought it strange that, even after Angie had cooked him the most delectable duck for dinner and he’d finished it off with his usual biscuits and cheese, he was having the most incredible cravings for sweets. Freddie was salivating at the thought of Yorkie bars and Fruit Gums, all washed down with a chocolate milkshake. After a disappointing rummage through the cupboards and fridge, his cravings became so strong that there was only one thing for it: a late night trip to the Texaco garage on the outskirts of Bedlington. He put on his waxed jacket and opened the front door.
Outside, the crisp night air hit him like a sledgehammer. Christ, he felt weird! Spaced out, was that what they called it? Maybe he was coming down with something. Struggling to fit the key in the car door, Freddie eventually climbed in.
Fifteen minutes later, he was wandering around the harshly lit aisles of the Texaco garage. He homed in on the confectionery. With their brightly coloured wrappers lined up and glinting at him, they looked like rows of glittering jewels. He no longer knew what he fancied, but wondered if that was because he suddenly fancied everything. Freddie started throwing bars of chocolate into his basket. Dime bars, a box of Roses, family-sized bags of Revels. Eventually, he made his way to the checkout. Now, where was his wallet?
There was a giggle behind him in the queue. ‘Check it out, that old geezer has got some serious munchies!’ Freddie turned around to find two teenage girls in tracksuits and matching ponytails staring at him.
‘Hmm, what’s that? Munchies?’ he said absently. ‘I’ve got a packet of them in here somewhere.’ He turned around again, patting his pockets. Where was his blasted wallet? He just couldn’t bloody remember.
The two girls burst out laughing. ‘He is off it!’ one of them cackled. Freddie eventually found his money and slowly counted out £28.73p for the bemused cashier. ‘Sure you don’t want some Rizlas with that?’ the girl said, and they both cracked up laughing again. Freddie peered at them hazily through bleary eyes; their voices sounded miles away. Like they were underwater. Extraordinary. Shaking his head he delved deep into a packet of chocolate-covered raisins and made his way back to his car. It was parked haphazardly on the forecourt with the windows open.
