One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Oh, you brought flowers. How lovely,’ she beamed, relieving him of a hand-tied bunch of pale-pink peonies. ‘And peonies, too, my absolute favourite.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Piers.

  ‘You know they are, you twat,’ Seb murmured under his breath. Happily, neither of the adults heard him.

  ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘It’s cheese,’ said Seb in a distinctly churlish tone, earning himself a reproachful look from his mother.

  ‘We’re having pasta and cheese sauce,’ said Penny, pouring Piers a glass of wine. ‘You’re very welcome to join us.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he enthused.

  Seb rolled his eyes and returned to his Nintendo.

  ‘It’s a bit of a scratch lunch, I’m afraid,’ said Penny. ‘I made a casserole for Emma this morning but I totally forgot it and we had to throw it out.’

  Just then, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Emma walked in. Dropping her Balenciaga shoulder bag on the floor like a sack of potatoes, and kicking off her Jimmy Choo gladiator sandals, she strode across the room like a ship in full sail, ignoring both Piers and her mother, grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the kitchen drawer, lit one and proceeded to exhale smoke directly over the saucepan.

  ‘Jesus, what the fuck’s that?’ she said rudely, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of the cheese sauce. ‘It smells like boiled socks.’

  ‘It’s cheese sauce,’ said Seb.

  ‘You know, you really shouldn’t speak to your mother like that,’ Piers said bravely. ‘You’re lucky to have a mother who cooks for you, at your age.’

  Emma looked at him like something she was having trouble scraping off the bottom of her shoe. ‘Fuck off,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m not eating it.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Seb crossly. ‘All the more for us. Do you want me to drain the pasta, Mum?’

  But Penny was watching Emma fill an enormous wineglass up to the very top with Chablis and start chugging it down like water.

  ‘You must eat something, darling,’ she said gently.

  ‘I would if you made something edible,’ snapped Emma.

  Piers watched the way Emma’s lip curled when she spoke to Penny, and saw the fury flashing in her strangely mesmerizing, sludge-green eyes. There was no question that Emma Harwich was wildly, intoxicatingly beautiful. At almost five foot ten, most of which was legs, and with the thick blonde hair of a seventies siren, she reminded him of the blonde icons of his own youth: Farrah Fawcett, or a young Jerry Hall, or Agnetha from Abba. Of course, she was skinnier than those girls. Models were expected to be these days. And her face was harder, more angular. There was nothing soft about Emma, nothing maternal or inviting. Instead, she exuded sexuality and arrogance in almost equal measure. It was not an endearing combination, but Piers could see why it had proved to be a successful one professionally, and no doubt in other ways.

  ‘Seb made a salad,’ Penny said meekly. ‘Try some of that at least.’

  Gracelessly, Emma sat at the table, helping herself to a plate of salad without thanks and before the others had even sat down. A few minutes later, however, they were all eating. The pasta was delicious. Forking it down, silently watching the fractured family dynamic around the table, Piers Renton-Chambers decided he would make a point of spending a lot more time at Woodside Hall.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ he said conversationally to Sebastian. ‘Santiago de la Cruz has taken a house in Brockhurst. He’ll be playing on Saturday.’

  Seb dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘No,’ said Piers, pleased to have engaged the boy’s interest for once. ‘It’s the talk of the village. He’s rented Wheelers Cottage, apparently. Moved in a couple of days ago. I believe there have been one or two sightings of him out and about already.’

  ‘But he’s a professional!’ said Seb. ‘Does Will know?’

  ‘Will?’ Piers looked questioningly at Penny, but it was Emma who answered him.

  ‘Will Nutley. He’s an old boyfriend of mine, and Fittlescombe’s “secret weapon” for this year’s match. He’s quite a good batsman, apparently.’

  ‘He’s an amazing batsman,’ said Seb hotly.

  ‘My brother hero-worships him,’ said Emma bitchily. ‘It’s rather sweet.’

  ‘I don’t hero-worship him. I like him,’ said Seb, looking daggers at his sister. ‘And I have no idea what he ever saw in you.’

  ‘Hmmm. I can’t imagine.’ Emma laughed arrogantly. The news that Santiago de la Cruz had moved into the next-door village appeared to have worked wonders on her mood. ‘Wheelers Cottage, eh?’ she said to no one in particular. ‘I might have to take a stroll past there tomorrow. Welcome Mr de la Cruz to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what Piers said?’ Seb was starting to lose his temper. ‘He’s bowling for Brockhurst.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he’s the enemy.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sebby,’ said Emma dismissively. ‘It’s a game of cricket, not a war.’

  Seb Harwich looked at his sister with a withering mixture of pity and contempt. Clearly she understood nothing.

  ‘Well, it’s turning into a bit of a war as far as the television networks are concerned,’ Piers chimed in. ‘Now that de la Cruz is playing, Sky Sports have crawled out of the woodwork with a whopping bid for exclusive coverage.’

  ‘They won’t get it, will they?’ asked Penny. ‘I can’t imagine the Swell Valley match not being on BBC Two. It would be like telling the BBC they couldn’t cover the Boat Race.’

  ‘They won’t push the Beeb out, but they might see off ITV,’ said Piers, cheerfully. ‘Either way, it’s good news for the valley, and the constituency as a whole. Money’ll start pouring in now.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not about money,’ said Seb. ‘Only a Brockhurster would think like that.’ Piers Renton-Wank-Stain seemed to understand even less about the spirit of cricket than Seb’s sister. He was surrounded by Philistines.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Emma, sighing dreamily, and already imagining herself on Santiago de la Cruz’s well-muscled arm. ‘I think it’s wonderful that Santiago’s playing.’

  ‘“Santiago?” What are you, best friends now?’ snorted Seb. ‘He won’t be interested in you anyway,’ he added, slurping up the last of his fusilli. ‘You’ll only make a fool of yourself, throwing yourself at him.’

  ‘Throwing myself?’ Emma tossed back her golden mane and laughed loudly. ‘He should be so lucky.’

  ‘He’s in his thirties. It’s disgusting! He’s almost as old as Mum.’

  ‘All right, Seb, that’s enough,’ said Penny, who didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. She agreed that a playboy like Santiago de la Cruz was the very last thing Emma needed in her life. But she knew her daughter well enough to know that, if she dared to say as much, she might as well be delivering Emma naked and wrapped in a bow into the unsuitable Argentine’s bed.

  ‘What about poor Will?’ said Seb, getting to his feet to clear away his empty bowl. ‘You know he’s still in love with you. It’s vile the way you keep him hanging.’

  ‘I love Will too,’ said Emma, a trace of nostalgia creeping into her voice. ‘But it’s complicated. Our lives are so different now. We’re so different.’

  ‘Yeah,’ snorted Seb. ‘He’s nice and you’re a total cow.’

  He stormed off.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ Emma asked guilelessly, helping herself to her brother’s leftover salad. ‘He wasn’t this moody and obnoxious the last time I came home.’

  ‘I think,’ Piers said tentatively, ‘he might be a bit wound up about the match. De la Cruz polling up like this at the last minute might be good for the local economy, but it’s not exactly cricket, if you’ll pardon the pun. This game means a lot to your brother.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Emma shot back rudely. Pushing her plate away, she lit another cigarette. ‘You’re not family, you know.’ She too got down
from the table and stalked out of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Penny blushed. ‘I know it’s been a year. But it’s been hard for Emma. She was so close to her dad.’

  Piers Renton-Chambers put a hand over Penny’s and squeezed, in a slightly more than friendly manner.

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologize for, my dear. She’ll grow out of it. They both will.’

  I do so hope so, thought Penny. And I hope Emma was joking about setting her cap at Santiago de la Cruz.

  With her brother and her besotted ex-boyfriend both playing for Fittlescombe, that really would set the cat among the pigeons.

  *****

  Later that afternoon, having parked his cheery red Mini Cooper on Brockhurst High Street, Piers Renton-Chambers crossed the street to the village shop with a spring in his step. Piers loved his life as MP for Arundel and South Downs. He’d grown up in West Yorkshire, but this part of the Sussex countryside was so stunning, Piers had had no qualms about moving here. Of course, it also provided the added benefit of being one of the safest Tory seats in England. Barring some spectacular scandal, Piers had landed the closest thing British politics offered to a job for life. All he had to do was fix a few potholes and keep the ladies of the local Conservative Party Association sweet. Piers flattered himself that keeping ladies sweet was one of his key political talents, and he wasn’t entirely wrong in that assumption. Unfortunately, it was a different matter when it came to finding a wife.

  The Swell Valley was renowned as a home, or second home, for a plethora of England’s more attractive and eligible women. One could barely step outside one’s door without bumping into a famous actress, model, socialite or heiress and, as the local MP, Piers had a built-in excuse for approaching all of them and engaging them in conversation. Yet for some reason, when it came to asking a woman out for dinner, or ‘making a move’, as the tabloid writers put it, he found himself hamstrung. Inexplicably, the opposite sex seemed to find Piers’s chat-up lines cheesy and his romantic approaches were invariably rebuffed.

  Since becoming a regular visitor at Woodside Hall, he’d taken things much, much more slowly. Here, for the first time in years, was a real chance: a chance to make a marriage that would be the envy of all his friends in Westminster and at the Carlton Club. Piers couldn’t entirely put his finger on it, but he felt sure that today, in some subtle way, he had advanced his case and improved his chances.

  A bell above the door rang as he walked into Upton’s Stores. Mrs Upton, the shopkeeper, was chatting to a pretty young brunette whom Piers recognized as Laura Tiverton. Laura was a successful television writer who lived at Briar Cottage in Fittlescombe, who had inexplicably thrown herself away on a piece of local beefcake by the name of Gabriel Baxter. Gabe and Laura’s engagement party last week had been the talk of villages for miles around.

  ‘Is he really that ill, then? Shame,’ Mrs Upton could be heard saying to Laura.

  ‘I don’t know any details. But I saw the local GP making a house call to Furlings yesterday and again today. And he wasn’t at church last Sunday. That’s the first time he’s missed a service in more than ten years.’

  Furlings was the ‘big house’, set on a hill above Fittlescombe with panoramic views of the village, the green and the South Downs beyond. Its master, Rory Flint-Hamilton, was the local lord of the manor. It must be Rory Flint-Hamilton they’re talking about, thought Piers.

  Rory’s failing health had been the talk of all the local villages for months now – especially as his daughter and sole heir, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, was a well-known party girl and all-round tearaway. If Tatiana and her fast crowd of London friends were to move into Furlings when the old man died, who knew what would happen to the grand old estate, never mind the village?

  ‘Has the young Miss been home, then? Tatiana?’ Mrs Upton asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  An irritated look crossed Laura Tiverton’s face. Laura’s path and Tatiana’s had crossed last Christmas, when Tatiana had run off into the night with Laura’s then boyfriend, a little toad by the name of Daniel Smart. Laura was delighted to be shot of Daniel, but she was not a fan of Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. Few local women were.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not even sure if she’s expected for the match.’

  ‘Oh, she must be, surely?’ Mrs Upton looked shocked.

  Laura shrugged. ‘At this rate I doubt whether she or her father will be there. Rory’s lawyer was up at the house last week. It looks as if he’s putting his affairs in order, just in case.’

  ‘Shame,’ Mrs Upton said again, stuffing Laura’s bread and onions somewhat unceremoniously into a plastic bag. ‘Mr Flint-Hamilton’s such a lovely man. He’s done wonders for the village.’

  Piers’s ears pricked up. As far as he was concerned, Rory Flint-Hamilton’s ill health wasn’t a shame at all. Fittlescombe’s Lord of the Manor and owner of the most beautiful house in Sussex, if not in England, had presented the cup at the Fittlescombe–Brockhurst cricket match for the last forty years. Should he be too frail to attend this year, however, Piers had been asked to step in as understudy. What with Santiago de la Cruz playing for Brockhurst, and the surge of media interest that the Argentine’s sudden arrival had occasioned, Piers couldn’t have picked a better year to step into the limelight. Just the thought of so many famous, influential eyes on him, not to mention the TV exposure it would bring, was enough to put a warm glow into Piers’s ambitious politician’s heart.

  ‘Hello, Laura.’ Walking up to the counter, he gave Laura Tiverton what he hoped was a warm and ingratiating smile. ‘Are you looking forward to the big match?’

  ‘Of course,’ Laura said politely.

  ‘I hear Gabriel and the Fittlescombe boys are training like demons.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ Laura said archly. ‘Not to a Brockhurst man like you, Piers.’

  The accusation was technically true. Despite his close association with the Harwich family, and by extension the Fittlescombe team, Piers Renton-Chambers owned a small but perfectly formed Georgian house fronting Brockhurst village green. This officially put him in the enemy camp.

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ he blustered. ‘As MP for both villages, I’m completely neutral. To be perfectly honest with you,’ he added, sotto voce, ‘I don’t really approve of Brockhurst bringing in a professional player like this just days before the match.’

  ‘None of us do,’ said Laura, lowering her voice so as not to offend Mrs Upton’s village pride. ‘It’s typical, though. Ever since Charlie Kingham got the Brockhurst captaincy, the whole ethos of the team has changed. All they care about is winning, and at any cost.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Piers nodded conspiratorially. ‘This de la Cruz fellow sounds like a thoroughly nasty piece of work to me. Oily, too. I don’t know if you saw his Robinson’s Barley Water advertisement. The fellow’s hair was so slick you could have fried chips in it. Ha ha ha!’

  ‘I’m sorry you thought so.’

  Santiago’s deep, mellifluous tones rang out through the tiny shop. Laura Tiverton blushed, Mrs Upton coughed nervously and Piers Renton-Chambers felt the blood drain from his face like pus from a boil.

  ‘I say. You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,’ said Piers crossly. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you. I thought I was having a private conversation.’

  ‘In a shop?’ Santiago looked down his hawklike nose at the MP, his black eyes alight with arrogance, like a glamorous racehorse noticing a mangy, stable-yard dog. In perfectly fitting jeans and a plain white T-shirt that showed off both his athlete’s physique and mahogany-brown tan to perfection, Santiago radiated enough glamour to light up Oxford Street. When he broke into his famous, wolfish grin, he was in serious danger of setting Upton’s Stores on fire. ‘Don’t worry.’ Santiago clapped Piers on the back, a little too heartily for comfort. ‘Luckily for you, I’m not so easily offended.’ Turning his attention to the mesmerized shopkeeper, he added, ‘I wonder, Mrs Upton, is it possible to buy s
ome of your homemade damson jam? I’m told it’s very good.’

  Poor Mrs Upton nodded mutely and scurried out to the storeroom. She couldn’t have looked more bedazzled if Elvis had just strolled into the building.

  Ignoring Piers, who still stood hovering by the counter like a spare part, Santiago turned to Laura.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Did I jump the queue?’ he said smoothly. ‘You were still shopping.’

  ‘No, I er … no, no. I’m all done,’ Laura babbled nervously, gazing up at him like a schoolgirl. ‘Just a few onions. Ha ha ha! Anyway. Enjoy your damsons. Goodbye!’

  ‘Let me carry your bag to your car at least.’ Santiago put a hand on her arm just as she was making an embarrassed dash for the door. ‘I couldn’t bear to seem impolite to such a beautiful lady.’

  He was so perfect, even his hands looked as if they’d been newly manicured. Laura tried hard not to think about where they might have been recently, and all the legions of beautiful female bodies they’d caressed.

  ‘Really, thank you, but I’m fine,’ she blurted. ‘They’re not heavy.’

  If Gabe heard that Santiago de la Cruz had been seen in Brockhurst High Street carrying her shopping, he was liable to head straight round to Wheelers Cottage and do something less than sporting with a cricket bat.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Piers!’ Laura called over her shoulder as she scuttled out.

  ‘Here you are.’ Mrs Upton returned, triumphant, with a jar of jam. ‘That’s the very last of this season’s batch.’