She’d felt happy. Relieved. ‘I missed you too,’ she told him. She looked around the room now for Brett, hoping to introduce him to Stella, but he’d disappeared off somewhere.
Angela made small talk for a few more minutes, mostly about Stella’s work as a ceramicist and how she was finding life in the village. Then Max Bingley and Stella Goye drifted away, and another couple came up to talk to Angela; then another; then some business friends of Brett’s … Before Angela knew it, it was ten o’clock. She hadn’t seen Brett in hours and, other than catching a half-glimpse of him walking onto the dance floor with Logan, hadn’t laid eyes on her son at all.
It was a relief when Mrs Worsley, tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Could I have a word, Mrs Cranley? It’s about the cake.’
‘Oh God,’ sighed Angela. ‘What’s that bloody dog done now?’
But for once, Gringo wasn’t the guilty party. In a fit of exuberance, brought on in part by running around the tables drinking the dregs of the adults’ cocktails, two little boys from Logan’s class had apparently decided they couldn’t wait for candles and speeches and had attacked Jason’s beautiful piano cake with their bare hands. Dylan Pritchard Jones, eager to impress Jane Templeton, his putative future boss, had apprehended the culprits and, disregarding their protests of innocence (‘You’ve got half a ton of chocolate cream icing round your mouth, William!’), dragged them to Mrs Worsley for punishment.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the housekeeper was saying over and over, wringing her hands despairingly. ‘If only I’d seen them. Sixteen hundred pounds’ worth of chocolate cake, ruined! Poor Jason.’
‘Jason will be fine,’ Angela reassured her. ‘And I’m sure the cake’s not ruined. It’s as big as a house, they can’t have eaten that much of it.’
The two little boys in question looked so terrified when they saw Logan’s mother coming over, not to mention sick to their respective stomachs from the combined effects of cake and alcohol, Angela didn’t have the heart to yell at them. Instead, instructing Mrs Worsley to put on a DVD in the playroom and dump all the under-elevens in front of it, she wandered outside into the grounds in search of Brett. Suddenly she wanted to be with him, wanted the two of them to be a couple on this special day, twenty-one years since their first child was born.
Outside, Furlings’ rose garden was heaving with people. Most were having a wonderful time flirting, star-spotting and drinking copious amounts of Brett Cranley’s vintage champagne. A few, however, were less than happy. While Angela Cranley ploughed her way through the crowd in search of her husband, Dylan Pritchard Jones stood rooted to the spot beneath a mulberry tree, listening to Jane Templeton tell a long and unremittingly tedious story about a friend of hers from Oxford who’d attempted a bicycle ride across the Asian Steppe, got lost in Mongolia and written a book about it. Dylan hadn’t noticed it before, but St Jude’s chair of governors was really quite spectacularly ugly. She had blotchy skin, a whiskery chin like a witch’s, and the sort of thick ankles more normally associated with extremely elderly women in support stockings. Jane Templeton wasn’t elderly. Dylan guessed she was in her mid-fifties. But there was a matronly quality about her, from her heavy, pendulous bosoms to her resolutely undyed grey hair that made her look far older.
What made it harder to bear was the fact that there were so many young, beautiful girls here, just waiting to be flirted with. Dylan had already spotted Keira Knightley, a regular in the valley during the summer months, and local model Emma Harwich, who looked spectacular tonight in a backless white dress that clung to her bottom like shrink wrap on a perfectly ripe peach. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had arrived late and – much to everyone’s surprise after all the hype about her boyfriend – alone. She also looked stunning, much to Dylan’s irritation, in a gunmetal minidress that barely skimmed the top of her thighs and black Alexander McQueen ankle boots. Her long hair was swept up and cleverly pinned so that it looked short. Combined with her dramatic dark eye make-up, the overall look was halfway between punk and rock chick, and spectacularly sexy.
‘So she took it to Simon and Schuster. That was her first port of call,’ Jane Templeton wittered on.
‘Interesting,’ said Dylan, stifling a yawn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maisie, his wife, being chatted up by a good-looking man in an immaculately cut dinner jacket. When the man turned his head, throwing it back to laugh at one of Maisie’s jokes, Dylan saw to his fury that it was Danny Cipriani, the England rugby star and one of Maisie’s long-time crushes.
‘… But she didn’t end up with them. There was a bidding war, you see. Even though the book wasn’t finished. Anyway, you’ll never guess what happened after that.’ Jane Templeton gripped Dylan’s arm with her bony, arthritic fingers.
‘No?’ He forced a smile.
He can’t possibly fancy her, can he? he thought, trying to reassure himself as he sneaked another glance across at Maisie and the rugby star. I’ll bet she’s boring on about the baby. He’s probably just being polite. No sooner had Dylan had this thought than Danny Cipriani rested his hand on the small of Maisie’s back in a distinctly impolite, intimate gesture. The cheek of it!
Dylan longed to make an excuse and go over there, but Jane’s grip on his arm was like a vice.
‘Well, she went to New York …’ Jane went on.
Dylan’s eyes glazed over. Just then Tatiana Flint-Hamilton swept past him. She had a flute of champagne in her hand and an amused glint in her eye. Whatever had happened to the boyfriend, it didn’t seem to be fazing her. ‘Hello, Dylan.’ She waved at him regally.
‘Hello, Ta …’ he began. But Tati had already moved on, sashaying through the throng followed by scores of admiring male eyes, paying Dylan no more attention than a passing fly.
Self-important bitch, thought Dylan, watching her go. When he looked back to where Maisie had been standing with Danny, the two of them had gone.
This was not going to be Dylan Pritchard Jones’s evening.
At the other end of the garden, outside the orangery, Brett Cranley was talking business with an old friend from Australia when he saw Tatiana talking to Jason. They were only together for a moment. Tati leaned in to tell Jason something, probably just, ‘Happy birthday.’ Jason smiled and hugged her, kissing her on the cheek before walking away to join a group of girls Brett didn’t recognize. But even that momentary exchange, those few seconds of touching, felt like a razor blade stabbing into Brett’s heart.
‘Are you all right, mate?’ his friend asked, frowning. ‘You looked a bit crook there all of a sudden.’
‘I’m fine,’ Brett murmured. ‘Excuse me.’
He walked over to Tatiana, like a moth drawn to a flame, even as it can feel the heat start to singe its wings.
‘What happened to lover boy? Stood you up, did he?’
Tatiana spun around. Brett loomed over her. Black tie suited almost all men, but not Brett Cranley. He looked awkward and uncomfortable in his jacket, like a bear squeezed into performing clothes by some sadistic circus ringmaster. Tati made a point of avoiding Brett whenever possible, and it was months since she’d last seen him in the flesh. It bothered her the degree to which his presence could still unnerve her. She felt her stomach churn unpleasantly now, and a disagreeable sensation, halfway between attraction and revulsion, shoot through her.
‘Maybe I got a better offer,’ she smiled sweetly.
‘You did,’ said Brett, deadpan. ‘Mine.’
‘Marco had to work,’ said Tati, deciding it was safer to ignore this last comment. ‘His team have got a big deal closing. You know how it is.’
Brett raised an eyebrow mockingly. ‘Uh huh.’
Irritated, Tati shot back waspishly ‘Where’s Angela? Shouldn’t you be holding her hand, playing the doting husband and father? Today of all days?’
As soon as she’d said it she felt guilty. Tatiana liked Angela Cranley. She liked Logan and Jason too, and felt bad using them as verbal weapons. It was only Brett she had a problem with. What h
ad happened between the two of them last year should never have happened. As far as Tatiana knew, nobody knew about it, and she vowed to keep it that way. Just because Brett wound her up about her love life, it didn’t mean she should sink to his level. But that was what Brett did to her, every time they met: pulled her down to his level. With Brett Cranley she was the worst version of herself.
‘I’m not playing at anything.’ Brett spoke through gritted teeth. He was standing very close to her now. Tatiana could feel the anger coming off his body like heat rising from scorched earth. ‘I love my family.’
‘Uh huh,’ said Tatiana, deliberately echoing Brett’s sneering cynicism about Marco.
‘At least I have a family to love,’ Brett snapped. ‘What do you have, Tatiana? An invisible boyfriend and a job at a school. Bully for you.’
For a moment, they stood in silence. Brett knew he was being a jerk. That it was only sexual jealousy and the pain of rejection that were making him lash out. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Tatiana felt his eyes boring into her, stripping her down to nothing, to her soul. She looked away. At that moment Angela Cranley walked over, sliding an arm around Brett’s waist.
‘There you are!’ she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ve been hunting for you for ages. It’s time to cut the cake and make the speeches.’
‘Right,’ said Brett, staring at the ground.
‘Oh, hello, Tatiana.’ Angela’s smile was so genuine, Tati felt even guiltier. ‘Are you having a nice time?’
‘Lovely, thank you.’
‘I’m so pleased you were able to make it. Pleased you two are burying the hatchet as well.’ She gazed up lovingly at Brett. ‘It’s about time. Now, have either of you seen Jason? For some reason, I can never seem to get the men in my family in the same place at the same time. We’ll be cutting the cake at midnight at this rate.’
‘He was here a few moments ago,’ said Tati. She looked back across the garden. ‘Is that him, talking to Annalise Merrivale?’
‘Bloody gold-digger,’ grumbled Brett, glaring across the lawn at the two of them. Annalise was the very beautiful, very sought-after daughter of the lord lieutenant of Sussex, a frightful old bore by the name of Cedric Merrivale. ‘She’s only talking to Jason because she knows he just came into his trust fund.’
‘Or maybe it’s because it’s Jason’s birthday party, and she likes him?’ Tati couldn’t resist observing sharply. ‘Not everyone thinks of nothing but money.’
‘Come on,’ said Angela, pulling Brett by the hand before another argument erupted between him and Tatiana. ‘Let’s go and hijack him together, before I lose one or both of you again.’
The speeches were mercifully short. Jason gave a shy, stammering toast of thanks to the guests for coming and his parents for laying on such a fabulous spread, while Annalise Merrivale hovered proprietorially behind him. Angela said a few words about how proud she was of her darling boy, tearing up almost immediately, and Brett told a couple of blue Aussie jokes that went down remarkably well, probably because ninety per cent of his audience were three sheets to the wind.
‘Bloody crass.’ Dylan Pritchard Jones, sober and in a foul mood, whispered in Maisie’s ear after the roars of laughter subsided. ‘Cranley should know better in mixed company. There are children and old people here.’
‘Oh, do pull the stick out of your arse,’ said Maisie, slightly more loudly than she’d meant to, triggering sniggers from Santiago de la Cruz, the famous local cricketer, and his fiancée Penny, who were standing next to them.
‘Maisie!’ Dylan flushed indignantly.
‘Sorry, darling. But you can be such a teacher sometimes. Try and relax and enjoy yourself.’
‘Like you, you mean?’ snapped Dylan. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice you “relaxing” with Danny Cipriani. You made a complete fool of yourself, you know.’
Maisie shot him a look of utter disdain.
‘Bugger off Dylan,’ she said roundly, and stormed off.
‘Dear oh dear.’ Gabe Baxter, a late arrival, appeared at Dylan’s shoulder like an unwelcome ghost. ‘Trouble in paradise?’
Despite being teammates from the village cricket eleven, there was no love lost between Gabe and Dylan.
‘Sod off, Baxter,’ Dylan snapped back. ‘I saw Chumley, the new bank manager, at the bar earlier. You’d better make a run for it, before he repossesses your dinner jacket.’
Gabe’s financial troubles were well known in the village. Only last week he and Laura had had a furious row in The Fox, which ended in Laura storming out in tears and Gabe lashing out and causing a few hundred quids’ worth of damage with a bar stool. Everybody in Fittlescombe knew that Gabe had overstretched himself to buy that huge chunk of the Furlings estate the year before ago. Now, mortgaged to the hilt, and under pressure to pay for private IVF for Laura, who still hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant, Gabe could barely afford to keep himself in baked beans.
‘Go after your wife,’ he told Dylan, choosing to ignore the jibe. Dick-Hard Jones was an arsehole, but his wife Maisie was sweet.
‘Why should I?’ Dylan pouted. ‘She was flirting outrageously with that little oik.’
‘So what?’ said Gabe. ‘You’re the worst flirt in Fittlescombe.’
‘Second worst.’ Dylan looked at Gabe meaningfully. ‘Talk about pot calling the kettle.’
‘Whatever. Maisie’s a bloody good wife to you and you know it. More importantly, if you don’t go after her, the next time you’ll see her she’ll be in Heat magazine, falling out of China White at four in the morning with her knickers round her ankles and rugby boy in tow.’
Dylan hesitated, glared at Gabe, then hurried up the hill towards the house.
‘Maisie! Maisie! Wait!’
His voice was swallowed by the roar of chopper blades overhead.
Gabe looked up.
‘Who do you think that is?’ he asked Laura, who’d returned from the bar to join him with two flutes of champagne. They were late because they’d had yet another row, followed by incredible make-up sex on the dilapidated farmhouse stairs.
‘Paparazzi I should think,’ said Laura, kissing him. She knew she looked flushed and dishevelled in a green taffeta evening gown that was a good decade past its prime, but she was too happy and sated to care. ‘Trying to get a shot of David Beckham’s new mistress, I imagine. Alleged mistress, I mean,’ she added with a wink.
‘The Sports Illustrated chick?’ Gabe brightened visibly. ‘Really? Is she here?’
Laura sighed. You couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Even if it was your dog.
‘Yes, darling. She was in the Ladies’ loo a few minutes ago, boosting the Colombian economy. Either that or she’d had a serious accident with the talcum powder.’
Gabe grinned and hugged his wife tightly.
As the chopper noise faded, Logan Cranley sauntered over, doing her best ‘grown-up’ impression in a stunning, very short red dress.
‘Logan.’ Laura’s eyes widened. ‘I hardly recognized you.’
Over the past year Logan had become a semi-regular presence over at Wraggsbottom Farm, often popping in to ‘help’ or chat just when Laura was finally sitting down to write, or about to make an important telephone call to a producer in London. It was hard enough to carve out any time in the day for her own career. Life as a farmer’s wife, especially a poor farmer’s wife, meant early starts and constant mucking-in. Having to deal with Gabe’s pre-teen groupies didn’t make life any easier. But Logan was a sweet girl at heart, affectionate and funny and, Laura sensed, a bit isolated up at the big house with only her mother and much older brother for company. She felt sorry for her, and liked her, despite her all too obvious passion for Gabriel.
‘My goodness, you look gorgeous.’
‘Thanks.’ Logan smiled.
‘Doesn’t she, Gabe?’
‘Mmm.’ Gabe nodded. ‘Very sophisticated.’
The smile turned into a mile-wide grin. ‘It’s Topsh
op.’ She tossed her long dark hair back with a devil-may-care insouciance that she hoped made her look like Selena Gomez. ‘Mum thinks it’s too short, but I like it.’
I’ll bet she does, thought Laura.
‘Can I have a sip of your champagne?’
‘No,’ said Laura.
‘Sure,’ said Gabe simultaneously, earning himself a reproachful look from his wife and an adoring one from Logan.
‘She’s eleven!’ Laura protested.
‘Nearly twelve,’ Logan corrected.
‘It’s only a sip,’ said Gabe. He handed Logan his glass. Laura could have sworn the girl’s hands were shaking as she tasted the forbidden bubbles. Or perhaps it wasn’t the champagne that was exciting her?
‘Thanks,’ Logan handed the glass back. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
‘You encourage her,’ said Laura to Gabe, once she’d gone. ‘You do know that, right?’
Gabe nuzzled into his wife’s neck. Sex earlier had been amazing, and a much-needed stress reliever. They were fighting too much. Gabe hated it. He shuddered to think where he’d be without Laura. ‘Why don’t you encourage me?’ he whispered, sliding a hand down over Laura’s taffeta-clad bottom. ‘Just a little bit.’
‘Get off!’ she slapped him away.
‘Come on,’ teased Gabe. ‘You know you want to.’
And of course Laura did.
On the verandah, where the cake was being dissected into slices and handed out, Jason Cranley pulled his mother aside.
‘I’ve hardly spoken to you all evening,’ he said, leaning back against the wall and feeling the cool bricks through the cotton of his dress shirt. He’d been dancing, very unusually for him, with Annalise and some other girls, and had discarded his DJ and bow tie somewhere in the vicinity of the dance floor. His blond hair was spiked upwards with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Angela remembered this look from his boyhood, running to the car after soccer matches or cross-country runs, invariably the loser, but always cheerful in those days, before his teens and the depression that had blighted all their lives. She felt a pang of love for him so sudden and deep that it made her clutch her chest.
The Inheritance Page 23
