by Jo Carnegie
‘You back seeing your mum, then?’ asked Ash, recovering slightly.
‘Yeah,’ Nikki looked at her watch pointedly. ‘I’m running late as usual, gotta be back at work soon.’
Despite the hint, Ash seemed to want to talk. ‘You still working up west?’
Nikki smiled. ‘Yup. I was made permanent a month ago, got myself a nice little pad in Shepherd’s Bush.’ She laughed. ‘It’s the size of a postage stamp, but it’s my postage stamp. I love it.’
Ash shot her an ironic look. ‘Don’t miss this place, then?’
Nikki pulled a face. ‘Aside from Mum and my sisters? Can’t say I do, surprisingly.’
Ash looked down at his trainers. ‘Don’t blame you,’ he muttered.
It had only been Ash and his dad next door for as long as Nikki could remember. Ash’s mum had run off to Spain with a builder years ago, and his older sister Beverley had moved out soon after.
‘How are things at home?’ Nikki asked.
He shrugged. ‘Same as, old man’s still a full-on piss head.’
Nikki smiled sympathetically. ‘You still going round all those antique markets? Remember when we went to one together, and I bought that china pig? You said it was a load of crap, and you were right. I dropped it a few days later, and inside it said it was from Woolies.’ She started laughing. ‘I was gutted, I thought I’d discovered the Holy bloody Grail!’
Ash’s solemn face broke into a smile. ‘Yeah, I remember. That was a good day. Not that I’ve been doing the markets as much these days; I’m doing temp work now.’
Nikki studied him. ‘You shouldn’t give up on it, Ash, I reckon you’ve got a real eye for all that stuff.’
He shrugged again. ‘How am I going to get into something like that? All the lads round here think I’m weird enough as it is.’
Nikki looked thoughtful. ‘I may be able to help, let me have a think.’ She glanced at her watch again.
Ash stepped aside. ‘You better go and see your ma.’
Nikki started up the stairs before looking back. ‘I mean it, Ash, I will see if I can do anything.’
He flashed her a brief, tight smile. ‘Thanks, Niks, but don’t waste your time. I gave up on all that stuff a long time ago.’ Then he opened the door and vanished into the rainy day.
Chapter 14
IT WAS THE Friday before the bank holiday and the weather had finally turned for the better. Britain was in the middle of a heat wave. Every day the Sun and Daily Mirror were full of bikini-clad babes, splashing around in the sea up and down the country from Blackpool to Brighton. London had grown languid under the intense heat. The parks were packed with office workers lingering over an alfresco sandwich, before returning to work with pink noses and shoulders. Content-looking people ambled along the hot pavements, or sat outside cafés enjoying a chilled beer or glass of rosé. No one seemed in a rush to get anywhere, and, for once, the city slowed down to enjoy a slower pace of life.
In the Soirée office, the last issue had just been put to bed. The staff were winding down, in preparation for a few precious extra days away from the office. Harriet was telling Saffron her plans for the weekend when Annabel bustled over.
‘Saffron, I want you to go and pick up a preview tape of this new TV show Joely Richardson is in. I’m interviewing her on Tuesday, so I need to watch it over the weekend.’
‘Where from?’ asked Saffron.
Annabel looked belligerent. ‘Flame TV.’
Saffron pulled a face. ‘It’s going to take me hours to get there. Why can’t you get it biked over?’
‘Because someone needs to go and meet them in person, and I’m too busy!’ she said grandly.
‘Busy eating your body weight in biscuits,’ Saffron said in an undertone to Harriet.
‘Excuse me, what was that?’ demanded Annabel.
‘Nothing, dear,’ said Saffron sardonically. Annabel turned to walk off, and went slap bang into the new designer. 28-year-old Tom Fellows looked more like a train-spotter than a designer on one of the most famous magazines in Britain. Tall and clumsy, he had bottle-top glasses, bushy black hair, and long gangly limbs he always seemed to be falling over.
‘Watch it, you great clodhopper!’ she cried. Tom went bright red.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘He didn’t do it on purpose!’ Saffron exclaimed as Tom shuffled off, eyes on the floor.
‘People should watch where they’re going,’ huffed Annabel. She eyed Harriet sniffily.
‘Where are you going this weekend, anyway?’
‘Norfolk, actually, to see an old school friend,’ Harriet told her. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it, we’re going on lots of nice walks and—’
‘Well, I’m going to Great Winnington Hall. You must have heard of it, yah? My friend Felix’s sister Bella’s best friend is married to the sixth Earl of Haverly, who lives there. He’s got some events company in to put on the most a-may-zing murder mystery dinner party. I’m going as a French maid.’
The art director, a laid-back Paul Weller lookalike, strolled over at that moment. On overhearing Annabel’s revelation, his eyebrows shot into his artfully tousled hairline.
‘You know, it’s very hard to get an invite to Winnington,’ Annabel said grandly. ‘Only the movers and shakers get a look-in. Everyone I know is green with envy.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ said Harriet dutifully. Behind her, Saffron rolled her eyes. ‘A-may-zing!’ she mouthed.
Harriet tried not to giggle. Just then Catherine came out of her office.
‘What’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’ She smiled.
Harriet flushed. ‘Er, just discussing our bank holiday plans. Are you up to anything?’ she added politely.
As usual, Catherine had no plans. ‘Just seeing a few friends, keeping it low-key,’ she lied. The thought of rambling round her huge penthouse all weekend suddenly made her feel very lonely.
‘Does anyone fancy a drink after work?’ she blurted out. ‘On me, of course.’
Everyone looked shocked, and then a bit embarrassed. Catherine instantly regretted it.
‘I’ve got plans with the missus,’ said the art director apologetically, while everyone else muttered their excuses about getting away before the Friday-night rush.
‘No problem,’ replied Catherine brightly. ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’ She turned and went back into her office, cringing to herself. No one fraternized with the boss, especially on a bank holiday weekend. They had probably seen right through her for the sad case she really was.
Chapter 15
THE NEXT MORNING, Caro and Benedict had planned to leave Montague Mews at 11 a.m. for Churchminster. Clementine had organized a drinks party in the garden at Fairoaks.
‘We may as well make the most of the weather, darling, my gloriosas are looking splendid.’
Caro threw the last bag in and pulled the boot shut. The mews was unusually quiet today: Benedict had had to go into work unexpectedly for a few hours, and was due back soon. Stephen and Klaus were staying at a friend’s castle in Tuscany and Velda had gone to an art fair in Pembrokeshire. Only Rowena’s house was the same, still and silent behind the brick facade.
Caro’s mobile rang.
‘It’s me.’
‘Is everything OK?’
Her husband sounded preoccupied. ‘Not really. We’ve had a major cock-up with some designs due in next week, and the client’s not happy. We’re really up against it. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to stay up to make sure we meet the deadline.’
Caro’s heart sank. ‘Oh, Granny Clem was so looking forward to seeing you. And you really do need a few days off. I was looking forward to spoiling you.’
‘I know, me too. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, darling, really I am.’
Despite her disappointment, Caro understood he had no option. ‘Of course. Look, I’ll ring you when I get back. Love you.’
‘Love you, too, beautiful.’
/> It was half past two when Caro finally pulled off the junction on the M4 for Churchminster. Not normally good on long car journeys, Milo had been happily playing with Rory the racing car in his back seat.
‘You know where we’re going, darling, don’t you?’ Caro said, smiling at him in the rear-view mirror. She knew how he must be feeling. Since they’d broken free of the hellish jams out of London, excitement had been mounting inside her. They were going home!
Half an hour later, Caro felt like she was entering a different world. The twisty country lanes unfurled in front of them, lined by tall, flourishing hedgerows and the familiar honey-coloured stone walls. Every now and again they would break to reveal vast, Van-Gogh-yellow fields of oil-seed rape, and endless, brilliant-blue skies. Caro opened the sunroof, and warmth flooded in. She looked around her, savouring the view. Every field was so ripe, every plant and tree so lush. The countryside had never looked more alive or beautiful. She felt her spirits soaring.
A signpost appeared on the horizon.
Bedlington 1 mile. Churchminster 3 miles.
Caro turned left at the crossroads. Compared to the smooth tarmac of London, the roads felt more precarious than ever. A large pothole suddenly appeared on the road in front of them and Caro had to swerve right to avoid her tyres being mangled.
As she approached the town of Bedlington, the roads evened out. It was the farmers’ market day and the place was bustling. She slowed down as she drove past the large square filled with stalls, where people milled around trying everything from locally reared partridges to shiny, fat green olives. Caro passed the tiny police station on her left and followed the Bedlington Road out of town. Before long, she’d reached the outskirts of Churchminster and her heart gladdened.
In front, the twisting spire of St Bartholomew’s church rose up from the horizon like a welcome beacon. As Caro shifted down into third gear to negotiate the winding road, a house appeared on her left. Incongruous as always in the postcard-perfect surroundings, Byron Heights was a nineteenth-century Gothic extravaganza, complete with turrets and jutting towers. The owner, pop sensation Devon Cornwall, was away at the moment on a world tour, much to the disappointment of Clementine’s housekeeper, Brenda Briggs, who still hadn’t got over the fact that her idol had moved into the village.
Twisty Gables, the gorgeous rambling house Caro had grown up in, appeared a little further on. Mauve-blue flowers caressed the outside walls, almost covering several of the windows. Four ponies were grazing in the fields flanking the house, and Caro noticed the current owners, Lucinda and Nico Reinard, had built an outdoor riding school. She had heard through Clementine that Lucinda had just been made the new district commissioner of the Bedlington Valley Pony Club.
Opposite two gateposts signalled the entrance to the Maltings. Caro grinned as she passed. Angie! Although they had phoned each other regularly since Caro went to London, she’d missed their lively, fun-filled catchups. Her spirits rose even higher when she pulled up at the village green. Across the shimmering mirage of grass, looking more inviting than ever, was Mill House.
Caro couldn’t wait to get home, but knew she’d better see her grandmother first. News travelled fast in Churchminster, and Brenda, who lived in one of the cottages on the Bedlington Road, had probably seen her drive past and been straight on the phone to Clementine.
Her grandmother’s house was on the opposite side of the green to Mill House, down a little lane fringed by bramble bushes. Brenda was clearly on razor-sharp form today. As Caro drove up the driveway to the large, imposing house, the front door was already opening. A rather portly black Labrador shot out, followed by Clementine in a floppy canvas sun hat.
‘Darling!’ she said. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Brenda. How was your journey? Oh, Errol Flynn, do stop barking!’
In the back seat Milo was wriggling. ‘Sweeties!’ he shouted happily.
Clementine’s mouth twitched. ‘I see city life hasn’t diminished Milo’s appetite.’
Opening the car door, Caro got out and threw her arms round her grandmother. ‘Oh, Granny Clem, I can’t tell you how good it is to be home!’
At six o’clock the village was still bathed in the warmth of the day. Armed with a G and T, Caro was walking with Milo through Clementine’s extensive gardens, pointing out all the different flowers. Milo, however, was more interested in finding worms, and so far three were curled in the palm of his hand like forlorn strands of spaghetti.
‘Snakies!’ he shouted, trying to tip them in Caro’s glass.
Caro tried to look disapproving and failed. ‘You little bugger!’
Milo ran off, his hand held aloft with the wriggling pink bodies. Caro watched her son in fond exasperation; he was going through an awfully naughty stage at the moment.
‘No, darling! Don’t put that thing in your mouth! Oh Christ.’
‘Having trouble?’ a familiar voice chuckled. Caro turned round to see Angie Fox-Titt. She looked fantastically healthy, new sun-kissed streaks running through her hair.
‘I can’t believe you’ve got that colour from sitting in the garden!’ Caro exclaimed. ‘You look fantastic!’
Angie inspected a tanned arm. ‘I look grossly fat. Freds has just been on a trip to France with the boys, and he brought back mountains of cheese and wine. I seem to have single-handedly worked my way through most of it. I could barely do up my shorts this morning!’
Caro laughed. ‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘No Benedict?’
‘He’s having to work this weekend, some drama with one of his clients.’
Angie smiled sympathetically. ‘We’ll just have to keep you amused ourselves. Freddie is dying to see you.’
On cue, Freddie came bouncing towards them, waving a bottle.
‘Caro! Your grandmother said I’d find you out here. Thought you might be in need of some refreshment.’
A few minutes later, the garden gate swung open and a rather mismatched couple walked in. He was tall, dark and languid-looking, a spotted neckerchief tied casually round his neck, and a crumpled linen shirt undone one button too low. She was blonde, broad-shouldered, and looked just like she’d stepped straight off the pages of Horse and Hound, with a horseshoe-patterned neck scarf and matching white shirt with the collar turned up.
‘Oh look, it’s the Reinards,’ said Angie, adding in a mischievous undertone, ‘Lucinda’s looking very district commissioner!’
‘Bonsoir,’ murmured Nico, kissing them all on both cheeks, including a rather taken-aback Freddie. Lucinda sent her husband off to get a corkscrew from the kitchen, then moved straight in on Caro.
‘Have you thought about getting Milo a pony when you move back?’ She flashed a gap-toothed smile and Caro thought fleetingly how horse-like her teeth were.
Lucinda continued. ‘You can always take out one of ours this weekend. Pippin is just standing in the paddock doing bugger all. He’d love the exercise.’
Caro scrabbled around for an excuse. ‘I don’t think we’ll have time, Lucinda, but thank you anyway. Besides, Milo is more into racing cars than anything with four legs at the moment.’
‘Well, don’t leave it too long!’ she trilled. ‘Bedlington Valley PC is in dire need of some more youngsters. I’m counting on you!’
Caro was saved by Brenda Briggs, who had appeared brandishing a tray of what looked like little burnt CDs. ‘Miss Caro?’ she asked. ‘Broccoli and Stilton mini-quiche? Made ’em myself this morning.’
Caro looked down at the shrivelled offerings and picked up the least blackened one. If Brenda’s housekeeping skills were bad, her cooking was even worse.
‘They look lovely, Brenda.’ She winced as her teeth encountered rock-hard pastry.
‘’Ere, did you hear about Babs Sax getting trollied at the church barbie?’ Brenda asked. Babs Sax was Churchminster’s rather flighty resident artist. ‘Drunk as a skunk she was, couldn’t even walk in a straight line to her house. Lucky my Ted nipped home and got his wheelbarrow
. . .’
A few hours later, Caro was helping her grandmother clear up the last of the glasses in the living room. Milo was fast asleep face down on the sofa, the ever-faithful Pickles squashed underneath him.
‘Poor little chap, it’s way past his bedtime,’ said Caro.
Outside the night air was mild. An owl hooted overhead as Caro carried a sleeping Milo to her car. Clementine followed with her granddaughter’s oversized bag.
‘What are your plans tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Nothing huge, I was going to meet Angie for lunch at the Jolly Boot. She says Pierre’s created his best menu yet.’
‘Would you like me to look after Milo?’
‘Ooh, that would be great, Granny Clem! Only if you’re sure . . .’ said Caro.
Clementine smiled. ‘Of course! You know I love spending time with my great-grandson.’
‘Just keep him away from any worms,’ warned Caro, laughing. She wound the window down and started the car. ‘See you tomorrow.’
It was a clear starry night and the village green stood bathed in luminous light. Caro drove past her sister Camilla’s cottage with its darkened windows. It felt funny being back in Churchminster without her. By contrast, several doors down the Jolly Boot pub was ablaze with lights, as locals made the most of landlord Jack Turner’s lax attitude to calling time.
Following the road round to the left, Caro pulled up outside the impressive three-storey building that had once been the Old Mill. It had been converted into two houses, one of which belonged to Caro, Milo and now Benedict. The other, which Benedict had previously lived in and still owned, was about to go on the market.
Caro cut the engine and looked up at her house. The climbing plants and creepers stretching attractively across the front reminded her for an instant of Montague Mews. She turned around to her son, who was still flat out in the back seat.
‘Come on, cherub, let’s get you inside.’