Not that he wanted to do that to her. And not that she wanted it either. She was happy with Rory. Fun, no-strings-attached Rory. She wriggled her way around so that she was facing him.
‘How come you’re not mud-spattered?’
He chuckled. ‘There’s more than one reason for keeping ahead of the field, scruff bag.’
‘That’s what I love about you, so romantic.’
‘And this is what I love about you.’ He squeezed one buttock. And she forgot Mick altogether. Well, as altogether as she could, seeing as he was stood a few feet away, his face fixed into something resembling a scowl. She pulled herself reluctantly away.
‘How about just a couple, then we go home and do something more interesting?’
***
The pub was packed with riders splattered with varying amounts of mud, so she was in good company. Most were at least a drink ahead of them, given that many had abandoned the ride part way around, in the same way that a lot of football supporters left the ground before the final whistle to make sure they were first at the bar. She stood at the corner of the bar, watching as Rory pushed his way to the front to order the drinks, absentmindedly glancing at the pile of newspapers. Then he did a double-take. Staring back at her was a familiar face underneath a headline that made no sense at all.
At exactly the same time as Lottie was picking up the newspaper in the pub, Amanda was opening the large oak door of Folly Lake Manor to Pip.
Chapter 8
‘I just can’t believe it, who would do such a thing? I mean, it’s ludicrous.’ She didn’t want to sound like a wailing baby, so right now she was aiming for indignation. And failing.
‘Is it?’ Pip eyed the bottle of premier cru Chablis and the empty glasses and wondered if it would be rude to just pour. After all, Amanda looked like she needed a stiff drink.
‘Of course it is.’ Amanda was still standing by the tall French windows, holding the front page of the Mail at arm’s length as though the distance might sanitise the story.
‘You could tell your side.’
‘It’s not my thing; I hate talking to people. Oh, shit.’ She threw the newspaper on the floor and perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Pip wondered if she ever just relaxed and collapsed in a heap, like a normal person. ‘Do you think everyone else has seen it?’
Pip shrugged. ‘Who knows? Most of them are at the hunt today, either riding, protesting or just drinking and hoping someone will fall off. It’s the highlight of the month for the St John’s Ambulance brigade.’ She picked up the discarded paper, just as Amanda remembered her impeccable manners and poured the Chablis. ‘And for Elizabeth.’
Taking pride of place on the front page of the newspaper was the most brilliant picture of poor Marcus’s coffin hoisted high on the pallbearers’ shoulders. Well, high in places. Markedly lower at Billy’s corner. In their hunting red jackets and topped boots, it really was the picture-perfect image of the English upper classes that Marcus had bought into.
Next to the main picture was one of Amanda, the grief-stricken widow, looking as immaculate as ever and tightly controlled. And at her shoulder was Tom.
‘Billionaire bows out to leave room for younger model?’ There then followed a very brief report on the funeral, a few details about Marcus’s portfolio that left her eyes popping, and speculation about Tom’s arrival in Tippermere, which included a good smattering of facts about the state of his heart since he was ‘cuckolded’, which wasn’t a term she could remember seeing for a while, and a few more sparse facts about the state of his buoyant bank account, along with a list of his numerous high-profile conquests whilst he was at the height of his modelling career.
There was brief speculation about the state of any romance between Amanda and Tom (with a circle on the photograph to highlight the fact that he had a ‘protective and consoling’ hand on her shoulder), and then the article finished by saying that without Tom Strachan’s intervention, the place could be sold to a footballer from nearby Kitterly Heath, or a property developer who would bring the bulldozers in. And where would that leave the picturesque jewel in Cheshire’s crown? ‘Bloody good pictures aren’t they though?’ Pip cast another assessing eye over the photographs, which were far from quick, opportunistic snaps. ‘You’d have thought we’d have noticed if there’d been paparazzi in the trees, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’d have thought someone would have shot the bastards down. I bet Elizabeth has got a gun licence.’
Pip laughed at the vehemence in Amanda’s tone. Up until now, control had been her byword, passion was for other people. Although her mum always did say it’s the quiet ones you have to look out for.
‘Hey, it’s my colleagues you’re slagging off there.’ Although most of them could have done with a smattering of shotgun pellets up the arse, it would have kept their hands away from her own posterior.
And talking about arses, there was one thing you had to say about horsemen, they were toned. Buttocks didn’t get any better than this.
Pip smiled to herself. There had been plenty of horsemen back in Wales, and plenty of well-muscled miners too – their skin etched deep with the daily grime they couldn’t escape. Sometimes she could see a similarity between the silver-spooned men of Tippermere and the grubby pitmen of her childhood: the resolve, the determination to achieve what they set out to. The way they expected the shit that life threw at them, and ploughed their way out. And sometimes it felt like she was on a different planet. Which is how, she guessed, Amanda felt. She tried to head her off in a different, and far more interesting, direction.
‘Are you going to stay?’
Amanda smiled and wished it felt more natural. Much younger than Marcus, she had married him because she loved his flamboyance, generosity and the fact that she had been sure he was a kindred spirit. She was also wise enough to realise that she was an asset.
Marcus knew how to spend his money, and he spent it on the best suits he could find, the finest leather shoes, and his wife. As a child, Amanda had decided that she wasn’t going to live hand to mouth, and nor was she going to join the rat race and work in an office 9-5; she was going to marry, and marry well.
With her angelic face, mass of blonde curls and generous nature, she was as far from a normal gold-digger as could be imagined. And even further when you took into account that she also intended marrying for love. Just a very specific type of love, with a very specific type of bank balance attached. And she knew that to succeed she would have to be single-minded, determined and prepared to dedicate her life towards being the perfect wife.
In meeting Marcus, she had been, in many ways, lucky. He appreciated her sweet nature, loved her delicate beauty and respected her single-mindedness. And the fact that she was, in effect, self-made appealed to the entrepreneur in him even more. The only downside to their relationship was the age gap, that, it soon became apparent, did matter, and his need for constant reassurance of his virility from any, and every, female within a large radius. Marcus had an appetite for life, and an appetite for sex. And he knew he could control neither. And he didn’t intend to try. All his wife had to do was live with it.
Some would have said Amanda had reaped her just rewards. She’d had money, and would continue to live happily on what her dead husband had left her in his will, but she hadn’t had the perfect love affair that she’d dreamed of. And now, just when their marriage should have been starting on a new track, she was alone, here, in the middle of nowhere, with a guilty secret gnawing away at her as persistently as a terrier chasing a rat.
She looked at her one friend, and wished she could tell her everything. But knew she couldn’t.
‘I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but—’
‘I didn’t write the piece, Amanda.’ Not this particular piece. ‘If you want me to put your side of the story then I will, but I didn’t do this.’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, to be honest.’ She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her bo
ttom, like she had done as a child, before the deportment lessons had banned it. ‘But I’m not shagging Tom, I mean the funeral was the first time I’d even heard of the man, because he sent me a note, he was just being kind, he wasn’t even there, for God’s sake. Was he?’
Pip shrugged. ‘I think I saw him briefly, loitering outside the church, but he doesn’t really know anyone in the village yet, does he?’
‘And, I’ve not said I’m selling; I don’t know where they got that idea from.’
Pip stared at the photo, which was undoubtedly of Tom, because she’d studied it at some length before and decided not to say anything. Not yet. If there had been something going on between Tom and Amanda, then turning up at the funeral wouldn’t have been the brightest of things to do anyway. Not that she thought Tom was particularly bright. ‘Everyone thinks you will sell up. They don’t think you’re settled here, they think it was more Marcus’s thing than yours. So, there isn’t some hot footballer and his blonde babe about to move in and liven things up, then?’
‘Nope, sorry, don’t know any. Look, I didn’t think I was settled when Marcus was here.’ She topped up their glasses and realised that she was beginning to feel a bit light-headed, then remembered she hadn’t really eaten properly for days. ‘It was his choice, but then men are like that, aren’t they?’ She shrugged and didn’t wait for Pip to answer, as it was probably going to be something disparaging about women being able to make their own choices. Which wasn’t the terms her life had worked on up until now. ‘And I do miss him so much, at first I just wanted to pack a case and walk, if I’m honest. But I do like it here.’ And I can’t leave, not yet. Until I’ve sorted things. ‘What makes you stay here? I mean, don’t you miss London?’
‘Sometimes. At least things work there.’ They both laughed as, with perfect timing, there was a loud gurgle from somewhere deep in the central-heating system. ‘And the men don’t have boots caked in horse shit.’
Amanda brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from her leg. ‘Marcus loved being Lord of the Manor.’
‘I bet he did. Did he swish a whip at you and make you bend over to be horsewhipped?’
‘I wish.’ She emptied the last dregs of the wine bottle into Pip’s glass. ‘He had grooms for that, I was more for accompanying him out and sitting pretty.’
‘Not much fun. Didn’t you get lonely?’
‘Randy sometimes. He was good to me, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t expect to lose him, I thought we’d grow old together living our separate lives, if you know what I mean.’
‘The perfect type of security.’
‘Yep. At the start I thought we were soul mates, you know, all that crap. And then for a while I wondered if I hated him, but just before he,’ she paused, sighed and turned the wine glass round between thumb and forefinger, ‘well, he’d decided we were actually too good together to throw it all away. He wanted us to find a way of making it work, but I… well it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Oh well, fancy getting totally pissed with me and comparing city men and this lot, it might help me make my mind up?’
Pip did wonder what Amanda had really thought about Marcus’s ‘making it work’ strategy, the ‘but’ was crying out to be interrogated, and it was bloody hard to squash down the journalist in her. But while she didn’t fully agree with the ‘patience is a virtue’ line, she did know when to bide her time. She’d interviewed enough people over the years to know the warning signs, read when it was the time to push and when it was better to back off. The trouble was, the more she talked to Amanda, the less she seemed to know about her. Which was a new experience.
‘Sounds like a plan, and I’ve got another one, how about I introduce you to the wonders of Kitterly Heath, and the odd footballer or two?’ Pip grinned. ‘I got a tip-off the other day from one of the staffies on the paper that the goalkeeper David Simcock has just moved into Kitterly Heath.’
Amanda looked suitably blank, which wasn’t promising.
‘Footballer? You have heard of City I presume? As in the football club, not the place.’ One of the factors that had played a part in Pip’s escape to the country was the fact that there was not one but several Premiership football teams within commuting distance.
‘Now you’re being sarcastic. Is he the tall one?’
Pip laughed. ‘All goalkeepers are tall. He’s 6’10” of fit man, can you imagine just how much man that is?’ The smile had been replaced with a dreamy look. ‘Do you think if I play my cards right he’ll introduce me to his manager?’
‘That depends on the cards I suppose.’
‘Now he is sexy, talk about Italian Stallion. He is one older man I wouldn’t close the door on; I could get to like grey hair.’
‘I thought you’d converted to the countryside?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ She winked at Amanda and drained her wine glass. ‘When I came here I was promised real men, but I seem to have arranged more dates for Rory’s bloody stallion than I have for myself.’
‘So don’t you need to persuade him to talk to you, David wotsit I mean, before you move on to his manager?’
‘I do, and I have.’ She grinned triumphantly. ‘I’ve snagged an interview with him tomorrow, in his new home. I bet it’s all fake Tudor and fluffy bits.’
‘Like this place you mean?’
Amanda didn’t sound judgemental, but it still made Pip flinch. Marcus obviously wasn’t a believer in restoring things to their former glory; he preferred the new-improved version.
‘It’s okay, I don’t mind. If it had been up to me things would probably be a bit different. If I stay, there are some things that are just going to have to go. Like the bloody shagpile white rugs for a start; do you know what a hell of a pain it is trying to keep them clean when nearly everyone who comes round has been tramping in fields?’
Pip grinned. ‘No, I don’t know, actually. I don’t do white. Anyhow, how do you feel about us having lunch with his other half next week? I’m sure if I can swing it, we can get far more juicy bits from her.’
‘Is that ethical?’
‘It’s lunch, not a deal. And if she wants to share, well that’s her decision isn’t it?’
‘Well, I suppose when you put it like that, why not? Now, I want you to tell me who that guy in the yellow Jag is?’
‘Yellow Jag?’
‘Yeah, I meant to ask you the other day, but then I was so worried about the funeral that it went out of my mind. He was here, down at the Equestrian Centre, talking to Charlotte. You must know who it is; you know everyone.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’ Pip reached over and picked up the newspaper that Amanda had been in anguish over. She jabbed a finger at the photograph. ‘That was Tom Strachan, the guy you’re supposed to be having a fling with.’
***
‘Well, fuck me.’
‘I thought you wanted a pint first!’
Rory poked at the other side of the local newspaper that Lottie had just grabbed from the corner of the bar. ‘Old Marcus has hit the headlines again.’
She unfolded it so that she could see the whole of the front page, which displayed in full glorious technicolor the pallbearers shouldering their heavy burden.
‘I thought they only did colour for state funerals?’ Her gaze drifted from the photograph to the headline, ‘Tippermere Tycoon Makes Way for Younger Model.’
‘I knew there was more to that Tom than he’s letting on. Why would he be here otherwise? I’d say the wine bars and tarts in Kitterly Heath were more up his street.’
‘He’s heartbroken. That’s what Pip told me, anyway.’
But Rory wasn’t listening, he was already heading over to the snug, where Mick had claimed seats, carrying a full pint in each hand. Lottie followed him, tripping up over feet as she tried to read the article and walk at the same time.
‘It says here,’ she squeezed her way into the gap between Ro
ry and Mick, forgetting that she was trying to avoid close contact with the Irishman, ‘that the marriage was on the rocks and Marcus was the one who suggested Tom come here.’
‘I thought he said he didn’t know anybody here? Not that I’d trust the word of someone who ponces about with his kegs off for a living.’
Lottie ignored him. ‘It says they met at some charity do in London that Marcus was a supporter of.’ She peered at the indistinct picture of Tom and Amanda. ‘Do you think he really is shagging her?’ Then suddenly she became aware of the drop in volume.
‘Hi, mind if I join you?’
Yes was the answer that came to mind first as Lottie glanced up to see the refined sexiness that was the man in question. Tom.
She scrambled to shove the newspaper under her bottom, which wasn’t the easiest of tasks given the way she was squashed in between two hard male thighs.
‘I can put that back if you want.’ He held out an elegant long-fingered hand and for a moment she hesitated. Or there was the shove-it-out-of-the-window option and hope one of the horses or a stray hound ate it.
‘Sure, thanks.’
He turned it over, eyes narrowing slightly as he spotted the blurred picture.
‘Who’s dug out that old picture?’
‘It is you, then?’ Nosiness overrode embarrassment.
‘Sure.’ He threw the newspaper down behind him and settled on the stool. ‘Always the crap pictures that get dug out isn’t it?’
‘But, but…’
‘Did you know you’re spluttering?’ Tab put her soft drink down, her tone dry as she plonked herself down next to her father with a sigh of resignation, which gained a chuckle from Mick. And made Lottie die to say, ‘and did you know you’re dad’s got ulterior motives?’ But she didn’t.
‘So, did that count as a good day’s hunting?’
Lottie glared. ‘That picture is of you and Amanda.’
‘Is she in it?’ He looked genuinely surprised, but totally uninterested. It seemed to amuse Mick no end, and gained him a sharp kick on the ankle.
‘The hunting was grand, thank you.’ Mick raised his glass. ‘If a little tame at times, but at least Charlotte here didn’t fall off and nobody killed themselves.’
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 106
