Farm Fatale

by Wendy Holden

  And now, again for career reasons, he had the cheek to invoke the memory of a relationship he had put up with only because it had suited him. He, too, had thrown her over when it didn't. Hold on, Rosie thought. Just who is being gullible here? Being used?

  "Old times' sake?" she screeched into the receiver. "Old bloody times' sake? Are you joking? I'd do it for practically anything. But I won't do it for that."

  "Come on, Rosie—"

  "No comment," Rosie yelled as she hurled the phone down. "No bloody comment."

  ***

  Shouting at Mark made her feel marginally better. A dull calm descended, relief from the stinging pain of earlier. Her head felt oddly clear.

  Dully, she realized she had to leave the cottage. And the village. Eight Mile Bottom was finally over for her. Cinder Lane was finished.

  Coming out of the door and looking up the street, she saw she was not far wrong. The Muzzles had dragged out what seemed like the entire contents of their sitting room onto the road. Blathnat and Satchel were bouncing manically up and down on a sunken floral sofa. A broken armchair slumped nearby, and another child Rosie did not recognize was riding a coffee table up and down the lane. Its castors roared against the tarmac.

  "We're going to have a painting party," Satchel yelled. "We're doing up the lounge. It's going to go on all night."

  Of all Rosie's regrets concerning Cinder Lane, the keenest, just then, was that Mark was not present to witness the truly fearsome sight of all the Muzzle furniture on the street. Arthur and Guinevere's sofa would, she knew, have driven him into a rage; the ambulant coffee table possibly to a nervous breakdown.

  As the only destination up the lane was Spitewinter, Rosie turned sharply down it, almost colliding as she did so with a tall, vague-looking woman wandering up in a billowing floral dress. She wore a straw hat festooned with flowers and ribbons; surely, Rosie thought, not someone going to the Muzzles' painting party? As she turned the corner, Rosie looked back and watched the woman float dreamily through the assorted shattered soft furnishings and head up the lane to the farm.

  Then Rosie realized. Of course. Another glossy country- magazine reader who had written to Jack. And someone, Rosie thought sardonically, watching the receding frills and florals, with an even more romantic idea of the countryside than hers had originally been. A thousand million years ago. Passing Mrs. Womersley's windows and noticing the old lady standing there, purse-lipped and scribbling vigorously into a notebook, Rosie's suspicions were confirmed. She was amazed to see Mrs. Womersley wave at her. Still, thought Rosie, I'm probably imagining things now. As if to confirm this, the church clock, showing two, struck a wobbly nine.

  It had reached twenty-one as Rosie marched, head down, firmly up the High Street and quickly past The Bottoms lest Iseult spot her. She had no idea where she was going. Just that she had to go.

  "Hello there." As she passed the Barley Mow, a cheery voice broke through the haze like sunshine. Alan the landlord was sitting on the paved terrace at the front of the pub enjoying a late and delicious-looking lunch of fish pie, peas, and chips. Rosie's stomach rumbled as she tried to work out how long it had been since she had eaten.

  "Coming to Talent Night?" Alan called. "Everyone in the village is taking part. Going to be a good 'un."

  Rosie, forcing a smile, shook her head. "Don't think so. I don't have any talent."

  "Don't be daft, you're an artist, aren't you?" Alan rubbed his chin, his brows contracting. "Then again, difficult to do that on a stage, I suppose. Can you sing though? Or play anything? Your chance to be a rock star, this is."

  Rosie flinched. "Don't think I'm that type."

  "Rubbish. Everyone's got a rock star in them."

  But not me, thought Rosie, torn between tears and laughter and opting for a watery smile. Not anymore.

  "We've got the headmistress on the organ and the local school inspector in drag singing Marilyn Monroe," Alan continued. "I've put them next to each other in the running order, so that should be interesting. You know they don't get on, don't you?"

  "Something about a cat, wasn't it?"

  Alan nodded, his cheek bulging with chips. "We've got the plumber doing Lionel Ritchie," he added, waving his fork. "The milkman's playing the triangle and the postman's on the tin whistle. Oh, and the builder's doing 'Another Brick in the Wall.'"

  Rosie smiled, remembering Bella reading out the results of the last Talent Night in the village newsletter. Her smile faded as she remembered that directly after that had come the fatal conversation in which Bella had encouraged her, nay, insisted, she go after Matt. What a great idea that had been.

  "Plenty of opportunity for latecomers to sign up," persisted Alan. "You any good on maracas?"

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Weeding furiously in the garden later that afternoon, Rosie wondered why she was bothering. It wasn't as if she would be here to see the results of her labors. Who knew where she would be when next year's bulbs came poking out of the dark earth like the blades of green knives? As soon as the weekend was over, she planned to go to see Nigel at Kane, Birch & Spankie and put Number 2 Cinder Lane back on the market.

  Lost in thought and the tearing of dandelion stems, Rosie thought she could hear a voice. Was it speaking to her? She looked up to see Dora Womersley peering over the wall.

  The old lady was smiling and holding a tomato plant rather nervously. "Thought you might like this," she said, stretching out her liver-spotted hand with its bundle of leaves and earth.

  Rosie hesitated, then took it. Might as well let bygones be bygones. Everything would be bygones soon. "Thanks," she said. "Everything all right?" she added.

  "Oh yes." Mrs. Womersley nodded vigorously, her postparty frozen manner apparently evaporated. Blinking agitatedly, she cast an eye at the heavily clouded sky. "Black as t'inside of a cow up there though. It'll be raining tin 'ats later. I can feel it in my plastic hip."

  "Oh, dear," said Rosie, who had spent the last half hour lugging watering cans from the protracted dribble otherwise known as the cold tap. What a waste of effort.

  Mrs. Womersley hesitated. There was obviously something she wanted to say. "We're going to a wedding soon," she blurted out.

  "How lovely," Rosie said automatically. "Who's getting married?" A split second later, she realized. "Not Jack?"

  Mrs. Womersley nodded so hard her spectacles almost flew off. "Yes. I've only just found out meself. I know it seems a bit previous, but they didn't want to waste any more time…any time, I mean." The old lady paused and blushed. "She's a nice, sensible girl from Yorkshire called Susan. Bit older than Jack. But very capable. Got lots of ideas for the farm. Wants to open a bed-and-breakfast, start a garden center, sell cheese and jam, oh, there's no end to it."

  "Well, that's great." Rosie was surprised to find she really did feel glad. Relieved, certainly. Thank God someone had come out of the whole mess with something to show for it. "She sounds perfect farmer's wife material."

  Flower Hat, then, had failed to make an impression. Probably failed to find the farm, given the vague way she'd been weaving up the lane.

  "Do send Jack my, um, love. Tell him I hope they'll both be very happy."

  The old lady nodded violently. "I will that. Don't you worry. Thank you." Mrs. Womersley's glasses finally shot off her nose and swung drunkenly about on their plastic chains.

  Just then Rosie's ear caught what sounded like a violent assault on the front of the cottage. Or could it be someone at the door?

  "Excuse me," she said to Mrs. Womersley. "I think it's the postman."

  "I'd stay here in that case," said the old lady with a wry smile.

  Bang bang bang bang. The noise as she hurried through the kitchen was terrifying. Duffy never made a row like this. Or knocked at all, come to think of it. Satchel? Possible, though even he usually stopped short of a din of this proportion. The Muzzles and a collection of friends were all inside their house anyway, wielding brushes with more enthusiasm than skill. Ar
thur was an early casualty; Rosie had spotted him on her return home, his dreadlocks plastered with primer. "If you think this is bad, you should see my bongos," he had muttered. "They'll be a write-off for Talent Night."

  The banging went on. As Rosie reached the sitting room, she froze with shock. Crashing his fist against the window, shouting her name, a deranged expression on his face was…Matt.

  Rosie fell back against the wall.

  His blows redoubled in force as he saw her. "Let me in, Rosie. Let me in!" Behind him, Rosie could see Blathnat and Satchel, their mouths wide open in admiration. Even Guinevere never got up a head of steam like this.

  Rosie hesitated. The glass was about to crack. For God's sake, hadn't this man done enough to her? Not content with breaking her heart, he had to come to smash her house up into the bargain. She half turned on her heel.

  "Rosie!" screamed Matt, his voice a raw howl.

  For once the latch slid easily back in its socket. Matt shot in like a bullet from a gun, slammed the door behind him, and dragged her with him into the kitchen. It was a wise precaution. Thrilled by the drama, every child in the street now had his or her nostrils flush to the sitting-room window.

  Rosie shrank against the kitchen sink, confused, angry, and terrified. Matt, his eyes spitting sparks, his chest heaving, his breath rasping, was clearly almost deranged with fury.

  "I found out," he snarled at her. "I heard all about it. I had no idea. No idea at all."

  "About what?" Rosie's hands clutched the edge of the steel draining board. Did he mean Jack? Ancient history—and so what anyway?

  "The bloody film, of course," bellowed Matt, banging his fists against the wall so that the plaster fell in a shower from the ceiling.

  "Film?" Yes, they were filming at Ladymead. She knew that; so did he. So what was he talking about?

  "Farm Fatale or whatever it's bloody called. The rustic romp. The one with"—he paused, apparently struggling to get the word out—"Champagne in it."

  Despite flinching at the name, Rosie spoke calmly. "Yes. I know, I met her. She told me all about it. How excited you were she was filming at Ladymead and so on—"

  "Well, she had no bloody right to," Matt roared. "I never gave her any sodding permission. She's not filming at Ladymead. I told her to piss off."

  "You told…her…to piss off," repeated Rosie incredulously.

  "Well, of course I bloody did." Matt smashed what must have been already bruised fists against the kitchen table for emphasis. "I can't believe she had the cheek to come anywhere near me. But then she always did have plenty of that."

  Rosie gaped, then frowned. Something about this wasn't quite right. Wasn't he desperately in love with Champagne?

  "Turns out the sodding film unit's been going around the village for days saying I'd agreed," Matt snarled, pacing up and down in the kitchen. "Been casting bloody everyone from the vicar to the sodding district nurse as extras. Before they'd even talked to me. Champagne told them all it would be no problem filming at Ladymead." His brows knit furiously. "No problem. As it happens, it's a fucking massive problem."

  "Is it?" whispered Rosie, still clinging to the draining board.

  "Of course it bloody is. Let me tell you," he added, eyes hard as diamonds, "about Champagne."

  Rosie braced herself. Here it came. The love, the betrayal, the pain. The incomparable love.

  "Champagne," said Matt, his voice caressing the syllables. "She walked into my life in a skirt so short it was like a novelette with a happy ending…"

  Just as she had imagined, Rosie thought. Why was she listening to this shit? "I heard you never got over her," she muttered miserably.

  "Too right I never bloody got over her. But not quite in the way she liked to make out. When we split, she told everyone I was destroyed by her dumping me."

  Rosie drew a sharp breath. Here they went.

  "I was destroyed all right. And her dumping me was the only thing that saved me. Except that she didn't dump me. It was me who dumped her."

  "You…?"

  "Of course I bloody did." Matt snorted. "The woman's a monster. I wouldn't have her within a hundred miles of Ladymead. Being with her was the worst time of my life. Never got over her, too bloody right. I'm probably damaged for life. She was a nightmare."

  "Nightmare?"

  "Nightmare," repeated Matt. "Champagne's the most spoiled and feckless woman on the planet. You must have read the stories…"

  Rosie looked down. The kitchen seemed to be whirling about her.

  "You haven't? But of course you haven't. You don't read papers. Very sensible of you. But let me tell you, anyway. I once had to book an entire penthouse suite at the Savoy because Champagne wanted a cup of coffee. She wouldn't even get on a Gulfstream unless it was the same color as her nail polish. Drove me fucking bananas."

  A feeling of calm began to spread through Rosie.

  "And, Christ, she was thick." Matt rocked back on his heels agitatedly. "The only deep thing about her was her cleavage. And most of that was fake. I never saw what her real face was like, it was so plastered in makeup. Her arse, by contrast, was on permanent public view."

  Rosie closed her eyes.

  "Financially, she almost finished me. Went through my money like water. Once gave six hundred pounds to a beach attendant just for putting a parasol up and bringing her a Sea Breeze. She used to bloody live on caviar. Millionaire's Marmite, she called it." Matt paused. "Amazing I had enough left to buy Ladymead in the end," he continued. "'Get yourself a tame bank manager and a stockbroker with inside information,' everyone said when I hit the big time. It was only once Champagne started raiding my accounts that I realized my bank manager was barely house-trained and my stockbroker was keeping all his insider information to himself." Matt smacked his palm hard against his forehead.

  He continued, eyes slightly watering. "It was her that drove me to drink. After she'd finished with me I wasn't just a songwriter with an alcohol problem, I was an alcoholic with a songwriting problem. I thought I was just drinking socially, whereas in fact the tabloids were regularly reporting that I was drinking very antisocially indeed. She drove me so close to the edge that I thought I might go over it. I looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back into me…" He paused, rubbed his eyes, and gave Rosie a mirthless smile. "Enough already. I sound like an outtake on one of my own albums."

  "But I thought—"

  "Yes, I know what you bloody thought. She met you in the archway and told you to sod off because she was filming and we were getting back together. Didn't she? Didn't she?"

  Rosie nodded, tears pricking at her eyes.

  "Well, that was a bloody lie. Everything she told you was a bloody lie. She was jealous. One look at you and she would have guessed what was going on."

  Going on? Was anything, Rosie wondered dully, going on?

  "I only realized when Murgatroyd marched her into the studio. Found her trespassing on the property, he said. When she told me what she'd said to you, I almost…" Matt swallowed hard. "I came straight round," he whispered, wild-eyed.

  "I thought you had gone back to her," Rosie murmured in a monotone. "I thought everything she said was true. I thought…"

  "Rosie," Matt said, speaking to her from across the miles between the sink and the kitchen table. "I was desperate to see you. I knew what you would think and that you wouldn't want to see me. I was going to write to you and explain everything." He paused. "Then rather fortunately, Murgatroyd reminded me there was a slight problem with the postman."

  Rosie smiled.

  "I love you," Matt said, his voice bubbling and echoing as if through water. "Not Champagne. Champagne means nothing to me. Not anymore. I fell in love with you the minute I saw you, wearing that gorgeous suit and looking at me with big, scared eyes outside the door of that house. It helped me so much being with you. I felt so much better. You're so gentle, so encouraging, such a good listener…"

  Rosie strained to catch the words, but her ears seemed
to be filled with cotton wool. His voice loomed and faded, as if he was speaking underwater.

  "You've helped me more than you can ever know," the watery voice continued. "Even with the album. That tape you gave to Murgatroyd is fantastic. Amazing stuff. Just what I needed. I got that girl Iseult in to help me on a few tracks. Her voice is unbelievable. Incredible. We're going to perform together soon—just a little thing to help me get my stage boots back on." His eyes flashed with joy. "Oh, Rosie. Say you'll forgive me. Say you'll marry me. I'm so bloody sorry…Rosie?"

  Rosie's elbow suddenly gave way beneath her. The kitchen floor came toward her face. A stray piece of penne by the sink came clearly into focus. Then everything went black.