Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  ‘I think…’ She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips, as if thinking hard, though she’d decided on a figure before she’d even walked through the door. ‘Do you know, I think we could ask a hundred and forty.’

  Mrs Turner’s face dropped.

  ‘But… but next door but one went for one sixty-five. Only a month ago.’

  Tiona smiled a sympathetic smile.

  ‘They were asking one sixty-five. What they actually got was one fifty. I’ve done my research. And our philosophy at Drace’s is to put a slightly lower asking price in order to attract viewers. That way you get more competitive bidding – people come and view and set their heart on your property, and end up determined to have it at any cost.’ She demonstrated round her. ‘I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with this house? What you want is to get three or four prospective buyers over the threshold, all desperate to outdo each other.’

  Mrs Turner smiled fondly. ‘I’ve been very happy here. Even since Arthur –’

  Tiona forged on, not wanting to hear the old bat’s reminiscences. ‘If you put too high an asking price, people won’t even come and view. And what you’ve also got to remember is the market is slowing down. I know you read in the paper about prices shooting up, but actually not at this end of the market.’

  ‘Oh.’ This was obviously news to Mrs Turner.

  ‘Now, obviously you’ll be asking other agents to come and view –’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t think so. Arthur always said you could trust Hamilton Drace.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind. But perhaps for peace of mind you should get another opinion?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need.’

  Stupid old cow, thought Tiona.

  ‘In that case,’ she smiled her most syrupy smile, ‘I might as well measure up while I’m here. It would save disturbing you again.’

  ‘Why not? Shall I make you a cup of tea in the meantime?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Tiona let Mrs Turner make her a cup of tea, though she had no intention of drinking it – she’d seen the dark-brown stains in the cups on the draining board – while she pretended to flick round with a tape measure and write important things down on her clipboard. She would pop back into the kitchen occasionally, to ask technical questions about heating and wiring and cavity-wall insulation, at times nodding approval, at others feigning concern. By the time Tiona left they were the best of friends, and Mrs Turner got out the details of the warden-controlled home she was hoping to put an offer on, heartened by Tiona’s reassurances that she would be in there by the autumn.

  A hundred yards up the hill, Tiona scrambled back into her Golf and got out her mobile phone. The curt ‘What?’ on the other end made her shiver with delight.

  ‘I’ve got a dead cert for you. One forty. You could make two twenty on it no problem, with an Ikea kitchen and some laminate flooring –’

  ‘Go for it,’ he cut her off crisply.

  ‘Usual terms?’ she purred into the mouthpiece.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, just get on with it.’

  Her insides quivered. She loved it when he talked to her like that. She glanced round to check for passers-by, then lowered her voice suggestively.

  ‘I’m not wearing any knickers.’

  She slid her hand up inside her skirt, just to make sure she wasn’t lying.

  ‘Of course you’re not. You never do.’

  There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Good. He was thawing.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On a building site.’

  ‘Find somewhere…’ Her breath was short. Her meaning was clear.

  ‘Have you ever been on a building site? There’s nowhere to have a wank. Only the Portaloo. And I’m not going in there. Not even for you, toffee-drawers.’

  Tiona stared at her tiny little Ericsson in disbelief. He’d hung up on her. He’d never done that before. Usually by now they’d be indulging in the filthiest of exchanges, him issuing her with instructions that made her blush even now to think of them. She must be losing her touch. Well, stuff Simon Lomax. That was the last time she was going to give him a tip-off in return for a wad of his dirty bank notes. If he did but know it, she’d got bigger fish to fry than a low-rent property dealer. A fish that was already dangling on the end of her hook, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  She tossed her phone back into her bag, trying to ignore the fact that she was squirming with lust, turned on by the brief exchange. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate now for the rest of the day. It was hard work being oversexed… but at least she could hide it. Tiona often thanked God she wasn’t a man. How awful it must be to walk around all day with a raging hard-on and nowhere to put it.

  4

  At half past five, Jamie was woken from her nap by a mad tooting heralding the arrival of a navy-blue Bentley being driven with total disregard. It screeched to a halt and out of it spilled her father Jack, in a cream linen suit and Panama hat. And Lettice Harkaway in twenty-five yards of salmon-pink chiffon.

  Jamie’s heart sank. If there was one person on the planet she couldn’t abide, it was Lettice. Her husband had disappeared in a scuba-diving incident twenty years before, leaving Lettice with a whopping inheritance and rumours of foul play that she never attempted to deny. With her flamboyant clothing designed for someone twenty years younger, her false eyelashes and her imperious manner, she’d been the queen bee of the local social scene for as long as Jamie could remember, and she’d always found her intolerably self-centred and superficial. Lettice had been brought up in Kenya, where she was used to lolling about the country club all day and coming home to a ream of servants. To this day she found it hard to remember that everyone around her wasn’t there to serve her as she waved a pudgy, bejewelled paw at whoever was nearest to do her bidding.

  Jamie slid out of the hammock, suddenly feeling ridiculously shy as her father bounded up the path with Lettice in tow. At the same moment, Olivier appeared from the stable yard. Bugger. She hadn’t wanted an audience. This was an intensely private moment. She stepped out on to the path, wishing she could have given him some warning.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  Jack stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘Jamie?’

  ‘I got back a couple of hours ago.’

  Olivier moved in to explain.

  ‘She found me in the kitchen. Bit of a shock.’

  Lettice intervened, her husky growl setting Jamie’s teeth on edge. Someone had once misguidedly compared her to Honor Blackman, and it had given her carte blanche to purr like a Bond heroine at every opportunity.

  ‘Lucky thing. I’d love to find you in my kitchen.’

  Jack was still looking totally flummoxed. Jamie was surprised that his reactions were so slow. Her father was usually so reactive and spontaneous. It was, she supposed, his age. But to her relief, he finally smiled and held out his arms.

  ‘Jamie, darling. How wonderful.’

  Jamie slid into his clasp and hugged him to her, not knowing what to say. Lettice clapped her hands like a little girl.

  ‘What are we waiting for, everyone? This is a champagne moment if ever I saw one. There should still be some chilled in the boot. Olivier!’

  She barked his name and to Jamie’s amazement Olivier obeyed without demur. Then she turned to Jamie with a dazzling smile. She’d definitely had a face-lift since the last time she’d seen her.

  ‘Why ever didn’t you tell us you were coming home? There’s a marvellous invention called the telephone, darling. We could have met you at the airport.’

  We? Us? thought Jamie wildly. She wondered what else she didn’t know about, as everyone trooped inside to the drawing room. Jack threw open the French windows that led out on to a little camomile lawn, and the early evening sun streamed in. The dogs took up their position on the kilim rug in front of the fireplace. Jamie flopped on to the sofa and looked around.

  The room still held so much of her mother’s
personality. The wood-panelled walls were covered in paintings Louisa had accumulated over the years: not the usual hunting prints favoured by so many country homes, but a collection that reflected her artistic background and her wide-ranging tastes. Modern, vivid splashes of abstract colour were positioned next to more traditional portraits and wild, rugged landscapes. Mixed amongst them were Louisa’s own works: charcoal sketches of animals whose very essence was captured in just a few skilful lines; vibrant and impressionistic still lifes; thoughtful, brooding studies of the Shropshire countryside in bruised purples and indigos. Each of her many and varied styles reflected a different facet of her character, ranging from lively and gregarious to inward and reflective.

  She had been, thought Jamie, so many different people. There was the tortured artist, who would retreat into the old shed she used as a studio, battling with her work with everything else fading into unimportance – no meals, no washing done, the animals neglected – until she was happy with her masterpiece. Or not, as was sometimes the case, in which event it went on the fire. Then there was the nurturing gardener. Louisa would spend all day in the greenhouse, in a tattered old pair of cords, hair tied back with baler twine and hands engrained with earth, pricking out and propagating and fertilizing and repotting. And the country gentlewoman, bastion of the local hunt, upholding the tradition of riding side-saddle, exquisite on her prancing grey steed.

  But Jamie’s favourite incarnation was Louisa the party girl, the sparkling hostess, forever throwing spontaneous drinks parties, impromptu barbecues, spur of the moment Sunday lunches that went on well into the night. A mere half an hour could see a total transformation from one of the above personae, and Louisa would descend the stairs looking for all the world like a film star in a fitted silk dress that would show off her tiny waist, her rich chestnut hair piled on top of her head, the merest hint of eye-liner and lipstick enhancing her fragile, translucent beauty. Her dark-brown velvet eyes spoke volumes and held everyone in their thrall. Under her gaze, you felt like the only person in the world. For somehow, Louisa always made everyone and everything feel special.

  Jamie remembered when she was a child. There’d been Easter egg hunts with ingenious clues hidden all over the farm, long cross-country rides with picnics in some magical spot Louisa had discovered, a puppet show for her birthday with fairy-tale puppets Louisa had been sewing all day and all night for weeks. And she carried that magic across all the generations – there’d been pensioners in the surrounding villages who lived for her day on the Meals on Wheels rota, when she’d help them with the crossword, join them in a quick sneaky sherry, listen to their moans and groans without looking as if she wished she was somewhere else. She made them feel as if they mattered for a golden half-hour in their grey, dreary lives.

  She had her faults, of course. She was hopelessly impractical when it came to anything boring. Both Jamie’s parents were. Anything that involved making a decision, or filling out a form, or hitting a deadline, and they were infuriatingly ostrich-like, the pair of them. As she grew older, Jamie often found herself having to chivvy them into confronting day-to-day realities – they seemed to think they had immunity from the mundane. It could be immensely frustrating.

  And Louisa had her dark moments: times when she was distracted; when she would hide herself away and take little interest in her surroundings or other people. Sometimes she would take off somewhere for a few days at a time, declaring that she needed ‘space’. But that was because she was an artist. Eventually, she would emerge from the gloom with a renewed vigour and energy, throwing herself into some new project or social engagement with such enthusiasm that you soon forgot the dark side. It was like the sun appearing from behind a cloud; when you were enjoying its warmth, you couldn’t imagine it ever raining again.

  She’d been such a strong presence that Jamie couldn’t believe even now that she wasn’t going to walk into the room with a plate of cheese straws fresh from the oven, face smudged with flour or paint or earth, depending on what she had been doing, then curl up in her big, old, battered leather chair by the fire, feet bare and her hair in a knot skewered with a paintbrush.

  Instead, bloody Lettice was in that very chair now, unwinding herself from several yards of chiffon scarf and kicking off her stilettos, which were a ridiculous height for a woman of sixty plus. Jamie prayed fiercely that her father wasn’t thinking of marrying the old witch. She’d heard plenty of horror stories about widowers marrying on the rebound…

  In the sanctuary of the drinks cupboard that was tucked away in the corner of the room, Jack counted down four champagne glasses with a trembling hand and put them on a tray, then quickly uncorked a decanter of whisky and poured himself a slug. He hoped he’d hidden it well, but he’d had a terrible shock. Seeing Jamie like that on the path, like a ghost, an apparition… for one moment, a moment both glorious and dreadful, he’d thought it was Louisa. Jamie looked more like her than ever, now her hair had grown and she’d lost so much weight. Jack felt a bit of a fool, then told himself it was a mistake anyone could have made, with her appearing from nowhere like that with no warning.

  And it wasn’t the first time he’d thought he’d seen Louisa. In the first dreadful months after her death, she’d appeared to him many times, usually courtesy of a bottle of his namesake, Jack Daniels. He drank it to blot out her memory, but sometimes she came to him before he’d managed to drink enough to slink into oblivion. She would smile at him through his alcoholic haze, unreachable, untouchable, only disappearing when his consciousness slipped finally away from him in a drunken stupor. There had been nothing for it but to drink harder and faster, to keep her apparition at bay.

  Thank God the boy had appeared like that, and given him something else to think about, or Jack was sure he would, eventually, have gone quite, quite mad.

  Olivier came back in with a bottle of cold Bollinger as Jack appeared with the glasses. The champagne was poured ceremoniously and Jack proposed a toast to Jamie’s return. As she sipped her bubbles, she reflected that this was far from the homecoming she’d expected, to be knocking back the Bolly with Olivier Templeton and Lettice Harkaway, each of whose presence made her wary. She longed to be alone with Jack. He was obviously delighted to see her home, skitting about like a frisky kitten, thoroughly overexcited by the occasion, performing for his guests as usual.

  At long last, Lettice drained her glass with an air of finality.

  ‘Righty-ho, darlings. I must toddle off, I’m afraid.’

  Thank God, thought Jamie.

  ‘Not staying for supper?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, no – the last thing I want to do is intrude. You’ve got such a lot to catch up on.’

  Jamie let out an audible sigh of relief as Lettice poked her feet back into her shoes and stood up. As she walked past Olivier, she pinched his bottom.

  ‘You gorgeous thing!’ she rasped. Jamie was nearly sick, but Olivier just grinned. He was obviously used to it. As the Bentley roared off down the drive, all that was left of Lettice was the overwhelming smell of Trésor and the bright pink lipstick on her champagne glass.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well,’ said Jamie.

  They looked at each other for a moment, then Jack held out his arms.

  ‘Come here,’ he said gruffly, and Jamie buried herself in his embrace, trying very, very hard not to cry.

  ‘I think I’ll go and have a bath,’ said Olivier hastily, and made himself scarce.

  5

  Tiona was in the little boxroom she had commandeered as her private office as soon as it became clear that Hamilton Drace wasn’t coming back to work after his funny turn and that she was, for the time being, in charge. Hamilton had never had his own office. He always said he couldn’t get a feel for what was going on if he was locked away. But Tiona needed privacy. She didn’t want anybody earwigging on her transactions, even though she thought most of the staff at Drace’s were too thick to cotton on to what she was up to. She insisted she nee
ded complete peace and quiet to discuss terms with clients, blaming her own lack of concentration, implying that a fluffy little creature like her couldn’t possibly walk and chew gum at the same time, and everyone seemed to accept it.

  She had one last call to make before clocking off for the day. She stabbed out Mrs Turner’s number, then twizzled the cord round her finger, batted her eyelashes and smiled her sweetest smile, knowing they would transfer themselves down the telephone line.

  ‘Mrs Turner? Tiona Tutton-Price here. I’ve got some fantastic news.’ She sounded breathy and excited, as if she could barely contain herself. ‘I was just about to type up your particulars, when a man came in to register his details. He was after just what you’ve got to offer. He’s prepared to give you the asking price. Cash, no strings. He doesn’t even want to view.’

  Mrs Turner hesitated.

  ‘But I thought what we wanted was two or three people interested –’

  Shut up, thought Tiona. You weren’t supposed to actually pay attention to what I was telling you.

  ‘Let me put it into perspective for you. You’ll be saving yourself a fortune. No advertising, no board up, no photography. And I’m sure we can come to some arrangement over our fees. After all, I won’t have had to work terribly hard.’

  She gave a tinkling laugh, but there was no reply. Tiona knew from experience that Mrs Turner was struggling to take the information in. It took the old so bloody long to cotton on.

  ‘Peace of mind, Mrs Turner. If we move very quickly you will be safe in the knowledge that you’ve got a definite sale. He’s happy to exchange ASAP. Whereas it could be weeks before we get a firm offer…’