Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  Tiona also knew that the old liked nothing better than certainty; that they hated taking risks, waiting on decisions. It would just take one quick turn of the thumbscrews.

  ‘And the market’s very volatile, don’t forget. It could take a plunge any moment. We only need an increase in the interest rate.’

  ‘So you think I should accept his offer?’

  Tiona feigned hesitation.

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to influence your decision. It’s entirely up to you.’ She lowered her tone confidentially. ‘Let’s just say if it was me…’

  Outside in the main office, Christopher Drace heard the town clock strike six and put down his pen with a sigh that was part satisfaction, part frustration. He thought, at last, that the office was running smoothly. The last three months had been fraught. He’d lost count of how many houses they’d let slip through their fingers while they sorted things out, but that had been fine by him. Better not to handle a sale at all than handle it badly. Once he’d been satisfied they could do the job properly, he’d allowed Tiona out of the door to do valuations again, and now a satisfying rash of Drace’s boards were popping up around Ludlow.

  But marring this triumph were three pressing problems that he couldn’t ignore. And he had to admit he didn’t have a clue what to do about any of them. Sorting out the agency had certainly been a challenge, but it was largely a question of assessing the damage, then limiting it. There were practical solutions that could be immediately implemented. His other conundrums were more ethereal, more complicated.

  His biggest concern was Zoe. For a start, he knew he wasn’t spending enough time with her. He was working a six-day week, Saturdays being the busiest for any estate agent, and occasionally he had to work Sundays too. He tried very hard to be home by seven o’clock each night, if only to have twenty minutes with Hugo and Sebastian, who were already in their pyjamas and slippers and liked to have their bedtime drinks with him, one on each of his knees, even though Hugo was really too big. By then, Zoe would be in the kitchen, three-quarters of the way down a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. ‘We couldn’t wait!’ she would chirrup cheerfully, as if Rosemary had somehow been instrumental in its opening and subsequent consumption. Christopher knew his mother had probably had an inch in the bottom of her glass, while Zoe, judging by her glazed expression and the roses in her cheeks, had golloped the lion’s share and would rush to open another bottle for, apparently, Christopher’s benefit.

  She was obviously desperately unhappy, and Christopher felt helpless. If only there had been money to do up the house, she would have been occupied. She had a good eye. But she wasn’t one for making do. Christopher didn’t like to suggest gardening. Zoe couldn’t even keep a pot of Sainsbury’s flat-leaf parsley alive. The problem was she’d been in London too long. Noise and fumes and traffic jams and crowds were the stuff of life to her. The silence at Lydbrook House unnerved her – she kept the television on all day if only for the background chatter. The unrelenting darkness at night totally freaked her. Christopher adored its comforting velvety cloak, dark as Guinness. Zoe had to have the landing light on. She would stay awake for hours, longing for the familiar background noises of traffic, sirens, car alarms and revellers on their way home to lull her into the land of nod. Eventually, she would drop off, then sit bolt upright, heart racing, when the hoot of an owl ripping her from unconsciousness would mean another two hours of agonizing insomnia.

  It was such a contrast to the Zoe of only six months ago; the Zoe with the rackety social life, who rushed from the gym (twenty minutes cardio; two hours cappuccino) to girlie lunches to crucial shopping trips involving the quest for the perfect pair of boots. Then there would be hordes of small boys back for tea – as she didn’t work she was often an unpaid childminder for her career-orientated friends, but this never fazed her; she never bitched or complained that she was being used. It was this generosity of spirit that made Christopher love her so much. He’d had no idea that the gloriously happy muddle she lived in could not be transplanted. She’d been uprooted – more unwillingly than she’d let on, he suspected – and now she was wilting before his very eyes.

  Equally as worrying as his wife’s state of mind was his father’s. Christopher had to force himself to go and visit Hamilton in the home, because he found his condition so depressing. The doctors had insisted there was nothing physically wrong with him. But he rarely spoke, rarely ate, didn’t take part in any of the activities laid on by the home, wouldn’t have bothered washing or dressing if the nurses didn’t chivvy him ruthlessly, day in, day out. Something, some light, some vital component, had gone out in him, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do. His life, to all intents and purposes, seemed to be over. And he was only sixty-seven.

  Christopher had made the mistake of thinking the boys might bring him back to life, but Hamilton had merely given them the flicker of a benevolent smile, lifted his hand to touch each of them on the head and turned back to gaze at the wall. The experience had upset both of the children, who had fond memories of their grandpa taking them down to the river to tickle trout, or to pick raspberries or light a satisfying bonfire. And it had cut Christopher to the quick, making him realize he was powerless to help.

  Lastly, there was his mother. Brave, uncomplaining, but deep-down bewildered Rosemary, who drifted unhappily about the house in the clothes that were starting to hang off her. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the home next to Hamilton. But then, when your husband of over forty years was cruelly snatched away from you, and you didn’t have the closure of death, but a cadaverous reminder you were duty-bound to visit every day – well, the most ebullient of personalities would be affected.

  He did a quick straw poll of the members of his family. He himself was relatively happy, which of course only added to his guilt. It wasn’t until they were back at Lydbrook that he realized how much he had missed the country and how much he loathed London. Here, at lunchtime, he could wander out of his office, buy a crusty cob and stroll down to the river, rather than sit in some smoky hostelry chewing on a soggy, over-refrigerated baguette. And in retrospect Elmdon Road had been suffocating, so claustrophobic; you were under scrutiny twenty-four hours a day. Everyone knew your business – when you had a row, where you bought your groceries, if you were late for work, if you were home early. Everything was shared: babysitters, school runs, pints of milk, secrets, gossip – and, if the latter was to be believed, sometimes partners. Christopher, who was an intensely private person, found it liberating to be able to walk out into his own garden without people checking to see if you’d changed your boxer shorts.

  The boys were in their element. They’d lost their city pallor, spending most of their time outdoors, whereas in London they’d spent most of it glued to the telly or the Play Station. At Lydbrook, they’d already built their own cycle track, with jumps, coming back triumphantly with muddy knees, bruises and tales of their achievements.

  So he and the boys were content, while Hamilton, Rosemary and Zoe were not. Was it in his power to redress the balance? Did any one of them deserve happiness more than the other? Sebastian and Hugo were the most important, of course, but being five and seven respectively they would probably be happy anywhere.

  Moving back to London would certainly make Zoe happy. Christopher had no doubt he would learn to live with it just as he had before. Rosemary would carry on wandering round Lydbrook wringing her hands like a wraith. Hamilton, unaware as he was of his surroundings, would presumably be unaffected.

  But how could they go back? They’d sold their house; he’d given up his job. And the agency needed him – he couldn’t just abandon it now it was up and running again. They would jolly well have to stick it out. He would just have to find a way of bringing Zoe round.

  He looked up with a sigh as Tiona came out of her office. The sight of her brought a smile to his lips. He didn’t know what he’d have done without her. She was an angel in disguise; his saving grace. She’d held the
office together when Hamilton had got ill but, as she explained to Christopher, there was only so much she could do without access to money. She was an absolute trouper, tirelessly pounding the streets of Ludlow and its environs doing viewings and valuations, leaving him free to shore up the agency’s infrastructure and work on strategic alliances. She seemed to have boundless reserves of energy and enthusiasm for her job, typing up particulars late into the night as she didn’t trust anyone else who worked there not to contravene the Property Misdescriptions Act. Anyway, Tiona was proud of her particulars. She had a well-thumbed Roget’s Thesaurus on her desk. Delightful, breathtaking, charming, enchanting: she never used the same adjective twice.

  He didn’t know how to thank her. Of course, what she really needed was a whopping great pay rise, but he couldn’t promise her that yet, not until things were more stable. They were just starting to get some fees in again, but there were a lot of below-the-line costs to cover before he could start dishing out bonuses.

  He watched her cross the room towards him, in a pale-pink V-necked cardigan that gave just a hint of cleavage, a flowery skirt and ballet pumps. Her face was like a china doll, with long eyelashes and rosebud lips that were curved up into a sweet smile.

  ‘Guess what? I’ve got a sale on Silver Street already. Mrs Turner’s very keen to push it through as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Fantastic. Well done.’

  Tiona dimpled at him modestly.

  ‘I didn’t really have to do anything. It sold itself.’

  Christopher put the lid on his fountain pen defiantly.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink.’

  Her eyes widened like saucers.

  ‘Why?’

  Christopher searched round for a reason, then snapped his fingers as inspiration struck.

  ‘Because we can?’

  Tiona wrinkled her nose and laughed.

  ‘Why not?’

  She walked past him to get her coat, and Christopher breathed in the scent of old roses. It made him feel quite giddy as he slipped on his jacket, then placed a chivalrous hand in the small of Tiona’s back to escort her out of the door. As the big brass latch clicked shut behind them, he felt a tiny thrill, as if he was about to do something illicit. But that was ridiculous – if he couldn’t take one of his workforce out for a congratulatory drink, then what was the point? And the Royal Oak in Upper Faviell was on the way home, so he wouldn’t be too late.

  6

  When Jack and Jamie finally found themselves alone, they took the dregs of the champagne into the kitchen while Jamie cooked supper. Jack had protested that she shouldn’t be doing it, but she insisted that it wasn’t a chore but a pleasure. It seemed natural for her to step into her mother’s shoes. Besides, Jack couldn’t cook for toffee. So she sent him out to the greenhouse for courgettes and tomatoes, and while she chopped them she told him of her journey, her adventures, her narrow escapes – edited highlights that didn’t include the occasional irresponsible one-night stand or three-day romance that she’d felt inclined to indulge in with other travellers she’d met on the way. The need for someone to hold her had been overwhelming at times; the comfort of another body. Then Jack filled her in on local gossip.

  Neither of them touched on the painful subject of Louisa, or their subsequent rift. But every now and then Jamie felt that Jack was holding something back, that she too was only getting edited highlights and there was some important piece of information that she wasn’t party to. She was about to probe, see if she could winkle something out of him, when he turned to her gravely.

  ‘There is one sad piece of news. Hamilton’s had some sort of stroke. He’s had to go into a home.’

  ‘My God, that’s terrible.’

  Jamie looked stricken. The Draces were their nearest neighbours. Their house, Lydbrook, lay three fields away sandwiched between Upper and Lower Faviell, and she’d grown up with the Drace children – Kate and Emma, a year either side of her own age, and Christopher, three years her senior (who was always called Kif, because that’s what Emma had called him when she’d found Christopher too much of a mouthful). Kif had been like a big brother to Jamie. They’d been the family that, being an only child, she’d never had.

  ‘Have you been to see him?’

  ‘No.’ Jack looked uncomfortable. ‘Apparently there isn’t much point. He barely recognizes anyone.’

  ‘You don’t know, though, do you?’ Jamie persisted. ‘It might help. It must be better than sitting there all on your own day after day.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Jack seemed keen to change the subject, ‘one good thing’s come out of it. Christopher’s come back to take over the agency. They’re all living at Lydbrook.’

  Jamie suddenly felt unbearably sad. It wasn’t all that long ago that she and the Draces had torn round the countryside together, first on their ponies, with their parents ferrying them to gymkhanas and Pony Club camp. Then later in their teens Kif had got his first old banger, and had taken over the transportation, driving them to discos and parties. He’d been a wonderful escort, keeping an eye out for Emma and Kate and Jamie, making sure they didn’t drink too much or snog anyone unsuitable, but without ever being stuffy or boring. They’d all been so close. Tennis matches at Lydbrook, croquet tournaments at Bucklebury, bicycle polo. Jamie remembered her mother setting up show-jumping circuits for her and Kate and Emma to pop over on their ponies, patiently replacing the poles time and time again…

  Now Louisa was dead and Hamilton, to all intents and purposes, might as well be. It was the end of an era, with Christopher taking over at Lydbrook. Jamie shivered, realizing the truth behind two of the most well-worn clichés. Life was too short. And you never knew what was round the corner.

  At seven o’clock, Olivier put his head politely round the door. He was washed and gleaming. His hair was still wet and swept back, showing off his bone structure to even greater effect. He had on a clean pair of jeans, Docksiders and a teal blue sweatshirt that a colour consultant could have told him brought out the brilliance of his eyes. He smelled of Imperial Leather.

  ‘I’m just going down the Oak for a swift pint,’ he said casually to Jack.

  ‘I was going to do supper at about eight,’ Jamie said, and Olivier hesitated for a moment before nodding.

  ‘See you later,’ said Jack, a tinge of regret in his farewell as his eyes followed Olivier enviously out of the door. Jamie was once again left feeling that she was intruding on some sort of male ritual. A smidgeon of resentment bubbled inside her. Her father hadn’t seen her for ten months – was it that much of a hardship to miss out on his evening pint?

  At quarter past seven, Christopher and Tiona were still happily ensconced in the snug of the Royal Oak. Christopher was nursing his second full-bodied pint of Honeycote Ale; Tiona clasped an ice-cold glass of Chablis. It was great to be away from the office, away from the chirrup of the telephone and the baleful glare of the bespectacled Norma, his father’s loyal and long-serving secretary, whose eyes he had felt boring into his back disapprovingly as he left.

  Christopher tried to ignore the fact that the boys would be heading for bed any minute; he really didn’t fancy going home yet. Zoe would definitely be on the second bottle by the time he got there, and he’d have to pretend to himself that she wasn’t slurring her words. By bedtime she would be tearful, apologetically tearful, and he couldn’t bear that. He’d prefer aggressive, because at least then he wouldn’t feel so awful. What could he say to her? Get a job? A hobby? A life? He wouldn’t feel so guilty if he didn’t feel so right himself.

  ‘Penny for them.’ Tiona nudged him gently with her elbow.

  ‘I was just thinking how pleased I am to be back. If I was still in London I’d be battling my way home on the tube, stuck in a tunnel, probably, with a drunk on one side of me and a beggar on the other. This is definitely the life.’

  Tiona smiled sweetly, taking that as a compliment. As she sipped at her drink, her eyes wandered over to the bar, where an absolute visi
on had just entered and was chatting up the barmaid. Tall, tanned, a little bit scruffy but probably deliberately so. Perfect peach of a bum in faded jeans. Amazing eyes, blue as a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. She looked for his watch. You could tell a lot about a man by his watch. Interestingly, he wasn’t wearing one, and there was no telltale white stripe, which could only mean time didn’t matter to him. So he was either absolutely loaded or unemployed. Tiona’s eyes wandered over him lazily. Wouldn’t mind a bit of that, she thought to herself. Then she dragged herself back to what Christopher was saying, chiding herself for taking her mind off the job in hand. Christopher’s watch was plain gold, with no-nonsense Roman numerals and a crocodile strap. Discreet, probably a couple of grand’s worth if you bought it today, but he definitely didn’t have that kind of money to spend on a watch, so it was probably handed down.

  Christopher was looking at her strangely and she realized she was staring at it. She apologized hastily.

  ‘I was just thinking… what a nice watch.’

  ‘My grandfather’s. I couldn’t afford to buy myself one like this.’ He looked at it, and in doing so noticed that another half an hour had slipped by rather pleasantly since he’d last looked. ‘I really ought to be going. Supper will be…’

  Beyond hope. Beyond repair. Beyond even the dogs. Tiona smiled her thanks at him. The Chablis had brought a dainty little flush to her cheeks and put a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘Thank you for the drink. It made a lovely change. I’d usually be watching Coronation Street with the cat on my lap.’

  Christopher drained his pint, and they walked out to the car park, where Tiona reached up on her tippy toes to give him a peck on the cheek, just so he could be sure how very tiny and vulnerable she was, then slid into her Golf and drove off. Christopher watched her go, then sat in his car for a moment before switching on the ignition, steeling himself for what he might find when he got home. Not that Zoe was a nag who would have a whinge at him for being late, not at all. No – she’d probably welcomed the chance to get another half-bottle of Jacob’s Creek down her neck without his watchful eye upon her.