Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  Perched on a highly polished wooden stool with his elbows on the bar, Olivier decided that this was definitely his favourite time of the day. The pub always had a pleasant flow of traffic between six and half-seven as people dropped in for a quick drink after work on their way home, so there was usually someone to pass the time of day with and get the local chitchat. A lot of business was done at the bar on a handshake and the purchase of a pint. If you wanted something doing, there would always be someone who knew someone, and Toby the landlord acted as a facilitator-cum-messenger service. The pub had been bought recently by a small Cotswold-based brewery, Honeycote Ales, who were looking to expand their portfolio of country hostelries. Toby was young to be in charge of a pub, but he’d served his apprenticeship in the Cotswolds and the Royal Oak was flourishing under his watchful eye – superficially, nothing had been changed, but the food had been improved beyond measure. It didn’t try to compete with the gourmet establishments that had made the area so renowned, but concentrated on a simple menu perfectly executed: the Aberdeen Angus steak and chips were legendary, making it incredibly popular for a midweek meal out amongst the locals. Added to which, the staff were exemplary and Honeycote Ale itself was acknowledged to taste like nectar.

  Jack and Olivier habitually wandered down the road just after six to prop up the bar for an hour or so, but today Olivier was quite happy to nurse a pint on his own and contemplate the latest turn of events.

  Just as he’d told Jamie, he’d spent the past few years alternating winter and summer as a skiing instructor and tennis coach. And it had been an idyllic existence for a young, free and single bloke who loved the outdoors. But it was starting to lose its charm. Olivier had been to several weddings in the past couple of years; close friends of his with whom he’d enjoyed many wild nights. At first he’d thought it was strange they’d gone down the marriage route, and had exchanged much elbow-nudging and muffled guffaws with the other single male guests. But by the third one, he was starting to feel like the freak. Everyone seemed to be tying the knot, even the most committed bachelors. On their stag nights, they claimed to envy Olivier his freedom and independence, and made out they were heading for the gallows. He knew that was just window-dressing. They wouldn’t be walking up the aisle if they didn’t want to be. At the most recent nuptials he had actually felt like a bit of a sad bastard. Everyone had if not a wife then a ‘partner’; some of them even had kids. At the evening do, there was no question of copping off with someone; everyone was spoken for, even the bridesmaids.

  The problem was that his lifestyle didn’t leave room for a great amount of commitment. Every few months or so he would move on: he didn’t like to stay in the same resort two seasons running. He wanted to explore as many countries as he could. His references were always good, so he had his pick of the best resorts. There weren’t many girls who would be willing to trail round after him, bunking up in the single room hotel accommodation that usually went with the job. And he certainly wasn’t prepared to settle down in one place just for the sake of a committed relationship.

  He’d felt a little tide of panic rise when he turned thirty. Realistically, in five years’ time, would he be such an attractive proposition? A ski or tennis instructor hurtling towards forty didn’t have quite the same cachet as one ten years younger. It was part of the job to be young and gorgeous. Old and gorgeous didn’t quite cut it in the same way.

  And he didn’t seem to have the stamina for partying any more. The slopes didn’t look as inviting after a night on the tiles as they once had. He needed his lie-in. He wanted his lie-in, which was more worrying. Olivier Templeton was feeling his age and realizing that perhaps his existence was bordering on the shallow and self-indulgent.

  Then, eighteen months ago, a knee injury had intervened. It hadn’t even been a dramatic accident, involving black runs and avalanches and mountain rescue teams. He’d quite simply turned too quickly and ripped a cruciate ligament. Three operations later his specialist told him that if he didn’t want to end up a cripple he would have to stop skiing. Of course, he hadn’t been insured. Medical insurance, yes, to cover the cost of the hospital bills, but nothing that would compensate him for loss of earnings. He had no rights, as his contracts were always casual.

  Totally broke and feeling utterly useless, he’d gone back to his parents to contemplate his future, and had almost been driven mad by his father. Advancing old age and a dicky hip were making Eric irascible and cantankerous, and what was even worse, smug and ‘I told you so’ about Olivier’s lack of prospects. Their values were poles apart. The older Eric got, the more he became driven by the pursuit of money and the subsequent spending that proved to the world how successful he was. Everything had to be the best, from his Jermyn Street haircut down to his silk socks and handmade shoes.

  Olivier, on the other hand, had never had the urge to earn money; as long as he had enough to eat and a few quid left over for a pint, he was happy. It wasn’t that he was work-shy, for he’d always worked hard, but he made sure he did things that he enjoyed so he could live for his work. He would happily have taught skiing and tennis for nothing.

  And he loathed London. There was nothing there to unleash his boundless energy on to. He reluctantly helped his father out at the dealership, a huge emporium of ‘previously enjoyed’ prestige cars that attracted the sort of clientele Olivier particularly abhorred – aspirational and eager to show off their success. Eric was horrified that he preferred washing and polishing the cars to serving customers. But sitting behind a desk dishing out bullshit and brownnosing potential purchasers was anathema to Olivier. He was a physical being; London and the dealership and his parents were caging him in.

  Eric was frustrated with his son’s attitude. Time and again he sat him down and tried to fire him with some ambition.

  ‘By the time I was your age,’ he was particularly fond of saying, ‘I’d made my first million. Only on paper, admittedly. But a million was –’

  ‘Worth a lot more in those days,’ Olivier would finish the sentence for him wearily. ‘I know. So you keep telling me. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.’

  ‘I’m only telling you for your own good. You can’t bum around the world for ever.’

  His father obviously had no admiration for what he’d been doing. And no sympathy for the fact that his injury meant he could never go back to what he loved so much. Olivier grew weary of the nagging and the taunting and being constantly put down. And being compared to his older brother and sister, who were a hot-shot lawyer and head of PR for a Parisian fashion house respectively. His parents positively worshipped the ground they walked on.

  ‘Of course, neither Emile nor Delphine will want to take over the dealership, as they’re both so successful in their own right,’ Eric said one day, and Olivier’s blood froze. Didn’t his father understand? He had no interest in it whatsoever. He’d probably run it into the ground within months. He had no head for figures, no head for doing a deal. OK, the cars were beautiful, he appreciated that. But Eric might as well be selling lawnmowers or tractor parts for all the interest he actually took in his commodity. All he cared about was the profit. Olivier didn’t find his mother any more supportive or sympathetic. She spent most of her time travelling over to her native Paris to stay in Delphine’s apartment. She’d become thinner and more chic and more brittle than Olivier could ever remember.

  Eventually, however, he became resigned to the fact that he had no choice but to step into his father’s shoes as he was little qualified to do anything else and Eric, annoyingly, did have a point about him not being able to bum around for ever. He couldn’t live on fresh air, after all, and his savings weren’t going to last long. So he tried to take a more positive approach to the business, get his head around sales figures and targets and selling techniques. He consoled himself with the fact that there probably were worse ways of earning a living.

  One November afternoon, he was sitting in his father’s office at the showroom going thro
ugh yet more tedious paperwork when a tiny newspaper cutting fell out of a folder. It was a death announcement from The Times. A cold chill ran down Olivier’s neck as he read the details: Louisa Wilding had died two months before, after a short illness.

  Impulse made him pick up the phone and call Jack. To Olivier, scrawling a few lines of well-meaning condolence was worse than doing nothing – a meaningless piece of middle-class etiquette. And so what if he was encroaching on dangerous territory? Death was a great leveller. Death made you forgive and forget. And Jack had sounded delighted to hear from him – though Olivier suspected that his effusiveness was a result of quite clearly being drunk at three o’clock in the afternoon.

  Olivier had always seen Jack as the father he would have liked, for Jack had taken more notice of him than Eric had ever done. On the occasions Olivier had been allowed to accompany his father when they went racing, Eric had expected the boy to keep quiet and out of sight. Jack, on the other hand, had insisted on getting him involved, giving him simple tasks that wouldn’t jeopardize the car’s performance. And once he’d even allowed him behind the wheel, had patiently steered him through the first rudiments of driving, and Olivier had felt a rush of exhilaration that he’d never forgotten. As soon as his father got back, however, he’d been turfed out of the driving seat and sent to fetch bacon sandwiches and coffee. Jack had smiled sympathetically at him. ‘Never mind,’ he’d said conspiratorially. ‘You can come up and stay on your own one day. I’ll teach you how to drive then.’ But after the aborted holiday, that day had never arrived…

  So when Jack implored Olivier to come and visit, Olivier needed no second telling. He’d left the showroom, jumped in his car and driven straight up to Shropshire, to be welcomed by Jack with open arms and a full glass; the two of them had spent the weekend getting drunk. Olivier had intended, albeit reluctantly, to head back to London on the Sunday afternoon. But over a very late breakfast of bacon sandwiches and brown sauce, Jack had started reminiscing about their racing exploits. Olivier wondered about the whereabouts of the car, and was staggered when Jack admitted it was still sitting in the barn.

  It had only taken half an hour of adjustments, a change of oil and a new tank of petrol to bring about the car’s resurrection. Jack became very emotional, as the car for him held so many memories. And Olivier knew he had reached a turning point: that he had stumbled upon something that was going to provide the thrills and excitement he’d been lacking. He never went back to London. He rang his father and told him he was going into business with an old friend, only lying by omission, and Eric’s sneering implication that he would be back soon with his tail between his legs told Olivier he was doing the right thing keeping quiet about his rekindled friendship.

  There was a tacit acknowledgement between Jack and Olivier that their relationship was on an entirely fresh footing, that the history between the Templetons and the Wildings should be forgotten as much water had flowed under the bridge. And together they had forged a friendship based on a mutual obsession. Jack insisted he was too old to race the car – his reactions were too slow, the fear he felt was inhibiting rather than motivating. But he nurtured Olivier, taught him everything he knew. And Olivier took to the sport like a natural. Although it wasn’t as physically testing as skiing, many of the skills needed were the same. You had to be fit and alert, with the courage to take risks and the sense to make those risks calculated ones. There was no place for caution, but no place for foolhardiness either.

  Olivier had taken his advanced motor-racing licence and passed with flying colours, which meant he could now compete. He took the car out into the hills on a daily basis to practise, and never tired of the rush it gave him. Such simplicity, such perfection, whittled down to the barest minimum for maximum performance. When he let her go, he and the car felt as one, as if his flesh and bones had become her steel. She gave everything she asked of him.

  When the car was entered into its first race for over twenty years at Donington Park that April, Jack felt choked with pride. And although he’d only come seventh in a class of eleven, Olivier knew he had found his métier.

  A few days later, he found a photograph of his father amongst the paperwork and manuals in the barn. Eric was holding a trophy aloft, a wreath of laurels round his neck, a smile of genuine happiness on his face. Olivier wondered where that carefree young man had gone – he looked so handsome, his hair blowing back in the breeze, his eyes laughing. It seemed impossible that he could have turned into such an embittered and cynical old man. Olivier couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father really laugh.

  Jack found him looking at the photo.

  ‘That’s the Richard Corrigan Memorial Trophy,’ he said. ‘Your dad won it the first summer we got the car going. He was like a dog with two tails…’

  Jack trailed off, in memory of happier times. And now, Olivier was determined to win the trophy for himself. The race was being run in two weeks’ time, at Sapersley Park, and he really thought he was in with a chance. Perhaps that would be an achievement his father could relate to; something he would be proud of. Because although Olivier told himself repeatedly he didn’t care what his father thought of him, and despised Eric’s values, deep down he wanted to prove himself to him, prove that he was as good as he was. And maybe, just maybe, winning the Corrigan Trophy was the way to do that.

  In the meantime, however, he felt as settled and contented as he ever had in his life. He loved Bucklebury Farm. He loved Shropshire. Everyone seemed unpretentious; no one had anything to prove. Of course, you got the odd nightmare, like Lettice. But once you got used to her, she was all right really. He’d grown quite fond of her over the past couple of months. At least she had a bit of spirit.

  As he sipped his pint, he wondered if the return of Jamie would mean the end of his idyllic existence. He doubted things would stay the same: the arrival of a new person on the scene always changed the dynamics. As it was he knew time had been running out, not to mention money – he’d been living on his meagre savings. A few grand, but not enough to last indefinitely. And not enough to finance a cripplingly expensive sport. A new tyre alone was two hundred quid, and a single race could make mincemeat of a complete set if you didn’t know what you were doing.

  He glanced up at the clock behind the bar. Just gone quarter to eight. He’d better make a move – Jamie had mentioned supper at eight. Not that Olivier usually paid any attention to deadlines given to him by women. But he couldn’t help but wonder how Jamie’s impromptu arrival was going to affect things at Bucklebury Farm.

  7

  It was quarter to nine before the three of them sat down to supper in the little paved courtyard adjoining the kitchen garden. Jamie had found some salmon fillets in the freezer and wrapped them in Parma ham, roasting them on top of the tomatoes and courgettes from the garden. While they ate, Jack and Olivier regaled her with tales of their exploits with the Bugatti, and Jamie was relieved that the conversation was kept light – she was too tired for anything else.

  They’d spent the week preparing the car for a vintage hill-climb that coming weekend. Jamie looked baffled.

  ‘What’s a hill-climb?’

  ‘Just what it sounds like. Basically, you go from the bottom to the top of the hill in the shortest time you can,’ Jack explained.

  Jamie made a face. ‘That doesn’t sound very exciting.’

  ‘It’s not a straight track. They throw in a few hairpin bends just to test your mettle.’ Olivier grinned. ‘It’s pretty hairy at top speed. And it can be down to a hundredth of a second.’

  ‘In other words it’s pretty lethal?’

  ‘Well, yes, if you make a mistake, it could be,’ admitted Olivier cheerfully.

  ‘Whatever turns you on,’ smiled Jamie, rolling her eyes in exasperation. All she could be grateful for was that Jack had retired gracefully from the enterprise, and was happy to compete vicariously through Olivier. She wondered for a moment who exactly was financing this foolhardiness; ev
en she in her ignorance could see that it didn’t come cheap and Olivier, by his own admission, didn’t have a job. But then who was she to quibble? It had given her father something to think about. It was a small price to pay.

  Not wanting to dampen their enthusiasm, she carried on nodding in what she thought were the right places, before pleading exhaustion just after ten and excusing herself.

  She fell into bed, snuggling up under the rose-covered eiderdown she’d had since she was six. She could just hear the voices of Jack and Olivier two floors below, and the occasional boisterous laugh. Again she had that feeling of being an outsider, an interloper, then told herself to stop being oversensitive and paranoid. It was her house, her father. And there was no denying he’d been delighted to see her.

  Her relationship with Jack had never been conventional. From a very young age, he’d treated Jamie like an adult, when she hadn’t really wanted to be. In return, she had often treated him like a child, had been disapproving and reproachful of his behaviour. He wasn’t to know how embarrassing she’d found him at times. He wasn’t like anyone else’s dad. He was too irresponsible, too carefree, too eager to break the rules. How she’d secretly longed for a father who was ‘a’ something: a doctor or a lawyer or a vet. Every time someone asked what he did, she died inwardly, because there was no answer. Import/export, he always told her to say, but that made it sound as if he was trafficking drugs. And in her more suspicious moments, Jamie thought perhaps he did – the Persian carpet business had definitely been a front for something. And it was always either feast or famine. Privately, Jamie preferred famine, because it meant everyone was at home and had to eat sensible meals round the table. Quite possibly the worst moment of her life had been when Jack had turned up to Speech Day in a helicopter, sending hats and the headmistress’s speech flying, waving frantically to three hundred girls with upturned faces and open mouths.