Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  They’d been well looked after, with a salmon and strawberry lunch. As for the racing, Ray thought at best it was a bunch of overgrown schoolboys tearing round a track, potentially bashing up cars that represented more money than most people would earn in a lifetime. Mildly amusing, but for him it didn’t have the thrust of Formula One, the death-defying speed. He worried that Claudia was bored. There weren’t any female retail opportunities; it wasn’t something people dressed up for, so she couldn’t look at the outfits.

  To his amazement, she was utterly transfixed. The smell of oil, the roar of the engines, the dirt and smoke, the passion, the sweat, the concentration – she lapped it all up eagerly. As they watched the victor in his Bugatti circle the track in a lap of honour, a wreath of laurels round his neck, Claudia turned to her father, her eyes shining. ‘That,’ she declared, ‘is what I want to do.’

  To test his daughter’s dedication, he sent her on several courses, so she could learn her skills and have the safety measures drummed into her. She passed her advanced motor-racing certificate almost effortlessly. He was satisfied she had proven herself. For her twenty-first birthday, he presented her with a Bugatti Type 35, parking it outside their front door with a huge pink ribbon tied around the long, black bonnet. He’d had it custom built to his exacting specification, by a company that specialized in restoration. Of course, he could have bought a total replica, but by obtaining an old chassis, which entitled it to an authentically old registration, Ray had it fitted out with the best of everything. If people wanted to consider that cheating, let them. It didn’t break any rules. It was eligible.

  A combination of her ‘too fast to live too young to die’ attitude, her utter determination to be the best and an innate feel for the sport made Claudia deadly on the track. Of course, Ray was utterly terrified that she would kill herself in the process. But then, she’d always taken risks, and it was better for her to die in the pursuit of glory than to end up with a needle in her arm. She’d been to some dark places in the past, but at last Ray was able to see the fruits of Claudia’s labours; the success she could achieve if she applied herself.

  He found her a coach – a woman, because he felt sure a veteran female driver would recognize the forces driving Claudia and would be able to head off potential weaknesses and build on her strengths. Agnes Porter-Wright was an eccentric old bird from the Cotswolds who used to race Bentleys. She took absolutely no crap from Claudia, and Ray was once again amazed to see Claudia have respect for someone.

  Repeatedly, he thanked God for saving Claudia from herself. And when she’d entered her first race the year before, even though she only clocked up twelfth place, he was bursting with pride. She’d run up to him in her overalls, eyes shining, and flung her arms round him in triumph, and for a moment he was taken back to her winning her first rosette at a gymkhana when she was nine. It was as if all the turbulent years in between had never happened.

  Now, a year later, Ray was even more grateful that the novelty hadn’t worn off. After each race he’d been terrified that she would become truculent and despondent. But it seemed to spur her on. Even over the long winter months, when there was no racing, she pored over old videos, spent hours in the garage, talked on the phone to Agnes.

  Once, she’d taken Ray out on the road, and he’d been so terrified that he vowed never to repeat the experience. It wasn’t that she was a reckless or dangerous driver. Far from it. It was the consummate skill with which she drove, the confidence with which she took corners, changed gear, judged distances, decelerating and accelerating as if it was second nature. Fast, furious, spine-tingling, exhilarating, a white-knuckle ride that Ray never wanted to relive.

  There was no doubt she was a good driver, but he knew it was his money that would guarantee her eventual success. He made sure she had the best. He did out the spare garage at Kingswood for her; had it air-conditioned and an inspection pit put in. Every tool, every spare she needed was neatly stored on an immaculate shelving system; catalogues were lined up; articles snipped out of magazines and filed neatly for future reference.

  Now he was confident Claudia was gearing up for a good summer. She’d raced steadily so far, with no mishaps. And she was hotly tipped to win the Richard Corrigan Memorial Trophy in two weeks’ time, a race for novice drivers who had been competing for less than two years. Claudia had set her heart on winning it. Ray was looking forward to seeing the trophy on the mantelpiece in the lounge.

  But that race wasn’t for another fortnight. There was the hill-climb at Prescott to get through first, that coming weekend. Ray would be able to eye up the competition, see if there were any serious contenders for the Corrigan Trophy who might get in the way of Claudia’s glory. For he was determined she was going to win it, and he had no compunction whatsoever about eliminating the opposition.

  Claudia slipped into the silver lamé cat-suit that was her final outfit of the shoot, then defiantly undid the zip down to her navel and climbed behind the wheel of her car, sitting with one stiletto heel up on the leather seat in a provocative pose that was pure porn with its clothes on. The photographer’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in excitement, praying that the paper would allow these to be printed. The stylist came over to rearrange her hair and Claudia gritted her teeth with annoyance. Patience had never been one of her virtues, and probably never would be, even though she’d changed quite considerably over the past twelve months.

  When Claudia was twelve years old, her older sisters decided they were tired of her hogging the limelight and decided to bring her down a peg or two. They told her it was time she knew the truth, that she had been an Accident, and that her parents had very nearly Got Rid of her. And that they had since been heard to wish that they had. Debbie and Andrea were no more spiteful than any other teenagers; jealousy and hormones made them cruel, and they had no idea of the long-lasting damage their fabrication had wrought on Claudia.

  If Claudia had only had the common sense to go to her mother to corroborate the evidence, she could have saved them all a lot of heartache and had the pleasure of seeing Debbie and Andrea torn off a strip. But their spiteful slur had gone straight to her heart, where she nursed it and fed it until it grew and grew and tarnished her soul, which grew black with misery and anger and resentment. Each merry dance she led her parents had been a mixture of revenge and a cry for reassurance. She was a bewildered little girl whose self-esteem had plummeted so low that she took enormous risks. And she was so clever at hiding her insecurity: her stunning looks and her belligerent attitude belied her lack of confidence. Her inability to stick at anything was fear of failure. The moment anything she touched looked like becoming a success, she lost interest immediately. It was easier that way.

  It was only now, at twenty-two, that she was finally becoming comfortable with herself and who she was, to her great relief. It was actually very exhausting being a wild child. It took perseverance and concentration and dedication to be such a spectacular failure at everything; to shock people continually and let them down at the moment of maximum impact.

  But over the past year she had felt a sense of calm and a sense of self. She’d finally found an outlet for all that pent-up anger and energy. She was able to take her risks on the racetrack, and it was the greatest thrill of all, knowing that every decision she made could lead to either death or glory… It was far more exhilarating than all those years of empty gestures and attention-seeking.

  Not that she’d entirely sacrificed her exhibitionist streak. Not by any means. The race circuit was the perfect platform for showing off, the Bugatti the ultimate accessory: the status symbol that made every man’s eyes glaze over with envy, the toy they all wanted. It turned her on every time, climbing defiantly behind the wheel of a car most of them could only dream of, then creaming the pants off the other competitors. And to rub their noses in it even further she played up her femininity, her sexuality, knowing that many of her audience would find it hard to choose between her Bugatti and her breasts…
She knew she’d been dubbed Penelope Pitstop behind her back, but she was secretly delighted. She didn’t go quite as far as touching up her lipstick before a race, but she wasn’t far off.

  So Claudia was feeling a little more secure about herself. But old habits die hard. After all, you didn’t turn from a snarling tiger into a pussy cat overnight.

  10

  As she wriggled out of her nightshirt and pulled on her jeans, Jamie felt absolutely sick to her stomach as she went over and over what her father had told her. A housing development at Bucklebury Farm? She could just imagine it. Half-a-dozen units, divided up with plasterboard and fitted out with cheap light-fittings and plywood doors, each with a pocket handkerchief of garden which would end up with a rotary dryer and a swing set. The English countryside was dotted with similar projects, and she loathed them with a vengeance. Her mother would spin in her grave at the thought.

  Jamie couldn’t help thinking that her father had, as usual, fallen at the first fence, taken the easy option, hadn’t bothered to do his homework and think things through. Thank God she’d got home when she had. Just in time, with any luck, to put an end to this madcap scheme and come up with another solution. It might be in the hands of the solicitors, but until the final ‘i’ was dotted and ‘t’ was crossed, there would still be time to put a stop to it.

  She laced up her boots, grabbed her car keys, and without even bothering to pull a comb through her hair flew out of the door.

  *

  At twenty-five past twelve, Rod put away his plane, locked up his workshop away from prying little fingers and drove home. The TT was in the drive, which meant Bella was home already. He opened the front door, quite literally girded his loins and made his way up to the bedroom.

  Bella was crouched on the bed on all fours, in a stance similar to Kylie’s wax effigy at Madame Tussaud’s, rosy-cheeked bottom in the air. She’d obviously been at the Agent Provocateur catalogue again, as Rod hadn’t seen this particular ensemble before. She tossed back her hair and smiled at him provocatively, inviting him to join her. Rod suddenly felt nervous. A year ago he’d have been right in there. But now, he didn’t want a porn-star fantasy romping about on his bed. He didn’t want sexual gymnastics; he just wanted to make love, pure and simple and natural. But with Bella, everything was rehearsed; everything was a slick performance, minutely choreographed, with not a hint of spontaneity allowed.

  At first, he’d appreciated it. That was when it was new, before he’d got to know the routines. He remembered the first time he’d seen her. He was helping his brother Dean, who’d invested in a bouncy castle to hire out for kiddies’ birthday parties. In a rare display of community spirit he’d brought it to the village fête, where he was charging fifty pence for ten minutes’ bouncing to be split fifty-fifty with the fête committee – though of course the committee weren’t to know how many coins actually passed through his hands, so he was hoping to do quite well out of it. Rod had gone along to help, because Dean had little patience where his own kids were concerned, let alone anyone else’s, and would haul them out unceremoniously by the scruff of the neck when their time was up. So Rod supervised the children and Dean took the money.

  Halfway through the afternoon, a distorted fanfare of music burst through the speakers, announcing a display by the Bella Robbins Dance Academy. Nineteen tiny moppets in pink leotards and tutus twisted and spun and pirouetted and jeté-d to a chorus of ‘aaahs’, then reappeared in red and black spangles for a tap demonstration (which didn’t have quite the same effect on the drying grass of the vicarage as it would have had on a wooden stage), followed by a splendid pastiche of the River Dance, each of them concentrating hard to keep their upper bodies rigid as the legs twinkled in unison. Rod thought it a bit unfair that Bella went on to upstage them entirely, clad in a flamered dress that was slashed to her buttocks and her navel front and back, with a medley of flamenco and tango and salsa that left every male dribbling into his Styrofoam cup of tea, and every woman determined to try and get to the gym three times a week.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Dean.

  ‘Fucking heaven, more like,’ said Rod.

  Dean stuck out his hand, grinning. ‘Duel,’ he said. It was their ritual. Whenever they saw an attractive woman, they challenged each other to a duel, to see who could capture her attentions first. It had worked when they were young, before Dean had lost his hair and gained a belly courtesy of his five-pints-on-a-good-night habit. He knew he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of attracting Bella – and besides, he was married with three kids and his wife Leanne might have something to say about it – but the ritual now meant that Rod had to honour the challenge.

  Rod shook Dean’s hand and took up the challenge happily. He gave his prettiest niece ballet lessons for her birthday, and when her mother moaned about the commitment he offered to take her every Saturday morning. It was no great hardship. Courtney had shown great promise, and Rod took the opportunity to discuss her progress earnestly and at length with Bella, who was charmed that he should take such an interest. By week four, he’d got her to agree to come out for a drink. By week six, it was dinner. By week seven, he was worshipping at the altar of her incredibly honed and pliable body, thinking himself in heaven.

  Six months later they were married and now, three years on, he wasn’t sure that it was so far from hell. Not that their situation was Bella’s fault. They didn’t, in fact, know whose fault it was, not as yet. But an added complication had arisen – so to speak – in that Rod was finding it increasingly difficult to perform to order.

  He shut his eyes, willing himself to get hard. He felt Bella rubbing her breasts against his chest, her hand cupping his balls, coaxing him into life. He shuddered as one of her talons scratched along his scrotum. Relax, relax, he told himself, and gradually his faithful friend responded, nudging higher and higher into the air as blood poured into the stem. Bella was on her back by now, her pelvis tilted into the air – they’d read somewhere this was the best position in which to conceive. Rod knelt in front of her, careful to get his penis at the right height, and took aim.

  Bingo! He slid in effortlessly, courtesy of some exotic lubricant she’d rubbed on to herself. He ground into her before his erection got any funny ideas about disappearing, hoping for enough friction to achieve the desired effect. It was ironic, really: in the olden days he would have had to think about something dull and prosaic in order to stop himself ejaculating.

  He was just on the brink. Spillage was moments away, and he was praying that one – it only needed to be one – one of his little sperm would make the epic journey to Bella’s egg and fuse into life. Mentally he visualized it, the power of positive thinking, as the familiar build-up to orgasm began until –

  Brrrrring!

  Bella shot out from underneath him like a scalded cat. His penis shrank back into nothingness. The doorbell rang again, even more insistently, if that were possible.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know,’ replied Rod irritably, grabbing his dressing gown. Great. His one chance for the Golden Shot had definitely vanished. He’d never be able to get it up again before it was time for Bella to go and do her Over Fifties’ Flex ’n’ Tone. And this was her optimum ovulation window. She’d be home too late tonight for either of them to feel up to much.

  He hurried down the stairs as the bell went yet again, wondering if perhaps the house had caught fire without them knowing. He threw open the front door. For a moment he thought he was seeing things, then stepped aside hastily as a wild-eyed creature barged straight past him without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘Jamie? What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Her eyes were blazing, her hair flying out in a russet-coloured stream behind her. There were high spots of colour on her cheeks that Rod had seen twice before. Once when she was angry. And once –

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ Jamie demanded, her hands on her
hips.

  Rod blinked, feeling somewhat aggrieved. He might be engaging in a bit of lunchtime nookie, but it was in his own home, with his own wife. What right did she have to turn up here out of the blue questioning his actions?

  ‘I’m sorry. What am I supposed to have done, exactly?’

  She glared at him. Rod could see that in the ten months since he’d last seen her, at her mother’s funeral, she’d changed considerably. Her face was thinner, and her body – the slenderness of her waist made her breasts look larger. Her hair had grown, and it looked tangled and wild. Her rage made her look wanton. And totally, utterly desirable. Rod swallowed. His penis was about to betray him again. While minutes ago it had been so reluctant to perform, now he could feel it straining behind the fabric of his underpants.

  ‘Bloody well trying to con my father into selling Bucklebury Farm.’

  ‘Con?’

  ‘You should be locked up for it. Taking advantage of a grieving widower; preying on him like that –’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’

  Rod held up his hand to halt her stream of invective, then realized she was staring over his shoulder. He turned to see Bella gliding down the stairs, in pink velour hotpants and a matching hooded top, her long legs tanned and toned leading down to ankle socks and pristine white trainers. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the newel post, looking for all the world like a catwalk model striking a pose for the benefit of her audience.