Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a very special house.’

  He held out a pound to Jamie. ‘Give this to Hilly, would you? I’m in a bit of a rush. Tell her to put the change in the blind box.’

  He was about to go. He scooped up his Mars bar and put it in the top pocket of his denim jacket.

  ‘Rod –’

  He turned in the doorway.

  ‘I’d love you to come. If you could. If you’re not doing anything.’

  Their eyes met. There was an awful lot more she wanted to say, but the middle of the post office wasn’t the place to do it.

  Rod looked awkward. ‘I’m not sure what I’m up to. Can I leave it open?’

  ‘Sure. It’s only casual. Eightish. Buffet supper. Outside hopefully, if the weather’s kind. Loads of booze. Dancing. You know the sort of thing. Bring a bottle.’

  Jamie knew she was babbling, but it was the only way to stop herself saying what she really felt, and she’d sworn to herself not to lose control again. Rod smiled at her from the safety of the doorway.

  ‘Maybe see you then.’

  He was gone. Moments later, Hilly reappeared with a box.

  ‘I knew I had some somewhere,’ she said triumphantly, then looked at Jamie shrewdly. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jamie slowly.

  ‘He’s a lovely lad,’ said Hilly. ‘He gave me a kitchen, you know. For the flat upstairs. He was fitting a new one down the road and had to take the old one out. It would have been far easier for him to skip it, but he brought it up here on the back of his truck. And he only charged me a hundred quid to put it in.’

  Jamie was impressed at Rod’s thoughtfulness. He obviously knew that, even though on the surface the post office always seemed busy, it was a struggle for Hilly financially, that the profits on stamps and newspapers and pints of milk, which were the bulk of her trade, were not substantial.

  Hilly leaned forwards confidentially. ‘I’m not usually indiscreet. People use this place like a confessional. They trust me, and I don’t like to gossip. But the word is his wife’s left him.’

  ‘Yes, she has,’ said Jamie. ‘But there’s a lot of baggage.’

  ‘Bugger the baggage!’ snorted Hilly. ‘People just use that as an excuse not to move on. He should forget about her.’

  Jamie didn’t like to say she didn’t mean the baggage between Rod and Bella, but between Rod and herself. Twelve years of baggage that still hung thick in the air between them whenever they met. Why on earth had she gone and asked him to the party? She wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else between now and Saturday.

  Because she couldn’t deny it, his revelation had turned her upside down. Their relationship – the only relationship she had ever found meaningful – had been destroyed on a misunderstanding. And now they had come full circle, were both free and available, to all intents and purposes. Jamie found her heart was beating ten to the dozen with the realization. For even after all these years, she found him as attractive as ever. Their conversation had set her pulse racing, his proximity had made her feel faint with longing. There had been one moment when she’d almost thrown herself into his arms, but caution had won. She wasn’t going to lay herself open again. She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by pursuing him.

  Gathering up her box of goodies, Jamie decided she’d done her bit. She’d asked him to the party. If he was interested, he’d turn up. And if not…

  As she left the shop, Hilly watched after her thoughtfully. In her opinion, Jamie and Rod would make a perfect match. Hilly didn’t suffer fools gladly, but she had a lot of time for Rod. And she’d never really warmed to Bella. She was perfectly pleasant and polite, but she never seemed quite real. Like a Barbie doll – plastic perfection but nothing underneath. She wondered what on earth Rod had ever seen in her, apart from her obvious attributes. But then, men were funny creatures. A pair of perky breasts often went a long way.

  For the next two days, the kitchen at Bucklebury became a fug of browning spices and bubbling, scented syrup as Jamie cooked like a mad thing. Outside was a hive of activity as Olivier and Jack set to in the garden with enthusiasm if not expertise, transforming the overgrown wilderness. They had strict instructions from Jamie not to make it look too manicured, but there wasn’t much danger of that happening: it was going to be all they could do to get the grass cut, the hedges trimmed and the beds weeded in time for Saturday.

  Surprisingly, Lettice turned out to be a godsend. Totally unfazed by cooking for large numbers, she insisted on helping. The two of them had a hoot, with the windows thrown open, Louis Jordan blaring out on the sound system, singing and chopping and dancing and stirring and swearing profusely whenever a finger was burned or a plate was dropped. Every now and then the four of them would stop for a break, sitting out on the lawn with a pitcher of ginger beer, Jack and Olivier and Lettice smoking as if their lives depended on it; Jamie lying back in the hopes of topping up her South American tan which had faded disconcertingly quickly.

  In the midst of it all, something happened to unsettle Jamie. An envelope was pushed through the front door at midday on Friday. It contained a stiff little note from Rosemary, politely declining their invitation. Jamie felt a little hurt that she hadn’t felt able to talk to her in person: she perfectly understood that Rosemary probably wasn’t in the mood for mad socializing, given Hamilton’s condition.

  This led her to realize she hadn’t been to visit Ham yet, and she felt riddled with guilt. Even though everyone insisted that he wouldn’t know if she’d been or not, Jamie didn’t think that was quite the point. She resolved to go and see him as soon as she had time; once the party was over and they’d got over the trauma of putting Bucklebury on the market. It was the least she could do, after all. Kif had been so sweet about helping, even though that plan had come to nothing. And perhaps it was about time she thought about someone other than herself for a change.

  And throughout all the preparations, with a supreme effort of will, she put her invitation to Rod to the back of her mind. Of course he wouldn’t come. He was obviously still raw from his sudden split, and Jamie hadn’t exactly behaved decorously at their reunion the other day. The last thing he’d want to do was fall out of the frying pan into the fire.

  19

  Friday morning did not start well for Christopher. Zoe was over-excited about her trip, and was too preoccupied with getting ready to care that there were only enough Frosties left in the packet for one bowl. Christopher patiently divided them between Hugo and Sebastian and sliced the last banana on top to bulk them out. There was none of his favourite marmalade left either – the thick-cut, dark stuff. He didn’t complain. There was no point in starting a row about something as trivial as marmalade.

  His mother was taking the boys to school so he could drop Zoe at the station en route to work. They didn’t really speak much on the way. Christopher pulled up outside the ticket office. She got out of the car and leaned in through the driver’s window to give him a kiss.

  ‘Have a lovely party tomorrow.’

  Christopher gave a resigned smile, resisting the urge to snipe at her once more.

  ‘Have a good time. Send my love to Nat and Edwin.’

  He watched her scamper off clutching her weekend bag, only just remembering to turn back and give him a wave. She obviously couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Christopher sighed as he started up the engine. What was the saying? You can’t keep all of the people happy all of the time…

  He’d only been at the office ten minutes before his spirits were restored. They were having an office meeting, to assess their progress over the past two months, and see where they could make further improvements. There was a pot of fresh coffee on the table and a plate of almond pastries. Christopher sank gratefully into his chair at the head of the table, poured himself a cup of coffee and decided he really was turning into an old fogey because he was pleased to see the milk in a proper jug.

  The meeting got off to a fl
ying start. Tiona was delighted to report that the number of houses they’d sold since May was equal to the amount they’d sold since Hamilton had taken ill, so things were really taking off again. Samples of updated artwork – a revamped brochure and proposed new layout of their property details – had come in from the PR company, and they all agreed the new image was fresh and exciting yet still put them across as traditional and upmarket. Luke, the new boy that Tiona had taken on as her assistant, was congratulated on his hard work and dedication, and it was agreed that he should be allowed to do viewings on his own and should start studying for his estate agency exams.

  It was only when Tiona put in a plea for another new member of staff that Christopher smelled trouble on the horizon. He’d already noticed that whenever Norma tried to contribute, Tiona cut her off in irritation. Often the point that Norma made was perfectly valid, but she wasn’t being allowed her twopenceworth. She had, after all, been at the office longer than any of them. She’d worked for Hamilton for as long as Christopher could remember, she was Ludlow born and bred and a stalwart of the local scene, so her opinion was important.

  Tiona gave a brief profile of exactly what they needed.

  ‘We need someone who can update the computer – there’s no point in having one unless the information is totally up to the minute – as well as the website – ditto. And someone who can lay out the weekly photographs for the newspaper. That will leave Luke and me free for viewings and valuations. And leave Norma free to answer the phone and send out details, as well as providing your administrative support.’

  Tiona flashed Christopher a brilliant smile that assured him he was far too important to be expected to type out his own letters, even though he was perfectly computer literate and capable of typing out a letter faster than he could dictate it. At the same time she had managed to diminish Norma’s role, making her sound like a glorified dogsbody. Of course, Norma wasn’t capable of carrying out the job Tiona was describing – at nearly sixty she didn’t have the technological skills and was unlikely to acquire them – but there was no need to undermine the very good job she did do.

  Christopher tackled Tiona about it in private later on, when Norma had nipped out for her vegetable puff from the bakery down the road. Tiona stood firm.

  ‘I know I get irritated by her, and I’m sorry, but I find it very frustrating that she tries to stand in the way of every innovation I try and bring in –’

  ‘I don’t think she’s trying to stand in the way as such –’ objected Christopher mildly.

  ‘Believe me, she is. When you’re not here, she undermines me at every opportunity. And if you ask me, it’s extremely dangerous. We need a spirit of cooperation here, not a struggle for supremacy. We’re all equally important. It’s not a competition. But Norma seems desperate to stamp her authority. She’s under the impression that she knows best. But how can she? She hasn’t done her estate agency exams. She’s just answered the phone here for two hundred years.’

  ‘Are you saying we should get rid of her?’

  ‘I’m saying we should make it clear what her place is. Which is answering the phone and sending out details. Not getting involved in making offers and chasing up solicitors. She’s nearly made two deals go down this week by passing on incorrect information at the wrong time.’

  Christopher sighed. This was one part of the job he wasn’t overly good at, man management. He could appreciate Tiona’s dilemma, but Norma was practically part of the furniture. And she was a fantastic source of local gossip – she knew when people were moving almost before they knew themselves. Anyway, he was pretty sure they couldn’t get rid of her for no reason, whatever Tiona said.

  ‘Luke’s doing brilliantly,’ Tiona persisted. ‘I can have him out valuing by the end of the month. We’re getting so busy, we’ll both be out of the office seventy per cent of the time. We need somebody else at that front desk; someone bright and young who can be trained up as well. Not a grumpy old Rottweiler.’

  Through the bull’s-eye window, Christopher could see Norma coming back from her lunch break.

  ‘Look, why don’t we chat about this… over dinner?’

  Tiona looked faintly startled.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to treat you to say thanks for everything you’ve done. Zoe’s buggered off to London for the weekend. I don’t want to sit with an omelette in front of Midsomer Murders. Why don’t we thrash these problems out after work? If you’re not doing anything, that is,’ he added hastily, realizing he’d been a bit presumptuous.

  Tiona laughed. ‘It was going to be pizza in front of Midsomer Murders.’

  Christopher paused for a moment, wondering if he was being rash, then told himself it was perfectly acceptable to reward a conscientious member of staff with dinner out.

  ‘I’ll have to nip home and give the boys their supper. I’m sure Mum won’t mind babysitting. What about if I book us a table for eightish?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Tiona flashed him a smile.

  Christopher walked back to his desk and sat down as Norma came in through the door, trying to ignore the fizz of excitement he felt in the bottom of his belly.

  Zoe sat on the train, willing the wheels to turn faster and bring her closer to London. She’d bought Elle at the station and had devoured it carefully from cover to cover, making several notes in her Filofax for things she wanted to buy – a new light-deflecting foundation, some cork-heeled wedges and a bra that promised miracles. She couldn’t believe how ridiculously excited she was, and how she must have once taken everything so much for granted. She had an appointment to have her hair done at two, something she once did automatically every six weeks without a second thought. She’d found a picture of a supermodel with a fluffy, urchin cut shot through with streaks of paprika and cinnamon. She knew it would suit her. And that Christopher wouldn’t like it much. He was always trying to get her to grow her hair; he said it made her look more feminine. Frumpy, more like. She supposed he wanted her to look like Jamie, with her long, unkempt mop that always made her look as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards – and not in a designer way.

  Eventually the fields became fewer and the houses began to build up. Just as some people yearned for grass and trees and blue sky, so Zoe yearned for bricks and concrete, and as they hurtled past industrial estates and warehouses and tower blocks she began to relax. Open space made her nervous. It was the city where she belonged. Why did nobody seem able to understand that humans suffered outside their natural habitat just as much as animals?

  By the time she arrived at Paddington, the Friday afternoon rush had already begun. The roar of the crowds, the boom of the announcements, the distant hooting of trains, the chaos, the impatience, the rushing, the rudeness, the smell of Costa coffee all felt like paradise. She bought Natalie a huge bunch of overpriced flowers from a stall and nearly broke her neck rushing down the stairs to the Circle Line. She was going to be late for her hair appointment but she didn’t care. She was back where she belonged.

  That evening, Christopher dutifully made Hugo and Sebastian macaroni cheese and practised a few wickets with them in the garden. Then he chucked them into the bath while he got changed. Once they were in their pyjamas and happily ensconced with his mother in front of the telly, he went out to the cab he had called earlier.

  He got the taxi to drop him off at the top of Corve Street. The evening sun provided a rosy glow to the pinky-red brick of the Georgian facades that stood to attention either side of the wide, sweeping street, crowned by the black-and-white beamed Feathers Hotel. The sound of live jazz and laughter spilled out from the courtyard of a nearby pub. The shop windows were stuffed with all kinds of fascinating treasures: antiques and bric-a-brac, unusual gifts, paintings – nothing at all that you actually needed, just things designed to bring pleasure. By the time Christopher reached Hibiscus, a discreet, square-fronted building painted a deep cream, he’d mentally bought a French wirework jardinière for the terrace, a painting of a square-bottome
d Herefordshire cow and a stained-glass window that he thought might look nice over the front door at Lydbrook.

  He was really looking forward to going to Hibiscus, which had a Michelin star and, more importantly, a laid-back, relaxed atmosphere. He’d read so many rave reviews, heard so many people heap praise upon the talents of the young French chef, Claude Bosi, but Zoe had never shown any inclination to go. And there wasn’t much point in pushing her if she wasn’t going to appreciate it. Tiona had been utterly delighted when he’d phoned her earlier to tell her where to meet, and had been amazed he’d been able to get a table. As had he. God was obviously smiling on him tonight.

  He arrived five minutes early, just long enough to peruse the wine list and decide on what to start with. Not champagne. That was over the top and a bit presumptuous. Christopher felt champagne was overused these days. People seemed to pop a bottle at the drop of a hat. It had lost its mystique and its sense of occasion. Instead he chose a good white burgundy. By the time the bottle had appeared at his table, so had Tiona.

  She looked ravishingly pretty, in a lilac dress that at first glance seemed very demure and girlish, but on closer inspection was tantalizingly low-cut, and made of a soft, silky fabric that clung to her curves. They exchanged polite kisses on each cheek, and he ushered her into her seat and poured her a drink.

  For a few moments they had fun people-watching: a table of eight celebrating a milestone birthday, people from out of town who were spending the weekend on a gastronomic tour of Ludlow, locals who made a habit of frequenting the outstanding restaurants on their doorstep. Christopher felt slightly relieved that there was no one in there he knew. Not that he had a guilty conscience, for he had a perfectly above-board reason for being there, and had Zoe bothered to phone him from London he would have told her where he was going and why. But people did have a tendency to jump to conclusions.

  They lingered over the menu, agonizing over what to choose, and finally settled on the menu gastronomique – seven surprise courses carefully chosen and executed by the chef, demonstrating his repertoire and exploring a vista of ingredients. It took the responsibility of making a decision out of their hands and, thought Christopher, would prolong the evening pleasantly – you could hardly gallop through seven different dishes.