Olivier gave a defeated shrug.
‘You see, even now she’s coming between people. Driving a wedge –’
‘Just go!’
A moment later, he was gone.
Jamie slumped in her chair, shaken by the scene that had just unfolded. What on earth had come over Olivier? Where on earth had he got all that rubbish about Louisa? She tried to look at it rationally, from his point of view. She remembered from that summer that Olivier’s relationship with his father had been an uneasy one, that he had been much closer to Isabelle. No doubt when the holiday had come to such an abrupt end, it had been natural for him to jump to conclusions and blame his father. And not want to believe his mother capable of any wrong. But Jamie had known better, had seen right through Isabelle and her come-hither, bedroom eyes. And she knew her father had no will-power, had never been able to resist temptation.
It was amazing how that single incident, so many years ago, should still be causing dissent. She felt a bit guilty that she’d sent Olivier packing like that, but he’d chosen the wrong moment to unload his misguided theories on to her, when she was feeling particularly vulnerable and defensive.
She went into the drinks cupboard and poured herself a hefty slug of brandy, to calm her nerves and take the edge off her emotions. Sleep, that’s what she needed. A nice, deep, oblivious, healing sleep. She’d wake up tomorrow and start with a clean slate. Concentrate on sorting her life out, because it was becoming increasingly clear she was on her own.
Olivier stormed out into the stable yard, hurled open the doors of the barn and threw himself down on a bale of hay. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, furious with himself. Why the hell did he have to open his mouth like that? It was the last thing poor Jamie wanted to hear, the horrible truth about her mother, even though Olivier wasn’t entirely sure she’d believed him about what had really happened that summer.
He’d heard the story often enough, from his own mother, as she retold it over and over in her tranquillized stupor, as if sharing the horror with him could lessen the pain she was feeling…
Isabelle Templeton’s Charles Jourdan heels had clacked along the cool marble corridor. It was too hot in the mid afternoon to roast in the sun; Jack had suggested a walk along to a nearby bar, and she’d agreed. She wasn’t one for a siesta like the others. It always left her with a heavy head for the rest of the afternoon, and then she could never get to sleep at night – she’d been dogged by insomnia for years. She and Jack usually stayed on the beach, to keep an eye on Jamie and Olivier, even though they were old enough to look after themselves, really. But you never knew. There had been an incident a couple of years ago, when a young teenager had over-indulged on his first beer and drowned. And Isabelle had a tendency to be neurotic.
She’d come back to the villa to get something to put on over her bikini. She twisted the heavy wrought-iron handle of her bedroom door and pushed it open. Then froze. For there in front of her, on the enormous double bed with its ornately carved headboard, was Eric, lying on his back with Louisa astride him, her chestnut hair falling wantonly over her creamy shoulders, rotating her slender hips sensuously.
Eric was totally oblivious to his wife in the doorway, lost as he was in impending ecstasy, judging by the way he was groaning and urging her on. Louisa, however, had a clear view of Isabelle in the mirror that hung over the bed. She met her eyes boldly in the glass, and didn’t stop in her stride for a moment.
Isabelle, being French, was used to the concept of affairs and mistresses. Normally, she might have turned a blind eye to her husband’s indiscretion. But, somehow, Louisa’s flagrant mockery of her presence enraged her. In two steps she had reached the bed, grabbing Louisa by her chestnut mane and pulling her firmly backwards.
She didn’t lose her dignity. It didn’t descend into a brawl. Eric cowered and gibbered excuses. Louisa just rolled her eyes.
‘For God’s sake, stop apologizing. It was only a quick bonk,’ she drawled. ‘This hot weather always makes me rampant in the afternoon, and Eric was the only one around. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t Olivier.’
Isabelle ignored her, and pulled two large suitcases out of the sliding wardrobe.
‘Get dressed,’ she snapped to Eric. ‘And take our things out to the car. We’re going.’ She turned to Louisa. ‘You’d better go and pack yourself. You needn’t think you’re staying on here.’
Louisa shrugged.
‘If you really want to spoil the holiday for everyone,’ she said, and sauntered out of the room without a care in the world.
The embittered cold war that his parents subsequently embarked upon put Olivier off marriage for life. The antagonism between them lurked like a venomous snake in every corner of the house; you never knew when it might strike and unleash its bitter poison. The atmosphere was constantly threatening; every now and then recriminations would lash out, spiteful barbed attacks that would leave open wounds for days. His mother was on the attack, his father on the defensive, each equally capable of inflicting pain and misery on the other.
Olivier found it unbearable. And he couldn’t see the point. Why didn’t they just split up and get a divorce? He knew his mother was Catholic, but as far as he knew not a practising one. Why did they carry on torturing themselves and each other?
One afternoon, he found his mother breaking up the dinner service they’d been given as a wedding present. She was slowly and deliberately dropping each plate on to the marble floor, where the delicate bone china shattered into a thousand pieces, her face totally impassive. It wasn’t an impulsive reaction to a heated argument; it was a cold, calculated act that symbolized how she felt. When every last piece had been destroyed, she calmly walked out of the room and locked herself in the bathroom. Olivier swept it all up before his father could see it. He knew she was goading him by her actions, and Eric was capable of far worse than smashing a few plates. If he could hide the evidence, then it might be weeks before Eric noticed the service was missing, and immediate recriminations could be avoided. Olivier wrapped the shards carefully in newspaper, took them out to the bins, then went to pack.
He escaped as quickly as he could, hitching a lift to Dover, crossing over to France on the ferry, then working his way gradually over to the Alps, where he got a job as a barman in one of the lesser resorts in the Trois Vallées. He worked hard, played hard, and was particularly delighted that as Christmas was the resort’s busiest week he needn’t come home and suffer his parents’ hideous snarling over the season of goodwill.
The only thing he learned from the experience was that the more you loved someone, the more you could hurt them – or be hurt by them. Thus he had danced round the issue of love for all of his adult life, and found that it suited him to avoid it. If he didn’t get attached, no one could take him unawares by lulling him into a false sense of security and then hurting him.
There had been a couple of near misses, times when he had found himself becoming more fond of someone than he would like, which made him feel very exposed and vulnerable. And the subsequent evasive action he had to take left a very bad taste in his mouth, as he knew he was causing damage, and leaving his victims hurt and bewildered. There had been Imogen, golden-hearted, gung-ho and as mad about skiing as he was, who was a chalet maid in the resort where he had been coaching. They had clicked immediately, spending their days off skiing together and the nights, rather predictably, embroiled between the sheets. There had been one night, after a particularly hairy escapade on a black run when things could have turned very nasty indeed had the weather not been kind to them, when he had felt incredibly close to her, as if by flirting with death their souls had been welded together. And by the way she clung to him, he knew she felt the same and it had all gone too far. The next day he arranged for a transfer to another resort and left, leaving no forwarding address and no explanation. He hated himself for it; he never liked to dwell on how Imogen must have reacted to his disappearance. But surely one short, sharp shock was be
tter than years of mental anguish and torture and abuse that he would have learned courtesy of his parents?
As he lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he’d just finished, Olivier knew instinctively that his treatment of Jamie that evening was his usual defence mechanism kicking in. He should never have said that about her mother. But the only way to keep her at arm’s length was to inflict pain upon her.
He was becoming far too attached.
The other night, after a couple of pints of Honey-cote Ale, he had found himself slipping into a fantasy involving him and Jamie in Jack and Louisa’s four-poster bed. It wasn’t a sexual fantasy, far from it. No – what he saw was himself bearing a tray, with mugs of tea and a pile of toast and the papers, slipping back under the duvet with her for a cosy, lazy Sunday morning, the picture of contented, domestic bliss, Parsnip and Gumdrop at their feet. And it frightened him. It was definitely time for him to move on.
Adding to Olivier’s discomfort was his shame at betraying Jack. When he’d arrived at Bucklebury, they’d had several heart-to-hearts, and Jack had made him promise never to reveal the truth about Louisa and her bedroom habits. And Olivier had sworn not to breathe a word, though time and again it had frustrated him to see Jack taking the flak. It had been all he could do to keep his mouth shut on several occasions. When he’d seen Jamie curled up in that chair, raging at the world, beside herself with sorrow and holding Jack responsible, he hadn’t been able to keep quiet any longer. He’d wanted to see justice done. But it had backfired on him. Badly.
Olivier trod out his second cigarette with a heavy heart. There was no way he could race tomorrow now. He decided he would leave a note for Jack apologizing, and just go. He didn’t know where, but that didn’t matter at the moment. Just as long as he put enough distance between him and the Wildings. He’d buggered things up enough for them already. They’d probably both be glad to see the back of him.
As he scrabbled about the workshop for a piece of paper and pencil, he reflected with a wry smile that at least one person would be happy with the outcome. By pulling out of the race he’d be leaving the way clear for Claudia’s victory. Ray would be made-up – not only would his daughter win the trophy, but he’d have saved himself a hundred grand in the process.
As he started to compose a letter of apology to Jack, the implications of this gradually filtered through to Olivier’s brain. What was the point in him running off, leaving the field wide open for Claudia, when he could take Ray Sedgeley up on his offer, throw the race, clear a hundred grand. Which he could then use to assuage the guilt he felt for his betrayal of Jack, for he could buy his half of the car off him. With a hundred grand, Jack and Jamie could restore Bucklebury to its former glory. Everyone would be happy.
Olivier told himself not to be ridiculous. The plan went against everything he believed in. But then, he reasoned, he couldn’t sink much lower than he already had. He’d betrayed Jack; Jack who’d treated him almost like his own son. Certainly treated him better than Eric had done. And he’d destroyed Jamie’s illusions about her mother. Throwing the race might go against everything he stood for, but Jack and Jamie stood to benefit. And only he would ever know the truth about what he had done. Ray Sedgeley certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. And Olivier thought he could live with it on his conscience, if it meant that Bucklebury was saved for the Wildings.
Olivier weighed up the pros and cons one last time. If he walked away, everybody lost. If he threw the race, everybody won. Except him, of course. But that was all he deserved.
Before he could change his mind, he pulled out his mobile and rang Ray’s number, praying that Claudia wouldn’t be in close proximity when he answered.
‘Sedgeley.’
‘Mr Sedgeley. It’s Olivier Templeton. Can you talk?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Yep.’
‘The deal we discussed the other night. I’m just calling to tell you I want to take you up on it.’
There was a delighted chuckle.
‘Good lad.’ Ray sounded euphoric. ‘And listen – I know how you feel about it, but it’s the way of the world. Like I told you, if you don’t do it, someone else will. You don’t win in the long run by playing it straight.’
Olivier couldn’t be bothered to argue. He was tired and he wanted to get away before Jack returned and found out what had gone on. He’d drive to Sapersley tonight; sleep in the car. Swiftly, he hooked up the trailer to the Land Rover and drove off down the drive for the very last time.
28
Olivier arrived at Sapersley in record time. For once the meandering country lanes that made up most of the route weren’t clogged up by tractors chugging along at an infuriating pace, their drivers oblivious – or perhaps not – to the impatient drivers behind them. The track was set in the grounds of Sapersley Hall at the foot of the Clee Hills: the original owner of the house had been a racing enthusiast and had it built for his own amusement just before the war. Many vehicles had been tested here during the throes of their development; its proximity to the Midlands made it particularly convenient as a venue for putting new marques through their paces. Now it was in use as a private commercial venture, complete with a driving school, and its exquisite setting made it ideal for corporate days out as well as a popular venue for historic cars recreating the fierce competitions of yesteryear. Nowadays, of course, the races didn’t represent the pinnacle of months of research and development and investment, they didn’t make or break a car’s future and reputation and commercial success, but to the individual competitor it was still one’s pride and glory at stake.
He turned in through the gates and past the field that had been set aside for camping: people often came down the night before a race and made a weekend of it. The good weather meant it was peppered with tents and caravans, and there was an almost carnival atmosphere. Plumes of smoke from portable barbecues were wisping their way into the sky. The smell made him hungry. He wondered if he’d be able to crash in on someone, pinch a couple of sausages. They were a friendly bunch, on the whole, rivals only for the fifteen minutes or so it took to run a race.
He checked his paperwork to see where he had been allocated a space in the paddock. There were other people still unloading. Some fussed over their cars like anxious mothers with a newborn baby, running scrupulous checks and polishing and covering them with customized tarpaulins; others, like Olivier, had a more relaxed attitude, treating their cars with respect but not mollycoddling them.
He found his allotted space and started to undo the webbing ropes that lashed the car to the trailer.
‘Want a hand?’
Olivier bent his head over a wheel arch, pretending not to have heard the teasingly provocative question. The last person he wanted to see at the moment was Claudia Sedgeley. He wanted to brood on his own, not engage in her inane chitter-chatter. She didn’t take the hint, though. She started to help without being invited. And he had to hand it to her: she was very capable and didn’t seem too worried about snagging a nail. With an extra pair of hands the job was over far more quickly.
‘Thanks,’ he said grudgingly, and went to turn his back again, to make it clear he was busy. But she wasn’t put off that easily.
‘Do you want to come and have something to eat? I was going to make a salad.’
Olivier shook his head.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, at least come and have a drink,’ she persisted. ‘You can’t tell me you’re not hot.’
Olivier sighed. He was going to have to be bloody rude – or give in. He looked at her. She was wearing a pair of white overalls; despite the bulky fabric and the unforgiving cut, her enviable figure was still discernible underneath. She’d rolled up the trouser legs to display smooth golden calves and was wearing eminently unsuitable pink trainers. Her hair was tied high up on her head with a bandanna; several tendrils had escaped and were sticking to her brow. Her cheeks were slightly pink from exertion; her hands were dirty. Oli
vier smiled to himself in approval. Dishevelment definitely suited her more than the designer fashion victim look of last week’s party. In his opinion, anyway.
He hesitated. He could turn down her invitation and go and sulk somewhere; pick over his argument with Jamie and berate himself for his foolhardiness. Or he could succumb. Then a thought occurred to him.
‘Where’s your dad?’ he asked casually.
He needed to exercise caution. He might have done a deal with Ray, but he didn’t necessarily want to have to look him in the eye or spend more time with him than he had to.
‘He’s taken some clients out for dinner. He’s brought them to watch me race tomorrow. They’re all staying at the Rose and Crown.’
No wonder Ray had been so pleased when Olivier had phoned. He could show off his clever daughter in front of his customers; puff himself up with pride as she went to collect her trophy. And Olivier would walk off with a hundred grand; a hundred grand with which to assuage his guilt before he started off on a new life.
He swatted the thought away like an annoying fly. He didn’t really want to give it head-space. After all, he’d never done anything like this before. And even though he told himself he wasn’t going to be the one benefitting from the fix, it still went against the grain.
He realized he’d drifted off. Claudia was looking at him strangely.
‘Hello? Are you coming or not? Because I’m starving and I need a drink.’
He relented. Why the hell not? Claudia might take his mind off what had happened. Better to spend the evening imagining what was underneath her overalls than torturing himself for his lack of morals.
‘OK. Why not?’
He followed her across the ground and over the field to where her Winnebago was parked at a distance from everyone else. It was enormous; it couldn’t do more than two miles to the gallon. Shiny, shiny black with ‘Claudia Sedgeley’ emblazoned on the side in pink italics, and a silhouette of a girl’s head in a racing helmet with a ponytail flowing out of the back. Inside, it was snug but luxuriously kitted out, with sleek brown leather seating, a table, a streamlined kitchen and a single bed with storage underneath. Claudia flicked a switch and music oozed out of a discreetly hidden sound system.
Wild Oats Page 35
