Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  She opened the drinks fridge. It was filled with mini bottles of Moët, two bottles of Polish vodka and several cartons of tomato juice.

  ‘There’s not much choice, I’m afraid. Dad only drinks Bloody Marys. And I only drink champagne.’

  Olivier raised his eyebrows. Claudia opened her eyes wide in arch self-defence.

  ‘It’s got fewer calories than anything else. I have to watch my weight very carefully, you know.’

  She took them out a bottle each, popped them open and stuck in pink bendy straws. They flopped back on the leather seats and sucked contentedly. Claudia kicked off her trainers, stuck her long legs out in front of her and wiggled her toes luxuriously. Her feet were smooth and brown, the toenails painted with what Olivier knew from his mother was a French polish, pearly pink with white tips.

  ‘The trouble with champagne,’ declared Claudia, ‘is it goes straight to my head no matter how much I practise.’

  Olivier had to admit that he too felt light-headed, though in his case it was probably because he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so Claudia insisted on making them supper.

  ‘I’m no great cook, I’m afraid, but I can open a packet,’ she said, removing the ingredients for chicken Caesar salad from another fridge. Olivier watched as she sliced up some pre-cooked char-grilled chicken, shook ready-chopped lettuce out of a packet and sprinkled them with croutons and Parmesan, then slathered it all with creamy dressing.

  They sat at the table to eat, mopping up the salad with part-baked ciabatta that she warmed in the oven. Soon Olivier found he was feeling better; the food restored his strength and the champagne had lightened his mood. And as they chatted, Olivier found himself intrigued by Claudia. On the surface, she was a product of her environment: people often put up a front that did them no favours, and with her flashy lifestyle, her pre-prepared, perfectly packaged existence, her unashamedly in-your-face clothing, Claudia was eminently dislikeable on first meeting. But underneath she was warm and funny. She didn’t take herself at all seriously; she was happy to send herself up. Olivier was curious as to what made her tick.

  ‘So,’ said Olivier. ‘What on earth got you into all this? I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not your typical racing driver.’

  Claudia grinned.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything I hate it’s being predictable.’ She took another swig out of her bottle and leaned forwards. ‘Have you ever been to Birmingham?’

  Olivier didn’t think he had.

  ‘Where I live, people are only interested in what you drive and how much money you have. I wanted a bit more than that. I didn’t want to turn into my mother. Obsessed with charity lunches and who’s who at the golf club.’

  Claudia put an imaginary gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

  ‘Not that I don’t love my mother,’ she added hastily. ‘I just don’t want to be her.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Olivier darkly. ‘If I thought I was going to end up like my father…’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Claudia. ‘I sense issues. Would you like to lie on my couch?’ She patted the leather bench seat, smiling. ‘I’m good with issues. I’ve had shedloads of therapy.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Olivier assured her. ‘We could be here all night.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she replied lightly. ‘I’m not doing anything else.’

  Their eyes locked for a moment, both recognizing a frisson of suggestion in her tone.

  ‘Another drink?’ Claudia offered, not taking her eyes off his.

  Olivier shook his head regretfully, though what he really wanted to do was get well and truly paralytic.

  ‘Not the night before a race.’

  She smiled at him tauntingly.

  ‘You’re so controlled. Such will-power.’ She walked over and stood in front of him, fingering the Velcro opening of her overalls with a minxy little smile. ‘Does your abstinence extend to other things? Is it no sex before a race, like David Beckham before a match?’

  Bloody hell, thought Olivier. She was a fast worker all right. She bent over and brought her face close to his, her eyes dancing with mischief.

  ‘Personally I find it helps me get a good night’s sleep. Otherwise I’m tossing and turning all night.’

  Olivier looked at her for what seemed an eternity, mulling the prospect over in his mind. He could be uptight and po-faced, accept a cup of coffee and then go and sleep in the back of his car, freezing his balls off. Or he could accept Claudia’s fairly blatant offer, and get a decent night’s sleep in a comfortable bed into the bargain. If he turned her down, he knew he’d just go and stew over his argument with Jamie, and curse himself for breaking his promise to Jack never to tell her the truth. A night with Claudia would certainly take his mind off things.

  A ripping sound broke his reverie. Claudia was sliding her finger down the entire length of the opening, a provocative grin on her face. Her overalls were now gaping open, and it was clear she had nothing on underneath. Olivier’s eyes widened as she let the sleeves drop down her arms, then shimmied out of them altogether. She did have something on underneath – a G-string like he’d never seen before. A black satin waistband from which a string of freshwater pearls ran down between her legs. Decidedly uncomfortable, he thought – but then again, perhaps not? Perhaps it was the ultimate stimulation: pearl against pearl? It was certainly doing something for him. He couldn’t have turned her down now, even if he’d wanted to.

  He hooked a finger into her waistband and pulled her to him. She smelled divine. Castrol and Coco Chanel. Against his better judgement, he went to kiss her.

  He didn’t care if this was a mistake. Anyway, why was it a mistake? They were both consenting adults. Neither of them was being unfaithful to anyone. Maybe the mistake had been ignoring what was under his nose for so long? Perhaps he and Claudia were made for each other. It certainly felt right. Each time she touched him he shivered with the electricity. Just kissing her was better than the best sex he’d ever had – she was teasing him languorously with her tongue, running it lightly along the inside of his mouth in a gesture that was so sensual he felt himself go quite literally weak at the knees. Shedding his clothes hastily, he pulled her on to the bed, then groaned as she began a journey with her mouth, kissing his jaw-line, taking tiny, playful little bites on his neck, sucking on his nipples – he’d no idea he liked that.

  She was sitting astride his chest. As he looked down he could see her pinkness, the string of pearls disappearing into forbidden territory. He couldn’t wait much longer. She smiled and bent down to whisper in his ear. He could feel the softness of her hair tickling his face.

  ‘Put your arms over your head,’ she commanded, and he obeyed. He was totally in her thrall. She leaned over him, and he felt her full breasts in his face. He groaned with the sensation, and went to find a nipple with his mouth as she ran her nails lightly over each arm then stroked the inside of each wrist.

  As he arched his back with the pleasure of all the sensations, he heard a soft click. Before he’d fully registered what was going on he heard another, then felt cold, hard metal against each wrist. Suddenly alarmed, he pulled on each hand, and a realization clutched at his heart. Handcuffs. The crazy, kinky bitch had handcuffed him to the headboard!

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or panic.

  Claudia smiled and slithered off him. She was taking off her G-string. He gulped and swallowed, praying that this was the moment he’d been waiting for. She was trailing the pearls over his chest, snaking them down his body and then round the base of his achingly stiff penis. They were cold and hard, in total contrast to the warm softness he was hoping to feel.

  Then he tried to sit up in alarm. She was tying them in a knot round it! Jesus, thought Olivier wildly. What perversion was she about to execute? Images of trussed-up MPs with masks and oranges in unmentionable places came into his head.

  She was hovering over him. He could smell her perf
ume. As she bent to kiss him, he wondered what was going to happen next.

  ‘Goodnight, sleep tight,’ she said simply, and as he began to struggle, she put a warning hand on his chest. ‘Don’t bother. The handcuffs are police issue, courtesy of a friend of mine. You’ll never get out.’

  She picked up her discarded overalls and climbed back into them.

  ‘You should be warm enough. And don’t bother shouting – that’s why I parked so far up the hill. No one will hear you, and anyway, the place is sound-proofed.’

  She patted him affectionately.

  ‘Sorry it had to come to this, but I can’t risk losing that trophy tomorrow. I’m going to stay at the Rose and Crown with Dad. I’ll come and let you out tomorrow afternoon, when it’s all over. You can congratulate me then.’

  As she walked out, she dropped the tiny key ostentatiously into the fruit bowl and gave him a little wave. Olivier looked down at his penis, still treacherously stiff, with its pearl collar, then flopped his head back on to the pillow and groaned.

  He’d already sold his soul to the devil, and the devil’s bloody daughter had gone and taken matters into her own hands.

  As Claudia walked down the hill, she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or panic. She just hadn’t been able to resist it. She’d nursed Olivier’s jibe in her heart all week, until it became a hard ball of resentment, urging her to take her revenge, make him feel as frustrated and powerless and worthless as she had when he’d mocked her for being a daddy’s girl. She’d also proved to Olivier that he found her attractive – there’d been more than enough evidence of that, she mused.

  Deep down, she knew that ritual humiliation, no matter how irresistible, wasn’t really the way to get a man to love you. But Claudia was too impatient and too proud to take it slowly, to let nature take its course, to let Olivier unpeel the hard outer layers to discover her kitten-soft centre. After all, she’d spent her whole life proving herself and old habits died hard. She’d spent too long giving out the message that she wasn’t to be messed with to roll over and have her tummy tickled.

  Of course, she hadn’t really meant to leave him there all night. She went to join her father for drinks at the Rose and Crown with his clients, to sparkle for them. Ray didn’t have to point out that it was they who were paying indirectly for her indulgence: Claudia had grown up enough lately to know better than to bite the hand that fed her. And afterwards the thought of a comfy hotel bed was really just too tempting: much better than stumbling back to the Winnebago in the dark. She’d get up early and release him from his chains, she thought, as she drifted off into sleep.

  29

  Jack hadn’t got back from his knees-up in Ludlow until late, so it was early Saturday morning before he realized that Olivier had already legged it to Sapersley the night before.

  ‘When did he go?’ he asked Jamie, aggrieved. She was spooning coffee into the cafetière, desperate for a caffeine kick-start after a rather sleepless night.

  ‘Yesterday evening. We had a bit of a falling out.’

  ‘What about?’ Jack was concerned. He hated it when people didn’t get on, and there was enough tension in the house.

  ‘Oh – nothing really. Leaving the kitchen in a mess when we’ve got people coming to view. That sort of thing. It’s me, I’m afraid. I’m a bit uptight.’

  She was rather vague, because she couldn’t bring herself to reveal what Olivier had said about Louisa. She knew Jack would be hurt, and she didn’t feel the need to stir things up unnecessarily. She was a great believer in least said, soonest mended. She’d just have to make sure Olivier got on his bloody bike as soon as possible.

  Jack came over to hug her.

  ‘I know things are tough, darling. Isn’t there something I could do to cheer you up?’

  Tears stung the back of Jamie’s lids. If only there was. There always had been when she was little – Jack could always think of a way to bring sunshine into a rainy day. She wriggled out of his embrace before her tears betrayed her and she had to explain.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she reassured him brightly. ‘I’m going to pop over and visit Hamilton this morning. It’s his birthday and poor Kif’s tied up all day. I promised I’d drop in – I feel guilty enough I haven’t been to see him before now. It must be awful…’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jack, but seemed hasty to change the subject. ‘I’d better get a move on if I’m going to be of any help to Olivier. Um… I don’t suppose you want to come along later? The Corrigan Trophy’s at two.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Jamie, very definitely. She would, quite frankly, rather boil her head in oil.

  Christopher was hiding in the little kitchen at the back of Drace’s, alternately taking deep breaths to calm his nerves and gulping coffee. He watched the hands of the clock creeping round the face and prayed for divine intervention, because without it Tiona would come through the door bang on quarter to nine just as she did every morning. Flood, hurricane, biological warfare – he wasn’t bothered, as long as it postponed the moment of reckoning.

  He knew it was unlikely, though, so he ran through his rehearsed speech one more time. He had to plunge straight in with it. He couldn’t beat around the bush exchanging pleasantries and would-you-like-a-cup-of-coffees. He had to get straight in there with ‘Tiona, can I have a word?’ Calm, authoritative and without emotion.

  The treacherous long hand nudged towards nine. Ting – the clock struck quarter to. And as predicted, in she came through the door. Christopher imagined the air becoming rose-scented around her, and groaned. He put down his coffee cup, squared his shoulders and marched out into the office to greet her.

  She smiled such a sweet smile, obviously delighted to see him. She looked more delicate than ever, a pale blue cashmere cardigan unbuttoned over a sundress, her hair falling loose to her shoulders.

  Christopher faltered. There must be some mistake. She wasn’t capable of such treachery. In five minutes’ time, she’d explain everything to him, there would be some plausible explanation that he hadn’t managed to hit upon – even though he’d been racking his brain for one ever since Norma brought him those wretched files yesterday. He would laugh with relief, and then he’d be able to feel those heaven-sent breasts, press his lips to her velvet flesh…

  ‘Morning, Christopher.’ Her voice was low, drenched with honey.

  ‘Tiona.’ He took in a deep breath, steeled for confrontation, then quailed. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  *

  Jamie arrived at Havelock House, a sprawling gentleman’s residence screened by a rank of monkey-puzzle trees, and immediately felt filled with even more gloom. No matter how these places were dressed up, they were always depressing. No matter how elaborate the vase of flowers on the table in the hallway, no matter how gleaming white the tablecloths in the dining room for those capable of communal eating, there was no getting away from the fact that people rarely left here unless they were in a pine box.

  She asked directions to Hamilton’s room, and followed a care assistant down a maze of corridors, trying not to peer into other people’s bedrooms en route, not wanting a glimpse into the dreary monotony of their lives. She caught sight of a little old lady refilling her budgie’s bowl with seed, her wizened face alive with love for her only companion. Jamie could hardly bear it, wondering what would happen to the budgie when the old lady died.

  The care assistant showed her Hamilton’s door. It was slightly ajar, so she tapped gently and walked in. An old man was hunched up in a chair by the window, and for a moment she thought she’d got the wrong room. But then she saw by the few belongings on his dressing table – his monogrammed brushes and a photo of Rosemary – that this was Hamilton.

  He’d been a tall man, not overly muscular but definitely fit, his shoulders broad enough for him to look imposing in the tweed suits he always wore. And he wasn’t strictly handsome, but he was nice-looking, with his sandy hair swept back from his forehead just like Kif’s. Now he looked like a shrunken
little gnome. His face was gaunt and bony, his nose seemed huge, his eyes were hollow. He was wearing striped pyjamas, but his shoulders were hunched so that his head poked forwards, like a chicken about to peck the ground for food. He’d been shaved, but Jamie could see where they had missed the occasional tuft on his upper lip. And his hair could have done with cutting; the ends were straggling over his collar.

  Jamie found her voice was stuck somewhere in the back of her throat. Somehow ‘happy birthday’ seemed like such a futile and ridiculous thing to say. What could possibly be happy about it? She looked down with shame at the tin of shortbread she’d bought from Hilly before she came. They’d both agreed that food was probably the only gift that would have any impact. What did someone in Ham’s condition care for new socks or aftershave?

  She cleared her throat and was surprised when her voice came out clear and true.

  ‘Hello, Hamilton. It’s Jamie. I’ve come to wish you happy birthday.’

  Christopher found it hard to steady his hand as he dug a teaspoon into the catering-size tin of Nescafé and spooned coffee powder into Tiona’s gold-rimmed Wedgwood mug, cursing himself for missing the window of opportunity. If he’d had any balls, the confrontation with Tiona would have been virtually over by now. Instead, here he was waiting for the kettle to boil again while she went through the post, unaware that there was a problem. Another ten minutes and Norma would be here. He’d wanted to get it out of the way before the rest of the staff arrived.

  For God’s sake, man, where are your balls? he asked himself. He knew he was making a fool of himself, but he felt bewitched. Tiona was the stuff of Greek legend, a siren luring him on to the rocks – the very rocks his marriage was veering towards. He forced himself to envisage the worst-case scenario. Zoe finding out about Tiona, and the Association of Estate Agents finding out about Tiona’s fraud. Resulting in divorce, a messy investigation and the collapse of Drace’s, not to mention the besmirching of the family name. Only by taking the bull by the horns and handling this situation firmly but sensitively could he save his marriage, his family business… and his face. Tempting though it was, he couldn’t just let things slide.