He poured the water on to the coffee, added a splash of milk and carried it into the outer office.
Tiona dimpled at him as she took the cup.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. And… could I have a word before everyone gets here? In your office?’
He indicated the small room she still utilized. She twinkled at him, obviously thinking he was up for a quick grope before Norma arrived.
‘Of course.’
He followed her inside, trying not to breathe in her intoxicating scent, and shut the door firmly.
Jack drove to Sapersley as quickly as he could, hoping that Jamie hadn’t given Olivier too hard a time the night before. He knew his daughter could be quicktempered and sharp-tongued, and he felt guilty that the lad had felt the need to escape. He’d find him and apologize on Jamie’s behalf – she was under a great deal of strain at the moment. When today’s race was over, Jack resolved to do something to ease the pressure she was feeling.
It was easy to park, as members of the public hadn’t arrived yet – racing proper didn’t start till after lunch, so they were likely to appear in dribs and drabs from midday onwards. He made his way through the auto-jumble stalls, some makeshift, some slick and businesslike, that sold car spares. Tables were crammed with gaskets and windscreens and entire engines that were picked over by enthusiasts looking for the elusive part that would transform their machine into the ultimate racing dream. Other stalls sold flying jackets and racing goggles and baseball caps. The air was thick with the smell of frying donuts, organic sausages, crêpes and fresh coffee. There was a wide range of food to choose from, not like the old days when he and Eric had raced, when an old caravan served up greasy bacon sarnies and lukewarm tea. He felt a stab of nostalgia as he suddenly realized how very much he wanted Olivier to win the trophy today.
Olivier hadn’t said a lot, but it was obvious his relationship with his father was far from ideal. As far as Jack could see, Eric had treated him rather shabbily. In Jack’s view, you didn’t try and force children into something they didn’t want. You had to let them be themselves, let them follow their own path and be supportive. Olivier hinted that he wasn’t living up to his father’s expectations, that he had let him down in some way. Jack’s personal opinion was that your children couldn’t let you down, only the other way round. Any suggestion that he was making up for what he considered to be Eric’s failings he kept firmly at the back of his mind. His nurturing of Olivier had never been intended as some sort of elaborate point-scoring.
Jack didn’t like to admit it, not even to himself, but he’d grown very fond of Olivier. He didn’t quite look upon him as the son he’d never had, because he’d never felt the need for a son, but he’d enjoyed giving him the benefit of his experience and seeing him flourish under his tuition. As he approached the paddock, his heart thudding with the anticipation of the day ahead, he wished for about the millionth time that the clock could have been turned back, that their lives could have been lived differently, and that Eric could have been there with him to watch Olivier race.
Five minutes later, he was puzzled. He’d found the Bugatti and the Land Rover parked in their allocated space, but no sign of Olivier. It was half past nine, and the car hadn’t been past the scrutineer yet.
Practice was due to start at ten, and the Corrigan Trophy was second on the race card – they’d have to get a move on. He checked with the race organizers, but they hadn’t received any notification of anything untoward, or Olivier withdrawing from the race.
Perhaps he’d forgotten something crucial, and someone had given him a lift to fetch it? But what? On closer investigation, Jack found Olivier’s jacket in the Land Rover with his wallet in his pocket. Increasingly concerned, he asked around. A couple of people had seen him arrive the evening before, but hadn’t seen him since.
The throaty purr of an engine behind him made him jump out of the way. He turned to see Claudia Sedgeley at the wheel of her Type 35, looking decidedly incongruous in a pink halter-neck top and minuscule hot pants.
‘Hi, Mr Wilding,’ she greeted him. ‘Thanks for a fantastic party the other night.’
‘Pleasure,’ replied Jack.
‘All set for the race?’ she asked.
Jack frowned.
‘No. I can’t find Olivier.’
Claudia shrugged.
‘Maybe he’s gone to the loo? I know what nerves do to my stomach.’
‘No. I mean he seems to have disappeared altogether. No one’s seen him since last night.’
Claudia looked concerned. ‘I saw him when he arrived. We had a quick drink. He said he was going to grab something to eat at the pub. I didn’t see him after that – I got an early night.’
‘And you haven’t seen him this morning?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? Maybe he got lucky and he’s shacked up in someone’s tent?’
Seemingly unperturbed, she flashed him a smile, released her handbrake and drove off.
Jack watched her go. Something in her body language had made him suspicious. She seemed a little too bright, a little too glib, a little too eager to meet his eye. As she drove away, he noticed Ray standing nearby, watching his daughter with a smile on his face. The cocky, self-satisfied smile of someone who thought they’d got it in the bag.
Christ, thought Jack. Surely they haven’t bumped him off? The Corrigan Trophy was a nice little incentive for beginners, but surely it wasn’t worth killing someone for a fairly hideous cut-glass bowl and a cheque for two hundred quid?
Claudia’s heart was thumping. She needed a bloody Oscar for that performance. Underneath her cool, she was in a panic. She’d meant to get up at five, go and let Olivier out, apologize to him, massage his ego and maybe some other bits if he’d let her near him. But she’d overslept horribly – only waking up when her dad came looking for her at eight. And Ray had been on her tail since then. She’d had no opportunity to sneak off to the Winnebago on her own. And now time was slipping by – if she didn’t get him out before long, it would be too late. And that had never been Claudia’s intention. Even she could see there was no point in winning a race by eliminating your greatest threat. Leaving Olivier chained to her headboard stark-bollock naked wasn’t going to prove she was the better driver, just a nasty little cheat.
Tiona sat on the edge of her desk, swinging her legs, looking for all the world like an innocent schoolgirl. She peered at Christopher in concern.
‘You look very serious.’
‘I am,’ he said, trying to keep his voice level. ‘There’s no easy way of tackling this, Tiona –’
She raised her head in alarm.
‘Zoe’s found out,’ she said flatly.
‘No.’
‘Then you’re worried that she might?’
She jumped off the desk and moved over to him, slid her arms around his waist.
‘There’s no pressure, you know that. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to back you into a corner. If you want to cool things off…’ She traced his lips with her finger. ‘I’m not a marriage wrecker. I’ve got no claims on you. Of course your wife and family come first. I understand that…’
Feather-light fingers caressed his brow. He swallowed. The urge to kiss her was unbearable. He could feel his body responding: his heart was pounding and there was a sweet ache in his groin that was crying out to be assuaged.
‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ he said faintly. ‘Not directly.’ He lifted up the incriminating sheet of paper that Norma had typed out, detailing all the transactions. ‘It’s this.’
Tiona took it out of his hands and examined it. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a list of transactions. I want a few things clarified.’
‘Like what?’
Her tone was faintly snappish. Christopher looked at her with interest: she looked slightly unsettled, a tiny tinge of pink on her cheeks. She mustered up a little smile.
‘Is there so
me sort of problem?’
‘They… all seem to have been sold for under their market value.’
Tiona’s eyebrows shot up. ‘In whose opinion?’ There was an edge to her voice, which she covered up with a light laugh. ‘We all know a property is only worth what someone is prepared to pay.’
She sounded slightly defensive. Whether through guilt or innocence, Christopher couldn’t be sure, but she was definitely rattled. It gave him the courage to go on the attack.
‘Yes. But none of these actually went on to the open market. It seems we –’ he couldn’t resist a hint of sarcasm here ‘– were happy to accept the first offer that came along. No board, no advertising, no details even prepared.’
She studied the paper for a moment, a slight furrow between her brows, as if refreshing her memory. Was she acting? Christopher didn’t take his gaze from her face, not wanting to miss any clue. Finally she put down the paper and sighed.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I know strictly speaking it’s not the way we should be doing business.’
‘Strictly speaking?’ Christopher was incredulous. ‘It goes against everything we stand for. Our role is to get the best price possible for our client –’
She put up a hand to stop him.
‘If I hadn’t done what I did, we wouldn’t be standing here now,’ she said defiantly. ‘We needed the money. You’ve heard of cash flow, I presume?’ Christopher flinched at her patronizing tone, the flash of anger in her eyes. ‘Well, six months ago there wasn’t any cash flowing. Drace’s coffers were empty. We couldn’t afford two months, three months, five months to get these properties on to the market, get the offers in, then wait for the chains to complete before our commission came in.’ She brandished the piece of paper at him. ‘All these people wanted quick sales and that’s what they got. Quick, cash sales, no questions asked, that went through in record time and gave us the money to pay the rent, the wages, our page in the paper, the phone bill…’
She trailed off.
‘I’m sorry if the way I operated didn’t comply with your idea of how Drace’s should be run. But I did what I could to save the company. Because I love it, and I want it to be a success. I want us to be the first agency people think of when they come to put their house on the market. And I really think we’re getting there. You saw last month’s figures…’
Her voice wavered; her pretty little bottom lip trembled. Christopher crossed over to her. She looked up, her huge blue eyes swimming with tears.
‘I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing.’
Mortified that he could have suspected her of double-crossing them, when in fact she had brought them back from the brink of disaster, Christopher folded her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and relief flooded through him; relief that he could once more have his fill of her scent, her skin, her softness… her.
Jamie had been with Hamilton for an agonizing half hour. She prayed that when the time came for Jack to go it would be quick. How could people stand coming to visit their relatives, once so full of life, and now worse than dead, bereft of any dignity? She’d felt so foolish, prattling away to him, making a great ceremony of opening her card and the shortbread tin, her voice full of false enthusiasm, while he sat in a catatonic trance, totally oblivious. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She got up from the slippery armchair that was provided for visitors.
‘I’ve got to go now, I’m afraid. Have a lovely day, Ham. The others will be in to see you later, I’m sure.’
Could he hear her? Did he understand what she was saying? Did he care?
She walked over to him and bent to give him a kiss. He seemed to be dozing. She brushed her lips against his cheek gently. Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he lifted his head, staring straight at her. Disconcerted, she tried to smile.
‘Goodbye, Ham. I’ll come and see you again soon.’
She patted his hand, then started with shock as he grabbed her. The face that had been so devoid of emotion had come to life; the eyes that had been blank were filled with recognition, and with that recognition something else that Jamie couldn’t quite identify. He seemed distressed, agitated. Perhaps he was having a fit? Or, more likely, whatever tranquillizer they gave patients to keep them under control had worn off.
‘It’s OK,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll get someone to come and see you.’
But that clearly wasn’t the right thing to say. His hands were clawing at hers and she had to force herself not to recoil in horror. This was horrific! He was crying. Tears and snot were dribbling down his face. She wanted to pull away, find him a handkerchief, but he was plucking at her sleeve in desperation, clearly wanting to tell her something.
‘What is it, Ham? Please – don’t be upset.’
He was jabbering something.
‘Wheezer. Wheezer.’
Shit. Was he asthmatic? Was he asking for some medication – a puffer or something? She reached for the buzzer to call the nurse, when a figure in the doorway caught her eye.
It was Rosemary. Rosemary, looking at Hamilton with an expression on her face that turned Jamie’s insides to icy water. A grim mixture of loathing and disgust.
‘What’s he saying?’
Rosemary turned her eyes to Jamie, beholding her with the same disdain.
‘He’s calling for your mother,’ she spat.
‘What?’
‘Louisa. He’s saying Louisa. He thinks you’re her. You look very alike – more than ever.’
Jamie was utterly confused.
‘You have no idea, do you? Absolutely no idea, you poor little cow.’
Jamie blinked. Why on earth was the ladylike Rosemary calling her a poor little cow?
‘Rosemary, what are you talking about?’
Rosemary took two paces forwards into the room. She was clutching Hamilton’s present – a pair of striped Marks & Spencers pyjamas, which she hadn’t bothered to wrap because there was no point – like a shield in front of her.
‘Your mother ruined my life. My life and my marriage. Hamilton was besotted with her, completely besotted. Right up until the day she died. The day of your mother’s funeral was the happiest day of my life. I thought perhaps I could have him to myself now, for the last few years we’d got left. But no – she even got to him in death. It finished him. He couldn’t go on without her. I wasn’t enough to keep him going. He gave up.’
With a trembling finger, she pointed at Hamilton, who’d dozed off in his chair.
‘Look at him. She’s done this to him, your mother. She’s as good as killed him. And some days I wish he would die. Then maybe he’ll get what he wants – he can be with her for ever and ever. And I can get on with my life. But instead I have to sit here and look at what she did to him. She’s taunting me now, saying I still can’t have him all to myself.’
Jamie felt a cold band of fear squeezing her heart. She tried to tell herself that Rosemary was upset, that the pressure of Hamilton’s stroke was getting to her, that she was having some sort of breakdown and was becoming deluded. But something in the back of her mind was ringing alarm bells. The conversation she’d had with Olivier the night before made her wonder if there perhaps was something to what Rosemary was saying.
‘Your mother was never happy unless every man in the world was in love with her,’ Rosemary carried on, her voice high with emotion. ‘She was relentless. If anyone tried to resist, she hounded them until they gave in. It was like an obsession. She couldn’t bear the thought that any other woman in the world had more to offer than she did – that she wasn’t quite the most irresistible creature that walked the earth. She might have been beautiful. But she was poison. Absolute poison. She ruined more marriages than she had hot dinners.’
‘Rosemary – stop it. You don’t know what you’re saying!’ Jamie was distressed at this transformation of Rosemary from meek and mild to a raging monster. Her colour was high, she was breathing hard a
nd fast. Jamie was frightened she would have some sort of stroke herself.
Rosemary seemed to gather herself.
‘If you don’t believe me,’ she said with dignity, ‘then ask your father. He was under no illusions about Louisa. Not that it stopped him loving her. He absolutely adored her, even though she treated him like… like…’
She was searching for a word.
‘Shit,’ she said finally. ‘She treated him like shit.’
Jamie was shocked. She felt sure that Rosemary had never used this word before in her life.
‘He had to sit there while she flirted and cavorted for the benefit of whoever was her next victim. There was a hideous inevitability about it. She toyed with them, tortured them, reined them in until they were caught up in her web. Then, after a few weeks or months, she’d drop them like a hot potato, leave them to pick up whatever was left of their minds and their marriages. And she’d move on to her next victim.’
Rosemary paused for breath, then found she was talking to thin air. Jamie had fled the room. She supposed she wasn’t surprised. She felt a little bit guilty that she had been so vicious. But then, why should she have to bear the brunt of Louisa’s legacy all alone? And it wasn’t as if Jamie was a little girl any more. By the time Rosemary was her age, she’d already suffered eight years of torture, knowing she was married to a man who didn’t love her, not really, not the way she wanted to be loved.
She looked over at the armchair where Hamilton was still fast asleep. Lucky him, he was able to retreat from the pain. His mind had finally found him a means of escape; shelter from the horrible truth. While she, Rosemary, of perfectly sound mind, had to endure the torture day after day. She put her hands to her face and wept, bitter, noisy, unashamed sobs of grief and self-pity and helplessness and hatred.
Wild Oats Page 37
