Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  A marshal approached her. They wanted her in the commentary box, so she could discuss her win.

  ‘No comment,’ she snapped, turning on her heel, and the marshal looked nonplussed. He thought may be it was a good thing there weren’t more women participating in the sport. They were never bloody happy.

  Olivier was about to start up the Land Rover when someone tapped on the window. He flicked off the ignition in annoyance and wound it down. Ray Sedgeley was standing there. He looked a little shaken, rather grey round the gills, not his usual cocksure self.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘I’m fine. Now why don’t you just fuck off?’ Olivier snarled.

  ‘I’ve come to settle my debt. Though you needn’t have gone that far. Jesus, I thought you were a goner.’

  ‘What debt?’

  ‘You threw the race, didn’t you? I owe you a ton. I expect you want cash – don’t want the Inland Revenue asking questions.’ Ray managed a nervous smile.

  Olivier looked at him coldly.

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. A deal’s a deal.’

  ‘There was no deal.’

  Ray started to panic, wondering if Olivier had decided to grass him up to the authorities. Even though he knew he could blag his way out of it, he didn’t want Claudia’s reputation muddied. He put an avuncular hand on Olivier’s shoulder through the window.

  ‘Now come on. A hundred grand. You’re going to need it for repairs for a start –’

  ‘There was no deal,’ repeated Olivier. ‘I didn’t throw the race. I was trying to win it.’

  He wound the window up viciously and Ray snatched his hand away just in time. The Land Rover started up, and he jumped out of the way as Olivier pulled off.

  Ray stared after him in disbelief. If that was gentlemanly behaviour, he could keep it. What a complete and utter prat, turning down a sum like that in the name of honour.

  Christopher sat on the terrace at Lydbrook that night feeling as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders. He didn’t mind admitting that he’d been frightened. Very frightened indeed. But he had stood his ground and remained calm, and in the end Tiona hadn’t made a fuss.

  At four o’clock he’d closed the office. If anyone wanted to buy or sell a house that badly, they could wait till Monday. He told Luke and Norma to go home early; Norma was clearly gagging to know what had happened, but he couldn’t bring himself to relay the gory details – she’d have to spend the weekend in suspense. Then he’d gone home himself, and Sebastian and Hugo had leaped on him with glee, which was most gratifying. Zoe was ambling about the garden with a trug, happily filling it with the supper ingredients. She’d bought the River Café Easy cook book. Tonight was pasta with pancetta and fresh peas. He felt a surge of gratitude for her efforts.

  Inside the house, he could hear the phone ringing. He got to his feet and went into the cool of the hall to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Lydbrook.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Drace. It’s matron here, from Havelock House.’

  Christopher felt his heart lurch and begin a terrifying descent to his boots. He hadn’t been to see his father. It was his bloody birthday. And now – what? Was he dead? He wouldn’t be able to cope with the guilt –

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rather a nice surprise, I think. Your father’s sitting up bright as a button, demanding to see you. I know it seems extraordinary but on the face of it – well, he seems to have made a remarkable recovery.’

  It was a solemn Jack and Jamie who returned to Bucklebury Farm that evening. The remnants of the car had been loaded on to the trailer and Jack had arranged to have it towed to a specialist garage, though nobody held out much hope.

  A quick inspection of his room revealed that Olivier had cleared out his few things and gone.

  Jamie sighed.

  ‘I shouldn’t have been so vile to him. I told him to get out and never come back.’

  ‘He probably feels bad about telling you,’ said Jack. ‘I made him swear never to breathe a word…’

  ‘Do you think he’s gone back to his father?’

  ‘I doubt it. He made it pretty clear their differences were irreconcilable.’

  Jamie thought about Olivier’s father.

  ‘No wonder you didn’t want to talk to Eric about the car,’ she mused. ‘Not after him and Mum.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘In some ways it was even worse, being shafted by my best mate. I’d come to expect it from Louisa, but I thought better of Eric.’

  ‘He sounds horrible,’ said Jamie. ‘I think you’re better off without his friendship.’

  ‘He was all right in the old days. Reading between the lines, I think it was after his affair with your mother that he got all bitter and twisted. I think Isabelle gave him a pretty hard time.’

  ‘So will you get in touch with him now? About the car, I mean? You’ll have to split the insurance money – you can’t keep that quiet.’

  ‘Insurance money,’ said Jack flatly.

  ‘Yes.’ Jamie felt a flutter of panic. ‘Surely it was insured?’

  ‘For on the road, yes.’ Jack looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘But not for racing.’

  Jamie looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hardly anyone insures for racing.’

  ‘But that’s crazy!’

  ‘It’s prohibitively expensive.’

  ‘So people go out there on the track in cars worth more than most people’s houses and if they trash it – tough luck?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Jack at least had the grace to look sheepish.

  Jamie leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. On the face of it, when she looked, her life was a complete disaster. She was having to sell the family home. She’d lost her mother and the love of her life. She’d alienated her staunchest supporter, who’d subsequently trashed their one potential source of cash, which was now a mangled heap of useless metal.

  Then she began to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ demanded Jack, rather indignantly.

  The one thing that had come out of all this mess was that she now knew the truth about her father. She thought back to Olivier’s lecture, how he’d pointed out that Jack was the most important thing in her life, and realized how right he’d been.

  She got up and crossed the room, throwing her arms around Jack and holding him tight, trying to pour as much love into him as she could, to make up for all the times she’d been exasperated with him in the past, all the times she’d blamed him for his irresponsibility and capriciousness. At least now she was going to get the chance to know the real Jack.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said, squeezing him as tightly as she could.

  31

  It was late October, and Ludlow was bathed in a glorious golden light that set off the russets and ochres of the falling leaves. The streets and shops were busy with tourists, lured by the last of the crisp, bright sunshine before the gloom of November set in.

  Rod and Bella came out of the travel agents and into the high street. They smiled at each other a little shamefacedly. It was, after all, an outrageous amount of money to spend on a holiday, but they both deserved it after the last couple of months, since Rod had brought Bella home from hospital. In a few days’ time they would be on their way to Mauritius, to Le Touessrok, a spa hotel of such glamorous proportions that they almost couldn’t believe they’d been allowed to book in. It seemed a just reward for the hell they’d each been through, though they hadn’t actually voiced that to each other.

  That was how their relationship worked these days. They skated over unpleasant issues, except when they actually had to face them. When Bella went to therapy, for example. Then they had to confront the ugliness face-on. The rest of the time they tried to make life as pleasant as possible. And be pleasant to each other. They’d both got rather good at it, considering.

  She’d bee
n going to counselling for two months. Sometimes Rod went with her, to support her and to learn why she’d become what she had. He’d been deeply shocked by what had been revealed during these sessions – her torrid childhood at the hands of a drunk and violent father who had, to confuse her further, been warm and affectionate and adoring when he wasn’t in his cups. Rod’s admiration for Pauline had grown in the face of what he had learned, as had his sympathy for Bella. Meanwhile, his relationship with her had moved on to another plane. He felt incredibly protective and was enormously patient, holding her when she cried, talking things through with her, reassuring her. She took up all of his spare time. Which was a good thing, because it stopped him thinking too much.

  Now, as they walked through Ludlow back to the car park, Rod felt a sense of gloom descend upon him. He realized that, far from looking forward to the holiday, he was dreading it. There would be no work to distract him. Work was his saving grace. Work was what stopped him boiling over with the frustration of it all and throwing things at the wall. Work was the only thing that stopped his life being completely and utterly pointless. Deep down he knew that saving Bella was only done out of a sense of duty combined with guilt. He wasn’t doing it because he loved her.

  What the hell were he and Bella going to do, with only each other and a multi-million pound spa to distract them? They couldn’t enjoy the restaurant, because three nights out of five she freaked out about food and had to be calmed and cajoled into eating. They couldn’t enjoy the sports facilities, because she would become obsessed with burning calories and sneak on to the scales and get her BMI measured in secret – then be ecstatic or despairing. She had a long way yet to go before any of these pleasures could be enjoyed. Added to which, every other female would be a potential threat, depending on how they measured up under her critical eye. But Rod couldn’t bring himself to point any of this out.

  And then there was the thorny question of bed. Or what they might do in it. They still hadn’t had sex. It was a loaded bloody gun. It raised too many issues; there just wasn’t any point. And what, thought Rod, was the point of a holiday without rampant sex at inappropriate times of the day?

  They turned up a side street and Rod realized they were passing Drace’s. Out of habit, he looked in the window. He was always on the lookout for the next restoration project; he’d been thinking recently that a move might help take their mind off things and give them each a common interest.

  As soon as he looked he realized he shouldn’t have. In the centre of the window was displayed the prime property. Bucklebury Farm. With five lavish photos demonstrating its not inconsiderable charms. And across the middle of the display, in blood-red letters, were splashed the words ‘Under Offer’.

  Rod turned, hooked his arm through Bella’s and walked away very quickly, before his mind started torturing him about what might have been.

  Twenty-eight people had been to see Bucklebury Farm since it had gone on the market in September. Kif had ended up doing block viewings while Jamie made herself scarce for the day: it was too painful for her to watch people traipsing through her beloved home discussing the changes they would make. He went to see Jamie when a firm cash offer came in from a local couple with two horse-mad daughters. He knew it would be traumatic; he knew she would be in a quandary about whether to accept – for Jack had left it up to her to deal with the sale. And he wanted to talk her through it objectively. Or as objectively as he could, for he was as loath to see the farm go as she was.

  ‘They’ve offered thirty grand less than the asking price. But, as you know, we built that in, so in reality you’re getting what you wanted.’

  Jamie nodded. She still couldn’t believe they were talking about over half a million. But prices in Shropshire had zoomed up, especially houses that were pretty but manageable with that dreaded word ‘potential’.

  ‘Fine,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m not going to quibble.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Kif, ‘I’ll call the Taylors this afternoon. Tell them you’ve accepted their offer.’

  Jamie nodded, then burst into tears. At once, Kif was at her side, hugging her to him.

  ‘I know it’s horrible, darling. I know.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ sobbed Jamie. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone about it since I found out. But I can’t bear it any longer. It’s Mum…’

  She sobbed even harder into his chest. Kif made more consoling noises.

  ‘It’s perfectly normal to still feel sad.’

  ‘It’s not about her dying,’ said Jamie. ‘It’s about… who she was. I’m finding it really hard to handle. And I can’t talk to Dad, because he gets upset.’

  Kif was mystified. Then quite horrified, when Jamie told him what she’d discovered about Louisa. Not the whole truth, of course. She left out the bit about Hamilton, because she wasn’t going to blacken Kif’s image of his own father, not when Hamilton was doing so well and he and Rosemary seemed so happy. But about Eric Templeton, and the other unidentified lovers.

  ‘It’s as if she wasn’t the person I thought she was. The Mum I loved.’

  Kif was silent for a moment as he digested the revelations.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Jamie,’ he said carefully. ‘All I know is she was a wonderful person – at least that’s how I remember her. Great fun, and kind, and generous. And talented. And she was brilliant to all of us when we were growing up. If she had a dark side, or if she went off the rails a bit every now and then… well, you don’t know, do you? About people’s marriages and what they’re looking for or why they might feel insecure or need another person? It doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t love the one they’re with…’

  Kif trailed off. He didn’t want to sound too understanding. After all, Jamie wasn’t to know he was speaking from experience. It had been two months since Tiona had left and he hadn’t heard a word from her since their confrontation in the pub. Her only taunt had been to put her house on the market with his biggest competitor.

  Jamie looked at Kif, impressed. She hadn’t expected such a lucid reassurance. She wondered whether to unburden the rest of her unhappiness on to him, then decided that the story wouldn’t really elicit all that much sympathy. In bald terms, she’d shagged Rod Deacon twelve years after they’d first had sex and was upset he’d gone back to his wife. How could she convince Kif that she felt she’d lost the love of her life? He’d just tell her what she’d been telling herself for the past couple of months – pull yourself together and move on…

  Ray Sedgeley was in despair.

  Ever since the day of the Corrigan Trophy, Claudia had barely been out of her bedroom, let alone the house. The Bugatti was sitting in the garage. Barbara was tearing her hair out, insisting they should sell it, but Ray refused, clinging on to the hope that Claudia’s interest would resuscitate itself.

  Winning the trophy had been a hollow victory for both of them. But neither could reveal to the other why it left such a bitter taste in their mouth, why Olivier Templeton had left them both feeling ashamed and the glory tainted. The trophy itself hadn’t been put on the mantelpiece. The cut-glass bowl had been shoved in a cupboard.

  Ray thought he knew what was at the root of Claudia’s depression. He didn’t think it was just that she’d lost her bottle after Olivier’s accident. There was more to it than that. She was actually pining, and it frightened Ray. He’d never known his daughter to fall under someone’s spell, but he’d sensed her attraction to Olivier. He found the lad intriguing himself; he was still amazed that he’d walked away from his money like that. After all, Ray would have gladly paid out; would never have known that Olivier hadn’t thrown the race.

  Thus Ray was thoroughly impressed with Olivier’s integrity. And he would jump through burning hoops to get his daughter what she wanted. And so one afternoon, when he’d failed to coax Claudia out of her self-imposed isolation, he picked up the phone and dialled through to one of his friends on the police force.

  ‘Colin, mate. I wouldn’t
usually ask, you know I wouldn’t, but I need you to do me a favour. I need you to track someone down for me…’

  Then he sat down in his office and dialled up the Internet.

  By the end of the day he had all the information he needed.

  ‘Thanks, Colin. You’re a real pal,’ he’d told his friend, before hitting the print button on his computer. He shuffled the pages into the correct order, took a deep breath and went up the stairs, pausing for a moment outside the door before bearding his little lioness in her den.

  32

  If this was the English Riviera, thought Claudia, then you could bloody well keep it. It had been bright sunshine when she’d climbed on to the train in Birmingham. Now, as she glided through Torquay in a taxi, she wished she’d brought her fur-lined mac. She couldn’t even see the sea, the rain was so heavy.

  The taxi pulled up outside the hotel. It might have four stars, but the doorman wasn’t breaking his neck to bring her an umbrella. Holding the copy of Vogue she’d bought to read on the train over her head, she splashed through the puddles into the foyer.

  Five minutes later she was having a stand-up row with the receptionist.

  ‘Why can’t I have it?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve told me it’s vacant. What’s the problem? I’ll pay the going rate.’

  ‘But you’re not on your honeymoon,’ protested the receptionist. She was being deliberately stubborn. She’d loathed Claudia on sight. She had the real version of the fake Burberry bag she’d been so proud of. So she wasn’t going to let her have the honeymoon suite without a battle.

  ‘Details, details,’ scoffed Claudia, and leaned over the counter. ‘I’ll have you know my father collects hotels as a hobby. One word from me and he’ll snap this place up. And the first person he’ll get rid of is you.’