The receptionist sighed and prodded at her computer with her false nails.
‘Fine. Whatever. It’s two ninety-five a night plus champagne. Do you want champagne?’
‘Definitely,’ said Claudia. ‘And I’d like to book a lesson with your tennis professional.’
Two hours later, singularly unimpressed with the honeymoon suite but keenly aware she could do nothing about it, Claudia stomped on to the hotel tennis court. A watery sun had emerged and she could now see the sea in the distance, but she was no more enamoured of Torquay than she had been on her arrival.
A tall, rangy figure dressed in tennis whites stepped on to the court. From behind her sunglasses, she surveyed his long, brown legs. And his golden hair. She swallowed, then marched up to him, swinging the racket she’d rushed to buy the day before.
‘I booked for three o’clock. You’re late,’ she announced.
Olivier surveyed her with the detached amusement that she’d expected.
‘I need some help with my backhand,’ she went on crisply.
He showed no surprise; she gave no further explanation. For the next hour Olivier ran Claudia ragged round the court, slamming balls across the net to her that sometimes she returned, sometimes she didn’t. At the end she stood in front of him, dripping with sweat, breathless.
‘What now?’ she demanded.
‘I think you probably need a shower,’ he drawled, then relented. ‘Tea on the terrace?’
Half an hour later Claudia was showered and wearing a white linen dress. She felt like a character from an Agatha Christie novel as she stepped out on to the terrace. Olivier was sitting at a table in front of a doily-lined, three-tier cake stand, clustered with cream-filled delicacies and cucumber sandwiches.
Olivier chivalrously poured her a cup of Earl Grey.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Is your arrival here just a happy coincidence?’
Claudia shook her head. ‘No.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Dad’s got a friend in the Serious Crime Squad.’
Olivier looked alarmed.
‘So what’s my Serious Crime?’
‘Leaving the scene of an accident,’ she said lightly.
Olivier helped himself to a mini éclair. Claudia looked down at the sprigs on her bone china plate. She looked up defiantly.
‘I came to apologize,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m really ashamed of how I behaved at Sapersley. I was a really bad sport. I can see that now. But I was so wound up at the time. I wanted to prove myself. But instead I just proved I was a bratty little princess. So I’ve come to say sorry. Because I wanted the chance…’
She looked at Olivier. He was staring at her in amazement. The words she wanted to say stuck in her throat.
‘I wanted the chance for us to be friends,’ she finished lamely. ‘Because I think we could be. And I’d rather be friends than enemies.’
She looked away, embarrassed by her outburst. Olivier was touched. He knew how much that must have cost her. Apologies didn’t come easily to the likes of Claudia.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘I really appreciate it. And to be honest, I wasn’t very nice to you either. I know I wound you up. I shouldn’t have said those things, about your dad buying you in. You’re a good driver. You deserved to win.’
Claudia gave a little embarrassed shrug.
‘Whatever.’
Olivier pushed the cake stand towards her.
‘Come on. Eat some of this.’
Claudia took a mille feuille oozing with jam and cream.
‘There is something else,’ she announced. ‘I’ve got a proposition.’
Olivier looked wary.
‘I want to do the Mille Miglia next year.’
‘Wow,’ said Olivier. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
The Mille Miglia was infamous. A thousand-mile madcap race around Italy that took place every May, it started and ended in Brescia, taking in some of the most magnificent, breathtaking scenery the country had to offer. Glamorous and gruelling, only the cream of classic cars were allowed to enter, and were carefully chosen for their history and provenance.
‘I reckon I’ve got a good chance of getting an entry,’ said Claudia. ‘But I need a co-driver.’
There was a little pause.
‘Right,’ said Olivier.
‘I’d like it to be you,’ said Claudia.
Olivier swallowed. He felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach. This was a wonderful opportunity. To take part in a slice of motoring history, to speed through Italy on streets lined with applauding crowds, in a race known as the most beautiful race in the world.
‘What does your father think about it?’ he said cautiously.
‘Actually, it was his idea,’ admitted Claudia. ‘I expect he thinks I’d keep stopping to buy handbags.’
Olivier’s mind was racing. It was the chance of a lifetime, but part of him still felt reticent about accepting. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Claudia: how he felt about her, or how she felt about him. There was no doubt he found her attractive; he still cringed inwardly when he remembered their encounter in the Winnebago.
‘I don’t want any funny stuff,’ he warned. ‘No handcuffs.’
Claudia’s face lit up.
‘You’ll do it, then?’
Olivier paused for a moment before nodding.
‘I’d be mad not to, wouldn’t I?’
Rod and Bella were sitting at the dining table in Owl’s Nest. They’d spent the afternoon packing, as they were due to go off on their holiday the day after. Rod had made spaghetti carbonara and thought he had perfected it this time: the bacon was crisp, the eggs and cream still slightly runny. He’d grated a bowl of fresh Parmesan to sprinkle on top.
All Bella saw when she looked at it was a mass of fat and carbohydrates tangled up in a glutinous mess, taunting her. She longed to be able to pick up her fork and dig in with as much enthusiasm as Rod. But she knew if she did, she wouldn’t savour the experience. She would be berating herself through every mouthful. And then she would spend the rest of the evening in torment, trying to suppress the urge to rush to the loo and spew it all up, thereby relieving herself of the guilt and the calories.
Her progress was slow. Some days she managed. But other days, like tonight, it was sheer torture. She put down her fork.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ said Bella simply. ‘I can’t take the pressure.’
Rod looked at her sympathetically.
‘We always knew it was going to take time.’
He watched as she stood up from the table and walked over to the window.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘While I’m still with you, I constantly feel sick with guilt about what I did. How I betrayed you. And I feel under pressure to make up for it. But I don’t think I can. Not yet.’
‘Bella – you can take your time. I’m not putting you under any pressure.’
‘No. I know you’re not. And that makes it worse.’
She was looking out of the window, not at him. Rod admired her straight dancer’s back, the way she stood with her feet slightly turned out, the curve of her neck.
‘I can’t go on holiday. It would be torture. I won’t be able to eat. Or lie by the pool without looking at every other woman. Or put on a bikini without freaking out…’
Rod couldn’t look at her, knowing that he’d been thinking the very same – it would be admitting defeat, telling her she was a lost cause.
‘I think we should call it a day.’
She spoke so softly he wasn’t sure if he heard her right.
‘What?’
She turned back round to face him.
‘I think I could cope if I was on my own. Maybe one day I’ll meet somebody new. And I’ll make sure they know the deal right from the start. So they can decide whether they want to take me and my…’ she faltered for a moment, visibly upset, ‘… my crazy fucked-up mind on board.’
‘You’re not crazy and fucked-up.�
�
‘No? Then why am I seeing a shrink? And why did I try and kill myself? And why did I hurt you the way I did? I can’t forgive myself, Rod. So I don’t see how on earth you can forgive me. And I don’t want to sentence you to a life of wondering whether I’ll ever be normal again. Wondering if you dare broach the subject of sex.’
He couldn’t deny any of what she was saying. He couldn’t reassure her. And if anything, he loved her for knowing that. She walked back over to him.
‘I know how much you want babies. So I’m giving you the chance to get out there. Go and find some normal girl who can’t wait to be a mummy. It shouldn’t take you long.’
She stroked his hair. He was surprised at how calm and composed she was.
‘You’re a wonderful man, Rod. I knew that when I married you. But I can’t keep my side of the bargain.’
‘You’re just feeling a bit low. The therapist said you’d have ups and downs.’
It was a lame gesture of reassurance. She smiled her thanks nevertheless.
‘I’ve been thinking about it over the past couple of days. To be honest, the thought of the relief… not to be under pressure. To sort my head out in my own time.’
‘Nobody expects you to do it all on your own, Bell.’
‘I know.’ She paused for a second. ‘I’m going to move back in with Mum.’
‘You’ve made up your mind, then?’
‘Yes. I’ve made up my mind.’
That evening, Olivier and Claudia went into Torquay for dinner.
‘I know a great little fish place,’ Olivier had said. ‘Award-winning. You’ll love it. Can you be ready for eight?’
He was waiting in reception when she came down in a pink trouser suit and three-inch heels.
‘For God’s sake, go and get some jeans on,’ he said, exasperated. And when they arrived at their destination Claudia realized why. She’d thought award-winning meant Michelin star.
‘I can assure you, the Golden Chip award is far more prestigious,’ said Olivier, presenting her with a huge white wrapper of fish and chips. Claudia looked dubious.
‘I’m not having any princessy behaviour on the Mille Miglia,’ he warned her.
Claudia relented. They sat on a bench on the quay, huddled up close together for warmth, and Claudia found she was ravenous. Ten minutes later her wrapper was empty and she licked the last of the salt from her fingers.
‘Right,’ she announced, as she dropped the papers into a bin. ‘It’s my part of the deal now. I’ve got a bottle of champagne chilling in my room. I think we should go and celebrate.’
*
Jamie was in the barn, where she’d made three piles. Tip, charity shop and storage. She’d spent the last month working her way through Bucklebury Farm, sorting out three lifetimes of possessions. It was a gargantuan task, but she was being utterly ruthless, and she had to admit it was quite therapeutic. The purchasers wanted vacant possession by the end of November; the solicitors were working their socks off trying to get the paperwork in order so they could exchange the following week in the hopes of completion a month later.
She looked at the towering pile of worn-out domestic appliances, old clothes, broken crockery, yellowing magazines and redundant paperwork. She heard a footstep behind her.
‘We’re going to need to borrow a horsebox or something to get this lot to the tip.’
‘Why don’t you get a skip? I can get hold of one for you.’
She whirled round. Rod was standing there. There was a look on his face. Excited. But a little unsure.
She swallowed.
‘Hi.’
He smiled gingerly.
‘Hello.’
For a moment, they just stared at each other. This was the moment Jamie had been dreading, coming face to face with Rod again. For the past two months, she had miraculously managed to avoid him. Every time she went into the post office she held her breath in case he came in. Every time she saw a pick-up or a sports car, she panicked, in case they had to slow down to pass each other in the narrow lanes. And now he was here in front of her, her worst fears were confirmed. She felt as much for him as she ever had. Her heart was pounding, her stomach fluttered, she could feel the heat on her cheeks as the blood rushed to her head. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and tried to look cool.
‘What… can I do for you?’ she asked, with the polite detachment of a shop assistant.
He was looking into her eyes. She backed away in self-defence – she wished he wouldn’t do that! Whatever he wanted, why couldn’t he just spit it out and leave her alone. She couldn’t take this –
‘Bella and I. We’re separating.’ Rod managed to blurt it out.
Jamie blinked.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s amicable. We’ve talked it over and decided it’s for the best.’
Jamie’s mouth was dry. She could hardly speak.
‘I see.’
‘So…’
Rod felt rather awkward. He didn’t quite know what to say next. What if Jamie wasn’t interested? What if she’d moved on, found someone else, had realized he was just a silly infatuation, a mistake from the past.
‘I don’t know if it’s too late. Or if you’re still interested…’
‘In what?’ Jamie asked carefully.
Rod swallowed.
‘In me.’
There was paperwork strewn all over Claudia’s room: entry forms and maps of Italy and itineraries and photographs. The two of them spent hours talking excitedly about their plans, until they realized it was nearly midnight.
Claudia flopped back on to the bed.
‘More champagne,’ she demanded.
Olivier picked up the bottle and tipped it up. It was empty.
‘Shall I call room service? Get them to send up another?’
Claudia grinned. ‘Now who’s being a princess?’
Olivier poked her playfully in the ribs.
‘I’d be perfectly happy with a pint.’
Claudia rolled over and picked up the phone.
‘Can I have another bottle of champagne, please? To the honeymoon suite.’
She hung up. Olivier looked at her.
‘Honeymoon suite?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Claudia. ‘You know me. Nothing but the best.’
Olivier rolled his eyes. Claudia turned over on to her side, and rested her head on her hand, looking at him.
‘I know you said no funny stuff,’ she said softly, ‘but there’s a Jacuzzi. And I’m aching all over from that tennis this afternoon…’
Later that night, Jamie put in a call to Christopher. She winced when she heard his cheery tones.
‘Jamie, hi.’
‘Kif. Um – you are going to absolutely kill me. The sale of Bucklebury – we want to pull out.’
Jamie explained what had happened, inwardly cringing, knowing that Kif stood to lose a substantial commission. There was silence on the other end of the telephone. Was this an abuse of their friendship? She panicked.
‘We’ll pay the commission anyway. I know you did me a favour. We’ll get the money together –’ she babbled.
‘Jamie. Shut up, will you?’ commanded Christopher. ‘I think it’s the best news I’ve heard in ages.’
33
Jamie slopped her way across the yard in her wellingtons. February was living up to its nickname of February Filldyke – the rain hadn’t stopped all week. Luckily they’d finished all the structural work on the stables just before the heavens opened. All that was left was the interiors; they could do the landscaping in a couple of months’ time, when the weather was dry. Every day she hoped and prayed they would finish on time. The first lot of visitors was booked in for the Easter weekend in early April. She’d warned them that their holiday accommodation might be a little rough round the edges, but they hadn’t seemed to mind, especially as she’d given them a substantial reduction in price in anticipation of teething problems.
The whole project had been staffed alm
ost entirely by the Deacons. Between them they represented nearly every trade needed – brickies and plasterers and an electrician – and they’d been uncharacteristically reliable and conscientious. Jamie had learned not to ask where most of the building materials had come from.
She had to admit that she almost felt one of the family now. Once or twice a week she and Rod trooped over to Lower Faviell Farm for tea, grateful that after a hard day’s work they didn’t have to cook. You never knew how many Deacons might be there, but Jamie had come to love the noisy camaraderie, the huge pies and stews that Nolly produced, supplemented by mounds of chips churned out by the deep-fat fryer. Jamie would sit down with a chilled alcopop solemnly brought to her by John from his illicitly stocked fridge, usually a child on each of her knees as they watched the latest pirate DVD on the massive television that thundered over the banter and arguments. She would fill Nolly in on the latest developments at the farm, while Rod went to the pub for a quick pint with however many of his brothers were around. Nolly had welcomed Jamie into the fold with a warmth and generosity that she could never repay. She would never be a replacement for Louisa – they were far too different – but Jamie cherished the easiness of their relationship.
She found Rod in the end cottage, fitting the final kitchen. They’d gone for a simple Shaker style, each finished in a different colour – apple green, teal blue and raspberry pink. The cottages were shaping up to be more stunning than any of them had hoped. Open-plan downstairs, with two cosy bedrooms and a bathroom in the roof space, they were fitted out to a high specification. Jamie was rushed off her feet sourcing materials to kit them out, from bedlinen, curtains and carpets right down to the vital corkscrew.
Rod had his head inside a cupboard, his electric screwdriver doing overtime. He emerged, looking hot and bothered.
‘You’d better go and have a bath. They’ll all be here in half an hour,’ Jamie said.
Rod pulled a hanky out of his overalls and wiped his sweaty brow.
‘Sure you don’t need a hand in the kitchen?’
‘No. It’s all under control. You go and get cleaned up. Try and leave me some hot water – I’ll jump in the shower after you’ve finished.’
Wild Oats Page 41
