[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  ‘Am I meant to be impressed?’

  Rafe looked at Calypso evenly. ‘No, I was just telling you about myself. Isn’t that what people do when they meet each other?’

  Calypso felt a stab of embarrassment and changed the subject. ‘Better get on with it, then.’

  She chucked him a pair of Granny Clem’s old gardening gloves, which he took without a murmur.

  ‘Right, where do you want me to start?’

  Calypso looked at a particularly nasty patch of nettles she’d been putting off tackling. ‘They need pulling up.’

  ‘No probs.’ Rafe strode over and immediately got to work. Calypso watched him tear weeds out of the ground for a few moments. She didn’t know if she was impressed or annoyed that Rafe had put his money where his mouth was. It wasn’t every day you saw a world-famous film star grappling with stinging nettles in your local graveyard.

  For the rest of the morning she tried to thwart Rafe’s attempts at being friendly, but he was so persistent that in the end, she gave up.

  ‘Nosey, aren’t you?’ she remarked, only half-exasperated, when he asked her yet another question about herself. She’d spent the previous hour telling him about her family, her time in New York, and Scene Events.

  They were sitting on the church wall having another break. Calypso was so hot she had tied her vest in a knot under her breasts to make an impromptu crop top. Despite a hard hour’s work Rafe had hardly broken a sweat.

  ‘I just like finding out about people. And as people go, you’re pretty interesting.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that makes a change, a celebrity who’s not only interested in themselves.’ Calypso cocked her head, sizing him up. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He looked confused. ‘I just thought I’d come and help …’

  ‘No, I mean what are you really doing here? Why is Rafe Wolfe, film star extraordinaire, giving up his precious Sunday to come down and get his hands dirty with the locals? I’m sure there’s no end of glitzy events you could be at right now.’

  For the first time Calypso saw a hint of something else beneath the perfect veneer.

  ‘I just get a bit sick of it, you know? All the pomp and ceremony, people falling over themselves to suck up to you, when they’ve only ever got their own interests at heart.’ Rafe ran a hand through his blond hair, giving her a sideways glance. ‘It probably sounds like a line to you, but I got in this business to act, not be famous.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of the latter,’ Calypso remarked drily.

  ‘But that’s not me,’ he said, sounding frustrated. ‘I hardly ever do press, only when it’s contracted in a film, which you can’t get out of. Aside from that, I can’t control the paparazzi following me, or magazines putting me on their front cover.’

  ‘It can’t help, living in Hollywood,’ Calypso said, but she was smiling.

  ‘Point taken.’ He smiled back. ‘Unfortunately, it goes with the territory. LA is where the work is.’ Rafe stood up, brushing a fallen blossom off his shorts. ‘I want to hear more about your territory. Didn’t you say half your ancestors are buried here? Must be a lot of family squabbling.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let my grandmother hear you talk like that,’ laughed Calypso. She pointed out a tall, white headstone with an elegant inscription marked on it. ‘That’s my Great-uncle Edmund, Granny Clem’s little brother. He died when he was quite young, though, I think he was quite sickly. Oh, and that’s where Grandpa Bertie is. Hiya, Grampy!’

  Rafe shot her an amused look.

  ‘I always was his favourite,’ Calypso confided. ‘Come on, I’ll show you my great-grandparents’ grave if you like. It’s quite something.’

  She started towards an impressive white marble memorial on the other side of the graveyard. ‘It’s just over here,’ she said, turning round.

  ‘Watch out for that …’ Rafe started to say, but it was too late.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Without looking where she was going, Calypso had tripped over a tree root and gone flying. She came down heavily on one ankle and winced. ‘Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!’

  ‘Lucky the vicar isn’t here to hear that language,’ said Rafe, kneeling down beside her.

  ‘Good to see one of us has retained our sense of humour,’ Calypso said, through clenched teeth. Her ankle was swelling by the second.

  ‘You’ve strained it.’ Rafe announced, after a careful inspection.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Calypso gasped.

  Rafe helped her to her feet, his face full of concern. ‘Can you walk on it?’

  Calypso gingerly put one foot down and tried to put weight on it, but the pain was too much.

  ‘We need to get you home so you can get an ice pack on it. Where do you live?’

  ‘Just over the green, the thatched cottages,’ Calypso said, her face creasing in pain. Bugger, it hurt! ‘I don’t know if I can make it over there.’

  ‘Fine,’ Rafe said purposefully. ‘I’ll carry you.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I haven’t been certified yet,’ he said, and before she knew it Rafe Wolfe, world-famous movie star, had swept her up in his arms.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped. ‘Put me down!’

  ‘You can’t walk,’ he said reasonably. ‘Besides, you hardly weigh a thing.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Calypso. ‘You probably say that to all the girls.’ Grudgingly she put her arms round his neck.

  Their faces were only inches apart. He grinned at her. ‘That’s better.’

  Calypso didn’t respond, suddenly aware how muscular his chest was under the thin shirt.

  Rafe made his way through the church gate on to the green. Calypso pointed out No. 5. ‘It’s that one.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ Rafe said.

  She got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the cottage. Calypso was feeling more unnerved by the second. Rafe’s hands felt like they were searing into her bare flesh. She was aware of his smell, his heartbeat, his rhythm as he walked. She wondered what he was thinking. They lapsed into silence, listening to the unspoken messages between their pressed bodies.

  Camilla was washing her hands in the upstairs bathroom when she glanced outside. She did a double take, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. Coming across the green, like a conquering hero returning from battle, was Rafe Wolfe with Calypso in his arms!

  Rafe gently deposited Calypso at the front gate. She hopped away from him, wanting to put a respectable distance between them. It had been the longest – and yet shortest – five minutes of her life.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said hastily.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

  Calypso turned round to see Camilla’s head duck out of view behind the bathroom window. ‘My sister’s home. She’s pretty good at all that first-aid stuff.’

  ‘Just take it easy,’ he told her.

  Calypso put her hand on the gate. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you.’ She had started hobbling up to the front door when Rafe called out.

  ‘Calypso! I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me some time?’

  She turned to look at the handsome, charming man, who she’d written off as a narcissistic playboy with a girl in every port. ‘I’ll check my diary,’ she said, and giving a brief smile turned to hobble up the garden path.

  Chapter 18

  IT WAS THE first day of filming at Clanfield Hall. An early riser herself, Frances had been woken at dawn by a flurry of activity outside. Ambrose – who’d got back from Scotland the previous night – had already left to go to the races, grumbling ominously that the film crew had better be gone by the time he got home.

  After a solitary breakfast of a boiled egg and toast prepared by Cook, Frances left the vast echoing space of the dining hall and made her way towards the east wing. Dan, the locations manager, had offered to show her how everything worked, and Frances had to admit she was rather excited.

  On her way she passed the drawing room. The door was open and Mrs B
antry the housekeeper was in there, cleaning the silver. She had been with the family for years and lived in a little cottage on the estate.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bantry,’ Frances called. The older woman looked up, her pale green eyes the only clue in her wrinkled face that she and Jed were related.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ Like her son, Mrs Bantry didn’t fill the air with unnecessary chatter.

  ‘I’m just on my way to the east wing to see how filming’s going,’ Frances said. ‘It’s the first day today.’

  Mrs Bantry grimly polished a silver plate even harder. She seemed to share Ambrose’s feelings about Clanfield Hall being invaded by these fast types from London.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ Frances said.

  Mrs Bantry nodded her head. ‘Ma’am.’

  Frances walked off, wondering if she was the only person round here who actually thought change was good for Clanfield.

  At the entrance to the east wing Dan was waiting. He seemed unsure how to greet her, in the end settling for a bizarre half-curtsey.

  ‘Your Ladyship,’ he said.

  ‘Frances, please.’

  She looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Good heavens!’

  Her house had been completely transformed. Normally the east wing had an unlived-in, flat feel about it, but it had been brought back to life with a bang. Dozens of people were rushing around with clipboards, or chattering into walkie-talkies. Most of her own furniture had been replaced by props, although Frances could see that a few familiar things – including a very valuable seventeenth-century writing desk – had been kept. She was rather disconcerted to see a scruffy looking man eating a bacon sandwich off it, while he fiddled with some sort of cable.

  It was also stiflingly hot. Blackout curtains hung across the windows, shutting out the natural light, while casually dressed men in shorts and T-shirts tested huge industrial-sized spotlights. A girl rushed in with a pot plant and placed it carefully on a table. Someone else staggered past under the weight of a china chamber pot and disappeared up the staircase with it. Bearded men wearing headphones stood behind the cameras, chatting idly.

  ‘There’s the director, Wes Prince,’ Dan whispered. Frances saw a raddled blond man looking intently into what looked like a small television screen. He had a gold cross hanging in one ear and a pair of jeans that looked like they had been shredded by a pair of scissors. After a few moments he glanced up, and Dan took the opportunity to speak. He gestured at Frances.

  ‘Wes, this is Lady Fraser. She owns Clanfield Hall.’

  Wes Prince looked slightly irritated at the interruption, until he caught sight of Frances in her cream silk blouse and fitted skirt, her blonde hair in its usual stylish chignon.

  ‘Delighted. Thank you for letting us film at your beautiful home.’

  He had one of those annoying faux American accents that drove Frances mad. She shook his hand.

  ‘Our pleasure.’

  ‘I’m just showing Her Lady, er, Frances around,’ Dan explained. ‘We won’t get in your way.’

  Wes flashed his teeth at her. They’d cost him a fortune at the hotshot dentist Sharon Stone used, and he was determined to show them off as much as possible.

  ‘Wanna be an extra? Lots of owners love getting involved. We had the Earl of Blatchford being hung at the gallows in the background a few years back. Old chap loved it.’

  ‘Wes!’ There was a shout behind him.

  Wes looked at Frances. ‘Gotta get back. I hope you enjoy our little production here.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ she said and watched him saunter off self-importantly. What a funny little man!

  ‘And over there,’ Dan whispered, ‘is the main attraction!’

  Frances followed his gaze, where a dashing young man was sitting in a canvas chair, reading the Daily Telegraph. He was in period dress, cream breeches and a ruffled shirt, leather-riding boots showing off long legs. As if aware of her scrutiny, Rafe looked up and smiled, before going back to his newspaper.

  ‘Look, both him and Sophia have their names on the backs of their chairs. Wes does, too,’ Dan explained. Frances couldn’t help but be impressed, it was just like one saw at the pictures! Sophia Highforth’s chair was empty, conspicuous in her absence. ‘Sophia’s always late, she’s got quite a reputation,’ confided Dan. ‘Thing is, she’s such a talent everyone lets her get away with it.’ Now he’d got over his awe of Frances, he had relaxed and was enjoying filling her in.

  A friendly faced woman appeared in front of them. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Pam Viner, assistant director.’

  ‘Pam is Wes’s right-hand woman.’ Dan explained. ‘She’s responsible for making sure everything runs smoothly on set.’

  Pam smiled. Frances thought she had cheeks like rosy apples.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been told this a million times before, but you really do have a wonderful home. So much heritage!’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Frances. ‘It’s a pleasure to have …’

  She was interrupted by a commotion down the hallway. Sophia Highforth was hurrying towards them, looking radiant in a cherry-red gown with nipped-in bodice. A young girl was scurrying along behind, a pair of dainty costume shoes in her hand. As Sophia bustled past them, Frances noticed under her dress she was wearing a pair of those clumpy Ugg boots that seemed all the rage with girls these days.

  ‘That’s Katie, Sophia’s dresser,’ Dan said as Katie rushed past in Sophia’s wake, various safety pins adorning her jumper.

  ‘Pam! We need you!’ yelled Wes Prince from across the room. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

  ‘Uh-oh, the master is beckoning. Lovely to meet you, Lady Frances.’

  Frances had been watching the proceedings for a few minutes when a fierce-looking man appeared beside her. Even though he was shorter than her, there was no mistaking the iron will in his face.

  ‘No pictures, OK? You can have your shot with Sophia afterwards like all the other competition winners, but don’t go waving your camera in her face.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Frances looked down at the man in astonishment. Dan, noticing her expression, rushed over.

  ‘Gordon, this is Lady Fraser. She owns Clanfield Hall.’

  ‘That’s Mr Goldsmith to you, sunshine,’ said Gordon, not taking his eyes off Frances. He stepped back, seemingly satisfied. ‘Still no photos until afterwards, OK?’

  ‘What a rude man,’ Frances said, as Gordon sidled off, phone clamped to his ear.

  Dan grimaced. ‘You just had the pleasure of meeting Sophia’s manager. Gordon Goldsmith, biggest pain in the world.’

  ‘And I always thought it was the stars who had the egos,’ Frances smiled. Dan shook his head and gave a mock groan.

  ‘Oh piss flaps!’

  Calypso watched as a fifty-pound note from her precious earnings fluttered across the road. She couldn’t believe how much bad luck she was having: first her ankle and now this. Why couldn’t her customers pay online and save her all these trips to the bank?

  Another gust of wind threatened to lift her skirt up. Sighing, Calypso shut the metal money box the note had whipped out of and crossed the road. Limping slightly, she set it down on the verge next to her handbag. Then she looked into the ditch where the note had just disappeared. To her annoyance she saw it was bigger than a ditch, more a steep gully leading down to a stream. It was narrow, and surprisingly deep. Halfway down the tangled cow parsley and brambles, she could see the pinky colours of the note peeking back at her.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Calypso cursed again. She really hadn’t got time for this. Gingerly she got down on her stomach and inched forward, her bottom sticking up in the air. The blood ran to her head, hair hanging into her face as she stretched her arm down into the murky depths of the gully. She had nearly got it …

  Suddenly, gravity felt wrong. Calypso experienced a brief unreal moment in which her legs flew high in the air, before the rest of her body slid forward and d
own into the gully. She screamed and grabbed wildly at the undergrowth, before tumbling in a heap into two feet of murky water.

  Luckily the weeds broke her fall, but that didn’t stop her landing awkwardly on the other ankle.

  ‘Fuck!’ she moaned. She was wet from head to toe, her vintage dress covered in blobs of mud. To add insult to injury, the fifty-pound note was now floating soggily in the water in front of her. Calypso stuffed it in her bra, shuddering at the unpleasant wetness.

  Now she just had to get out. This was so annoying! Calypso squinted up again; with both ankles throbbing the top suddenly seemed as high as Everest. Wincing she started to climb up using the undergrowth, but it came away in her hands. She tried scrabbling up the slimy walls, but slid back down again.

  ‘Bugger!’

  She was completely and utterly stuck. The narrow walls of the gully seemed to close in even more, suffocating her. Something unpleasant rustled past her ankle. Suddenly panicky, Calypso opened her mouth and shouted for help.

  Nothing, except the odd bird sound and gust of wind. In the distance she could hear a car engine, getting closer and closer. She started shouting again.

  ‘Can you hear me! I’m stuck!’

  The car drove past, music blaring out of an open window. Calypso was getting seriously worried now. She was a few hundred yards away from the nearest house; what if she was stuck here all night and got hypothermia? She couldn’t even ring for help. Talking of which, her mobile was in her handbag, along with three thousand pounds in cash. Suppose some unsavoury type drove past and nicked it?

  ‘Help!’ she screamed again.

  An hour later, she was hoarse from shouting. At least a dozen cars had driven past, oblivious to her plight. Calypso leaned against the wall of the gully, trying to catch her breath.

  Stay calm, she told herself.

  ‘HELP!’

  In complete desperation, she started tearing up clods of weeds and throwing them over the top of the gully. Surely someone would stop and wonder what was going on!

  ‘Will someone come and help me?’ she sobbed. She was cold, wet and thirsty, the scratches on her arms and legs stinging like mad. All of a sudden, like a mirage shimmering across a desert, someone poked their head over the top of the gully.