[Churchminster #3] Wild Things

by Jo Carnegie

  Camilla thought she would try and catch him before he went. She got up from her desk and went over to his door, which was always shut unless he opened it to bellow an order. She knocked confidently.

  ‘Enter!’ Mr Fitzgerald brayed. Camilla opened the door and went in.

  He looked up from his desk. ‘I haven’t asked for another coffee, have I?’ Mr Fitzgerald had the puffy, florid face of a heavy red-wine drinker, and a penchant for loud pinstriped suits.

  Camilla took the liberty of sitting down in the chair opposite. ‘Er, no. Mr Fitzgerald, I was wondering if you’d had any thoughts about the South America package tour I suggested? I really think it would be a good—’

  He interrupted. ‘We’re adding it to our winter brochure.’

  Camilla was delighted. ‘Really? That’s fantastic!’ Maybe he is taking me seriously after all, she thought.

  Mr Fitzgerald threw the new brochure across the desk at her. ‘Yah, I’d been looking to expand into South American for a while, it was just a matter of timing. I must say, I think it’s one of my best ideas yet.’

  ‘Um, your idea?’ she asked delicately.

  Mr Fitzgerald looked at her as if she’d just lifted her leg up and let an enormous wet fart rip. ‘Yes, my idea. What’s your point, missy?’

  ‘It was actually my idea,’ Camilla ventured. ‘I came to you with the itinerary, remember, and lists of prices and contacts.’

  He waved a podgy hand dismissively. ‘A small detail. Listen, girlie, you’ll learn quickly enough in this business that with the calibre of our customers, they want to know that Mr Jonty William Fitzgerald himself is looking after them personally. You can’t just turn up and bat your eyelids, expecting a piece of the action! It takes years to get to my position. That’s if you’re even made of the right stuff in the first place.’ His dismissive look made it clear he thought Camilla wasn’t.

  She looked down at her lap awkwardly. ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Thought what?’ enquired Mr Fitzgerald in a sugary sweet voice. ‘Before you say anything, might I remind you that Top Drawer Travels is an extremely prestigious firm, and there are plenty of people who would bite their hand off to be in your position.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fitzgerald,’ Camilla replied miserably.

  Mr Fitzgerald smiled and looked at his pocket watch again. ‘I’m pleased we understand each other. Get out now, I’ve got a lunch appointment.’ He stood up. ‘Before I forget, my Dearly Beloved phoned. She’s got some evening dress at the dry cleaners, be a good girlie and pick it up for me, will you?’

  By 7 p.m., a nice glass of G and T by her side and an assurance from Jed that he was on his way home, Camilla was feeling better. She’d given herself a talking-to. She needed to hang on in there and get more experience. Besides, jobs at prestigious companies like Top Drawer Travels were few and far between at the moment.

  It’ll get better, she told herself, always the optimist.

  There was a tap on the back door and when she turned to see who it was all thoughts about Mr Fitzgerald were temporarily forgotten. There, standing at her kitchen door, was Rafe Wolfe. He smiled at her through the window panel. Heart jumping, Camilla rushed over and opened the door. The blond film star was dressed in jeans and a fresh white shirt, enough buttons open to reveal a flash of brown chest.

  ‘There was no answer at the front,’ Rafe Wolfe said apologetically.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, do come in. I’ve had the kitchen door closed, I didn’t think we were expecting anyone. I was just about to start making dinner,’ she added rather stupidly.

  ‘Anything nice?’ Rafe asked politely. Like Jed, he was so tall his head nearly touched the beams on the roof.

  ‘Just a stew – er, there’d probably be enough for you …’ Camilla trailed off uncertainly. Had Calypso told her Rafe was coming to dinner? Surely she wouldn’t have forgotten a thing like that!

  Rafe looked bemused. ‘I think Calypso and I are going over to mine?’

  Camilla nearly dropped the tea towel. ‘Over to yours?’ she asked weakly.

  Rafe frowned. ‘Hasn’t Calypso told you?’

  ‘Haven’t I told her what?’ Calypso appeared in the doorway, putting a dangly earring in one ear. She was wearing a short black skirt and a simple tank top, silver Grecian-type sandals on her feet.

  Rafe’s appreciative once-over didn’t go unnoticed. ‘I was just telling your sister about our date tonight,’ he said.

  At the word ‘date’ Camilla’s eyes shot into her hairline. ‘You didn’t tell me about this!’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ said Calypso airily. ‘Anyway, we must dash. See you later.’ With that she propelled Rafe out of the kitchen, leaving a gobsmacked Camilla in their wake.

  ‘So where do you live, exactly?’ Calypso asked, as Rafe’s sports car zoomed out of the village. The roof was down and her blonde hair blew round her face.

  Rafe changed down into third to negotiate a hairpin bend. ‘Hedgewater.’

  Hedgewater was a little hamlet ten miles outside Churchminster, which consisted of little more than a row of houses and a decrepit pub.

  Calypso looked puzzled. ‘But there’s nothing there.’

  Rafe grinned. ‘You’ll see.’

  Ten minutes later they were driving slowly down a little road Calypso had never known existed, on the way out of Hedgewater. Gravel crunched under the wheels as the most extraordinary building appeared in front of them. It was two storeys high and appeared to be made completely of glass, a huge balcony running the entire length of the second floor. As the car pulled up outside, neon fibreglass lanterns over the entrance lit up.

  ‘Not your average Cotswolds cottage,’ Rafe said. He got out of the car and went round to Calypso’s side to open her door.

  ‘It’s wicked,’ she said admiringly, giving him a hand to help her out.

  Inside was even more spectacular. A palm tree was growing up through the concrete floor in the hallway, while each room had been designed like something from a James Bond film, with gold silk sheets, a casino and even a huge mural of Bond girl Ursula Andrews emerging from the sea in her iconic bikini. In one room there was even a high-tech gym, with running machines, bikes and an impressive set of weights.

  ‘A bit too OTT for my tastes, but I’m hardly ever here,’ said Rafe, leading Calypso into an ultra-modern kitchen. ‘Seraphina Inc. have rented it for me for the duration of the picture. My co-star Sophia prefers the more genteel, sociable atmosphere of Cheltenham, but I like it here.’ He pulled open a fridge, which was fully stocked with champagne, beers and bottles of spirits. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Vodka and Coke, please.’

  Rafe pulled out a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal instead. ‘Why don’t we have something a bit special? A film sponsor gave me this, and I’ve never had the occasion to drink it.’

  Calypso raised an eyebrow. The stuff was at least a grand a bottle, but who was she to argue?

  It was still warm enough to sit outside, so Rafe carried an ice bucket and two flutes outside to the terrace. A large hot tub sat in one corner, near a barbecue. Calypso went and sat down on the huge swing seat in the other. It was big enough to stretch her legs out on. She nodded at the hot tub. ‘Is that where you entertain all the groupies?’

  Rafe looked up from pouring the champagne. ‘Unfortunately not. The only chicks I’ve seen in this garden have been of the fluffy winged variety.’ He handed Calypso a glass and sat down at the other end of the swing seat. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ said Calypso as the ice-cold liquid went down her throat. She leant into the comfortable cushions. ‘So how’s work going? You know, I don’t even know what the film’s about.’

  Rafe filled her in. ‘I’ll give you the basic version. It’s set in the eighteenth century, and I play Theodore Wallingford, a dashing duke who gets quite a reputation for being a good-for-nothing ladies’ man. Anyway, the only person he gives two hoots about i
s Evangeline, his beautiful second cousin. Theo has an epiphany one day and realizes she’s the only woman for him, but she gives him the brush-off.’

  ‘Ha, serves him right.’

  Rafe smiled. ‘Indeed. Anyway, to prove to her and his father, the Duke of Wallingford, that he is a good man, Theo joins the army and becomes a hero on the battlefield. He comes back a different person, Evangeline falls for him, and they get married. But then Theo is called back into service and gets killed the day Evangeline finds out she is expecting their first child. She is devastated, but vows to keep alive his memory, and gives birth to a son who looks just like him. It’s a bit of a tear-jerker.’

  ‘Camilla will be weeping buckets, it’s just her sort of thing.’ Calypso finished her glass.

  ‘So does life imitate art?’ she asked idly. ‘You playing a playboy and all that.’

  Rafe cocked his head, sizing her up. ‘I’m not sure I like the impression you’ve got of me.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that?’ she said teasingly.

  Rafe started to count off on his fingers. ‘Arrogant, womanizing, selfish …’

  ‘…having an ego the size of Hollywood,’ Calypso added helpfully.

  Rafe shot her a half-amused, half-exasperated look. ‘You’ve been reading too many Frank Sinatra biographies.’

  Calypso wasn’t about to let him off yet. ‘What about all these lovelies you’re pictured with? I’m not knocking it, most guys I know would give their right arm to be in your position.’

  ‘Most of that stuff’s made up! I only have to be in the same vicinity as someone and suddenly I’m getting married to them. Come on, Calypso, you must know how it works.’

  Calypso was suddenly aware of his arm, warm against her bare leg. Trying to ignore the sensation it was giving her, she threw her hands up in mock surrender. ‘OK, point taken. I was only winding you up.’

  ‘“Winding me up”,’ he muttered, smiling. He got up to refill her glass.

  ‘So what are we having for dinner?’ asked Calypso. ‘I didn’t see a chef anywhere.’

  Rafe raised his eyebrows, as if to say: I thought we’d got past this?

  ‘I thought I’d do a barbecue. I find the dining room a bit stuffy and formal.’

  Calypso looked over at the high-tech contraption in the corner. ‘Go for it, Delia.’

  An hour later, Calypso topped up her glass for the umpteenth time. They were on their second bottle of champagne, which she seemed to have drunk most of. She was feeling more than a little light-headed. ‘Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?’ She delicately stubbed out the roll-up she’d been smoking, and slid the ashtray under the seat.

  Rafe looked up from the lifeless barbecue, frustrated. ‘I can’t understand why it won’t work.’

  Calypso went over to stand next to Rafe as he flipped through the instruction book. He smelt good: of health and vitality, clean living. She bet he’d never had a nicotine hit in his life. Her eyes skimmed the booklet. It looked overly complicated. ‘Don’t stress about it, let’s just have a cold supper.’

  Rafe shot her a sideways glance. ‘Ciabatta rolls and Kettle Chips, not very glamorous, is it?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m so hungry I’ll eat anything.’

  After the impromptu picnic outside, Calypso leaned back in the seat and sighed contentedly. ‘I’d never have thought crisp sandwiches would taste so good.’

  Rafe was sitting on the other end of the swing seat, his feet resting on the little garden wall. The remnants of a packet of strawberries sat between them. ‘Do you normally eat that much?’ he asked.

  ‘No, normally I have a lot more.’ Calypso wriggled to get more comfortable. ‘I’m a greedy pig. It’s all right to say it.’

  Rafe laughed. ‘I like a woman with a good appetite. It makes a change from seeing someone push a lettuce leaf round her plate.’

  ‘Actresses, eh?’ said Calypso drily. ‘Talking of which, what’s it like working with Sophia Highforth?’

  Rafe considered her question. ‘She can come across as a bit of a diva but that’s only because she’s such a perfectionist. Bloody talented.’

  ‘Ever mixed business with pleasure?’

  ‘With Sophia? No, actually.’ Rafe finished his drink and put it down on the floor. ‘She’s very beautiful, but not my type. Actresses can be pretty demanding.’

  Calypso wasn’t about to ask who was his type. They lapsed into silence, listening to the sounds of the nocturnal wildlife coming alive.

  ‘Fantastic night,’ he remarked eventually. They were looking up at the velvet-blue sky, pinpricks of light shimmering down.

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Calypso. His leg had fallen against hers and she was finding the sudden warmth rather distracting.

  His rich voice came suddenly out of the darkness. ‘You do know I like you, don’t you?’

  Calypso hesitated, digesting his words. ‘I suppose so,’ she admitted.

  ‘And would it be arrogant to think that you like me, too?’

  She laughed. ‘Uh-oh, that ego’s coming out again.’

  ‘You’re very good at deflecting things with that dry wit of yours, aren’t you?’

  ‘One of us has got to have a sense of humour,’ she joked, but the intensity building up between them was getting hard to ignore.

  Suddenly he swung his legs down, puncturing the moment. Calypso’s disappointment didn’t last long. He put the strawberry packet on the floor and moved next to her.

  ‘What I really want to do is kiss you. Properly, this time.’ He leant down and took her face in his hands. She realized she was holding her breath. ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Calypso.’

  As his lips crushed down on to hers, she found herself responding with a surprising passion. His mouth was warm and sweet, his tongue probing but not invasive. Instinctively Calypso parted her legs, pulling him down on to her. She raked her hands up and down his broad back, feeling his erection growing by the second. She rubbed it and then took one of his hands and pushed it into her knickers. He groaned appreciatively.

  ‘Christ, you’re wet.’ His fingers started caressing her clitoris, sending little shock waves of joy through her body.

  Calypso wrapped her legs round him, her breathing becoming laboured. Rafe’s hands were running over her bra now, pushing aside the lacy material to get at her breasts …

  ‘I can’t do this.’ With some difficulty he extricated himself and sat up, breathing heavily.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Calypso panted incredulously. Surely he wasn’t going to tell her he was secretly married after all!

  Rafe touched her face. ‘I want to prove to you it’s not just about a one-night stand.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that!’ she exclaimed. Don’t you know how long it is since I’ve had sex? she thought.

  Rafe pulled his shirt together. ‘I mean it, Calypso; I want you to know I’m not some sort of bastard. You’re very special to me.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, but she couldn’t keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  He carefully pulled her top down, stroking her flat tummy. ‘I’d better call you a cab. I’m over the limit, and if you stay here, I don’t know if I can be trusted to keep my hands off you.’ Kissing Calypso again, he led her back into the kitchen.

  Chapter 24

  JOYCE BELLOWS FINISHED her tea and sighed happily, like a wine connoisseur swilling the last sip of a Chateau Latour 1970. She got up from her armchair in the old-fashioned sitting room at the rectory and made her way through to the kitchen. Brian was away on a two-day conference in London – promising to bring back Joyce her favourite lilac creams from Harrods. ‘A decadent choice,’ she always said, ‘but if you couldn’t have one bit of naughtiness, what was life about?’

  Today was her day at St Bartholomew’s doing the flower arrangements. After the last Garden Party meeting, Clementine had praised Joyce’s efforts, and the vicar’s wife was determined to keep up the good work. That was what united
people, after all. A strong faith and sense of community. She and Brian had moved around so much since they’d married that Joyce had never really felt she’d belonged anywhere. Until she’d come to Churchminster. She felt good living here.

  Joyce gave herself a cursory look in the hallway mirror, applied her only bit of make-up – an old beige lipstick bought from an Avon lady years ago – and opened the front door. Sunlight washed into the house, reflecting against her glasses. After a few grey days, Churchminster had woken to a perfect May morning.

  She got her old bicycle out of the garage and, after a wobbly start, turned left out of the rectory and started along the lane. It was wonderfully quiet, no sound apart from the turning of her tinny wheels and the stop-start rattle of birdsong. Clouds dappled the faded blue sky, while splodges of white cow parsley lined the dewy green verges below. Joyce pedalled faster and felt the wind through her hair, a gust of joy within. At the village shop, Brenda Briggs was just opening up.

  ‘Morning, Brenda!’ Joyce called gaily, as she cycled past. ‘Lovely morning for it!’ I always did wonder, she thought, lovely morning for what? She gave a sudden cackle at the absurdity, leaving a bemused Brenda in her wake.

  Slightly breathless, Joyce leant her bicycle on the wall outside the church and pushed open the creaky gate. The churchyard was as serene as ever, the shadow from St Bartholomew’s a cool, comforting blanket. Joyce had been in many churches in her life, but something about St Bartholomew’s always caught her heart. It was so stoic and proud, majestic even in its battle scars and whatever the ravages of time had thrown at it.

  The ancient, heavy wooden door was already ajar. Joyce was surprised; it was very early for someone to be in here. In a rare show of force Reverend Bellows had insisted the doors be left unlocked, so parishioners could visit the church whenever they felt the need.

  Tentatively, she pushed the door open and walked in. Accustomed to the sunlight, her eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the gloom inside. When they did, Joyce blinked once, twice and then again, as if not sure she could believe what she was seeing. Her hands clutched at her cardigan and, uttering the kind of words one would not expect from a vicar’s wife in the house of God, Joyce Bellows ran out.