by Jo Carnegie
As Frances closed the door behind him, she leaned on it, her mind a turmoil of confusion and emotions. She had a sudden desperate urge to talk to someone, but realized the only person she could bare her soul to was Devon.
Chapter 34
THE VILLAGE’S LUCK was about to get even worse. Early one morning, Brian and Joyce Bellows awoke to find the vandals had struck again. By the time Angie Fox-Titt had walked down there, after the phone call from Joyce, it was even worse than she had imagined. Lurid graffiti covered the entire length of the rectory wall, making it an utter eyesore for anyone who drove past. Someone had also sprayed ‘WANK’ on the ‘Welcome To Churchminster, Drive Carefully’ sign, and smashed up the old-fashioned red phone box.
A marked police car was already parked there. With a solemn look on his face, PC Penny was standing by it, slowly writing down everything Joyce and Reverend Bellows had to say.
Joyce looked tired and upset. ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ she said, as Angie walked up. ‘And such offensive words!’ Joyce shuddered, as if she couldn’t bear to think such profanities existed.
‘Did you see the culprits?’ Angie asked. The Bellows both shook their heads.
‘I was just telling the officer that Joyce and I are tucked up by half past nine with our Ovaltine,’ the Reverend said. He looked momentarily brighter. ‘PC Penny has found a clue, though, a size 13 Nike trainer in the hedgerow.’
‘I’ll take it off for processing,’ PC Penny declared. ‘It’s a significant clue: the blighter’s fingerprints will be all over it.’
‘What if the trainer was there already?’ Angie pointed out quite reasonably.
PC Penny’s face dropped. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
By the time PC Penny had bagged up the trainer, informing them it would probably take ages to get anything back because of staff shortages, the three of them felt quite despondent.
‘The whole place seems to be falling down her around our ears,’ Joyce said miserably. Brian put a placating hand on her shoulder.
‘There, there, God will punish them in his own way. Come back inside and watch GMTV, your favourite bit is on in a minute.’
Angie bade them goodbye and glumly started for the Jolly Boot to tell Jack his graffiti-removal services would be needed yet again.
Compared to the Bellows and the Fox-Titts, Calypso was positively buoyant. These past few weeks with Rafe had been like a wonderful dream. From someone who was normally a social butterfly, Calypso had turned into a hermit: all she wanted to do was have Rafe to herself. Every spare second they’d been holed up at his: cooking, making love, watching DVDs, talking. Each day Calypso found a new depth to him, something else they had in common. Even when Rafe was on night shoots she was happy to spend time at his place, thinking of what to cook him when he got back or sexual positions she could tease him into later. So far they seemed to have added several new ones to the Kama Sutra.
That evening, it was late by the time Rafe got back. The sun had set on the pale blue horizon, and salmon-pink and mauve clouds were smeared across the sky. Sitting in the garden with a G and T, one of Rafe’s jumpers keeping her warm, Calypso had been gazing up, thinking how breathtaking it looked. There seemed to be touches of romance in everything at the moment, like she was seeing the world for the first time through a new set of eyes.
Rafe came out on to the patio, doing that easy smile that made her stomach flip. ‘Don’t get up.’ He walked over to the swing seat to kiss Calypso and then flopped down beside her. ‘Phew.’
‘Long day?’ she asked sympathetically, sitting up to rub his broad shoulders.
Rafe closed his eyes. ‘Mmm, that’s good.’
His mobile, which he’d chucked on the patio table, started ringing, the screen glowing in the darkness. He groaned. ‘I’ve only just got home!’
‘Don’t answer it,’ Calypso told him.
‘I’ve got to,’ he said regretfully, getting up. ‘It’s probably work.’ He picked up the phone and looked at it. ‘Yup, it’s my manager. Do you mind if I speak to him?’
‘Course not,’ Calypso said, as he wandered back into the kitchen to take the call. She smiled to herself, Calypso loved the way he called it ‘work’ as if he was working in an office or shelf-stacking in Sainsbury’s. It was so cute.
A few minutes later, Rafe came out. His shoulders looked rather tense.
‘Everything OK?’ Calypso asked, as he sat down again. Rafe had been getting a lot more work calls recently: if it wasn’t Wes Prince or one of the crew ringing about A Regency Playboy, it was his management team, chasing him about a new film project or an endorsement.
He nodded. ‘He wanted to run something past me.’
‘They should give you the bloody night off!’
Rafe smiled and leant over to kiss her. ‘You should meet Sophia’s manager, Gordon. He makes mine look positively lax. Are you hungry?’
‘Starving, obviously.’
‘I could throw a few things together from the fridge.’
Calypso considered it. ‘Why don’t we go to the Wheatsheaf instead? They’re probably still serving.’ The Wheatsheaf was a little pub a mile down the road that did quite good food. She saw Rafe hesitate. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He smiled. ‘I just like it when it’s the two of us, that’s all.’
‘We still have to eat,’ she laughed. ‘They do amazing pints of prawns, you know. And I bet they’ll be cool about you being a hot shot film star.’
As if on cue, Rafe’s stomach rumbled. He looked at her and grinned. ‘You’ve won me over. Let’s go.’
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in an enclave in the pub’s dining room. True to Calypso’s word, Rafe had attracted little more than a cursory look from the locals standing at the bar when they had walked in.
The middle-aged waitress came over and did a good job of pretending not to recognize him, too. ‘What can I get you both?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have a G and T please,’ Calypso said.
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Rafe. ‘What the hell.’ Normally he didn’t drink through the week.
‘Ice and lemon?’
‘Lime if you’ve got it. Thanks.’
The waitress left.
‘Special occasion?’ smiled Calypso,
‘Everything’s a special occasion with you.’
Calypso rolled her eyes, loving every moment.
Fifteen minutes later, two pints of succulent prawns were brought out. The pair started to work their way through them.
‘So what are your plans when filming has finished?’ Calypso asked casually, pulling the head off a prawn. It was already the middle of June and Rafe only had a few weeks left on the shoot. She hoped her voice hadn’t betrayed how much she’d been thinking about it.
‘I’m going to take a holiday!’
‘Oh right. Anywhere in particular?’ she asked.
He paused and looked at her. ‘Why, anywhere you fancy?’
Calypso flushed, was she that obvious? ‘I wasn’t assuming …’
‘I didn’t say you were,’ he smiled. ‘My parents have a nice place on the French Riviera, I was thinking of taking a trip out there anyway.’ He popped a prawn in his mouth. ‘Maybe you’d like to come with me?’
‘I’d love to!’
They ate in contented silence for a few moments, before Rafe started telling her about his day. Apparently Sophia had been difficult, and throwing histrionics.
‘That’s why I’m so late, we had to redo one scene until she was happy with it.’
Calypso didn’t ask if it was a love scene. She knew it was part of his job, but they never talked about it. Even though she’d told herself she was cool with it, the idea of Rafe running his hands over another woman’s body made Calypso feel alarmingly sick. ‘That’s a bit annoying,’ she said, instead.
‘You get used to it. At least it shows Sophia cares about what she’s doing, I suppose. She’s a total perfectionist.’
‘Camilla
thinks Sophia has a crush on Jed,’ Calypso remarked. Her sister had told her they’d had a ding-dong about Sophia being in his office. Even though Calypso thought her sister was getting her knickers in a twist about nothing, she’d promised to do a bit of fishing.
To her surprise Rafe looked serious. ‘That’s not good.’
Calypso put her prawn down. ‘What do you mean?’
Rafe shrugged again. ‘Sophia has got a bit of a reputation. I believe she’s had quite a few affairs with people on set before.’ He seemed unwilling to pursue the subject.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Calypso asked.
Rafe looked across at her, eyes honest. ‘No, I’ve just heard a few rumours.’
‘Jed wouldn’t do anything like that, he loves my sister,’ Calypso said hotly.
Rafe put a placating hand over hers. ‘Hey, I don’t want to upset you. You’re probably right.’
He released her hand and they continued eating. Calypso suddenly realized she’d been spending so much time at Rafe’s, she hadn’t seen her sister properly for ages. She suddenly felt a bit guilty.
‘Are you still thinking about it?’ Rafe asked. ‘I don’t want to set a cat amongst the pigeons, I’m sure it’s nothing.’
Calypso looked up from her plate to see Rafe looking at her in adorable concern. It was physically impossible to have a long face around him. The waitress came to clear their starters. As she walked off, Rafe’s phone beeped. He looked surprised. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think we’d have reception here.’ He looked at the text message and pulled a face.
Calypso smiled. ‘Don’t tell me, work.’
He nodded apologetically. ‘Sorry, I just need to reply quickly. I won’t be a sec.’
‘Sure.’
Calypso watched as his eyes darted back and forth under his long eyelashes, concentrating. She did appreciate him warning her about Sophia, even though it was clear he felt uncomfortable talking about it. A swell of emotion swept up inside her, Rafe was so gorgeous, so honourable and principled …
Suddenly, Calypso had to tell him how she felt. ‘Rafe.’
He looked up from his phone. ‘Uh huh?’
‘I think I love …’
But instead of looking at her, Rafe’s gaze travelled over her head instead. Instantly his face darkened. ‘There’s a photographer over there taking pictures!’
Calypso whirled round to see a greasy little man standing in the doorway of the dining room, furtively taking photos.
‘That’s not bloody on,’ Rafe said and jumped up from his seat. Calypso followed him.
The quick-thinking landlord had already cornered the man in the corridor.
‘This man was taking pictures of us eating dinner,’ Rafe told the landlord angrily. ‘It’s a total invasion of privacy.’
‘It’s a free country,’ whined the paparazzo. It had been total chance he’d popped in here for last orders and found the golden goose sharing a fishy starter with a stunning blonde.
‘Not when it’s under my roof, mate,’ the landlord said. ‘This is private property.’ He held out a hand. ‘Give me your film.’
‘Ow!’ protested the paparazzo, taking the film out of the back of his camera. He begrudgingly handed it over. ‘That’s a whole day’s work there, ruined! I should bill you!’
‘And I should call the police to tell them you’re harassing my customers,’ warned the landlord darkly. ‘Now, scoot.’ Muttering insults, the man slid out of the pub.
The landlord looked at Rafe. ‘You’re working on that film, aren’t you? I recognized you when you came in, didn’t want to say anything. You must get it all the time.’
‘You have no idea,’ said Rafe gratefully. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at the loops of film, in the landlord’s hand.
‘Can I take it anyway? You can never be too sure these days.’
The landlord deposited the trailing mess in Rafe’s hand. ‘Do what you want with it, mate. Sorry about the interruption, I’ll leave you folks to continue your dinner in peace.’
They sat back down. Rafe looked at Calypso. ‘Sorry, what were you about to say?’
The moment had been lost, but Calypso didn’t mind. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve got plenty of time to tell you.’
Chapter 35
CAMILLA PRESSED THE buttons for Jed’s number. It rang a few times before a male voice picked it up.
‘Hello, Jed’s mobile.’
‘Oh, who’s that?’ Camilla asked in surprise.
‘It’s Pete.’ Pete was one of Jed’s team, a short chunky capable man who was always smiling. Camilla liked him.
‘Hi, Pete, it’s Camilla. Is Jed around?’
‘No, I think he’s got an appointment. Must’ve forgotten his phone.’
Camilla frowned. Jed hadn’t told her about any appointment. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Haven’t a clue, sorry.’
Camilla suddenly felt rather silly; as if she didn’t have a clue what her boyfriend was up to. Thanking Pete she put the phone down. Where was he? An idea struck her and she scrabbled round for the card he’d given her, finding it in the inside of her wallet. The phone was picked up after two rings.
‘Dan speaking.’
‘Dan, hello, it’s Camilla Standington-Fulthrope here.’
Seraphina Inc.’s location manager seemed surprised to hear from her. ‘Hi, Camilla, is everything all right?’
‘Oh yes, it’s nothing urgent,’ she said. ‘Um, I know it’s a strange request but do you know if Rafe and Sophia are filming today? My grandmother wants to know for something.’ Camilla blushed at the lie; at least Dan couldn’t see her over the telephone.
‘No, they’ve both got the afternoon off. Can I help with anything?’
‘No, no, that’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Dan.’ Before he could ask any more questions, Camilla said goodbye and put the phone down. Paranoia and worry coursed through her. Was Jed off with Sophia? Or was she just going completely mad?
As the tears sprang from nowhere she rushed for the downstairs loo.
Frances sat in the driver’s seat, wondering what on earth she was doing. In front of her was a huge mock-Tudor house that looked like a bad-taste relic from the eighties. It had looked rather nice from a distance, but the closer she got the more it was like driving into an architectural nightmare. Gargoyles were dotted everywhere, sneering down on her unwelcomingly. As she peered up through the windscreen Frances saw that one of them was giving her the middle finger. She frowned; as she’d driven in she’d passed a letter box that was suspiciously close in shape to a woman’s vagina.
As she sat there summoning up courage, the front door opened. Devon waved at her, looking more rakish than ever. He had at least four strands of beads round his neck and his white linen trousers were rolled up to show bare brown legs and feet.
‘All right, Frannie!’ He came over and opened the door. They kissed rather awkwardly on both cheeks, noses almost banging in the middle. Devon looked back at the monstrosity.
‘What do you think to my digs?’
‘I don’t quite know what to say, Devon,’ Frances replied. At least she was being truthful.
He studied her for a second and laughed. ‘Minging, isn’t it? I don’t think Snorkel has been back here for twenty years. He lives on a two hundred foot yacht in the Caribbean these days. Likes the free life, does old Snorkel.’
Frances got out of the car. ‘What does Mr, er, Snorkel do?’
‘Big time record-producer in the seventies. Been living off it ever since.’
‘I assume with a nickname like Snorkel, he’s a keen fisherman?’
‘Er …’ Snorkel had actually got the moniker from the amount of muff-diving he’d done over the years, not that Devon would ever dream of telling Frances that. ‘Something like that. Come in, I thought we’d have lunch al fresco on the terrace.’
Inside, the house was even more garish: six-foot statues of naked women with huge boobs
, a velvet couch in the shape of a red-lipsticked mouth. Frances went up to study a collection of charcoal illustrations on the wall only to discover they were in fact more vaginas.
‘Snorkel is a big collector of erotic art,’ said Devon, hurriedly steering her away.
He led her through the rest of the house – bypassing the room dedicated to vibrators through the ages – and out on to a sweeping terrace. A table with a white tablecloth had been laid out, a bottle each of Dom Perignon and San Pellegrino chilling in an ice bucket. A vase of what looked like flowers that had been hand-picked from the garden stood in the middle. And, with their backs to the house, they could take in the stunning uninterrupted views of the Cotswolds.
‘Oh, Devon, how lovely!’ Frances said. ‘You’ve gone to all this trouble for me.’
He grinned. ‘You’re worth it. Come and sit down, I’ll get us an aperitif.’
They sat there savouring the views, Frances with a glass of champagne and Devon with his sparkling water.
‘Is Nigel not back with you?’ she asked. Nigel was Devon’s extremely efficient PA.
‘He’s gone to Europe for a few weeks, some dusty sightseeing tour. He sends his love, though.’
Frances had a sudden pang of longing for the discreet, loyal Nigel who had cooked them wonderful meals when she’d gone over to see Devon at Byron Heights.
‘Are you hungry?’ Devon asked. ‘I’ve got some lovely smoked salmon in the fridge.’
Actually Frances’s stomach was full of butterflies, but she smiled politely. ‘Sounds wonderful.’
As Devon busied himself in the kitchen Frances took a sip of the ice-cold champagne, looking out over the lawns. When Devon had texted her, asking if she’d come for lunch, Frances had agonized over it for hours. But in the end, she had always known she’d go. This was so wrong, yet it seemed so right, she thought, so comfortable and domesticated. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Ambrose had shared a glass of something on Clanfield’s terrace: he always preferred a glass of whiskey in his stuffy study at 6 p.m. Frances hated whisky.
