A Village Affair

by Julie Houston

  ‘Two down, actually,’ Clare said, hugging Tom. ‘How’s my favourite seventeen-year-old? You get more gorgeous every time I see you. Must be all that algebra.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Enjoy yourselves. Don’t forget, Mum has to work tomorrow… Oh my God, Auntie Clare. What have you done to your face?’

  Tom and I both stared at Clare, who had, despite an obvious attempt to cover it with concealer and foundation, a beautifully defined black eye.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she smiled. ‘The ironing board fell off its hook on the back of the door and I was under it.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom peered at her through the dark. ‘You must have one hell of an ironing board.’

  ‘Come on.’ Fi was impatient. ‘I don’t want to miss one second of this treat.’

  Clementine’s, until a couple of years previously, had been a country house – one of the few round here, along with David Henderson’s manor house across the fields, not part of the Bamforth Estate. The gardens, where Clementine held private parties in the open air when the weather was good, stretched down to a tennis court and a quaint summerhouse, which apparently, for an exorbitant fee, was available for loved-up couples to be waited on, pampered and treated to the delicacies on which Clementine’s had built its reputation.

  Clare, who had done her research, explained all this as we were shown into The Orangery by a young waiter dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt emblazoned with the Clementine’s logo in orange. Just a handful of tables were laid for dinner. It was all perfect: relaxed, not stuffy; inviting, yet not overwhelming.

  ‘I’ve been so excited about this,’ Fi said, gazing round the orangery. ‘How on earth did you get a table at such short notice?’

  ‘I’m not sure, actually. Apparently, Allegra, Clementine’s daughter, loves being at Little Acorns and that gave me a few Brownie points. There was a cancellation – and here we are.’ I turned to Clare who, despite the black eye, was looking radiant. ‘So, what really happened to your face?’

  ‘What really happened? I told you – the ironing board fell on me.’ She paused as our waiter appeared with a bottle of Moët. ‘Gosh, champers as well, Cass? Actually, let me get this.’

  ‘From Clementine,’ the waiter grinned. ‘For your birthday.’

  I was beginning to feel a bit of a fake. After all, my birthday had been six months previously. But to hell with it, I’d not really celebrated it at the time. ‘My birthday was actually quite a while ago.’

  ‘I know – Clementine said.’

  I suddenly had the feeling that Clementine must know all about Mark leaving me for Tina. I guess I was still a topic of gossip in the village.

  Fi stroked the waiter’s arm in such a way that, had it been a man stroking the female equivalent, he’d have been thrown out for being a dirty old man. ‘And we get such a lovely young man to wait on us too.’ She peered at his name badge. ‘Patrick. Thanks, Patrick…’

  Clare grinned. ‘Stop flirting with the children, Fi…’

  ‘OK, as long as you tell us who smacked you.’ Fi took a long drink of her champagne. ‘God, that’s bliss. If I had my way – and the money – I’d drink champagne like this every day. So, come on, Clare, that’s no ironing board black eye.’

  ‘Well, Last Stagger has probably had it.’

  Fi and I stared at her. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, would you let your fiancé have a stag do arranged by a woman who nicks the stags into the bargain?’ Clare pulled a wry face and emptied her glass of champagne. She poured another. ‘I’m going to be splashed all over the Sunday papers.’

  ‘Oh, Clare. She found out? How?’

  ‘Rageh told her.’ Clare looked at both of us. ‘He stopped the wedding.’

  ‘But the stag do was over six weeks ago. Shouldn’t they have been married by now?’

  Clare smiled. ‘Gone are the days when men go out on their stag do the night before the wedding. You know, they used to turn up at the church stinking of booze and with a hangover. Nowadays, stag and hen dos are very often months ahead of the actual wedding, especially when a trip abroad’s included.’

  ‘But that poor girl…Oh, Clare. How could you?’

  ‘I didn’t, Cassie.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘I refused to have anything to do with him. I know you don’t believe me. Once he’d gone back to Sheffield, after you saw him in The Botanist in Leeds with me, I wouldn’t answer his calls. For once in my life, I really tried to do the right thing. I knew – well you obviously know, Cassie, – how I’d feel if I’d been just about to marry him and then he’d fallen in love with someone else.’

  We stopped talking as Patrick the waiter arrived with a sage shortbread and goat’s cheese amuse-bouche.

  ‘Utter heaven,’ Fi murmured, closing her eyes in ecstasy. ‘Go on, Clare,’ she said through another mouthful. ‘Get to the black eye. I assume that’s the bride-to-be’s work?’

  Clare nodded ruefully. ‘For the last six weeks, Rageh has texted me, emailed me, arrived back on my doorstep…’

  ‘Fully clothed this time, I hope?’ Fi said drily.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Clare said seriously. ‘I didn’t see him. I knew he was there, but I refused to go down. He left a note.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d broken off his engagement. He’d known it wasn’t right even before he met me. That’s one of the reasons he didn’t want a stag do: the whole thing seemed like a farce to him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I still didn’t get in touch with him. I didn’t want to be responsible for breaking up a marriage even before it began. I can’t tell you how hard it’s been. I needed to know that even if he couldn’t have me, he wouldn’t go back to her.’

  ‘And he hasn’t?’ I looked at Clare’s animated face and knew the answer.

  ‘No. He arrived in the office on Monday just as I was locking up. Said that even if I wasn’t interested in him, I’d done him a favour by giving him the strength to break off the relationship and if I really wasn’t interested, he was going to leave the area.’

  ‘So, what happened then?’ Fiona’s eyes were wide. ‘Did he grab you and carry you upstairs?’

  Clare laughed ruefully. ‘Well, to be honest, that’s probably what would have happened. Unfortunately, an ex-fiancée got in the way.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness…’ My hand flew to my mouth.

  ‘She’d followed him in the car.’

  ‘Really? Down the A629 and the M1?’ Fi was doubtful. ‘I’ve never understood those films where someone is following someone. Surely, they’d recognise the car and the driver? Or, if they were keeping their distance, they’d lose it. I know I tried to follow Matt once to some farm in Sherburn-in-Elmet to look at some heifers. Got totally lost: ended up in Harrogate…’

  I giggled. ‘For God’s sake, Fi, let her finish.’

  Clare grimaced. ‘She walked into the office, saw him kissing me, thumped him and smacked me. I don’t blame her a bit.’

  ‘No, neither do I,’ I said. ‘I’d have probably killed you.’

  ‘I love him,’ Clare said simply. ‘He’s not slept at his flat for three days. I’ve never, ever, felt like this about any man. I’m sorry, I know what I’ve done is awful…’

  ‘You’ve fallen in love,’ Fi said gently. ‘It had to happen one day.’

  Patrick laid our starters in front of us. All three of us had gone for the hot-smoked salmon and celeriac remoulade, served in exquisite dainty portions and with the primary effect of making us stop talking.

  ‘Well, she’s gone to the Sunday papers, determined to get her revenge by ruining my business. There were a couple of reporters round yesterday and a photographer taking photos of the outside of the office. No one’s going to touch Last Stagger after this. Anyway, enough of me. This is your celebration, Cassie. Cheers.’ Clare leaned over to kiss me, then held her glass to mine.

  ‘This is divine, isn’t it?’ I put down my
knife and fork with some reluctance.

  We were all silent for a minute as we took in the exquisite food. Every sense – taste, smell and texture – was highlighted in turn as we ate.

  After a while I said, ‘Fi?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did you love Matt with that all-consuming love Clare has just described for Rageh?’

  ‘Did I? Or do I?’

  ‘Both.’

  Fi laughed. ‘I must have done to leave my life in Leeds for a ramshackle farmhouse in the sticks and a load of cow shit.’ She paused. ‘And do I, still? Well, when he’s not bloody hovering with the rest of the menagerie I live with, well, yes. I adore the great lump.’

  Clare frowned at Fi. ‘Sorry, Fi, I know I’ve just been going on and on about Rageh – and I promise, that’s it for now – but the last thing Cassie wants to hear, especially on her birthday celebration, is us going on about love.’

  ‘No, really, I want to know,’ I smiled, starting on the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc Clare had ordered. ‘Fi, tell me what it was like when you met Matt.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘As though my whole body had turned inside out. I didn’t want to sleep because reality was even better than any dream.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s poetic,’ Clare laughed.

  ‘She asked,’ Fi said seriously.

  ‘What about you and Mark?’ Clare asked, stroking my hand. ‘Are you able to talk about it? Quite understand if you aren’t.’

  I frowned. ‘You see, hearing you two… oh, it doesn’t matter… really…’

  ‘What? Is it too painful? Oh, this is silly, stop it,’ Clare ordered. ‘Tell us a joke instead, Fi.’

  I frowned. ‘No, really.’ I took a long drink of the deliciously cold wine and, emboldened by it, said, ‘I’ve never felt it.’

  Clare and Fi both looked up and stopped eating. ‘What? Felt what?’

  I screwed up my face. ‘You know, that butterflies-in-your-stomach thing.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Clare said, gently. ‘With Mark, you did. You might hate him for what he’s done now – and who can blame you – but you mustn’t lose sight of what you both felt for each other all these years.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I loved him; I wanted him to be the father of my children. I wanted a detached house like my cousin, Davina. I wanted tidy drawers, and coat hangers that held one dress rather than four tops and two pairs of trousers scrunched up underneath. He ticked all the boxes.’ I laughed. ‘You know I had a notebook from being eight years old, for heaven’s sake, with The Man I’m Going to Marry written in there in my very best handwriting. Even then I had written down: tall, blue eyes, smiley face, no tattoos and wearing a suit. Tick, tick, tick, tick. And tick.’ I laughed again, but sadly. ‘Mark ticked all the boxes,’ I took a deep breath, ‘but never once have my insides turned inside out; never once did I want to slide down the wall.’

  ‘Slide down the wall?’ Clare laughed.

  ‘A girl I lived with at college once came back home and literally slid down the wall…’

  ‘Too much gin?’

  ‘… slid down the wall with lust and love. She couldn’t stand up.’

  Fi and Clare both nodded, obviously in empathy with that almost-forgotten flatmate’s gymnastics.

  ‘Would I have wanted to marry Mark if he hadn’t been able to give me what I’d aspired to all the years I was growing up with Paula?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if he’d lived in the cottage next to ours and didn’t have a white-collar job and a smart car, would I have felt the same way about him?’ I shook my head, ashamed at my own thoughts. Had I married Mark because I felt he could give me what I yearned for and not because of who he was? ‘And,’ I said sadly, ‘you know, never once was I willing to give Mark up, like you insisted on giving up Rageh, Clare, because you loved him more than you loved yourself.’

  20

  If Mary Kingsley Could Do It, So Can I…

  ‘So, Cassie, half term coming up. What are you going to do with it?’ We’d got to the pudding stage where you’re far too full to actually eat any dessert but, because it’s a set three-course meal, you’d be daft not to.

  ‘Talking of desserts,’ I said, ‘one of my kids wrote this week: “And Jesus wandered for forty days in the dessert…”’

  ‘The Black Forest?’ Fi quipped idly. ‘I always remember Rosie doing some homework about the water cycle and she wrote: “The raindrops join together and so become lager before falling from the sky…” She laughed again. ‘That’d be all right, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I reckon you need to get away for a week,’ Clare said. ‘Stop thinking about kids and school for a while. I’m assuming you’re carrying on as acting head after the break?’

  ‘Yes, it would seem so. David Henderson has asked me if I’m OK to keep going until Christmas.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Definitely. I love it. I’ll really resent it when they advertise for a proper head and someone comes to take my place.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell them you’ll carry on? If they’re happy with you, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all got to be done properly. You know: advertised, short-listed, references, presentations, interviews.’

  ‘Well, you’d apply, wouldn’t you? You’d walk it, surely? The staff like you, don’t they?’

  ‘Most of them, I think. Just the dreadful Karen Adams who seems to have it in for me.’

  ‘You do know that I know her?’ Fi said. ‘I didn’t realise it, but her husband’s a second cousin of Matt’s. He’s a developer – he’ll be after any building contract he can get. He’ll be working hand in glove with the Bamforths, I reckon.’

  ‘Oh really? Well, that explains a lot. She and her husband were at the Bamforth Estate presentation the other night… Oh, hang on, there are two of my staff here now.’

  I pushed my chair back and stood up as Harriet and Grace popped their heads round the Orangery door. ‘Hello, you two, are you treating yourselves as well?’

  ‘In a way,’ Harriet smiled. ‘Clem’s our mate so we’ve come round for a drink and nibbles in the kitchen. We do it once a month – Clem is usually so busy, we come to her rather than her coming out with us. And occasionally, if she’s very busy, we help out doing a bit of waitressing.’

  ‘Come and join us in here,’ I said. ‘We’re at the pudding and coffee stage. We can shift round a bit.’ Fi and Clare were already moving their chairs. ‘Has Clementine finished in the kitchen?’

  ‘I think so, but she might not want us to intrude,’ Grace said.

  ‘Actually,’ Clare said, ‘I’d really like to meet her. I’ve been thinking of popping in to see if I can sort something for my hens.’

  ‘Your hens?’ Grace frowned. ‘As in free-range eggs and chickens, you mean?’

  Clare laughed. ‘No, I organise hen parties… well I did.’

  ‘You do,’ I said firmly. I turned to Harriet and Grace who were still standing in the doorway. ‘Clare has two companies, one called Henotheism and one called Last Stagger. Look, I’d really like it if the three of you would join us. Go and have a word with Clementine.’

  ‘It’s Cassie’s big birthday celebration. And she’s your boss, so you have to do as she says,’ Fi laughed. ‘Come on, let’s order another bottle of wine.’

  *

  Ten minutes later and the six of us were in full flow. Clementine had changed out of her working gear and, because the table was away from the rest of the diners, was happy to sit with us.

  ‘Sarah, my mother, is in charge of the kitchen tonight,’ she said as she took the weight of her feet, ‘so I’m allowed some time off.’

  ‘How will Edward Bamforth’s plans affect you, Clementine?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t mention that man’s name in here,’ she tutted. ‘Rafe, my husband, is furious about what he’s proposing. We all are.’

  ‘Well, my daughter and my mother are planning a
demonstration in Norman’s Meadow after half term. Knowing my mother, she’ll probably be trying to get in touch with that chap that became famous for demonstrating against the Newbury Bypass. She spent some time with him back in – when was it? I was away at university, so it must have been in the mid-1990s.’

  ‘Swampy,’ Clare said. ‘Wasn’t he called Swampy? Did you know David Cameron’s mother was the magistrate that convicted him at one point?’

  ‘Oh?’ Clem was really interested. ‘Gosh, that would be good if your mother could get hold of him. It would really get us some publicity and persuade the council not to give planning permission for all this building they’re after.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure that everyone’s against the plans,’ I said. ‘A lot of people are really for the Trust building a huge new school. And a dry ski slope would bring new jobs and tourism to the area. It’s what people want – progress.’

  ‘But not in my back yard, Cassie,’ Clem smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m as guilty as the next woman of Nimbyism.’

  *

  ‘Are you sure you’d not rather be by yourselves?’ Clementine asked fifteen minutes later as Patrick brought in our puddings. ‘We can away back to the kitchen now we’ve put the world to rights, and leave you in peace.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Fi said. ‘We’re just trying to persuade Cassie to take a holiday next week instead of going into school, as she invariably will do.’

  ‘That’s what head teachers do,’ I protested. ‘Anyway, where would I go?’

  Pudding was just as delicious as the rest of the meal. While Fi, Clare and I sighed greedily over the hot chocolate fondant with Westenbury blackberry and thyme ice cream, a honey and lemon mess and a burnt-apple soufflé, Clementine and the other two drank tea and nibbled at a cheese board Clem sent to the kitchen for.

  ‘So, Cassie, a holiday?’ Fi said, once she’d finished her pudding. ‘You need one.’

  ‘God, Fi, you’re like a dog with a bone.’ I snapped. ‘Look, I may have enough money to jet off somewhere at the moment, but who’s to say Mark won’t suddenly stop putting money into my account? You hear about separated couples arguing so much over money that the majority of it goes to the solicitors and they end up with nothing.’ I shivered slightly. My biggest nightmare was losing the security I’d gained through marrying Mark. I didn’t want to go back to living in a run-down, damp, rented cottage like the one I’d grown up in.