by Jo Carnegie
‘Ambrose,’ said Frances sternly, but he ignored her.
‘Your ancestors will be turning in their graves. A Fraser! Working as an events manager! For Christ’s sake, girl, why do you want a job like that? Don’t I give you a big enough allowance? Hmm. Is that what it is?’
Harriet went quite pale. Suddenly she pushed her chair back and ran from the room, choking back a sob.
‘Ambrose!’ Frances put her spoon down. ‘You really have gone too far!’
Her husband’s face was purple, and Frances was worried he was going to burst a blood vessel. ‘An events manager!’ he repeated again. ‘What on earth? Can you imagine what people will think? Bloody load of nonsense.’ With that, he returned to his soup, grumbling incoherently between mouthfuls.
Across the table, Frances sighed. She had to admit, she could think of a few more glamorous careers she would like to see her daughter pursue, but she was angry with her husband’s reaction. The older he became, the narrower his horizons were getting. The forthright attitude that had won her over as a young, impressionable girl was now turning him into an intolerant, grumpy old man. She reached over, putting her hand over his. ‘Darling, you really shouldn’t get yourself so wound up about things.’ Ambrose grunted something about ‘that blasted Rice woman’ and carried on eating his soup.
Frances sat back and watched him. It was starting to feel as if they were leading completely separate lives. Ambrose was retreating ever more into his own world, which seemed to consist solely of shooting game and drinking claret in his study. She worried about the effect it was having on him, their marriage and family.
God, she wished she was in Devon’s arms right now.
At that precise moment, Devon was sitting with Nigel in his studio at Byron Heights. For the past hour, he had been trying out some of his new songs, guitar on knee as his inimitable rich and husky voice filled the room. Finally, Devon stopped and turned to Nigel. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked, almost shyly.
Nigel hadn’t said a word for some time, his face blank and expressionless. From the very beginning, he had always been Devon’s harshest critic, and it was his opinion above all others that Devon had always trusted most.
Nigel remained silent, and Devon leaned over to him. ‘Nige? Mate? Surely it wasn’t that bad,’ he joked, trying to hide his disappointment.
A full ten seconds passed, but when Nigel eventually spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. ‘Devon, I think this is the best stuff you’ve ever written.’
That night, as they were eating Nigel’s delicious black bean stew, Devon made an announcement. ‘You know what, I really feel like I’m on this mad, creative trip at the moment. Melodies, lyrics, they just won’t stop coming. It’s like I’ve been reborn, y’know?’
Nigel looked him straight in the eye. ‘Anything to do with a certain lady?’ Devon didn’t answer, suddenly becoming very intent on his stew, but Nigel pressed on. ‘Devon, she’s married.’
‘Is she? I didn’t realize,’ Devon joked, trying to lighten the moment. He saw the concern in his friend’s eyes. ‘Nige, I know you’ve got my best interests at heart, but it’s fine, really. You’re right, she is married. At some point, I am going to have to deal with that. But at the moment, she’s bringing the kind of joy to my life I never thought I’d have again. So don’t worry, OK?’
Nigel gave him a wan smile. ‘I suppose at least we know she’s not going to run off with the rest of your fortune. I’ll put the apple pie on, shall I?’
‘Nice one,’ replied Devon happily.
Chapter 40
THERE WERE MORE tears on the Clanfield estate at the end of that week as Jed called things off with Stacey. For the first time in her young but manipulative life, Stacey had really fallen for someone. When Jed broke the news, she threw herself on his bed at Bantry’s Cottage and sobbed her heart out.
Jed felt awful. He had never seen it as more than a fling, and in his mind he’d always thought that was how Stacey felt, too. She begged him to take her back, and he gently disentangled himself from her and told her again that it was over. At that point, it finally sank in that she was fighting a lost cause. Angry, surprised and humiliated, Stacey called him an arsehole. ‘I’ve got, like, a million boys after me, what makes you so special anyway, Jed Bantry?’ she spat. And with a final indignant heave of her chest, Stacey was gone, leaving a trail of sickly sweet perfume in her wake.
Despite the last fraught hour, Jed wanted to smile. She was a feisty little madam. But he still didn’t care how many men wanted to take her out. It was over.
That lunchtime, Caro and Angie were sitting in the corner of the pub, at the window seat overlooking the green. Milo was squirming around on Angie’s knee, and she was placating him with bits of her delicious chocolate torte.
Caro hadn’t even been able to finish her main course, and Angie looked at her in concern. ‘Darling, are you OK? Are you not eating? You know, you’ve lost a terrific amount of weight.’
Caro had. Her post-baby fat had melted away, and from a distance she could almost pass for her youngest sister Calypso. Newly discovered cheekbones were appearing on her face, but she still looked pale and unhappy, her eyes huge and haunted.
‘I have lost my appetite recently,’ she confessed. She attempted a wan smile. ‘I should be happy, really, I got into a pair of my size ten jeans for the first time in yonks yesterday.’
‘How are things with Seb?’ Angie asked, perceptively.
Caro shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh! Fine really. I mean I haven’t seen much of him recently. Poor man has been working flat out and spending most of his time up in town.’
Angie, who had just heard a rather disturbing rumour from a friend who was married to a millionaire city financier, didn’t feel sorry for Sebastian at all. In fact, she felt quite the opposite. But she knew she couldn’t bring herself to tell Caro her worst fear, when it was just that. A rumour.
‘Surely his family is more important?’ she asked Caro.
Caro shrugged again. ‘He’s working for some big bonus at the moment, reckons it will change his life completely.’
Angie eyed her. ‘His life? What about you and Milo? And especially at the moment, with God knows who running around. He should be here, with you.’
Caro’s eyes were filling with tears now. ‘Who am I kidding?’ she sobbed. Angie moved to put an arm around her, ignoring the curious stares from the next table. ‘We’ve just grown so far apart,’ Caro continued unhappily. ‘He’s hardly any kind of father to Milo. If I do ask him to spend more time at home, or suggest we do something as a family, he just bites my head off. We haven’t made love in months, he never pays me compliments. Oh Angie, it’s like I don’t exist!’ She broke up, shuddering.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Angie softly. ‘You and this adorable little chap can always move into ours if you need the space, we’ve got tons of rooms. It might just make bloody Sebastian realize what he could lose if he carries on like this.’
Caro squeezed her friend’s hand gratefully. ‘You are sweet. But I need to stay at home and give it one last shot. I can’t bear the thought of Milo not having his mummy and daddy together any more.’ Her eyes filled up with tears again.
‘Darling, you’re not exactly together at the moment,’ Angie pointed out. ‘Bloody Sebastian’s off doing exactly what he wants while you’re stuck at home. It doesn’t seem at all fair.’
Caro smiled sadly. ‘I know it’s not right, believe me I do. But I can’t just give up like that. I’ll talk to him. I promise.’
‘I hope you do, darling,’ said Angie, smiling at her. ‘And give him hell from me.’ She hugged Caro fiercely.
Angie spent the rest of the day worrying about her friend. When she shut up the antiques shop that evening and started for home, she wondered if she should speak to Freddie about it. Get him to have a ‘man to man’ talk with Sebastian perhaps? Her heart softened at the thought of dear, sweet loyal Freddie. She wouldn’t swop him for a mill
ion Sebastians, no matter how big their bloody bonuses were.
When she opened the front door to the Maltings, however, her concern for Caro quite left her mind as she was assailed by a heavy waft of smoke in the hallway. She really was going to have to speak to Archie about his incense candles. They were reeking the place out. Loud music thudded from upstairs. He was obviously in, then. When her son wasn’t at college, he seemed to spend all his time in his bedroom with his friend Tyrone. On the few occasions Angie had knocked on the door to ask if they wanted any food or drinks, Archie just told her to go away. Her only child was looking so pale and scruffy at the moment, it bothered her. No wonder, when he seemed to sleep half the day and stay up all night instead. Angie prayed to God he hadn’t got in with the wrong crowd at college.
She made her way through to the kitchen, where she found a red-eyed Freddie toasting a Mars bar on a bit of ciabatta under the grill. ‘Darling, what on earth are you eating?’
‘I just really fancied it, I don’t know why,’ said Freddie absent-mindedly, kissing her on the mouth. Angie didn’t think she had ever seen her husband eat a bar of chocolate before. What was up with him? She went to the fridge to get the filtered water out and, to her surprise, found one of her husband’s green Hunter wellies in there, wedged next to the leftover cold roast chicken and magnum of Möet.
Freddie came up behind her, dripping melted caramel all over the kitchen floor. ‘There it is!’ he exclaimed. ‘Been looking for the blasted thing everywhere. Must have left it in there when I got the Green & Black’s hazelnut spread out earlier.’ Then, for no reason, he got the giggles and couldn’t stop, shoulders shaking as he collapsed at the kitchen table.
In utter astonishment, Angie stared at her husband. God, was this how dementia began?
Chapter 41
SEBASTIAN AND SABRINA, far from having a romantic weekend, had actually had a huge falling-out in Italy, and not spoken until they were heading back home on their BA business class flight. On the Saturday night they had been having dinner at a three-star Michelin restaurant up in the mountains, when Sabrina had caught him slipping his business card to the very beautiful and very young waitress serving them.
‘She’s barely out of her teens, you fucking pervert!’ she had hissed at him when he had returned to the table.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Luciana is a very intelligent young woman who has just got a business degree and wants to come over and work in the City,’ he had informed her smoothly. ‘The least I could do is give her my business card. Give her a leg up.’
‘Leg over more like,’ Sabrina had spat, filing her nails out of the window furiously.
Sebastian had surveyed her coldly. ‘Jealous are you, darling? You shouldn’t be, it doesn’t make you look half as pretty.’ Vain creature that she was, that had shut Sabrina up and she had sulked the rest of the evening, not even letting Sebastian get near her in bed when they got back to their magnificent villa. She had been feeling quite twitchy anyway. She hadn’t seen Piers for weeks, and had heard on the model grapevine that he’d taken up with some silly anorexic bitch from Slovenia.
She had wondered if it was about time she got in touch with the Russian businessman who’d been pestering her. To hell with Sebastian. She’d met Vladimir in Le Caprice restaurant when he’d sent an eight hundred pound bottle of Cristal over to her table, where she had been dining with a girlfriend. Short and squat with a shaved head, he had looked like a low-rent bouncer, so she’d brushed him off. But he’d still given her his business card as he left. When her girlfriend had seen his surname and squealed, saying he’d been listed in Forbes as one of the fifty richest and most influential men in the world that year, Sabrina had had second thoughts. Especially when she’d Googled him later that night at home and found out he was divorced, friends with the Sultan of Brunei and kept a twenty million pound yacht called Sapphire moored in St Tropez.
With this in her mind, Sabrina had calmed down enough so that when Sebastian’s hand wandered up her inner thigh in business class the next evening, she hadn’t pushed it off. Besides, she’d gone without sex for almost twenty-four hours, which was some kind of record for her. Sabrina needed sex like Denis Healey needed a pair of eyebrow-tweezers.
They’d ended up renewing their membership of the Mile High Club in the toilet, only pulling apart when an air stewardess had knocked discreetly on the door and told them they were starting the descent to Heathrow. Sebastian had stopped his own descent between Sabrina’s thighs and the pair had waltzed out smugly. ‘What are you looking at, Four Eyes?’ Sebastian had snarled at a small, bespectacled man in a suit who had quickly dived back behind his Sunday Times money supplement.
Elsewhere in the capital, Stephen and Klaus were on a conference call to Clementine from their six million pound art deco pad in Chelsea. As promised, they had managed to secure the services of the legendary Christie’s auctioneer Belvedere Radley. As it had turned out, he’d once had a great uncle Bunty who had lived on some rolling estate a few miles south of Churchminster and had always had a great affinity with the area.
‘Chaps, that’s wonderful!’ said Clementine when they relayed the news to her.
‘Rather,’ Stephen agreed. ‘He’s bloody merciless in action. He once got someone to pay fifteen mill for a loo seat that had apparently belonged to Van Gogh. If he can’t get the likes of Jemima Khan handing over her entire inheritance for a fivesome with Take That, no one can!’
Talking of foursomes, Angus had been badgering Camilla to set up a double date with Harriet and Sniffer.
‘What about Horse?’ Camilla had asked.
‘Oh, Horseman has been seeing some chick from Cirencester,’ Angus had chortled over a late supper at the Jolly Boot one evening. ‘Sniffer said he wouldn’t mind a go on old Hatty now. I think you and I getting hitched has got him wondering if he shouldn’t make a decent woman of some lucky filly.’ With that, he’d squeezed Camilla’s thigh with his huge hand in a gesture that was meant to be tender, but had made her yelp out in pain.
‘OK, I’ll ask her,’ she had said dubiously.
Harriet’s expression said it all. ‘You’re not interested are you? I didn’t think you would be, but I had to ask, Hats,’ said Camilla. It was the next evening and the two women were curled up on the sofa in the sitting room at Gate Cottage, a half-drunk bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the floor between them.
Harriet sighed. ‘He’s just a bit much. Although I suppose I should be taking up every offer I get, otherwise I am going to end up an old maid, and Daddy will hate me even more.’ Sir Ambrose had only just started talking to her again, but any plans of her pursuing the career she wanted had been firmly stopped.
Camilla took a sip of wine. ‘So you’re not going to look around?’ she asked.
‘Not unless I want to be cut out of the family will and made homeless and penniless,’ said Harriet gloomily.
‘That’s such a shame,’ cried Camilla. ‘I think you’d make a marvellous events manager.’
Harriet smiled. ‘You are a dear friend, Bills.’ She changed the subject. ‘How are the wedding plans going?’
Camilla shrugged. ‘It’s all on hold, to be honest. Mummy and Daddy have fixed for us to get married at St Bartholomew’s like them and Granny and Grandfather, but with this awful business of the Revd Goody, everything’s suddenly a bit up in the air.’
Harriet shivered. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? I can’t believe someone murdered him.’
Caro looked round the cottage. ‘Do you get scared being here by yourself?’
Harriet thought for a second. ‘A little, since he was killed. But I’ve just had security lights installed and, besides, Jed’s just down the road.’
‘Ooh yes, he looks like he could knock an intruder out,’ remarked Camilla. She hesitated. ‘Have you ever fantasized about, you know . . . I mean, he is awfully handsome.’
Harriet laughed. ‘No, we’re more like brother and sister, I suppose. Besides, can you imagine Daddy’s
face? In his eyes, getting it on with the hired help is far worse than events management!’
‘Oh Hats, poor you,’ said Camilla. ‘I’m sure your father is only like this because he wants the best for you.’
‘Best for him, more like. He hasn’t got a clue what I want,’ Harriet retorted. She stared off wistfully into the distance, then looked back at her friend. ‘Oh, to hell with getting upset about it! At least they’ve gone off the idea of making me move back in the Hall with them.’ She stood up. ‘I’ve got some of Cook’s legendary chocolate-chip cookies in the kitchen. Do you want one?’
Camilla hesitated. ‘I should be watching my weight. I’ve got a wedding-dress fitting next week.’
‘Nonsense! If anyone should be on a diet, it’s me,’ said Harriet, looking down at her straining Jack Wills tracksuit bottoms.
‘Have you still got any of that delish hot chocolate from Fortnums to dunk them in?’ asked Camilla hopefully.
Harriet shot her a wicked glance. ‘Oh, I am sure I can dig some out.’
The Revd Goody’s body was finally released to his family. He had a private funeral in London attended only by his sister, who flew over especially. As requested in his will, his ashes were to be scattered over the fields in his favourite part of Tuscany.
The village said goodbye in their own way as well, with a service at St Bartholomew’s commemorating the Revd Goody’s life. The Revd Brian Bellows was seconded in to take it, looking dreadfully uncomfortable standing in the pulpit where the Revd Goody should have been. Rance and Penny stood surreptitiously at the back, observing the crowd. Babs Sax, dressed in a dramatic black veil and engine-red lipstick, sobbed theatrically throughout the service.
‘She’s such a bloody drama queen,’ hissed Brenda to Pearl Potts. The two women were sitting in a pew behind Caro and the rest of her family.
‘Lawks, I know! I don’t think she ever set foot in church when our dear Reverend, God bless his soul, was still alive,’ said Pearl. Several people turned round and shushed them, but to no avail.