The Country Set

by Fiona Walker

  Until now, she’d been disappointed by the vanilla tameness of the village’s many long marriages, which she knew from scrutinising unguarded Facebook pages were lifeless unions, the lusty timeline shares of Zac Eforn GIFs in sharp contrast to home snapshots of beer bellies on sofas. C’mon, Compton! she’d wanted to cry to the zombie domestics. Get yourself an avatar, find a chat forum for marital infidelity, and get sexy! You have no idea how much fun I have as Mrs Jolie-Smith _1975. But, as it turned out, the Compton elite had the potential to be every bit as exciting flirting in the flesh as her covert virtual world.

  ‘We need more deaths in the village, Mrs G.’ Bay was a consummate flatterer. ‘That black dress looks disturbingly good on you.’

  Petra’s laughter was full of charming indignation. ‘If the locals start dropping like flies we’ll know who’s behind it, hey, Pip?’

  ‘Yes, totally. Don’t mind me.’ Pip stepped back to rearrange her cakes, eager not to break the spell.

  Bay was happy to oblige, lowering his voice to a stage whisper close to Petra’s ear. ‘Promise you’ll show me your tan lines the moment you’re back.’

  ‘That’s a line we’ll never cross, Bay.’ Her eyes signalled to Pip for help.

  ‘More cake?’ Pip offered half-heartedly, remembering Ann Percy – who had disapproved of Bay Austen enormously – claiming all Austen men started by winking a blue eye at the midwife when they were born.

  Bay claimed a sponge slice, then whispered to Petra, ‘Spoilsport. I’ll show you mine.’

  Pip would have swooned had she been Petra, but the object of his attention stayed super-cool. ‘That’s a dare every quadcopter owner round here cheats with a dusk fly-by.’

  The wake crowd was still in full cry. Pip caught the vet, Gill, stalking past behind them, listening in, no doubt picking up on the same vintage Brangelina chemistry Pip was, although Petra was now talking about drones like a gadget geek.

  ‘One followed me for ages today,’ she told Bay. ‘Landed on my stable roof.’ She’d gone very pink, Pip noticed. Probably the heat.

  Bay looked impressed. ‘Bloody good piloting. Mine’s been stuck in a big oak canopy in Lockes Wood since Wednesday, which is a total sod because we’ve got seriously nasty poachers around now the crops are being cut. Coursers mostly.’

  ‘A whole new course cut,’ Petra said drily.

  ‘I should have made marmalade cake!’ Pip offered round more sponge fingers.

  Petra felt profoundly deflated, not to mention disconcerted. If Bay’s drone was up a tree, who had sent the rose? It struck her as a faintly creepy gesture now, as well as disappointing, shattering her Bay-as-Milk-Tray-Man fantasy. She suspected the sexual frisson accompanying their marmalade flirtation had been a figment of her imagination.

  Bay was still talking about poachers: ‘They’re evasive buggers. We’re getting a lynch mob together to try to catch them tonight, and there’s no point going out half cocked. They’re hard bastards.’

  Petra thought about the poor lurcher Carly had found left for dead.

  ‘Will you be armed?’ Pip was gazing at him, like an eager mastiff at a sausage.

  ‘Waving a shotgun about in the dark isn’t much use in trying to round up half a dozen urban fantasists and dogs trained to kill. It’s a far cry from Eddie Grundy taking one for the pot, these days. It’s all camo gear, night-vision goggles and instant messaging. We’re pretty sure the lot we’re after tonight use old pay-as-you-go BlackBerrys of all things.’

  ‘How business retro,’ Petra said, then felt very silly when Pip nodded knowledgeably and started talking like Lisbeth Salander.

  ‘Of course, that way they’re all linked with an untraceable messenger like hoodie looters,’ she deduced. ‘Any downloadable GPS tracking app can be brought into play so they know exactly where each other is while the authorities haven’t a clue. Add in high-level mapping and they’re the SAS of poaching, basically.’

  ‘Er... quite.’ Bay flashed an on-off smile.

  ‘Where do you learn this stuff?’ Petra gaped at her, astonished.

  ‘I read a lot online.’

  ‘Bloody cunning, though, eh?’ Bay helped himself to a Bakewell slice.

  ‘So will you be taking any other weapons?’ Pip asked, those bulging, hyperactive-thyroid eyes stretched wide. ‘Taser? Mustard spray? Tranquilliser gun?’

  ‘Only this and these.’ He tapped his head, then pointed at his eyes. ‘It’s about flushing them out and scaring them off, not flogging them with bike chains. That’s why we need that drone back.’ His eyes found Petra’s again, a passing sign-in, the sexy half-smile that told her his thoughts didn’t match his conversation.

  Caught in a gaze as bright as any flashlight, she perked up.

  ‘Our tree man’s windsurfing off the Costa de la Luz this week,’ he went on, ‘so I’ve put the word out for a cherry-picker.’ One half of the double-entendre act sought out his comedy partner with playful blue eyes. ‘Do you know anyone with one, Mrs G?’

  Petra wished she wasn’t so easily led, but his smile was too tempting, and she felt stupidly happy to find Lady Marmalade back on, albeit with a change of fruit. ‘What exactly does a cherry-picker do, Bay?’

  The smile widened, the blue eyes darkened. ‘I’ll be delighted to give you a demonstration sometime.’

  ‘You know, I haven’t had a cherry for ages.’

  ‘Actually, there are cherries in my Bakewell slices,’ Pip pointed out.

  ‘People pick them too early.’ Bay ignored her, eyes fixed on Petra. ‘The taste is sweeter the longer you wait.’

  ‘So you’d recommend well-grown wood?’ Petra fought laughter.

  ‘Indeed.’ His smile widened. ‘A decent cherry-picker can reach spots never accessed before.’

  ‘Good head for heights essential, I imagine?’ Petra asked.

  ‘Going down is far more fun.’

  Pip’s jaw had dropped.

  Stepping closer to Petra, Bay lowered his voice so only she could hear, the eyes scorching with intent. ‘Do you want to go for lunch somewhere quiet before we collect the girls from Pony Club Camp, Mrs G? Let me show you how well I handle a Gunn.’

  Her body was shamefully quick to prickle with an all-over blush as she laughed this off, awash with panicky piety, her voice hushed as she said, ‘This is a wake.’

  ‘Up call.’ He smiled easily. ‘Micklecote Manor serves a splendid deconstructed meggyleves. That’s—’

  ‘I know what it is.’ Petra had eaten the chilled sour cherry soup in Hungary.

  ‘Delicious washed down with kirsch.’

  As he said it, Petra became aware of something black moving behind him, like a dream-catcher glued to a robotic arm. Gill, in her fascinator, was listening in.

  ‘I can’t,’ she bleated, slight panic turning to all-out contrition. She turned to Pip urgently. ‘So what do you think Ronnie will do about this place? You never did say.’

  ‘You should know, Petra darling,’ Bay cut in, amused. ‘You were the one spotted having a long walk and talk with the Bolter earlier. I knew I recognised the voice.’

  ‘Was that Ronnie?’ Petra had never been good at lying. Her body blush deepened as she feigned shock, acutely aware of Pip’s betrayed pug eyes and Gill’s j’accuse fascinator. Of course it would have been noticed that Ronnie, setting off across the church meadows in full view of the funeral congregation, had had Petra Gunn in hot pursuit. Yet she felt a profound, protective loyalty to the little blonde.

  Pip was agog. ‘What did she say to you?’

  ‘Just horse-talk,’ Petra bluffed. ‘We only cut across a field together. She needed to borrow a phone. She told me about a stallion she rates.’

  ‘Is it grey?’ Pip demanded.

  ‘I have no idea. It has flexible joints, which sounded like a bank account to me.’ Petra was uncomfortably aware that the fascinator in her peripheral vision was now pointing at her like a jousting lance. ‘She said it would put Compton Magna back on the map.’ />
  Pip’s eyes bulged, as though she could visualise that map glowing in front of her like a hologram, etched out in light, Dad’s Army arrows pointing at the stud.

  ‘Surely she’s not planning to run this place as a going concern.’ Bay snorted sceptically.

  Petra shrugged. ‘You’re asking the wrong person. But I wouldn’t lay bets on it. She said it was all pie in the sky because the stallion’s not for sale and she has a horse trials to run in Wiltshire.’ Ronnie hadn’t given her the impression of a woman about to relocate.

  ‘That horse is wasted where he is!’ Pip piped up furiously.

  Before Petra could ask for more detail, a shriek went out from behind the trestle where Pip had stashed her empty Tupperware and handbag. A moment later, Leonie emerged with a plastic food bag held at arm’s length.

  ‘As if the lead shot wasn’t enough, just what,’ she thrust it at Pip, ‘were you intending to do with this?’ Inside it was a very flat, desiccated mouse.

  20

  In the Jugged Hare car park, an undignified tussle was taking place between the seats of a Saab as Ronnie and Kit fought for possession of the ignition keys.

  ‘I am not over the limit!’

  A saloon with S Express Cabs decals on its sides was pulling up beside them now. Still wrestling between the front seats, Ronnie and Kit inadvertently elbowed the indicator stalks and dashboard, setting off hazard lights, windscreen wipers and sporadic bursts of the horn. The ignition key had long since dropped somewhere into the passenger foot well along with Kit’s phone.

  ‘Get out of my bloody car!’ he thundered at Ronnie.

  ‘I’m bloody trying to!’

  Like a terrier trapped in a crate, Ronnie was desperate to escape, but the belt of her dress was still snagged in the handbrake mechanism. When she finally managed to undo it to try to free herself, she discovered it was sewn into the dress, keeping her firmly tethered to the central console. She sat up as best she could, mustering good grace.

  ‘Please take my taxi to Stratford with my blessing,’ she offered. ‘You can come back for the car tomorrow.’

  ‘I want to drive it now!’ Kit was apoplectic.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to get out first.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Arrest me?’

  ‘I need to take this dress off.’

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this.’ Kit wrenched open the driver’s door beside him, realising too late that Paranoid Landlord had marched out of his kitchen once more to see what was going on and had his nose up against the glass. His big square face took the full force of the Saab door opened at speed. Leaping out in shocked apology, Kit caught his leg on the rim and fell face first onto the tarmac.

  ‘I have this all on CCTV!’ The landlord had his fingers pressed to a split eyebrow. ‘I could have you both arrested. And clamped. That was assault!’

  Sitting up, spitting grit and tasting blood, Kit was gripped with a brief paranoia that he was over the limit. He felt fine. He’d always kept carefully below his ceiling, admittedly a vaulted one, but mathematics was on his side, the logic of units, time and dilution easy to calculate compared to the illogical need for Dutch courage. He knew the law, even if popular belief meant a single measure was enough to make you a public enemy behind the wheel. Kit had been an appallingly disorganised – and bad-tempered – driver all his life, regardless of alcohol intake. Putting the car in the wrong gear was a common occurrence as its battered bumpers bore witness.

  Lowering her window, the female taxi driver called, ‘Anyone here called Percy?’

  Kit turned impatiently back to the Saab and was faced with a glimpse of black lace and creamy skin as the funeral dress was hastily removed and detached from his handbrake.

  ‘She’ll be right with you,’ he told the cab driver, putting some distance between himself and the car to give her more privacy.

  As he did so, a green Range Rover screeched into the car park, pulling up in a cloud of dust. A furious-looking man in a Peaky Blinders suit jumped out. He had the broken-nosed face of a prize-fight champion, the body of a cavalryman. Kit recognised the Australian who had picked falling horse tack off his head a fortnight earlier.

  ‘Is Ronnie here?’ His voice was deep and dry as a cough in a desert, dark eyes assessing Kit’s grazed lip, then the landlord’s cut brow.

  ‘If she is, tell her the meter’s running!’ the taxi driver shouted.

  The Australian had spotted a flash of blonde hair in Kit’s car and hurried towards it. ‘Ronnie? I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been a—What the fuck are you doing stripping off?’

  The window buzzed down a fraction. ‘Bad as this looks, I’m not the one who needs tearing off a strip.’ She pulled her dress over her head, an apologetic smile disappearing into it.

  Blair turned around in angry bewilderment, homing in on Kit standing close by. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  Before he could answer, they heard the Saab engine flare and both men turned to see Ronnie now at the wheel, back in her neatly tailored black dress, not a blonde hair out of place.

  ‘Now what’s she bloody well up to?’ Kit fumed.

  Checking her mirrors, she reversed up to him. The window buzzed lower.

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘What are you doing with my car?’

  ‘Please, do take the taxi as my gesture of apology.’ She thrust the twenty-pound note at him. ‘I know where you live. I’m more than happy to park this outside your house and put the keys through your door. You can pick it up tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘It’s honestly no trouble. Neighbourly gesture. I can’t let you drive. You might hit somebody.’

  ‘If you weren’t a woman, I’d hit you.’ Defensive as well as affronted, his normally slow fuse was pure gunpowder. ‘How dare you assume to judge my sobriety? Who made you moral guardian of this parish? You don’t live here.’

  ‘I was brought up here. Now I’m back. And I love this village.’ She looked surprised to admit it.

  ‘So do I.’ He was shocked at himself too, competitive now. ’Tis in my memory lock’d.

  The blue eyes didn’t blink, fixed on his, and he felt his hypocrisy curdling in his veins. His judge and jury stood before him. He had to prove his innocence. ‘Do you sell breath tests?’ he demanded of Paranoid Landlord.

  ‘There’s a machine in the Gents nobody uses unless they mistake it for condoms.’

  ‘Let’s settle this.’ He stalked into the pub.

  Thirty seconds later he stalked back.

  ‘I need three pound coins. There’s change in the glove compartment,’ he told Ronnie icily, watching as she fished it out and reluctantly handed it over, blue eyes alight with contrition. They both knew this had gone too far. They’d hadn’t even introduced themselves yet.

  ‘You know, you’re every bit as bloody-minded as I imagined you’d be,’ she told him.

  ‘As are you.’ Kit stormed back inside.

  *

  ‘I can’t believe you said nothing to me about meeting Ronnie,’ Gill lectured Petra, through the lavatory door. ‘I don’t believe for a moment you didn’t know who she is. And the way you’re behaving with Bay is absolutely awful. It’s like watching an old Carry On and it’s plain to see it will carry on until it gets a lot messier, if you keep fanning the flame. I suggest you take a good long look at yourself in Italy, Petra, because this Safe Married Crush thing has gone far too far.’

  Petra could only agree, grateful that she was going away. It was too easy to blame a sherry and sugar overload – if she was peeing on one of hypochondriac Charlie’s health-check strips, she suspected it would glow in the dark with diabetes and liver-function warnings – but she knew she sought out flirtation and laughter from Bay as surely as a sweet-toothed binge-drinker with a bottle of Baileys. Or maybe that should be cherry brandy.

  She washed her hands at a cracked, water-marked pink basin with mismatching taps. The Percy Place downs
tairs loo was a seventies time-warp. There was no mirror. Instead the peeling walls were crammed with faded old framed photographs of people holding horses and trophies, sitting on horses with trophies, or grouped awkwardly together with trophies shaped like horses. Drying her hands on a threadbare towel hanging from a yellowing plastic hoop, she recognised a few faces from sixties and seventies equestrianism, including royalty, in the days when show-jumpers were never sober and eventing was full of army officers riding across country in ribbed polo-necks.

  ‘Bay’s our village teaser stallion, you know that,’ Gill was telling the door, standing in the long, thin passageway that had once been a servants’ corridor. ‘He flirts with wives. But anything more than that is strictly verboten. Don’t be the one to take it further, Petra. What about the children and Charlie? Monique and Bay’s children?’

  ‘We’re not setting up a blended family, Gill.’ She peered at a picture of handsome Richard Meade. ‘We had a silly flirt and he asked me to lunch, that’s all.’

  ‘That way lies madness.’

  ‘And Hungarian soup.’ Her gaze moved on to a very pretty freckle-faced girl about Bella’s age on a show pony, the rider’s long twiggy legs and red plaits suggesting a young Pax. ‘You were the one who used him as bait to lure me here.’

  ‘Do you want to be like Ronnie, is that it? Abandoning your children, breaking two families?’

  ‘The jump jockey was married too?’ She hadn’t stopped to wonder who he’d been until now.

  ‘Engaged. He’s in there with you.’

  ‘Where?’

  She unlocked the door and Gill crammed inside, glancing around the pictures hung lowest down behind the loo, locating one half hidden by a big pile of old Horse & Hounds.

  ‘Here.’ She started wiping off a thick layer of dust, a figure appearing of such hollow-cheeked, heavy-lidded sex appeal that Petra whistled. ‘You wouldn’t throw him out of bed, would you? He’s Jean-Claude Van Damme in a Tattersall shirt.’