She stood and watched as the cavalcade reversed and disappeared into Fox Hollow’s high-banked lane. It couldn’t be soon enough.
Chapter Sixteen
The fifteen miles between Diadem Transport’s yard at Upton Poges and his parents’ house simply flew. Jack had never felt so reckless, so completely alive. The Norton Commando Roadster rocketed along the narrow country lanes; the wind was slicing through his thin cotton jersey, and his head was full of the Gavioli’s blood-stirring music. Nothing, simply nothing, could put a dampener on his euphoria.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Fiona was pacing Bill and Eileen’s immaculate drive, and hardly allowed him time to remove his crash helmet. ‘Your mother reckoned on you not being here much before three – but it’s nearly tea-time. And look at your clothes! She’ll have a fit. Couldn’t you have gone home and changed first? Honest to God, Jack, do you never think?’
He propped up the Roadster on its rest, and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Hello, darling. Have you missed me?’
‘And that won’t wash, either.’ Fiona avoided his kiss. ‘You reek of petrol, you’re covered in dust, and your hands are filthy. Why you had to do this corporate spying thing on the day Eileen invited us to lunch, I’ll never know. I thought Bill had more sense. I’ve been sitting here since midday listening to your mother’s stories about the day centre and your father’s small talk about business. I’m absolutely starving and all I’ve had is a glass of supermarket sherry and two Ritz crackers and –’
‘That’s nice,’ Jack smiled again and wandered towards the house.
His parents had one of the first Morland Homes. It was much larger than the ones they built these days and had a proper garden, designed prior to the fashion for squeezing a further three blocks of semis on to a telephone-box-sized lawn. There was a smell of overdone chicken wafting from the open kitchen door, mingling with the Jeyes Fluid that his mother used to sluice down every available crevice. It was rather comforting. Like coming home from school for the holidays.
He stepped out into the garden through the patio doors. His father, thankfully, wasn’t there.
‘Darling!’ His mother’s eyes were reproachful. ‘Where have you been? I told your father he works you too hard – sending you out on scouting missions on a Sunday! And I wish you hadn’t brought the motorbike, Jack. The neighbours like to have their forty winks on a Sunday afternoon. Lunch is probably ruined – and we’ll have to call it supper now, anyway. Dad’s in the study. I’ll tell him that you’ve arrived.’ She lumbered to her feet from the vibrantly coloured lounger. ‘We’re going to eat out here. Pour yourself a sherry.’
‘Can I help?’ Fiona asked. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘No, thank you.’ Eileen shook her head, disappearing towards the house. ‘You and Jack have got plenty to talk about – and you have so little time, don’t you? Both working so hard. Sit down and relax, darlings. You deserve it.’
Jack sat on the edge of the vacated lounger, his legs far too long to accomplish this with any degree of comfort. He wasn’t hungry, and he certainly didn’t want a glass of lukewarm sherry. His entire body ached to be back at Fox Hollow; to start work on the intricate and delicate lettering on the rounding boards; to see the words ‘Petronella Bradley’s Golden Galloping Horses’ emerge in gilded scrolls from his brush; to start the renaming of the horses –
‘– and so I agreed with that. She’s arranging something tomorrow. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? After all, this garden is far larger than ours. What do you think?’
Jack shook himself back to the present. Fiona, in her neat and understated green linen sundress, must have been speaking for ages. He hadn’t heard a word.
‘Yeah. Great. Sounds brilliant.’
‘I knew you’d agree.’ She crossed the striped lawn and sat beside him on the lounger. Her hand was on his thigh, circling on the paint-streaked black denim. ‘You are a complete bastard, Jack Morland. You don’t believe in compromise, do you?’
‘No,’ said Jack, who didn’t. ‘Which compromise are we talking about?’
Fiona laughed and snuggled up closer. It was very hot. She kissed his ear. ‘Sometimes I don’t think you listen to anything I say. You’re still off in your own little world. Dreaming. Daydreaming …’ She snaked her hand higher.
Eileen came bouncing to the rescue. Bobbing across the lawn carrying a loaded tray, her voice would have out-shrilled the Roadster’s exhaust. ‘Fiona! If you really would like to lend a hand, could you be an angel and fetch the veggies? They’re in the tureens on the breakfast bench. No – Jack – you stay there. I want to have a little word.’
Shit, Jack thought.
Eileen bustled round the canopied wrought-iron table, setting out knives and forks, paper napkins, salt and pepper, plates, and another raft of glasses. Jack stood up to help her, awkward with the trappings of gentility. He wouldn’t hurt his mother for the world, but he wished she knew him better. He wished she understood that he’d be perfectly happy with a sandwich and a bottle of Beck’s.
‘You do look a wreck, darling.’ She straightened up and surveyed him. ‘Even if you have to wear jeans, why don’t you wear those nice ones Fiona got from Marks and Spencer? The ones with the crease? And your sweater – you’ve got more fray than cuff! And that ring – look at it! Still covered in paint! Still, that’ll be different come September when you have your wedding ring, won’t it?’ She poured a sherry refill and gave a sort of chuckle. ‘So, has Fiona told you about the reception?’
He shook his head. Since Fiona had dropped the wedding bombshell he’d avoided all mention of it, hoping that it might just go away. It hadn’t occurred to him that the plans were rumbling inexorably onward like tanks invading an unsuspecting and peaceful neighbouring country.
‘We’re having it here. I’m booking the marquee and the caterer tomorrow because it’ll be September in next to no time. Fiona’s already arranged the Register Office, of course, and Dad and I will be giving you the honeymoon as our wedding present. Did you have any thoughts on music?’
Oh, God. Music. The Gavioli – ‘Paree’? ‘Entry of the Gladiators’? ‘Sabre Dance’? Jack felt the laughter rising and bit his lips. His mother would never forgive him if he laughed now.
‘I wondered about a string quartet.’ Eileen squinted at him through the sherry glass. ‘Tasteful, I thought. Playing through the afternoon, and then no doubt you youngsters will want a bit of a discotheque for the evening, won’t you? Then there’s the question of Fiona’s parents. With them being divorced and remarried – there must be some sort of protocol relating to second spouses.’
Tell her now, Jack thought. Stop this now before it gets completely out of hand. He’d have to tell Fiona first, of course. He wasn’t being fair to any of them. The shackles were being fastened, the noose tightened. It wasn’t what he wanted. He had to tell Fiona.
‘Ah!’ Eileen started to pull out chairs. ‘Here come the troops!’
Jack helped Fiona with the tray of vegetable dishes and then lifted the chicken platter from his father.
‘We need to talk.’ Bill Morland’s expression didn’t change.
No one but Jack would have known he’d spoken. ‘In private.’
‘OK. But not now. After we’ve eaten.’
‘Straight after.’
‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Eileen was fussily seating everyone and pouring Liebfraumilch. ‘Everyone together! Help yourself to veg, darlings. Bill will do the carving, won’t you, sweetheart?’
Bill Morland flourished the carving knife and Jack winced. Holy shit, he thought. He bloody knows.
Bill Morland’s study was twice the size of Jack’s boxroom. The walls were lined with shelves, files were arranged alphabetically, and a fax and computer whirred despite it being Sunday. Morland Executive Homes never slept. Bill sat in his leather boardroom chair with lumbar support and flicked the end of a paper-knife. Jack, leaning against the door, watched this with unease.
&nbs
p; ‘What have you got to say?’ Bill’s voice wasn’t taking prisoners. ‘I would appreciate some sort of explanation.’
Horribly reminded of the incident years ago when he’d been fifteen and his parents had found a stack of Mayfairs beneath his bed, Jack abandoned any thoughts of bluffing.
‘About today, you mean?’
‘Of course about today!’ Bill swivelled angrily in the chair and faced him. ‘I’ve had to lie through my teeth. Both your mother and Fiona simply couldn’t understand why I sent you to recce the new Trencherwood sites on a Sunday. And on your motorbike. You might have had the courtesy to let me know that I was your alibi.’
‘Yeah, sorry, I should have done. Thanks for covering, anyway.’
‘That’s not good enough, Jack. I want you to start playing by the rules. Is it another woman?’
Jack wanted to laugh again. It was far more serious than another woman. It was another life.
Bill tapped the paper-knife against the desk blotter. ‘I’ll take the silence as an admission, shall I?’
Fuck this, Jack thought, suddenly angry. I’m not a kid any more. ‘OK. I shouldn’t have buggered off without telling you. I shouldn’t have assumed that you’d back me – but it was the easy option. I always take those. No one gets hurt that way. No, it isn’t another woman. It’s the Downland Trust.’
‘Christ! I thought you’d finished with that. Oh, I know that you were arranging to have stuff moved – I heard you. I know you said that you hadn’t completely abandoned the preservation thing, but as you hadn’t mentioned it again, I hoped you’d had second thoughts. Do you mean that you’ve simply shifted the machinery to a different site? Do you mean that you still have every intention of playing at being a traveller and painting? And that you still haven’t told Fiona?’
‘More or less. Fiona wouldn’t understand. I hoped you might.’
He didn’t though, Jack realised, watching his father’s face. They’d had the conversation after the auction, but Bill Morland hadn’t realised its significance. His parents thought he should be happy with his executive position, his house, Fiona, and his life. Their dreams were the acceptable dreams of the middle classes. Never stepping out of line. Conforming. Being normal.
Bill put down the paper-knife. ‘So, where does that leave us? I warned you before that Fiona would discover what you’re doing, so don’t you think you should tell her? Because, if you don’t, then I will. You’re a couple of months away from being married. You do want to marry her, I take it?’
Jack exhaled. He was very tired of all this. Of the confines. The restrictions. The having to explain his every move. It would be bad enough if he merely had to explain to Fiona – but he had to justify himself to his parents, too. Overwhelmed by the urge to tell his father to stuff his job, his executive homes, and his string quartet and marquee, he turned to leave the room.
‘Jack!’
‘I’m thirty-two, Dad. I’m old enough to run my own life. To make my own decisions and my own mistakes. Yes, I shall tell Fiona. But in my own time. And I won’t be using you as an alibi any more. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you. I just happen to think that there are more important things in life than working twenty hours a day and acquiring things that you’re too bloody knackered to enjoy. Death doesn’t go away. It creeps closer and closer. I want to have a bit of life first. My life. And if that’s selfish then so be it.’
Hell, he thought as he thundered down the grey carpeted stairs, now we won’t be speaking civilly again for ages. It was almost impossible to work together and not speak. Still, it should speed up boardroom agendas. Bill snarling and him responding with shakes or nods of the head. It was like being back at school and falling out with your best friend.
Fiona and his mother were still in the garden, sitting on the loungers with identical cups of tea. They’d be discussing the wedding, he knew they would. He wandered towards the greenhouse and fiddled with the heads of some richly coloured flowers. Which should he tackle first? The truth about the gallopers or his feelings about the wedding? Either was going to cause major problems. Both would hurt Fiona – but any delay would hurt her even more. He’d tell her tonight.
The decision made, he headed towards the loungers. His mother was flushed, but Fiona still looked ice-cool. He looked down on her, realising again how little he knew her. They never really shared anything; never talked unless it was about work. She rarely joked, rarely showed enthusiasm, never displayed vulnerability. How wrong he’d been to jog along with her for all these years. How cruel to want to stop jogging now.
‘Jack – come and sit down.’ Eileen patted a third lounger. ‘You and Dad have a nice chat? I still think he’s an old meanie to make you work on a Sunday. Surely he could have said whatever needed to be said tomorrow?’
Jack sat awkwardly again. He wanted to leave. Now. He wanted to go home and talk things over quietly with Fiona. ‘We probably wouldn’t have time to talk tomorrow. Best to get everything out in the open.’ He raised his eyebrows in Fiona’s direction. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Oh, not just yet!’ Eileen looked woebegone. ‘I never have you all to myself these days. And I wanted to show you this outfit.’ She delved into a pile of magazines under a deck-chair. ‘I thought I’d get one for the wedding – possibly in lilac. Although I’ll have to make sure that I don’t clash with Fiona’s mother – or her stepmother for that matter! Goodness, isn’t this going to be exciting?’
They spent another hour looking at suits and dresses, refilling the teacups, planning the wedding. His father remained upstairs in the study. Jack, trying to shut his ears to the gushes and exclamations and the rustling of glossy pages, stretched out on the lounger and attempted to sleep. It wasn’t easy. The lights and colours of the Gavioli played behind his eyes, the growing crescendo of the ‘Sabre Dance’ roared inside his head. He almost whistled the tune. He could see the gallopers now, completed, painted, revolving in gaudy magnificence.
He was aware of feeling uncomfortably hot and sticky, and opened his eyes straight into the low rays of the evening sun. Fiona was standing over him.
‘I’m off now. I need to go through my appointments for tomorrow.’
Jack sat up groggily, feeling sweaty and off-balance. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Packing us up a food parcel of cold chicken. She’s sure I don’t feed you properly.’
Jack uncurled himself and stood up. He had to look down at Fiona. He suddenly thought of Nell Bradley. Her eyes were on the same level as his. Her freckles all smudged together to form a splodge across the bridge of her nose. He’d talked to Nell Bradley with the same unconscious ease as he did to his friends. Why couldn’t all women be so uncomplicated?
‘You go on, then, if you’ve got work to do. I’ll wait for the food parcel. The Roadster will probably beat you anyway.’ He kissed her briefly. ‘See you at home.’
It was nearly midnight before they went to bed. Fiona had worked diligently in the study, checking her Filofax against her laptop, telephoning, printing, sending faxes. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him.
‘Later, darling. When we’re in bed. When I’ve had a shower, washed my hair, and generally pampered myself. You know I like to plan my week on Sunday evening. We’ll talk in bed. Why don’t you go to the pub? Fergus and Stan and Adam are bound to be there.’
Restless and completely at a loss, Jack wandered down to the Turlington Arms. The pub had been built at the same time as the estate, on what the architect fondly imagined was the nouveau equivalent of a village square. There were cobbles and plastic terracotta pots jammed with clashing busy lizzies. The Turlington Arms was brick red and pristine and looked suffocatingly hot. Buying a bottle of Beck’s, Jack sat in the beer garden, which was, if anything, even hotter than inside and made desultory conversation with the neighbours. Children squawked and screamed as they swarmed over multi-coloured climbing frames, “while their parents ignored them and drank massive gins.
‘Another?’ Adam, who was
wearing a rather daring cutaway singlet, batted his eyelashes at Jack. ‘I do like a man who drinks straight from the bottle.’
Stan obviously didn’t, by the way he frowned. God, Jack thought, am I watched here too? He hadn’t realised that everyone else had glasses.
‘No more, thanks.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve had a heavy day.’
They chorused their goodnights. He had nothing in common with them either, he thought as he walked slowly back through the culs-de-sac. He wondered what they would have said if he’d told them about the gallopers and the Gavioli, about Fox Hollow and Nell Bradley. They would probably have laughed at the vividness of his imagination. They’d never been really sure about his involvement with the Downland Trust. After all, they spent their Sundays washing the car, lunch-time drinking, sleeping with the colour supplements on their Texas garden furniture, another visit to the pub, a quick glimpse at the late television news, and then bed. And then Monday morning. And then death …
Jack laughed as he unlocked the front door. He really was becoming very cynical about life and death and the meaningful use of one before the other. He hoped Fiona would understand.
The radio alarm glowed at eleven forty-six. Fiona was already curled on the futon in the darkness, the moonlight casting white pools across her naked body. Jack padded from the bathroom and dropped his towelling robe on the floor. She didn’t tell him to pick it up as she usually did, and he thought she must be asleep. He eased himself on to the bed beside her, listening to her breathing, wondering if he could turn on the light and read. It was still so hot.
Fiona moved her legs. ‘I’m not asleep. No, leave the light. Do you want to talk?’
‘If you’re not too tired. It’ll keep if you are.’ Coward! he yelled at himself. ‘Do you want to go to sleep?’
Fiona didn’t answer. He wondered how much she knew. She was ferociously intelligent. He never underestimated her ability to read between the lines of his silence.
‘I don’t want you to talk.’ She rolled towards him, propping herself on one elbow and looking at him with unblinking eyes. ‘I want you to listen. I want you to answer my questions. Just yes or no will do.’
Stealing the Show Page 18