Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  When Kif’s sisters, Kate and Emma, came over to play at Bucklebury, they always wanted to sneak into Louisa’s dressing room. This was a tiny little boxroom opposite the master bedroom – an enormous mahogany wardrobe took up most of it, and it was stuffed with Louisa’s clothes: racks of silk and lace and chiffon. The floor of the wardrobe was covered in shoes, the top of it in hats and handbags. Everything was carelessly flung back after whatever social occasion it had been aired at – a gallery opening, Ladies Day at the races, a hunt ball. To a trio of teenage girls it was dressing-up heaven. They burrowed in her make-up and perfume, draped themselves in her jewellery, tried on the dizzyingly high heels and paraded around in outfits that came in every colour of the rainbow.

  ‘Mum’s only got powder and one lipstick that she wears to church. And I know she didn’t buy that. Someone left it behind in the bathroom once when they came to stay.’ Emma sounded rather disgusted as she sat at Louisa’s dressing table underneath the window, slapping on her Elizabeth Arden blusher. They were deeply envious that Jamie could borrow whatever she wanted.

  ‘God, imagine wanting to borrow any of Mum’s clothes.’ Kate snorted with laughter at the thought. ‘Only if you wanted to dress up as Worzel Gummidge.’

  ‘That’s unkind,’ Jamie had protested.

  ‘The trouble with Mum is she just doesn’t care what she looks like. All she cares about is the dogs,’ pronounced Emma.

  ‘And you. She cares about you.’ Jamie was stout in her defence of Rosemary. Kate and Emma obviously didn’t appreciate her one bit.

  Thinking about it now, Jamie wondered if Rosemary had been as happy with her lot as they’d all assumed. Sometimes, when there’d been a huge crowd round the dinner table at Bucklebury, all roaring with laughter and knocking back the booze as if it was a competition, she’d glimpsed Rosemary looking rather pained. She didn’t really drink, and no doubt it was hard to find the conversation as uproariously funny as everyone else, as it deteriorated into the sort of smut and double entendre only the inebriated found amusing.

  One particular night, when Jamie was about thirteen, she remembered Louisa sneaking into her bedroom, thinking she was asleep, and taking one of her games from on top of the wardrobe. Mystified, Jamie had crept down the stairs after her.

  Louisa was standing triumphantly in the dining-room doorway.

  ‘Right, everybody. Let’s play Strip Twister,’ Louisa had said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Rosemary had panicked, and stood up sharply, making her excuses, trying to persuade Hamilton to come with her. He had refused, and Jamie remembered Rosemary scuttling off into the night, clearly terrified, as Hamilton gamely seized the dice. Jamie had shot back up to her bedroom before she was discovered.

  ‘Jamie, hi!’ Zoe came bounding down the stairs looking flustered, a tea towel over one shoulder. ‘I’ve just been putting the boys to bed so we can have supper in peace and quiet.’

  The two girls embraced in the hallway.

  ‘I just walked in – sorry, I should have knocked.’ Jamie thought she should apologize.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Come and have a glass of wine. Christopher phoned five minutes ago. He’s on his way.’

  ‘Actually, I wondered if I could go and see the boys? I won’t get them overexcited, I promise.’ Jamie held up a Woolworths bag. ‘I got them something hideous and plastic each – I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No – they’ll love it. I don’t have a problem with hideous and plastic.’ Zoe grinned. ‘Their room’s upstairs; first on the –’

  ‘Kif’s old room. Don’t worry – I know.’ Jamie ran lightly up the stairs.

  Zoe watched her. And couldn’t help wondering what exactly they’d got up to in Kif’s old room, all those years ago.

  Half an hour later, Christopher had arrived home, and they all went out on to the terrace to enjoy the last of the evening sun. Christopher had mowed the lawn the evening before: the soft green velvet stripes led down to the white metal railings of the fence that separated the garden from the banks of the river, which could just be heard burbling in the distance. Beyond that lay undulating farmland punctuated by huge oaks.

  ‘I’d forgotten how lovely it was here,’ said Jamie. ‘It must be heaven after London.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that it takes three bloody hours to mow the lawn,’ agreed Christopher. Zoe said nothing; just helped herself to a Pringle from the bowl she’d put on the wrought-iron table. She remembered she’d been going to buy olives and dips. Maybe it was easier not to make resolutions. That way you couldn’t break them. It was like going on a diet. The minute you decided you were on one, you started binging. Oh well, at least she’d put them in a bowl – she usually scoffed them straight from the cardboard tube.

  Christopher picked up the bottle of Oyster Bay that was sitting in its chiller pouch.

  ‘Top-up, anyone?’

  Jamie shook her head; she’d barely touched hers. Zoe poked her empty glass across the table towards Christopher. She thought she detected the tiniest flicker of disapproval before he poured her a miserly third of a glass, then filled his own three-quarters full.

  ‘So – how did it go with Edward?’ he asked Jamie.

  ‘He was fantastic. Incredibly helpful,’ she replied.

  ‘I told you he was a good bloke.’

  ‘He couldn’t have done more for me. I was in there nearly two hours.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It doesn’t look too promising.’ Jamie made a face. ‘I’d worked out some rough figures the night before, but being a complete novice I’d left out all sorts of things. Like the interest on the repayments. And public liability insurance. Which made me look a bit of a fool.’

  ‘You’ve got to start somewhere. Edward would know that. He’s done enough start-ups to know not everyone’s John Harvey-Jones.’

  ‘Oh yes – he was very sweet about it. Not at all patronizing. Anyway, he helped me work out some more realistic sums. Then came the crunch. How much capital we were going to need. And whether they’d give it to us.’

  Jamie took a gulp of wine.

  ‘The problem is, neither Dad nor I have any liquid assets. I’ve got a couple of grand left from my savings. Dad’s got bugger all, as far as I know. Yes, in theory, we can borrow against Bucklebury, but we need to prove we’ve got the means to pay it back. The figures Edward and I worked out don’t show a healthy return for at least five years, and that’s presuming the business is a success. Which makes any loan a huge risk, because not only do we not have any cash, we don’t have any experience, or track record, to give them confidence in our ability to run a successful business.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Very oh dear,’ agreed Jamie. ‘And I’ve been dossing about for nearly a year, not earning any money, which doesn’t look good. And the business isn’t related to what I was doing before that, even though I was earning a good salary. So I’m not a good risk. And as we know, Dad’s business ventures… well, like they say, let’s not even go there. In fact, I left him out of the picture altogether. I didn’t want anyone digging about in his past.’

  ‘So what was the bottom line?’

  ‘The bottom line is I bought two lottery tickets on the way over here. I think I’ve got more chance of hitting the jackpot than getting the money we need out of the bank.’

  ‘Jamie, I’m sorry. I feel guilty about coming up with the idea in the first place.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’ve got to have a go, haven’t you?’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Edward did suggest another of his clients might be interested in investing. Though I don’t really want anyone else involved – I think that’s dangerous.’

  ‘I agree. Keep it clean and on your terms.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I’m going to rack my brains. And keep my fingers crossed for the bonus ball…’

  Zoe had finished her miserly top-up. She didn’t want to attract attention by asking for more. She stood up, the legs of her c
hair scraping along the stone terrace and setting her teeth on edge.

  ‘I’m going to go and check on supper.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Christopher, smiling at her.

  I doubt it, thought Zoe, going straight into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of the Merlot Christopher had opened and left to warm on the Aga. At least she didn’t have Rosemary hovering around trying to be helpful, offering to go and snip fresh parsley out of the garden. She had taken a plate up to her room earlier, said she had one of her heads. Zoe poked at the swirling pan full of fusilli with a fork, managed to extricate one, and put it in her mouth to see if it was done.

  ‘Fuck!’ It was boiling hot. She spat it back on to the worktop, but too late – she’d scalded her mouth. She felt hot tears prick the backs of her eyes as she took two jars of tomato and basil sauce out of the cupboard. Thank God for Loyd Grossman.

  She humped the saucepan over to the sink and drained its contents into the colander. It was definitely done, if not overdone. She’d meant to try and keep it al dente, like you were supposed to, but she’d lost concentration for a minute. Now it was soggy and flabby and the fusilli were starting to unravel. She slopped it back into the pan and took it back over to the Aga, not noticing through the clouds of steam that Soot and Honey had parked themselves in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  Zoe went flying. As did the pan of pasta, much to the delight of Soot and Honey. A minute later, Jamie and Christopher came in from the garden to find her on her hands and knees, desperately trying to scoop the remains of the fusilli back into the saucepan, hoping no one would notice the grit and the dog hairs, while the dogs gobbled frantically.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s under control,’ said Zoe desperately. ‘Fuck off, Soot.’

  Christopher looked alarmed. ‘We can’t eat that!’

  Why did they have to have come in? They’d never have noticed.

  ‘There’s nothing else!’

  ‘There must be.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t.’

  Christopher tried to remain robust and cheerful. He didn’t want to come across as some chauvinistic, tight-lipped husband who tut-tutted at his wife’s inadequacies. He peered into the fridge optimistically. A lamb bone, two roast potatoes and three tubs of Munch Bunch fromage frais.

  ‘I was going to do a big shop tomorrow,’ Zoe fibbed.

  ‘Eggs. You must have eggs. Or baked beans? I’m not fussy,’ Jamie suggested helpfully.

  There was a stony silence. Christopher smiled.

  ‘We’ll get a take-away. I’ll drive back into Ludlow.’

  ‘They’ll be hours. It’ll take hours!’

  ‘No, it won’t. Not if we phone ahead.’

  Zoe plonked herself down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m useless. I’m so fucking useless.’

  ‘No, you’re not. It was an accident,’ said Jamie soothingly. ‘Look – why don’t I nip home? I know we’ve got eggs. We can do omelettes.’

  Jamie came back ten minutes later with big, fat, free-range eggs, a lump of Gruyère and a fistful of fresh herbs she’d picked from the garden. Zoe sat slurping miserably at her Merlot, watching her produce three fluffy omelettes that were just the right side of gooey.

  Christopher managed to temper his appreciation so that Zoe wouldn’t feel too bad – it was the kiss of death to wax lyrical about another woman’s cooking, especially when it was performed in your own kitchen.

  But when he saw Jamie out later, he thanked her profusely. She waved away his thanks.

  ‘She’s not very happy, is she?’

  ‘No. But I don’t know what to do. She absolutely loathes it here.’

  ‘She’s not the Zoe I remember.’

  ‘She’s like a fish out of water.’

  Jamie screwed up her face in puzzlement.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Most people would give their eye-teeth to live somewhere like Lydbrook. It’s idyllic.’

  ‘Well, apparently not.’

  Jamie was surprised to hear the normally good-natured Christopher apparently running out of patience. He looked at her with something that bordered on despair.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I mean, you can’t help someone who won’t help themselves, can you?’

  ‘Maybe she’s depressed?’

  ‘What the hell has she got to be depressed about? I mean, look at you. You’ve got serious problems, but you manage not to collapse on the floor in a snivelling, drunken heap.’

  ‘I’m not as brave as you might think.’ Jamie remembered the state she had got herself into at Owl’s Nest the day before. ‘You just need to be patient.’

  Patient, thought Christopher glumly. Frankly, he thought he’d been patient long enough.

  *

  That night, Rod and Bella tried to make love again, just in case there was still a fertile egg lurking in her tubes. But this time Rod found himself totally incapable – his penis was as soft and squashy as a marshmallow, stubbornly refusing to respond, no matter how Bella coaxed and cajoled. They went to sleep without discussing it, disconcerted by this latest spanner in the works.

  Later, Rod woke to find Bella lying on her back, gazing at the ceiling, and he tried to apologize.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. It’s probably stress; worrying over Bucklebury Farm.’

  Bella turned to face him. He could see her cleavage, the dark of her nipples peeping over the top of her nightdress. But still nothing doing… She was talking to him, her tone comforting.

  ‘Don’t worry, baby. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe we should just forget everything for a couple of months. Enjoy what’s left of the summer. Have some fun. I mean, it’s all become a bit of a chore, hasn’t it?’

  She hugged him reassuringly and Rod smiled at her gratefully. Ten minutes later she was asleep, leaving him gazing at the ceiling, wide awake, wondering why his prick of a prick had decided to betray him, when it had been so perky and receptive all of his life. But then it seemed as if everything was going pear-shaped at the moment. Bucklebury Farm, for a start. It was all very well Bella telling him not to worry, but she obviously didn’t realize quite how much the project meant to him.

  Ever since he’d struck the deal with Jack Wilding, he’d spent days and nights fantasizing about what he was going to do there. Starting with the kitchen, of course, as that could double as a showroom – a living, breathing example of his work that he could show to prospective customers, instead of them flipping through his album of Polaroids. He wanted to do something incredibly modern in contrast to the beams and flagstones; but not one of the clinical, abattoir-like designs that seemed to be in fashion. Something with curves, rounded edges and perhaps warm, pink marble work surfaces; something with impact yet at the same time warm and welcoming, as every heart of the home should be. Then he would move on to the bedrooms at the very top of the house. He planned to do them out like a ship’s cabin – high bunk beds with lots of cunning drawers and cupboards underneath where children could store all their treasures. Then in the garden, a wooden pirate ship where they could sail away on their own private adventures… The drawing table in his workshop was covered in doodles and daydreams. He was, he knew, obsessed with creating the perfect family home, an environment where life was idyllic, the stuff of storybooks, a Sunday supplement fantasy. For all Rod wanted, all he’d ever really wanted, was a family of his own…

  He’d got it all worked out. Three children was the perfect number. He’d like more, but that was unrealistic. Rod knew from experience that in very large families you had to stand on your own two feet, not expect any mollycoddling. He wanted to be able to give his own kids equal attention. No one had ever sat down and explained the mysteries of where the extra ten actually came from in subtraction, or tested him on his spellings, or stuck his paintings up on the kitchen wall. He didn’t blame his parents: they had a tough life, his father eking out a living from the land, Nolly holding down two or three jobs for extra cash to feed all the mout
hs. They simply didn’t have time to harbour aspirations for their children, or to put in the effort that would enable them to better themselves. So Rod had determined to give his own children everything he had missed, but also everything he had gained from being in a warm, noisy family who stuck together and looked out for each other.

  He’d always known he’d married Bella on the rebound. After Jamie had vanished, Rod had become a recluse for about six months. It had coincided with the time Lady Pamela had commissioned him to build her kitchen, so he had gratefully buried himself in his work. Eventually, when it became clear that Jamie wasn’t going to make a miraculous reappearance, or even contact him to explain, his brothers had coaxed him out and his social life had revived. He’d spent a few years having casual flings, never giving any woman the full benefit of his charms, expecting nothing from them and giving little in return. It was a chauvinistic, hedonistic lifestyle that went against the grain because, underneath it all, Rod was monogamous through and through. All the while, he was keeping his eyes peeled for Miss Right, the one he could marry and fulfil his dreams with.

  When he’d met Bella, she had seemed like the one. He admired her for her work; she was incredibly dedicated to the dance school. But then, he was married to his work too. He could lose hours in his workshop, absorbed in crafting the perfect join. But because of their dedication to their individual careers, they understood each other perfectly – she didn’t moan when he was so absorbed in a project that he didn’t get home till gone midnight; he didn’t complain when she was wrapped up in ballet exams or a show that meant constant rehearsal. Plus she was beautiful and sexy. Rod wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t enjoyed the envious glances other men gave him when they were out together. Bella had the body of a goddess, and dressed it to suit, without ever looking tarty or tacky. And the sex had always been pretty amazing – until recent events and pressures had taken over, that is.

  So Rod had gone to the altar quite happy that he had made the right choice. But he sometimes felt that there was something missing. It was almost as if they were both operating on automatic pilot, mannequins living out an idyllic existence, perfect specimens in a perfect house with perfect careers. They had all the material ticks in all the boxes. But Rod knew he was deceiving himself, because although he loved Bella, worshipped at the temple that was her body, enjoyed her company, respected her opinion – all the things that were necessary in a successful marriage – he knew she didn’t set his heart alight. He had hoped that perhaps children would bring that spark, that when they held a tiny being they’d created together, they too would bond, but now that hope was becoming more and more elusive, and their desperate efforts to procreate were gradually driving them apart. And deep down, he suspected that the spark he was yearning for couldn’t be manufactured. It was something that came naturally and spontaneously; an ethereal tingle whose ingredients couldn’t be pinned down. But when they were there, you knew about it.