Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  From the moment she’d seen him arrive today, she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She was watching him now, from behind her reflective shades. He was bent over the bonnet of his car, occasionally brushing back the long fringe that fell into his eyes, stripped to the waist in the warmth of the midsummer sun. From her vantage point, she admired his physique, the sinuous muscle under his golden skin hard and toned. He was like a wild animal, naturally fit, his metabolism perfectly balanced – not so lean as to become scrawny, but certainly not carrying any excess. Just like herself, in fact. Claudia amused herself for a moment imagining what they would look like in bed together. A classical sculpture, the perfect contrast of hard and soft, sinew and muscle versus flesh and curves. She wondered for a moment where she might find a mirrored ceiling, then checked herself. She was going a bit too fast.

  Taking her sunglasses off and tucking them into her cleavage, she strode over. She didn’t need to check her appearance first – she knew it was perfect. The woman at the MAC counter at the new Harvey Nichols in Birmingham had worked her out a routine that made her look as natural and fresh as a daisy. It might take half an hour to apply first thing in the morning, but it lasted all day and only needed the occasional touch-up with a barely-there lipstick.

  ‘Hi.’ She managed to encompass antagonism and a provocative flirtatiousness into her greeting. Olivier looked up with disinterest, and managed a smile.

  ‘Hello,’ he offered in return, before turning back to what he was doing.

  ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’ she heard herself saying.

  He raised an eyebrow at the crass obviousness of her statement.

  ‘Certainly is,’ he replied, and closed his bonnet.

  She racked her brain for something more interesting to say.

  ‘All ready for this afternoon?’ she ventured, cringing inwardly.

  He gave her a bemused little smile.

  ‘Just about. And you?’ His tone was playful; only just short of sarcastic. Claudia realized he was teasing her.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good.’ He put a hand on her elbow to usher her out of the way. ‘Excuse me,’ he said politely, as he swung one long leg over the side of the car, slid into the driver’s seat and started up the engine, the conversation clearly over.

  Claudia turned on her heel and stalked off, wondering how she could have made such an idiot of herself. She, who was never at a loss for words, had stood there and talked about the weather! She had imagined enticing him into some sort of flirtatious banter, with her getting the last word in, sauntering off and leaving him panting with longing. Instead, she felt a total fool. She crushed her cup and tossed it into a nearby bin. The rebuff had merely fuelled her libido. She was going to break Olivier Templeton, get under his skin and torment him – make him come crawling to her. She was going to start that very afternoon, by snatching the victory from under his nose.

  From the corner of his eye, Olivier watched Claudia flounce off and smiled to himself. As soon as he’d seen her at that very first race meeting in April, he’d smelled trouble. Spoilt, capricious and used to getting her way, he correctly surmised. He’d met enough Claudias on the slopes and on the tennis courts during his career, and had learned how to deal with them by keeping them firmly at arm’s length. Though he had to admit that as princesses went, Claudia had a little more backbone than most. He admired her driving skills and her determination. But he wasn’t going to let her know that just yet, because the most fun to be had with a princess was to make it seem you weren’t remotely interested. It drove them insane, as they were so used to men falling at their feet. So he treated her as he might a check-out girl: polite, certainly not rude, but with total disinterest. Not a flicker. It amused him highly, almost as much as it frustrated her.

  What gave a further edge to their antagonism was that each knew the other was their greatest threat. Olivier knew if he had to beat anyone this afternoon, it was Claudia. Not that he had anything to prove. Just for the hell of it, and to wind her up.

  The scrutineer arrived, ready to run the rigorous safety checks that ensured the car was fit to race – not too much play in the steering, no oil leaking over the engine. As the scrutineer began ticking off points on his clipboard, Olivier put Claudia to the back of his mind, totally focussed on the challenge ahead.

  Jamie and Lettice had finally come to the conclusion that they weren’t going to get either a civil or a sensible word out of Jack and Olivier until the day was over, and so, carrying the picnic basket between them, they’d crossed over the wooden bridge that led from the competitors’ paddock to the public parking area, and climbed the hill with the rest of the spectators to find a suitable vantage point from which to view the afternoon’s sport. It was impossible to see the whole of the course in one go, so they chose a spot halfway up which gave them a clear view of the most demanding section: the notorious hairpin known as Ettore’s Bend (after Ettore Bugatti, the car’s designer), followed by the run up to the Esses, a section of deceptively challenging S-bends. Strategically-placed commentators would keep them informed of each car’s progress elsewhere. They settled themselves safely behind the fence and spread out the rug.

  Lettice unscrewed the lid of a mammoth tartan flask and poured them each a coffee.

  ‘You know, it’s marvellous that your father’s found an interest. I honestly believe that car has been his saving grace.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He took your mother’s death very hard, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Jamie, in a tone of voice that made it clear she didn’t really want to carry on the conversation. However, Lettice wasn’t the type to take subtle hints.

  ‘I was very worried about him at one point. He was drinking very heavily. Some days he didn’t even get dressed. I used to come and check up on him, chivvy him along. Make sure he had something to eat.’ She smiled ruefully at the memory. ‘One day I actually frogmarched him upstairs and made him have a bath and a shave.’

  Jamie wondered if she was supposed to be grateful.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not really. After all, I’d been through it myself,’ said Lettice. ‘I knew exactly how he was feeling. When my husband died I was bereft for a long time. Everyone had given up on me. I was a lost cause. I looked like a bag lady. I had to have whisky in my morning tea to help me get through the day.’ Lettice’s face clouded over at the memory. She paused for a moment. ‘I was an absolute pain in the arse. I realize that now. But at the time all I could think about was myself – poor old me – and I expected everyone’s sympathy, expected them to make allowances.’

  ‘So – what made you pull yourself together?’ Despite herself, Jamie was curious. Lettice’s description of her former self certainly didn’t match the ebullient, flamboyant figure sitting next to her.

  ‘I reached rock bottom. It was Christmas time and some friends dragged me out to Midnight Mass. Christmas is always the worst time if you’ve been bereaved. Well, I knew I’d never get through it without sustenance. I stuck a hip flask in my coat pocket to top myself up throughout the service. By the time we got to the third lesson I was completely legless. I could barely stand up, swaying in the pew. I could see all the youngsters laughing at me. I could just imagine what they were thinking: drunken old bag. Then I…’ Lettice swallowed; it was difficult to get the next few words out. ‘I wet myself, during “Hark the Herald Angels”. Stood there with piddle trickling down my legs trying to sing along with everyone else…’

  She trailed off, her face screwed up with pain at the memory. The image was so comical, Jamie was tempted to laugh out loud. But she found she didn’t want to. It had obviously cost Lettice a lot to tell her this story, and she told it with such dignity.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked gently.

  ‘My friends took me home, got me cleaned up and put me to bed. Which was more than I deserved. A few days later they made me call my GP. I think they thought it was time to pass the bu
ck, and they didn’t want to spend the rest of their lives checking up on an incontinent old bag. Anyway, this girl came out to see me. She’d just joined the local practice. She was so young – I couldn’t believe she was even qualified. But she gave it to me straight between the eyes. She didn’t pull any punches. She told me if I carried on the way I was, I’d be joining Larry before I knew it. From then on, she came out to see me every morning on her way into the surgery – made sure I was up and dressed and had a plan for the day. It was a very slow process. I still had my black days. Well, I still do. But gradually they got further and further apart.’

  Jamie saw that there were tears shimmering in Lettice’s eyes that she hastily blinked back. She pressed her lips together and looked away for a moment while she gathered herself, then turned back to Jamie, smiling.

  ‘So, you see, I knew what Jack was going through, and where he was heading. I was determined to help him like Sarah had helped me. It was an uphill struggle, I can tell you. I couldn’t get him interested in anything. I tried all sorts. Golf. Bridge. He went along with it but I could tell he was just humouring me. Then Olivier turned up, and all of a sudden he came to life. It’s miraculous, really.’

  Jamie felt humbled, and ashamed that she could have thought such horrid things about Lettice, when she’d obviously done so much to help Jack. Lettice was letting Olivier take the credit, but Jamie felt sure that if she hadn’t put in the time and the effort, Jack wouldn’t have been so receptive.

  She thanked her, hesitantly.

  ‘I’m… very grateful to you, Lettice. I know I shouldn’t have… I should have…’ Jamie was finding it hard to go on as an uninvited lump came into her throat.

  ‘Listen, darling – don’t you go blaming yourself. It must have been very hard for you too. Everyone seems to have forgotten that.’

  Lettice reached out and squeezed her hand. Jamie could feel the edges of the old girl’s diamond rings digging into her flesh, and was grateful for the pain.

  Just before the start of his class, Olivier was pale, tight-lipped and silent. Watching the first two classes had done nothing to settle his nerves, and he’d had to take himself off for a quiet walk, even though he could still hear the roar of the engines and the excited babble of the commentators. He always felt jittery in that half-hour build-up before competing. It was a necessary part of psyching himself up: part fear, part anticipation, part a hideously all-consuming desire to win that was bordering on the unsportsmanlike – he had to muster up hatred for his fellow competitors, even though deep down he knew he had the utmost respect for all of them.

  In the paddock, the cars were starting to line up ready to take their places at the start. He was fifth to go. He manoeuvred himself into place behind a Frazer Nash whose driver looked as cool as a cucumber.

  The commentator was talking the crowds through each entrant, the loudspeaker desperately competing with the sound of engines revving up and turning over. He heard his own name mentioned.

  ‘… Olivier Templeton, in the Type 35B once competed in by his father Eric, who veterans amongst you might remember winning here on occasion back in the eighties. This is Olivier’s first time out at Prescott, though he put in a good time at Shelsley Walsh a few weeks ago. It’s also first time here for Claudia Sedgeley in her Type 35. It’ll be interesting to see how these two newcomers fare: the conditions are good for them today; but there’s no doubt experience counts for a lot at Prescott…’

  If Olivier had felt edgy before, this public announcement of his need to perform turned his insides to liquid. Not only had he been compared to his father, but the gauntlet had been thrown down and it was now a matter of pride for him to beat Claudia. He looked over his shoulder to see where she was.

  Three places behind him in the queue. She was pulling on a balaclava, tucking in her long hair, prior to slipping on her safety helmet over the top. The bile in his stomach turned to adrenalin and supercharged his veins. Taking a couple of deep breaths to quell the last of the butterflies in his stomach, he edged forwards to take his place on the starting line. He could see the tail-end of the competitor in front flying under the bridge, then disappear around the first corner. It was his turn next.

  Claudia sat at the wheel, every muscle in her body tensed, every nerve end buzzing, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She shivered with the sensation, ran her eyes over the dials on the dashboard and drummed her kid-clad fingers lightly on the steering wheel, wanting to prolong the moment yet desperate for her turn.

  For the final impetus, she looked at Olivier in front of her as he took his place on the start line. She imagined his aquiline features under his helmet, his eyes coolly surveying the track ahead. She was going to beat him. She had to. She felt an adrenalin rush as she moved forwards a place in the queue. Then, as the light turned to green and Olivier roared up the hill, Claudia felt a sudden and unexpected pang for his safety…

  Jamie could hardly bear to watch. She knew the modern cars that went up this hill, the Lotuses, the Caterhams, the Westfields, could go from bottom to top in less than forty seconds. For a vintage vehicle, anything less than a minute was pretty impressive going: the record for a Bugatti was just over fifty-two seconds. So in comparison, Olivier was travelling at a pretty insignificant speed. But her heart was still in her mouth. The whine of the engine as he ran through the gearbox gave the impression of death-defying acceleration. And he was certainly going fast enough to do himself serious damage if they made a wrong move. Lettice, who was as blind as a bat, surveyed the proceedings with a pair of field glasses, alternately swearing and cheering at Olivier’s progress.

  Jack was deathly silent, his jaw clenched. This was his moment as much as Olivier’s. He’d put in the preparation, he’d given him the game plan and the benefit of his experience. He made a mental note of every single move Olivier made, ready to debrief him afterwards. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. For a moment, he felt as if he’d gone back twenty years, as if it was Eric he was watching on the ascent. He couldn’t begin to count the afternoons they’d spent on this very track, and nothing much had changed. It was almost as if it had been frozen in time.

  They’d been carefree days. All his problems had been ahead of him then; he’d been blissfully unaware of what was round the corner. Although for the moment he was living in a little cameo, focussing his attention on Olivier’s performance, after the excitement had worn off there would still be the memories to face, decisions to make, mistakes to regret.

  If he could have gone back in time, what would he have changed? Everything, he thought. If only he hadn’t been so weak… But then, wouldn’t everyone change things, given the benefit of hindsight? Wishing he’d done it all differently wasn’t going to help him now – it was too bloody late. He just felt desperately sad that it was Jamie who was paying for the past. Sad, guilty, helpless, useless, his only legacy to her was a litany of failures and disappointments. And it wasn’t as if he could justify his position by telling her the truth. That would be the coward’s way out, and Jack knew that the very last vestiges of his self-respect, already meagre, would vanish into thin air if he took that route…

  The first two hundred yards were torture: in his eagerness to get off to a flying start, Olivier had to decelerate hard to negotiate the lethal hairpin of Ettore’s Bend. But afterwards, after he’d regained his composure and his heart rate had slowed down a little, the rest of the course unfolded in front of him like a movie he had seen a hundred times. For these few glorious moments the world was his, as if he was invincible. There was a split second, when he approached the Esses and put his foot on the brake a little too late, when he thought the car wasn’t going to stop, that she was going to go flying over the edge and glide through the air over the miles and miles of countryside he could see below him. But with a finely-judged twitch of the steering wheel, he took the corner just in time, just as he knew he should, just as he had practised. He flew smoothly round the final semi-circle, then, with a
sense of relief and achievement, put his foot down hard for the final stretch.

  *

  A thousand yards below him, Claudia listened with her heart in her mouth as the commentator announced Olivier had arrived safely at the finish. She didn’t have time to listen to what time he’d done. As she took her place on the start line, Olivier’s existence went entirely out of her head. She pressed her foot down on the throttle, felt the engine respond enthusiastically as if to reassure her they were in tune, then dropped her foot off the clutch as soon as she saw the light go green. Her whoop of excitement couldn’t be heard above the roar of the engines as she accelerated away.

  It was all going so smoothly. She felt totally in control. And so she should be: she’d prepared thoroughly enough for today. She’d been to the driving school at Prescott twice where she’d been put through her paces by the instructors; she’d watched the re-runs of the videos they’d taken of her performances; she’d walked the course with her father to refresh her memory. She should have been able to get to the top without mishap.

  But as she came out of the second hairpin and accelerated up the hill, she was momentarily blinded by the sun. She lost the line she was taking, overcompensated, totally misjudged the camber and, to her horror, felt herself leaving the road. There were a few moments of sheer terror as she wondered if she was going to slew into the metal girders that protected the spectators from the track. She braced herself, trying to keep calm as she dropped down the gearbox to slow down. Her heart was thudding wildly; she felt for a moment as if she was going to pass out, as if her system couldn’t cope with the sky-high surge of adrenalin. Then suddenly the panic was over and she felt mere frustration as she hurtled over the gravel that edged the track where the car ground to a halt, stalling inelegantly.