Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s always been a selfish bitch. Lucky escape, Rod. Lucky escape!’ She jabbed the air with her cigarette to emphasize how strongly she felt. ‘Just think, if she had got pregnant – you’d have ended up with some devil child, chained to her for ever.’

  Nolly nursed her cup of tea, deeply upset. She would never admit it to anyone, but of all her children, Rod was her favourite. And she’d been looking forward to the day he gave her a grandchild, because it would have held a special place in her heart – even though she had nine others which she already loved dearly. And no mother likes to see their child hurt, even when he’s nearly thirty and big enough and ugly enough to look after himself. She was finding it very hard to know what to say. The last thing she wanted to encourage was a reconciliation with Bella. What a wicked, wicked thing to do.

  Tanya hurled herself into a chair and stuck her feet up on the kitchen table. She was in jodhpurs, purple chaps and a crop-top bearing the slogan ‘Beat Me, Bite Me, Whip Me, Fuck Me’. Rod wondered what on earth the parents who brought their little darlings for riding lessons with her thought. But then, Tanya was Tanya. You either liked it or lumped it. She lit another cigarette with the end of her old one, and tossed the nub end into the sink where it landed in the washing-up water with a spiteful hiss.

  ‘Well,’ she said in a tone of finality. ‘At least we can look forward to getting the old Rod back.’

  Rod looked startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve always thought you were a bit special, ever since you were with Bella. To be honest, you were becoming a real knob. Poncey clothes, poncey cars, poncey holidays. Too good to come for Sunday lunch with the rest of us.’

  Rod looked pained. He’d always wanted to come to Sunday lunch, but Bella had refused, arguing that Sunday was the only day they had off together. Why should they go and spend it with his family?

  ‘And Christmas?’ Tanya went on. ‘Fucking off skiing. What a poseur.’

  That had been the only solution. Bella had refused to go to Lower Faviell Farm for Christmas lunch as well.

  ‘I’m not having your drunken brothers touching me up,’ she’d said. ‘And those kids smearing chocolate all over me.’

  That should have rung alarm bells, surely? He knew some of his nieces and nephews were badly behaved when they got overexcited, but it was Christmas – she could have made allowances. But she’d stood fast. And the only way to avoid deeply offending his mother was to say they were going away. They could hardly sit at Owl’s Nest with the rest of them only half a mile up the road.

  Tanya was glaring at him accusingly.

  ‘Yeah. Fucking off skiing and leaving behind flashy presents for everyone that none of us could afford. All wrapped in shiny gold wrapping paper with ribbons and bows. Which made us all look like cheapskates.’

  Rod was mortified. OK, so he’d bought his mum a bread-maker. But only because he thought she’d like it; she’d seen it on the telly and admired it. Not because he wanted to show off, but because he wanted her to know he’d thought about her.

  ‘Tanya, that’s enough,’ interjected Nolly, feeling that once again her outspoken daughter was going too far.

  ‘I’m telling him for his own good.’ Tanya jumped up to give Rod a hug. ‘I love you, you know that. We all love you. And you’re better off without her.’

  Rod found himself smothered in Tanya’s CKOne-drenched cleavage and wild black mane. He pushed her away, laughing.

  ‘All right, all right. I get the message.’

  ‘Come to the gig tonight, then. You haven’t been for over a year.’

  Rod was surprised to hear genuine reproach in her voice. He didn’t think Tanya had noticed, or cared, that he hadn’t been to see her perform for so long.

  ‘It wasn’t really Bella’s scene, to be honest.’

  ‘No, because she was jealous.’ Tanya was brazenly matter-of-fact. ‘Anyway, were the Ice-Skating Championships she dragged you to your scene? Was going to see Enrique Iglesias your scene? Surely marriage is about give and take?’ she finished, with an uncharacteristic insight into relationships. Tanya had never managed to stay with anyone more than two weeks. They quite simply couldn’t cope.

  As the sun began to slip down behind the trees like a golden penny, Olivier and Jamie wandered along the river. Olivier did his best to reassure her that the deal falling through wasn’t her fault.

  ‘His wife would still have left him, so the deal would have fallen through anyway. It was nothing to do with you. So stop blaming yourself.’

  Jamie looked doubtful.

  ‘Anyway, maybe selling up will give you a chance for a new start, a clean slate for you and your dad.’

  ‘But I don’t want a clean slate,’ protested Jamie. ‘I was happy with the way things were.’

  ‘What about in six months’ time, when the central heating’s packed in? It’s on the blink, I can tell you. And when the next council tax bill comes in. And the drive needs tarmacking, the downstairs windows all need replacing –’

  Jamie smiled, despite the doom and gloom.

  ‘I’m starting to get the picture.’

  ‘Honestly, it would be a constant worry. You’re too young to take on the responsibility of a place like that. And Jack’s too old.’

  He lit a cigarette, gesturing with it to emphasize his points.

  ‘Flog it. Take the money and run. I would.’

  ‘Would you?’ Jamie sounded far from convinced.

  ‘I can totally see why you love Bucklebury. But I think the price is too high. You’d never get on top of it. You’d never enjoy it. There’d be too much to worry about.’

  Jamie surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘So what will you do? If we do sell?’

  ‘You know me. I’m long overdue a change. I never stay in one place too long.’

  Jamie sighed. ‘You’re right. It’s time to move on. I just couldn’t help hoping…’

  Olivier put an arm round her and gave her an affectionate squeeze. For a moment she nestled into him, put her head on his shoulder. He felt his heart quicken at the contact. Alarmed by his response, he moved away as if he’d been scalded. They were just coming back up the hill to the gate where he’d found her.

  ‘I better go and put the car away,’ he said hastily and, leaping over the gate, walked swiftly across the yard to where the Bugatti was parked.

  He didn’t like to admit it, but he was totally unconvinced by his own arguments. He felt like a total hypocrite. For the first time in his life he was dreading the prospect of moving on. Having thought all his life that he was immune to sentiment, he would have done anything in his power to help the Wildings protect their legacy and save the farm. But what could he do? He was a no-good ski-bum with no prospects, no cash, no power, no influence.

  Olivier drove the car carefully in through the barn doors and sat in the driving seat for a few moments. All he could hear was the clicking of the engine as it cooled down, and the old rooster giving a defiant crow. The mustiness of years of hay and straw combined with the last of the exhaust fumes filled his nostrils. In the early evening warmth he could feel his eyes closing, his mind drifting away.

  For one wild moment, he wondered about going to ask his father for the money to save the farm. He could dress it up as some sort of watertight investment opportunity that would guarantee a great return. But no – that was far too dangerous. Eric wasn’t the sort of man who gallantly helped people out of financial difficulty. He was the type to take advantage of others’ misfortunes. And given the history between Eric and Jack…

  Anyway, Olivier had to prove himself to Eric before he could go back to him. And the only way he could do that was by walking back into the showroom with the Corrigan Trophy under his arm. For a moment he let his mind wander to the one other person who was standing in his way. Of all the other possible entrants, it was only Claudia Sedgeley who was going to put up any serious competition. How important was the trophy to her? Did she have s
omething to prove like he did? Just how hungry was she for the glory?

  He wondered why he felt so threatened by her, when she was just a girl. Surely he didn’t have any scruples about trouncing her? Then he remembered that moment in the tent, when she’d looked so vulnerable, so crestfallen, and his heart had gone out to her, just before she’d turned on him again.

  He put Claudia firmly to the back of his mind. He was going to have to treat her just like any other competitor. She was just a number. If you started making allowances, that was when you lost your edge.

  17

  By nine o’clock that evening, the Drum and Monkey at Tidsworth was stifling, rammed with hot bodies and smelling of spilled beer and fags and sweat. To Rod, it felt like heaven. He hadn’t been anywhere like this for years; this would have been absolute anathema to Bella, who liked designer purity, clinical minimalism, wipe-clean chic. Not earthy, raw, peasant fun. There were no poseurs in here, just people who knew how to let their hair down and didn’t mind making fools of themselves.

  As a Shania Twain tribute, Tanya had her own serious following; die-hard fans who turned out dutifully to every gig. As well as that, line-dancing clubs often had coach trips to see her. She was bloody good; she could belt out the tunes in a faithful reproduction of her tribute, she had a rapport with her audience, it was obvious she revelled in being on stage and showing off. And she looked great; she worked hard to keep in shape for her figure-hugging stage costumes. Tonight she was in a black lace body stocking, lace-up stiletto boots and a huge belt with an eagle’s head for a buckle, her hair in wild, snaky ringlets that had taken Nolly hours with a pair of curling tongs. She looked sensational; she’d have put Shania herself to shame.

  To Rod, coming to the Drum and Monkey was a bit like coming home. Nothing had changed since he was last here, not even the bar staff. He nodded to people he knew, and was gratified that many of them slapped him on the back in genuine pleasure at seeing him there. He felt guilty that he hadn’t turned out to support his sister more often. He felt someone tickle him just above his waistband and turned to find Foxy Marsden peering up at him through her peroxide fringe.

  Foxy’s eyes were small and black, but so alive – they snapped and crackled with vivacity and mischief. Her mouth was permanently twisted into a naughty little grin. She never seemed to take anything seriously; life was one long party. She was wearing hot-pink bondage trousers and a tight white leather biker jacket with her name emblazoned in rhinestones on the back. She was drinking Dirty Diesel – Guinness with a Vimto top – and it clearly wasn’t her first. It was hard to believe that by day she worked in a local solicitor’s office, dressed demurely in a navy-blue skirt and white blouse, dealing with people’s queries politely and efficiently.

  ‘Rodders! Long time no see! Tanya said you were going to be here, but I didn’t believe her.’ Foxy was genuinely delighted to see him. She checked him out with a mischievous grin. ‘You’re looking gorgeous.’

  Rod ruffled her hair.

  ‘So are you.’

  Pre-Bella, Tanya, Foxy and Rod had been a bit of a threesome, going out on the town, driving to clubs in Shrewsbury and Worcester and Hereford where they’d danced the night away. Rod had been their minder, and made sure Tanya and Foxy didn’t get out of control, always forcing them back into the car at the end of the evening no matter how much they protested. It was often like trying to control a box of frogs, as they were as highly spirited as each other. But it had been fun, and the three of them had been close.

  But when he got married, everything changed. And now he felt guilty that he’d cut the likes of Foxy out of his life so ruthlessly. He hadn’t even invited her to the wedding. God, what a prick. Did she, like Tanya, think he’d got ideas above himself, that he’d turned into a supercilious git once he’d married Bella? Not that it was Bella’s fault that he’d cut himself off from people who mattered. He’d done it subconsciously, knowing that there was no point in trying to mix his two worlds. Which made him a prize wanker. But Foxy didn’t seem to hold it against him. She was more generous of spirit than that. It was almost as if they’d slipped straight back into the old times.

  They stood together in a sea of heaving, dancing bodies as Tanya belted out her repertoire, the appreciative audience singing along with her: ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’, ‘I’m Gonna Get You Good’, ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’. Rod found that scarcely a moment went by without a bottle of beer being thrust into his hand. He’d forgotten how hospitable and generous the old crowd were: when you went to the bar, you made sure everyone was all right for a drink. He made sure he reciprocated, passing out bottles of Becks to faces he knew, getting a nod of thanks in return. It wasn’t long before he realized he was well and truly plastered, but he didn’t care. So was everyone else, and he was up for a laugh. He hadn’t had a session for months. All the advice he’d read on conception had advised going easy on alcohol. Well, tonight he was making up for lost time.

  Jamie had a heart to heart with Jack that evening. They sat out on the camomile lawn, and she broke the news that Rod had decided to back out of the deal. They both agreed there was nothing for it but to sell up lock, stock and barrel.

  ‘I’ll get Kif to come out and value it. I don’t know if now is the best time to put it on the market, with people going off on holiday. And we need to tidy the place up a bit. I think we’ll probably be looking at September.’ As she said it, she couldn’t believe she sounded so matter of fact. ‘And I’ll get him to send us some details of other places on the market. You’ll need to start looking for somewhere else.’

  For a few minutes they discussed where he might look. It was rare for anything to come on the market in Upper Faviell, and when it did it was usually madly overpriced, but there were a couple of villages on the way into Ludlow that they thought might be suitable.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Jack. ‘What are you going to do? I mean, obviously wherever I go there’ll be room for you.’

  ‘Phone the agency. Tell them I’m back on the books. They’ll be delighted.’

  But Jamie wasn’t sure she was looking forward to going back to her old lifestyle. It had always been her return to Bucklebury in between jobs that had sustained her; knowing she could chill out at home and recover, catch up with her friends, enjoy the countryside. She wasn’t sure that checking into the spare room of whatever house Jack ended up in was going to be quite the same tonic. Obviously, what she needed was a place of her own. She was old enough. She earned enough. Perhaps she’d ask Kif to look out for a place in Ludlow for her. A little terraced house that wouldn’t need much looking after if she wasn’t there. Maybe she could rent it out as a holiday let while she was working… For a moment, she felt quite excited by the prospect. She’d never had somewhere to call hers, and maybe that’s what she needed to compensate for the desolation she felt at leaving Bucklebury. A focus.

  It was funny, she thought. Olivier had been right: now she’d come to terms with the idea of selling up, the future was full of possibilities. She mused on how she’d written him off as a bit of a layabout, too obsessed with playing to have any grip on reality. But he was obviously quite sussed underneath it all. And she was grateful for his support; he’d been sweet –

  ‘You know what we ought to do?’ said Jack, breaking into her reverie. ‘Have a bloody great party.’

  Jamie looked at him in amazement.

  ‘A party? What on earth is there to celebrate?’

  ‘It’s my birthday next weekend.’

  Jamie clapped her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Of course it is. I’d forgotten. Well, I hadn’t forgotten, but I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m so sorry, Dad.’

  She felt stricken with guilt. Jack’s birthday, falling as it did in the middle of July, had always been an excuse for the Wildings to have a huge party. It hadn’t seemed appropriate this year, with Louisa gone.

  ‘Don’t be. I wasn’t going to bother. But in the circumstances, I think we should g
o out with a bang.’

  Jamie thought about it. Maybe Jack was right. A final bash at Bucklebury would do no harm. They’d make sure that whoever took over the farm from them could never live up to their reputation for party-giving. She grinned, suddenly excited by the idea.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll organize the booze,’ said Jack, ‘if you do the food.’

  Jamie looked indignant.

  ‘And I’ll sort out the garden,’ added Jack hastily, realizing that the division of labour wasn’t quite fair. ‘I know I’ve let it run away. But I haven’t really had a reason to tackle it up until now.’

  *

  As the end of her set approached, Tanya launched into a slow, romantic ballad, and the audience needed no second telling to couple up and indulge in a good smooch. Alcohol and the heat had made them all amorous. Heads nuzzled into shoulders; wandering hands strayed over bare, warm flesh; lips and tongues introduced themselves to each other and made their probing acquaintances.

  Foxy pulled Rod towards her, putting her hands round his waist as they danced – or tried to – amidst the crush. Foxy took the opportunity to grind her groin against his, grinning lasciviously. She’d taken her jacket off, and underneath all she wore was what looked like a bandanna tied on with string round her neck, her breasts underneath like playful puppies. He felt a sudden rush of fondness for her. A rush of fondness that ran straight down to his groin. Rod was astonished to feel himself grow as hard as iron. Astonished and delighted. He’d convinced himself that he was never going to get a decent erection again, yet the evidence in his trousers couldn’t be argued with. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Foxy either. As the song came to an end to rapturous applause, and Tanya took her bow, smiling and blowing kisses to her admirers, Foxy led Rod by the hand through the throng and into the men’s. Against his better judgement, overruled by pure animal instinct, he followed her.