Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  High on the congratulations, and the pleasure of seeing all the people she loved enjoying themselves, she didn’t have time to wonder whether Rod was going to turn up. Anyway, she knew he wouldn’t, not in a million years.

  At nine o’clock, the kebabs were pronounced ready and everyone was commanded to dig in. By dint of their seniority, Lettice and Jack were sitting at one of the tables Jamie had set up on the terrace. Other people were sprawled on the lawn, or perched on the stone retaining walls of the flower beds.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ said Lettice, digging her fork into a mound of golden couscous. ‘I’m not sure if this is the right time. But then again, I don’t know if there is a right time.’

  Jack made a face. ‘Sounds ominous.’

  ‘I’m thinking of moving to South Africa,’ she explained carefully. ‘Actually, not thinking. I am. I’ve put an offer in on a house in Cape Town.’

  Jack started in surprise. Lettice looked a little shamefaced at dropping such a bombshell.

  ‘I’m fed up with the winters here,’ she went on to explain. ‘They thoroughly depress me. There’s nothing for an old woman my age to do except huddle up in her thermal knickers. I can’t hunt any more. That bloody house of mine costs a fortune to heat and I only use two rooms. It’s crazy.’ She paused. ‘I can get a beautiful bungalow in Cape Town, with a swimming pool and a guest cottage, for a fraction of what I’d get for my place. And I thought I’d just get somewhere small here for when I want to come back. Something that won’t crumble to a ruin the minute I turn my back.’

  ‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ said Jack equably, trying not to look too crestfallen. He suddenly realized how dependent he’d become on Lettice of late, and how he looked forward to seeing her. The thought of not having her around any more was a depressing one.

  ‘I’ve thought about it long and hard,’ she went on. ‘And I have to admit that the only thing really holding me back is the thought of having to leave you behind.’

  Jack felt immensely flattered. Lettice leaned forwards and lowered her voice, which in itself was unusual.

  ‘We both know that we’re not the love of each other’s lives. Because we’ve both had the loves of our lives. And lost them. But I don’t mind telling you I’ve become very fond of you, Jack. I wanted to ask if you’d come with me.’ She paused. ‘Actually, not ask. Invite. I think that’s a better word, and doesn’t put you under any pressure. It’s taken me a long time to realize that perhaps a clean slate is the only answer. I still get reminded of Larry ten, fifteen, thirty times a day. Not that I want to forget him, of course. It might be the answer for you too, Jack. I know it hasn’t been as long. But you’re still haunted.’

  Jack looked away, pained.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Especially at times like this. Jamie… reminds me so much of Louisa. Yet in some ways, not at all.’

  Lettice folded her freckled hand over his.

  ‘It’s an open invitation. I don’t expect an answer straight away. The offer will always be there, Jack. And purely selfishly, I’d just like you to know I’d love you to be there with me.’

  Jack just about managed a smile, slightly choked by her generosity of spirit.

  ‘Can I think about it? It certainly sounds tempting. But there’s a lot to sort out here. More than anything, I need to make sure Jamie’s settled before I make any decisions.’

  Olivier was sitting on the stone wall by the barbecue, guarding the last of the figs which were slowly softening in the warmth of the glowing embers, when Ray Sedgeley approached, sitting next to him and offering him a cigar. Olivier shook his head, taking out one of his own Disque Bleu in preference. Ray made a great ritual of snipping the end off his cigar, before finally clearing his throat.

  ‘I wanted to have a word.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Olivier flicked his lighter and Ray bent his head to light his cigar. He blew out a thick stream of smoke before enlightening him.

  ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush. I want you to throw the race for the Corrigan Trophy.’ Ray brushed the glowing end of the cigar against the wall casually, shaving off the ash, before looking up and meeting Olivier’s eye to prove he meant what he was saying. ‘I’d make it worth your while.’

  Olivier looked at him, astounded. This was like something out of a film. He half expected Vinnie Jones to walk round the corner, or Guy Ritchie to shout ‘Cut!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean… a hundred grand?’

  Ray’s gaze was steady. Olivier laughed. He was obviously winding him up. He had a strange sense of humour.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious. I need Claudia to win that race.’

  Olivier raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t think bribing other people to throw the race quite counts as winning.’

  Ray knew he was being patronized, but in his experience even the most principled people caved in at the right price. He waved away Olivier’s objection.

  ‘As long as she thinks she has. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘What about all the other entrants? Are you going to pay them off too?’

  Ray gave a curt shake of his head.

  ‘We all know it’s a two-horse race. There isn’t another car entered that’s powerful enough to touch you or Claudia. And I’ll be honest, I think you’ve got the edge. You’re the better driver, though she’d kill me for saying it.’

  ‘So – you’re going to deprive her of the opportunity to prove you wrong? By buying me off?’

  Olivier’s tone was polite, not sneering, but there was no denying his underlying disgust.

  Ray flicked his unfinished cigar on to the grass and ground it out with his heel. It had obviously been a prop, an excuse to sit down and feign companionship.

  ‘Let me explain something to you. This time three years ago, I was spending four hundred pounds a day on a private clinic for Claudia. Rehab, I believe the popular term is. Beloved of celebrities and superstars and, apparently, highly-strung little girls whose wealthy fathers don’t give them enough attention. I’ve made it my mission to rectify that ever since she came out.’

  He paused for a moment. Olivier wondered if perhaps he was finding this confession difficult, but decided no – Ray was pausing merely for effect, a master of rhetoric, letting his words sink in before he continued.

  ‘A hundred grand to keep her on the straight and narrow is nothing to me. If she wins that trophy, that buys me another season, another year, maybe more. If she loses, she’ll lose interest, and then it will only be a matter of time before she falls back into her old ways.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Olivier. ‘I can appreciate your dilemma. I’m sure as a father you feel you’re doing the right thing. But I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – it’s not cricket.’ Ray gave a short, cynical bark. ‘Well, if today’s cricketers are anything to go by, you’d be a fool not to take the money and run.’

  ‘Then I’m a fool,’ said Olivier politely. ‘But a fool that can sleep at night.’

  He held out his hand.

  ‘We didn’t have this conversation.’ He looked Ray in the eye. ‘If the racing authorities got wind of it…’

  Ray shook his hand with a bluff, genial smile whose warmth didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘They’d have to prove it first,’ he said equably. ‘And if you make any allegations, I’ll sue you for libel.’

  Which parting shot left Olivier in little doubt about the sort of man he was dealing with.

  *

  Rod was sitting with Foxy and a bunch of mates in the same pub he’d dragged his brother out of a few days before. He’d drunk up to his limit and now he was bored: the conversation was the usual bawdy innuendo that was hilarious to the inebriated. One of the blokes with them was talking about going to score some Es, and Rod felt uncomfortable with it. He wasn’t a prude, but drugs weren’t his scene. A
dded to his discomfort was the knowledge that, if he’d had the courage, he could be at Bucklebury Farm now. He’d gone over and over Jamie’s invitation in his head, common sense telling him that if she hadn’t wanted him to come, she wouldn’t have asked him. But then insecurity kicked in: she was just being polite, she wouldn’t give a stuff whether he turned up or not, probably wouldn’t even notice…

  It was Saturday night and the lottery results were coming out on the TV behind the bar. As the balls rolled out, Rod remembered the slogan. You’ve got to be in it to win it.

  If he didn’t take Jamie up on her invitation, if he didn’t put his head on the chopping block, he’d never know how she felt about him. There’d been a moment in the post office when he’d felt a connection between them, before she’d closed down and backed off; dismissed their affair as a teenage dalliance.

  What was the worst that could happen if he went? Jamie greeting him politely and then having to stand around at the party like a spare part? He’d feel a fool, but, after everything that had happened to him recently, it would be no great hardship.

  Foxy poked him in the ribs with a sharp finger.

  ‘Hey – wake up. You’re not exactly the life and soul. What’s up?’

  Rod ran his hand through his hair. What was he going to do? Risk his dignity? Or get totally hammered and end up with a sympathy shag from Foxy, because the worst thing would be to lie in bed alone, knowing that he hadn’t had the courage of his convictions and had bottled out of pursuing the one thing he really wanted? Visions of an empty life stretched out in front of him, a life littered with too much beer and too many one-night stands to try and patch over the hole in his heart…

  ‘Listen, Foxy – I’m feeling a bit rough. I think I’m going to go home; get some kip. Will you be all right for a lift?’

  ‘Lightweight.’ Her twinkling black eyes mocked him for a moment, then she softened. ‘Don’t worry. I can tell you don’t want to be here. Go and sleep it off.’

  She kissed him on the cheek, and he slid out of the pub before the others could protest. He didn’t feel too guilty about leaving her. Foxy never found herself short of company.

  At ten, when everyone had eaten their fill and more, the guests were distracted from their gossiping and flirting by Jamie emerging from the kitchen with an enormous birthday cake spiked with long white tapered candles. As she walked towards Jack, grinning, a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ struck up.

  Everyone gathered round as Jack blew out the candles.

  ‘Make a wish!’ shouted someone.

  He knew it was pointless, but as he slid the knife through the sugary white icing and into the sponge, he wished that somehow he could save Bucklebury. Not for himself, but for Jamie, for posterity, for the grandchildren he felt sure he would one day have…

  ‘Speech,’ shouted someone else, and Jack put up his hand in protest. Usually voluble when called upon to speak, he felt too emotionally vulnerable at that moment. Touched by Lettice’s generosity and Jamie’s gesture with the birthday cake, and filled with sentimentality that this was the very last birthday party he would celebrate here, he didn’t know what he could say or refer to without making a fool of himself or, quite frankly, bursting into tears.

  To his surprise, Jamie stepped forwards instead.

  ‘There’s just a few things I wanted to say. Firstly, of course, happy birthday to Dad. I’ve no idea how old he actually is, so there’s no point in counting the candles. But many happy returns of the day, Dad.’

  Everyone raised their glass to toast him, and Jack bowed his head modestly, thinking that really he couldn’t take much more of this.

  Jamie went on.

  ‘Secondly, for those of you who don’t know, Dad and I have decided that very sadly we’re going to have to sell Bucklebury Farm. It’s no longer practical, we can’t do the place justice. So this is our last bash here and we want you to enjoy yourselves.’ There was a murmur of consternation from those who hadn’t realized. Jamie gave a wry smile. ‘Anyone who fancies making an offer should go and see Christopher Drace – we’re going to be instructing him to put it on the market next week.’

  Christopher, who was sitting on a nearby hay bale, looked a bit embarrassed, feeling as if he was somehow profiting from the Wildings’ misfortune.

  Jamie continued.

  ‘Finally, the last time I saw most of you was at Mum’s funeral. And I don’t think anyone was in a fit state to pay her tribute at the time, or look back on her life in the manner which she deserved. So for me this party has been as much in her honour as Dad’s. I’m sure she’s up there now, wishing she was here with all of us. So please, everyone, raise your glasses… to Louisa!’

  ‘To Louisa!’ chorused everyone obediently.

  It was Lettice who noticed Jack scurry back inside, on the pretext of changing a CD, and found him wiping away a tear in the drinks cupboard.

  As the sun finally set and the night-scented stocks began to throw out their delicate perfume, Jamie lit the tea lights while her guests sat around gossiping, drinking and laughing. Others lolled on cushions in the Bedouin tent, gorging themselves on the syrup-drenched pastries that proved too much of a temptation even for the most abstemious. Some danced, entwined dreamily in each other’s arms as music trickled out over the lawn.

  Jamie stretched out her hand to Olivier, who had finally doused the barbecue coals.

  ‘Olivier, come and dance with me.’

  The music floated on the night breeze, the notes drifting across the valley as far as Lydbrook.

  ‘Lucky we haven’t got neighbours,’ joked Jamie drily.

  Olivier couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually held a girl in his arms to dance with her. The ski resorts he worked in favoured boisterous, noisy discos, with everyone drinking to excess to kill the aches and pains of the day’s sport. Jamie snuggled comfortably into him. He put one hand in the small of her back and linked the fingers of his other hand in hers. It could hardly be called dancing; they were just moving slowly in time to the music. But for Olivier, it was as if everyone else had disappeared, as if the music was playing just for them. He wanted, so badly, to kiss her hair. He could smell the baby shampoo she used. And her scent. A very faint trace of a perfume that seemed familiar somehow, though he was sure he hadn’t smelled it on Jamie. He racked his brain, trying to remember, when suddenly it came to him, and he realized it was the perfume her mother had always worn. His stomach lurched with the memory. The thought distracted him so much, it was a moment before he became aware that Jamie was talking to him.

  ‘I wanted to say thank you. For so many things. For sorting Dad out for a start. And for being so supportive; helping me see things more clearly.’ She gave a grin. ‘And for mowing the lawns.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s the least I could do.’

  ‘You’re a real mate.’

  Olivier didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be a mate. That was such a sexless word. Holding Jamie in his arms like this was sheer torture; it was like a physical taunt. But at the same time, he didn’t want this moment to end.

  From inside the makeshift gazebo, Claudia lay sprawled on a cushion, watching Olivier and Jamie with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t had a chance to get near Olivier all evening, except for a polite and perfunctory kiss just after they’d arrived – he’d touched her on the elbow, smiled and said he’d catch her later. While Jack and Jamie were the official hosts of the evening, Olivier had obviously taken it on himself to provide them with back-up so they could spend time talking to their guests rather than looking after them. He’d spent the entire evening topping up glasses and supervising the barbecue, leaving Claudia with no window of opportunity to bestow her charms upon him.

  She’d let the Preston brothers provide her entertainment instead. She had to admit they were good value: they alternately teased and admired her, showering her with compliments and sexual innuendoes that were endearing rather than insulting. As a result Claudia was feeling surprisingly
relaxed, further helped by the spliff they were sharing, made from some grass one of the lads had grown on his father’s estate.

  ‘Bloody excellent cash crop,’ he explained to Claudia. ‘I’ve told Dad it’s a rare French lettuce leaf that all the posh restaurants in Ludlow are after. He’s putting aside another field so we can grow some more.’

  The four of them rolled around on the cushions, helpless with laughter, but Claudia didn’t take her eyes off Olivier for a second.

  Olivier’s heart was thudding. Just do it, he told himself. Just kiss her. For God’s sake, of all the women he had kissed in his life, not many had objected. She was definitely relaxed; they were snuggled up quite cosily together. He’d only need to drop his head, brush his lips against her in a gesture that could be seen as affection or invitation – it would be up to her to decide. She could respond if she wanted to.

  But every time he convinced himself it was the right moment, he bottled out. The record was nearly coming to an end: he’d lose the opportunity if he wasn’t careful. She looked up at him and smiled. Encouraged, he mustered up the last of his courage and bent his head.

  Olivier felt Jamie tense. Hastily he backed away, then realized she wasn’t resisting his imminent kiss. She’d seen something over his shoulder. She dropped his hand like a hot potato and pulled away.

  ‘Excuse me. Late arrival. I’d… better go and say hello.’

  She hurried off, and Olivier peered into the darkness to see who it was. A dark bloke, about his own age, gypsy good looks… The penny dropped. Rod Deacon. He remembered Jack pointing him out in the Royal Oak. What the hell was he doing here? He’d bummed out on the deal on Bucklebury. Olivier couldn’t imagine for a moment why he’d think he was welcome.