Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  Olivier nodded. ‘There’s nothing like it.’ He sucked the very last of the sweet smoke from the joint and tossed it into the fireplace. ‘Although racing comes close. You get the same sense of speed, that feeling that you’re not quite in control.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Claudia softly. ‘Kind of like the very best sex.’

  Olivier looked up and grinned in acquiescence. He’d used that very metaphor the other day.

  ‘Dangerous sex,’ Claudia carried on boldly. ‘Sex with someone you shouldn’t be having sex with.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Olivier lightly.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Claudia. ‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing.’

  She yawned and stretched out her arms, arching her back as she did so, and Olivier couldn’t help but notice her top riding up, exposing a toned and tanned midriff that he would have to have been a monk not to appreciate. He was fairly certain that this was an act, that she was deliberately tempting him. He decided to call her bluff. He reached out a hand and tugged down her top so she was covered back up.

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ he warned teasingly, and she met his gaze boldly. There was no mistaking the invitation in her eyes. Olivier debated luring her upstairs. Then he decided that it would be unfair to use her like that. She might be a little minx, blatantly asking for it, but actually he respected her, in a funny sort of way. She wasn’t your average bit of eye candy. There was definitely more to her than he’d first thought.

  To his relief, Ray poked his head round the door, breaking the moment.

  ‘Claudia, love, I think it’s time we went.’

  ‘But Dad –’

  ‘It’s nearly one o’clock. And it’s going to take at least an hour to drive home.’

  Claudia looked mutinous. Ray looked meaningfully at Olivier, who looked at his watch, anxious to avoid a scene. He stood up hastily.

  ‘I ought to give a hand clearing up, anyway.’

  Ray nodded his approval. ‘I’ll go and fetch the car.’

  He disappeared. Claudia and Olivier stood awkwardly by the fire for a moment, until she leaned forwards to give Olivier a peck goodbye, her silky hair brushing his cheek.

  ‘I’ll see you next weekend.’

  He smiled. ‘Certainly will.’

  Her face was on a level with his. She looked into his eyes, her own dancing mischievously.

  ‘I’m going to cream your ass.’

  His left eyebrow raised a millimetre.

  ‘Like you did last week, you mean?’

  Claudia recoiled as he looked at her mockingly.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure Daddy’s sorted it all out for you. Made sure you’ve got the very best,’ he went on. ‘That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Buying your way in?’

  As soon as he said it, Olivier regretted being so sharp. But he’d suddenly felt the need to put some distance between them. He was fairly sure that Ray Sedgeley, given his behaviour earlier, and the look on his face when he’d seen them together, would hardly take kindly to Olivier taking advantage of his daughter.

  At Olivier’s jibe, Claudia felt as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over her. Suddenly she was twelve years old again, at the local gymkhana, lining up on her pony to receive the rosette for first place in the showjumping. And as she trotted off proudly, she heard – for she was meant to – the spiteful tones of Penny Lockwood, the girl who had come second.

  ‘Of course, she only won ’cos her dad can afford to buy her the best pony. She’s a crap rider. It was Marmalade that took her round. She wouldn’t have a hope on Silvester. She’d have to know what she was doing…’

  Claudia heard the other little girls murmuring in agreement. And their words had cut her to the quick. What was the point in winning if everyone scorned your success? And it wasn’t true. She wasn’t a crap rider. She’d spent hours and hours going over practice jumps, learning how to set the pony straight, when to urge him on and when to rein him in so as to get the perfect stride.

  It was the last time she competed on Marmalade. He sat in his stable in the livery yard for weeks while Ray cajoled her to get back on. But Claudia wasn’t going to put herself through the humiliation again. Six months later Barbara put her foot down and put an ad in the paper. Penny Lockwood’s father bought Marmalade for Penny’s thirteenth birthday, and Barbara put the proceeds in the Halifax building society on Claudia’s behalf.

  And now history was repeating itself. Olivier was mocking her capabilities, implying that her father was buying her success. Claudia took in a deep breath to keep her fury at bay and gave him a little smile.

  ‘We’ll see, shall we?’

  Then she walked off, giving him the full benefit of her rear view, swearing to herself that the arrogant little shit wouldn’t get the chance to crow over her again.

  Pauline slid her key into the lock and opened the front door gently. If Bella was sleeping, she didn’t want to wake her. She’d had a good evening; she and the girls had arranged to go on holiday that autumn, on a tour of Andalusia. She realized Bella was still awake, and it looked as if she had ventured downstairs. The lights were all on, and the stereo was blaring out. Pauline smiled – perhaps she was on the mend.

  She pushed open the door to the dining room, her face covered in a smile of greeting. The dining table was smothered in opened boxes of chocolates, multicoloured foil wrappers scattered with gay abandon. A bottle of cough medicine had spewed its lurid contents across the tablecloth. Pauline automatically stretched out her hand to set it upright, then her stomach contracted in fear as she spotted the empty tablet bottles.

  Then she saw her daughter, spreadeagled on the floor in the lounge, face down, her satin nightdress rucked up round her thighs.

  ‘Bella!’ Pauline flew to her side, lifted up her head and recoiled at the sight of the pool of vomit on the floor. The ends of Bella’s hair were trailing in it and the sour stench leaped up at her, mingled with a sickly undertone of chocolate and alcohol. Pauline ran for the phone, desperately punching out 999, wondering if she was wasting her time, if she was too late. Thinking clearly despite the horror of the situation, she gathered up as many medicine bottles as she could find, in order to give the paramedics a full description of what Bella might have taken, and prepared herself to receive their instructions, steeling herself for the unpleasant prospect of having to give her daughter mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  An hour and a half later, all the guests had finally gone or, if they were beyond driving, crashed out in one of the spare bedrooms. Lettice and Hilly, bless them, had surreptitiously organized a small posse of helpers to clear up, for which Jamie was hugely grateful – instead of the usual debris littered everywhere, which would have taken three days to get through, there were ranks of gleaming glasses drying on the side, stacks of clean plates and cutlery, and boxes full of the empty beer and wine bottles that had been found scattered round the garden. Jack had disappeared off to bed and so, presumably, had Olivier, as he was nowhere to be seen.

  Rod and Jamie found themselves alone at last. Jamie suddenly felt herself ridiculously shy and self-conscious. This was the moment of truth. What if she’d imagined that her feelings had been reciprocated; if to him their reunion had just been that of two old friends, not a momentous realization, the fulfilment of years of unrequited dreams?

  She pulled a bottle of cold champagne out of the fridge. She’d hardly had a drink all evening. She picked at the foil top in frustration, finding her fingers were all thumbs in the confusion of the moment.

  ‘Let me.’

  Rod took the bottle out of her hand and peeled off the foil. As he untwisted the wire and eased the cork out, she picked two glasses off the draining board, searching for something to say.

  ‘I thought they’d never all go.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Rod.

  She held out the glasses for him to pour, then passed him one. He raised it in a toast.

  ‘What shall we drink to?’
r />   ‘To… old friends?’ she suggested brightly.

  ‘More than that, I hope,’ he answered. He chinked his glass gently against the side of hers. ‘To us…’

  Jamie smiled and took a hasty sip. She felt incredibly nervous. Maybe he was hoping to get his leg over as a matter of pride, a macho thing, revenge for being dumped all those years ago. Another dare from his brother? Her imagination was running riot – could she have imagined the incredible feeling that had sprung up between them as they’d danced earlier?

  ‘What made you come in the end?’ she asked lightly.

  He ran his finger round and round the rim of his glass before answering.

  ‘Jamie – I had to know. Whether you felt the same.’ He spoke earnestly. ‘It haunted me for bloody years, wondering what had happened that day. I thought… I thought maybe your parents had found out about us. I thought they’d threatened you – or even paid you not to come near me again.’

  Jamie looked at him in horror.

  ‘Of course not! They wouldn’t do that!’ Rod shrugged.

  ‘It was better than thinking I’d been a disappointment to you. That I’d been a letdown…’

  Jamie shook her head vigorously.

  ‘No way. Not at all. In fact…’

  She trailed off, embarrassed.

  ‘What?’

  She swallowed before speaking.

  ‘It’s never been the same since. No one else has ever made me feel like you did.’

  He was silent for a moment, and she cringed inwardly. She’d never revealed herself like that to anybody. Oh God, how humiliating. Was he going to laugh? Had she given him more fodder to boast to his brothers about? She forced herself to look him in the eye. He was looking at her strangely.

  ‘Nor me,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Jamie wasn’t sure whether to try and laugh it off. But he put down his glass and came over to her. Then took her glass out of her hand and cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘I’ve spent all my life since that day hoping I’d feel like that about someone again. But I never have. Sometimes I’d torture myself hoping you might come back into my life, but I stopped doing that in the end because it hurt too much.’

  For a moment, Jamie panicked. It wasn’t every day your dreams came true. Surely it wasn’t that easy? Maybe they were just cruising for a fall. They’d each harboured a secret desire for each other for so long, maybe the person they each remembered was a total fabrication, a moulding of fantasy and selective memories.

  ‘It’s been twelve years. Maybe we’re different people.’

  Rod shook his head. ‘You’re the same. I can feel it.’

  ‘What about… Bella?’ she stammered. This was all very well, but at the end of the day Rod was still married. What if he and Bella had just had a silly tiff; if this evening was a little flirtation to make him feel better about himself before he went back to his wife?

  But Rod’s face contorted with pain, almost grief, at the mention of Bella’s name.

  ‘We’re over. Trust me,’ he said shortly, then realized to convince Jamie he had to substantiate this claim.

  ‘We were trying for a baby. We were desperate. At least, I was. She was on the pill all the time.’

  Jamie looked horrified.

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘I know.’ It had cost Rod a lot to admit the truth. He still felt humiliated. ‘But thank God. What if she had got pregnant? I’d never have found you again.’

  Jamie’s heart flooded with joy as it dawned on her that there were no more obstacles. And as his lips finally touched hers, she felt herself melting inside, as if for all these years she’d been preserved in ice, her heart frozen. As they kissed, her fears and doubts melted away too. This was real, this was passion, this was the heaven of knowing that at last you’d found the key to happiness. Her memory hadn’t failed her – he smelled the same, tasted the same, felt the same, as she explored his bare skin like electric velvet under her fingertips.

  As the two of them climbed the stairs hand in hand to her little attic bedroom, they each felt their hearts pounding, wondering if this was yet another dream they were going to wake from, disheartened and disappointed. But the reality was ten times better than anything either of them had ever imagined, and for both of them it was like drowning in honey.

  And later, as the very first cheepings of the dawn chorus insinuated their way in through the bedroom window, they slipped into the sleep of the blissfully happy and contented, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  25

  Zoe awoke, or more accurately regained consciousness, at quarter to ten on Sunday morning, and could barely lift her head. In the semi-gloom she ascertained that she was one of several bodies sprawled over what, judging by its size, must be someone’s living room, though there was no furniture to confirm this – only an enormous PA system, a plant pot and two greasy denim bean bags. In the midst of the bodies were empty bottles and saucers containing fag ends and roaches. The air was still thick with the rank residue of marijuana. Zoe tried not to breathe it in as she felt sick, sick, sick. Struggling to sit up, she felt a volcanic rush to her head as a tide of nausea overcame her; a tide she knew she couldn’t ignore. She scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, found the door, then in the corridor outside tried to estimate where a downstairs cloakroom might be. There was no time. There was already hot vomit in her mouth. Instead, she opened the front door and just managed to avoid the front step, spewing over what in normal circumstances might have been a flower bed but in this case was bare earth punctuated with litter.

  The heavenly relief of emptying her guts of everything she had imbibed the night before was marred by the feeling that someone had taken an axe to her head. Sweating, she looked up, wiping the last trickles of sour saliva from her mouth, to see a wide-eyed child gaze at her in disgust then hurry on.

  She realized she didn’t even know what she was wearing. She looked down: still the dress from the night before, but it had a split in the side seam that reached the top of her thigh. She hurried back inside, found her bag and made her escape. She hadn’t a clue where she was. She asked a woman for directions to the nearest tube, feeling too ill to be embarrassed by her dishevelled appearance.

  She had to get off the tube twice to be sick. She didn’t think she could possibly have anything left inside her, but she still managed putrid yellow bile. At one point she was tempted to lie down on a bench and hope for a speedy death, for she didn’t think she could go on living. She didn’t know which was worst: the nausea, the headache, the giddiness or the memories of the night before that were slowly coming back to her frame by frame.

  At the second to last station she was reduced to dry retching, then managed to buy a Coke in an attempt to rehydrate, hoping that its syrupy sweetness would settle her stomach. She ran a tongue over her cracked lips, wondering how on earth a grown woman could voluntarily do herself so much damage in the name of fun. Eventually the ghastly journey came to an end and she struggled to the surface of Shepherd’s Bush station.

  The day outside was irritatingly bright and cheerful. Zoe shrank back into the shadows and tried to summon up the strength for the two-hundred-yard walk back to Natalie’s. Feeling horribly self-conscious, she began her journey, praying she wouldn’t see someone she knew.

  Her prayers weren’t answered. Heading straight for her was her old next-door-but-one neighbour, on his way, no doubt, for the Sunday papers, one child in each hand. She steeled herself for his greeting, but none came. Instead, he averted his gaze and firmly steered the children around her, hurrying on as quickly as he could. Zoe didn’t blame him for ignoring her, then realized he wasn’t – he hadn’t even recognized her. He’d obviously mistaken her for some raddled old tart on her way home from working the streets.

  Eventually she got to Natalie’s house and rang the bell. Natalie opened the door and looked as if she’d seen a particularly terrifying apparition.

  ‘Zoe! My God – where have you been
? I was going to give you another hour, then I was going to call the police.’

  She stepped back as Zoe stumbled in over the doorstep. Behind Natalie appeared Marcella, looking bandbox fresh and as if butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘Marcella said you went off with some real lowlifes. She said she couldn’t get you to come home.’ She lowered her voice and spoke in a vicious whisper. ‘For God’s sake, Zoe. You could have been raped.

  Or gang-banged. Or anything. There’re some real weirdos about.’

  Zoe realized with a sickening lurch that for all she knew she could have been. She couldn’t remember a bloody thing. She certainly felt as if an entire rugby team had had its wicked way with her. And she would have deserved it. She had a dim memory of dancing to ‘Lady Marmalade’, holding her arms above her head and thrusting her hips and her chest suggestively at anyone who would bother to look. She’d been asking for it all right.

  Natalie was looking at her with distaste.

  ‘For God’s sake go and have a shower.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Zoe managed to croak, and stumbled past the two of them, not missing Marcella exchange a look of disdainful disapproval with Natalie. Hypocrite.

  When she looked in the bathroom mirror, she recoiled in horror. Her eyes had almost vanished; they were puffy slits with huge bags slung underneath. Her skin was deathly pale and waxy; her lips cracked and blackened. Slowly, she took off her clothes. Her muscles ached unbearably, presumably from dancing all night. At least she hoped that was the case.

  She thought about what Natalie had said. Had she had sex with Zak? Or one of his mates? Or worse, both? Willingly or unwillingly? Knowingly or unknowingly? Should she go to a police station – get herself checked out, have a forensic examination? Though she didn’t know if she wanted to know. And she didn’t know how she’d be received. And if she had – what then? What would she do about it? She could hardly expect any sympathy.

  She had the shakes now. She sat down on the loo, trying to assess her predicament and failing. She tried desperately to work out how long it would be before she would feel human again. If she’d stopped being sick, she might be able to manage first some tea, and then some toast.