Wild Oats

by Veronica Henry

  She poured a liberal amount of Natalie’s bubble bath under the tap, then sank into the cleansing bubbles. She washed her hair and scrubbed her body, then when the last of the bath water had drained away she stood under the shower for ten minutes, wishing fervently that the memories – or rather lack of them – from the night before would disappear down the plughole as well.

  She put her dress and her G-string into a spare carrier bag and tied a knot in it, then thrust it into the bin on the landing. She put on reassuringly clean underwear, her jeans and a T-shirt. She looked in the mirror again. She was still deathly pale, but her eyes had opened a fraction, now revealing bloodshot eyeballs underneath. She smothered her lips in Lypsyl and attempted repair with some Beauty Flash Balm.

  She looked and felt like hell.

  She edged herself gingerly down the stairs, sneaking past the playroom where Daisy and Millie were watching television. She was too ashamed to let them see what a state she was in; a hideous contrast to the sparkling party girl they’d applauded last night.

  When she finally made it into the kitchen, Natalie gave her a look that would turn milk sour.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can face breakfast. Not that it’s breakfast time any longer.’

  Her voice was dripping acid. Zoe quailed.

  ‘Tea? Hot sweet tea? And have you got any Frosties?’ she asked meekly.

  Natalie dumped a box of Frosties on the table and flicked the kettle on. Zoe sat down at the breakfast bar, feeling as if her legs were about to give way. She wasn’t sure if she’d reached the stage when she’d be able to eat, but all the hangover cures she’d ever read had urged some sort of carbohydrate intake to speed up the healing process.

  Natalie crossed her arms, waiting for the kettle to boil, and glared at her balefully.

  ‘So, madam – what have you got to say for yourself?’

  Zoe swallowed. She felt like a naughty little girl.

  ‘For God’s sake, Zoe. You’re thirty-four. Not nineteen. I still can’t believe the way you behaved last night.’

  ‘It was our girls’ night out. A bit of fun.’

  ‘Fun? You call dressing up like a slag, getting paralytically drunk, then going off and screwing half of West London –’

  ‘I didn’t!’ retorted Zoe, but rather lamely because she couldn’t be sure even now what she had and hadn’t done. Natalie went about making the tea, slamming cupboard doors.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, but I think you need to sort yourself out. You phone me up five times a week, pissed, usually, moaning about your terrible life. Then you come here and abuse my hospitality –’

  Zoe looked up, shocked at this latest accusation.

  ‘Yes. You weren’t interested in my company last night. You weren’t interested in anything I had to say. You had your own bloody agenda. You made me feel as if I was cramping your style. Then you don’t come home, don’t ring to tell me where you are, leave me worried sick and about to phone the police –’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Zoe. ‘I’m just having a bit of a shit time at the moment.’

  ‘So you keep telling me. But you know what I think? You’re the one making it shit. You’re not making an effort. You’re determined to hate your new life.’

  Zoe wanted to clamp her hands over her ears to try and block out what Natalie was saying.

  ‘All of us here would give our eye-teeth to have a lovely house in the countryside. You’re living our dream for us, Zoe, and you’re ruining it. And not just for you, but for Christopher. If you want the honest truth, it’s him I feel sorry for.’

  She slammed a cup of tea down in front of her. Zoe jumped.

  ‘Sorry, Zo, but you can always rely on me to tell it like it is. I was going to have a word with you anyway this weekend, tell you to buck your ideas up. But I’d no idea you’d completely fucking lost it.’

  Zoe was outraged. How dare Natalie lecture her as if she was her mother? Natalie, who’d been a notorious party animal herself not so long ago. She was a bloody hypocrite. A sanctimonious hypocrite who had absolutely no idea what she was going through. She opened her mouth to protest. But then, all of a sudden, a wave of desolation came over her and she wanted to weep.

  ‘I think Christopher’s in love with someone else,’ she wailed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You met her. Jamie Wilding. She went to his birthday barbecue.’

  ‘The one that looks like a Barbour advert?’

  ‘Yes. Little Miss windswept, sparkly-eyed, don’t need make-up, butter wouldn’t melt…’ Zoe trailed off, unable to think of any more adjectives. ‘He thinks the world of her. I can tell. When he talks to her, it’s as if I don’t exist. He asks her advice. Not mine! And of course, she can cook. And she loves dogs. Those horrible stinking fucking dogs of his mother’s.’

  Zoe went on to describe the disastrous evening when Jamie had come over for supper, and how threatened she had felt by the whole thing. Then she laid her head down in her arms and began to sob. Natalie waited until she’d cried herself out before giving her a thorough talking-to.

  ‘Zoe – you’re paranoid. You need to get things into perspective here. Number one: Christopher married you. He’s known Jamie since year dot – if he loved her that much, surely he’d have married her years ago, but he didn’t. They’re just mates. And number two: Jamie’s doing all the things that you should be doing. Providing him with a sympathetic ear. Supporting him. For heaven’s sake, see things from Christopher’s point of view. He’s under serious pressure, and you’re not helping one bit. How do you think he feels, uprooted, his dad seriously ill, trying to keep the business together? And all he’s got is you bitching because they don’t sell Eve Lom in the local chemist.’

  Natalie paused to draw breath. Zoe looked utterly shell-shocked, even though Natalie was saying things she already knew.

  ‘I’ve known you and Christopher long enough. He loves you, because you’re scatty, fun, lively, bright, sexy, sociable… You’ve given him two gorgeous boys. But for God’s sake, snap out of it, or you will lose him. And at the end of the day, it’s not as if you’ve been sent to bloody Siberia. If you could be arsed to make the effort, you’d make friends. Don’t be such a snotty, uptight cow, judging people by their appearances. It’s so superficial, and you’re not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be my friend.’

  Natalie paused, thinking she’d probably said enough for the time being. Zoe just looked frozen with misery.

  ‘I’d better go and pack.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and plopped into her Frosties. ‘Do you think Edwin would give me a lift to the station?’

  Natalie softened, and came and gave her a hug.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be harsh. But I’m only telling you for your own good. You’re very lucky, Zoe. If only you could see that.’

  As her friend rocked her in her arms, Zoe realized that everything Natalie said was right. And she knew exactly where she wanted to be right now. Sitting on the terrace at Lydbrook House with Christopher, reading the Sunday papers with a pot of coffee, while the boys swatted in vain at a shuttlecock on the lawn. Any minute now, she would go inside and start preparing Sunday lunch. Rosemary would come in with some freshly dug potatoes and she would thank her warmly, then pop out to the herb garden for mint to go with the lamb. She would happily scrape carrots and shell peas, then peel some of last autumn’s apples for a crumble.

  How stupid she’d been, hankering after the bright lights and nightlife and cheap thrills, when everything that was truly important was right under her nose. If she didn’t die from alcohol poisoning – and judging by the way she was still feeling this was an acute possibility – she’d make it up to them as soon as she got back. She’d be the perfect country wife and mother. She’d make jam and learn to ride and do pony club with the boys. She’d pluck pheasants and gut trout unflinchingly.

  She just hoped that she hadn’t left it too late.

  *

  Christopher woke up on Sunday morning
and thought, perhaps, that he might be in heaven. He was in the softest, sweetest-smelling bed. It was like resting on a cloud. White sheets embroidered with tiny rosebuds and their scent as well; the soft crackle of goose down. Somewhere a church bell was ringing.

  Tiona appeared in the doorway in a white lace-trimmed camisole and French knickers, her curls loose and falling on to her shoulders. Her gentle blue eyes shone with affection when she saw he was awake.

  ‘Breakfast,’ she murmured, and he breathed in her smell. Toothpaste and roses. She poured them each a glass of champagne and handed one to him. Without taking her eyes off his she undid the tiny buttons on her camisole, revealing her deliciously round breasts, white and perky as meringues. He dipped his finger into his glass and traced a ring of champagne around her nipple, watching it harden under his touch. He bent his head to lick it off and she gave a little whimper of contentment, tipping back her head, arching her back in delight. When he stopped, she took a mouthful of champagne, pulled his head to hers and kissed him. Their tongues danced amongst the bubbles, the liquid spilling from their mouths as they licked every last drop from each other. She put down her glass and pulled him to her, falling back on to the bed. Just as their tongues had entwined now so did their limbs.

  It was like fucking a fairy princess. He was spell-bound. Enchanted. Bewitched. There was nothing he could do now.

  Jamie woke, momentarily perplexed by the huge bubble of happiness inside her that started at her toes and ran all the way to her fingertips. It was a long-forgotten feeling. Most mornings over the past couple of weeks she had woken with a lump of anxiety that she had battled to dispel. But this – this was utter bliss. It took her a few moments to locate the reason, and when she did, the bubble threatened to grow even larger, until she thought she would burst with joy.

  Rod’s arm was hooked around her waist. He was holding her tightly, as if he would never let her go. She snuggled deeper into him, revelling in the cosiness, and in his sleep he hugged her even tighter as if he feared she was trying to escape. Jamie half closed her eyes and drifted away on a cocktail of contentment and anticipation. Half of her wanted to wake him and make love again, but this time in the light of day, so she could be sure it was real. But the other half wanted to lie there and revel in the memory of the night before. The curtains were slightly open and the morning light streamed in. Motes of dust swirled in a sunbeam. Jamie remembered how she always used to pretend they were tiny fairies, dancing in the air. She imagined herself one of them now, arms outstretched, spinning in a triumphant pirouette of happiness.

  Beside her, Rod stirred. She wriggled out from under his grasp and turned to face him just as his eyes opened. She could see by his expression that he was undergoing the same blissful slide into realization that she’d just felt. They lay and looked at each other, unable to stop smiling. And they made love again. This time it was slow, the movements imperceptible, culminating in the intimate, all-consuming ecstasy that can only be evoked by love, not lust.

  At last, one of them broke the silence.

  ‘So – what do we do now?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘We’re meant to be, aren’t we?’ answered Rod simply. ‘We’ve wasted all those years; waited all that time. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t got any doubts.’

  Jamie’s heart hammered. She knew if she analysed it logically and dispassionately, she might hear warning bells. Childhood sweethearts meeting up after twelve years, falling into bed and declaring undying love for each other? It wasn’t a firm foundation on which to build a future. At best, it was romanticizing.

  But her heart told her she wasn’t going to let this chance slip away. The feeling she’d thought she’d never have again in her life had resurrected itself. She wasn’t going to sacrifice that by being practical and sensible. She wanted to spend every moment with him. They lay in each other’s arms a little longer, not wanting to break the spell. Then Jamie turned to Rod with a grin.

  ‘Do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m absolutely starving.’

  When Olivier heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs, and Jamie talking and laughing excitedly, he didn’t need telling who the other pair belonged to. He’d seen the way she’d looked at Rod the night before, watched them slip away hand in hand. The last thing he wanted to do was give them a cheery greeting and offer them coffee. He didn’t want to see her sparkling eyes, her besotted aura. With a heavy heart, he slipped quietly out of the back door just as they came into the room.

  They sat out in the garden with a pot of tea, eating toast and blackberry jam. There was no sign of anyone else: the remaining guests had either gone or were still sleeping off their hangovers. It was almost impossible to believe that the garden had been heaving with nearly a hundred revellers the night before. Jamie made a mental note to buy Lettice a big bunch of flowers to thank her for her hard work – she had a heart of gold, once you got through the rather overpowering facade. Lettice and Jack had gone off somewhere – she’d heard the purr of the Bentley earlier this morning – for which she was rather grateful. Jack was very open-minded; he wouldn’t necessarily be shocked to find her sharing breakfast with Rod, but Jamie felt the need to let things breathe a little before the two of them declared their love to the world.

  ‘So,’ she said, flapping a wasp away from the jam with her hand. ‘Where do we take it from here?’

  Rod considered his reply carefully.

  ‘What’s happening to this place? Are you still going to sell?’

  Jamie sighed, feeling her bubble deflate slightly. At the end of the day, you might have found your true love, but there were still practicalities to consider.

  ‘It’s going on the market next week. There’s no way we can afford to keep it going. Well, you know that – you know Dad’s financial situation. I had all sorts of grand ideas about opening a country hotel, but the figures were terrifying. We didn’t have a hope.’ She looked rueful.

  Rod munched on his toast thoughtfully.

  ‘What about,’ he ventured, ‘if you and I bought Bucklebury Farm off your dad?’

  Jamie stared at him. He carried on, feeling a flutter of excitement in his stomach as he warmed to his idea.

  ‘We can go back to my original plan. With a few minor adjustments. We can convert the stables and give your father one of them to live in. But instead of selling the rest off, we could turn them into holiday cottages. It gives us an income, your father realizes his capital, and we’ve got the farmhouse.’

  He didn’t add the bit about filling it with fat, happy babies. Not just yet.

  Jamie stared at him, her heart pounding.

  ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Jamie shook her head in wonder, unable to keep the smile off her face as she mentally ran through what Rod had outlined.

  ‘It’s absolutely incredible. I can’t see any flaws at all.’

  ‘There aren’t any, that’s why. It’s meant to be, Jamie. It’s meant to be.’ A little voice told Rod to exercise a modicum of caution. ‘Obviously, I need to sort things out with Bella first. Make everything official and agree some sort of settlement. I can’t go ahead and make plans otherwise. I don’t want things to become messy. Not when we’ve waited this long.’

  Jamie nodded in agreement, spreading another slice of toast with a layer of jam, realizing that she hadn’t really eaten last night.

  ‘When you’ve sorted everything out, then we can talk to Dad.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll say? About his daughter taking up with a Deacon?’ teased Rod. ‘Isn’t that every father’s worst nightmare?’

  Jamie thumped him on the arm good-naturedly.

  ‘Actually, I think he’s quite a fan. He was certainly singing your praises when I was calling you every name under the sun the other week.’

  When Jamie went in to fill up the teapot, Rod sat in the sunshine, trying to take in what was happening to him. I
t was just possible all of his dreams were coming true at once. Jamie, his beloved Jamie, who had never been far from his thoughts all these years, despite what he might have pretended to himself. And Bucklebury Farm… his gaze wandered lazily round the garden. It was almost perfect as it was, even though there was the odd tell-tale sign of last night’s revelry – cigarette butts in the flower beds, beer bottles tucked into peculiar places, heel marks in the lawn. He thought he might build a little summer house – somewhere they could have breakfast when it wasn’t quite as warm as this, or shelter from the hot midday sun with a bottle of beer…

  Stop, he told himself sternly. He was going too fast. There were miles of red tape to sort out first. He had to find himself a decent lawyer for a start. He wasn’t a vindictive or a spiteful man, so he wanted to be fair to Bella, but at the same time he had his own interests to protect. And if they were going to buy out Bucklebury from Jack, he’d got quite a bit of extra money to find. Without Bella’s half of Owl’s Nest (he was resigned to the fact she’d have to have half) and Pauline’s contribution, he was going to have to scrape up another couple of hundred grand from somewhere. But it would be worth it. He’d have everything he’d ever wanted…

  26

  As the church bells rang out across Ludlow indicating the end of the Sunday service, Christopher managed to extricate himself from Tiona’s heavenly embrace and stagger back home in time for lunch. The boys were running round the garden with a hose, letting off steam after being frog marched to church by their grandmother that morning. Rosemary was chopping up mint to go with the leg of lamb she’d put in the Aga a couple of hours earlier.

  ‘Good party?’ she asked.

  ‘Fantastic,’ replied Christopher carefully, and hastily offered to help peel the potatoes. He couldn’t face actually lying to his mother about where he had stayed the night before. The chance of her corroborating his evidence with Jack or Jamie or any of the other guests was fairly slim, but he didn’t want to risk it.