by Jo Carnegie
About the Book
Lights, camera, SCANDAL!
Meet the glamorous cast of WILD THINGS
Sophia – the leading lady who gets what she wants. And she wants
Jed – the village’s gorgeous gardener, living with devoted girlfriend
Camilla – sweet-natured and desperate for a baby, unlike her sister
Calypso – fiercely ambitious, and unimpressed by the penetrating gaze of
Rafe – dashing leading man, who quickly wins over Calypso’s grandmother
Clementine – whose only desire is for them all to go away, so Churchminster can win ‘Britain’s Best Village’!
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part Three
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jo Carnegie
Copyright
WILD THINGS
Jo Carnegie
To Hels
PART ONE
Chapter 1
‘BUGGER, I BET this never happens to Jamie Oliver!’
In the kitchen of No. 5 The Green, Churchminster, Camilla Standington-Fulthrope stared down in dismay at a bowl of cake mixture. Somewhere in there was one of her prized pearl earrings, an extremely expensive present from her parents for her twenty-first birthday. She’d been meaning to get the clasp fixed for ages.
Cursing herself for not being more organized, Camilla tentatively poked at the gluey mess with her wooden spoon. It was a fruitless search, so she gave up and plunged both hands in, finally striking lucky. The pearl had stuck to the underside of a particularly plump raisin.
Camilla exhaled in relief and looked down at her hands, which now looked like they were covered in wet, dripping cement. Christ, it had gone everywhere! The cookbook pages were stuck together, and it looked as if someone had flour-bombed the front of her apron. Flustered, Camilla pushed a lock of hair off her forehead, leaving a huge clump of mix stuck between the strands. This definitely didn’t happen to Nigella.
The late afternoon sun streamed into the kitchen, lighting up the cosy, low-beamed room. Despite the surrounding chaos, Camilla’s heart lifted. After a desolate January and February, spring had finally returned to the village of Churchminster. Swathes of yellow daffodils blanketed the village green, and through the window into the back garden Camilla could see the first fresh new leaves on her apple trees. She loved this time of year more than ever. Last year she’d travelled extensively round the glorious climes of South America, and returning to such a cold, dank winter – even somewhere as picturesque as Churchminster – had been a shock, to say the least.
An hour later, after tackling the mountain of washing-up she’d managed to accumulate, Camilla had just sunk down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea when the back door opened. She looked up, surprised. ‘You’re home early!’
The delicious form of Jed Bantry stood in the doorway, brandishing a bunch of wild flowers. He held them out, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘Maybe I was missing you.’
Even after nearly three years together, Camilla’s heart still skipped when she looked at her boyfriend. With his tall, lean physique and angular face Jed could have just stepped off a catwalk in Milan or New York. Not that he cared about things like that: Jed wasn’t interested in possessions and labels. He was still wearing his work uniform of scruffy navy overalls, which had been pulled open to the waist. The white vest underneath gave a tantalizing flash of impressive pectorals. Above the overalls, Jed’s jet-black hair was messy and tousled. It was longer than usual, flopping sexily into his extraordinary, pale green eyes.
He took in the cake, now cooling on a wire rack on the table. ‘Something looks good.’
‘It’s a new recipe, I thought I’d give it a shot.’
He’d pulled her out of the chair before she knew it. ‘I wasn’t talking about the cake.’
All the manual work he’d been doing had made Jed’s body harder than ever. Camilla felt herself quiver. She looked down at her Emma Bridgewater apron, the pattern completely obscured by crusty cake mix.
‘I’m a bit …’ she said apologetically.
Jed pulled her in even closer. ‘A bit what?’ he murmured. ‘A bit so sexy my boyfriend would like to fuck me right here on the kitchen table?’ With that he crushed his lips down on to hers, pulling the band out of her ponytail so her blond hair tumbled down over her shoulders.
Camilla had never known what sex could really be like until she’d gone to bed with Jed. There had been other boyfriends, of course, and even a fiancé, but none of them had been as wild and passionate as this. Jed knew every inch of her body and exactly what to do to turn it on. For Camilla, who had spent years being unsatisfactorily rogered by braying oiks, Jed Bantry had been a sexual revelation.
Still smiling, he carried her to the kitchen table, pushing her down on the surface. Camilla’s buttocks encountered something soft and warm.
‘The cake!’ she cried, but somehow Jed managed to lift her off it while undoing her bra strap. His other hand moved down to yank off her jeans and knickers.
‘You should bake more often, my little housewife,’ he said huskily, laying Camilla back on the table. ‘It really is quite a turn-on.’
His overalls were off now, too; pulled down below his waist to show off a wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted torso that didn’t have an inch of surplus fat. Jed’s cock, which was as perfect as the rest of him, was so hard and swollen it seemed bigger than ever.
‘I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon,’ he murmured, looking down into her eyes.
Sighing happily, Camilla parted her legs. She could never exactly describe the joy she felt when she had Jed inside her. Slowly, they began to rock back and forth, marching to the beat of their own drum.
‘Hold on,’ said Jed, pulling Camilla’s legs up around his neck. As she felt him go in even deeper she arched her hips up, wanting every millimetre of him. His hands moved under her T-shirt now, raking over her body. Grabbing her full breasts, running over her gently rounded stomach, trying to take hold of as much of her as he
could.
‘This is amazing,’ she gasped. Above her, Jed’s eyes had locked on to hers, in the intense, faraway state that showed he was close to orgasm.
Camilla could feel the beginnings of her own orgasm. Her head was dizzy with lust, lights danced before her eyes. Somewhere, she even thought she heard a bell going off. That had never happened before! Oh God, it was going to be a good one …
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ The voice was coming from the hallway.
Camilla and Jed froze, looking at each other. ‘Shit! It’s my grandmother!’ she whispered in horror.
Clementine Standington-Fulthrope’s commanding voice rang through the letter box again. ‘Camilla! I can hear strange groaning. Are you in pain?’
Camilla gestured wildly to Jed. ‘Quick, hide! She’ll come round the back.’
With some difficulty they extricated themselves from each other and grabbed their clothes. ‘Your grandmother has spectacular timing,’ was all Jed could mutter, as a hyperventilating Camilla pulled them both into the pantry.
Sure enough, a moment later the back door opened.
‘Darling?’
Frantically hitching her trousers up, Camilla called out. ‘I’m just in the pantry, Granny Clem! Won’t be a minute.’
The tall, upright figure of her grandmother appeared in the pantry doorway.
In contrast to Camilla, Jed was cool as a cucumber, his overalls buttoned right up to the top. ‘Hello Mrs S-F.’
‘Oh, hello, young Jed.’
‘Jed was just helping me get a tin of er, er, apricots down,’ said Camilla.
Clementine frowned, ‘I thought you didn’t like apricots.’
‘I don’t. I mean I do, really. Just trying to increase my five a day and all that.’
‘Hmmm.’ Her grandmother didn’t sound too convinced as Errol Flynn, Clementine’s elderly black Labrador, ran between Camilla’s legs into the food cupboard, on his eternally hopeful quest for food. ‘Errol! Snout out!’ scolded Clementine.
Jed caught hold of the disgruntled dog by his collar and dragged him out, closely followed by Camilla.
Back in the kitchen, Clementine’s steely gaze fixed on the table. Camilla saw with dread that she was looking at the carrot cake, one side of it now completely flattened by a buttock-shaped imprint.
The old woman shot Camilla a reproachful look. ‘Oh darling! How could you?’
Beneath smears of flour, Camilla’s face turned puce. ‘What do you mean?’ she stuttered. To make things worse, she had the distinct impression Jed was finding it all rather amusing. A wry smile was definitely playing at the corners of his mouth as he crouched down to scratch behind Errol Flynn’s ears.
Clementine sighed in despair. ‘Did your Prue Leith cookery course teach you nothing? One should never open one’s oven door while one’s cake is baking!’
Camilla’s knees almost buckled with relief. ‘Of course, Granny Clem, it makes it sink in the middle. I just couldn’t resist checking. I won’t do it again.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Clementine, but her voice lacked its normal scolding tone.
Camilla gazed forlornly at the cake, and it was a few moments before she clocked the sudden air of expectancy in the room. She looked up at her grandmother. In her tweed skirt and sensible walking shoes, her grey hair pulled back in its normal severe bun, Clementine looked the same as ever, but there was definitely something different. Her eyes were shining, and the normal rigid lines that governed her face had been replaced by something freer, more animated. It almost looked like excitement.
Camilla was suddenly alert. Her grandmother never got excited. Something huge had happened. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
To their complete astonishment, Clementine threw her head back and roared with laughter. Across the other side of the kitchen, Jed raised an eyebrow, and Errol Flynn wandered off, one ear turned to his mistress and this uncharacteristic sound.
‘Oh dear girl! Dear boy! Something wonderful has happened!’
Camilla was seriously confused. ‘Have you won the Lottery?’ she asked her grandmother. Clementine made a ‘Pff’ sound. ‘It’s far more important than that.’ She snapped open her industrial-sized handbag and carefully extracted a letter, holding it aloft triumphantly.
‘I’ve been in Stow-on-the-Wold at that talk on environmental gardening, but I came home to find this on the doormat. I had to come straight over.’
Clementine’s stiff upper lip momentarily wobbled. ‘It really is the most marvellous thing. It’s going to change all our lives for ever!’
Camilla couldn’t bear the suspense as, with agonizing care, Clementine slowly took her reading glasses from her handbag, shook the letter out importantly, and started reading in her cut-glass tones.
Hortensia House
1, Blenheim Gardens
London
15 March
Dear Mrs Standington-Fulthrope,
I am delighted to inform you, on behalf of the judging panel, that Churchminster has been selected as one of the final four villages in this year’s Britain’s Best Village competition, in association with Greenacres Garden Centres.
‘Oh my God!’ squealed Camilla. Clementine looked like she might join her granddaughter in jumping up and down on the spot, but collected herself and carried on.
As I am sure you are aware, this is not just a competition about aesthetic qualities, and we were particularly impressed at how the residents of Churchminster rallied round after the dreadful flash floods of last summer.
The judging will be held on Friday, 18 July, and full details of each category (community spirit, local investment, best-kept flowerbeds, etc.) will be sent to you shortly.
The winner will be announced in a grand ceremony at the Grosvenor House Hotel in London on Friday 1 August, hosted by world-renowned gardener Alan Titchmarsh.
As well as receiving the distinct honour of being crowned Britain’s Best Village, the victorious village will also receive £750,000 prize money to be spent on community projects.
May I once again take this opportunity to congratulate you and wish your village the very best in the competition?
Best Wishes,
Marjorie Majors
Head Judge
Britain’s Best Village
Open-mouthed, Camilla looked at Jed. He seemed just as stunned.
In the ten years since it had started, Britain’s Best Village (known in gardening circles as BBV) had become one of the UK’s most prestigious competitions. Sponsored by Greenacres, one of the biggest gardening centres chains in the country, the first prize not only came with the accolade of being the best place in Britain to live, but a life-changing amount of prize money. After the last few years of recession doom and gloom, the nation was desperate for a feel-good factor, and the event was receiving more publicity than ever.
‘That’s amazing!’ Camilla gasped, for the second time in ten minutes. Clementine drew herself up proudly, like a ship’s figurehead going into battle. ‘This is going to be Churchminster’s finest hour! We’re going to show the rest of this country exactly what we’re made of.’
‘Bravo!’ Camilla shouted, bursting into spontaneous applause. Jed followed suit. ‘Go Mrs S-F!’
With that, Errol Flynn trotted out of the pantry with Camilla’s knickers in his mouth and promptly deposited them on his mistress’s feet.
Chapter 2
IT WAS THE day after Clementine’s announcement, and she was sitting at her desk in the sunny drawing room at Fairoaks House – a large, imposing building on the other side of the village green to Camilla’s cottage.
Photographs of the family adorned a grand piano in the corner, while a portrait of a stern-faced man with huge white whiskers and a gun dog by his side hung over the fireplace. Clementine’s beloved husband Bertie had passed away years earlier but she still took comfort in talking to him.
‘This is a turn up for the books, Berts,’ she said briskly, shuffling a pile of papers. ‘If only yo
ur mother were alive! What delight she would take from knowing we’ve made it through to the final of such a prestigious competition.’ Clementine’s mouth twitched. ‘Fortuna was always terribly vocal about the fact Churchminster was the only village in the Cotswolds worth a visit from London.’
‘Oh God, you’re not talking to yourself again are you, Granny Clem?’
Clementine looked up to see the leggy blonde figure of her youngest granddaughter Calypso. As usual she looked like she had just stepped out of an Aerosmith video, long wild mane tumbling down her back.
‘I was just relaying the recent events to your grandfather,’ said Clementine.
Calypso rolled her eyes affectionately and looked over at the portrait. ‘How about helping me get these sent out, Pops? I could use an extra pair of hands.’
‘I’m sure your grandfather would have much more pressing things to get on with,’ Clementine retorted, but her mouth had softened. She adored twenty-six-year-old Calypso, who was the youngest of the family and quite a handful. Ever since their parents had emigrated to Barbados, Clementine had kept a close eye on her three granddaughters, including the eldest, Caro, who was living in London with her husband Benedict and their two children. Calypso was now living back at No. 5 The Green with Jed and Camilla, eating them out of house and home and using the back garden as a giant ashtray.
Calypso threw herself down in the chair opposite. ‘I’m shagged!’
‘Darling, we didn’t bring you up to speak like a trucker,’ reprimanded Clementine. She peered over her glasses. ‘Are things not going well?’
‘Everything’s going too well, that’s why I’m so knackered,’ said Calypso, throwing her tanned legs over the chair. ‘Not that I’m complaining really, it’s all been brilliant.’
After a successful stint working as an event organizer in New York, Calypso had come home to set up her own company, Scene Events, which she was presently running out of a spare bedroom at Fairoaks. Despite the fact she had always struggled to apply herself to anything, Calypso seemed to have finally found her calling in life. She had been working flat out and, fingers crossed, it seemed to be paying off. Of course, it helped to have a contacts book that put Tara Palmer-Tompkinson’s to shame.