by Carnegie, Jo
Despondent, she slumped down on a tree trunk. This whole quest to find Dylan’s yurt was madness. The only reason she was here was because Conrad had gone to London and wouldn’t know what she was up to. She still felt a chill from their encounter yesterday afternoon. Conrad could be caustic, cruel even, but now she wondered if perhaps he might be even more dangerous. If he ever found out about this little trip she would be in deep trouble.
She’d make one more effort to find Dylan. Trying a new route through the woods this time, she came out on to a large overgrown field. On the far side was a little thicket. He had said he lived beyond the woods. Feeling encouraged, she set off, picking up the hem of her floaty trousers to avoid more lurking cowpats.
She had nearly reached the thicket when an ominous growl started up inside it. There was a rustling of leaves and suddenly the most enormous dog sprang out of the undergrowth. She saw a flash of wolfish eyes as the animal started running full pelt towards her.
Panic-stricken, Vanessa began to run back in the direction of Foxglove Woods. It was no good, the dog was too fast. She could hear it closing in on her, feel its hot rancid breath on her neck.
‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Somebody help me!’
Knocking her over with one fell swoop, the dog jumped on her back. ‘Help!’ she screamed again, blindly whacking it with her Hermès Birkin. ‘Somebody please!’
She curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. The dog opened its mouth and she saw the dripping, canine teeth. Oh God, she thought. It’s going for my face.
Next moment she was drenched in a succession of frantic licks.
‘Get off me! Urgh!’ she shouted, as a smelly tongue licked her teeth. With a Herculean effort she pushed the dog off. Her sunhat was gone, as was one of the heels on her Brian Atwoods.
‘Vanessa!’ a voice said. ‘Are you all right?’
She looked up. Dylan was standing there, silver eyes full of alarm.
‘I did shout that he was a big softy but you didn’t hear.’
He handed the hat back to her, retrieved from a nearby clump of grass. Her lost heel was lying beside it. She brushed herself down, trying to regain some semblance of elegance. The Hound of the Baskervilles, aka Dylan’s Irish wolfhound Eddie, was gambolling round in the background chasing a butterfly.
‘I’ve never seen someone move so fast,’ Dylan told her. ‘If you ever wanted to give up this celebrity lark you could always carve out a career as an international sprinter.’
They both started to laugh, Vanessa more from sheer nerves than anything else. Dylan was wearing the same white vest as when they’d first met. To anyone else it would be just an identikit old vest, but she remembered the way it clung to his body, the little stain of rust on the front. Every single detail of Dylan had imprinted itself on her brain.
‘How come you’re here?’ he asked curiously.
‘I was just out for a walk anyway, and stumbled across this place.’
He glanced at her heels. She went red.
‘OK, I came out here to find you,’ she confessed. ‘Dylan, I wanted to say how sorry I was for the way my husband spoke to you.’ She had the impression of grey clouds passing through his eyes, making them impossible to read.
‘Since you’re here,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come and see the yurt?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I’d like that very much.’
Vanessa had been expecting a rustic shack, not this neat little oasis tucked away from the world. In the middle of the camp were the remnants of a campfire, a director’s chair by it. A guitar was propped awkwardly against the chair, as if Dylan had stopped playing suddenly.
To the left of the grassy clearing was the yurt, a medium-sized canvas tent that looked a bit like a circus top. His green camper van was parked nearby and a hammock stretched out between two of the overhanging trees.
‘Let me give you the guided tour,’ he said. She followed him through the little door into the yurt and was immediately struck by how spacious it felt. And clean. On the floor was a mixture of striped rugs and sheepskins, while a day bed was in the far left, artfully adorned with more striped scatter cushions. There was a low wooden table in the middle of the room, with more cushions to flop down on to. A pair of Moroccan lanterns, not dissimilar to the ones Vanessa had in her own house, were suspended from the roof poles.
‘Dylan, it’s really lovely.’
‘You’re surprised. Were you expecting a troglodyte’s cave?’
‘Of course not!’ Her pink cheeks gave her away.
‘I’m kidding you.’ He gave her one of his lopsided smiles. The yurt suddenly felt awfully close and sticky.
‘Shall we continue the grand tour?’ she said hurriedly.
The kitchen area was under a canopy outside: a small gas cooker with two hobs and a grill. Pots and pans and cooking utensils hung from hooks. ‘I normally cook over the fire in summer,’ he explained.
She was fascinated. A wooden cubicle with a large plastic drum suspended above it was apparently a very good shower. It was all well run, but she was dying to ask a question.
‘Do you have a loo?’
He laughed. ‘Of course. It’s over there, through the trees.’
Despite the unsavoury subject matter she was intrigued. ‘How does it work?’
‘You dig a pit and fill it with wood shavings or leaves or whatever. Then you build a toilet above it, and when you go, you just chuck down another handful of leaves. Masks the smell completely. Then when you pack up, you cover the pit with topsoil and leave it to do its work. Human waste makes brilliant compost.’
Vanessa was transfixed watching his mouth move. He even made effluence sound sexy. She realized he was telling her something. ‘Take a seat,’ he said.
She sat down in the canvas chair and placed her Hermès at her feet. Eddie came lolloping over, dusty and ragged after a good roll. Her outfit was beyond saving, so she let Eddie rest his big hairy head on her knee. Dylan must think she was a complete drama queen for overreacting earlier.
He came back out of the yurt with two tin mugs. ‘Here.’
‘What is it?’ she asked dubiously.
‘Homemade elderflower juice.’
The liquid was cool and deliciously tart. Vanessa sat back, surprisingly contented. On a day like this, surrounded by the beauty of nature, even she could see the benefits of living under canvas. It must be a different story in the depths of winter.
‘Don’t you freeze to death?’
‘Not at all. I’ve got a wood-burning stove that keeps the yurt pretty toasty.’
‘All that cold and mud, though.’ She shuddered. ‘Urgh.’
‘That’s exactly why I love it. Living so close to the wind and the rain and the mud; it makes me feel alive. We spend far too much time indoors these days, in our centrally heated houses and air-conditioned cars and offices; we lose touch with the real world around us.’
He pointed at the yurt. ‘I can put that up in thirty minutes, less to take it down. Then I’m on to the next place, with no trace I was ever here. I’ve got control over every aspect of my life. It’s the most incredible freedom.’
‘But what about earning money? Having responsibilities? Real life isn’t that simple, Dylan.’
He fixed her with his huge grey eyes. ‘It’s as simple as you make it, Vanessa. I’ve got everything I need right here.’
She thought about what he’d said. Did she have freedom in her own life? There were constant demands to be met. Houses to be run, appearances to keep up, deals to be done. So many people depended on her: Conrad, her mother, Marty, Renata, the rest of their staff. All the sponsors and journalists and paparazzi who wanted something from her.
‘You were miles away,’ Dylan said, interrupting her train of thought.
‘Sorry, I was just thinking.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘Tell me a bit more about yourself.’
She laughed. ‘Pick up any gossip mag and you’ll get an idea.’
He studied her from under long lashes. ‘I want to hear about the real you.’
‘There’s not lots to tell, really. You’ve seen where I live.’ She had done a thousand interviews about her life. She had it down pat, even making the bad bits sound fabulous, but with Dylan everything felt stripped. She didn’t want to put a gloss on it.
‘What about your upbringing? Before all the fame?’
‘We didn’t have much money, but I still considered myself privileged,’ she said. ‘My dad worked hard to send me to one of the best schools in London.’
‘He must be really proud of you.’
‘He’s dead,’ Vanessa said flatly.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.’
‘Why would you?’ she asked.
Dylan paused. ‘How long ago? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Nine years ago. The day of my nineteeth birthday, actually. He had a massive heart attack.’ She stared at her drink. Ironically, her dad had been laying carpets at the new house of one of her biggest bullies from school. She could still remember the disdain the family had showed her and her mother during the inquest.
‘God, Vanessa, that’s awful.’
‘It was pretty shitty, actually. My dad had been the centre of our family. Suddenly he was gone. My mother went into shock and so I had to do everything.’
‘What about your friends?’ Dylan said.
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’ve never had any friends. Still, it taught me you can only rely on one person, and that’s yourself.’ She pulled at a piece of grass. ‘I could have gone to pieces, but what good would that have done? I had my mother to think about. I had to make a living to look after both of us.’
‘I’m sorry, Vanessa.’
She smiled tightly. ‘What’s there to be sorry about? I met my husband, and we have a wonderful life now.’
His eyes rested on her. ‘You don’t always have to be the strong one,’ he told her.
It was so intuitive, so unexpected, that Vanessa felt her eyes fill up. ‘I should go.’ She stood up abruptly. He got to his feet as well.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, don’t leave like this.’
She gazed into his eyes. There was a tenderness to them that she hadn’t sensed from anyone for such a long time. Without really knowing what she was doing, she stepped forward and kissed him.
For a terrifying moment he didn’t respond, but then she felt his lips part and Dylan was kissing her back. His mouth was like the softest velvet. As he put his arms around her she felt herself melting into him. His hot, hard body felt like the most familiar thing she’d ever known. She closed her eyes and drank him in. She started falling, falling.
With a superhuman effort she pulled away. ‘I’m s-sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
He still had hold of her. ‘Don’t be sorry. I’m not.’
‘I’m married. You must think I’m a complete floozy.’
‘I don’t think you’re very happy,’ he said softly.
Vanessa felt herself welling up again. ‘I should go.’
He gazed at her. ‘Will you come back?’
‘Yes, I promise,’ she said, kissing him again. When they eventually drew apart, it was like vapour trails were left hanging in the air between them. Dylan saw her off from the thicket, standing there for as long as she could see him. Vanessa got back to the car in a daze. She’d never felt this way, not even when she’d kissed Conrad after her wedding vows.
There and then she knew she was in trouble.
Chapter 25
Blaize Castle was a picture of serenity as Catherine powered up the hill that evening. Scudding to a stop, she turned round to get her breath back. A sea of meadow rolled before her, wild grasses undulating in the breeze. It was hard to imagine such a heavenly vista being wiped out with steel and wire monstrosities called the Loch Ness Log Flume and the Big Ben Terror Plunge.
She bent down to loosen the laces on her trainers, ready for a leisurely walk back, when out of the stillness came a woman’s scream. She looked up. It had come from a meadow beyond the ruined gatehouse. Alarm bells started ringing. It might be beautiful up here, but it was also very remote.
Hesitating for a moment, she walked into the meadow. The grass shimmered and waved at her, hiding its secrets.
‘Hello?’ She sounded far more confident than she felt, up here alone, without her phone. There was a dark clump of trees on the far side. She was so convinced the cry had come from there that she practically fell over the two bodies lying in her way.
‘Fuck a duck!’ She clutched at her chest. ‘What are you doing here?’
Talia Tudor lifted her bug sunglasses and glowered. ‘You scared us! What are you doing, creeping round here?’
‘I’m not creeping round anywhere,’ Catherine retorted, taking in Talia’s pornographic bikini and the topless man sprawled next to her. Judging by the tattoos and stubble, he wasn’t from St Edward’s, the local boys’ school.
A plastic bottle of Strongbow stood half-drunk between them, while there was a very fruity smell in the air that definitely wasn’t coming from the flowers. ‘Shouldn’t you be revising?’ Catherine said, looking pointedly at the Rizla packet the man was holding.
‘What are you, my keeper?’ Talia leant back on her elbows and shook out her long hair, showing off her young, nubile body to its full effect. Her companion grinned and went back to rolling up his cigarette.
‘What’s that, then?’ Catherine asked him.
‘Good old tobacco, love, you want some?’
She gave the man a withering look and turned back to Talia. ‘Does your mum know you’re up here?’
‘I’m sixteen, not six.’ Talia put her sunglasses back on.
Catherine gave up. She could stand here and give a lecture but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. Besides, Talia wasn’t her daughter. ‘Just look after yourself, OK?’
The girl gave a strange smirk. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’
Catherine had a leisurely jog back down the hill. The sun was sinking in the sky as she walked into the outskirts of the town. It was the less pretty part of Beeversham, the buildings a mismatch of new-build houses and ugly 1970s bungalows. The Black Bull pub, a grotty establishment popular with underage schoolkids, stood further down on the main road. As Catherine passed it the front door opened and she nearly collided with a fat sweating bulk in pinstripe. Jonty Fortescue-Wellington peered foggily at her chest. ‘Fancy coming back to mine for a Johnnie Walker?’
‘Not tonight, thanks.’
‘Sexy legs,’ he slurred, as she neatly side-stepped round him.
By the time she got home the sun had dipped behind the roofline of the Crescent. She reached for the key under the metallic plant pot and opened the front door. Sounds of classical music crashed out from the kitchen.
She kicked off her trainers and wandered down the corridor. A well-run operation was taking place in the kitchen. John was at one of the worktops chopping tarragon, a tea towel over his shoulder. Against his huge physique it looked like a napkin.
She went over and turned down the Bang and Olufsen. ‘What’s this racket?’
He gave her a long-suffering look. ‘Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo; only one of the greatest Italian operas ever.’
She poured out a glass of filtered water and drained half of it in one.
‘I just saw Jonty Fortescue-Wankington in town.’
‘Half-cut?’
‘Of course. He propositioned me and asked me back to his for a bit of “How’s your father”.’
‘You are joking me.’
‘I’m not. Maybe I should have gone along and told him what I thought of him.’ Catherine went to grab a few grapes from the fruit bowl. She noticed the parking ticket she’d chucked in there had gone.
‘Have you seen that fine I had?’
‘I’ve paid it. I got tired of looking at it.’
‘John, that was my ticket,’ she protested. ‘
You shouldn’t have paid it.’
‘It had been there for a week, Cath.’
‘That’s why it was in the fruit bowl! To remind me.’
He just arched an eyebrow at her.
‘Well, thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll obviously reimburse you.’
He started chopping again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
She wandered over to the fridge and opened it. ‘Oh. You’ve been shopping.’
‘Yup. I was passing the supermarket on the way home.’
‘I was going to go shopping tomorrow,’ she said uselessly.
She drifted round the kitchen in her socked feet. Every surface gleamed. Next door in the utility room the washing machine was churning. How did he do it? She’d only been gone an hour!
He heard her sigh. ‘What’s up?’
‘I just feel a bit – I don’t know – redundant.’ She hadn’t lifted a finger in weeks. Ever since the pregnancy disappointment he had been treating her with kid gloves.
‘I know you’re looking out for me,’ she said more gently. ‘But I’m OK.’
He put his knife down and came over. ‘I just worry about you, Cath.’
‘You don’t have to!’ she protested.
‘I know I don’t.’ He put his arms around her. ‘It just kills me to think I wasn’t there for you all those years.’
‘Oh, my darling!’ She hugged him back. ‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘I know, I’m an overprotective bugger. Just indulge me.’
They smiled at each other.
‘You know, you’re going to have to try harder with this kept-woman thing,’ he told her.
It hit a raw nerve. ‘Don’t say things like that!’ Catherine snapped. ‘It’s fucking insulting!’
‘Whoa, Cath! Of course I was joking!’
‘It wasn’t very funny,’ she retorted.
‘OK.’ His eyes widened. ‘Sorry. Bad joke.’
The doorbell rang. ‘Shall I get that?’ sniped Catherine. ‘Or does it not fall under my kept-woman remit?’
She stomped up the stairs, not knowing why she felt so furious.
Chapter 26