by Carnegie, Jo
‘Yes, please. Mint-choc chip if they’ve got it.’ Fleur rummaged in her pocket. ‘How much do you need?’
‘My treat, won’t be a minute.’
Fleur watched Ben amble off down the street. It was just nice to be doing something other than worming cattle and mending broken fencing. She felt like she hadn’t left the farm for months. She felt guilty thinking it, but it was also a relief to get away from her dad.
‘Fleur, would you like some suncream?’ Ginny Chamberlain had appeared in her straw hat, brandishing a bottle of factor 30. ‘Your nose is going a bit pink, dear,’ she said kindly. ‘I’m exactly the same, I go like a lobster as soon as I step in the sun.’
‘Thanks, Ginny.’ Fleur squeezed out a blob of lotion and rubbed it into her skin. She was boiling in her check shirt, but there was no way she’d wear a vest top.
Ben reappeared with two cones that were already starting to melt.
‘Can I get you one?’ he asked Ginny.
‘You’re an angel, but my dress is bursting at the seams already.’ She rushed off, looking for more sunburn victims.
They ate their ice creams and watched the crowd meander past.
‘Why is it …’ Fleur said through a huge mouthful, ‘… that British men dress so badly in the summer?’
‘Search me.’
‘Look at those socks and sandals!’
Ben shot her a sideways glance. ‘You look really pretty today.’ His voice came out all throaty.
They both went violently red. The next moment, a familiar voice cut through the embarrassed silence. ‘Is this the petting pen? Looks like we’ve come to the right place, V.’
Fleur whirled round. ‘What are you doing here?’
Beau was standing on the other side of the pen, blonder and browner than ever. Even worse, he had his vile girlfriend with him. His navy blazer and white trousers looked totally out of place amongst the casually dressed crowd. Valentina was in something floaty and expensive. Her bottom lip jutted out almost as far as her collarbone.
‘Just dropped in on our way to Henley,’ Beau drawled.
Was she supposed to be impressed? Fleur looked at his tie. ‘Like a bit of pink, don’t we?’
‘It’s cerise and it’s the colour for Beau’s club, you idiot,’ Valentina sniped. ‘The Leander Club is only, like, the most prestigious rowing club in the whole world.’
Fleur went the same colour as the tie. Valentina tugged on Beau’s hand. ‘Baby, can we get out of here? We’re late already, and this place stinks.’
‘Won’t be a minute, darling. Why don’t you have a wander round? I’m sure I saw a tombola stall. Maybe you can win us a nice jar of marmalade.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Valentina huffed and stalked off.
Beau looked back at Fleur. ‘Can I have a quick word?’
Fleur crossed her arms. ‘Go on, then.’
‘In private,’ he said, looking meaningfully towards Ben.
She went over reluctantly. ‘What?’ she asked, keeping a good few feet between them.
Beau gave her a winning smile. ‘Have you reconsidered my proposition?’
His thick hair gleamed in the bright sun. She took in the arrogant, supercilious tilt of Beau’s jaw, the smooth, brown skin no doubt massaged daily with expensive moisturizer. She thought about how he’d humiliated her and the careless way he’d tried to buy the farm like it was a second-hand car. People like Beau might look golden on the outside, but they were rotten underneath.
‘I think you’ve misunderstood me,’ she said evenly. ‘You might be used to always getting your own way, but unfortunately – no actually, make that fortunately – we have no intention of selling. So I suggest you go and find someone else’s house to buy, OK?’
The easy charm drained away in an instant. Beau’s eyes took on that flat, opaque look Fleur had seen before. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach she felt a twinge of unease.
A spotty young man came bounding up. ‘Troy Fletcher from the Cotswolds on Sunday. Beau, any chance of a word?’
‘Word,’ Beau snapped, and strode off without a backward glance.
A crowd had gathered outside the Belchers’ house to watch Big Brother. Catherine noticed the contestants had given up on a Giant Jenga task and switched on the telly. On one end of the overstuffed Laura Ashley sofa an elderly man in plus fours and a flat cap had snoozed off, mouth wide open. It wasn’t exactly scintillating viewing.
Out in the street, Olympia Belcher was throwing a fit after being the first one voted out by the onlookers. Amanda was consoling her daughter, who’d crammed her bulk into an unflattering playsuit.
‘It’s not fair, Mummy! I bloody live there!’
‘I know, darling, hush now. Shall I buy you an ice cream instead?’ Amanda broke off to bang on the living-room window at a contestant. ‘That’s nineteeth-century Wedgewood! Keep your hands off!’
A gaggle of St Gwendolyn’s girls stood nearby. They were all long coltish limbs and bouncy hair, whispering and casting disdainful looks at Olympia’s chunky legs. Catherine suddenly felt sorry for Olympia. Teenage girls could be such bitches.
From nowhere the memory reared up. Catherine, eleven years old, surrounded in the changing room by Lynn Elkins and her gang.
‘Fishy Fincham! Fishy Fincham! Why do you always smell so disgusting?’
‘I don’t,’ Catherine had wept, wincing as someone had viciously yanked her hair.
Lynn had shoved her hard little face in Catherine’s. ‘You smell like a tramp, Fishy. Look like one, too. Isn’t it true you live on the rubbish tip?’
‘Yeah!’ someone had hissed. ‘Your dad’s Stig of the Dump!’
‘What do you mean? She hasn’t got a dad!’
Despite the hot day Catherine was shivering violently. She could still smell Lynn’s cheap sickly perfume, mixed with the stench of her own fear.
A man next to her gave her a strange look. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I- I’m fine,’ she stuttered, quickly walking off.
Gradually the familiar sounds and sights of the day started to come back. She stopped to gaze at herself in Mrs Patel’s shop window. A together-looking, stylish woman looked back. The gawky, bullied loner was a thing of the past. If Lynn Elkins could see her now: a bestseller under her belt, a beautiful home, a loving husband. She was living the dream, wasn’t she?
She watched a young couple walk past, their arms wrapped round each other. Every day that went past, her feelings of restlessness intensified. She felt guilty for reading a novel or having a facial, when everyone else was at work. Her literary agent wanted her to write another book, but she was paralysed by a lack of inspiration. She could walk back into an editing job, but Catherine wasn’t sure her heart was in it. For the first time in a long while, she’d lost her confidence.
Who am I meant to be? she despaired. Wife, mother, career woman?
At that moment, she had no idea.
Chapter 32
Having to mix with the public never brought out Conrad’s good side. ‘How many more hands am I expected to shake?’ he hissed. ‘Once we’re out of Wet Wipes I’m done.’
‘Mr Powell?’ It was another middle-aged lady with a sunburnt face. ‘Can I just say how much I admired you in The Saviours?’
‘Oh, thank you, darling. How nice of you to say so.’
‘What are you appearing in next?’
‘I couldn’t possibly give away any secrets!’ Conrad gave the woman a wink. ‘Let’s just say there are some very exciting things in the pipeline.’
‘Maybe you could play Colin Firth’s brother in something?’ the woman suggested. ‘You’re very similar.’
Conrad’s smile dropped like a boulder off a cliff. ‘Yes, well, we’ll have to see.’ As soon as she had walked off he launched into another rant.
‘These fucking people! They think they can say anything. That’s it, we’re going.’
Tamzin came back over from talking to the press. ‘Cotswolds FM wants to do
a quick interview.’
‘Why don’t you just take my soul, and be done with it?’ moaned Conrad.
‘How about if I go and get us some champagne?’ she offered.
Conrad rolled his eyes. ‘Oh good God. If we have to.’
‘You’re being very quiet,’ Dominique said to her daughter.
‘I’m fine, Mother. I’m just enjoying watching everything.’
Vanessa wasn’t fine. Under the pristine hair and perfect make-up she was a nervous wreck. Even the sight of Beau Rainford’s sleek blond head across the crowd, being mobbed by a gaggle of girls, didn’t hold her attention. She hadn’t seen Dylan since their passionate lovemaking. Her schedule had made it impossible to get away, and since he didn’t have a phone or email, she had had no way of contacting him.
‘Vanessa, I’m your biggest fan!’ A man with piercings in every orifice was waving a copy of her calendar at her. ‘Would you mind signing this for me?’
‘Of course not,’ she said automatically, taking it off him.
‘I’m so excited you’re presenting the Silver Box Awards. Do you know what you’re wearing?’
‘Not yet.’
She handed the calendar back with a smile, but the man wasn’t finished yet. ‘Can you give me a hint? Will it be a British designer?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll be sticking close to home.’ She laughed, all the time thinking Dylan Dylan Dylan.
She had been scanning the crowd since they’d got here, hanging on to the futile hope that he would have come along to the charity game show. She’d once or twice caught a glimpse of a dark head and grown hot with excitement, but it was never him. The disappointment was crushing.
Conrad was droning in her ear. ‘Where’s Tamzin with our champagne? Is it not enough I’ve got to stand out here in this searing heat? I’m seriously about to keel over, my blood pressure’s at rock bottom.’
She was about to tell him to shut up, when her stomach lurched. Dylan was outside Bar 47 looking straight at her. He gave her the tiniest of winks. She had to fight to keep the huge smile off her face.
‘Conrad wants to go and find Tamzin,’ her mother said. ‘Are you coming?’
‘You go,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’
She watched Conrad stomp off, her mother clinging on to his arm for dear life. A woman came up to her, but Vanessa brushed her off with a vague smile. Dylan was still standing across the road, looking more lean and tangle-haired than she’d remembered.
He gave her his lopsided grin. There was a cobbled alleyway leading off the street. She gave a tiny nod as he turned and walked off down it.
The alley was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the pulse burning between Vanessa’s legs. Dylan was leaning against the wall in a faded denim shirt and jeans. Her heart did another backflip. He just got more and more beautiful.
‘I can’t be long,’ she said, removing her sunglasses with trembling fingers. She glanced back the way she’d come again, paranoid someone might have followed her.
He took her by the hand further down the alley and stopped at the back of a walled garden. She let him press her against the dry sandy stone.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she told him.
‘I’ve missed you too.’
He started to caress her face. She took the opportunity to drink in every detail of him. His eyelashes were dense and luxurious, flecks of a beautiful violet colour streaking around his irises. God, his eyes were incredible. Up this close, she could see a paper-thin, white scar running through his right eyebrow. The tiny flaw only added to his beauty.
She felt his other hand move to her waist, and then travel down to the hem of her dress. Deftly, he gathered up the silk material to expose a length of Vanessa’s bare thigh.
Bursts of music and laughter drifted up from the street. All Vanessa could hear was her own short, hot breaths as Dylan’s fingers gently pushed inside her.
‘God, that feels so good,’ she moaned, circling her hips to match his touch.
His erection was hard against her. Vanessa pulled her knickers across to one side. ‘I want you in me.’
He didn’t need any encouragement. Putting his hands under her buttocks, he lifted her up and slid inside her.
She could feel her dress snag on the Cotswolds stone, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything else right now.
It got faster and more frenzied. Vanessa started to feel that glorious internal build-up. She held on to him more tightly.
Voices floated down the passageway. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he panted.
‘Me,’ she moaned, as the orgasm shuddered through her body.
The voices were getting closer. He zipped himself up and pulled her skirt down. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll walk the other way.’
Still in a post-coital daze, Vanessa smoothed her dress down. He picked up her handbag and gave it to her.
‘Do I look all right?’ she asked him.
‘You always look all right.’ Giving her a final kiss, he disappeared back into the myriad of Beeversham’s back streets.
I miss you already, she thought.
The voices were just round the corner. Vanessa slid her huge sunglasses back and stood up. The transformation into the self-possessed celebrity was instant. She’d swished past the couple before the woman even had the chance to double-take.
Chapter 33
The day wore on. In the intense heat people were drinking like fishes, and a long queue snaked out of the Prosecco tent. The elderly couple manning the St John Ambulance were quite overwhelmed with the amount of casualties. Another young woman had just collapsed with suspected heatstroke and her friend had passed out, full stop.
Catherine found the Chamberlains and Patels standing outside Butterflies drinking Pimms from plastic glasses.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ offered Felix.
‘Thanks, but I might wait for a while.’ Catherine’s head was swimming from the giant glass of white wine Mike Cooper-Stanley had just bought her.
Ginny suddenly gave a gasp. ‘You’ll never guess who’s here!’
They all turned to look. Strolling past, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, was Sid Sykes in pink Pringle. The two heavies either side of him were clearly there to ward off any confrontations. Damien Sykes was also with them, hair slicked back like a Sicilian gangster, as he talked rapidly into his mobile phone.
Spotting Catherine and the others, Sykes tipped an imaginary hat. The gesture couldn’t have been more insolent. ‘Afternoon, Felix,’ he called in a gravelly smoker’s voice. ‘Lovely day for it.’
Catherine glanced at Felix. He looked completely furious.
‘The cheek of that man!’ Mrs Patel cried. ‘Turning up here and rubbing our noses in it!’
‘Let’s not give him another second of our time,’ Felix said shortly.
The air was shattered by a loud expletive as Talia Tudor staggered out of the crowd, pie-eyed in towering heels and denim hot pants. ‘Get out of my way!’ she screeched, stopping to empty the rest of a plastic cider bottle down her throat.
Mr Patel tutted sadly. ‘Dear, oh dear.’
Talia lurched forward dangerously, banging into the sign outside her mum’s shop.
Ginny took a step forward, but Felix laid a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘No.’ His voice was like steel.
A second later Lynette Tudor came flying out of the shop.
‘Talia! What on earth are you doing!’
Talia’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. ‘I feel sick,’ she moaned. ‘Muuuum.’
Lynette dragged her daughter into the shop. Catherine and Felix exchanged sympathetic glances.
Inside Butterflies loud yelling started up.
In the market square Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? was reaching its climax. Travel TV presenter Gideon Armstrong, who lived in the area, had been drafted in as Chris Tarrant. ‘Third question: for a million pounds, or in this case four tickets to see the Rolling Stones at the O2
…’ he boomed into the microphone ‘… Which revered Indian leader was assassinated in Delhi in 1948? A: Mandy. B: Gandhi. C: Andy. D: Pandy.’
The contestant on stage had used up all his other lifelines. ‘Phone a friend,’ he said.
Gideon made a big show of getting out his mobile and calling up the number the man had given him. He held it close to his microphone. The ringtone echoed round the square.
A man at the front handed his pint to someone and answered his phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Chris?’ asked Gideon.
‘Yeah, but there’s no need to shout, mate. I’m standing right in front of you.’
‘Chris!’ Gideon boomed again. ‘Which …’
He read out the question again. The crowd held their breath. Chris furrowed his brow knowledgeably.
‘I know this! It’s C. Andy.’
‘I’ll go with that,’ the contestant said. ‘Chris is a clever guy, I trust him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Gideon asked.
‘Yup.’
‘Final chance. Your answer is C.’ Gideon winked at the audience.
‘That’s right.’
Gideon banged a gong. ‘The correct answer is B: Gandhi!’
Everyone screamed with laughter. Gideon pulled out a horrific watercolour and handed it to the disappointed contestant.
‘You don’t go home empty-handed! The consolation prize is this,’ Gideon did a double-take at the painting. ‘Er, stunning piece by Cotswold artist Babs Sax.’
The unlucky contestant gazed at the psychotic daubings. ‘I suppose it’s a good burglar deterrent,’ he said gloomily.
The last event of the day was The X Factor. Catherine and Mel Cooper-Stanley were judges, along with Dilip Patel and the headmistress of St Gwendolyn’s, who was an absolute hoot and had turned up clutching huge G&Ts for them all. At that moment one of her pupils was massacring Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’.
‘Mother of Moses,’ the headmistress muttered. ‘How much longer will this go on?’
They were still killing themselves laughing when Felix announced the next act. ‘Next up is MC Killah, who is performing some of his own material today. Jolly good.’