by Carnegie, Jo
‘I deeply regret my actions and I remain a loyal supporter of our Conservative government.’
In the wake of Jonty-gate, circulation figures of the flailing Cotswolds on Sunday had leapt up for the first time in years. Their coverage was extensive and typically lurid, describing Jonty as ‘a drug-addled drunk’ who was ‘wildly unpopular’ amongst his constituents. People were lining up in their droves to have a pop. The Mail on Sunday had found an ex-good-time girl now running a hedgehog sanctuary in Hastings, who claimed Jonty had spent most of the 1980s putting Class As up his nose and condoms through on his expenses. He had been skirting a very fine line for years and everyone wanted to get the boot in.
Sid Sykes was interviewed for the six o’clock news, in a vast, chintzy living room at home, a fairy-tale drawing of Ye Olde Worlde framed on the wall behind him.
‘I’m in total shock,’ he said, looking quite the opposite. ‘Jonty Fortescue-Wellington has let the people of this country down.’
‘Does this affect your plans for Ye Olde Worlde, Mr Sykes?’ the reporter asked.
‘Quite the opposite! Fortescue-Wellington was meant to bring these poor people jobs, stability, more opportunities in the district. That’s what I’m doing with Ye Olde Worlde. I feel so angry about what these poor people are going through, I’d like to take the opportunity to offer anyone living within the theme park area fifty per cent off the entrance fee.’ Sykes leered into the camera. ‘I guess you could say I’m the Minister for Fun.’
A car pulled up in the yard. Fleur looked up, from where she’d been glued to the kitchen TV. She was astonished to see it was Beau’s old Mustang
She rushed out in a panic. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lovely to see you too,’ he told her.
Fleur went pink. ‘S-sorry. I meant, I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
He was wearing a mint-green shirt, a white jumper knotted over his broad shoulders. Fleur had never known a man to wear so much pastel, but somehow on Beau it worked.
‘Fancy coming to play at mine?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Darling, you’re not very good at this.’ He sighed. ‘I’m asking you over for dinner.’
Fleur looked down at her jeans, which had cow saliva all over them. ‘Now?’
‘Now or never.’
‘I’m not dressed for it.’
‘Go and get dressed, then.’
Fleur thought about the mountain of paperwork piling up, her drunk unhappy dad locked away in his study. She had an overwhelming urge to escape and have some fun for once.
‘Give me five minutes.’
‘I love a girl who can wash and blow.’ Beau grinned wickedly. ‘Sorry, wash and go.’
Upstairs Fleur quickly showered and brushed her teeth. She had to keep telling herself it wasn’t a date. This was Beau Rainford. She wasn’t falling for any of his smooth-talking crap.
Even so, there was a blotchy rash on her chest and a little pulse thudding in between her breasts. She scrabbled round in her ancient make-up bag and found the stump of a black eyeliner. She applied an uneven line, hands shaking with nerves and lack of practice.
It didn’t take long to choose from her dismal collection of clothes. She went for a black shirt that didn’t show too much cleavage and her best – make that only – pair of going-out jeans. There was a bottle of something on the dressing table and Fleur squirted it on her neck and wrists.
She looked in the mirror and her heart sank. Instead of an effortless beauty, a raccoon-eyed girl in a frumpy shirt looked back at her. In desperation, she pulled out the band from her ponytail, the luxuriant red hair tumbling over her shoulders. Thank God she’d washed it that morning. After running a brush through it, she pulled on a pair of semi-decent ballet pumps. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
Beau was leaning against the car, texting. His eyes slid expertly over her. She blushed again and touched her hair self-consciously
‘Four minutes forty,’ he announced, looking at his watch. ‘It takes Valentina twice as long just to reapply her lip gloss.’
‘Is she, I mean, Valentina, going to be there?’ Fleur asked politely.
He shook his head. ‘Some catwalk thing in Paris.’
It sounded very glamorous. ‘You didn’t want to go?’
‘Those things bore the hell out of me.’ He slid the Ray-Bans back on. ‘Come on, Cinderella, your carriage awaits.’
He drove like a maniac – a confident maniac who could handle corners at eighty miles an hour while carrying on a full conversation. By the time they’d screeched up outside Ridings, her eyes were watering madly and her hair was a mass of tangles. So much for trying to look cool.
‘First impressions?’ he asked.
They’d driven at such terrifying speed she hadn’t had the chance to take it in. Staring up at the huge gleaming white box where her grandparents’ old house used to be, she felt quite overcome.
‘Let’s start round the back,’ he said more gently. ‘I think you’ll be surprised.’
Still upset, she followed him round the side of the house. This was a mistake, she shouldn’t have come. A second later she stopped in her tracks.
Beau grinned. ‘Not what you expecting?’
Fleur gazed at the extraordinary vision in front of her. Her grandparents’ house was still there, except it had new windows and a much-needed new roof. It was connected to the modern part by a gleaming corridor of glass. She had to admit, the contrast of the original farmhouse and the new extension looked really cool.
‘I only got rid of the bits that were beyond saving.’
She was lost for words. She couldn’t believe her grandparents’ house was still here, hidden behind the stark white facade.
‘Come on then,’ he told her. ‘You can tell me what you think of the rest of it.’
When her grandparents had lived there, Colm-wood Farm had been rather dark and chintzy. He had knocked through walls and opened the place up, exposing the beams and flooding the place with light.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think it’s really cool,’ she admitted. It was a completely different place, yet she felt instantly at home.
The modern side was huge and seamless, walls of white running into floors of polished marble. There were no skirting boards or lamp switches, or anything else you’d find in a normal house. A blown-up cover of Italian Vogue hung on one wall. Valentina, hair flying behind her, cheekbones soaring, stretched her elongated proportions into an exaggerated pose.
‘V gave that to me.’
‘She looks amazing.’
He shuddered. ‘I always feel like her eyes are following me around.’
Another canvas hung in the corridor. A young brunette, pensive as she gazed past the camera. The blue eyes and full lips were unmistakable. ‘My mother,’ he told her.
‘She’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘She was, rather.’
‘Do you miss her?’
He gave her a brief glance. ‘I do, actually.’
‘I miss my mum, too.’
‘What happened?’
‘Cancer. Five years ago.’ She felt like she’d become an old woman in that time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘You’re never the same, are you?’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘You’re really not.’
There was a brief flame of recognition between them. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s get on with the tour.’
The futuristic kitchen was spotless, a sleek MacBook open on the top of the central island. By contrast the living room in the old part of the house was simple and homely, with squashy white sofas, and magazines scattered across the coffee table.
They headed outside to the landscaped gardens and swimming pool. There was even a poolside bar and big, luxurious day-beds that made Fleur feel like she was at a posh hotel. A bright green thong hung off one of them. From the minuscule size it had to belong to Valentina
.
‘I was wondering where that had got to,’ Beau said airily. ‘My tan lines have been giving me hell.’
She giggled. He was quite funny.
The outbuildings that used to house the farm machinery were still there, but they had been spruced up. There was a new paved area outside, dotted with oversized plant pots.
‘My latest venture,’ he told her. ‘We’ve converted them into recording studios.’
‘Really?’
‘You want a look?’
There were four studios, exactly like the ones she had seen in films.
‘This is amazing! Do you ever get anyone famous?’
‘Darling, we only get famous. They go mad for the prime Cotswold location.’
She resisted asking who, for fear of sounding like a saddo. Beau probably hung out with famous people all the time.
The helipad with its red H painted on the grass was in a nearby field. ‘The helicopter’s in for a service,’ he told her.
‘Yeah, mine too. It’s a bugger.’
His eyes flashed amusedly. ‘Do you think I’m showing off?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she admitted.
Beau’s office was a converted stable block, knocked through to create one massive space. His desk was glass and dominated the entire room. On the top was a small, framed picture of a sultry blonde woman.
‘Lindsay St John,’ he told her. ‘One of the most fun people ever to grace the earth.’
‘Who was she?’ Fleur had a closer look. The woman was definitely on the mature side, but there was no mistaking the winning smile and mischievous dark eyes.
‘An ex-girlfriend who taught me a lot about life.’ He looked at the picture for a long moment. ‘She’s dead now.’
On the far wall was another blown-up cover, this time of Time magazine. A sandy-haired Doug Rainford, sprawled across the bonnet of a Ferrari in a pair of seventies-style bathing trunks. It was clear where Beau got his strutting good looks from. Fleur blushed. Doug wasn’t just big in the talent department.
Beau stood behind his desk, rapidly working his way through a pile of glossy envelopes.
‘Why don’t these people move into the twentieth century and use email?’ He opened another invite. ‘Oh look, a weekend with the Henley-Bassets. She’s fun, but he’s a fucking bore. Atrocious nostril hair. There’s no way I’m schlepping all the way up to East Yorkshire.’
The invite sailed into the bin. He continued to rip through the rest, verbally demolishing each one.
‘Tamara Houseman’s thirty-fifth at Maggie’s. She certainly was the size of a house when I last saw her, grouse-massacring in Scotland. I hate the shooting season. Oh look, another gallery opening! If I have to listen to one more coked-up arsehole gushing on about how Caesar’s latest African dunghill installation is a remarkable interpretation of the Third World’s quest for enlightenment, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’
‘What parties do you like?’ she giggled.
‘Any that aren’t in this country. Who the hell is this? “The break-out star from TV’s Made in Chelsea”?’ He shuddered. ‘God!’
‘Have you ever met the Duchess of Cambridge?’
‘A few times.’
She tried not to sound impressed. ‘Is she nice?’
‘If you like the Home Counties type. I prefer my girls with a bit more chutzpah.’ Beau looked up, fixing her with his brilliant gaze.
She flushed and changed the subject. ‘So, you have your own company?’
‘Yup, we buy up old wrecks and do them up.’
‘Like my farm?’ Fleur challenged.
‘No, not like your farm, as it happens. You’ve made yourself loud and clear.’
A strained silence followed. ‘I didn’t get you up here to try and talk you round,’ he told her.
‘Didn’t you?’ she asked boldly.
‘Of course not!’ He sounded irritated. ‘Look, Fleur, I invited you round tonight in the hope of cementing us Not-Being-Friends, and to try and show you I’m not this complete bastard who bowled in and ripped your grandparents’ house down. If you’d rather, I can take you home …’
‘No! No.’ She bit her lip, feeling ungrateful. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ he sighed. ‘You’ve got every right to be suspicious, but I can assure you, I have no untoward intentions. Well, none that involve your farm.’
He gave her a smile, the easy charm back again. ‘Shall we have dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starving.’
A fish pie was produced from somewhere and they ate on the terrace, a sweeping stretch with an uninterrupted vista across the valley. Bats swooped across the pink and orange sky, the last streaks of sunset filling the huge panes of glass. It was wonderful, as if the windows were glowing with light. Up close, Fleur could see how the house had been cleverly moulded to make stunning use of the landscape. There were breathtaking views from every window, the sharp corners and skylights framing the sky and greenness perfectly. She had lived in Beeversham all her life, yet it felt like she was seeing it all through new eyes. There was a depth of glamour that had never been there before.
‘How the hell do you keep everything so clean?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to see this place in winter!’
Beau forked up a huge flake of salmon. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m never here in winter.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘I’m thinking of Buenos Aires this year.’
Fleur, who’d never been further than Spain, thought it sounded impossibly glamorous.
They sat and worked their way through dinner. The fish pie was delicious, but she was too on edge to eat. She reached for her wine again. The alcohol was going to her head.
‘This is really nice,’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘A Meursault,’ he said, pronouncing it impeccably.
She stuck her nose in the glass. ‘Smells like honey.’
‘Spot on. We’ll make a wine connoisseur of you yet.’
He looked over and grinned at her. Fleur’s heart suddenly seemed to falter, before resuming in a rather wobbly manner. Suddenly she understood why so many women threw themselves at Beau, why she herself had been so desperate to get back in his good books earlier. When he looked at you like that, it was like being caught in a ray of sunlight.
‘Beautiful night,’ he remarked, looking up at the stars.
The wine loosened her natural reserve. ‘Do you ever get lonely up here by yourself?’
‘I’m rarely by myself up here.’
She’d walked into that one. ‘So is Valentina your girlfriend?’ she asked, determined to have an adult conversation.
‘Well, she is a girl and we’ve certainly been friendly.’ Beau surveyed her through his blue eyes. ‘You are a funny little thing, aren’t you?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Don’t get so defensive. It’s a compliment.’
Fleur felt an unexpected glow. She looked out across the valley, to the golden rooftops of Beeversham.
‘Do you think your brother might go for Jonty’s job? He’d make a much better MP.’
Beau picked his glass up. ‘I’ve got about as much idea as you have.’
She tried again. ‘It must be hard, I mean being brothers and not talking to each other, in a small town like this.’
He gave her an amused look. ‘What’s with all the questions?’
‘I guess it’s just nice to have a proper conversation with someone,’ Fleur admitted.
‘Me too,’ he sighed. ‘Valentina and I are definitely bigger on screwing than talking.’
He was trying to embarrass her again but she wasn’t having it. ‘How about Ginny?’ Fleur persisted. ‘Do you get on?’
Beau looked genuinely sad for a moment. ‘Ah, Ginny’s not allowed to speak to me. I’m persona non grata in my family.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Nothing to say, really. I’d far rather hear what skeletons yo
u’ve got in your family closet.’
‘I haven’t got any skeletons.’
‘Tell me, anyway.’
She gave him a brief life story, leaving out the years since her mum had died and how her dad had gone to pieces. He listened in silence, his sharp eyes constantly roving round the terrace. Fleur wondered if she was boring him.
‘Have you always wanted to go into the farm thing?’ he asked.
‘I actually wanted to be a trading standards officer. But then my mum died and my dad—’ She stopped. ‘I had a place at college but I gave it up to work on the farm.’
They looked out across the fields to where a lone light burnt at Blackwater Farm. She snuck a glance at Beau. His face was relaxed, unreadable. Can I really trust you? she thought.
A car horn blared from up the drive, making her start. Beau checked his watch. ‘The Cavalry have arrived. Come and say hi.’
As they walked round to the front of the house, a souped-up Range Rover with blacked-out windows was pulling up. The sound of the bass horn reverberated through the glass. The back doors opened and four very familiar faces tumbled out.
‘Oh my God, it really is The Cavalry!’ she squeaked.
One of the hottest new bands in the UK, The Cavalry had arrived under the cover of darkness to record their much-anticipated second album. They greeted Beau like an old friend, giving him high fives. Fleur got a picture with them and they all gave her a hug, smelling of cigarette smoke and aftershave, before they were bundled down to the studio to start work.
‘I’ll never wash again.’ She touched her cheek with wonder where Jonny Faro, the gorgeous lead singer, had kissed her.
Beau raised an amused eyebrow. ‘So you are impressed sometimes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Come on, let’s get you home.’
Beau put on the stereo as they drove back towards Blackwater Farm. Fleur couldn’t believe it as the opening strains of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ blasted out of the speakers.
‘Bonnie Tyler? You are kidding me. My mum used to love her!’
‘Never underestimate an eighties power ballad,’ Beau said gravely. ‘Bonnie Tyler is a goddess.’
‘This is comedy!’ she hooted. ‘I thought you’d be much more 50 Cent.’