[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (12 page)

Clementine started flapping at Calypso’s body with
the
sunhat. ‘Get off, you ghastly thing! It seems to be stuck there!’

Calypso steeled herself to look down. Her face relaxed. ‘Chill your boots, it’s only a tattoo!’

Clementine peered closely at the black scorpion just above Calypso’s left hip. She looked up at her youngest granddaughter reproachfully. ‘Oh, darling, how could you! It looks dreadfully common.’

Calypso sighed. ‘It’s no big deal, loads of people have got them.’

Clementine wasn’t placated. ‘Has your mother seen this? No doubt she’ll have something to say.’

‘Of course she has, I’ve had it for years! Granny Clem, I am an adult, you know,’ Calypso pointed out. ‘I can do what I want with my body.’

Clementine was completely unimpressed. Young people! ‘Well, if you can stop mutilating your body for long enough I’ll leave you to get on.’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever next, one of those dreadful genital piercings?’

Calypso smiled sweetly at her grandmother. ‘Oh, for heavens sake! I don’t want to hear any more,’ huffed Clementine, and she went off in search of some decent conversation with Camilla.

Calypso had just filled her second bin bag when a car pulled up beside her. It was long and sleek with blacked-out windows. The driver’s side window rolled down. Calypso pulled up her sunglasses and squinted into the gloom of the car, before realizing that, yet again, the driver was Rafe Wolfe.

‘Hard at work?’ he asked pleasantly. He had
company
this time: a dazzling blonde woman sitting in the passenger seat, whom Calypso recognized as Sophia Highforth.

Sophia flashed a smile from under her huge Victoria Beckam-esque sunglasses.

‘We’re on our way to filming, there’s a weekend shoot,’ Rafe said. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt that showcased his tan.

‘Oh, right,’ replied Calypso, wondering if she was meant to be impressed. A trickle of sweat was falling between her breasts and down to her flat stomach. Rafe glanced at it momentarily, before looking up. ‘Do you need any help?’

Calypso wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly. ‘Help?’ she repeated.

Rafe waved an arm over the green. ‘With this. I hear Churchminster has got into the final of Britain’s Best Village. It must be very exciting for you all.’

Calypso raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think picking up empty Coke cans and crisp packets comes under the remit of a world famous film star.’

He held her gaze. ‘I mean it, I’d like to help.’

‘Rafe.’ Sophia pulled on his sleeve subtly. ‘We’re meant to be in make-up by now.’

Calypso shot Rafe a look. ‘Yeah well, if you fancy giving up your Sunday to weed the graveyard …’
That’ll call his bluff
, she thought satisfactorily.

Rafe grinned at her. ‘I might take you up on that.’

‘Oh, hello there!’ It was Camilla, looking rather hot and flustered in an old Laura Ashley summer dress.
She
had seen the car stop, and, guessing correctly who was inside, rushed over.

Rafe extended a tanned, smooth hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Rafe Wolfe.’

Camilla shook it excitedly. ‘I’m Camilla, Calypso’s older sister.’

‘I can see the family resemblance. Your parents must be delighted to have such stunning daughters.’

Camilla looked thrilled at the compliment, but Calypso rolled her eyes.
Talk about cheesy!

‘
Rafe
.’ This time Sophia didn’t bother to hide her impatience.

‘What’s this? A mothers meeting?’ This time it was Jed, who’d been hard at work moving fallen stones from the churchyard wall. He was stripped to the waist, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Even though Camilla’s nose and shoulders had turned bright pink, Jed’s pale skin had somehow remained untouched by the sun. He looked like one of the beautiful marble statues that adorned the grounds of Clanfield Hall.

Sophia suddenly seemed in no hurry to go. She leaned across Rafe and extended a manicured hand. ‘Hello there, I’m Sophia Highforth.’

Her nails were expertly manicured and painted a pale pink. Camilla blushed and hid her own bitten ones behind her back.

Jed stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Jed,’ he said.

‘I haven’t seen you round here before,’ Sophia smiled. She had huge soft blue eyes, like a baby’s.

‘I’ve been working a lot. Up at the Hall.’

One of Sophia’s groomed eyebrows shot up. ‘Clanfield Hall? What a coincidence, we’re filming up there! You must come and have afternoon tea in my Winnebago.’

There was a slightly awkward pause. Rafe looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get going.’ He smiled at Calypso. ‘Might see you tomorrow, then.’

‘You might,’ replied Calypso shortly.

‘Don’t forget to come and see me, Jed!’ Sophia called. ‘I need someone to show me round.’

Rafe revved the engine and the car roared off. Calypso’s mobile started ringing and, digging it out of her back pocket, she wandered off to take the call, leaving Jed and Camilla alone.

Camilla shot Jed an amused glance. ‘So, Sophia Highforth wants to have tea with you!’

‘I don’t think she’d be so keen if she saw me covered in pigs’ muck, cleaning out the sties,’ he smiled.

‘Or fast asleep on the sofa, cupping your balls.’

He shot her a cheeky look. ‘I only do it when you won’t cup them for me.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ she retorted, laughing.

He kissed her on the lips. ‘See you later. Maybe I’ll even get lucky in the ball-cupping department.’

‘Maybe, if you play your cards right.’

He strode off grinning, as Calypso finished her call. Camilla walked over to her. ‘Do you think Rafe
will
turn up tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Who cares?’ said Calypso airily. She mimicked Sophia’s gushing tones. ‘You
must
come and have afternoon tea in my Winnebago!’

They both giggled.

‘Tell you what, sis,’ Calypso said. ‘Jed’s lucky to have someone like you. Most of my friends would go mental if a film star asked their boyfriend out. Mind you, most of them are highly strung nutcases.’

‘I think it’s quite a compliment, actually!’ Camilla said.

Calypso raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you never seen
Notting Hill
?’ Her mobile started ringing again. ‘Oh God, now what?’ She turned and threw an affectionate look at Camilla over her shoulder. ‘I was only teasing you about
Notting Hill
, you know!’

‘Ha ha,’ said Camilla, for some reason not finding it very funny.

Chapter 17

THE NEXT MORNING
Calypso was back in the graveyard on her hands and knees.
It’s like bloody
Groundhog Day, she thought grumpily. The protective gloves Clementine had given her were heavy and hot, adding to her discomfort. She was also nursing a hangover, as she and Camilla had sat up late in the garden drinking rather more rosé wine than was good for them. It was just as hot today, and Calypso’s headache was showing no sign of abating.

‘Ow, shit!’ she yelped, as a stinging nettle brushed her leg. Red welts started to spring up immediately. Calypso looked in vain for a dock leaf, to calm the inflammation, and decided she was best off with aspirin and ice-cold Lucozade from the village shop.

Twenty minutes later, sitting in the shade of a tree in the graveyard, she was starting to revive. She stretched her legs out from under the tree, feeling the heat of the sun beat down on them.

Then she rolled a cigarette, lit it, and leant back
against
the trunk. The smoke floated off lazily into the summer’s day. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat still for so long. Scene Events was going better than she had ever imagined, but there was a price to pay. She was feeling utterly exhausted, and a proper night’s sleep was still a long way off in the future.

I need a holiday. Or some fun. Or something
, Calypso thought, taking another drag. Her eyes were getting heavy and she let them close. She could really just go to sleep now …

‘There’s no point staying out of the sun if you’re going to smoke those things,’ a well-cultivated voice suddenly said from above.

Calypso blinked and looked up. To her utter astonishment, Rafe Wolfe was standing there. As usual he looked like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advert, in cargo shorts and a striped polo shirt that hugged his biceps. Expensive-looking loafers adorned his feet.

Calypso defiantly took another drag and blew it out towards him. ‘No tennis today?’

Rafe grinned and squatted down beside her. She caught a waft of lemony aftershave. ‘I’ve heard weed-killing is all the rage round here,’ he said.

Up close, Rafe was as annoyingly perfect. His complexion was smooth, the contours of his jaw and nose straight and perfect. Straight from the stable of pin-up movie stars.

If you like that sort of thing
, Calypso told herself. She preferred her men – and women – more dishevelled and dirty. She stubbed her cigarette out and flicked it
into
the open bin bag lying a few feet away. ‘So you think you’re up to it? I warn you it’s pretty physical activity.’

Rafe looked down at his strong arms, no doubt honed by hours in the gym with a personal trainer. ‘I think I’m up to it.’

He offered her his arm and pulled her easily to her feet. For a moment he stood there, still holding her. Calypso felt his dry warm hand on her skin. She stepped away and threw him an empty bin bag. ‘I’m assuming you know the difference between a flower and a weed.’

Rafe caught the bag with one hand. ‘Hey, I’m a country boy. Born and bred.’ He held his hands up at her sceptical expression. ‘I’m serious! I was brought up in Cambridgeshire. In a place called Wincombe Hall. My family have been there for centuries.’

‘Am I meant to be impressed?’

Rafe looked at Calypso evenly. ‘No, I was just telling you about myself. Isn’t that what people do when they meet each other?’

Calypso felt a stab of embarrassment and changed the subject. ‘Better get on with it, then.’

She chucked him a pair of Granny Clem’s old gardening gloves, which he took without a murmur.

‘Right, where do you want me to start?’

Calypso looked at a particularly nasty patch of nettles she’d been putting off tackling. ‘They need pulling up.’

‘No probs.’ Rafe strode over and immediately got to work. Calypso watched him tear weeds out of the
ground
for a few moments. She didn’t know if she was impressed or annoyed that Rafe had put his money where his mouth was. It wasn’t every day you saw a world-famous film star grappling with stinging nettles in your local graveyard.

For the rest of the morning she tried to thwart Rafe’s attempts at being friendly, but he was so persistent that in the end, she gave up.

‘Nosey, aren’t you?’ she remarked, only half-exasperated, when he asked her yet another question about herself. She’d spent the previous hour telling him about her family, her time in New York, and Scene Events.

They were sitting on the church wall having another break. Calypso was so hot she had tied her vest in a knot under her breasts to make an impromptu crop top. Despite a hard hour’s work Rafe had hardly broken a sweat.

‘I just like finding out about people. And as people go, you’re pretty interesting.’

‘Well, I suppose that makes a change, a celebrity who’s not only interested in themselves.’ Calypso cocked her head, sizing him up. ‘What are you doing here?’

He looked confused. ‘I just thought I’d come and help …’

‘No, I mean what are you really
doing
here? Why is Rafe Wolfe, film star extraordinaire, giving up his precious Sunday to come down and get his hands dirty with the locals? I’m sure there’s no end of glitzy events you could be at right now.’

For the first time Calypso saw a hint of something else beneath the perfect veneer.

‘I just get a bit sick of it, you know? All the pomp and ceremony, people falling over themselves to suck up to you, when they’ve only ever got their own interests at heart.’ Rafe ran a hand through his blond hair, giving her a sideways glance. ‘It probably sounds like a line to you, but I got in this business to
act
, not be famous.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of the latter,’ Calypso remarked drily.

‘But that’s not me,’ he said, sounding frustrated. ‘I hardly ever do press, only when it’s contracted in a film, which you can’t get out of. Aside from that, I can’t control the paparazzi following me, or magazines putting me on their front cover.’

‘It can’t help, living in Hollywood,’ Calypso said, but she was smiling.

‘Point taken.’ He smiled back. ‘Unfortunately, it goes with the territory. LA is where the work is.’ Rafe stood up, brushing a fallen blossom off his shorts. ‘I want to hear more about
your
territory. Didn’t you say half your ancestors are buried here? Must be a lot of family squabbling.’

‘I wouldn’t let my grandmother hear you talk like that,’ laughed Calypso. She pointed out a tall, white headstone with an elegant inscription marked on it. ‘That’s my Great-uncle Edmund, Granny Clem’s little brother. He died when he was quite young, though, I think he was quite sickly. Oh, and that’s where Grandpa Bertie is. Hiya, Grampy!’

Rafe shot her an amused look.

‘I always was his favourite,’ Calypso confided. ‘Come on, I’ll show you my great-grandparents’ grave if you like. It’s quite something.’

She started towards an impressive white marble memorial on the other side of the graveyard. ‘It’s just over here,’ she said, turning round.

‘Watch out for that …’ Rafe started to say, but it was too late.

‘Oh shit!’ Without looking where she was going, Calypso had tripped over a tree root and gone flying. She came down heavily on one ankle and winced. ‘Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!’

‘Lucky the vicar isn’t here to hear that language,’ said Rafe, kneeling down beside her.

‘Good to see one of us has retained our sense of humour,’ Calypso said, through clenched teeth. Her ankle was swelling by the second.

‘You’ve strained it.’ Rafe announced, after a careful inspection.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Calypso gasped.