[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (22 page)

Rafe was unbuttoning his trousers now, playing with his hard penis as he looked at her. ‘I
really
am going to have to fuck you now.’ He produced a condom from his back pocket and slid it on, before plunging inside her. Calypso wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in even deeper.

‘Let’s do it against a tree,’ she gasped. Rafe picked her up and they staggered over to a large oak. Calypso could feel the bark scratching her back, but she didn’t care. She felt
alive
, nothing else mattered. This was so fucking amazing …

Half a mile away in another wood, a poacher stopped, puzzled by the piercing cry. It didn’t sound like anything he’d heard before, but then again it was probably just two badgers fighting. Vicious little buggers, they were. The poacher shook his head and went back to the dubious task in hand.

Chapter 27

THE NEXT DAY
was the Garden Party’s fortnightly meeting. Clementine wasted no time in getting down to business.

‘Now then, after completing my weekly round of the village, I am delighted to see everyone’s efforts are paying off. Having spent all of last Tuesday tackling Babs Sax’s front garden, the village green has never looked so good. Even if I do say so myself.’

Babs Sax was an artist who lived in a house next to the village shop. Unfortunately she was more bothered about tone and texture than the ten-foot-high weeds. Clementine had taken advantage of Babs being away on a six-month painting retreat and had attacked the weeds with gusto. She knew the silly woman had her head in the clouds most of the time, and wouldn’t even notice when she got back, anyway.

‘Where is Babs, anyway?’ Calypso whispered to her sister.

‘India, I think.’

‘Calypso!’ her grandmother said crossly. ‘You two haven’t stopped gassing since you got here.’

‘Sorry, Granny Clem,’ Calypso apologized, but it didn’t wipe the huge smile off her face. She had been buzzing, literally buzzing, since yesterday. She’d sworn Camilla to secrecy about her romance with Rafe, but it hadn’t stopped her sister excitedly pressing her for more details. Calypso had stopped short of telling Camilla about the frenzied pumping she’d received on the bonnet of Rafe’s sports car, but one look at Calypso after she’d arrived home last night and Camilla had known.

Daydreaming about Rafe’s cock, Calypso suddenly realized her grandmother was saying something.

‘Does anyone know where Freddie and Angie are?’ Clementine frowned. ‘They didn’t tell me they weren’t coming.’

Everyone shook their heads. A few minutes later the Fox-Titts rushed in through the back of the hall, looking rather flustered.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Angie called. She looked rather subdued. ‘We’ve had a bit of an emergency at the Maltings.’

‘My dear, what’s happened?’ asked Clementine.

Freddie sat down heavily in a spare seat. ‘Bloody perimeter wall finally gave way. Squashed all of Angie’s flowerbeds and took down an apple tree. Looks like a bloody disaster.’

The Cotswolds wall surrounding their property was nearly as old as the hills themselves. It had been submerged by the floods and ever since had looked
decidedly
wobbly. The Fox-Titts were already wrangling with their insurance company to repair the huge holes left by the floods in the driveway up to their house.

‘The patch-up job hasn’t worked, we’re going to have to get the whole wall redone,’ sighed Angie. ‘God knows how many thou that’s going to cost. If we get flooded again, we’re buggered.’

The rest of the committee made sympathetic noises.

Angie smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, everyone, but I don’t want to give the bloody thing another thought until we get home. Have we missed much?’

Clementine briefed them quickly on what had been said so far.

‘All sounds tip-top,’ said Freddie.

‘Did anyone see that piece about Britain’s Best Village on the news the other night?’ asked Beryl Turner. ‘Looks like we’re up against pretty stiff competition.’

‘The other villages are probably saying the same about us,’ Clementine said rather frostily. She was annoyed that Veronica Stockard-Manning had been interviewed, and given the chance to gush about how marvellous Maplethorpe was. The revolting woman didn’t need any more encouragement.

After Clementine had given everyone their new lists of duties, the meeting came to an end. As Joyce Bellows fussed around, making everyone tea, Calypso watched her idly. She wondered how old Joyce was; she was one of those women who looked like they’d been born middle-aged. Joyce was wearing a dowdy floral dress, and no cardigan for once. To her surprise Calypso could
see
she had quite a pair of knockers on her. She had a sudden comic vision of Reverend Bellows’s beardy face burrowed between them.

‘What are you smiling about?’ Camilla asked, returning with two cups of tea. ‘Or should that be
who
?’

‘Oh, bugger off,’ Calypso said playfully. ‘I was just thinking, how old do you think Joyce is?’

‘I think Granny Clem said she’s in her late thirties.’

Calypso spluttered into her tea. ‘What? She looks about sixty!’

Camilla smiled. ‘Don’t be mean.’

‘I’m not, I’m just being truthful.’ Calypso looked at Joyce’s dull hair, scraped back off her face with an old-fashioned Alice band. ‘Maybe I should offer to give her a makeover.’

This time Camilla laughed. ‘Joyce would have a blue fit if you tried to put her in a miniskirt!’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Calypso was still studying Joyce. ‘She’s actually got quite a good figure under all that frumpiness. Someone needs to tell her to stop dressing like she’s escaped from a geriatric ward.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Camilla.

The next day Frances was on her way home from a charity luncheon. It had been an extremely boring affair, and she’d become depressed with the constant talk about what Lady So-and-so was up to, and did she know they’d had to sell a Rembrandt to pay for the school fees?

Even though it was out of her way, Frances decided to drive past Byron Heights. Devon was creeping more
and
more into her thoughts, but since Camilla had mentioned seeing activity outside his house, it had all gone quiet. Frances had quelled her curiosity so far, but now she had a sudden burning need to satisfy it. At the Bedlington crossroads she carried on straight for Churchminster, instead of going the quickest way round the back to Clanfield Hall.

As the turrets of Byron Heights loomed up in the distance, Frances’s heart did a little flutter. It was the scene of so many happy memories for her: for the first time she hadn’t been Lady Fraser, wife and mother, and had just been
herself
. Those fun-filled summer evenings with Devon, enjoying each other’s company, seemed a lifetime ago.

Frances pulled up outside the entrance, which was flanked by two scary looking eagles. She realized she was holding her breath. But as she peered down the long driveway to the house, there were no vehicles outside, no signs of life. The windows stared blankly back at her, mirroring her own feelings of emptiness.

Frances sighed and started the car again. There was no one there. Lucinda Reinard must have got it wrong. Devon hadn’t come back. Heart now heavy, she drove off.

Chapter 28

CAMILLA WAS IN
the deli deliberating over the stuffed vine leaves or the chilli chicken when she became aware someone had stopped close by. She looked up to see a young woman with a baby in a pushchair smiling at her. The woman had bleached blonde hair and a pretty, beauty-queen face.

‘Camilla, isn’t it?’ She had a strong local accent.

‘Er, yes.’ Camilla said, wondering wildly where she’d seen her before. The girl noticed Camilla’s quizzical expression and laughed.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not some nutter. Me and Charlie were just in the queue behind you and I couldn’t help noticing. I’m Sarah Jackson. I live in Bedlington. I used to go out with your fella Jed a long time ago. I’d heard on the grapevine he’d fallen in love with one of the Standington-Fulthropes. Y’know, we always used to call you the posh girls from Churchminster.’

It was said in such a friendly way that Camilla couldn’t help smiling.

‘Oh right, were you and Jed together for long?’

Sarah laughed.

‘God, no. And when I say together, it was hardly that. Jed had an eye for the ladies, like any typical red-blooded male.’

She smiled conspiratorially at Camilla. ‘And now here he is, all settled down.’

Camilla smiled back rather stupidly. She looked down at the chubby-cheeked little boy in the pushchair.

‘He’s adorable, how old?’

‘Eight months,’ Sarah replied proudly. ‘Me and Phil, he’s my other half, we always wanted kids.’

She sighed. ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying, but I did use to dream about having kids with Jed. Talk about good genes! We were only kids ourselves then, but you have those silly conversations, don’t you?’

‘What did Jed say?’ asked Camilla, feeling a bit sick. Sarah frowned.

‘Well, that he didn’t want them of course. Said he never wanted to be tied down like that.’

She looked sympathetic.

‘It must be hard you know, in your mid-thirties and wanting to start a family.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me!’ said Camilla, trying to sound bright. ‘Anyway, I must dash, Sarah, I’m on my lunch break.’

Sarah stepped aside.

‘Of course, nice talking to you.’

‘Nice talking to you too,’ lied Camilla.

‘And good luck!’ Sarah shouted after her. Camilla
smiled
falsely and made for the door, her lunch forgotten. Once outside on the street, she stopped and gulped in the fresh air, trying to quell the nausea. Was fate, in the form of one of Jed’s exes, trying to tell her something?

‘There was some woman in ’ere earlier asking after you,’ said Brenda. She gave Clementine her change back and pushed the loaf of bread towards her. ‘Right bossy cow she was, wanting to know all about this and that and where to get hold of you. I told her if she wanted answers to her questions, she’d be better off going to the tourist office.’ Brenda chuckled. ‘She didn’t take it too kindly, looked like the kind of woman who’s used to getting ’er own way.’

Clementine groaned. ‘It sounds like Nancy Drake-Simmons. She’s been trying to get me to join this dreadful “Still Sexy Over Seventy” group she’s set up. Apparently they went nightclubbing in Oxford last week!’

‘If she comes in again, you don’t want me to tell ’er you’ve gone lap dancing?’

‘Anything but that, thank you, Brenda,’ Clementine said crisply, picking up the loaf. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow as normal?’ On Wednesday mornings Brenda came to clean Fairoaks.

‘See you then Mrs S-F,’ she replied. As Clementine left the shop Brenda went back to reading her copy of
Take a Break
under the counter.

Clementine decided to pop over to No. 5 and see Camilla. Her middle granddaughter had seemed
rather
quiet of late; Calypso had mentioned Jed was working all the hours God sent, and that she thought Camilla was feeling a bit lonely. Clementine decided a bracing walk with her and Errol Flynn would do Camilla the world of good. The old woman was a big advocate of the restorative effects of fresh air and exercise.

But before she could put her hand on the front gate, a voice stopped her.

‘Hello, Clementine.’

Startled, she turned round to be confronted by the sight of Veronica Stockard-Manning. She had put on even more weight in the years since Clementine had last seen her: her once-beautiful face was now lost in rolls of fat, her substantial bulk hidden under a voluminous scarf and waxed jacket. She was wearing the same strong sickly perfume she’d always worn, though.

‘What are you doing here?’ Clementine asked bluntly, more out of shock than anything.

Veronica smiled, cheeks creasing up like Play-Doh, and gestured to a gaggle of ladies standing further down the road outside the Jolly Boot. A minibus was parked up outside. ‘We’ve been on a WI trip to Hidcote Manor Gardens, and seeing as it’s almost on our way back, I suggested popping into Churchminster.’

‘Hidcote is a forty-minute drive away …’

Veronica flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Details, my dear, details. We went to your public house for lunch, although I have to say it wasn’t really to my taste. Some
of
the others enjoyed it, although Mary Saundersfoot thought she found a hair in her salmon en croute.’

‘I doubt that very much, Pierre is a Michelin-starred chef,’ Clementine said, hating herself for rising to Veronica’s jibe.

Veronica gave a non-committal smile. ‘How are you, old friend? It seems like yesterday I was here in Churchminster. You and I, playing in the gardens at Fairoaks. I did love that house.’

Clementine’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t believe the sheer brazenness of the woman, talking as though nothing had ever happened. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked again, although she had no doubts about Veronica’s motives. She had come to spy on the village and see what they were doing.

‘How
are
preparations for Britain’s Best Village going?’ Veronica enquired solicitously, ignoring Clementine’s questions. ‘It doesn’t look like you’ve done much, but then I suppose you were facing an uphill battle from the start.’ She waved a fat hand towards a rather sorry looking St Bartholomew’s. ‘Surely you’re not going to leave the church in that state, are you?’

Clementine finally lost her temper, something she hadn’t done for many years. ‘Just get out of here, you vile human being!’

Veronica was quick to bite back, decades of bad blood boiling over. ‘I wouldn’t take that tone with me. There’s no law to stop me wandering around your pathetic little village. And it is pathetic, you know, just like all you Standington-Fulthropes. That’s half the reason I—’

Clementine’s voice dropped, each word dangerously enunciated. ‘Don’t you
dare
say a word more!’

‘Granny Clem, is everything all right?’ Camilla had come out.

‘Perfectly, Camilla.’ Her grandmother’s voice was brittle with anger.

‘Camilla!’ Veronica gushed. ‘I’ve heard about you. I’m an old chum of your grandmother’s.’