[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (25 page)

‘Like what? We were just having a chat, for Christ’s sake.’

Camilla threw her hands up in exasperation, ‘Sophia fancies you, Jed! And don’t tell me you don’t know it.’

Jed sighed. ‘I can see how it might have looked. But it didn’t mean anything, OK?’

Camilla looked at him evenly. ‘
Do
you fancy her?’

An almost imperceptible expression crossed his face. ‘No! He was defensive, almost angry.

Have I hit a raw nerve?
Camilla wondered.

There was a long silence. Jed sighed again. ‘Why are we fighting like this?’ He caught Camilla’s wrist and pulled her into him. ‘I’ll avoid Sophia from now on if that makes you happy.’

‘You can’t do that, it’s silly,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult …’

‘The estate’s big enough,’ he interrupted. ‘OK? Please can we make up? I really don’t need this at the moment.’

Numbly, Camilla let herself be embraced by him. Jed was hiding something from her and she knew it.

Chapter 33

FRANCES HAD ARRANGED
to have lunch with her daughter at Claridges, but Harriet had apologetically cancelled at the last moment because of a work commitment. Frances was disappointed, but understood. Harriet had a career now, and was awfully proud of what she was doing. A career was something that had never been an option for Frances: she had been married off young and expected to provide an heir for Ambrose. Even though she had failed in that, Frances had thrown herself into what was expected of an aristocratic wife.

I wonder where I’d be now if I’d had a career?
she wondered. Would she be happy, satisfied with her life?

A sudden bleep made her jump. It took several moments for Frances to realize it was her mobile phone. No one really sent her text messages apart from Harriet.

The text had been sent from a number she didn’t
recognize
, but Frances’s heart skipped a beat when she realized who it was from.

‘
Hey, princess, how ya doing? D xx
.’

Devon! Just as she was thinking what to reply, her mobile started ringing. Startled, she put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, darlin.’

‘Devon! Is that you?’

A chuckle. ‘The one and only. Are you going to let me in or what?’

Frances didn’t understand. ‘Let you in where?’

‘Your front door, you doughnut! I’ve been standing here for ages.’

The phone cut off. Frances stared at the screen, disbelievingly. Devon was outside? He couldn’t be! She rushed over to the front window and sure enough, saw the little MG Devon used as a runaround when he was in Churchminster parked on the gravel outside.

She ran over to her handbag and pulled out her silver compact mirror to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. Thank God she’d had her hair done that morning at the hairdresser. Smoothing her chignon down, Frances shoved a dirty teacup and saucer behind the curtains and hurried out down the long hallway. One of Ambrose’s ancestors, in full armour astride a rearing horse, seemed to look down on her frowningly. As Frances got to the huge wooden door she paused to regain her composure, took a deep breath and pulled it open.

At first she didn’t recognize the strange man standing on the doorstep. The tall, lean physique looked
familiar
, but the man was wearing an odd combination of a stripy top, baggy black trousers and a floppy hat on his head. A bushy beard covered the lower part of his face, and his eyes were hidden behind dark round sunglasses.

The man pulled the glasses down his nose and winked at her. The piercing blue eyes were unmistakable. They were ringed by more crows’ feet than she’d remembered, but that didn’t stop Frances’s heart doing a full somersault.

‘Hello, princess,’ said Devon Cornwall. ‘What do you think to the outfit? I call it my “French painter” look.’

‘Devon! What on earth are you doing here?’ Frances exclaimed, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

Devon grinned back. ‘Come to see you! Are you going to let me in, or what? I’m bloody dying of heat under this get-up.’

Frances quickly checked to make sure Mrs Bantry or Hawkins the butler hadn’t heard the front door open and come to investigate.

‘Of course, how rude of me. Do come in.’

As she shut the door behind him, Frances could smell the woody scent of his aftershave. Even though they were being careful to maintain a polite distance, just being in Devon’s presence was having a disturbing effect on her.

She led him back down the hallway into her study, where the pair settled opposite each other in rather formal hardback chairs. With a sigh of relief Devon removed his hat, glasses and beard, flinging them on the table. Now Frances could see again the long, lean
face
properly. It was still on the right side of craggy, and with an obnoxious tan, hair curling round the back of his neck and a small gold crucifix in one ear, she thought he looked more like a raffish pirate than ever.

‘Can I ring for anything?’ she asked. ‘Tea, coffee? Or else I’ve got sherry in the decanter.’

Devon shook his head. ‘No thanks, Frannie, I’m on a bit of a detox at the moment.’ After spending two decades battling drink and drugs, Devon had turned his life round and was now the epitome of clean living.

He settled himself back on the chair, one long leg thrown over the other and looked approvingly at Frances’s Chanel shift dress, pearls at her ears and neck.

‘Looking as good as ever, babe.’

Frances accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. She hesitated. ‘How did you know Ambrose was out?’

Devon grinned. ‘Thought I’d take a bit of a punt and see if his old Range Rover was here. If he’d caught me out I was gonna plead ignorance and pretend I’d got lost on my way to some art convention. Can’t say my French is up to much, though.’ He pulled a funny face.

Frances laughed. ‘Oh, Devon, it is good to see you!’

And then the ice was broken and it was like they’d never been apart. Devon entertained her with tales of his touring, while Frances filled him on the latest with the film crew and what had been happening down the village. Devon did like a good gossip.

She was just telling him about how well Harriet was doing when she noticed Devon studying her intently. Frances raised a hand self-consciously.

‘Is there something on my face?’

‘It’s not that, you look different.’ Devon reached over and touched her cheek. ‘There’s a sadness to you Frannie, that wasn’t there before.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, rather defensively.

Devon’s gaze was unfaltering. ‘What’s up, princess?’

Frances stared back, before her eyes dropped to her lap. She could feel her bottom lip starting to wobble. ‘I know how lucky I am to have my life. I really do. It’s just that I feel something is …’

‘…missing,’ Devon finished softly.
Missing
. That was exactly the word she had used before. In a heartbeat Devon had understood everything.

Frances sighed unhappily. ‘Still, what can one do about it now? One must accept one’s lot in life. It’s too late to change anything.’

Devon took her hand and it comforted her. ‘It’s never too late to change things. Look at me.’

After two decades in the pop wilderness, Devon had had a career comeback and was bigger than ever.

There was an expectant pause, in which Devon gripped her hand harder. The next thing he said knocked her for six. ‘I’m selling Byron Heights.’

‘Oh!’ Frances sank back heavily in her chair. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

Devon tried to smile. ‘Not much sense having a huge place like that when I’m hardly ever here any more.
Least
that’s what my financial advisors keep telling me. They’re on to me to buy some poncy condo in Hawaii, most of my work will be that side of the world over the next coupla years.’ He looked at her. ‘What do you think, Frannie?’

Frances still felt like she’d been punched in the gut. ‘I think you should do whatever feels right,’ she said eventually.

If Devon was disappointed by her non-committal answer, he didn’t show it. ‘After all, there’s not much left here for me, is there? The meaning was explicit. ‘Is there, Frannie?’ he repeated.

Frances looked at him sadly. ‘Oh, Devon.’

Somewhere in the depths of the house, a grandfather clock struck.

Frances looked at the dainty watch on her wrist regretfully. ‘Ambrose will be home soon.’

Devon jumped up. ‘I should be off, anyway.’

‘You’re staying at Byron Heights?’

‘Nah, all me stuff’s been cleared out of there. I’m staying at an old mate’s pad near Stow-on-the-Wold.’ He looked hopeful. ‘Say you’ll come and visit me? We’ll have the place to ourselves.’

Frances knew she shouldn’t. ‘I’m sure we can arrange something,’ she heard herself saying.

Smiling, she watched Devon put his disguise back on, and walked him out; this time there was a companionable silence between them.

At the front door, Devon paused and leaned in softly to kiss Frances on the cheek. ‘I can’t tell you how good it’s been to see you, princess. I’ll be in touch.’

As Frances closed the door behind him, she leaned on it, her mind a turmoil of confusion and emotions. She had a sudden desperate urge to talk to someone, but realized the only person she could bare her soul to was Devon.

Chapter 34

THE VILLAGE’S LUCK
was about to get even worse. Early one morning, Brian and Joyce Bellows awoke to find the vandals had struck again. By the time Angie Fox-Titt had walked down there, after the phone call from Joyce, it was even worse than she had imagined. Lurid graffiti covered the entire length of the rectory wall, making it an utter eyesore for anyone who drove past. Someone had also sprayed ‘WANK’ on the ‘Welcome To Churchminster, Drive Carefully’ sign, and smashed up the old-fashioned red phone box.

A marked police car was already parked there. With a solemn look on his face, PC Penny was standing by it, slowly writing down everything Joyce and Reverend Bellows had to say.

Joyce looked tired and upset. ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ she said, as Angie walked up. ‘And such offensive words!’ Joyce shuddered, as if she couldn’t bear to think such profanities existed.

‘Did you see the culprits?’ Angie asked. The Bellows both shook their heads.

‘I was just telling the officer that Joyce and I are tucked up by half past nine with our Ovaltine,’ the Reverend said. He looked momentarily brighter. ‘PC Penny has found a clue, though, a size 13 Nike trainer in the hedgerow.’

‘I’ll take it off for processing,’ PC Penny declared. ‘It’s a significant clue: the blighter’s fingerprints will be all over it.’

‘What if the trainer was there already?’ Angie pointed out quite reasonably.

PC Penny’s face dropped. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

By the time PC Penny had bagged up the trainer, informing them it would probably take ages to get anything back because of staff shortages, the three of them felt quite despondent.

‘The whole place seems to be falling down her around our ears,’ Joyce said miserably. Brian put a placating hand on her shoulder.

‘There, there, God will punish them in his own way. Come back inside and watch GMTV, your favourite bit is on in a minute.’

Angie bade them goodbye and glumly started for the Jolly Boot to tell Jack his graffiti-removal services would be needed yet again.

Compared to the Bellows and the Fox-Titts, Calypso was positively buoyant. These past few weeks with Rafe had been like a wonderful dream. From someone
who
was normally a social butterfly, Calypso had turned into a hermit: all she wanted to do was have Rafe to herself. Every spare second they’d been holed up at his: cooking, making love, watching DVDs, talking. Each day Calypso found a new depth to him, something else they had in common. Even when Rafe was on night shoots she was happy to spend time at his place, thinking of what to cook him when he got back or sexual positions she could tease him into later. So far they seemed to have added several new ones to the
Kama Sutra
.

That evening, it was late by the time Rafe got back. The sun had set on the pale blue horizon, and salmon-pink and mauve clouds were smeared across the sky. Sitting in the garden with a G and T, one of Rafe’s jumpers keeping her warm, Calypso had been gazing up, thinking how breathtaking it looked. There seemed to be touches of romance in everything at the moment, like she was seeing the world for the first time through a new set of eyes.

Rafe came out on to the patio, doing that easy smile that made her stomach flip. ‘Don’t get up.’ He walked over to the swing seat to kiss Calypso and then flopped down beside her. ‘Phew.’

‘Long day?’ she asked sympathetically, sitting up to rub his broad shoulders.

Rafe closed his eyes. ‘Mmm, that’s good.’

His mobile, which he’d chucked on the patio table, started ringing, the screen glowing in the darkness. He groaned. ‘I’ve only just got home!’

‘Don’t answer it,’ Calypso told him.

‘I’ve got to,’ he said regretfully, getting up. ‘It’s probably work.’ He picked up the phone and looked at it. ‘Yup, it’s my manager. Do you mind if I speak to him?’

‘Course not,’ Calypso said, as he wandered back into the kitchen to take the call. She smiled to herself, Calypso loved the way he called it ‘work’ as if he was working in an office or shelf-stacking in Sainsbury’s. It was so cute.

A few minutes later, Rafe came out. His shoulders looked rather tense.

‘Everything OK?’ Calypso asked, as he sat down again. Rafe had been getting a lot more work calls recently: if it wasn’t Wes Prince or one of the crew ringing about
A Regency Playboy
, it was his management team, chasing him about a new film project or an endorsement.

He nodded. ‘He wanted to run something past me.’

‘They should give you the bloody night off!’

Rafe smiled and leant over to kiss her. ‘You should meet Sophia’s manager, Gordon. He makes mine look positively lax. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving, obviously.’

‘I could throw a few things together from the fridge.’

Calypso considered it. ‘Why don’t we go to the Wheatsheaf instead? They’re probably still serving.’ The Wheatsheaf was a little pub a mile down the road that did quite good food. She saw Rafe hesitate. ‘What?’