Farm Fatale (9 page)

    "And where's the nearest, um, loo?" Rosie asked shyly.

    "Darnstairs and artside."

    "Think of it as romantic," advised Mark as the landlord shuffled off.

    Rosie looked out of the black square of window to where a full moon hung in the sky like a huge white balloon. As Mark came up behind her and slid his arms about her, she closed her eyes. It
was
romantic, she supposed, in a misogynistic-pub-sign, outside-loo sort of way.

    "Don't worry," he murmured into her neck. Shivers ran down her spine at his touch. "We will find our dream cottage somewhere."

    "Yes," Rosie said, taking the hands round her waist and squeezing them, grateful that, even after the disappointments of the afternoon, their dream of a rural idyll remained intact.

    "We have to." There was an urgent note in Mark's voice.

    "I know." It was wonderful, Rosie thought, glowing, how the project had united them.

    "Otherwise the column gets it."

Rosie woke up in the early hours desperate for the loo and profoundly regretting having taken so much Knickersplitter on board. It was called that, she realized, her bladder pulsating, for a reason. But their room, she knew, lacked even a sink to pee in, and the loo, of course, was outside. There was nothing for it but to brave the great, dark, cold outdoors.

    She groped her way to the door and down the silent corridor. Here at least she could see; the moon poured through the window like a spotlight, showing the way down stairs whose treads stuck gummily to her soles. Pushing open the back door, she gasped to feel the cold, although it hadn't felt all that warm inside.

    But, oh, the stars. The pain in her pelvis was almost forgotten as she stared, entranced, at the Big Dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia, the smudge of the Pleiades, the dusty sweep of the Milky Way. Then the eerie creak of the pub sign reminded her of her mission—and the wisdom of getting back inside as soon as possible. Groping to the left, she found a crude wooden latch, no more than a stick loosely nailed in the center. She twisted it and pushed the door open to encounter an eye-watering stench, glad it was too dark to view what were obviously medieval toilet facilities. Her fears were confirmed when her feet encountered soft mud. Or worse? Shuddering, Rosie lifted her nightdress and crouched.

    With terrifying suddenness, an indignant, high-pitched screech shattered the quiet into a thousand fragments. Rosie's heart shot into her mouth. Did the landlord have a wife and was she having a midnight pee too? Or—her veins froze—was the headless woman on the rampage? Petrified, Rosie flailed in the darkness, desperate not to fall into whoever—
whatever—it was. She screamed with fea
r as something huge, smelly, and hairy knocked her violently aside and charged, snorting, past her through the open door and out into the night.

It had taken a week of hard negotiation, but finally Samantha had done it. Her most subtle diplomatic tactics—violent tantrums, withdrawal of all sexual favors—had combined with a difficult week for Guy at work and secured his eventual capitulation. He had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to spend a weekend in the country. Samantha, although jubilant, had sensed the need to proceed with caution. She had not yet mentioned house-hunting, much less moving, as Guy's dislike of all things rural had turned out to be rather stronger than expected.

    "What do you mean I don't know what its like because I've never been there?" he demanded. "I grew
up
there, for Christ's sake. It's the most godawful place in the world. Nothing to do, no one to see. During the school holidays, I had a job delivering the post. I walked miles, got attacked by everyone's dogs, and none of the bloody houses or farms had a sodding number on them, much less a name. What the hell do you want to go
there
for?"

    Yet going there they were, on this brilliant Saturday morning, strapped in amid the luxury of Guy's XK9 with its computeradjustable super baby-soft seats made of the unblemished skins of Scandinavian calves. In the plaited ostrich-skin Bottega Veneta document wallet on Samantha's knee was a fat wad of estate agents' details. Details that must, for the moment, remain a secret, and, should Guy inquire, were officially notes for Christabel. Which they were in a way, even if it was unlikely any barmaid would ever have been able to afford the types of property Samantha had in mind. Unless she married the president of the pub company, of course. Samantha raised an eyebrow and smiled to herself. She'd done pretty well, all things considered. Life was good, even if the digital satellite-led trip planner feature on the dashboard currently showed the M1 like a blocked artery and them only just past Junction 3. As Guy gnashed his teeth and swore, Samantha looked serenely out of the tinted window at the (vastly inferior) cars grid-locked on either side of them.

    Closing her eyes in satisfaction, Samantha thought, phase one had now been accomplished. Guy had been successfully lured out of the capital. Phase two would be breaking his resistance down and showing him the delicious portfolio of houses she had built up. Forcing him to buy one and get rid of Roland Gardens was phase three: the biggest challenge of all. How this was to be achieved, Samantha had absolutely no idea. The re-granting of sexual favors, perhaps? Even though her entire career was based on the premise that where there's a willy, there's a way, she was aware that this strategy might be required for the successful completion of phase two. Destiny, she was sure, would come up with something, although it had better start trying. Hard.

    The signs, Samantha had to admit, were not good. The hope she had initially felt, on seeing Guy enthusiastically perusing
Country
Life
, faded at the realization that it was the "Girls in Pearls" he was looking at, not the house ads. As the car purred on, Samantha's thoughts flitted to more pleasant subjects, such as the manor house in a mellow stone currently top of her wish list. The fact that it had a stable block was of particular appeal; Samantha had always fancied herself as a horsewoman. Despite never having gotten closer to a horse than watching the Grand National on television, Samantha had no problems picturing herself in skintight breeches, Titian curls tumbling out of a riding hat, looking exactly like those pictures of Stefanie Powers at the polo grounds she had always so admired in the back of
Harpers & Queen.

    
Mounted on the sweeping lawns, Samantha Villiers shows off her
magnificent frontage…

    No, that didn't sound quite right.

    
On the sweeping lawns before the frontage of her magnificent house,
the acclaimed actress Samantha Villiers, mounted on a superb hunter,
tosses her Titian curls and smiles dazzlingly. Her long thighs lean in
Savile Row riding breeches, Samantha oversees the distribution of stirrup
cups (chilled Krugz) to the assembled hunt.

    
"I've always adored hunting," the
Punkawallah
star explains, "and
we have so much room here it seemed silly not to have the meet on our
lawns, which," she adds, completely unaffectedly, "it takes ten full-time
gardeners to keep looking pristine." Villagers unite in praise of their ce
lebrity lady of the manor, who, despite her fame and the endless demands
of the world's best-known directors clamoring for her services, still finds
time to open their carnival, crown its queen, and even set aside the time
and effort to judge the Best Decorated House competition (from which
Miss Villiers's own residence sportingly exempts itself)…

    Soothed by this pleasant vision and the smooth rhythm of the car, Samantha dozed off.

    "You look gorgeous when you're asleep," Guy greeted her as she woke with a jolt to find she had dribbled on her shirt. Briefly forgetting she was supposed to be charming the pants and then the objections off him, Samantha scowled viciously at her husband.

    "Where are we?" she snapped.

    "At the hotel."

    Samantha flipped down the mirror and squinted at her makeup. Apart from the dribble cutting a swathe through her foundation, she had survived the journey tolerably well. Guy, on the other hand, looked almost blue with exhaustion as he opened the trunk. "What on earth are you doing?" Samantha demanded.

    "Getting the bags."

    "But they'll come out and get them. We don't carry our
own
luggage."

    "It's only two bags, for God's sake. You're not at the bloody Chateau Marmont now, you know—if you ever were."

    Samantha comforted herself by patronizing Reception. "Well," she said pointedly, looking around the hallway, "it's not Chatsworth, is it?"

    "No, madam," the receptionist replied smartly. "Chatsworth's a forty-minute drive away."

    Samantha cast a furious look at the sniggering Guy.

***

On their return from dinner in the hotel restaurant (which, loudly supposing it to be the handiwork of untutored locals, Samantha had barely touched, not noticing the wealth of culinary awards on display around the entrance), Samantha saw that her bag remained on the bed where she had left it. She snatched up the telephone immediately. "Excuse me," she inquired haughtily of Reception. "My case hasn't been touched."

    There was a brief, surprised silence. "I must say this is very unusual, madam. Most people only complain if there has been interference with their belongings."

    "You misunderstand me," said Samantha, biting off each word. "It is not—ahem, how shall I put this—
unpacked
.'"

    Another amazed silence from the receptionist. Mingled with what sounded suspiciously like a suppressed snort. "Guests generally unpack their own cases here, madam. As you so accurately observed yourself, this is not Chatsworth."

    Samantha forced out a high-pitched giggle. "How quaint. I haven't unpacked my own case for years."

    Meanwhile, Guy, having finally located the piece of fake linenfold paneling concealing the television, was sitting in front of it with a huge glass of whiskey, trying to ignore the drama unfolding beside him. He couldn't cope with a prima donna performance, not now. Please God, they weren't heading for a repeat of the weekend in Paris when Samantha had refused to sleep in the bed because the thread count in the sheets was below 250. Normally he could stand up to her, but not after the week he'd had. Not to mention the sleepless nights—very unusual, but it had been hard to sleep with that funny, piercing, burning feeling somewhere in his stomach. Guy's heart sank as Samantha threw down the phone.

    It sank further when, suddenly, it rang again. Don't let it be the
bloody office, he prayed, feeling exhausted at the mere thought of it
. The burning feeling intensified as, no doubt anticipating another spat with the hotel staff, Samantha snatched up the receiver. Guy watched as her eyes widened and her face drained of all natural color. You had, he reflected, to look very hard to see that. One hand flew to her throat as she took a step backward. Guy's hand clamped round his whiskey glass like a vise. Bad news, obviously. That crucial deal he'd been handling, without a doubt. He began to struggle to his feet.

    "
How
many millions?" he heard her gasp. Inside Guy's head, everything went black. Christ. It
was
that deal. Had to be. Whole bank had sunk by the sound of it. But why the hell were they talking about it to Samantha?

    As Guy heaved himself upright, the pain ripped across his chest like a bullet. With a bubbling croak, he slumped back into the armchair. His head slammed forward on his chest the very moment Samantha banged down the receiver.

    "Darling!
Darling!
You'll never guess," she squealed excitedly. "Oh, darling, do wake up. I can't bloody
believe
you've gone to sleep now of all times. For Christ's sake, someone—some
film star
—saw our house in
Insider
at the weekend and thinks it's a work of design genius. Wants to buy it. For
millions
." She tugged agitatedly at Guy's arm. "We can't afford
not
to," she urged. "We'll never get an offer like this again. Bloody hell, Guy,
wake up
, you idle bastard."

"I don't know why you're being so touchy about it," Mark said. "It's fantastic material for 'Green-er Pastures.' Absolutely hilarious. Why can't I put it in?"

    "Because I'd rather you didn't," pleaded Rosie. "I don't really want the entire nation to read over their breakfast tables that I was knocked over by a pig while peeing in a field at midnight."

    "But it's so funny."

    Blushing, Rosie looked crossly out of the car window. "Well, it wasn't all that amusing last night." Nor this morning, come to that. If the landlord of the Silent Lady had been far from pleased to find his prize porker running amok in the village, the local shop owner on whose premises the pig had been eventually, messily run to ground had been even less so. They had left the village under clouds both metaphorical and literal and were now working through the list of the morning's properties. Which was comprised of exactly one. Nigel, understandably enough, had not thought it worth coming from the office, and as an indicator of the house's worth and condition, his instructions about finding the key under a planter by the front door had not been encouraging.

    "Can't believe you thought it was a ghost," Mark snorted as they drew up outside the house in question. Rosie reddened further, ashamed that she had thought this and not entirely for the reasons Mark assumed. Viewed in the (very) cold light of day, the lady on the sign had a dignity that suggested any kind of grunting and shoving would have been out of the question, even if her head had still been attached to her body.