Wild Oats (21 page)

‘It’s OK, it’s under control,’ said Zoe desperately. ‘Fuck off, Soot.’

Christopher looked alarmed. ‘We can’t eat that!’

Why did they have to have come in? They’d never have noticed.

‘There’s nothing else!’

‘There must be.’

‘Well, there isn’t.’

Christopher tried to remain robust and cheerful. He didn’t want to come across as some chauvinistic, tight-lipped husband who tut-tutted at his wife’s inadequacies. He peered into the fridge optimistically. A lamb bone, two roast potatoes and three tubs of Munch Bunch fromage frais.

‘I was going to do a big shop tomorrow,’ Zoe fibbed.

‘Eggs. You must have eggs. Or baked beans? I’m not fussy,’ Jamie suggested helpfully.

There was a stony silence. Christopher smiled.

‘We’ll get a take-away. I’ll drive back into Ludlow.’

‘They’ll be hours. It’ll take hours!’

‘No, it won’t. Not if we phone ahead.’

Zoe plonked herself down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m useless. I’m so fucking useless.’

‘No, you’re not. It was an accident,’ said Jamie soothingly. ‘Look – why don’t I nip home? I know we’ve got eggs. We can do omelettes.’

Jamie came back ten minutes later with big, fat, free-range eggs, a lump of Gruyère and a fistful of fresh herbs she’d picked from the garden. Zoe sat slurping miserably at her Merlot, watching her produce three fluffy omelettes that were just the right side of gooey.

Christopher managed to temper his appreciation so that Zoe wouldn’t feel too bad – it was the kiss of death to wax lyrical about another woman’s cooking,
especially when it was performed in your own kitchen.

But when he saw Jamie out later, he thanked her profusely. She waved away his thanks.

‘She’s not very happy, is she?’

‘No. But I don’t know what to do. She absolutely loathes it here.’

‘She’s not the Zoe I remember.’

‘She’s like a fish out of water.’

Jamie screwed up her face in puzzlement.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Most people would give their eye-teeth to live somewhere like Lydbrook. It’s idyllic.’

‘Well, apparently not.’

Jamie was surprised to hear the normally good-natured Christopher apparently running out of patience. He looked at her with something that bordered on despair.

‘I don’t know what to do. I mean, you can’t help someone who won’t help themselves, can you?’

‘Maybe she’s depressed?’

‘What the hell has she got to be depressed about? I mean, look at you. You’ve got serious problems, but you manage not to collapse on the floor in a snivelling, drunken heap.’

‘I’m not as brave as you might think.’ Jamie remembered the state she had got herself into at Owl’s Nest the day before. ‘You just need to be patient.’

Patient, thought Christopher glumly. Frankly, he thought he’d been patient long enough.

*

That night, Rod and Bella tried to make love again, just in case there was still a fertile egg lurking in her tubes. But this time Rod found himself totally incapable – his penis was as soft and squashy as a marshmallow, stubbornly refusing to respond, no matter how Bella coaxed and cajoled. They went to sleep without discussing it, disconcerted by this latest spanner in the works.

Later, Rod woke to find Bella lying on her back, gazing at the ceiling, and he tried to apologize.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. It’s probably stress; worrying over Bucklebury Farm.’

Bella turned to face him. He could see her cleavage, the dark of her nipples peeping over the top of her nightdress. But still nothing doing… She was talking to him, her tone comforting.

‘Don’t worry, baby. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe we should just forget everything for a couple of months. Enjoy what’s left of the summer. Have some fun. I mean, it’s all become a bit of a chore, hasn’t it?’

She hugged him reassuringly and Rod smiled at her gratefully. Ten minutes later she was asleep, leaving him gazing at the ceiling, wide awake, wondering why his prick of a prick had decided to betray him, when it had been so perky and receptive all of his life. But then it seemed as if everything was going pear-shaped at the moment. Bucklebury Farm, for a start. It was all very well Bella telling him not to worry, but she obviously didn’t realize quite how much the project meant to him.

Ever since he’d struck the deal with Jack Wilding, he’d spent days and nights fantasizing about what he was going to do there. Starting with the kitchen, of course, as that could double as a showroom – a living, breathing example of his work that he could show to prospective customers, instead of them flipping through his album of Polaroids. He wanted to do something incredibly modern in contrast to the beams and flagstones; but not one of the clinical, abattoir-like designs that seemed to be in fashion. Something with curves, rounded edges and perhaps warm, pink marble work surfaces; something with impact yet at the same time warm and welcoming, as every heart of the home should be. Then he would move on to the bedrooms at the very top of the house. He planned to do them out like a ship’s cabin – high bunk beds with lots of cunning drawers and cupboards underneath where children could store all their treasures. Then in the garden, a wooden pirate ship where they could sail away on their own private adventures… The drawing table in his workshop was covered in doodles and daydreams. He was, he knew, obsessed with creating the perfect family home, an environment where life was idyllic, the stuff of storybooks, a Sunday supplement fantasy. For all Rod wanted, all he’d ever really wanted, was a family of his own…

He’d got it all worked out. Three children was the perfect number. He’d like more, but that was unrealistic. Rod knew from experience that in very large families you had to stand on your own two feet,
not expect any mollycoddling. He wanted to be able to give his own kids equal attention. No one had ever sat down and explained the mysteries of where the extra ten actually came from in subtraction, or tested him on his spellings, or stuck his paintings up on the kitchen wall. He didn’t blame his parents: they had a tough life, his father eking out a living from the land, Nolly holding down two or three jobs for extra cash to feed all the mouths. They simply didn’t have time to harbour aspirations for their children, or to put in the effort that would enable them to better themselves. So Rod had determined to give his own children everything he had missed, but also everything he had gained from being in a warm, noisy family who stuck together and looked out for each other.

He’d always known he’d married Bella on the rebound. After Jamie had vanished, Rod had become a recluse for about six months. It had coincided with the time Lady Pamela had commissioned him to build her kitchen, so he had gratefully buried himself in his work. Eventually, when it became clear that Jamie wasn’t going to make a miraculous reappearance, or even contact him to explain, his brothers had coaxed him out and his social life had revived. He’d spent a few years having casual flings, never giving any woman the full benefit of his charms, expecting nothing from them and giving little in return. It was a chauvinistic, hedonistic lifestyle that went against the grain because, underneath it all, Rod was monogamous through and through. All the while, he was keeping his eyes peeled
for Miss Right, the one he could marry and fulfil his dreams with.

When he’d met Bella, she had seemed like the one. He admired her for her work; she was incredibly dedicated to the dance school. But then, he was married to his work too. He could lose hours in his workshop, absorbed in crafting the perfect join. But because of their dedication to their individual careers, they understood each other perfectly – she didn’t moan when he was so absorbed in a project that he didn’t get home till gone midnight; he didn’t complain when she was wrapped up in ballet exams or a show that meant constant rehearsal. Plus she was beautiful and sexy. Rod wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t enjoyed the envious glances other men gave him when they were out together. Bella had the body of a goddess, and dressed it to suit, without ever looking tarty or tacky. And the sex had always been pretty amazing – until recent events and pressures had taken over, that is.

So Rod had gone to the altar quite happy that he had made the right choice. But he sometimes felt that there was something missing. It was almost as if they were both operating on automatic pilot, mannequins living out an idyllic existence, perfect specimens in a perfect house with perfect careers. They had all the material ticks in all the boxes. But Rod knew he was deceiving himself, because although he loved Bella, worshipped at the temple that was her body, enjoyed her company, respected her opinion – all the things
that were necessary in a successful marriage – he knew she didn’t set his heart alight. He had hoped that perhaps children would bring that spark, that when they held a tiny being they’d created together, they too would bond, but now that hope was becoming more and more elusive, and their desperate efforts to procreate were gradually driving them apart. And deep down, he suspected that the spark he was yearning for couldn’t be manufactured. It was something that came naturally and spontaneously; an ethereal tingle whose ingredients couldn’t be pinned down. But when they were there, you knew about it.

He knew that, because he’d had it with Jamie. That wonderful, floating feeling that was comfort and security and togetherness, together with a special glow that made you feel warm inside whenever you thought about the other person. He’d felt so sure it was reciprocated. But to this day, he didn’t understand why Jamie had fled without a word. Surely it didn’t get better than what they’d had? What was there to run away from?

When he’d seen Jamie sobbing the day before, all the feelings he’d been repressing for so long had come flooding back. When Bella had cried over the loss of Bucklebury Farm, he’d comforted her, but her angst hadn’t hit him in the core of his belly. He hadn’t had an overwhelming urge to make things right for her. He’d reassured her out of duty, not passion. But Jamie: he’d go to the ends of the earth to make things right for her, even now. He’d wanted to scoop her
up, make it better, make her smile – never mind that she’d come barging into his home with all guns blazing.

As he lay there reliving their confrontation, he wondered if the real reason he’d tried to buy Bucklebury Farm was because he knew, eventually, Jamie would find out what he was trying to do, and would do everything in her power to stop him. Was it his twisted way of bringing her back into his life? Because if so, he’d succeeded.

Dawn came, and Rod eventually fell into a troubled sleep. There were so many problems turning over in his mind that he didn’t know which to address, especially as he knew there was bugger all he could do about any of them.

Zoe woke at four in the morning with a pounding head and a raging thirst, the memory of last night’s disaster needling at her conscience. If they’d been in London, if they’d been in Shepherd’s Bush, they could have phoned Zaffran’s and within twenty minutes the little waiter would have been at the door with steaming foil cartons full of tandoori chicken masala and still-warm poppadoms.

But they weren’t. And she’d shown herself up in front of Jamie, who’d been so nice and sympathetic about the whole thing that she couldn’t hate her. And Christopher had been upset. He hadn’t said anything, because he was so spectacularly non-confrontational, but she could see it in his face, and the way he lay in
bed that night. She felt ashamed, like a badly behaved little girl who’d let her parents down in front of a special visitor. She hated herself. Why on earth couldn’t she have kept it together?

The whole time Jamie had been there, Zoe had felt like a gooseberry. She and Christopher had chattered on about their houses as though they were people, until Zoe almost expected Lydbrook and Bucklebury to take on human form and join them for supper. She found it all slightly nauseating and sentimental. But then, she’d been brought up in a modern four-bedroomed detached on the outskirts of Guildford – perfectly pleasant, but not something to get attached to. Perhaps if she’d had the legacy of a country pile, she’d feel the same way.

And the way Jamie called Christopher ‘Kif’ – it was so intimate, so excluding, somehow. It made Zoe feel as if she didn’t know her own husband. It smacked of childhood secrets and adventures, teenage escapades that she hadn’t been a part of. Even though it was she who was married to Christopher, she who shared his bed and had borne his children, she felt as if Jamie was more privy to the real him.

And she began to wonder about Christopher’s feelings for Jamie. When she’d waltzed back in with that clutch of farm-fresh eggs and done her domestic goddess bit, Zoe hadn’t missed the admiration in his eyes. She could almost hear him thinking, ‘Why couldn’t Zoe do that?’

Feeling thoroughly sorry for herself, Zoe rolled out
of bed, padded down to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Another day, another hangover. Hey-ho. At least it was Saturday. She could lie in bed all morning and sleep it off. Christopher could get up and give the boys breakfast before he went to work.

14

Jamie woke up the next morning determined to forget all her troubles for the rest of the weekend. After all, sometimes inspiration struck when you weren’t thinking. And there was certainly no point in trying to have a sensible conversation with Jack today. He and Olivier were as excited as two small boys about today’s hill-climb. They’d spent the evening before in the garage, fine-tuning – they were still in there fettling when Jamie had got home from Lydbrook. And to her surprise, they were both up by half past six. By the time she came down to the kitchen at seven, they were in the yard loading the Bugatti on to a rusty old trailer that looked as if it defied every safety regulation in the book. They’d daubed the licence number of the Land Rover on to a bit of old cardboard and tied it on with some baler twine.

‘You’ll get stopped by the police,’ warned Jamie, but they seemed unperturbed.

‘We’d better be off,’ said Jack, looking anxiously at his watch and calculating the day’s timetable backwards. ‘Scrutineering starts at ten.’