Wild Oats (24 page)

The first two hundred yards were torture: in his eagerness to get off to a flying start, Olivier had to decelerate hard to negotiate the lethal hairpin of Ettore’s Bend. But afterwards, after he’d regained his composure and his heart rate had slowed down a little, the rest of the course unfolded in front of him like a movie he had seen a hundred times. For these few glorious moments the world was his, as if he was invincible. There was a split second, when he approached the Esses and put his foot on the brake a little too late, when he thought the car wasn’t going to stop, that she was going to go flying over the edge and glide through the air over the miles and miles of countryside he could see below him. But with a finely-judged twitch of the steering wheel, he took the corner just in time, just as he knew he should, just as he had practised. He flew smoothly round the final semi-circle, then, with a sense of relief and achievement, put his foot down hard for the final stretch.

*

A thousand yards below him, Claudia listened with her heart in her mouth as the commentator announced Olivier had arrived safely at the finish. She didn’t have time to listen to what time he’d done. As she took her place on the start line, Olivier’s existence went entirely out of her head. She pressed her foot down on the throttle, felt the engine respond enthusiastically as if to reassure her they were in tune, then dropped her foot off the clutch as soon as she saw the light go green. Her whoop of excitement couldn’t be heard above the roar of the engines as she accelerated away.

It was all going so smoothly. She felt totally in control. And so she should be: she’d prepared thoroughly enough for today. She’d been to the driving school at Prescott twice where she’d been put through her paces by the instructors; she’d watched the re-runs of the videos they’d taken of her performances; she’d walked the course with her father to refresh her memory. She should have been able to get to the top without mishap.

But as she came out of the second hairpin and accelerated up the hill, she was momentarily blinded by the sun. She lost the line she was taking, overcompensated, totally misjudged the camber and, to her horror, felt herself leaving the road. There were a few moments of sheer terror as she wondered if she was going to slew into the metal girders that protected the spectators from the track. She braced herself, trying to keep calm as she dropped down the gearbox to slow down. Her heart was thudding wildly; she felt
for a moment as if she was going to pass out, as if her system couldn’t cope with the sky-high surge of adrenalin. Then suddenly the panic was over and she felt mere frustration as she hurtled over the gravel that edged the track where the car ground to a halt, stalling inelegantly.

Swearing profusely, she restarted the engine. It stalled again, refusing to cooperate, as if traumatized by its treatment. She took a deep breath and tried once more. Thankfully, it purred into life. She slammed the car into first, desperately trying to get it back on track as quickly as possible. Precious seconds were ticking by. The wheels spun round in vain, buried deep in the gravel, churning it up. She eased off the throttle, trying to gain traction, and the car eventually lurched forwards.

She rejoined the track, cheeks burning with humiliation, wanting the ground to open and swallow her up, imagining the knowing smirks of the audience, how they were telling each other that a silly little girl like her couldn’t possibly begin to handle such a powerful car.

Olivier came seventh, with a very respectable time of seventy-two seconds. Jamie found herself jumping up and down in delight. The man next to her smiled. His small son was perched on his shoulders, sporting a pair of ear defenders to protect him from the noise and a dangerous-looking ice-cream cornet that was about to drip on to his father’s neck.

‘Nice sport if you can afford it,’ the man remarked conversationally. ‘It’s all right for some, of course. Most of these cars are worth more than my bloody house is.’

‘Seriously?’ said Jamie, somewhat startled by this announcement.

‘Well, yes – when it comes to a toss-up between a Bugatti and a family home, normal people like me don’t have the luxury of being able to make the choice. Not when you’ve got the school fees to think about.’ He threw his eyes up to his son in a gesture of mock exasperation. ‘I just get my kicks out of watching. Most of these guys can afford both, of course.’

‘So – how much is one worth? On average?’ Jamie tried to sound casual.

The man shrugged. ‘A Bugatti? You wouldn’t get much change out of quarter of a million, for a decent model in reasonable nick. More, if it’s got a good history.’

Jamie tried not to look shocked. She had no idea that was what they were worth. If pressed, she’d have guessed between twenty and thirty thousand, which to her was a lot of money for what was essentially a toy. But a quarter of a million? That was a ridiculous amount of money. Immoral. Irresponsible. Outrageous.

It was also life-changing. Potentially.

She had to tell Jack. It was absolutely typical of him, to be naively harbouring something that was the answer to all their problems. Her mind raced through
the implications – even if his car was worth bottom book, with his half share there’d be enough to do up Bucklebury and have change.

She couldn’t tell him now. Besides, she didn’t want to bring the matter up in front of Olivier and Lettice. She’d wait till they were alone later that evening. Then they could crack open the champagne.

Claudia hadn’t even been placed. She was going to have the ignominy of fail next to her name when the results came out. As she drove back down the return road she cringed inwardly, trying to make herself unnoticeable, thinking that if anyone commiserated with her she’d burst into tears. Back in the paddock she parked hastily, took off her helmet and scurried off towards the bar with her head down. She needed a gin and tonic – her father had promised to drive the trailer home, so she could drown her sorrows with impunity.

The bar was full to bursting. She’d just joined the queue, hoping no one would notice her, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Olivier smiling at her.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear you wiped out.’

Wiped out? What did he mean, wiped out? They weren’t fucking surfing. Claudia glared at him.

‘Sorry? Why would you be sorry?’ she demanded belligerently.

He looked a little bewildered, then shrugged. ‘Well, you know. It happens to the best of us.’

‘Oh, I see. So you’re the best, are you?’ Claudia retorted.

‘It’s just an expression.’ Olivier recoiled from her riposte, looking at her with something bordering on distaste. ‘You know, you shouldn’t take part if you can’t cope with losing,’ he told her.

Claudia realized at once that she’d been too defensive, that she was guilty of being a bad sport, which was infinitely worse than being a bad driver. And to her horror, tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes at his reproach. She blinked them back, wishing she’d remembered her shades, praying Olivier wouldn’t notice. But before she could turn away, he peered at her.

‘Listen, I’m sorry –’ he began to apologize, but she jerked away from him.

‘Get off.’

For a moment they glared at each other.

‘Fine,’ he said, shrugging. ‘See you at Sapersley, then. For the Corrigan Trophy. May the best man win.’

Claudia didn’t miss the hint of mockery in his tone. She wanted to say sorry, beg him to come and have a drink, prove to him that she wasn’t a bad loser, but the words stuck in her throat. And before she could swallow her pride, he had turned away from her and was pushing his way out of the bar. She watched him walking off towards the orchard. As he disappeared amongst the throng, she felt filled with desolation, wondering why she always had to spoil everything.

*

As he made his way back to the paddock, Olivier wondered if perhaps he’d been a little too sharp with Claudia, even if she was behaving like a spoilt brat. She was only young, and it took a lot of bottle to get up that hill; he knew as well as anyone that the stress could play havoc with your nerves. He shouldn’t have goaded her like that. It would have been far more sportsmanlike of him to have taken the time to placate rather than chastise her; he should have bought her a drink, not torn her off a strip. Besides, he’d have quite liked a chat with her, to see what made her tick and find out why a girl that looked as if she belonged on the catwalk was happier on the racetrack. He resolved to make a real effort to befriend her at Sapersley: if they were going to be rivals, they might as well be friends.

On the way home, Claudia’s thunderous mood enveloped the cab of the Winnebago, hanging ominously in the air. Ray tried trickling out a few platitudes, like ‘You win some, you lose some.’ He had been rewarded with a particularly venomous scowl. He thought it best not to follow it up with ‘It’s not the winning, it’s the taking part.’

She put her feet up on the dashboard defiantly. The stroppy, troublesome teenager of years gone by had reappeared.

‘Fuck it. I might as well not bother any more.’ She thumped her fist on her leg in frustration. ‘I drove like a bloody girl.’

‘Cherub, look upon it as experience. You won’t make the same mistake again.’

‘No. I won’t. Because I’m not bloody driving again.’

Ray’s heart lurched and ended up somewhere near his lunch. This was the moment he’d been dreading. The moment when Claudia became bored and lost interest. He’d had a year’s grace; a year when he’d been able to stop worrying about her and what she was going to do with her life.

‘You can’t give up. It’s the Corrigan Trophy the week after next. This is what you’ve been working up to for weeks.’ He tried desperately to think of something that might persuade her it was worthwhile. ‘Think of Agnes. Think of all the hard work she’s put in. She’d be so disappointed.’

She glared at him, bolshy and defiant.

‘Well, if I don’t win that, that’s it. Forget it.’

Ray negotiated his entry on to the M5 extra carefully. His heart was beating so fast he couldn’t concentrate. He was going to have to get his thinking cap on. Claudia was going to win the Corrigan Trophy no matter what it cost him.

15

Jamie waited until they were alone before tackling her father about the Bugatti’s worth. She wanted his undivided attention. And she certainly didn’t want to discuss money in front of Lettice and Olivier. They’d all come back to Bucklebury for a celebration supper: only cold chicken and potato salad, but it was a merry meal, with Jack and Olivier dissecting everyone’s performance. Eventually Lettice declared herself exhausted.

‘Even more exhausting and exhilarating to watch than horse racing. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when that little girl came off the track. I was sure she was a goner.’

‘Don’t worry. Claudia knows exactly what she’s doing.’ Olivier’s tone was dry.

‘She’s certainly got a lot of gumption.’ Lettice prodded Jamie. ‘You should have a go. Looks as if they need more girls in the sport. Glam it up a bit.’

‘No fear,’ said Jamie.

‘You’re a daredevil on a horse,’ said Jack.

‘That’s different. A horse has got a brain.’

‘It’s exactly the same theory. Spurs and reins; throttles and brakes.’

Jamie smiled, shaking her head, not wanting to
pursue the subject any further in the light of what she was going to say. Lettice finally drove off home happily, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Olivier was piling the washing-up into the sink, squirting Fairy liberally all over the plates. Ever since her jibe the other morning, he had been anxious to pull his weight. But Jamie wanted to be alone with her dad.

‘Listen, I’ll do it. You’ve had a long day. Go and have a hot bath. I bought some fantastic bubbly stuff the other day – if you’re very good I’ll let you steal a bit.’

Olivier smiled gratefully.

‘I must admit I’m knackered. My neck’s killing me. What I really need’s a good massage.’

He rolled his shoulders and twisted his head to try and relieve the tension. Jamie poked him with the washing-up brush.

‘Go on. Go and get a good night’s sleep.’

He finally went, as Jack brought in the wine glasses from the garden. There was just enough for a glass each left in the bottom of the bottle.

‘Finish it off with me?’ he asked. Normally, Jamie would refuse, but tonight she accepted.

‘Let’s go and sit down. I need to talk to you.’

‘Sounds ominous.’

‘No. Not at all. In fact, I think it’s good news.’

They curled up in the living room. Jamie lit the half-dozen candles on the wrought-iron candelabra by the fireplace, and the room glowed. The windows were still open. Outside, it had begun to rain gently,
and the scent of damp earth that had been warmed by the summer sun wafted in from the garden.

Jack stretched his legs out luxuriously in front of him.

‘So – what’s the big secret?’

‘Dad. The Bugatti. You do know how much it’s worth?’

Jack looked at her warily.

‘Well, not exactly, no. It’s not an exact science, valuing a car like that. It depends on all sorts of things. Model, condition, specification, demand…’

‘But roughly?’ Jamie persisted.

Jack shrugged. He had that look in his eye that suggested he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

In a split second she realized that of course he knew. If anyone had their finger on the pulse of what things were worth, it was her father. The implications took her breath away. Surely he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice Bucklebury Farm for a bloody car? Then she remembered her father embracing Olivier after the hill-climb, clapping him on the back, and the look of total, utter delight on both of their faces. Of course he would. Of course he bloody would.

‘I was told,’ she said slowly, ‘that a car like that would be worth somewhere in the region of a quarter of a million.’

Jack didn’t answer at first.

‘Give or take ten grand,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But you’d have to wait for the right buyer…’

‘But if you did sell. You do realize what this could mean?’ Jamie was becoming impatient. ‘Dad – if you got your half share out of the car, we could restore Bucklebury. We’d be talking about at least a hundred thousand pounds.’