Wild Oats (33 page)

‘Thanks for holding the fort again, Mum.’ He put an arm round her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze.

‘I’ll probably stay over if I have too much to drink, if that’s OK,’ he added, ever so casually, and Rosemary smiled her consent.

Jack was in the kitchen mixing huge pitchers of deadly fruit punch with an alchemist’s precision when Jamie came in. Olivier was washing up the last of the glasses they’d unearthed from the larder. He stared at Jamie in open admiration.

‘You do scrub up well,’ he said. She realized he hadn’t seen her in anything but scruffy jeans. Suddenly she felt a bit self-conscious. There was time to change into something less dressy. Then she thought no – this was an occasion. She was the hostess – she should look as if she’d made an effort. And she was actually enjoying the effect she was having.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she replied, and it was true. Gone was the jeans-wearing, slightly scruffy ski-bum. In his place was an elegantly casual young man, looking like the perfect host as he buffed up the glasses with a linen cloth and lined them up on a tray.

Jack, dapper as usual in a pale pink shirt, cavalry twills and spotted cravat, had long prided himself on his cocktail-making capabilities. Tonight, he’d mixed
together puréed raspberries, lime juice, gin, grenadine and ginger ale which, combined with copious amounts of ice, was deliciously refreshing, and tasted of summer, but packed a kick that would put the most reserved of guests into a party mood.

When he saw Jamie, his heart leaped into his mouth. For a moment, again, he’d thought it was Louisa coming into the kitchen. How many times had they been through this ritual, preparing for a party? He’d loved the sense of anticipation almost more than the event itself. He would always bring Louisa a glass of his latest concoction to taste in the bath, to get her approval.

He took a huge slurp himself instead to steady his nerves, not trusting himself to speak. Luckily, at that moment Lettice arrived, resplendent in turquoise silk and adorned with strings of amber necklaces.

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ she boomed, throwing her arms round Jack, thrusting a huge box of Havana cigars at him by way of a gift and demanding to taste the punch. Her arrival broke the moment, dragged him out of his reverie and extinguished the ghost in an instant, for which he was very grateful.

Ensconced in her old stamping ground in Shepherd’s Bush, Zoe now knew that she wasn’t going mad. She didn’t care that she’d got chewing gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe on the way back from getting some fags from the shop. That she nearly got run over crossing the road. That she had to wash her hair
because it was clogged with dirt and smog, whereas in Shropshire it lasted three days. She was happy again. She was in her natural habitat and, like an animal returned to the wild after some time in captivity, she began to thrive.

Tonight, Natalie’s husband Edwin was babysitting for their two little girls, Daisy and Millie, and Natalie and Zoe were going out on the town, together with Natalie’s au pair Marcella. Zoe couldn’t believe how excited she was about something she’d once taken for granted. It had been a heavenly couple of days. She’d had some serious retail therapy the day before, after her hairdresser had followed her instructions to the letter and created a new look. Today she’d got up late, scoffed brioches and coffee with Natalie on the decking, wandered into Barkers of Kensington to top up her make-up bag, had her nails done at a nail bar and bought quite the most outrageous dress she’d seen in the window of Morgan – she suspected she was the wrong side of thirty for Morgan, but she didn’t care. Made of a silver, chain-mail effect fabric, it had a halter neck and not a lot else. It plunged at the back right down to her bum. She’d obviously never be able to wear it in deepest, darkest Shropshire, so she was going to make the most of it by christening it that very evening. She wore it with bare legs, which she’d carefully St Tropezed right up to her bikini-line, and a pair of black R. Soles cowboy boots so she didn’t look too tarty. Just funky, out for a laugh.

Natalie, relatively understated in jeans, a black lace
shirt and killer ankle boots, looked at her askance as she came into the living room.

‘Bloody hell, Zo.’

‘Why not? I don’t go out very often. Ever, in fact. I’m going to make the most of it.’

‘I suppose I haven’t got the nerve. Or the legs.’

Marcella came in and her eyes widened when she saw Zoe. She was a dumpy creature, with a tendency towards seventies hair and make-up, her fringe carefully tonged and her eyebrows over-plucked into startled arches. Her tight top and hipster trousers did nothing to disguise the pot-belly that came from spending most of her money on English sweets.

The three of them all paraded for Daisy and Millie, who clapped their approval. Edwin came in and grinned.

‘Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. Have fun.’

Claudia’s bedroom looked like the first day of Rack-hams summer sale. There were designer clothes strewn everywhere, falling off hangers, slung on to the bed, lying in crumpled heaps where they had been discarded.

Jack Wilding had phoned earlier in the week to invite them to a garden party. Unbeknownst to her, Ray and Jack had got chatting in the paddock at Prescott, both discussing the merits of their protégés. And from the moment her father had told her about the Wildings’ invitation, she had been in a frenzy of indecision.

What the hell did you wear to a garden party? It meant hat and heels at Buck House, but it could mean jeans and T-shirt. She had no way of knowing, and she certainly wasn’t going to phone and ask. Olivier might answer the phone and she’d die on the spot.

Her mother knocked gently and opened the door. Claudia let out a wail.

‘Help me, Mum. What the hell am I going to wear?’

Barbara blinked in surprise. She didn’t think Claudia had ever asked her advice on clothes. Barbara was committed to Jacques Vert for smart, Marks & Sparks for casual; her signature colours were emerald green and navy. Her dress sense was a million miles away from her daughter’s. What was going on?

Barbara had begun to notice that Claudia had mellowed over the past few months. She’d been particularly quiet and thoughtful over the past week. They’d had a couple of chats that almost verged on heart-to-hearts, something Barbara had shared with Debbie and Andrea but never Claudia. But Claudia had asked her some searching questions. Had Barbara known when she’d met Ray that he was The One? And did Barbara think it was time she moved out – she was twenty-two; wasn’t she too old to be living with her mum and dad? Barbara had found herself reassuring Claudia that she could live with them as long as she liked. Afterwards, she was amazed. For as long as she could remember she’d longed for Claudia to move
out. But she was starting to like the softer, more vulnerable creature that was emerging, the creature that wasn’t quite so sure of herself. Barbara had found the last ten years emotionally exhausting: Claudia’s behaviour had often put a strain on her marriage to Ray. It was with an enormous sense of relief that she wondered whether at last they were to have some respite.

Swiftly, she helped Claudia restore some sort of order to her wardrobe, putting away the outfits that were unsuitable so they weren’t distracting and gradually narrowing the possibilities down until they hit on the perfect ensemble.

‘Are you sure I look OK?’ Claudia asked anxiously. Claudia, who always strode through the house and out of the front door confident that no one came close to looking as good as she did.

‘You look beautiful,’ Barbara reassured her.

She was more than a little disconcerted when Claudia gave her a hug of thanks. Disconcerted, but very gratified. And very curious as to who had wrought such a change in her daughter. But she didn’t pry. Not yet. She just crossed her fingers and prayed for her difficult, prickly, feisty little daughter’s happiness. Rather selfishly, perhaps, because what Barbara was looking forward to more than anything was enjoying Ray’s retirement, just three years away, and they could only do that if Claudia was settled and off their hands.

*

Rod had no intention whatsoever of going to the Wildings’ party. No way. It would be emotional bloody suicide, being in such close proximity to Jamie. And he was deeply into self-preservation at the moment. He’d had some time alone over the past few days, and had come to the conclusion that the only time he didn’t get hurt was when he behaved like a complete and utter bastard. He’d lost his heart to Jamie all those years ago and been damaged beyond repair. He’d managed to scrape himself back off the floor after some years and had found a certain happiness with Bella, only to be kicked in the teeth again when all he’d ever done was to try and make her happy. So the only answer was to behave like a caveman. Like most of his brothers, in fact. They behaved as they liked, with no regard to law, employers or wedlock, and as a result were perfectly contented. Whether anybody that lived with them was didn’t really come into it. The Deacon motto was ‘Me, Myself, I’, and Rod thought that it was about time he lived by it.

Foxy had texted him earlier asking him to come out, with a complicated itinerary involving two counties, three pubs and a nightclub. He’d take the Warrior, give a few people a lift, have a laugh, catch up with some old mates. It meant he couldn’t have a drink, but that didn’t matter so much.

It was only when he opened the wardrobe to get out his suede jacket and saw Bella’s clothes hanging there, that he wondered what she was doing. She hadn’t phoned or tried to contact him, which he
considered to be an admission of guilt and evidence of her shame. What a complete and utter fool he’d been…

He slammed the wardrobe door shut, put on his jacket and texted Foxy to say he was on his way.

21

Ray Sedgeley’s Jag bumped over the rutted track that a bunch of gold balloons had indicated led to Bucklebury Farm. He’d been delighted when Jack Wilding had phoned and asked them to the party. He and Jack had, by dint of sponsoring the two great white hopes of the summer, chatted at various race meetings and had struck up if not a friendship then an easy acquaintance. Barbara had been invited, of course, but was babysitting yet again for Andrea. Ray thought privately that his other two daughters took advantage of their mum’s good nature, but he didn’t say anything.

Claudia sat next to him, uncharacteristically quiet. She kept flipping through the CD-changer, which drove him demented, but he didn’t risk a mouthful by telling her to stop. He was immensely relieved that, after sulking for three days, Claudia had got over her disastrous wipe-out at Prescott the previous week and seemed to be back on track. She’d been out with Agnes Porter-Wright, who’d given her a thorough chewing for being a bad sport when Claudia had moaned about her debacle.

‘You only learn by your mistakes, my girl. It’s like riding a horse. Every good rider has to fall off. I’d be
very worried if you had a perfect track record. It would mean that you weren’t taking risks. Only those who dare, win.’

Claudia didn’t retaliate rudely, as Ray would have expected, for she had a healthy respect for the old girl. She’d seen jerky black-and-white film footage of her tearing round Brooklands in her Bentley, in the days when the racing was for real, when the track was a platform for showing off a car’s capabilities as it came off the production line, when the split-second timing could make or break a car’s commercial success. She’d been a glamorous figure in her time, had Agnes, a blonde bombshell with balls and attitude in the days when most women were still chained to the kitchen sink. Claudia admired her maverick, pioneering spirit, and as a result listened to her advice.

Later, Ray had caught Claudia clearing a space on the mantelpiece for the Corrigan Trophy.

‘It’s visualization,’ she explained. ‘If I imagine it there, I’ll make it happen.’

Ray was very doubtful. His own plan was far more likely to be effective. He hadn’t made a bomb out of scrap metal by indulging in flaky American New Age bollocks. It was just a question of waiting for the right moment. And Ray was good at that. In life, as in business, timing was everything.

In the passenger seat, Claudia’s tummy was churning, worse than ever it had before a race. She was nervous about meeting Olivier on neutral territory; wondered if perhaps he wouldn’t seem as alluring
away from the thrust and glamour of the racetrack, though she knew that was unlikely. His attraction was in his elusiveness; those brilliant eyes that could laugh one minute and look straight through her the next, his casual indifference, his total willingness to accept her as a fellow competitor and not be fazed; to be man enough not to crow when he beat her. Most men wouldn’t be able to resist keeping her in her place by flaunting their victory. But Olivier treated her as an equal, as if he was studiously ignoring the very obvious differences between them, and Claudia realized that wasn’t what she wanted at all.

Maybe off the track their relationship would alter: maybe away from the pressures of competition they could relax and he could treat her like the woman she so obviously was. She prayed the outfit she and her mum had settled on would strike the right note: cropped satin cargo trousers with ‘God’s Gift’ embroidered on the bum, a white fishnet jumper that showed off her tanned midriff, and low-heeled Grecian sandals that laced up her calves. He’d have to be made of stone to ignore her, surely?

Ray parked the car in the top paddock and wandered through the stable yard up to the house, where people were already milling about on the terrace outside the French windows. It was the perfect summer’s evening for a party, with the sun still beaming down but not too stiflingly hot. The garden looked like a slightly surreal film set – Moroccan souk meets Vita Sackville-West – the flower beds rampant with soft,
tangled blooms, Bedouin tents and hammocks and embroidered cushions slung about the lawns, huge terracotta pots stuffed with hot-pink pelargoniums, and the smell of incense mixing with the scent of recently cut grass.

Ray and Claudia greeted Jack and Jamie, presenting Jack with a magnum of champagne for his birthday. They were immediately introduced to more people than they could remember and plied with glasses of Jack’s wicked punch, which he’d nicknamed Bucklebury Folly. The guests were an eclectic mix of arty, county, bohemian, sophisticated and down to earth, ranging in age from early twenties to late sixties.