Wild Oats (35 page)

At ten, when everyone had eaten their fill and more, the guests were distracted from their gossiping and flirting by Jamie emerging from the kitchen with
an enormous birthday cake spiked with long white tapered candles. As she walked towards Jack, grinning, a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ struck up.

Everyone gathered round as Jack blew out the candles.

‘Make a wish!’ shouted someone.

He knew it was pointless, but as he slid the knife through the sugary white icing and into the sponge, he wished that somehow he could save Bucklebury. Not for himself, but for Jamie, for posterity, for the grandchildren he felt sure he would one day have…

‘Speech,’ shouted someone else, and Jack put up his hand in protest. Usually voluble when called upon to speak, he felt too emotionally vulnerable at that moment. Touched by Lettice’s generosity and Jamie’s gesture with the birthday cake, and filled with sentimentality that this was the very last birthday party he would celebrate here, he didn’t know what he could say or refer to without making a fool of himself or, quite frankly, bursting into tears.

To his surprise, Jamie stepped forwards instead.

‘There’s just a few things I wanted to say. Firstly, of course, happy birthday to Dad. I’ve no idea how old he actually is, so there’s no point in counting the candles. But many happy returns of the day, Dad.’

Everyone raised their glass to toast him, and Jack bowed his head modestly, thinking that really he couldn’t take much more of this.

Jamie went on.

‘Secondly, for those of you who don’t know, Dad
and I have decided that very sadly we’re going to have to sell Bucklebury Farm. It’s no longer practical, we can’t do the place justice. So this is our last bash here and we want you to enjoy yourselves.’ There was a murmur of consternation from those who hadn’t realized. Jamie gave a wry smile. ‘Anyone who fancies making an offer should go and see Christopher Drace – we’re going to be instructing him to put it on the market next week.’

Christopher, who was sitting on a nearby hay bale, looked a bit embarrassed, feeling as if he was somehow profiting from the Wildings’ misfortune.

Jamie continued.

‘Finally, the last time I saw most of you was at Mum’s funeral. And I don’t think anyone was in a fit state to pay her tribute at the time, or look back on her life in the manner which she deserved. So for me this party has been as much in her honour as Dad’s. I’m sure she’s up there now, wishing she was here with all of us. So please, everyone, raise your glasses… to Louisa!’

‘To Louisa!’ chorused everyone obediently.

It was Lettice who noticed Jack scurry back inside, on the pretext of changing a CD, and found him wiping away a tear in the drinks cupboard.

As the sun finally set and the night-scented stocks began to throw out their delicate perfume, Jamie lit the tea lights while her guests sat around gossiping, drinking and laughing. Others lolled on cushions in
the Bedouin tent, gorging themselves on the syrup-drenched pastries that proved too much of a temptation even for the most abstemious. Some danced, entwined dreamily in each other’s arms as music trickled out over the lawn.

Jamie stretched out her hand to Olivier, who had finally doused the barbecue coals.

‘Olivier, come and dance with me.’

The music floated on the night breeze, the notes drifting across the valley as far as Lydbrook.

‘Lucky we haven’t got neighbours,’ joked Jamie drily.

Olivier couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually held a girl in his arms to dance with her. The ski resorts he worked in favoured boisterous, noisy discos, with everyone drinking to excess to kill the aches and pains of the day’s sport. Jamie snuggled comfortably into him. He put one hand in the small of her back and linked the fingers of his other hand in hers. It could hardly be called dancing; they were just moving slowly in time to the music. But for Olivier, it was as if everyone else had disappeared, as if the music was playing just for them. He wanted, so badly, to kiss her hair. He could smell the baby shampoo she used. And her scent. A very faint trace of a perfume that seemed familiar somehow, though he was sure he hadn’t smelled it on Jamie. He racked his brain, trying to remember, when suddenly it came to him, and he realized it was the perfume her mother had always worn. His stomach lurched with the
memory. The thought distracted him so much, it was a moment before he became aware that Jamie was talking to him.

‘I wanted to say thank you. For so many things. For sorting Dad out for a start. And for being so supportive; helping me see things more clearly.’ She gave a grin. ‘And for mowing the lawns.’

‘That’s OK. It’s the least I could do.’

‘You’re a real mate.’

Olivier didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be a mate. That was such a sexless word. Holding Jamie in his arms like this was sheer torture; it was like a physical taunt. But at the same time, he didn’t want this moment to end.

From inside the makeshift gazebo, Claudia lay sprawled on a cushion, watching Olivier and Jamie with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t had a chance to get near Olivier all evening, except for a polite and perfunctory kiss just after they’d arrived – he’d touched her on the elbow, smiled and said he’d catch her later. While Jack and Jamie were the official hosts of the evening, Olivier had obviously taken it on himself to provide them with back-up so they could spend time talking to their guests rather than looking after them. He’d spent the entire evening topping up glasses and supervising the barbecue, leaving Claudia with no window of opportunity to bestow her charms upon him.

She’d let the Preston brothers provide her entertainment instead. She had to admit they were good
value: they alternately teased and admired her, showering her with compliments and sexual innuendoes that were endearing rather than insulting. As a result Claudia was feeling surprisingly relaxed, further helped by the spliff they were sharing, made from some grass one of the lads had grown on his father’s estate.

‘Bloody excellent cash crop,’ he explained to Claudia. ‘I’ve told Dad it’s a rare French lettuce leaf that all the posh restaurants in Ludlow are after. He’s putting aside another field so we can grow some more.’

The four of them rolled around on the cushions, helpless with laughter, but Claudia didn’t take her eyes off Olivier for a second.

Olivier’s heart was thudding. Just do it, he told himself. Just kiss her. For God’s sake, of all the women he had kissed in his life, not many had objected. She was definitely relaxed; they were snuggled up quite cosily together. He’d only need to drop his head, brush his lips against her in a gesture that could be seen as affection or invitation – it would be up to her to decide. She could respond if she wanted to.

But every time he convinced himself it was the right moment, he bottled out. The record was nearly coming to an end: he’d lose the opportunity if he wasn’t careful. She looked up at him and smiled. Encouraged, he mustered up the last of his courage and bent his head.

Olivier felt Jamie tense. Hastily he backed away,
then realized she wasn’t resisting his imminent kiss. She’d seen something over his shoulder. She dropped his hand like a hot potato and pulled away.

‘Excuse me. Late arrival. I’d… better go and say hello.’

She hurried off, and Olivier peered into the darkness to see who it was. A dark bloke, about his own age, gypsy good looks… The penny dropped. Rod Deacon. He remembered Jack pointing him out in the Royal Oak. What the hell was he doing here? He’d bummed out on the deal on Bucklebury. Olivier couldn’t imagine for a moment why he’d think he was welcome.

But from the way Jamie was scurrying over to him, she didn’t seem to bear him any grudges whatsoever.

Jamie walked across the grass towards Rod, her heart banging against her ribs like a songbird trapped in a cage. He was looking round self-consciously. As he saw her approach, his face broke into a tentative smile.

What was he doing here?
she wondered. Was he just bored – had he turned up to cadge a few free drinks and see what talent was available? Or did he want to see her? He’d seemed very cautious when she’d invited him; he hadn’t exactly responded with enthusiasm.

‘Hi.’

She was two feet away from him. He stuck his hands in his pockets awkwardly, and grinned.

‘Hi. Sorry – you did say. I thought… well, I wasn’t doing anything. So…’

‘No, that’s great. It’s great to see you. Do you want a drink? There’s wine, beer…’

‘I’m fine for the moment.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Looks like it’s been a good party.’

Jamie nodded. She couldn’t find her voice; couldn’t bring herself to say what she really wanted. She didn’t want to make herself look a fool, by saying that it was the best party in the world now that he’d turned up. He was looking at her, and she felt herself blush. She must be a bit of a mess by now – her hair was all over the place, her make-up had worn off and she’d taken off her shoes.

‘You look gorgeous.’ His voice was low and soft.

‘Thank you…’

There was another moment’s silence that seemed to last a hundred years, before the opening chords of the next track floated over the lawn towards them. ‘Summer Breeze’, by the Isley Brothers. Jamie used to have it on a compilation tape she’d painstakingly made up on her parents’ sound system. She remembered playing it on the cassette in Rod’s car that summer; they’d rewound it and rewound it till the tape had finally worn thin and snapped. She wondered if he remembered it too.

She looked into his eyes, and the smile in them told her that he did. He held out his arms. Wordlessly, she moved into his grasp, sliding her arms around his waist under the suede of his jacket. She felt herself melting into his warmth – there was no trepidation,
no fear, no question. She pressed herself against his chest and felt his heart beating in unison with hers. As he squeezed her tight, she felt as if she was waking from her recurring dream – only this time it was for real. The stranger that held the key to her happiness, that had taken her to the height of bliss and ecstasy in her sleep so many times, only to slip through her fingers when she woke, was here at last in her arms.

22

For the whole time since she’d been at her mother’s, no food had passed Bella’s lips. She’d lain in her bed, gazing at the faded patches on the wallpaper, ghostly reminders of the posters she’d hung there during her teenage years. Her head was throbbing with dehydration. She felt as weak as a kitten. She put her hands up to her face: she could feel her cheekbones, reassuringly razor sharp. She circled her wrist with her thumb and middle finger, admiring how easily they met as she contemplated her plight.

It was only a matter of time before her mum found out the truth. As soon as she came into contact with Rod, he’d put her straight. And Bella knew she couldn’t keep them apart for ever. Her mum was already baying for Rod’s blood. And once Pauline knew, that would be it. She wouldn’t support Bella after that. She’d be horrified by what she had done. Because it was evil. Bella knew that. It was downright wicked and evil and she didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness, not her mum’s, not Rod’s, not anyone’s.

She’d had a whole week to think about it, and had decided what she had to do. She’d had to wait for Pauline to go out for her ritual girls’ night with the women she taught Latin American ballroom dancing.

Her mother hadn’t wanted to leave her, but Bella had insisted she would be fine, and promised to call her mobile if anything was wrong. Pauline had left, reluctantly, at eight, promising to be back before midnight.

It had taken Bella until now to gather the strength for what she had to do. She swung her legs out of bed and got experimentally to her feet. She had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her head was swimming, her legs weak. Slowly, carefully, she made her way to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror over the sink for a moment. Her face was as white as a sheet, her eyes sunken and surrounded by purplish rings. Her black hair hung round her face, stringy and greasy. She felt a sudden urge to smash the mirror, pick up the shattered shards and hack at her reflection. Hate. That was the only emotion she could muster up now. Not self-pity, not regret, not desolation. Just hideous, ugly, black hatred for the monster that was staring back at her.

She opened up the medicine cabinet. From it, she extracted a bottle of paracetamol, a bottle of cough mixture, some prescription painkillers her mother used when her back was giving her trouble and a bottle of sleeping tablets. She carried her stash down-stairs and placed it carefully on the dining table. Then she went over to the sideboard and opened the door that contained her mother’s drink supply. Pauline wasn’t a great boozer, but she liked to have a bottle of most things to hand for when people called. Bella
carefully selected a bottle of Baileys. Then she opened her mother’s chocolate drawer. Pauline didn’t have much of a sweet tooth either, but her pupils often gave her boxes of chocolates on her birthday or at Christmas or to say thank you, and she stored them away ready for an opportune occasion to share them or pass them on to someone else.

Now Bella found it difficult to choose. There was Terry’s All Gold, Black Magic, Ferrero Rocher, After Eights, chocolate brazils. Her mouth watered in anticipation. She scooped them all up greedily and plonked them on the table next to the bottles of medicine. She could have what she liked this time. She didn’t have to worry about what effect they might have on her waistline or her bottom. She didn’t have to run up to the scales afterwards and survey the needle anxiously, or stick her fingers down her throat. She could gorge herself on the whole lot without so much as a pang of guilt.

She might as well go out enjoying herself.

At the Electric Bar and Grill on the Portobello Road, Zoe, Natalie and Marcella had trashed four bottles of white wine and two packets of cigarettes between them. At half past ten, Natalie decided she was ready to go home. Zoe looked at her aghast.

‘You can’t be! It’s not even eleven yet! This is my big night out.’