Wild Oats (36 page)

‘Zo – I’m tired. Daisy and Millie are going to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. And frankly, I’m
bored. It’s not as if you can even have a conversation in here.’

This was true. They were bellowing at each other over the noise. Zoe turned pleadingly to Marcella.

‘You’ll stay, won’t you, Marcella? You’re not going to be a party pooper?’

‘Sure. I’ll stay.’ The Czechoslovakian smiled obligingly. Natalie picked up her bag and stood up. She kissed Zoe apologetically.

‘I’m really sorry, Zo. I know I’m boring but I just can’t do late nights any more. The price is too high. Have fun, OK?’

Natalie the traitor disappeared off into the night.

‘Right,’ said Zoe with relish to Marcella. ‘Where next?’

Bella had lined up a selection of chocolates on the chenille tablecloth, and carefully inserted a tablet into each. Then she poured herself a glass of Baileys. Ceremoniously she began her feast, slowly at first, running her tongue luxuriously through the cocoaencrusted globules of fat, probing for the underlying flavour – tangy orange, buttery caramel, vibrant mint – revelling in the luxury of not having to torture herself again, of not having to deprive herself and not having to punish herself if she gave in.

Rod had never known how much she had struggled with her disorder. By the time they were married, she was very practised at hiding it. When he came down to breakfast, her plate would already be in the sink, a
few crumbs carefully scattered over it, together with a knife which she had scraped through the butter and dunked in the jam. They rarely ate together at lunchtime, but she would regale him with descriptions of the baguettes, jacket potatoes and slices of pizza she had consumed. She left chocolate wrappers and crisp packets that she found on the floor of the dance school in the car. And if she was forced to eat too much, a surreptitious vomit or a dose of laxatives soon redressed the balance. Rod genuinely believed that Bella was merely disinterested in food. How was he to know that every bacon sandwich he’d devoured in front of her had haunted her for the rest of the day? How she’d imagined its crispy saltiness, the fat-soaked bread.

Her only reward was admiring her concave stomach, the tiny childlike buttocks. She joked about her high metabolism. And, of course, the exercise helped. She made sure that for every leg raise her pupils did, she would do three. And they were only doing one class. She was doing at least five a day.

Well, she wouldn’t have to go through that punishing regime any more. She didn’t have to feel her limbs scream for mercy.

After every few chocolates, she cleansed her palate with a mouthful of Baileys, rinsing away the residue with the unctuous liquid, allowing the cool, smooth nectar to slither down her throat. She barely noticed the pills, just stuffing in another sweet if a trace of medicinal bitterness crept through.

After fifteen minutes of gorging and swilling, she slumped back in her chair, needing a rest. She looked down and saw her chest was smeared in crumbs of chocolate. She brushed them away, and a thought occurred to her. If she was going to die, she didn’t want to be found in this grotty old T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. They might bury her in it. God, that would be awful – lying in your coffin for all eternity in a nylon tracksuit. She lurched back up the stairs to her room, feeling faintly queasy. She rummaged about until she found her favourite nightdress. It was long black satin, piped with cream, with criss-cross straps across the back.

Bella gave a little burp, and a trickle of liquid spurted up into her mouth. It tasted of Baileys and After Eights and cough mixture. Shuddering, she swallowed it back down as she struggled to get the nightdress over her head. She couldn’t get her arms in the right place; the straps were everywhere they shouldn’t be, tying her up into a satin straitjacket – it had always been difficult to get on at the best of times.

Happy that at least it was on, she staggered out of the room and back down the stairs, clutching the handrail for support. She could see two dining tables swooping in and out, sometimes merging into one, then drawing apart again. She reached out for the bottle of Baileys but it moved at the last minute and she came crashing down on to the table, knocking over the rest of the cough medicine. She stared
at it intently, then slowly, deliberately, reached her hand out.

‘Got you.’ The bottle felt cool in her hand. She lifted it to her lips; she couldn’t face trying to capture her glass. She started to drink it down. The lights were dancing round the room. Just like Tinkerbell in
Peter Pan
, she thought hazily…

By eleven o’clock, Zoe and Marcella were in a crowded bar up the road. They were drinking BMWs – Baileys, Malibu and whisky – a deadly concoction with a kick like a donkey. By midnight, Zoe was flying. Natalie was boring. Christopher was boring. Bloody Shropshire was boring, boring, boring. Marcella was her new best friend.

A group of three young men bought them the next round. Zoe couldn’t keep her eyes off the ringleader – a pretty boy with wicked eyes and an incredibly kissable mouth. He introduced himself to her as Zak.

‘Zak and Zoe. That’s cool,’ she mused, liking the poetry.

‘How old are you, then?’

‘How old do you think?’ Zoe twinkled flirtatiously, knowing this was a dangerous question, but she was feeling confident. She knew she looked good. Zak looked her up and down appraisingly, letting his eyes rove over her body. He gave her a cheeky grin.

‘Twenty-eight?’

Zoe gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you, darling.’

He leaned into her.

‘Your friend’s a bit of a dog. Can’t you get rid of her and we’ll go on somewhere else?’

‘I can’t. She’s my friend’s au pair. Anyway, she’s Czechoslovakian.’

Zak looked puzzled, not entirely sure what this explained. He picked up Zoe’s hand and ran a finger lightly up the inside of her arm.

‘I’ve got some serious shit back at my place. Come and have a smoke.’

Zoe shook her head.

‘I don’t smoke. Not “shit”, anyway.’ She held out her empty glass to him. ‘I’ll have another drink, though.’

The boy handed her a crumpled twenty-pound note.

‘You go to the bar. You’ll get served much quicker than me.’

Zoe staggered her way through the crowds and bought another trio of BMWs. When she got back, Marcella had vanished.

‘She said she felt ill,’ Zak said. ‘No stamina, these foreigners. Not like you, baby – eh?’

He tousled Zoe’s hair roughly. She raised her glass to him with a smile, and knocked back her drink. Things were definitely looking up now she’d dumped Natalie and Marcella.

Christopher left the party at half-eleven. It was obviously going to go on for hours yet, but he was
sober, unlike the majority of the guests. And he’d chatted to everyone he wanted to. Why the bloody hell couldn’t Zoe have come with him? She’d have enjoyed herself, surely? Nobody had been standoffish or snooty or countrified; they’d all been up for a good time.

He slipped away without saying goodbye to Jack or Jamie, because he knew they would protest that he was going and he didn’t have the strength to argue. Besides, Jamie was engrossed. She was sitting on a rug, her arms round her knees, talking earnestly to Rod Deacon, who for some mysterious reason had turned up. Christopher wondered if he’d changed his mind about the Bucklebury development deal. He hoped so. He was dreading drawing up the details of the house that had been so much part of his childhood. It also reminded him how precarious his own position was. There was absolutely no doubt his life would be easier if they sold Lydbrook and downsized. It was a huge financial drain. But if Zoe wasn’t happy in a big house in Shropshire, she sure as hell wouldn’t be in a small one.

He drove his car carefully out of the paddock, down the drive, then stopped at the end before turning right on to the road that led to Lydbrook. He’d go home, have a big glass of brandy, then get a good night’s sleep. He could have a lie-in tomorrow. His mum had mentioned something about taking the boys to church. They’d probably moan, but he’d have a couple of hours’ total peace and quiet, to think life over.

Then he thought… no. It was only half-eleven. She’d probably still be up…

Knowing deep down that was what he had intended to do all along, he turned left instead of right.

It was closing time, and all the bars were being emptied unceremoniously out on to the street. Zoe realized that at this time of the night, with all these crowds, there was no hope whatsoever of getting a taxi. She wondered how long it would take her to walk back to Shepherd’s Bush. Bloody hours. And her feet were killing her already.

Zak was trying to persuade her to come back to his place. His mate was waiting down the road in his car. Through the effects of all the drink she’d had, Zoe tried to weigh up the pros and cons sensibly.

‘Come on, baby. Come on.’ He brushed his beautiful lips along her collarbone, then looked at her with his teasing, soulful eyes. She could feel herself dissolve into acquiescence, despite thinking that his mate was probably blind drunk, and she didn’t have a clue where he lived. Or who he was. And that he was probably closer in age to Hugo than to her.

Zak pulled her to him and started to kiss her passionately. In full view of all the departing punters, she kissed him back. She felt his hands run up the insides of her thighs, and heard a resounding cheer go up as he pushed her up against the wall. She grinned, despite herself. She felt sexy, abandoned, excited – alive! She’d never been an exhibitionist
before, but the attention was thrilling: people were egging them on. Her dress was riding higher and higher; Zak was biting her neck. She hooked one leg round him to pull him closer, not minding that everyone could probably now see her knickers.

Suddenly the cheers were turning to boos. Zoe opened her eyes and saw two policemen approaching.

‘Come on, you two. Cut it out. This is a public place.’

Zoe flashed him her most charming, seductive smile.

‘Just a bit of fun, officer. Sure you don’t want to join us?’

‘I don’t think so, love.’

There was a look on his face that made her feel somewhat aggrieved. She looked stunning, didn’t she? She was certainly the best offer he was going to get, with his rubbery lips and eyebrows that met in the middle. Unwinding herself from her paramour, she laced her fingers in his and strode off into the night, swaying her hips, to a round of ragged applause from the onlookers.

23

Tiona Tutton-Price made it her mission in life to surround herself with pretty, feminine things. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, ugly or utilitarian in her little house. Firstly, she was a great believer in white: towels, bedding, china, tea towels, loo paper and underwear – they all had to be pristine, snowy white. And she was also a great believer in butter dishes and sugar bowls and jam spoons – there was nothing guaranteed to turn her stomach more than the sight of someone hoicking marmalade out of a jar with their knife. If that made her old-fashioned, so what?

Her living room was light and airy, with stripped pine floorboards and duck-egg blue walls. There were two large sofas covered in cream calico. A neat row of gilt-framed botanical prints hung along one wall; the limestone fireplace held a huge glass vase of parrot tulips, their ragged edges tinged with a vibrant pink. On the mantelpiece were two cut-glass candlesticks with vanilla-scented candles, and her collection of Beswick Alice in Wonderland figurines.

In the corner of her living room, where most people would have placed a television, was the most magnificent doll’s house, a replica of a Georgian town house. It was the only relic she had from her
childhood: it had been given to her by the kindly owner of the first home where her mother had been housekeeper. It had gone everywhere with Tiona since.

It had always just been Tiona and her mother. She had no idea who her father was; didn’t even know if her mother knew. He was never mentioned. From the age of three to fourteen, Tiona had lived in an assortment of grand houses, always relegated to the servants’ quarters by dint of her mother being housekeeper.

Susan Tutton was excellent at her job. She ruled the rest of the staff with a rod of iron. Everything was on time, in its place, as it should be. Crisp linen, gleaming cutlery. Fresh blooms cut from the gardens every day, colour-coded to match the individual decor of each room. She was the mistress of delegation and a stickler for detail. Thus Tiona had it drummed into her from an early age how a grand country house should be run. She learned how to gut trout, pluck pheasants, lay a table for a dinner party, make a proper bed, polish silver, at what temperature to serve wine, how to answer the door and the telephone, how to address servants and trades people. Although it was rather a peculiar existence for a little girl, Tiona had never minded. It was like living inside a film. She would sit in the kitchens and watch with wide eyes as magnificent banquets were prepared. She would peer through her bedroom window as stunningly elegant ladies and immaculate gentlemen rolled up to balls
and dances and dinners, dreaming that one day it would be her descending from a stately motor car in her finery.

It was only when she was thrust into the reality of the outside world that she found life difficult. She was usually dispatched to the nearest village school, where she suffered from being not properly posh, yet being one up from the rest of the children as she lived at the Big House. As a result, she found herself misunderstood and excluded. She never had anyone back to play, as it wouldn’t have been considered the done thing, and was never asked back anywhere in return. And her mother was always too busy to worry. It was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, running a country house.

When Tiona was eleven, they moved to Overswood Manor in the Oxfordshire countryside, and Tiona went in by bus to Oxford every day to school. Two years passed, during which time Tiona became utterly infatuated with Lord and Lady Overswood’s eldest son, Richard, who needless to say paid her no attention whatsoever when he blew in casually on exeat from Marlborough College. Why would he look at her? She was dumpy, mousy, poor and not even very clever.