Country Pursuits (10 page)

‘Er . . .' said Camilla. ‘She is in, but I think she's a bit tied up at the moment, Mummy.' Camilla tried not to think how true her words might be.

There was a questioning silence down the phone.

‘She's in her room,' blurted out Camilla. ‘With her, er, with Sam. They've been seeing each other for a while.'

Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, that's wonderful!' She shouted to Camilla's father. ‘Johnnie, Calypso's finally got herself a proper boyfriend.' A muffled voice could be heard in the background.

‘Your father says he'd better be a dab hand at
squash, so they can escape us girls gossiping when we come over!'

Camilla privately thought Sam would be more than a match for her father at any sport, including shot-putting and rugby. ‘Mmm, great!' she said evasively. ‘Shall I get Calypso to call you?'

‘Super, yah,' said her mother. ‘I just wanted a catch-up with her.' She changed the subject. ‘Anyway, do tell me what you've been up to. I spoke to Granny Clem and she says Devon Cornwall has moved into the village! Ooh, I used to fancy the pants off him when I was younger . . .'

A few days later, at the Maltings, Freddie Fox-Titt was standing in the kitchen, gazing out at the paddocks. Angie was at the shop and Archie was in his bedroom with his new friend Tyrone, listening to some awful rap music. Minutes earlier, Freddie had noticed a pungent smell of smoke in the upstairs corridor.

Bloody Archie's taken up smoking, the silly little sod, he thought furiously. He ran upstairs and hammered on his son's door.

Instantly, the music stopped.

‘What?' called a hostile Archie from behind the door. Freddie pushed it open and was hit by a wall of smoke. Archie and Tyrone, who had a shaved head like his son, and a goatee beard etched into his pale, spotty skin, looked up at him from the bean bags they were lounging on.

‘Christ!' spluttered Freddie, and strode over to open the window. The two boys watched as Freddie turned back to face them. ‘Now look here, Arch, we don't mind you drinking here, but you
know
we
don't have smoking in the house. Especially after your mother's cancer scare.'

‘Yeah, but it's not smoke.' Archie looked at his father as if he were stupid. ‘It's incense, innit?' Freddie looked around the room; there were indeed several strong-smelling sticks alight, their heady fumes wafting around the room.

‘Hmm,' said Freddie dubiously. ‘Just make sure you air the room once in a while. I don't want the place smelling like some bloody hippy's caravan.'

‘You got it, Mr FT,' said Tyrone. As soon as Freddie had closed the door behind himself, Tyrone retrieved the joint he'd been hiding behind his back and re-lit it. He and Archie cracked up laughing.

Downstairs in the kitchen Freddie was starting to get a real craving for chocolate. Funny that, he thought. I never normally have a sweet tooth. In fact the nearest Freddie got to sugar was crème brûlée for pudding about twice a year. He pulled open the cupboards and started searching for Angie's Twix fingers.

THE MORNING AFTER
Horse had climbed aboard and galloped off with her cherry, Harriet had woken on the sofa in Camilla's living room feeling like she had been dragged through hell and back. Her red dress, ripped at the front in the moment of passion, had been bunched up around her waist. A chocolate stain and another mark of dubious origin had been streaked across the front of it. Harriet's bra had been hanging from a lampshade, her huge flesh-coloured knickers lying crotch-up on the floor in the middle of the living room.

‘Oh no!' she had groaned, attempting to sit up. Her head had been banging, and everything had been a little blurry round the edges. She had stood up and fallen over something large lying beside the sofa. Horse. He had been naked except for his tutu, lying on his back snoring gently, a bubble of spit blowing out between his huge teeth. Harriet had looked at him in horrified fascination. God, how could she ever have thought he looked like Colin Firth? Then she had remembered taking the Ecstasy, albeit somewhat fuzzily. She had lived to tell the tale, but there was no way she'd be doing
that again. Especially not with the awful Horse; if that's what E did to her, she might end up in an orgy with him and Sniffer next time. The thought had made her head spin even more.

The rest of the house had been quiet, the clock on the DVD player reading 8.07 a.m. Harriet had scurried around, quietly retrieving her belongings and trying not to wake up Horse. She had poked her head round the dining room door, seeing that Caro had obviously made it home at some point, but Sniffer was still there, snoring loudly, his head encrusted in a half-eaten bowl of meringue. Harriet had dressed, borrowed a large Barbour jacket that was hanging in the hallway and let herself out of the cottage.

As she had walked unsteadily across the green, Dora and Eunice's curtains had twitched violently, but Harriet hadn't cared. She had felt a burden had been lifted from her shoulders; even if the man of her dreams hadn't been the one lifting it, and even though she had been in the throes of a monumental hangover and narcotic comedown. What had Sam said about orange juice? Harriet had kept her head down and hurried home to Gate Cottage, thinking of bath and bed.

Unfortunately for her, someone had been there to witness her arrival home. As she had walked up the path to the front door, Jed had come round the corner with a piece of drainpipe in his hand.

‘Jed, what are you doing here?' she had squealed. ‘You scared me to death!'

He had eyed her curiously, taking in her dishevelled appearance. Harriet had wrapped the
coat tightly around herself; hoping she didn't stink of raw sex. Whatever that smelt like.

‘Fixing that guttering for you,' he had said, putting down the bit of pipe and leaning on it. ‘You been out all night?'

‘Of course not!' Harriet had said hotly. ‘I was just er, taking a walk.' Jed had looked at her more closely, a smile starting to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

‘Is that spunk on your chin?'

Harriet had turned puce with shameful mortification. ‘NO!' she had yelled. ‘Let me past. And DON'T tell anyone you saw me.' She had fumbled with the lock while Jed watched in amusement, finally falling in through the front door. She had slammed it behind her and rushed straight to the downstairs loo to look at her reflection. She had seen she had mascara down her cheeks, but her chin was free of any bodily fluids. Jed must have been winding her up.

‘Little shit!' she had said to herself furiously, and plonked herself down on the toilet for a much-needed wee.

‘There's something different about you,' remarked her mother a few days later, observing her daughter over the huge, polished dining table. Harriet blushed and buried herself in her beef bourguignon. She had been summoned up to the Hall for her weekly dinner with her parents. The family normally ate together on a Sunday evening, but Sir Ambrose and Lady Fraser had gone to a charity function in Cheltenham the previous Sunday. ‘I mean, on a Sunday!' Ambrose had stormed. ‘How bloody
provincial
!'

He was looking at his daughter as well now, his hair as white as snow against florid cheeks. ‘Still looks hefty to me!' he said, returning to his plate.

‘Ambrose!' Lady Fraser chided her husband.

Sir Ambrose Fraser was not a cruel man, but he came from a generation and class that had taught him to bloody well say what he thought and to hell with anyone else's opinions. He had the tact of a five-year-old and was thoroughly thoughtless into the bargain. His relationship with his daughter mainly consisted of Harriet trying desperately to please him or stay out of his way, with Ambrose overriding her on everything she said, did or wore, always convinced he knew better. It had been his idea that Harriet become his PA, ‘So I can keep a firm eye on you.' But her role mainly involved being shouted at when her father couldn't find his reading glasses.

Harriet shrank down further into her chair. ‘Though I do agree with your father, your diet
clearly
isn't working still,' said her mother. As if to make a point about her own self-control and slim figure, Frances purposely put her knife and fork together on her plate, even though she had only eaten half her meal.

Harriet hated these dinners. Every week, she would arrive at the house hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different and she could laugh and joke with her parents like Camilla did with hers. That they'd actually be interested in her day, tell her she looked nice or that she was a good daughter. It never happened. Each week, they would pick apart her appearance and love life and talk about her as if she wasn't there. The tragedy
was that they genuinely believed this criticism was the only way to reach out to their daughter. Harriet left each Sunday feeling fat, worthless, and personally responsible for ruining the centuries-old Fraser bloodline.

‘How was Camilla's dinner?' asked her mother, dabbing delicately at the corners of her mouth with a pristine cloth napkin.

‘Any chaps there that would consider taking you on?' asked her father hopefully.

‘It was good, and no, Daddy,' said Harriet, hoping she wasn't going red again.

‘Hmm,' said her mother cryptically. ‘Well, there is definitely
something
different about you. You look a bit “off” for some reason.'

Yah, maybe that's because I took loads of drugs last weekend and had a Horse's cock up me! Harriet wanted to yell. Instead she replied dutifully, ‘I'll get an early night and put on one of those face packs you bought me, Mummy.'

‘Good girl,' said Frances.

Harriet managed to extricate herself some time later, and wearily made her way down the drive to her cottage. She'd left the upstairs landing light on, and a warm glow seeped out of her bedroom window. Suddenly Harriet felt like crying. She let herself into the cottage, shivered, put the heating on, and was just heading to the cupboard to get out the half-finished pot of Green & Black's organic chocolate spread she'd had for lunch, when her mobile went. Camilla's home number flashed up.

‘What ho, Bills,' said Harriet, trying to make her voice sound cheerful.

‘You OK? You sound like you've got a cold or something,' replied Camilla.

‘I'm fine, honestly,' said Harriet, not in the mood to talk. ‘What can I do for you, sweet pea?'

‘Angus and I are going to a Young Farmers' do next week, and we wondered if you and Horse would like to come and make it a double date?' Camilla had heard most of the grisly tale from her best friend the day after the dinner party. Now she sounded overly hopeful.

‘God no. I mean, that's awfully nice of you, but I don't know, Bills,' said Harriet falteringly. ‘I mean, I'm sure Horse is a jolly nice chap when he's sober and everything, but he's really not my type. Why, has he asked if I'm going?'

‘Er yes,' lied Camilla. What Horse had actually said to Angus, faithfully translated back to her word for word was: ‘She's got pubes like tumble-weed but I'd give her another go.' Camilla, a hopeless romantic, had hoped Horse was just showing off, and secretly liked her friend, but she was becoming less convinced. ‘OK, if we really can't persuade you . . . I'll look out for other eligible young bachelors for you, though!'

‘You
are
a treasure, thinking of me,' said Harriet, before wishing Camilla goodnight. At this moment in time, she felt so low she'd take chocolate and bed over meeting her Prince Charming any day.

ANGIE FOX-TITT WAS
in a slight predicament. With a good eye for art and an even better one for a bargain, she'd been running Angie's Antiques at a very tidy profit for years. It had given the Fox-Titts a comfort blanket to fall back on during the lean times at the Maltings, meaning Angie didn't have to give up her beloved half-bottle of Taittinger every evening, nor Freddie his caviar sandwiches for lunch.

Now, on a sunny spring morning in Churchminster, her predicament was leaning against the wall in the back room of the shop. Its owner and creator Babs Sax had just dropped it off. ‘Let me know what price you'll give for it,' she'd said grandly, before sweeping out of the shop.

Angie had bought a few pieces from Babs in the past out of simple good-heartedness, but had come to regret it. Babs's avant-garde style had not gone down well with Angie's customers, who had more conservative tastes. One piece that had been languishing in her store for months was a picture of an African woman's breasts, made from the excrement of Ghanaian dung beetles especially imported for
an extravagant fee. To Angie, the painting could have been produced by a toddler with sticky, chocolate covered fingers, but Babs had insisted the painting represented ‘a fusion and vision of when woman meets earth'. Needless to say it hadn't sold. Nor had a picture which resembled a vomit-splattered canvas and was simply titled ‘PMT'. The lack of interest in these works had been embarrassing and Angie had had to hide them whenever Babs came into the shop, telling her that a client had put them on hold.

The last thing she wanted was the latest offering, a four foot by six foot monstrosity of swirling reds, nuts and bolts and what looked like bits of string. Babs had explained that it captured Princess Diana's mood just seconds after she had married Prince Charles. Angie was interested in anything to do with royalty, indeed she'd hunted with Princess Anne on many occasions, but even she doubted that anyone could avoid looking at this picture with distaste and horror. Christ, how was she going to get out of buying the bloody thing?

The shop bell tinkled.

‘Anyone home?' Caro's voice called out. Angie left the painting and went out to the front of the shop. She and Caro kissed each other warmly on both cheeks, and Angie stooped down to land a kiss on Milo's forehead.

Despite the age gap, Angie and Caro got on extremely well. Angie recognized a lot of herself in the younger woman. She could also see Sebastian for what he really was. Not that she would ever tell her friend that.