Country Pursuits (11 page)

‘Darling!' exclaimed Angie. ‘How are you?
Looking radiant as always, God I wish I had your skin.'

‘Yah, but not my thighs, I bet,' said Caro, sinking down into a Regency armchair. Milo threw his dummy on to the floor and Caro absent-mindedly scooped it up, wiped it on her coat and stuck it back in his mouth. ‘I just popped in to say hello and see how you were, darling.'

‘
I'm
fine, but come and have a look at this,' said Angie conspiratorially, leading her friend out to the back. Babs's painting glowered at them like some angry abomination.

‘Oh, heavens!' giggled Caro. ‘I take it that's our resident artist's latest offering?'

Angie nodded. ‘Isn't it vile? Heaven knows what I am going to do with it.'

‘Maybe you could sell it to Sebastian. It's the sort of thing he'd go nuts for. Just as long as he kept it in his London flat,' said Caro.

Angie looked sideways at her. ‘How are things going with his nibs?'

Caro sighed. ‘Oh, you know.'

Angie linked arms with her. ‘Do you fancy lunch at the pub? I'm gasping for a vino, anyway.'

‘Why not?' replied Caro. ‘But it's on me, I've got Seb's Coutts credit card.'

‘Better make it a bottle of bubbly, then,' said Angie wickedly, turning the ‘Open' sign to ‘Closed' on the shop door.

The Jolly Boot dated back to 1839 and there had been a Turner running the pub ever since. It was a pretty, quaint building with low ceilings, a roaring fire in the winter, and a delightful, flower-scented
garden that opened in the summer. The pub claimed a star-studded past – Joan Collins used to pop in when she had a house in the area – and, in their heyday, film legends like Oliver Reed and Richard Harris had enjoyed raucous, all-day sessions there. It maintained a strong sense of history and occasion, and as soon as you walked in it was impossible not to be charmed by the delicious smell of cooking wafting through from the kitchen, or the gleaming brasses hanging on the stone walls. Owing to the area and the clientele, the Jolly Boot also boasted the most extensive selection of champagne of any licensed establishment in the South West of England.

Angie and Caro found themselves a nice table by the window and tucked Milo in the corner. ‘What can I get you two charming ladies?' Jack Turner was over like a flash, hovering above them with his huge frame, red hair, and twinkly green eyes.

‘Hello, Jack,' replied Angie, taking off her pashmina and draping it across the back of her seat. ‘We'd like to see the lunch menu, please. What's Pierre rustled up today?' Pierre was the hugely expensive Michelin-starred chef Jack had managed to steal away from the renowned five-star Cartouche restaurant in Knightsbridge. Pierre had transformed the pub's menu, and now the restaurant at the back was booked up months in advance. But lunchtimes were quieter, and Jack always had a place for locals, particularly when they were as buxom and attractive as Angie and Caro.

‘He's got some huge prawns on the go. I had some earlier and they were facking lovely!' said
Jack. ‘I'll get you both menus. What about refreshments? Got some vintage Laurent-Perrier delivered last night, it's on ice in the cellar . . .'

Jack knew how to tempt his customers. Caro nodded vigorously. ‘Mmm, we'll have a bottle, thanks.' The landlord drew himself up like a genie in front of them. ‘Your wish is my command, ladies,' he said, and disappeared off behind the bar.

Thirty minutes later and three glasses in, Caro was confiding in Angie about her marriage. ‘Things have just changed so much between us, Angie, with me and Milo stuck down here, and Seb up in London, carrying on his life as normal. I try not to feel bitter, I mean, Seb is really very generous, and I don't want for anything . . .' she trailed off.

‘How's the sex?' asked Angie, draining her glass and nodding to Jack to bring another bottle over.

‘That's the problem, we aren't having any,' said Caro miserably. ‘I feel like a bloody heifer . . .'

‘You are not.
At all
,' interjected Angie firmly.

‘Then why won't Sebastian come near me?' said Caro. Her eyes clouded over suddenly. ‘You don't think he's having an affair?'

That was precisely what Angie was thinking. After all, she knew the warning signs from her own experiences before she met Freddie. ‘Darling, I really don't know,' she lied, refilling their glasses. ‘But you must remember you have a wonderful son, a family who love you, and good friends.' She put her hand on Caro's and squeezed it.

‘Thanks, but I wouldn't blame Sebastian for having an affair, I look so revolting at the moment,' said Caro gloomily.

‘Nonsense!' said Angie briskly. ‘You're gorgeous,
and Sebastian is bloody lucky to have you.' She paused. ‘At least you don't wear shoe lifts.' Much to her delight, Angie had noticed them one day when Sebastian had crossed his legs in front of her at a lunch.

Caro stared at her, and for an awful second Angie thought she'd gone too far. But to her relief, Caro's face suddenly creased into a smile. ‘I haven't even told you what he does to his chest hair!'

Their peals of laughter could be heard all round the bar.

SPEAKING OF THE
devil, at that moment Sebastian was standing butt-naked in a tanning booth in Soho. Watching himself in the mirrors at the gym that morning, he'd decided he was looking a bit off-colour, and promptly ordered his secretary to book him in for a session at the Club Deluxe salon on Berwick Street. Now he could barely breathe through the blasted fumes as the brown mist spray filled the tiny cubicle.

He emerged, spluttering, and after waiting a minute or two to dry off, got dressed again. This had better bloody not rub off on his Turnbull & Asser shirt, or Club Deluxe would be landed with a whopping great dry-cleaning bill. Sebastian slicked his hair back in the mirror, flashed a smile at his reflection, and stalked upstairs, ignoring the camp receptionist behind the counter as he left.

Just then his phone rang. ‘Yah?' he said, looking up the street for a cab to hail.

‘I'm in the bath soaping myself,' breathed back a familiar voice. ‘I'm all wet, and rubbing the soap into my nipples . . .'

‘Are you a dirty little girl, then?' asked Sebastian,
flagging down a cab and climbing in, indicating that the driver should turn left.

‘Ooh yes, I am
so
dirty. Filthy in fact,' answered Sabrina huskily. ‘When are you going to come back and make me clean again?'

‘Keep soaping those luscious titties for the time being,' said Sebastian. The cab driver glanced in his rear-view mirror and Sebastian shot him a conspiratorial wink. ‘I'll be home about seven,' he said and rang off. ‘Yah, pull over here, driver.'

He threw down a note, jumped out, and was immediately accosted by an equally tanned, pinstriped man, who slapped him heartily on the back.

‘Belmo!' he brayed. ‘You look like shit!'

Sebastian pretended to pummel his arm. ‘Cleevy, you utter arse! How the fuck are you?'

‘Wankers,' muttered the cabbie as he drove off.

Later that evening, after he'd shagged Sabrina against every wall in her flat, and finished off with a quickie over the bath, Sebastian took her out for a well-deserved meal. They went to a sweet little French bistro around the corner, a favourite of Hugh Grant's, that did the most exquisite lobster ravioli. As Sebastian sat down in his chair, he winced. ‘Christ, you really raked my back with your nails, you evil bitch. I better not get blood on this shirt.'

‘Well, my love, no pain no gain,' said Sabrina, sexily narrowing her eyes at him over the table.

‘Yah, but that doesn't mean ripping my back to shreds,' said Sebastian. At that moment, two effeminate-looking men with quiffed hair and fur
coats bounded over to their table. Sabrina stood up and squealed. ‘Edgar! Columbo!'

‘Sabrin-a!' they chorused in unison. Air-kisses all round.

‘Darling, I'd like you to meet Edgar Fortune. He is, like, this amazing photographer who can always get rid of all my wrinkles.'

‘Oh, like you've got any!' simpered the slightly taller of the two men, playing perfectly to her cue.

Sabrina fluttered her eyes coquettishly. ‘You are too much! And darling, this is Edgar's assistant, Columbo. Isn't he adorable?'

‘Delighted,' said Sebastian, clearly anything but. He hated Sabrina's fashion friends; so OTT and vulgar. He looked pointedly at the menu. ‘Anyway, shall we?'

‘We'll leave you to it, darling!' cried Edgar. ‘I'm shooting you next week aren't I? Ciao for now!' He and Columbo scampered off to greet another flurry of friends across the room.

Sabrina looked like she wanted to shoot Sebastian instead. ‘You could try being a bit nicer to my friends.'

‘They're not your friends,' said Sebastian dismissively, without looking up from the menu. ‘They're a pair of ghastly nancy boys who throw themselves all over you because they know what a shit-hot model you are, and they know you're their next pay packet. And
you
entertain
them
because, my darling, you're a vain little madam who likes the way Edgar shoots you.'

Sabrina stuck her tongue out at him in a not entirely unfriendly manner. ‘Sebastian, sometimes you are such a shit.'

‘And you can't get enough of it,' he answered, reaching for the wine list. ‘Now, what year are we drinking from tonight?'

Back in Churchminster, Caro had turned off the upstairs landing light and was peeking out through the window. Benedict Towey's Porsche was parked outside. Caro glanced at the Cartier watch Sebastian had bought her for her thirtieth: 10.32 p.m. Towey had only just got there, so was he moving in?

Suddenly his front door slammed shut and she watched as his broad, lean back strode down the path. Then Benedict stopped and turned, looking back at her house as if he suddenly sensed she was there. Caro shrank behind the curtains until she heard the Porsche rev up and disappear down the road. Looks weren't everything. She'd had such hopes of a nice family moving in, and instead she'd ended up living next to the most unpleasant man in south west England.

At one in the morning, over in the rectory, the Revd Goody in his warm bed happily dreamt of becoming the next Archbishop of Canterbury, while down the road an exhausted Caro was roused from sleep again by a crying Milo. At Gate Cottage, Harriet put down her romance novel, decided to start a new diet the very next day, and turned the light off. In Camilla's bedroom at No. 5, Angus sighed contentedly as she gave him a hand-job in the darkness, her wrist aching, and body full of pent-up sexual frustration; while in the room next door Calypso and Sam, their bare legs entwined on the bed, shared a final joint. Archie was also glassily
dragging on a joint at the Maltings, probably
not
his last of the day, while a rerun of
The Simpsons
played on the TV in the corner of his bedroom. Over at Fairoaks, Errol Flynn cocked his head momentarily before settling back to sleep in the basket at the end of his mistress's bed.

Outside, the leaves in the trees ruffled slightly as a breeze blew across the green. The night was dark, the moon obscured by dense cloud, so that even if anyone had looked out of their window, they wouldn't have seen the tall, hooded figure in black, gliding silently across the dewy grass.

An unwelcome presence had unleashed itself on the village.

THE REVD GOODY
was on one of his walkabouts in the village. He'd dropped in on Eunice and Dora to see how they were, and had only managed to extricate himself two hours later. Full of fruit cake and over-sugared tea, he made his way across the green towards Bramble Lane. A vehicle screeched to a halt behind him.

‘Morning, Reverend!'

He turned to see Lucinda Reinard smiling out of the open driver's window of her Range Rover, which was parked up on the grassy verge. As he got closer, the Reverend could see Lucinda was wearing a lime-green headband and what looked like a rather shiny pink, tight vest which showed off a large, wobbly bosom. The Reverend didn't know where to look.

‘Just been for my first session with my personal trainer,' she trilled. ‘You know, at that new Fit 4 U place off the market square in Bedlington.'

The Revd Goody had no idea what she was talking about, but smiled weakly: ‘Oh?' Lucinda seemed in rather a good mood, and he wondered if she'd been in the Jolly Boot.

She was obviously in the mood to talk.

‘Yah,' she said. ‘My stress levels have been through the
roof
recently and Nico threatened to divorce me if I didn't do something about it!' She laughed raucously. ‘To be quite honest I was simply dreading it, but I have to say that Henry, my personal trainer, is really something.' A dreamy expression clouded her eyes. ‘He owns the place and I was expecting some ghastly bull-necked type, but my goodness! He's ex-Horse Guards, you know, and an absolute
dead
ringer for that gorgeous black showjumper, Oliver Skeete. I've signed up for three sessions a week, and Henry says he's going to make a new woman of me.' She glanced up the street before tilting her head conspiratorially. ‘He wears these
extremely
tight cycling shorts, and between us, Reverend, his packet makes Linford Christie's lunch box look like a carrot stick and a couple of mini scotch eggs.'

The Revd Goody visibly blanched at this revelation, stepping back from the car. Lucinda stared at him aghast, as if she'd only just realized who she was talking to. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

‘Oh, Reverend! Do excuse me. I don't know what came over me.' She leaned towards him again, anxiously. ‘You're not going to ban me from attending Sunday services are you? I'd never live it down!'

The Revd Goody opened and shut his mouth a few times like a goldfish. ‘It's fine, really,' he managed.