Country Pursuits (15 page)

‘Churchminster!' they chorused, toasting each other.

Clementine called an impromptu meeting at Fairoaks the next evening, and phoned round the village again. ‘No excuses, you
must
be here,' she crisply informed Babs Sax after hearing her say she needed to attend a talk about the art of life-modelling genitalia. Babs meekly acquiesced: you didn't say no to a woman like Clementine Standington-Fulthrope, especially when she was on such a mission as this.

As a result, everyone in the village turned up. Even Archie Fox-Titt, red-eyed and tousle-haired, was dragged along to stand between his parents. ‘Little bugger's been lying in bed all afternoon!' Freddie Fox-Titt informed Lucinda Reinard. ‘These students are a lazy lot, I tell you.'

Archie was, in fact, feeling terrible. He and Tyrone had been on a mammoth smoking session all day – Tyrone had managed to score some really strong weed called skunk – and he was still feeling completely out of it. He pulled his baseball cap
further over his eyes and hoped no one would talk to him.

Once everyone was there, Clementine brought them up to speed with the events of the past twenty-four hours. Many people present, including Lucinda and the Fox-Titts, were already on the Standington-Fulthrope Committee, but Clementine needed more volunteers. With help and interjections from her granddaughters she put forward the proposal for the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction, or SCBA as it was to be known from then on. They were to start a fund now, for any other monies raised in the interim.

The suggestion went down a storm.

‘Bloody marvellous idea!' yelled Freddie Fox-Titt.

‘Rather!' echoed Angie, who was sitting beside him, looking ravishing in a gold and chocolate pashmina.

‘We are going to form a new committee, and I would be extremely grateful if people would put their names forward,' said Clementine. ‘Those who can spare the time and are
one hundred per cent
committed please come and see me afterwards.' Around the room heads were nodding vigorously.

‘So I suppose you need somewhere to hold the ball,' boomed Sir Ambrose Fraser, looking like Toad of Toad Hall in tweed plus fours, walking stick, and cap pulled down over his florid face.

Clementine nodded. ‘Yes, Ambrose, we are looking for somewhere, so if anyone has any suggestions—'

‘Lady Fraser and I have just had a quick discussion,' Ambrose continued, as though
Clementine hadn't spoken at all. ‘We would be delighted if it was held at Clanfield Hall. What ho! Got a bloody great ballroom that hasn't been used for years, anyway.'

Clementine beamed at him. ‘Ambrose, what a fabulously generous offer. Thank you!' More cheers echoed around the room.

‘Just as long as no one tramples on my rose garden,' interjected Lady Fraser.

‘I'm sure Jed can build a fence around it,' whispered Harriet, who was sitting behind her. ‘Oh, how exciting! A ball!'

‘That does mean you will have to wear a dress, darling,' her mother replied, speaking through clenched teeth as she smiled graciously round the room. ‘Maybe that nice red one I got you.'

A vision of Horse, red-faced and sweating above her, came back to Harriet in a flash. ‘I might buy a new one for the occasion, if that's OK, Mummy.'

Humphrey rang Clementine three days later. It had been confirmed – the Meadows was being put up for auction. Offers from interested parties were to start at five million pounds, but, as Humphrey explained, it was expected to go for a lot more than that. The accompanying red tape and paperwork was a hell of a job, so the auction wasn't scheduled until the end of the year, on 10 December. The Standington-Fulthrope Committee had decided the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction would take place nine days earlier, on 1 December.

Sid Sykes had already put out a statement in the trade press to say he would be making an offer, and Clementine had read the article grim-faced. This
was war. Six months later all their lives could change for ever. For the better or for the infinitely worse.

IT WAS A
beautiful sunny afternoon in the village, and Caro was taking full advantage of the weather. She and Milo were in their back garden on a huge Boden picnic rug. Caro had put up one of the garden umbrellas and Milo was under it, gurgling happily. Caro lay on her side next to him. Milo's soft brown eyes looked innocently into hers and crinkled round the corners as she tickled his tummy. When he was like this, it was all worth it and nothing else mattered to Caro. She got her phone out and switched it on to camera. ‘Smile, darling!' Milo obliged happily. Caro switched the picture to ‘Send' and keyed in Sebastian's mobile. ‘We'll send this to Daddy at his office, just so he can see what a
gorgeous
boy you are.' Caro was determined to show her husband she was capable of achieving domestic bliss at home, as well as screaming chaos.

Caro looked round the garden. It was a long, walled piece of paradise, the brainchild of an exotically named landscape gardener from Cirencester. Caro was hopeless with anything botanical, and she had to admit they had done a
marvellous job. The French windows at the back of the house opened out on to a huge, decked patio. Exotic green plants and an oak table big enough to seat fifteen stood on it, and a decked path led down the sixty-foot garden. In the centre of the lawn a polished brass sundial stood glittering in the sunlight. At the far end was a beautiful wooden summer house painted a rustic white, and brightly coloured flowerbeds provided a stunning background. They had a gardener in once a week, even though Caro felt guilty about it, with so much time on her hands. Sebastian had insisted. ‘I remember all those dead pot plants in your flat when we first met, darling,' he had drawled. ‘There is no way I am letting you anywhere near the garden, especially when I've spent a small bloody fortune on it.'

There wasn't a cloud in the brilliant blue sky. The sun beat down as the scent of the blue wisteria clambering up the back of the house wafted across the garden. Caro lay back, luxuriating in the moment. Right here, right now, the black cloud which seemed to have followed her around for so long had finally lifted. If only momentarily. Goodness, it was hot! Secure in the privacy of her garden, Caro peeled off her long-sleeved Whistles T-shirt and lay back in her bra and shorts. She didn't need sun cream in this weather, did she? She only had Milo's factor 50 and she wouldn't get
any
colour wearing that.

As she relaxed even more, Caro's thoughts once again drifted to her next-door neighbour. On the phone the next day, she had recounted to Sebastian, word by word, her heated encounter with Benedict Towey, but Sebastian had been predictably
uninterested. ‘Probably working like a dog to keep his family in the manner they've become accustomed to. Like me,' he had added unnecessarily. And untruthfully. Sebastian had spent about three hours at his desk that week, the rest of his time having been spent dining in offensively expensive restaurants, working out, having his weekly manicure and rutting with Sabrina on a thrice-nightly basis.

‘That's not fair!' Caro had responded hotly. She had paused. ‘Besides, I don't think he's got a wife and family.'

‘Man's got the right idea if you ask me.' So much for defending her honour.

Caro had only seen Benedict Towey a handful of times in the past couple of weeks. From what she could gather, he had moved in on a part-time basis, spending a few nights there in the week and then disappearing God knows where at weekends. ‘Probably ravishing some long-legged blonde mistress just as vile as he is,' Caro had ranted to Angie over a spritzer in the Jolly Boot. ‘I don't know why he doesn't just push off and let a nice family move in, some people who are actually going to live in that lovely house. It's such a waste.'

Now Caro started to wonder what
his
garden looked like. Was it as nice as theirs, or would it be wild and overgrown? The front of the house looked like a show home, with the curtains up but nobody home.

Milo was now fast asleep on the rug. All of a sudden, Caro had an overwhelming urge to look over the high stone wall that separated the gardens. Benedict hadn't been home for days, and if anyone else caught her, she could always say she had heard
a funny noise and gone to investigate. But first, she needed to stand on something. She jogged back to the house and dragged out one of the extremely heavy Philippe Starck bar stools from the kitchen. Huffing and puffing, Caro pulled the stool across the grass, praying it wouldn't leave skid marks.

She glanced at Milo. He was still out like a light, so she positioned the stool carefully against the wall. Then Caro carefully climbed up and, wobbling slightly, looked over into Benedict Towey's garden.

It was the same size and shape as hers, the lovely Cotswold stone wall circling the length and breadth of it. There was a set of French windows as well, but instead of looking out on to an impressive deck, they faced a smaller paved patio which was woefully bare. A few chairs were scattered randomly about the slightly overgrown lawn, and the flowerbeds stood empty, as if waiting for someone to fill them.

Disappointed, Caro turned her attention back to the house. If she just hoisted herself up a bit higher, she could see in through the kitchen window. It was huge and square, the units made from some kind of light wood. There was a breakfast bar there, too, bare apart from an empty fruit bowl. Ooh, if she leaned in a bit more she could see through the French windows . . .

‘What the hell do you think you're doing!' Caro squeaked in surprise and almost lost her balance as a man's voice boomed across the garden. She looked up, and to her absolute horror, a fuming Benedict Towey was leaning out of one of the upstairs windows.

‘I er, well actually . . .' she stuttered, her ready made excuse going straight out of her mind. Christ, did he have to be so bloody gorgeous? Benedict was wearing a crisp white shirt which showed off his tanned skin and blue eyes perfectly, a dark blue tie casually pulled away from the collar.

‘I said: What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing?' This time he lowered his voice to a menacing growl. Caro quivered even more.

‘Er, I just wanted to know, er, what kind of garden furniture you've got. We're thinking about getting a new set you see . . .' The excuse sounded hollow, even to her ears.

Her neighbour narrowed his eyes and leaned further out of the window. ‘Don't give me that crap! If I see you spying into my property one more time, I'll call the bloody police on you!'

Caro felt her temper rise. ‘There's no need to be so rude,' she yelled back. ‘And don't you dare threaten me!' The window slammed shut.

Behind her, Milo had been woken by the angry exchange and started to cry. The tranquillity of the afternoon was shattered. Caro, still shaking from her encounter, climbed down off the stool, and as she went to comfort her son caught sight of her reflection in her own windows. Her hands flew to her mouth in horror – she was still in her bra. ‘Shit!' she wailed, gazing at her sunburnt, wobbly chest, unflatteringly encased in the shell-pink maternity contraption she still hadn't stopped wearing.

Caro's mortification made her hatred for Benedict Towey burn ever more strongly. She swore never to speak to the detestable man again.

Somehow, by the time Caro popped round to see her grandmother the next day, Clementine had heard all about Caro's shouting match.

‘How did you find out?' asked Caro, appalled.

‘It doesn't matter,' Clementine replied crisply. ‘But darling, in future do try and refrain from screaming like a fishwife with one's new neighbour in public.'

‘I was in my own back garden!' protested Caro indignantly.

‘Noise travels,' was all her grandmother would say, enigmatically. But, in fact, Caro's row was the least of Clementine's troubles at the moment. She had also had a very unsettling experience in the village that morning.

Clementine had taken Errol Flynn to stretch his legs, and had decided to pop into St Bartholomew's to see if the new pews had been delivered. And indeed they had. The Revd Goody had been in the church sitting on one, stroking the shiny wood happily.

‘Aren't they marvellous?' he had said when he saw her. Clementine had agreed, and after a quick discussion about the order of service for Sunday, she had left the Reverend and started for home. She had just reached the start of Bramble Lane, which led off the green towards her house, when a gleaming blue Bentley had pulled up beside her. The window on the driver's side had glided down silently.

‘Which way to the Meadows, luv?' the oily looking man inside had asked. He had had a rough,
estuary accent, jet-black hair slicked back, and hooded, dark eyes. Clementine had thought he looked like some kind of mafia gangster, especially with the flash pinstripe suit he was wearing and chunky gold rings littering his hands, which rested on the cream leather steering wheel. She had taken an instant dislike to him, and besides, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope was not the kind of woman you called ‘luv'.

‘Carry along the road, half a mile on your right,' she had said frostily, tugging Errol away from peeing on the Bentley's spotless wheels, and turning to walk briskly home. The car crawled along beside her.

‘You live round here, then?' the driver had asked.

‘Yes, I do,' Clementine had stared straight ahead. God, he was one of those awful nouveau riche types that came nosing about here sometimes. But when he had made no move to drive on she had begun to feel distinctly unsettled. ‘Well, good day, then,' she had said, nodding to him curtly. He had stared at her for a second and then smiled wolfishly, revealing a set of teeth more gold than they were white.

‘See ya,' he had said casually, before the tinted window slid up again. The Bentley had revved, and poor Errol Flynn had nearly fallen into the ditch in fright. As it had passed her, Clementine had caught sight of the car's registration and nearly choked: SYKES 1. It had to be Sid Sykes! What a revolting man! He was even worse than she had imagined. And to have the audacity to show his face round here! Thoroughly ruffled, Clementine had hurried the rest of the way home.