Country Pursuits (32 page)

He stared at her for a second, uncomprehending. Then the blood started draining from his face. ‘You're calling the wedding off?' he said shakily. Camilla nodded unhappily. ‘There's no way I can convince you not to?' he asked, and she shook her head.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' she sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

Angus pulled her into a hug; his huge body a comforting mass around her. ‘Come on, old girl, don't get yourself into a state,' he said, in a tender voice she didn't think him capable of. ‘Can't have you spoiling that pretty face with tears!' His own eyes brimmed for a second, but his cousin's long-ago taunts of ‘Cry baby!' came to mind and he blinked them away.

Camilla pulled away and looked at him. ‘You're not cross? I thought you'd hate me.'

Angus shook his huge head. ‘I'd never hate you, Camilla Standington-Fulthrope.' He sighed. ‘Truth is, I kind of expected it one day. I could never believe you agreed to go out with me in the first place. You're so bright and stylish and pretty . . . How a great big clod-hopper like me got his hands on you, I'll never know.' He smiled at her proudly, a flash of the old Angus back.

‘Angus, please don't say things like that, they're not true,' pleaded Camilla.

‘They are,' Angus said firmly. ‘And if I'm honest with you, Camilla, I can't give you the things you
want. You should go and travel, study . . . the world's your oyster, you fine filly. As for me,' he gestured around the room. ‘My world is here and I'm happy with it. It's just a pity I can't share it with you.'

The next day, Camilla rang the bridal shop and cancelled her gown. Three days after the engagement was called off, Camilla, Caro and Calypso went out to a wine bar in Bedlington. There were lots of tears, for Harriet and for Angus – and consoling hugs. By the end, after many reminiscences, among them Calypso's funny story about the time an infant Camilla had gone for a number two in one of Clementine's prized flower pots, Camilla had finally started laughing.

She ended up getting so sloshed she'd wobbled out at closing time and fallen face-first into the memorial flowerbed on the market square, right opposite the police station. DS Powers, working late inside, heard the whoops and shrieks, thought it was a local gang of troublemakers and rushed out with multiple arrests – or at least a caution – in mind. When he saw it was Caro Belmont, magnificent chest heaving with giggles as she tried to pull a pie-eyed Camilla to her feet, he offered the sisters a lift home instead. At Calypso's request, Powers even put the flashing blue siren on, the three of them helpless with laughter in the back as she made inappropriate remarks about his truncheon and helmet.

Powers dined out on the story in the staff canteen for months after, although his version had him turning them down for a threesome: ‘Bit
unprofessional on duty, lads, and besides, there's the wife to think of.' No one had believed him.

The next day, all three girls woke up to hideous hangovers. Feeling worst, Camilla spent all morning throwing up into a bucket by her bed, and didn't surface until lunchtime. Despite vowing never to drink again, it had been exactly the release she had needed.

‘MORE BUBBLES, DARLING?'

Lucinda Reinard offered her plastic flute up. ‘Please.' As her friend Charlotte Stamford refilled Lucinda's plastic glass with Möet, she glanced at the sky. It was looking ominously grey: angry black clouds scudding overhead. ‘I hope it doesn't start raining,' she said. ‘Hero hasn't got her waterproof and she hates getting wet.'

‘Mmm, yah,' said Charlotte, and poured the last of the liquid in her glass. She turned to her husband, a beak-faced man with huge bushy eyebrows who was rummaging through the back of the battered Volvo estate the two women were leaning against. ‘We need another bottle, Barnaby,' she called.

‘What ho, coming right up.'

‘How long before they turn up, do you think?' Charlotte asked.

Lucinda looked at her watch. ‘I'd say twenty minutes or so. We're at the halfway point.'

As well as Lucinda and Charlotte, there were a dozen more mothers and several fathers standing around or sitting in the front of their enormous
4×4s quaffing champagne and eating quails' eggs out of straw picnic-baskets. They were waiting for their offspring, all members of the Bedlington Valley Pony Club, to come past on their ten-mile sponsored ride to raise money for the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction Fund. Fifteen riders in total, led by the formidable District Commissioner Patricia Mountbottom. Lucinda hoped Hero was in a better mood; she'd thrown a complete fit that morning when she hadn't been able to find her best jodhpurs, and had had to settle for the navy-blue pair instead.

‘Here they come!' shouted one father, and, sure enough, the distinctive green and blue jumpers of Bedlington Valley were trotting up the road towards them. Hero was at the front, a freckly, gap-toothed girl riding beside her, ginger ponytail sticking out from under her riding hat.

‘Mummy, are you looking at me, ARE YOU LOOKING?' Hero bellowed as she drew nearer on Dancer. ‘Mrs Mountbottom has let me and Tabitha—'

‘Tabitha
and I
, darling,' corrected Lucinda. Hero drew level with the car, both she and the ginger-haired girl wearing bright red armbands.

‘We've been made pack leaders because we are the best riders by miles!' boasted Hero, pulling Dancer up. She looked at Lucinda and Charlotte. ‘How much are you going to sponsor me, then? Jake Winsted-Cleverly's dad is giving him a hundred pounds a mile!' At that point Jake, a small, skinny boy on a huge, brown horse that was far too big for him, thundered past, screaming, towards the main road.

‘Hero! It's rude to talk about money,' reprimanded Lucinda, as Patricia Mountbottom, her huge thighs wobbling, galloped up from the back of the pack to rescue Jake.

‘Heels down, Tabs,' said Charlotte, rushing over and rubbing the mud from one of her daughter's boots with the outside pages of her husband's
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Where's your brother?' Lucinda asked Hero. Before she could find out, a bawling Jake was brought back, led by a grim-looking Patricia.

‘
You
need to be the master, not him, Jake,' she bellowed.

‘I want to go home!' wailed Jake.

‘Oh, don't be such a wet lettuce,' ordered the District Commissioner, sounding like an army drill sergeant. She looked around. ‘Right, are we all here, troops? Lead on!'

Hero turned around as she trotted off. ‘Mummy, you'd better be at the finishing line to see me or I'll be
really
cross.'

‘Little horrors, aren't they?' said Charlotte fondly, as they watched the ride go past. Lucinda tried to wave to Horatio, who she spotted riding next to a pretty, blonde, well-developed girl on a dappled grey, but he put his nose in the air and ignored her.

‘Darling, I must say you are looking very trim at the moment!' remarked Charlotte, as they started to pack the car up. ‘Are you still going to Fit 4 U? I hear that trainer Henry is quite a task-master in the studio!'

Lucinda could think of several ways Henry took her strictly in hand, none of which she could tell
Charlotte. Her friend leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I hear he's having a hot and heavy affair with one of his clients!'

Lucinda went cold. ‘Really?' she croaked. ‘What makes you say that?'

Charlotte was busily packing up the picnic-hamper, oblivious to Lucinda's paling face. ‘Well, Beverley – she keeps the house tidy for me – has a son Darren, who goes out with Amy, who is the sister of Becky who works in reception. Apparently Becky found a
very
saucy pair of knickers in Henry's office a few weeks ago, and empty condom packets behind the cross-trainer
two weeks
running!'

Lucinda blushed, they were normally so careful. At least she knew where the La Perla French knickers she had bought from the boutique in Bedlington had gone, the bloody things had cost her a fortune.

‘Apparently, one can tell from the bulge in his shorts he has the most
enormous
member!' said Charlotte excitedly. ‘Have
you
noticed it, darling? Ooh, it must be true what they say about black men.'

‘Charlotte!' said Lucinda.

‘What?' asked her friend. ‘I'm just saying it. I'm rather jealous actually.' She turned to her husband. ‘Darling, what did you say about the woman who's having it off with Henry from Fit 4 U?' Lucinda cringed. Christ – did the whole county know?

‘I said, when we see a middle-aged yummy mummy in cycling shorts doing the “John Wayne” walk down Bedlington High Street, we'll know who she is. Haw haw, haw haw!' Barnaby
collapsed into guffaws of laughter, his wife following suit.

Lucinda smiled weakly and pressed her legs together.

THREE DAYS LATER
Caro was unloading the Waitrose shopping bags from the 4×4 outside Mill House, when someone pinched her bottom. It made her jump, and for a fleeting second, the ridiculous thought flashed through her mind that it might be Benedict Towey. She whirled round to find her husband standing there. ‘Boo,' he said softly.

‘Seb!' Instinctively Caro looked at her watch to check the date. ‘But it's Thursday. What are you doing back?'

Sebastian flashed his wolfish grin at her. ‘What, aren't I allowed to miss my wife any more?' He looked like he'd come straight from the office: dressed in his black and white pinstripe suit, teeth dazzling against a recent spray tan. His Louis Vuitton overnight bag was casually slung at his feet.

‘Of course not, it's just that I wasn't expecting you until Friday,' replied Caro, heaving the remaining bags out with no offer of help from her husband. ‘I haven't got much for dinner, I was just going to have lentil soup,' she said. ‘Oh! The cleaner's not coming until tomorrow, either,
the house is in a complete state. Why
are
you home, darling, is there something wrong at work?'

Sebastian's grin disappeared. ‘What are you, the bloody Gestapo?' he asked. ‘I just fancied coming back today, OK? Anyone would think you're not pleased to see me.' He picked up his bag and stalked down the front path into the house. Caro sighed. She'd said the wrong thing again. Seb had caught her off-guard. But it was more than that, she admitted to herself. Maybe she
wasn't
that pleased to see him. Sebastian had been spending so much time in London over the past few months that Caro had got rather used to being by herself. She'd even grown to like it. Tonight, she had been looking forward to having a long, hot bath, putting on her pyjamas, and then sitting on the sofa and watching
The Devil Wears Prada
DVD she'd borrowed from Camilla. Well, that certainly wasn't going to happen now. Her arms full, Caro kicked the car door shut with her foot, looked longingly at the GU chocolate orange soufflé for one resting on top of the bags, and followed her husband inside.

Sebastian's early arrival – like most things in his life – did have an ulterior motive. Fed up with London and his mistress, he'd come home to get some TLC and undemanding company from his wife. Dear, sweet, predictable old Caro, at least she didn't give him constant shit like bloody Sabrina. Or so he'd thought, until she'd started asking him twenty bloody questions as soon as she'd clapped eyes on him. Christ!

That Monday, Sebastian and Sabrina had rowed furiously when he had let it slip that Luciana, the
stunning waitress from Italy, was coming to do work-experience at his office. Actually, Sebastian had let the admission out on purpose: Sabrina had become far too bloody demanding recently. She needed a harsh reminder that there were plenty of younger, less high-maintenance options out there.

Usually Sebastian liked having arguments with her, and knew exactly what buttons to press, because of the great make-up sex afterwards. But this time, the silly bitch had actually had the nerve to throw him out of her house like he was some kind of nobody! After hissing imploring words through the letterbox, to no avail, Sebastian's pride had kicked in and he'd ended up going back to his cold, empty flat and having to make do with a cursory wank under his White Company bed sheets instead.

Sebastian had sent Sabrina conciliatory flowers the next day, even though he was boiling underneath at the way she'd treated him. But he'd learned by now that life was so much less bloody complicated when Sabrina wasn't in one of her infamous sulks. Plus, at this point his balls were swinging like bloody Space Hoppers, and the only thing to cure that would be to take full advantage of the ‘all off' Californian bikini wax Sabrina was currently sporting. But the flowers had been ignored and it was only when Sebastian got his secretary to phone with an invite for dinner on the chef's table at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant the following evening that she returned his call. Stupid, selfish, spoilt Sabrina, he had thought derisively. She was so easy to read, and even easier to buy.

The evening hadn't started well. Getting ready
together at hers, Sabrina had walked in on Sebastian dying his chest hair with a home highlighting kit from Boots. ‘What the fuck are you doing?' she asked him, aghast. Mortified, he whirled around from the mirror, plastic gloves on both hands and chest hair covered in great streaks of gloopy white gunk.

‘Haven't you heard of knocking, you stupid cow?' he howled. In spite of herself, she couldn't help giggling. Sebastian looked so angry and absurd with those ridiculous gloves on and a spatula in his hand! She leaned forward to look closer. My God, was that a bit of ginger? How come she had never noticed it before?

‘I am not a fucking ginger!' he roared defensively, as if reading her thoughts. ‘My chest hair is just a bit auburn in places, OK? I need to dye it to match the rest of my body hair.' He furiously applied another streak, watching himself in the mirror as he did so. ‘Especially if you keep buying me those ridiculously low cashmere V-necks.'