Country Pursuits (9 page)

She'd finally popped her cherry – hallelujah!

‘
HOW'S THE WIFE,
Sebbo?' asked Barnaby Smith-Rourke, one of Sebastian's oldest friends from Harrow. They and two other friends of similar ilk were lounging in the hot tub of Barnaby's presidential suite at the five-star Regency hotel in Monaco. They'd had a thoroughly top weekend, including a night spent gambling at the hotel's world-famous casino, where Sebastian won thirty thou, which he promptly spent on a table at Alfie's, one of the most exclusive – and expensive – clubs in Europe. With Moët and bottles of vodka starting at eight hundred pounds a pop, and lap-dances by delectable, obscenely young Russian girls, the four of them had got through the money in no time. And Sebastian had been in a particularly generous mood. He'd just received a large bonus at work, he had a son and heir and a ravishing mistress who he was bonking the life out of, and earlier that week his personal trainer had told him he'd almost got his body fat down to the level of an Olympic athlete.

‘Yah, she's OK,' he said dismissively, taking another glug out of the champagne flute by the
edge of the hot tub. ‘Still a bit chubs after Milo, but I'm thinking of getting her a trainer. That or lipo; a client recommended a great guy in Harley Street who tidied his wife up.'

‘Not like Sabrina, eh?' said Barnaby, a leering grin crossing his face. ‘Any more where she came from, Seb? Has she got a sister or something?'

‘Keep your fucking grubby little paws off her, Barno,' said Sebastian lazily. ‘Sabrina is mine, and I have no intention of sharing her.'

Actually, back in London at that exact moment, Sabrina was licking Fortnum & Mason hazelnut spread off a very handsome pair of buttocks in her bedroom. The owner of the bottom was a twenty-something aristocratic model called Piers. He had been coming round to have sex with Sabrina most afternoons for the past six weeks. Sabrina had a predilection for toyboys, and this was the seventh in the last two years. Sebastian might have expected her to stay faithful, but Sabrina had no intention of living like an old maid while he played happy families with his dreary wife in the country.

Not that she'd ever tell him that. She'd had richer lovers, but Sebastian looked after her pretty well. And she had every intention of keeping it that way.

It was Monday morning, and Caro was lugging the recycled rubbish bag out for the cleaners when she noticed a sleek, silver grey Porsche parked next door. The new neighbours! she thought excitedly. Maybe they've decided to leave the 4×4 at home for this visit.

At that moment, the front door opened and
someone came out. Caro's heart stopped momentarily. Striding down the path towards her was the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on. In his late thirties, with dirty blond hair, sculpted face, and blue eyes the colour of stormy seas, he looked like an even more gorgeous Brad Pitt, something Caro had never thought possible. His six-foot-plus frame was dressed in jeans and a pale blue shirt which couldn't hide the broad shoulders and muscular contours of the body underneath. Caro felt her heart flutter.

Unfortunately, the man also had a face like thunder, his gorgeous, manly features overshadowed by a fierce scowl. It looked like he was going to completely ignore Caro even though she was standing mere feet away. She finally found her voice.

‘Morning!' she squeaked. ‘I'm Caro Belmont. You must be our new neighbour.' She stuck out her hand nervously.

The stranger stopped in his tracks and looked at Caro as though she had just climbed down from a space ship. He glanced down at her hand and then stepped forward and shook it in a cursory fashion. His hand was large, firm and warm. Caro didn't want to let go.

Still the stranger didn't say anything, just stared at her. Caro was starting to feel a bit intimidated. ‘Er, I'm Caro,' she repeated. ‘I live next door . . .'

‘Towey,' the man barked, cutting her off. ‘Benedict Towey.' His voice was deep and well cultivated, although it showed no signs of warming up.

‘Have you bought the house, then?' asked Caro. Benedict Towey looked at her as though
she had just announced she'd killed his mother.

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, and your wife and children . . .' Caro trailed off.

‘No, it's just me,' he answered shortly, and started to walk towards the car, terminating the conversation.

Caro couldn't help her curiosity. ‘It's an awfully big place for one person, isn't it?' she called after him.

Benedict Towey turned and fixed her with a cold stare. ‘It's none of your damn business,' he said, and with that he got into the Porsche and screeched away, leaving Caro standing there, speechless.

‘What a
horrible
man!' she finally exploded.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING,
Devon Cornwall was walking around the grounds of Byron Heights. The property was set in six acres of gardens complete with gazebos and ornamental ponds, bridges and statuettes galore. The main choice of shrub seemed to be rhododendrons and yew trees, giving the grounds a slightly ‘churchyard' feel.

Somewhere an owl hooted. Devon shivered slightly. He was standing at the bottom of the vast lawn, looking back up at the house. The turrets were silhouetted against the twilit sky, and the house loomed ominously over the grounds. This place hadn't looked so creepy when he'd viewed it in daylight.

A fox suddenly ran out in front of him. ‘Jesus!' he yelled in surprise, then checked himself. ‘You silly old sod,' he muttered out loud. ‘Let's go and see what Nige has knocked up for dinner.'

As well as being Devon's PA, Nigel was a fabulous cook. Devon had had many chefs over the years, and each had come with the highest recommendation, but in his opinion none of them had been as good as Nigel. So he'd upped Nigel's
wages and now let him do all the cooking. It was Nigel's passion and hobby anyway, so it was an arrangement that suited them both very well. The only other member of staff was a daytime housekeeper Nigel had hired from some agency. Devon had yet to bump into her along the twisty, cavernous corridors of Byron Heights.

In the kitchen, which boasted a huge wooden table and ornate cupboards, Nigel was busily chopping vegetables, Radio 3 in the background. One of Devon's stipulations when he moved in was built-in stereos and speakers in every room, so he could wander through the house listening to his favourite music.

‘All right old fella, what's for dinner?' Over the years, Devon had managed to eradicate his Gloucester accent, and now spoke a muso style of cockney, much like his contemporary, Mick Jagger.

‘Feta cheese and asparagus pie, your favourite,' replied Nigel. ‘It'll be ready in about an hour.'

‘Nice one!' said Devon, taking a smoothie out of the enormous American-style fridge. There was time for him to practise some yoga in the specially converted gym before dinner.

‘You don't think this place is haunted?' Devon asked. They were sitting in the grand hall, at one end of a dining table that could accommodate up to a hundred people.

Nigel paused, a piece of asparagus speared on the end of his fork. ‘No, why? Oh, you're not having flashback hallucinations, are you?' Despite his now ultra-clean lifestyle, Devon still suffered
very occasional flashbacks from all the LSD he'd taken in the early days of his career.

‘No, of course not,' said Devon. ‘It's just this place. Well, it's a bit spooky innit? I'm half-expecting Scooby Doo and Shaggy to come running around the corner pursued by something in a white sheet. All those dark nooks and crannies, it's getting me a bit on edge.'

Nigel rolled his eyes. ‘It's an old house, Devon. It's bound to be a bit creaky. It doesn't mean it's infested with spirits, though.'

Devon thought for a moment. ‘Nah, you're right. I just got the heebie jeebies. Christ!' he laughed at himself. ‘Anyway, what's for pud?'

After dinner, Devon retired to bed. The master bedroom was enormous, a four-poster bed in the centre, expensive rugs on the stone floors and pieces of art deco that Devon had collected on his travels arranged tastefully by Nigel on the walls.

Devon was deep in the autobiography of an Indian yogi when he suddenly heard a strange shuffling noise from somewhere downstairs. He stiffened and put his book down, his ears straining to hear in the silence. Was that Nigel? But he was in a room at the other end of the house. Devon picked up his book. Must have been imagining . . .

There it was again! It sounded like someone walking about downstairs. But there was no one down there, Nigel had gone to bed before him! Burglars wouldn't be that noisy, would they? Summoning all his courage, Devon flung back his covers and tip-toed to the door. It creaked as he
opened it, and he hesitantly stuck his head into the blackness outside.

‘Nige? Nigel?' he called. ‘Is that you?'

Silence. Then, just out of the corner of his eye, a movement made Devon look through the banisters of the staircase down into the grand entrance hall. Something white, something non-human, was slowly walking – no,
gliding
! – across the floor.

It was too much for Devon. He screamed loudly, slammed the door shut and dived back under the bedclothes.

‘It was probably just mice or something,' said Nigel fifteen minutes later. He was sitting on Devon's bed in a dressing gown, putting some herbal calming remedy drops into a glass of water for his boss. The house was ablaze like a lighthouse because after Nigel had rushed to Devon's aid he'd been told to go around putting every light on.

‘Yeah but mice aren't s-s-s-six feet tall, an' they don't dress in white and glide across the f-f-f-floor!' said Devon, gibbering with terror.

‘But they
do
shuffle around,' pointed out Nigel. ‘As for the white shape, I am sure you were just seeing things. You'd taken your contact lenses out, hadn't you?' Devon nodded.

‘Well that solves that!' said Nigel. ‘Now you try and get back to sleep. I'll get the exterminators out in the morning to catch the nasty little buggers.'

Devon lay back on his pillows, pacified but not entirely convinced. He might be an ex-druggie but he was
sure
he'd seen something.

The next day, a local pest-control firm from Bedlington were called out. Despite a thorough examination, no traces of mice, rats or anything else vermin-like were found. What they did find, however, were strange claw marks running along one of the skirting boards. ‘No mouse is big enough to make those, they'd 'ave to 'ave paws the size of bleedin' shovels,' said Len from Rodent-Kill.

‘For God's sake, keep your voice down,' hissed Nigel. Devon was only in the music room down the hallway and Nigel didn't want any more silly ideas put in his head.

Len wasn't to be deterred. ‘Looks like you've got a bleeding werewolf or summin!' He laughed heartily at his own joke, and Nigel paid up and got rid of him before Devon appeared.

‘So what was it, Nige?' asked Devon nervously a few minutes later, appearing in the study, where Nigel was going through some bills.

‘Just mice, as we suspected!' Nigel lied. ‘It's all cleared up now, nothing to worry about.'

Devon's face brightened. ‘Thank Christ for that, I thought we'd moved into the house of living dead or something!' He turned and walked out.

Nigel smiled thinly. He'd encountered enough of his boss's drug-fuelled visions over the years. Once, in a hotel room in Rio, Devon had thought he was being mounted by a sex-crazed Margaret Thatcher when it was actually just a navy-blue cushion. No, Nigel didn't believe his boss had seen anything spooky; he just had an over-active imagination. Without giving it another thought, Nigel went back to his paperwork.

IT WAS A
mid-week evening at No. 5 The Green, and Camilla was just going up to bed with a hot chocolate and a copy of
Cotswold Life
when she got the shock of her life. Walking down the corridor from the bathroom to Calypso's room was Sam, as naked as the day she was born. Camilla stopped dead at the top of the stairs, mouth open in shock. Try as she might to look
anywhere
but at Sam, she couldn't stop herself. It was quite a sight. Sam had both nipples pierced with what looked like large silver studs. A tattoo of a dragon ran down one shoulder, and her pubic bush had been bleached blonde and cut in the shape of a lightning flash. Sam's man-sized thighs, rock-hard stomach, and rippling biceps were still glistening wet from the shower.

‘Oh!' squawked Camilla.

‘Sorry, I forgot my towel,' said Sam casually. ‘I didn't know you were in.'

‘That's fine, honestly,' replied Camilla, trying not to appear flustered. She didn't want to, but she couldn't help giving Sam's bush another glance, she'd never seen anything like it before. Sam caught her doing it and smirked slightly. Oh God, thought
Camilla. She's going to think I'm one as well! Before Sam could say anything, Camilla flashed a nervous smile. ‘Anyway!' She edged past Sam and fled into her room, shutting the door. Almost immediately, the phone beside her bed rang. Camilla put her mug down and snatched it up. ‘Hello?'

‘Darling! Is that you, Bills? You and Calypso sound identical on the phone!'

Camilla sat down on the bed, relieved to hear the warm, familiar tones of her mother. ‘Mummy!' she said weakly. ‘How are you?'

‘I haven't caught you at a bad time, have I?'

Fifty seconds earlier and you would have, thought Camilla. ‘No, no,' she replied, composing herself. ‘How are things? Are you and Daddy OK?'

They were on a slight time delay. ‘Everyone's wonderful,' replied her mother a moment later. ‘I was actually phoning to speak to Calypso.' The day after the dinner party, her sister had finally phoned her parents and re-established contact and relative harmony between them.