Farm Fatale (24 page)

    Reaching the turn for Ladymead, Samantha, intending to impress the leopardskin pants off any watching rock god, put her foot down and shot as far and as fast up the Ladymead drive as she could. Just round the second bend, Samantha screeched to a halt, the nose of the car mere inches from one of many revolving video cameras and complex-looking security gadgets. The gates were, Samantha noted jealously, light-years ahead of the ones at The Bottoms; so high-tech, in fact, that it was impossible to figure out how to alert anyone to her presence.

    After several fruitless minutes gesticulating wildly into the cameras, Samantha settled for making a long, passionate, and, she liked to think, professional speech to CCTV. She informed camera one that she was just popping by to introduce herself, had recently moved into the village, was actually
quite
well known as well,
ha ha
, and would simply
adore it if Matt saw fit to grace her little party wit
h his presence. Samantha gave the performance her all and was disappointed when, despite having a distinct feeling of being watched, no chart-topping celebrity was forthcoming at the end of it. Gathering up the remains of her dignity, Samantha slipped the invitation card marked "Mr. Matthew Locke Esq." into the letterbox and drove away.

    Twenty minutes later, she entered Cobchester and piloted the car toward a space in the cathedral car park with PROVOST ONLY written across it in large white letters. Do the crusty old provost good if people think he drives a car like this, anyway, Samantha thought, tottering off toward the shopping center.

    It did not take long for Samantha to establish that Cobchester's fancy-dress outfits were not numerous. A short trawl round the party-wear section of the one department store revealed rack after rack of collarless suits in matronly sizes or shapeless chiffon tents in beige. Yet Samantha persevered; it wasn't until after she had barked "Where's the Dior?" at an assistant in the smartest boutique she could find and been pointed toward the shop's front entrance that she finally admitted defeat.

    As she pushed open the door in question and allowed it to smash unceremoniously into a mother and an all-terrain stroller exiting the store behind her, Samantha's eye chanced to fall on the window of a bookshop opposite. Books. Now there was something she could do with.

    The oak shelves in the large paneled
bibliothèque
of The Bottoms remained gapingly empty, following Lady St. Felix's speedy and irritating removal of the set of twenty-five original Waverly novels and other historical literary gems Samantha had imagined were thrown in with the house. Offering her a fiver per yard to leave them had failed to have the desired effect; the result was that she needed old books and she needed them now. And not necessarily by the yard. Pushing open the door with a ping, Samantha wondered if they were available by the mile.

    The bookshop was of the old-fashioned variety—undulating skyscrapers of volumes piled in every available space and dusty shelves marked Folklore and Occult Psychology stretching up to the damp-swollen ceiling. It was, Samantha thought delightedly, just like
Notting Hill
, except that the corpselike assistant slumped behind the sales desk bore no resemblance whatsoever to
darling
Hughie. Still, Samantha thought, fanning her Titian waves out over her shoulders, at least she looked enough like Julia Roberts to make up for it. As well as being a film star into the bargain.

    
And
a better actress. Samantha ran her fingers repeatedly along a row of gold-stamped cloth spines marked "First Editions" until she'd got the gesture exactly right. If she lived to be a hundred she'd never understand why darling Hughie hadn't insisted she play the role of Anna Scott. Roberts, after all, couldn't act her way out of a bus ticket, or however the saying went.

    "Can I help you?" The dusty assistant had risen from the grave. As his cadaverous face appeared round the corner, Samantha emitted a squeal that was more squashed cat than Hollywood's highest-paid female actress. If this were really
Notting Hill
, she thought, this would be the point at which
dear
Hughie spilled orange juice all over Julia's T-shirt and fell in love with her. The corpse, she noticed with horror, held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in its bony hand.

    "No, thank you," she stammered, snatching an experiencedlooking volume off the shelf behind her and pretending to thumb through it. As the corpse nodded and disappeared, Samantha glanced down at the book in her hand. Some old claptrap called
Ghosts of the Area
. "A Vision of Doom" read the chapter heading on the first page. "Concerning the Phenomenon of a Mysterious Apparition with Protruding Eyes and Ashen Lips."
Iseult!
Samantha snorted and read on.

    It really was too hilarious. According to this volume, the entire surrounding county was riddled with headless horsemen, black dogs, ladies ranging from green through gray to white, and other supernatural phenomena. Doubtless all with completely sensible explanations—"Loud Footsteps and Heavy Breathing," for example, sounded exactly like Guy coming to bed.

    One would, Samantha considered, have to be insane to actually
believe
in any of it. Take this, for example: "One of the most Haunted Houses in the Area," promised the chapter heading.

    
Over the centuries, this charming building has been remark
able for the sheer volume of supernatural activity concentrated on
the spot…
read the opening paragraph. A ghostly cat, a black dog
,
screams, the clash of swords, and a green lady said to be the spirit of
a murdered previous owner of the house are but a few of the super
natural dramatis personae reported. One guest in the 1920s woke up
in the middle of the night to see what he described as a "terrifying
black ball of hate" flying toward him out of the gloom, while another
witnessed a white Lady reclining on a chaise longue and smiling
at him…
Tutting with disbelief, Samantha turned the page.
Less
friendly is the oft-reported sighting of a screaming woman with a
large knife stuck in her back…

    For Christ's sake, thought Samantha impatiently. Black ball of hate, indeed. The place had obviously been occupied by a succession of alcoholics, drug addicts, and others prone to wild fantasies. She glanced at the picture of the house accompanying the text. Pity, though. Nice place. Rather like The Bottoms.

    Amazingly like The Bottoms, in fact. Samantha's heart started to race as she peered more closely at the dark black-and-white reproduction of a three-story building in gray stone with gables, mullions, curved bays, and stone lions on either side of the front door. "The Bottoms, Eight Mile Bottom," read the caption. "Home to the St. Felix family for over 500 years."

    The blood drained from Samantha's face. She snapped the book shut, shoved it back onto the shelf, and rushed out of the shop as fast as her stilettos would allow her.

    
Notting Hill
had just turned into
The Amityville Horror.

***

Rosie sat at the top of the stile, looking apprehensively at the field in front of her. The sheep had gone, as had the lambs, and in their place were several large cows. She would have to walk through the cows to reach the farmhouse. Would they rush past her and knock her off her feet like the pig at the Silent Lady pub?

    Could cows, like horses, smell fear? Making reassuring noises in her throat, Rosie locked her eyeballs on rolling bovine pupils and, her workbag with its sketch pads, paints, and paintbrushes banging clumsily against her thigh, climbed carefully down off the stile onto the grass. Amazingly, and most obligingly, the cows started to dance backward, mooing and parting like the Red Sea at her approach. Rosie felt weak-kneed with relief. All much easier than expected. Now for the truly terrifying prospect: Jack.

    Mrs. Womersley had been apology itself. Her wrinkled face was puce with embarrassment the afternoon, a few days ago, she had explained over the garden wall that Jack hadn't really meant it.

    "You mustn't mind him," the old lady had said pleadingly, her hands wringing her apron in anguish. "He doesn't mean it. He's just had one or two bad experiences. Anyway," she added, before Rosie had time to inquire exactly what she meant, "he sends his apologies. Says he's sorry he overreacted and that he hopes you might consider coming back to the farm to finish your drawings." The old woman's eyes were anxious. "Do you think you might?"

    Why did she care so much? "I'll think about it," Rosie promised.

    "Have a plant," said the old lady, ripping one up from the border beneath her and thrusting it over the wall.

    It hadn't taken much thinking about, in fact. Just the few days she had spent exclusively in Mark's company. Days that only served to reinforce how impossible he had become to live with. He had insisted on working downstairs in the kitchen, with the result that everything Rosie did in there excited his irritation. It was, she had discovered, no longer possible even to wash up, unless one moved crockery silently about under the water like submarines, ever fearful of it clanking together and disturbing his fragile-as-blown-glass process of column composition. As if this weren't enough, snatches of her last, furious exchange with Jack ambushed her at unexpected moments. "I've got a right to make a living…rich yuppies… Knightsbridge with sheep." He'd made it pretty obvious what he thought of her. And who could blame him? With the banging and shouting of the Muzzles an uneasy backdrop to her thoughts, she had stared out of the grimy window at the mackerel sky and reflected that she'd better start looking elsewhere for animals to draw. Her stomach had twisted in regret, especially when she remembered the calm before the storm. That look of surprised welcome, that wry twist of smile, that peppery nearness…

    As Rosie crossed the field, she wished Bella were there to talk this over with and not at Val D'Isère. Still, it was probably just as well. She would put a decent face on it, but there would be no disguising her delight that Rosie's relationship with Mark had hit the rocks. Rosie breathed sharply in. Is that what had happened? It was the first time, even in thought, that she had admitted it. Could things be that bad?

    As Rosie came into the farmyard, a sudden breeze whipped past her nose, carrying with it the now-familiar beer-sour smell of silage. It clung, not unpleasantly, to her nostrils. The yard was deserted, as was the barn. Checking behind the farmhouse revealed Wellington unattended in her coop. Jack was obviously out in the fields somewhere. Or in the house? The door was closed, but Rosie peered in through the low-slung mullioned farmhouse windows. All was dark and still.

    "Rosie?" The voice came from the yard behind her.

    She pressed her forehead briefly against the glass. Naturally he would have to wait for her to be doing something embarrassing before coming on the scene. Gawking through his windows, for instance.

    "Oh. Jack. Hi." As Kate came yapping up, beating muddied paws liberally all over her, Rosie tried to sound as casual as she could. She glanced fearfully at him. Would he still be angry?

    He was coming through the gate, Wellingtons squelching in the mud. His tan had intensified—there had been a few days of fine spring sunshine since she had last seen him. A flash of blue eyes, that quick, twisted smile, and Rosie felt unsteady with relief. "I was just, um, seeing if you were in," she mumbled.

    Jack gave a short laugh. "In? I've not been in the house since four o'clock this morning. Since I got up to sort out the stock."

    "Oh, of course. Sorry." Jack, she had pondered many times over the past few days, had more in common with city yuppies than he realized. The only other person Rosie knew who got up at five to sort out stock was Bella, who had once done it to make a soup base for a dinner party. She sensed, though, that this was not the time to share this information. Not ever, perhaps.

    Jack cleared his throat. "Well, help yourself to the animals." He jerked out a hand in a general, expansive gesture.

    "Right-o." Rosie nodded emphatically.

    "I've told them all to suck their cheeks in." His features, screwed up against the sun, attempted to straighten themselves out into a smile.

    "Thanks."

    "You'll find the sheep in the far field today." He pointed in a direction on the other side of the farmhouse.

    "Thanks."

    Silence.

    "Listen," Jack said awkwardly. "I went a bit over the top the other day, I know. Not your fault. I was still angry about that bloody stupid woman telling me off about the cows making noises. Not that that was the last of it either." His eyes hardened.

    "She's complained about them again?"

    "Threatened to have them monitored for the noise they make. Now she's opposing my application to add a free-range poultry unit to the farm. Anyone would think I was trying to put up a nuclear reprocessing plant or something. BANANAS. That's what she is."

    Rosie raised her eyebrows slightly. As expletives went, it seemed amazingly mild. Considering the depths of invective Jack was capable of.

    "BANANAS," Jack repeated. "As in Building Anything Near Anyone Is Not Allowed."

    Rosie giggled. "I'll be off, then," she said. "And don't worry, I'll keep out of your way."

    "You don't have to do that." With apparent spontaneity, Jack moved a step closer. "I think I owe you an apology. You have your principles. I should have treated them with more respect."