Farm Fatale (46 page)

    Then there was the matter of the first act of
Charlotte in Love
being an unmitigated disaster, mostly because Samantha, considering a rain-lashed northern village unglamorous, insisted on making the repressed daughter of Haworth Parsonage the party-throwing chatelaine of a villa in the South of France.

    The writer's love life had also been found wanting. "We're never going to get Matt and Bill—I mean Ben—to play those," Samantha had snapped on the discovery that the main romantic events in Charlotte's life had been an unrequited passion for an aging Belgian schoolmaster and marriage to a curate called Arthur. Under duress, Mark changed them to what Samantha considered to be a more Hollywood-friendly womanizing duke and a randy field marshal. He squared it with his conscience by reflecting that all the Brontës had been great fans of the Duke of Wellington.

    As if this were not enough, there was also Samantha's wretched soon-to-be-ex-stepdaughter to cope with. Although it now seemed official that Guy and Samantha were going to divorce, Iseult, who was apparently going to live with Guy in London, was still at The Bottoms, ostensibly because there were "things to sort out." This explanation did not entirely wash with Mark, especially now that Guy himself had disappeared to the capital on a practically permanent basis, but Mark was not interested enough to inquire. Nor did he want to encourage Iseult, who made no attempt to disguise the fact that she found his plight hilarious. She had dubbed the film project
Sunset Boulevard
and lost no opportunity to call in at the gazebo and mock it. Unfortunately for Mark, there were many such opportunities. When one day he finally asked Iseult why such an avowed country hater like herself didn't just go back to London, she smiled mysteriously and said she was waiting for something.

    According to Iseult, Samantha had reacted well to Guy's request for a divorce, possibly because of his decision to hand her The Bottoms as her settlement. This news filled Mark with mixed relief and dread; Samantha was clearly going nowhere for the moment, which meant, of course, that he and
Charlotte
weren't either. A prisoner of her thespian ambitions and his own impecunious situation, Mark felt increasingly like a bird in a gilded cage, albeit a gilded, distempered, decoupaged, and beribboned cage lined with toile de Jouy. Full board and lodging at The Bottoms had long lost its glamour—the rioting pastoral prints all over his room gave him a permanent migraine, and the relentless low-fat nature of all food served was making him fear for his blood-sugar levels.

    "How's
Sunset Boulevard
going?" Iseult asked as she dropped by that afternoon. "Where's Samantha?"

    "Out getting her thighs electrocuted or her nipples repositioned or something." Mark sighed, adding that Samantha had, of late, indulged in at least two treatments a week with the ultimate goal of looking as polished as possible as she approached the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

    "Is she having her lips puffed up?"

    Mark shrugged.

    "Hope not," Iseult said, screwing up her face. "I read somewhere that women with very thin mouths need more than collagen injections, and the lips have to be split, peeled back, and stuffed with fat from dead peoples bodies."

    "Yuck," said Mark, who thereafter experienced a wave of revulsion every time he looked at Samantha's mouth. Every time he looked at Samantha, in fact.

    Her complete lack of talent ensured that the situation between them couldn't have been less like
Sunset Boulevard
. Much as Mark identified with William Holden's hapless screenwriter, Samantha was no Norma Desmond. She was not ready for her closeup and she never would be.

    "What's my motivation?" she demanded in the final scene of the first act of the film.

    Mark had envisaged this as a touching tableau in which Charlotte tremulously ties up the just-completed
Jane Eyre
before sending it off to try its luck with the publishers. "What's my motivation?" Mark repeated grimly to himself. He had painstakingly explained to Samantha how, at this point, Charlotte's whole literary future hangs in the balance as she silently, passionately, prays that her manuscript will be accepted. Shot through with hope, vulnerability, and ambition, the scene was, he thought, a powerful piece of cinema, even if its power was not apparent to all. "Your motivation," he snarled under his breath, "is money."

    "What about this?" Samantha said now, craning her neck into profile and assuming a tragic air. "Perfect for the scene where Charlotte looks out to sea and watches the duke's ship disappearing over the horizon?"

    "Great," said Mark heavily, reflecting that at least that scene didn't involve any speaking parts. Samantha's interpretation of Charlotte Brontë as a breathy-voiced temptress with an epic cleavage set his teeth on edge. He groaned. Nothing about the project was remotely right, still less, as Samantha informed him the film jargon went, dead leather perfect. Still, he thought wearily, these things could surely be improved on. They would have to be.

***

"Haven't seen you up at Spitewinter much recently," Duffy remarked, casually dropping in to hand-deliver the pizza restaurant handout that made up the whole of Rosie's post that day.

    Rosie glared, hoping this would distract him from the guilty look in her eye. Before he had burst in, as usual without knocking, she had been waiting for Murgatroyd and thinking with happy anticipation of the day ahead with Matt.

    Having spent the night reliving their afternoon together, she had been awakened by a hungry throb between her legs. The exact time had been difficult to establish; the church clock had banged out first eleven, then fourteen an hour later. Rosie had finally been driven out of bed when it struck twenty-eight, only to find that it was, in fact, six. Awake, she had passed the early morning working on the final paintings for
A Ewe in New York.
Now that her sketches had been approved by the publishers, all that remained was to fill them in with color. Rosie was eager to finish them as soon as she could in order to spend as much time as possible on her new artistic project.

    Duffy, however, had hit on the one cloud in the blue sky of her happiness. Rosie was nothing if not softhearted and, despite his treatment of her, with her newfound luck had come the recurring question of how Jack was coping in comparison. She pictured him sitting lonely and embittered in the farmhouse with only Kate for company, brooding over Catherine and the intransigence of women. Her stomach twisted with guilt.

    "Haven't been up there for a while, have you?" Duffy's tone was almost accusing.

    In reply, Rosie gestured at the painting she had been working on that morning. "I've nearly finished my animal pictures. There's no need for me to go anymore."

    There was a pause.

    "Jack seems happy enough anyway," Duffy said with elaborate casualness.

    "Happy?" It was impossible not to betray her astonishment.

    "Been writing off to that magazine. Lonely 'earts thing, you know."

    "Lonely hearts?" Rosie tried, but failed, to visualize Jack sitting in the candlelit corner of a bistro watching the door with a rose in his teeth.
Northern farmer with burned fingers seeks reliable, nonurban
woman with guaranteed lack of interest in pop stars or feed salesmen
from Chesterfield.

    "Which magazine?" she asked.

    "You know," said Duffy. "That thing that's been in all the papers—you must have seen it."

    Rosie shook her head. "No."

    "That country magazine that's worried about farmer's being too isolated to find suitable women…" Duffy paused and flicked her an impudent glance.

    "I don't know what you're talking about." Rosie was determined to rebut both meanings.

    But Duffy, as ever, was impervious. "This glossy magazine, right, well, it's running a campaign to help these farmers. They're putting pictures of farmers needing wives into the magazine, along with a little interview, and women who want to meet them write in to the magazine. They set up meetings in restaurants, the farmers click with the women, and hey, presto, problem solved. Jammy buggers," he added ruefully. "Wish they'd do the same for country postmen."

    "What, and they've put Jack in?" Rosie was astonished. Grumpy, obdurate Jack courting publicity, let alone advertising his lovelorn plight? Delivering himself into the hands of fickle fate via a magazine feature? "I can't believe it."

    The postman's eyes slid toward the almost-empty biscuit package on the shelf. Rosie grasped it and pushed it at him.

    "It was his auntie who put him up to it." Duffy, biscuit in hand, jerked a thumb at the wall that separated Rosie from the Womersleys. "Jack had some kind of bust-up recently, with some woman old Mrs. W. had high hopes of…" He cleared his throat meaningfully. Rosie looked boldly back at him but blinked first. "And so Mrs. W. lost her rag. Told Jack to stop moaning about his luck with women and get his act together because moping around Spitewinter wasn't going to help things."

    Duffy, thought Rosie, was extraordinarily well informed. It seemed very odd that Mrs. Womersley, who had always seemed to regard him with suspicion, would let the postman into her confidence to such an extent.

    "So then she sent him this farmers' lonely 'earts thing she'd seen in the paper."

    
Sent
. Now that made sense. The source of Duffy's information was suddenly crystal clear.

    "…and told him to get the magazine and get on with it. He's receiving lots of letters. Some very racy ones from London, I must say."

    Well, he won't be replying to them, it was on the tip of Rosie's tongue to say.

    "And there's this one woman from some village in Yorkshire who's very keen. Has loads of ideas for going orgasmic."

    "Orgasmic?" echoed Rosie. "What sort of a magazine did you say it was?"

    "You
know
. Potatoes with dirt on, that sort of thing. Milk with bits of straw in it."

    "Organic, you mean?"

    "Organic, that's it. And she had lots of plans for opening bedand-breakfasts and things. Sounded like a real live wire, even if the picture she sent wasn't what you'd call gorgeous."

    Rosie said nothing but thought that, after the beautiful but ungovernable Catherine and her obviously unsatisfactory self, a hardworking, plain woman would be the answer to Jack's prayers. Someone completely different, who could on no account be compared. And if she had ideas as well, so much the better.

    "But Jack's not made his mind up. Still auditioning 'em all." Duffy grinned. "You should keep a look out—you'll probably see them going past the window on their way up to the farm. His auntie certainly does."

    The excitement of the postman's visit had been such that only as he screeched off did Rosie notice Murgatroyd had not yet arrived. Odd, for someone so punctual. She opened the stable door to look out, but the big silver bonnet stubbornly failed to slide into view. Apart from Blathnat throwing stones at milk bottles, the lane was silent and empty. After half an hour had passed beyond the agreed pickup time, Rosie felt ill with concern. Had something happened? Had Geordie been putting the pressure on Matt again? Had Matt, driven back into the depths of depression and self-doubt, done anything
stupid
? Rosie's breath caught noisily in her throat. But he had seemed so happy yesterday. Had even told her that he…

    Rosie was aroused from blissful memory by the telephone.

    "Murgatroyd here. From Ladymead. Sorry to disturb you, madam."

    "Oh, Murgatroyd. Where are you? Everything's all right, isn't it?"

    "Yes, madam. But Mr. Locke is in bed."

    "Oh, God." Rosie's hand flew to her throat. "Is he ill?"

    "No, madam. Just very tired. Up all night again. I'm afraid, madam, that the session for today will have to be canceled. I'll pick you up tomorrow, madam."

    Disappointment hit her like a fist. She wouldn't see Matt for a whole day. Twenty-four entire sixty-minute-long hours. They would, quite obviously,
never
pass. Rosie swallowed hard. "Fine," she croaked. "I'll see you tomorrow. And please give my…say hello to Mr. Locke for me."

    "Indeed I will, madam." The line clicked and went dead. Rosie wandered into the kitchen. Two minutes had probably passed since Murgatroyd had called. Twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes to go.

***

Duffy had by this time moved on to Mark. He had made it his business to separate Mark's post from Rosie's and deliver the former to the gazebo so that he could keep an eye on things. As Mark received, on the whole, even less post than Rosie, Duffy had been required to call on all his reserves of initiative to create some. Mark was now the recipient of an unrelenting stream of special-offer film development envelopes.

    "Well, you're making a film, aren't you?" Duffy said innocently as Mark communicated his irritation at being interrupted for the sake of a flier announcing a sale on Quarter Pounders at McDonald's.

    "Not that sort of film," said Mark shortly, wishing he had been less free with the movie's prepublicity. His steady loss of faith in the project had not been helped by Iseult's informing him that morning that the closest Samantha had ever come to fame was on a low-budget TV miniseries where the director's secretary had gone by the name of Holly Wood. A story, she assured him, Guy had heard from the horse's mouth, though whether that meant Samantha or the secretary was not established.