Farm Fatale (50 page)

    "Oh yes." Mrs. Womersley nodded vigorously, her postparty frozen manner apparently evaporated. Blinking agitatedly, she cast an eye at the heavily clouded sky. "Black as t'inside of a cow up there though. It'll be raining tin 'ats later. I can feel it in my plastic hip."

    "Oh, dear," said Rosie, who had spent the last half hour lugging watering cans from the protracted dribble otherwise known as the cold tap. What a waste of effort.

    Mrs. Womersley hesitated. There was obviously something she wanted to say. "We're going to a wedding soon," she blurted out.

    "How lovely," Rosie said automatically. "Who's getting married?" A split second later, she realized. "Not Jack?"

    Mrs. Womersley nodded so hard her spectacles almost flew off. "Yes. I've only just found out meself. I know it seems a bit previous, but they didn't want to waste any more time…any
time
, I mean." The old lady paused and blushed. "She's a nice, sensible girl from Yorkshire called Susan. Bit older than Jack. But very capable. Got lots of ideas for the farm. Wants to open a bed-and-breakfast, start a garden center, sell cheese and jam, oh, there's no end to it."

    "Well, that's great." Rosie was surprised to find she really did feel glad. Relieved, certainly. Thank God
someone
had come out of the whole mess with something to show for it. "She sounds perfect farmer's wife material."

    Flower Hat, then, had failed to make an impression. Probably failed to find the farm, given the vague way she'd been weaving up the lane.

    "Do send Jack my, um, love. Tell him I hope they'll both be very happy."

    The old lady nodded violently. "I will that. Don't you worry. Thank you." Mrs. Womersley's glasses finally shot off her nose and swung drunkenly about on their plastic chains.

    Just then Rosie's ear caught what sounded like a violent assault on the front of the cottage. Or could it be someone at the door?

    "Excuse me," she said to Mrs. Womersley. "I think it's the postman."

    "I'd stay here in that case," said the old lady with a wry smile.

    
Bang bang bang bang
. The noise as she hurried through the kitchen was terrifying. Duffy never made a row like this. Or knocked at all, come to think of it. Satchel? Possible, though even he usually stopped short of a din of this proportion. The Muzzles and a collection of friends were all inside their house anyway, wielding brushes with more enthusiasm than skill. Arthur was an early casualty; Rosie had spotted him on her return home, his dreadlocks plastered with primer. "If you think this is bad, you should see my bongos," he had muttered. "They'll be a write-off for Talent Night."

    The banging went on. As Rosie reached the sitting room, she froze with shock. Crashing his fist against the window, shouting her name, a deranged expression on his face was…Matt.

    Rosie fell back against the wall.

    His blows redoubled in force as he saw her. "Let me in, Rosie. Let me in!" Behind him, Rosie could see Blathnat and Satchel, their mouths wide open in admiration. Even Guinevere never got up a head of steam like this.

    Rosie hesitated. The glass was about to crack. For God's sake, hadn't this man done enough to her? Not content with breaking her heart, he had to come to smash her house up into the bargain. She half turned on her heel.

    "Rosie!" screamed Matt, his voice a raw howl.

    For once the latch slid easily back in its socket. Matt shot in like a bullet from a gun, slammed the door behind him, and dragged her with him into the kitchen. It was a wise precaution. Thrilled by the drama, every child in the street now had his or her nostrils flush to the sitting-room window.

    Rosie shrank against the kitchen sink, confused, angry, and terrified. Matt, his eyes spitting sparks, his chest heaving, his breath rasping, was clearly almost deranged with fury.

    "I found out," he snarled at her. "I heard all about it. I had no idea.
No idea at all
."

    "About what?" Rosie's hands clutched the edge of the steel draining board. Did he mean Jack? Ancient history—and so what anyway?

    "The bloody film, of course," bellowed Matt, banging his fists against the wall so that the plaster fell in a shower from the ceiling.

    "Film?" Yes, they were filming at Ladymead. She knew that; so did he. So what was he talking about?

    "
Farm Fatale
or whatever it's bloody called. The rustic romp. The one with"—he paused, apparently struggling to get the word out—"
Champagne
in it."

    Despite flinching at the name, Rosie spoke calmly. "Yes. I know, I met her. She told me all about it. How excited you were she was filming at Ladymead and so on—"

    "Well, she had no bloody right to," Matt roared. "I never gave her any sodding permission. She's
not
filming at Ladymead. I told her to piss off."

    "You told…her…to piss off," repeated Rosie incredulously.

    "Well, of
course
I bloody did." Matt smashed what must have been already bruised fists against the kitchen table for emphasis. "I can't believe she had the cheek to come anywhere near me. But then she always did have plenty of that."

    Rosie gaped, then frowned. Something about this wasn't quite right. Wasn't he desperately in love with Champagne?

    "Turns out the sodding film unit's been going around the village for days saying I'd agreed," Matt snarled, pacing up and down in the kitchen. "Been casting bloody everyone from the vicar to the sodding district nurse as extras. Before they'd even talked to
me. Champagne tol
d them all it would be no problem filming at Ladymead." His brows knit furiously. "
No problem
. As it happens, it's a fucking
massive
problem."

    "Is it?" whispered Rosie, still clinging to the draining board.

    "Of course it bloody is. Let me tell you," he added, eyes hard as diamonds, "about Champagne."

    Rosie braced herself. Here it came. The love, the betrayal, the pain. The incomparable love.

    "Champagne," said Matt, his voice caressing the syllables. "She walked into my life in a skirt so short it was like a novelette with a happy ending…"

    Just as she had imagined, Rosie thought. Why was she listening to this shit? "I heard you never got over her," she muttered miserably.

    "Too right I never bloody got over her. But not quite in the way she liked to make out. When we split, she told everyone I was destroyed by her dumping me."

    Rosie drew a sharp breath. Here they went.

    "I was destroyed all right. And her dumping me was the only thing that saved me. Except that she didn't dump me. It was me who dumped
her
."

    "You…?"

    "Of course I bloody did." Matt snorted. "The woman's a
monster
. I wouldn't have her within a hundred miles of Ladymead. Being with her was the worst time of my life. Never got over her, too bloody right. I'm probably damaged for life. She was a
nightmare
."

    "Nightmare?"

    "Nightmare," repeated Matt. "Champagne's the most spoiled and feckless woman on the planet. You must have read the stories…"

    Rosie looked down. The kitchen seemed to be whirling about her.

    "You haven't? But of course you haven't. You don't read papers. Very sensible of you. But let me tell you, anyway. I once had to book an entire penthouse suite at the Savoy because Champagne wanted a cup of coffee. She wouldn't even get on a Gulfstream unless it was the same color as her nail polish. Drove me fucking bananas."

    A feeling of calm began to spread through Rosie.

    "And, Christ, she was thick." Matt rocked back on his heels agitatedly. "The only deep thing about her was her cleavage. And most of that was fake. I never saw what her real face was like, it was so plastered in makeup. Her arse, by contrast, was on permanent public view."

    Rosie closed her eyes.

    "Financially, she almost finished me. Went through my money like water. Once gave six hundred pounds to a beach attendant just for putting a parasol up and bringing her a Sea Breeze. She used to bloody live on caviar. Millionaire's Marmite, she called it." Matt paused. "Amazing I had enough left to buy Ladymead in the end," he continued. "'Get yourself a tame bank manager and a stockbroker with inside information,' everyone said when I hit the big time. It was only once Champagne started raiding my accounts that I realized my bank manager was barely house-trained and my stockbroker was keeping all his insider information to himself." Matt smacked his palm hard against his forehead.

    He continued, eyes slightly watering. "It was her that drove me to drink. After she'd finished with me I wasn't just a songwriter with an alcohol problem, I was an alcoholic with a songwriting problem. I thought I was just drinking socially, whereas in fact the tabloids were regularly reporting that I was drinking very antisocially indeed. She drove me so close to the edge that I thought I might go over it. I looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back into me…" He paused, rubbed his eyes, and gave Rosie a mirthless smile. "Enough already. I sound like an outtake on one of my own albums."

    "But I thought—"

    "Yes, I know what
you
bloody thought. She met you in the archway and told you to sod off because she was filming and we were getting back together. Didn't she?
Didn't she?"

    Rosie nodded, tears pricking at her eyes.

    "Well, that was a bloody lie. Everything she told you was a bloody lie. She was jealous. One look at you and she would have guessed what was going on."

    Going on? Was anything, Rosie wondered dully, going on?

    "I only realized when Murgatroyd marched her into the studio. Found her trespassing on the property, he said. When she told me what she'd said to you, I almost…" Matt swallowed hard. "I came straight round," he whispered, wild-eyed.

    "I thought you had gone back to her," Rosie murmured in a monotone. "I thought everything she said was true.
I thought
…"

    "Rosie," Matt said, speaking to her from across the miles between the sink and the kitchen table. "I was
desperate
to see you. I knew what you would think and that you wouldn't want to see me. I was going to write to you and explain everything." He paused. "Then rather fortunately, Murgatroyd reminded me there was a slight problem with the postman."

    Rosie smiled.

    "I love
you,"
Matt said, his voice bubbling and echoing as if through water. "Not Champagne. Champagne means nothing to me. Not anymore. I fell in love with you the minute I saw you, wearing that gorgeous suit and looking at me with big, scared eyes outside the door of that house. It helped me so much being with you. I felt so much better. You're so gentle, so encouraging, such a good listener…"

    Rosie strained to catch the words, but her ears seemed to be filled with cotton wool. His voice loomed and faded, as if he was speaking underwater.

    "You've helped me more than you can ever know," the watery voice continued. "Even with the album. That tape you gave to Murgatroyd is
fantastic
. Amazing stuff. Just what I needed. I got that girl Iseult in to help me on a few tracks. Her voice is unbelievable.
Incredible
. We're going to perform together soon—just a little thing to help me get my stage boots back on." His eyes flashed with joy. "Oh, Rosie. Say you'll forgive me. Say you'll marry me. I'm so bloody sorry…
Rosie?"

    Rosie's elbow suddenly gave way beneath her. The kitchen floor came toward her face. A stray piece of penne by the sink came clearly into focus. Then everything went black.

"Now then," Alan boomed, wielding his crackling microphone and calling the noisy barroom to attention. "The next act needs a bit of encouragement. We've got Keith here on the bass, Les on lead, and Ann on the drums. They're going to try to play 'Apache,' and I want you to clap every time they hit the right note…"

    Guy, sitting beside Rosie at the table next to the window, guffawed. When a few minutes after the performance had begun, no one had yet put their hands together, he guffawed still louder.

    "Apache?" He snorted. "Bloody patchy, I'd say."

    The sweet-faced, dark-haired woman sitting opposite him put her finger to her lips. "Don't be so horrible."

    "Practicing all night in the village hall they were last night," Alan told him chidingly over the microphone. "It's not their fault they haven't played it through yet. They kept having to stop for the bingo."

    The musicians, fortunately, seemed oblivious to criticism. Ann, a Native American headdress of retina-frying neon feathers crammed over her helmet of blond hair and crushed in the corner behind what even Rosie recognized as a distinctly ad hoc–looking drum kit, pawed away with her jazz brushes, brow furrowed in concentration. In front of her, the barroom shouted encouragement.

    "Dum der der dum der der dum der der dum der der DER DER," boomed Alan triumphantly. "Ladeezandgennelmen, I think you'll agree they hit the right notes there. Round of applause, please."

    After much laughter and even more effort, "Apache" limped to its end. The two subsequent acts, the headmistress on the organ followed by the Ofsted inspector, put up a creditable show, although remembering the cold war that existed over the "Ofsted" feline, the headmistress's choice of "What's New, Pussycat?" seemed a tad injudicious to Rosie.