Wild Oats (14 page)

‘What’s going on?’ She looked Jamie up and down coolly. ‘And who are you?’

‘This is Jamie Wilding,’ said Rod hastily. ‘Her father owns Bucklebury Farm. We’re just trying to clear up a bit of a misunderstanding.’

Jamie gave an indignant snort.

‘There’s no misunderstanding, I can assure you.

I’m quite clear about what’s happened. I just want to make sure
you
understand –’

Rod cut in icily. He really didn’t want Bella witnessing this bawling match.

‘Perhaps we could talk about this some other time? It’s not convenient at the moment. My wife and I –’

Bella sailed past him waving a nonchalant hand in the air and picked up her Prada gym bag.

‘Don’t worry about me, darling. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a class to get to. You two carry on discussing your business.’

She smiled at Rod, and ran her finger down his chest.

‘You can fill me in later.’

Her double entendre was quite clear. Bella left the house, her high ponytail swinging jauntily from side to side in perfect time with her taut buttocks. For a moment Rod felt rather proud. There weren’t many wives who would leave with such blasé confidence, having found their husband in mid-row with a screaming harpy. And he was pleased to see that Jamie looked as if the wind had been taken out of her sails. He indicated the three-piece suite.

‘Shall we sit down and talk about this sensibly?’

She ignored his invitation completely, and relaunched herself on the attack, this time her voice low with barely suppressed rage.

‘How dare you! How dare you take advantage of my father like that? It’s obvious he wasn’t thinking straight – he’s still in bits about my mother, for God’s
sake. But then that’s typical of you, isn’t it? Exploiting people. You always had the morals of a fucking snake.’

She paused for breath, to regain her composure, as if she’d realized she was ranting. Rod looked at her coolly.

‘Am I going to be allowed to speak?’

She nodded.

‘I found your dad falling off his bar stool in the Royal Oak. Blind drunk. Not for the first time either, according to Toby. We got chatting. He told me he was going to have to sell up. He was in total despair. He jokingly asked me if I wanted to buy it. It got me thinking…’

‘Obviously.’

‘You might call it exploiting him. But it seemed like the perfect answer to me. Your father’s got no money, Jamie. You can’t keep a place like Bucklebury Farm going with no capital. All I did was come up with a solution that I thought might help him. He was going to sell up completely, but I came up with a compromise.’

Jamie stamped her foot. ‘If anyone else tells me it’s a compromise… Well, there isn’t going to be any compromise. It’s out of the question. We’ll find an alternative –’

Rod raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘The alternative is he sells the whole lot and buys some hideous bungalow somewhere. At least this way he keeps the view he’s always loved, he’s still on the same soil and he’s got cash left over to live on –’

‘And what do you get out of it? The big house? Won’t you have done well for yourself?’

Her bitterness sliced through him like a knife. Rod sighed. She was obviously going to paint him black; no matter what he said he was going to be the villain of the piece. He gave a little shrug of resignation.

‘Listen, if the deal falls through, I don’t have a problem with it. It’s not the end of the world for me. You’ve obviously got other ideas and I hope it works out for you.’

‘It would be a travesty to split Bucklebury up. I’d rather sell it as a whole than see the stables converted.’ Her tone was withering.

‘Get real, Jamie. It’s the way of the world. Why else do you think people do it? Because they couldn’t afford to live in places like Bucklebury otherwise. Do you know what your dad was quoted for a new roof?’

He told her. He could see she was shocked, though she tried to not show it. Rod carried on.

‘And I can tell you, if you ever did sell it as a whole, the surveyors would have a field day. The old part needs underpinning. Any purchaser would knock you down and knock you down on the price until you were practically paying them to take it off your hands. Twenty-seven acres in Shropshire is not an economically viable proposition. It’s a white elephant.’

‘Rubbish. Lots of people want to move to a big house in the country. People are relocating all the time.’

‘Well, good luck.’

Jamie tilted her chin in the air defiantly, in a gesture he remembered so well.

‘Anyway, we might not have to sell. I’ve got… other ideas.’

Fighting his corner made him harsh.

‘Good for you. If you’ve got a couple of hundred grand going for running repairs, and you can support your dad in his dotage, then I wish you all the luck in the world.’

He was horrified when she sank down into the nearest chair and put her head in her hands. He was expecting her to fight back. Fiery, feisty Jamie always did. But she suddenly seemed to deflate; her shoulders hunched forwards. Had he been too harsh? But then, why shouldn’t he defend himself? She’d marched in here with all guns blazing, after all. And he didn’t care what she thought, it had been a good plan. A fair plan. He’d had no intention of conning Jack Wilding. The idea was laughable in itself. Jack was as wily and cunning as a fox in his own way.

He waited a moment for her to respond, but there was nothing but silence.

‘Jamie?’

She looked up, her face white, her eyes blazing with hatred. ‘I suppose you’re laughing your socks off. I suppose you think it’s what we deserve. You with your bloody Robin Hood complex, robbing the rich. You’ve been waiting for this…’

He came over and knelt in front of her. She was
sobbing piteously. He tried to put a consoling arm round her but she shook him off.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Jamie. Jamie… Believe me, I only ever wanted to help.’

‘Yeah – yourself.’ Her tone was bitter. Vicious.

Rod sat patiently while she wept, knowing she couldn’t go on indefinitely. And when her sobs began to subside, he took hold of her wrists and pulled them away from her face. She was calmer now, so he reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek, ever so gently. When she didn’t protest he slid his hand round to the back of her head, stroking her hair.

‘Listen – it’s OK. I’ll help you sort something out. And nothing in it for me, I promise.’

He carried on stroking, just as he’d watched his mother trying to calm a dog that had been badly treated. Time and patience, that’s what it took. Gradually, he slid his other hand round her waist, until he was cradling her in his arms.

How could half an hour of sexual gymnastics with Bella leave him cold, while just touching Jamie’s skin threw him into a blazing inferno? It was all he could do not to throw her on the floor: he had an incredible primal urge to do so, but his head told him that was not a good plan. Instead, he concentrated on calming her with gentle, soothing caresses. He could feel her relax; her sobs had subsided. Tentatively, he turned her face to his, and went to kiss her.

Jamie leaped up as if she’d been bitten by a snake.

‘Forget it,’ she snarled. ‘If you think you’re going to get Bucklebury Farm that way, you’ve got another thing coming.’

She strode across the room, turning just before the door.

‘And in case you hadn’t realized, the deal’s off. You can find some other sucker to rip off.’

She flung open the front door and slammed it behind her. Rod winced, praying the glass wouldn’t shatter.

‘Shit. Shit shit shit,’ he said.

Not a good day. He’d lost the chance to fertilize Bella, he’d lost the deal on Bucklebury Farm. And he’d lost his bloody heart. Again. He thought he’d got over her years ago.

11

The summer Jamie turned eighteen was a strange one for her. The very number was symbolic of growing up, and she really didn’t want to. She knew she was going to have to start standing on her own two feet, decide what she wanted to do with her life, make her own way in the world. After all, she couldn’t doss around at Bucklebury Farm for ever, riding horses and mucking about with her mates down at the pub.

The irony of it was her parents put no pressure on her at all to decide her future. Her friends were constantly being badgered by their mothers and fathers about what they were going to do; exam results were anxiously awaited, university applications agonized over. But Jack and Louisa seemed perfectly happy to go along with whatever Jamie wanted. She was always being told how lucky she was not to have her parents yapping on about career plans and further education and prospects. But actually, Jamie felt herself under more pressure because of her lack of parental input. She knew she was going to have to motivate herself, and that was very hard for an eighteen-year-old who didn’t have much of an idea about the real world, having lived in such a fantasy environment all her life.

The summer she left school was a mad season of post-exam celebrations and hedonistic fun in the sun. She’d always had a very long rein, which meant she didn’t really do all the things her friends were doing behind their parents’ backs – smoking and getting paralytic and screwing each other senseless. She wasn’t square or straight; put quite simply, smoking made her feel sick, she didn’t like the way she behaved when she was drunk or the hideous hangover the next day, and she hadn’t met anyone she wanted to screw. Besides, what was the point of trying to rebel when there was no one to rebel against? The advantage was that everyone came back to Bucklebury Farm to indulge in their nefarious activities, because there was no one to tut and spy and shout at them to turn the music down – Jack and Louisa didn’t care how loud the music was, or how many bodies were scattered around the house next morning. But as each day passed, Jamie felt it was a day closer to the end of an era. Everyone was going to disappear off on their chosen paths, while she was left behind to drift, alone and directionless.

When her A-level results arrived, they were pretty average – a C in art and a couple of Ds – but her parents had congratulated her warmly nevertheless. This made Jamie feel deeply uncomfortable. Did they not care, or understand the importance? Or did they just not think she was capable of any better? Others of her friends had done much better but were still upbraided for not getting straight As, or not fulfilling
the criteria for the university of their (or rather their parents’) choice. Secretly, she longed for someone to sit her down and give her a stiff talking to, then go through her options. Instead of which, she got an airy reassurance that they would go along with whatever she wanted to do. Which didn’t bloody help at all.

She tried one morning to get them to talk seriously about it.

‘Well,’ said Louisa. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘That’s just it,’ said Jamie. ‘I don’t have a clue.’

‘University of life,’ said Jack. ‘That was good enough for me.’

‘I adored art college,’ reflected Louisa dreamily. ‘I’d have stayed there for ever if I could. Why don’t you try that?’

‘I don’t really think I’m good enough at art,’ said Jamie. ‘Besides, that doesn’t help with a career.’

‘Do you really need a career?’

‘I need to earn a living, yes!’ Jamie was starting to get irritated. ‘I thought about training to be a nanny.’

‘A nanny?’ Louisa looked far from impressed.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

Louisa shrugged. ‘It sounds like hard work.’

‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘No. But darling – being at someone else’s beck and call. It’s drudgery.’

Jamie swallowed her frustration. ‘Well, what do you suggest?’

Neither of them could suggest anything remotely realistic. Which wasn’t that surprising. Jamie didn’t
think either of them had ever applied for a job in their lives, let alone had an interview. And they didn’t quite seem to understand why Jamie needed to go down that route. It was the very nearest Jamie came to having a stand-up row with them, with the roles rather ironically reversed. But she wasn’t used to confrontation, so instead she fled the kitchen before she burst into tears of total frustration which they wouldn’t understand. All she’d wanted was some firm guidance, a flicker of an indication that they took her future seriously. She knew they loved her but really – it was like talking to a pair of irresponsible teenagers.

She stormed out to the stable yard and tacked up Nutmeg. She had to get away for a couple of hours and clear her head. Maybe inspiration would strike her and she could come up with a plan. She jumped up into the saddle and dug her heels in, anxious to put as much distance between herself and Bucklebury Farm as quickly as possible.

She headed down through the top paddock, then through a gateway across another field until she reached a wide bridle path where she knew she could have a mind-clearing gallop. Nutmeg was totally wired, sensing Jamie’s tension, and began prancing sideways until she was allowed her head.

Suddenly something scuttled across the path in front of them. A rabbit, a squirrel, Jamie couldn’t be sure, but whatever it was Nutmeg panicked, veered madly to one side into the undergrowth, leaping and
bucking in alarm. Jamie tried desperately to get the little horse under control, but there was so much adrenalin coursing through her veins, so much tension and stress, that she found it hard to stay calm. They were well off the path now, crashing through the trees. She had to keep her head down low to avoid the branches; she couldn’t look up and find her way out. She saw a fence up ahead; they were bearing down on it relentlessly. The trees were too thick either side to avoid it. The only way was forwards and over the fence. She couldn’t judge its height through her screwed-up eyes, so the only thing she could do was kick Nutmeg on and encourage her to make the leap. It was open field the other side; if Nutmeg wouldn’t stop, she would have to run her round and round until she was exhausted.

As soon as they left the ground, Jamie knew she wasn’t going to make it over in one piece. Nutmeg had taken off nearly two strides too soon, and she’d lost both her stirrups. In order to avoid falling under the horse, she bailed out halfway. Nutmeg just managed to get over without mishap, leaving Jamie to crash inelegantly on to the hedge and plop into a crumpled heap on to the grass.