Wild Oats (6 page)

She thought longingly of their old house in Shepherd’s Bush. It was hardly palatial, and once the swing and slide had been put up in the garden there was only just room for a picnic table for barbecues. But she’d had neighbours – like-minded couples who were in the same situation. There was always someone
to leave the kids with, someone to have a coffee with, a moan and a gossip with, a much-needed glass of wine at six o’clock. It was secure, cosy, whereas Zoe felt as if she’d been set adrift on a vast ocean at Lydbrook House. As soon as she’d dropped the children off at school there were six long hours to fill with no one for company.

The biggest problem was, of course, they had no bloody money. Christopher had sat her down very seriously. He had their bank and credit-card statements and some buff-covered files. He’d explained their situation to her carefully, patiently and apologetically.

They’d sold well at Elmdon Road. But once they’d paid off the mortgage – which had swollen considerably by the time they’d extended it to put in a Shaker kitchen and a conservatory and converted the attic rooms to include a new bathroom – and taken into account that Christopher was going to lose his company car (they’d need at least thirty grand for a decent new estate), there was only a couple of hundred grand left. Zoe couldn’t see the problem, until Christopher pointed out that he was going to have to take a drop in salary, that there were the fees at his father’s home and the boys’ school fees to take into consideration.

Zoe swallowed.

‘So – there won’t be much left over to do up the house?’

‘Um… no. I’ve worked out that you can have two hundred pounds a week housekeeping. And that’s got to include petrol.’

‘So why are we having to pay your father’s fees?’

Christopher put it straight on the line. His parents were broke. Drace’s was in danger of going under. He was going to have to spend at least fifty thousand of the profit from Elmdon Road in order to salvage it. A revamp, a relaunch, Internet presence – and he was going to have to subsidize a drastic cut in their agency fees in order to attract some new custom.

‘I know it’s going to be hard. But if you think about it, life’s much cheaper here. The boys entertain themselves, there’s no parking to pay, no tube fares. The garden’s full of fresh vegetables…’

He trailed off a trifle lamely at this, not quite able to meet Zoe’s eye. Fresh vegetables? she wanted to scream. Fresh vegetables that I’ve got to pick and bloody wash the mud off? Zoe was the type who bought her green beans already topped and tailed, her carrots cut into batons, her jacket potatoes scrubbed and gleaming…

Today was Wednesday. She thought she hated Wednesdays the most. On Mondays she always had hope. Each Monday morning, with the zeal of one embarking on a diet, she convinced herself that this week was going to be different, this week she would find a kindred spirit at the school gates, a decent gym, a decent dress shop, and an exciting whizzy new social life full of people who didn’t come to school covered in dog hairs, wearing jodhpurs that made their arses look five times the size they already were.

By Wednesday that dream had always been
shattered, and she had reached screaming pitch. By Wednesday she had picked up the phone to her friends back in London and turned green with envy at what they were doing. This particular Wednesday, her friend Natalie was hosting a birthday lunch at the Bush Bar and Grill. Everyone had put their children into aftercare so they wouldn’t have to rush off at three with Sancerre and cigarettes on their breath. She’d been tempted to get on the train and surprise them by walking in – but by the time she’d thought of it, only a helicopter would have got her there in time. She’d spent the morning sulking in front of the telly. At lunchtime, she tortured herself imagining what all her friends would be wearing, what they would have bought Natalie, the juicy gossip they’d be imparting, the champagne they’d order…

Fucking Shropshire.

Zoe got up, went into the kitchen, wrenched open the door of the ancient fridge that, like the wallpaper, was almost but not quite retro, and pulled out the remains of last night’s white wine. She poured herself a glass.

‘Happy birthday, Natalie,’ she toasted her friend, from what felt like sixty million light years away.

Tiona Tutton-Price stepped over the threshold of the red-brick terraced cottage, her heart beating wildly in excitement as it always did when she stumbled across a gem. It had all the ticks in all the boxes. Walking distance to the town centre (although Tiona, who
never walked anywhere if she could help it, had driven) but far enough off the tourist trail to have plenty of street parking. All the original features untouched; nothing modernized. And a pretty walled garden. She let Mrs Turner show her round, though she didn’t need to look. Nevertheless, she made polite cooing noises.

‘I think…’ She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips, as if thinking hard, though she’d decided on a figure before she’d even walked through the door. ‘Do you know, I think we could ask a hundred and forty.’

Mrs Turner’s face dropped.

‘But… but next door but one went for one sixty-five. Only a month ago.’

Tiona smiled a sympathetic smile.

‘They were
asking
one sixty-five. What they actually
got
was one fifty. I’ve done my research. And our philosophy at Drace’s is to put a slightly lower asking price in order to attract viewers. That way you get more competitive bidding – people come and view and set their heart on your property, and end up determined to have it at any cost.’ She demonstrated round her. ‘I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with this house? What you want is to get three or four prospective buyers over the threshold, all desperate to outdo each other.’

Mrs Turner smiled fondly. ‘I’ve been very happy here. Even since Arthur –’

Tiona forged on, not wanting to hear the old bat’s
reminiscences. ‘If you put too high an asking price, people won’t even come and view. And what you’ve also got to remember is the market is slowing down. I know you read in the paper about prices shooting up, but actually not at this end of the market.’

‘Oh.’ This was obviously news to Mrs Turner.

‘Now, obviously you’ll be asking other agents to come and view –’

‘Oh no. I don’t think so. Arthur always said you could trust Hamilton Drace.’

‘Well, that’s very kind. But perhaps for peace of mind you should get another opinion?’

‘I don’t think there’s any need.’

Stupid old cow, thought Tiona.

‘In that case,’ she smiled her most syrupy smile, ‘I might as well measure up while I’m here. It would save disturbing you again.’

‘Why not? Shall I make you a cup of tea in the meantime?’

‘Lovely.’

Tiona let Mrs Turner make her a cup of tea, though she had no intention of drinking it – she’d seen the dark-brown stains in the cups on the draining board – while she pretended to flick round with a tape measure and write important things down on her clipboard. She would pop back into the kitchen occasionally, to ask technical questions about heating and wiring and cavity-wall insulation, at times nodding approval, at others feigning concern. By the time Tiona left they were the best of friends, and Mrs
Turner got out the details of the warden-controlled home she was hoping to put an offer on, heartened by Tiona’s reassurances that she would be in there by the autumn.

A hundred yards up the hill, Tiona scrambled back into her Golf and got out her mobile phone. The curt ‘What?’ on the other end made her shiver with delight.

‘I’ve got a dead cert for you. One forty. You could make two twenty on it no problem, with an Ikea kitchen and some laminate flooring –’

‘Go for it,’ he cut her off crisply.

‘Usual terms?’ she purred into the mouthpiece.

‘For fuck’s sake, just get on with it.’

Her insides quivered. She loved it when he talked to her like that. She glanced round to check for passers-by, then lowered her voice suggestively.

‘I’m not wearing any knickers.’

She slid her hand up inside her skirt, just to make sure she wasn’t lying.

‘Of course you’re not. You never do.’

There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Good. He was thawing.

‘Where are you?’

‘On a building site.’

‘Find somewhere…’ Her breath was short. Her meaning was clear.

‘Have you ever been on a building site? There’s nowhere to have a wank. Only the Portaloo. And I’m not going in there. Not even for you, toffee-drawers.’

Tiona stared at her tiny little Ericsson in disbelief. He’d hung up on her. He’d never done that before. Usually by now they’d be indulging in the filthiest of exchanges, him issuing her with instructions that made her blush even now to think of them. She must be losing her touch. Well, stuff Simon Lomax. That was the last time she was going to give him a tip-off in return for a wad of his dirty bank notes. If he did but know it, she’d got bigger fish to fry than a low-rent property dealer. A fish that was already dangling on the end of her hook, if she wasn’t mistaken.

She tossed her phone back into her bag, trying to ignore the fact that she was squirming with lust, turned on by the brief exchange. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate now for the rest of the day. It was hard work being oversexed… but at least she could hide it. Tiona often thanked God she wasn’t a man. How awful it must be to walk around all day with a raging hard-on and nowhere to put it.

4

At half past five, Jamie was woken from her nap by a mad tooting heralding the arrival of a navy-blue Bentley being driven with total disregard. It screeched to a halt and out of it spilled her father Jack, in a cream linen suit and Panama hat. And Lettice Harkaway in twenty-five yards of salmon-pink chiffon.

Jamie’s heart sank. If there was one person on the planet she couldn’t abide, it was Lettice. Her husband had disappeared in a scuba-diving incident twenty years before, leaving Lettice with a whopping inheritance and rumours of foul play that she never attempted to deny. With her flamboyant clothing designed for someone twenty years younger, her false eyelashes and her imperious manner, she’d been the queen bee of the local social scene for as long as Jamie could remember, and she’d always found her intolerably self-centred and superficial. Lettice had been brought up in Kenya, where she was used to lolling about the country club all day and coming home to a ream of servants. To this day she found it hard to remember that everyone around her wasn’t there to serve her as she waved a pudgy, bejewelled paw at whoever was nearest to do her bidding.

Jamie slid out of the hammock, suddenly feeling
ridiculously shy as her father bounded up the path with Lettice in tow. At the same moment, Olivier appeared from the stable yard. Bugger. She hadn’t wanted an audience. This was an intensely private moment. She stepped out on to the path, wishing she could have given him some warning.

‘Hello, Dad.’

Jack stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes.

‘Jamie?’

‘I got back a couple of hours ago.’

Olivier moved in to explain.

‘She found me in the kitchen. Bit of a shock.’

Lettice intervened, her husky growl setting Jamie’s teeth on edge. Someone had once misguidedly compared her to Honor Blackman, and it had given her carte blanche to purr like a Bond heroine at every opportunity.

‘Lucky thing. I’d love to find you in my kitchen.’

Jack was still looking totally flummoxed. Jamie was surprised that his reactions were so slow. Her father was usually so reactive and spontaneous. It was, she supposed, his age. But to her relief, he finally smiled and held out his arms.

‘Jamie, darling. How wonderful.’

Jamie slid into his clasp and hugged him to her, not knowing what to say. Lettice clapped her hands like a little girl.

‘What are we waiting for, everyone? This is a champagne moment if ever I saw one. There should still be some chilled in the boot. Olivier!’

She barked his name and to Jamie’s amazement Olivier obeyed without demur. Then she turned to Jamie with a dazzling smile. She’d definitely had a face-lift since the last time she’d seen her.

‘Why ever didn’t you tell us you were coming home? There’s a marvellous invention called the telephone, darling. We could have met you at the airport.’

We? Us?
thought Jamie wildly. She wondered what else she didn’t know about, as everyone trooped inside to the drawing room. Jack threw open the French windows that led out on to a little camomile lawn, and the early evening sun streamed in. The dogs took up their position on the kilim rug in front of the fireplace. Jamie flopped on to the sofa and looked around.

The room still held so much of her mother’s personality. The wood-panelled walls were covered in paintings Louisa had accumulated over the years: not the usual hunting prints favoured by so many country homes, but a collection that reflected her artistic background and her wide-ranging tastes. Modern, vivid splashes of abstract colour were positioned next to more traditional portraits and wild, rugged landscapes. Mixed amongst them were Louisa’s own works: charcoal sketches of animals whose very essence was captured in just a few skilful lines; vibrant and impressionistic still lifes; thoughtful, brooding studies of the Shropshire countryside in bruised purples and indigos. Each of her many and varied styles reflected a different facet of her character,
ranging from lively and gregarious to inward and reflective.

She had been, thought Jamie, so many different people. There was the tortured artist, who would retreat into the old shed she used as a studio, battling with her work with everything else fading into unimportance – no meals, no washing done, the animals neglected – until she was happy with her masterpiece. Or not, as was sometimes the case, in which event it went on the fire. Then there was the nurturing gardener. Louisa would spend all day in the greenhouse, in a tattered old pair of cords, hair tied back with baler twine and hands engrained with earth, pricking out and propagating and fertilizing and repotting. And the country gentlewoman, bastion of the local hunt, upholding the tradition of riding side-saddle, exquisite on her prancing grey steed.