[Churchminster #3] Wild Things (11 page)

There was another pause, in which Frances didn’t quite know what to say.

‘Anyway, I’d better shoot. I’m on stage later.’

Frances was dismayed at the disappointment she felt. ‘Of course, I won’t keep you. It was lovely to hear from you.’

‘You too, princess. I miss that lovely Joanna Lumley voice of yours. Take good care of yourself.’

She could hear a motor being started in the background. Frances hesitated. ‘Devon, was there any particular reason …’

‘I called? No Frannie, I was just thinking about you. Wanted to say hi.’ His voice changed. ‘I do miss you, you know.’

Frances felt a lump in her throat and swallowed it down. ‘Well, I better let you go! It sounds very busy there.’

He reverted back to his normal chipper self. ‘It’s always busy in Devon world. See ya, Frannie. It’s been really good to catch up.’

‘You too, Devon.’

Frances ended the call and sat motionless in the chair. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It was so silly the effect Devon still had on her, but she couldn’t help it. Frances leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased or frustrated he’d phoned. Had Devon really only called to say hello?

Her mobile rang again, startling her. This time it was her daughter, Harriet. ‘Hello, darling.’

‘Mummy, are you OK? You sound a bit out of breath.’

‘I’ve just been rushing around,’ Frances lied.

‘Oh, all right then.’ Her daughter sounded as cheery as ever. ‘I just phoned to see how things are going with the film! It’s awfully exciting.’

‘Touch wood, quite smoothly,’ Frances told her. At that moment there was a loud crash outside.

‘Oh, heavens, I’ll call you back!’ she exclaimed and ran over to the open window. Mrs Bantry had come rushing out the front door at the same time. An empty props truck had reversed into the stone statue of a lurcher, toppling it over.

Frances watched as her housekeeper went over to the fallen statue. ‘Mrs Bantry, please don’t bother yourself …’

‘Ma, don’t you dare pick that up!’ Jed had suddenly materialized in his overalls, a stern look on his face. He easily righted the stone dog, before putting a tender hand on his mum’s shoulder. ‘I’ve told you not to lift anything. You know your back’s playing up,’

The driver stuck his head out the window, looking relieved. ‘No harm done, then?’

Jed looked over at him. ‘No, mate, but I’d watch your driving in future. And next time, don’t get my ma here to pick up your mess.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ the driver muttered, looking contrite. He drove off at a more sensible pace, and Frances watched Jed kiss his mother on the cheek, before striding back to work. Her phone started ringing again.

‘Hello? No darling, everything’s OK. We just had a small commotion …’

Chapter 15

MAY ARRIVED IN
the village, bringing with it longer, warmer evenings and renewed hope. Everyone who had entered
Churchminster’s Got Talent
was still practising madly. At the Jolly Boot one lunchtime, the music coming from Stacey’s bedroom was so loud that Jack went to tell her to turn it down. ‘Stace!’ He banged on the door. Brittle pop music blasted from within. Suddenly, there was a large ‘thump’ followed by a shout and muffled expletives. ‘Stacey!’ Jack was getting alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’ He tried the door, but it was locked.

A few moments later the music went off and a merciful quiet descended over the building. Jack could hear cross stomping across the room, and then the bedroom door opened. Even though it was gone midday, Stacey was still wearing her dressing gown and looked extremely displeased at being disturbed. ‘You don’t have to kick the door in!’

‘Your bleeding music is deafening my punters!’ Jack said crossly. ‘Keep it down.’

Stacey pulled a sulky face. ‘Whatever. Most of them are probably too deaf to hear it, anyway.’

Jack looked over his daughter’s shoulder. Her bedroom looked more like a tart’s boudoir than ever, with various leopard-print clothes lying scattered around, and a pink feather boa draped across the top of her wardrobe. A heavy, exotic scent hung in the air. ‘What’s going on in here, anyway? Why are you still in your dressing gown in the middle of the day?’

Stacey pulled the door shut to a crack and glared through it belligerently. ‘Keep your beak out, Dad! This is, like, a
total
invasion of my privacy.’

Jack sighed and gave up. She was getting more like her mother every day. ‘Just keep it down,’ he warned. Stacey rolled her eyes dismissively. At the top of the stairway, he stopped and looked back. ‘So you’re busy, then?’

Stacey stuck her head out the door. ‘Duh, like yeah!’

‘Fine,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll tell Rafe Wolfe you don’t want to serve him, then. He’s in the bar.’

Stacey’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. ‘Oh my God, he’s here? Wait, I’m going to get changed! Who’s he with?’

‘Oh, Mother Theresa, Princess Di,’ Jack replied. ‘I think Freddie Mercury’s here, too.’

A look of confusion entered Stacey’s face, until she realized her dad was winding her up. She narrowed kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘Oh
grow
up! That is so immature.’

The bedroom door slammed shut. Chuckling, Jack went back down the stairs to serve his customers.

The next day the
Daily Mercy
, a gossipy national newspaper, printed a double-page spread about the Britain’s Best Village competition. In it, they assessed each of the four finalists and their good and bad points, with a final score out of ten. Clementine was furious to see that Churchminster had only scored four, the lowest by far. She was particularly incensed to hear it described as a ‘
country village lacking in rural charm
’ and see that they had been marked down by the ‘
unsightly hole in the churchyard wall
’. There was an inordinate amount of detail, and none of it was good. To add salt to the wound, Maplethorpe had come out top with nine and a half out of ten, with a quote from Veronica Stockard-Manning that: ‘
even perfection can be improved on
’. Clementine wondered crossly why the journalist hadn’t approached her; the whole article was biased towards Maplethorpe. Clementine sat back in her study chair, convinced that that ghastly Stockard-Manning woman was behind it all. She knew just how devious she could be. As the old, painful memories came rushing back, her jaw tightened with resolve.

Churchminster was not a village to be underestimated. This was war.

The speed of the Garden Party organized at Fairoaks that night surprised even those who knew Clementine. One minute Calypso was knee-deep in paperwork in her office, the next she had been ordered by her
grandmother
to photocopy reams of new Garden Party literature. Camilla was commandeered to go and buy supplies of Pimms and strawberries, and hunt down fresh mint from the garden. It was here that Calypso found her shortly after six o’clock, sunlight still dancing down on the lawns.

‘What
are
you doing?’ Calypso asked, as she saw Camilla’s bottom sticking out of a bush by the side of the path. Camilla reversed out and stood up, her face rather red. She had a bunch of green leaves in her hand.

‘Getting mint for the Pimms,’ she puffed. ‘It’s in a terribly awkward place. That bush nearly had my eye out!’

Calypso reached over and picked something out of her sister’s hair. ‘Greenfly. What’s the mega-urgency about this meeting tonight? We’ve got one on Sunday, anyway.’

‘I’m in the dark as much as you are,’ said Camilla. ‘But Granny Clem has definitely got a bee in her bonnet about something.’

There was an air of tension in the drawing room as they gathered sometime later. Even Errol Flynn was subdued, lying under the chaise longue with just his paws visible.

Clementine strode into the room, carrying a large pile of A4 papers. She dumped them on a table and held up the newspaper, which had been on the top. It was that day’s
Daily Mercy
. ‘Have you all seen this?’ she announced.

‘Bloody outrage!’ said Freddie Fox-Titt indignantly,
and
heads nodded around him in agreement.

‘How did they get all that
stuff
?’ someone else said.

‘Maybe it’s one of those reporters who’ve been hanging round trying to get on the film set,’ offered Angie. ‘They can’t get much on the actors so they’ve decided to turn the spotlight on us instead!’

Clementine frowned. ‘It could well be. From now on, we all need to be extra vigilant!’ Her voice rose an octave. ‘May I remind you that this is not just a competition, this is our livelihood! Our dignity and pride is at stake here, and
we
need to fight to keep it!’

Camilla and Calypso exchanged glances. Their grandmother was seriously het up.

‘Serious times call for serious action,’ continued Clementine. ‘Therefore I would like you all to give up your weekend to help round the village.’

Calypso pulled a face. It was meant to be her first lie-in for weeks!

‘We’ve got friends coming to stay,’ protested Lucinda Reinard.

‘Good, they can join in as well,’ replied Clementine crisply. She started handing out the printed sheets. ‘I have devised a list of duties for each of you. We start at 9 a.m. on Saturday and work through until 6 p.m., with no more than forty-five minutes for lunch.’

‘There’s a hell of a lot here, Clementine!’ said Freddie in alarm, scanning down the two-page list. His wife put a hand on his sleeve.

‘Leave it, Freds,’ she murmured gently.

‘I know I’m asking a lot, but the future of this village is at stake,’ Clementine said. ‘I expect nothing less than
a
hundred per cent from all of you from now on, with none of this silly film business getting in the way. Do I make myself clear?’

Heads nodded meekly.

‘Good,’ said Clementine. She continued: ‘There is no way we are going to let Maplethorpe and that disgusting Stockard-Manning woman win. No way on earth!’

She turned and exited the room abruptly.

‘Another glass of Pimms, anyone?’ Freddie half-heartedly asked, but the atmosphere was rather flat.

‘What on earth is wrong with Granny Clem?’ Calypso muttered to her sister. ‘I thought her head was going to start spinning round.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Camilla. ‘But whatever it is, I’m sure it’s got something to do with that Veronica woman. I’ve never heard her talk about a person with such fury.’

Chapter 16

SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED
, blue and glorious. At No. 5 The Green, Camilla knocked on her sister’s bedroom door with a mug of tea. ‘Calypso? Are you awake?’

There was a muffled noise. Camilla pushed the door open and went in. The room looked like a tumble dryer had exploded mid-cycle: clothes were scattered over the floor, skimpy bras hung off the radiator, and a Mount-Everest-sized pile of shoes was spilling out of the open wardrobe. In the middle of it all Calypso lay face down in bed, her legs sticking out from under the duvet.

After a few seconds she groaned and pushed herself up. As usual she’d slept naked. Her generous breasts, still somehow defying the laws of gravity, sat perkily on her chest. Mascara clotted around her eyes, while dirty blonde hair tangled down her back and shoulders.

Not for the first time Camilla marvelled at her sister’s raw sexiness. Some people just had
it
.

Calypso squinted through one eye. Bright sunlight
was
streaming through the carelessly pulled curtains. ‘What time is it?’

‘Quarter past eight.’

Camilla moved a pile of magazines off the overcrowded bedside table and put the mug down.

Calypso gingerly took a sip and then flopped back down on the pillows. ‘I’m bloody knackered! I can’t believe Granny Clem is making us do this.’

‘What time did you get in last night?’ Camilla asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

‘After two. I was doing this Roman-themed evening in Cheltenham and the hostess was really uptight, made me stay until everyone had gone. I feel like never going out again.’

‘How about I cook us all a nice dinner tonight?’ Camilla suggested. ‘We can eat in the garden.’

‘That would be a-mazing. I won’t be fit for anything else after this.’

Camilla stood up, smiling. ‘I’m making us all breakfast, come down when you’re ready.’ She went to tackle the vast amount of bacon and eggs in the kitchen.

It was an unusually hot day, even for May, and by midday the temperature was in the eighties. Above the village green the blue skies soared endlessly, while punters sat in the Jolly Boot’s beer garden drinking jugs of Pimms and making the most of the weather.

In the farthest corner by the church, Calypso put down the bin liner and wiped the sweat off her face. Christ, it was boiling! At least she’d get a good tan in this weather. Her clothes had been coming off at
various
intervals during the morning, and now she wore only the shortest of denim shorts and a brightly coloured bikini top. Her long hair was scraped back in a ponytail, her eyes protected by a huge pair of Chanel sunglasses. Several silver necklaces hung around her neck, while a bejewelled belly chain caressed her slim hips. Only Calypso could make litter-picking duty look like a fashion shoot.

‘Calypso!’ a voice called out. Wiping another bead of sweat off her forehead she turned round. Her grandmother was walking towards her, a hideous straw hat in one hand. ‘Darling, wear this in case you get sunstroke.’

Clementine tried to put it on her head and Calypso blanched. It reeked of mothballs. ‘I’m fine!’ she protested. ‘I put sun cream on.’

Her grandmother eyeballed her. ‘What factor?’

‘Thirty,’ Calypso lied. ‘Honestly, I don’t need the hat. Go and give it to Camilla, you know how she suffers in the heat.’

Clementine looked across the green, where Camilla was peeling an old poster off one of the trees. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Her eyes suddenly travelled down to Calypso’s bare midriff. They widened in alarm. ‘Don’t move, you’ve got some sort of monstrous insect on your stomach!’

Calypso froze: she hated any kind of creepy-crawly. Camilla had had to remove a spider from the shower for her only that morning. ‘Shit, what is it? Get it off me!’