Farm Fatale (11 page)

    Wearing the smallest, tightest skirt in her wardrobe, Samantha had worked hard to persuade Hufflestein that, even though his deputy's twenty-hour working days were over, this was no reason why negotiations for a lucrative nonexecutive directorship should not begin. Several intimate dinners with Hufflestein later, Samantha's cup of joy was running over almost as much as those of her push-up bra.

    The only other bit of grit in her shell was Iseult.

    One of the more boring consequences of Guy's otherwise frankly rather well-timed illness was that his ex-wife and daughter had reappeared on the scene. Iseult, in particular. Despite Samantha's efforts to maintain a near-ubiquitous presence at her husband's bedside, there were times when she was forced to be absent—using mobile phones in intensive care wards being, for some ludicrous reason, not allowed. And it was through these windows in her bedside schedule that Iseult climbed in. Samantha would never have admitted, even to herself, how twitchy the sight of Guy's daughter in the ward made her. There was something in Iseult's big, cornflower-blue eyes that implied she knew that, contrary to what Dr. Carmichael believed, the only reason Samantha was standing by her man was in order to take the wallet out of his pocket.

    In self-defense, Samantha had pruned her call-answering viciously. Those from The Afterlife's lawyer or Bud Hufflestein were accepted, but previously vital personnel such as her aromatherapist, dietician, personal trainer, and even theatrical agent found themselves speaking into the void of Samantha's message box. Unlike the others, however, her agent did not give up after the first three unanswered calls.

    "What the hell is it, Russ?" Samantha, shouting into her mobile outside the hospital entrance, watched in fury as Iseult, all long limbs and flowing hair, loped past into the foyer. "Quick, quick, I haven't got all day. Visiting hours, you know," she added, just to lay it on thick.

    "Darling, it's the director."

    "The director? Steven, you mean?" Had Spielberg called at last?

    "The
Country Clinic
director. Christabel, remember? The part you were so excited about?"

    Samantha's heart resumed its normal sluggish rate. "Oh.
That
director." Funny how, after all the recent house excitement, Christabel seemed to have lost a little of her luster. The prospect of playing a provincial barmaid no longer seemed particularly glamorous compared to the tantalizing task of selecting the manor of which she would most like to be lady.

    "He's a little nervous because he thinks you may have lost interest."

    "What on earth makes him think that?" snapped Samantha, playing for time as she racked her brain for excuses.

    "Can't imagine, angel," said Russ. "Possibly—and this is just a hunch—it might have something to do with the fact that you haven't turned up for rehearsals yet."

    "For God's sake, Russ," Samantha exploded. "Doesn't he realize what I'm
going through
at the moment? Can't he imagine what it's
like
? How it feels to be on the brink? To know that suddenly it could all go wrong and I could lose absolutely
everything
?"

    "Darling, I know. I
know
," Russ soothed. "Believe me. We all realize what you're going through. We can all imagine how you feel. And, believe me, we can sympathize."

    "So I should bloody hope. For Christ's sake,
I'm trying to sell a
bloody house down here
."

    There was a surprised silence. "And
Guy
?" Russ asked pointedly.

    "
God
, I mean,
Christ
," screeched Samantha, pacing furiously about the pavement and tearing at her hair. "What am I supposed to
do
? I'm not used to working like this."

    "Darling, let's face it, you're not used to
working
," drawled Russ. "Just get your butt over to the studio for rehearsals. Today. Otherwise, from what I gather, the barmaid gets it."

    Samantha stormed back into the hospital. Her fury intensified when, returning to the ward, she found Iseult, as expected, on the chair at Guy's bedside clutching her father's hand. Hunched on the bedside chair, her black top, apparently manufactured from cobwebs, straining across her budding and braless breasts, she was moving her head mournfully to whatever was playing on the stateof-the-art silver CD player balanced on her crotch. A present from doting Daddy, no doubt, thought Samantha viciously, her eye catching the CD cover—
What Did Your Last One Die Of?
by someone called Matt Locke. Her lips twisted as she noticed the grapes she had bought from Harrods that morning had almost halved in number. Despite her only-come-out-at-night appearance, Iseult evidently had a healthy appetite. Trust Guy, Samantha thought savagely, to father the sole member of her generation who wasn't an anorexic, yet was still a waif. Iseult's frail neck, skinny arms, and elegantly gangly legs were, Samantha recognized jealously, gifts that had been missing from her own particular genetic stocking and had been achieved only by practically starving herself.

    Ditto Iseult's perfect oval face with its lips so full they were less rosebud, more rose, fashionably thin arched eyebrows, and center-parted hair of a blackness that was almost blue. It was amazing how unlike her father she was, large blue eyes excepted. There was little of the Latin about Guy's florid, Anglo-Saxon appearance, apart, that was, from the eye-watering blasts of aftershave. Iseult was obviously her mother's daughter. If only, Samantha thought, she wasn't her father's.

    "I think your father's tired," said Samantha bossily. "Perhaps you should go."

    A look of intense dislike slid across Iseult's face. She detached her earphones. "Oh,
yeah
?"

    "
Yeah
. Er, I mean
yes
. I'll arrange a cab for you."

    "Don't bother." Iseult looked at her steadily. "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you."

    "What about?" Samantha was determined not to show how surprised she was. If Iseult thought she could get around her with a bit of stepdaughterly bonding, she had another think coming.

    "About
what the fuck
you've done to my bedroom."

    Samantha boggled. "
Your
bedroom?"

    "You've taken down all my posters and painted it shit color. I've just been to see it."

    
Bugger,
cursed Samantha.
I should have made Basia change the
locks as well.
"Your—I mean
that
bedroom," she explained haughtily, "is, along with the rest of the house, the work of the foremost interior designer
de nos jours
."

    "De where? Never heard of her."

    "Denosjowers," Samantha repeated. "
Of our times
. Don't they teach you French at your fancy school?"

    "Oh, I see." Iseult looked incredulous. Then amused. "
De nos
jours
," she said slowly in a perfect accent. "
Wow
," she added.

    "Anyway," blustered Samantha, "I'm afraid it's not your bedroom anymore. The house is being sold and your father and I are moving to the country." She watched with satisfaction as absolute shock rippled across Iseult's irritatingly symmetrical features.

    "The
country
? So where the hell am I supposed to go?"

    "Wherever you usually go," Samantha drawled. "Your mother's house, I imagine."

    "But I've left Mum's." Jolted on to the defensive, Iseult looked panicked. "Her new boyfriend's a drag. I was going to move in with Dad." The blue eyes focused on Samantha with a look that was almost pleading.

    Conscious that, for once, she had all the cards in her hands, Samantha gave Iseult the benefit of her best stage smile. "Well, I'm afraid we're not going to be here for much longer. So you'll just have to find somewhere else to live. Won't you?"

    For a second, Iseult looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She glanced desperately at her prone and unconscious father, lying oblivious beside them. Then, flashing Samantha a look of killer loathing, Iseult stood up and flounced out of the ward as best she could on rubber soles at least five inches in height. Samantha looked after her with satisfaction. Guy snored on.

Bent over her worktable in the corner of the flat on Craster Road, Rosie was daydreaming of Eight Mile Bottom. Nothing that any estate agent had sent through since had come close to the village, although Mark had tried hard to interest her in a barn conversion near Cirencester. The problem with this was that the conversion was yet to be done. By them.

    The future was looking bleak. Mark, too, was looking bleak. And looked bleaker every day he went into the office with no cottage to speak of and an increasingly impatient editor.

    Rosie welcomed the interruption of the telephone.

    "Hello," said a nasal voice with a north-country accent that Rosie did not immediately recognize.

    "Hello?"

    "Nigel here. From Kane, Birch, and Spankie. You're in luck. Something's come up. Don't know whether you're still interested, but…"

    "Yes. Yes. Yes!" shrieked Rosie, like Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene from
When Harry Met Sally
. Her heart filled with love for the oily-haired estate agent. "Nigel, you're
fantastic
."

    "Thank you, madam." Nigel sounded gratified. "The owners are in a hurry to move, so your not being in a chain helps. It's only just come on the market. We've not .put it in the window yet—"

    "Oh,
please
don't," said Rosie, giving him Mark's work fax number.

    Mark rang up immediately, yelping with excitement. Not only was the price extraordinarily reasonable—almost within their range, in fact—but the details Kane, Birch & Spankie had sent through included magic words like "heavy oak beams" and "period open fireplaces."

As soon as Rosie put the telephone down, it rang again.

"Amazing, isn't it?" exclaimed Bella.

    "Fantastic." Rosie wondered how she knew. Had Mark been so excited he had called her himself?

    "Going for billions apparently," Bella added.

    Rosie gasped. She'd thought the cottage was reasonably priced. Had Nigel been whiting out some of the zeros?

    "I hear Lady Gaga's after it," added Bella. "But of course she's too late."

    "
What
? But that's
impossible
!" said Rosie. The pictures of the cottage had not been clear, but even Nigel's most optimistic euphemisms had been unable to disguise that it was not only small but needed rather a lot of work.

    "Why would Lady Gaga be interested in Eight Mile Bottom?" she asked Bella.

    "What's Eight Mile Bottom, darling?" asked Bella. "Sounds like a ghastly disease."

    "Where Mark and I are buying our dream cottage, we hope. Isn't that what you're talking about?"

    "No, darling, I'm talking about the
Insider
piece on that Basia Briggs house. You know, darling, the one you helped me style. It's been spotted by a mystery megastar—rumor Lady Gaga—who's buying it for gazillions, apparently." She paused triumphantly. "Unbelievable,
n'est-ce pas
?"

    "It
is
unbelievable," Rosie said, appalled. "That house was absolutely disgusting." As were its owners, she added silently, as the memory of Samantha Villiers's mean little eyes and purple lips pressed tightly together loomed suddenly and unpleasantly before her. Rosie shuddered. Still, if all went according to plan, she need never clap eyes on her again.

    "Well, it needn't bother
you
anymore darling," said Bella, reading her thoughts. "Not now you've found your dream cottage. I must say, I really rather envy you. In
some ways," sh
e added immediately.

    "You
do
?"

    "Well, quite frankly, darling, Islington's going awfully downhill. Simon was in bed last night and heard our car being broken into. He shot out of bed, completely starkers, to give whoever it was a piece of his mind."

    "How terrible," said Rosie, trying not to smile as she imagined the car thief peaceably going about his business and then being confronted by a very angry, very red-faced, and very naked Simon. "What happened?"

    "Well, they ended up having the most dreadful fight. I looked out of the window and saw them rolling down the pavement together. Had to take Si to the hospital this morning to have all the windshield glass picked out of his bottom."

    As an image of a nurse patiently attending to Simon's large red rump floated irresistibly to mind, Rosie tried again not to smile. "Oh, dear."

    "Well, Simon insists he gave the thief a left hook," said Bella, sighing. "Says that all the time he was in the hospital he knew the thief was also in one. But I'm not so sure. Anyway, darling, I was thinking we might have to move somewhere a bit, well, greener."

    "Come with us," said Rosie immediately. "There's the most wonderful manor house for sale in the village."

    "Oh, no, darling," said Bella, sounding horrified. "I was thinking more of Regent's Park."

According to Kane, Birch & Spankie Ltd., Number 2 Cinder Lane was "an atmospheric former coal-miner's cottage situated in the oldest part of the historic village of Eight Mile Bottom, near the church." Rosie registered, but chose not to dwell on, the fact that, in her experience, "atmospheric" generally heralded a pervading smell of damp and "near the church" probably meant distantly glimpsed if you stood on a chair in the attic.