Farm Fatale (30 page)

    "Yes, and it was
all
GM," Ptolemy was shouting. "I had chicken nuggets. Fried. And onion rings.
Fried
. And a whole king-size Mars bar for pudding. Dipped in tea to make it go all melted. Wow. Satchel's mum's a great cook. Much better than
you
, Mum."

    "
That's it,"
Bella said through clenched teeth. "I'm awfully sorry, darling, but I'm afraid we'll simply have to go back to London in the morning."

    "
That's fine
," said Rosie and Ptolemy in perfect unison.

    Dinner passed with Ptolemy pressing lengths of spaghetti into the grooves in the table and refusing to eat anything. Mark, who stared at the child with ill-concealed hatred throughout the meal, disappeared into the box-room as soon as it was over.

    "Sit quietly now," Bella warned Ptolemy, putting on a
George of
the Jungle
video in the sitting room while she and Rosie returned to the kitchen to finish their wine. Finally, Rosie thought, her friend's verdict on Jack.

    "I'm awfully sorry about the neighbors," she began, although she had actually thought it extremely hospitable of Mrs. Muzzle to share the family dinner with Ptolemy. But then, Ptolemy's see-wanthave mechanism being what it was, she probably hadn't had much choice in the matter.

    "Oh, God, darling, don't worry." Bella sucked on a cigarette. "The chicken nuggets are only an excuse. I'm dying to get back to London and hand him over to the nanny. This mother-son-bonding business is awfully hard work. Next time I come I'll do it differently."

    "You'll come on your own?"

    "No, I'll bring the bloody nanny as well." Bella blew out two plumes of smoke from her nostrils.

    There was a silence.

    "Erm, Bel?"

    "Mmm?" Bella was now scrutinizing the parish newsletter that lay crumpled among the debris on the table. "Hilarious, this, isn't it?" She recited gleefully. "
The Barley Mow Talent Night was won by
local builder Barry Foreshaw, who sang 'Norwegian Wood.' The Eight
Mile Bottom Ferret Olympics will be held at Park Bottom on Saturday.
All entrants to register with Dame Nancy Brooke-Sullivan.
" She paused, turning over the page.
"The Annual Fruit Cake Bake-Off was
won by Mrs. Gilman, whose edges were the most even, whose cherries
were the best distributed, and who was judged to have sunk the least…
Lucky Mrs. Gilman, I say. This is priceless," Bella gasped, waving the newsletter. "No wonder Mark says the column's fine. This must practically write it for him."

    "Er, actually he doesn't write an awful lot about the village in the column," said Rosie. At last, the opening she'd been hoping for. They could discuss Mark's behavior first. Then get on to Jack.

    "Why ever not? I would have thought it was obvious."

    "That's what he says—it's obvious. He says it would be too easy, too boring to write about all the eccentric characters and village life and everything."

    "But that's mad," said Bella.

    Encouraged, Rosie warmed to her theme. "He thinks the village newsletter's beneath him. Even though it's put together by the local headmistress, who you'd imagine would be a good source of stories. But Mark says all that's just dull. He thinks everything's dull. Even village cricket. We got a thing through the door the other day asking if he wanted to join the team—"

    "Perfect!" said Bella. "Long shadows across the grass and all that."

    "But Mark says he was never any good at sport and doesn't fancy tongue sandwiches in the pavilion."

    "Sounds like good fun to me, darling."

    Rosie smiled wanly. "He's having a dreadful time with the column, but he goes mad if I suggest anything. Says the ideas aren't the problem, he's got plenty of them flying round in his head—"

    "Just having a tough time getting them to land, eh?" finished Bella, her eyebrow raised.

    "Something like that." Rosie sighed. "He isn't interested in any of the wildlife either. The one time I dragged him out to listen to a lark he said it sounded like a modem."

    "Which is why you were tempted by young MacDonald up there, I suppose," Bella said lightly, jerking her head in the vague direction of Spitewinter.

    Rosie nodded, feeling her stomach lurch at the long-awaited moment of truth. "What did you think of him?" Bella
must
have been impressed by the pains Jack had taken to amuse Ptolemy. And his hulking physique. Bella liked big men—very big men if Simon's straining waistline was anything to go by. Rosie watched her friend's face anxiously.

    The verdict was as short as it was devastating. "Not a lot, to be honest."

    Rosie felt the earth shift slightly beneath her. She groped, desperately, for a logical explanation. "Because of Mark, you mean? You don't think I should have a fling with anyone else?"

    It was Bella's turn to look amazed. "Hell, no. The way Mark treats you, it would serve him right if you ran off with the old bloke next door. No, there's something funny about that farmer. Sort of bad-tempered. Dark horse-ish."

    "Well, that's hardly fair," Rosie said hotly. "Just because he lost his temper about organic vegetables when Tolly was traumatizing practically every animal on his farm. You can't expect him to be thrilled about it."

    "Well, I may be wrong, of course." Bella's lofty tone implied the exact opposite was the case. "Just thought I detected something a little, um,
irritable
. I mean, he's hardly sweetness and light, is he, darling? Talk about the moans of production being in the hands of the workers."

    "Farming's a hard life," said Rosie loyally.

    "You're telling me, darling. The way he tells it makes Stalin's gulag sound like a holiday camp. To be honest, I think he's a tad bitter about something. Any idea what his romantic history is?"

    "No," said Rosie, wondering what was coming.

    "Troubled, at the very least," said Bella decisively. "Lots of turmoil and confusion there."

    "But you can't blame him for being upset about selling his land to Ladymead. Or the fact that he only gets eight pence a pint for his cows' milk. His family has run Spitewinter for generations."

    "So I gathered." Bella rolled her large eyes. "Farm here to eternity."

    Bella closed her eyes and swallowed. "If you must have a fling with someone—and I absolutely agree that you must—you're wasting your time on a
farmer
."

    "So who do you suggest?" Rosie demanded crossly, her teeth clashing on the glass of wine she raised abruptly to her lips. "The postman? The pub landlord?"

    Bella looked at her, wide-eyed. "Of course not, darling. Someone eligible, rich, handsome, and famous, obviously."

    Rosie looked at her blankly. She had gathered from Duffy that there were a number of elderly actors in the village, although they hardly sounded her type.

    "Matt Locke, of course," urged Bella.

    As Rosie exploded on her Merlot, Bella realized that the sitting room had gone very quiet. She rushed into it, Rosie close behind her,
to find Ptolemy stuffing handfuls of cold spaghetti from his pocket into the mouth of the video.

As Bella's shining BMW turned and disappeared around the corner the next morning, Rosie felt relieved. She was not best pleased with her friend. If pouring cold water over her new friendship while her brat of a son poured everything everywhere was Bella's idea of serious girl time, then she could forget it. As for the Matt Locke idea, that was about as useful as a chocolate kettle.

    As she was returning to the cottage, the postman's red van came hurtling up the road. It shuddered to a halt in front of her.

    "You're very honored," Duffy yelled as he leaped out and slammed the door.

    "Am I?" asked Rosie doubtfully.

    "Most certainly you are." Duffy preceded her into the house, settled himself at the kitchen table, and placed a large, thick cream envelope amid the toast crumbs. Addressed in neat italics in thick black ink, it looked very imposing. The postman was looking at her expectantly; whatever it was, there was a price for handing it over. Resignedly, Rosie reached for the tea bags.

    "You're looking very nice today," Duffy said conversationally. "Off to Spitewinter, are you?"

    Rosie's face reddened. As a matter of fact, she
had
half planned a visit to the farm. There were a few sketches to tweak and, of course, she needed to apologize for Ptolemy's appalling behavior. Most of all, though, she needed to satisfy herself that Bella was wrong—
com
pletely
wrong—about Jack.

    "Must be nice for Jack, having a pretty young thing like you about the place. Be just like old times for him."

    Rosie, dunking Duffy's tea bag in his mug, twisted around so fast the muscles in her neck crunched almost audibly. "Old times?"

    "His wife, of course. Pretty young thing. A bit like you, now I come to think of it. Except dark, not blond. Bit more makeup as well."

    Rosie's mind reeled under this vast, heavy new piece of information. "His
wife
?" Jack was
married?

    Duffy nodded, delighted at her consternation. "Ex-wife, I should say."

    Rosie blinked. Jack was
divorced
? "What happened to her?"

    Duffy paused and looked expectantly at the package of chocolate chip cookies. Obediently, Rosie pushed them in his direction.

    "City type, she was," continued Duffy, pulling out a cookie. "Didn't like farm life, she didn't. Brokenhearted, he was," he finished chirpily. So Bella had been partly right. Troubled romantic history…emotional turmoil…

    A crash as the front door swung back and the inevitable curse as Mark caught his fingers announced both his arrival—he had finally, ungraciously, gone out to get the milk—and the end of the opportunity to find out more. Duffy leaped up from the table.

    "Your post," he said, thrusting the cream envelope into Mark's hand as he stomped into the kitchen. "You're very honored."

    "Honored?" Mark slammed down two pints of milk and tore at the cream envelope. Had some literary agent spotted "Green-er Pastures" and written to offer him a book deal merely on the strength of it? About bloody time too.

    "What is it?" Rosie watched Mark's narrowed eyes eagerly scrutinize the card. With even more ill grace than that with which he had gone for the milk, he shoved the long-awaited party invitation unceremoniously into her hand.

Guy was desperate for the party to be over. What had started out as drinks had now assumed the proportions, the expense, and practically the status of a coronation. Not that this was inappropriate given that Samantha was clearly building up to be crowned queen of Eight Mile Bottom.

    Sholto, on the other hand, was very much present and correct. Present and Correct also being the name of his wretched party design company that Samantha had suddenly and inexplicably—at least, she hadn't explained to Guy—hired at vast expense to turn the lawns of The Bottoms into the Casbah. Despite the house being easily big enough for a party even on the scale Samantha was now planning, she was determined not to hold it inside for some reason.

    Sholto infuriated Guy. There was no escaping him. Since his arrival two days ago, he had assumed All Access at The Bottoms. No room was free from the risk of his mincing in with his shiny tan, spiky blond hair, black linen Nehru jacket, and mobile permanently glued to his ear. It seemed to Guy that the very air was filled with his high-pitched and uniquely irritating voice, shrieking about what he habitually referred to as his "erection" at the builders. Camp as a row of sodding tents, thought Guy savagely. And a row of tents, as it happened, was pretty much what was planned—a vast central marquee to be flanked by ancillary "annexes," all draped inside with pink and purple silk, festooned with lanterns, dotted about with cushions, and peopled with what Sholto referred to as "mixed exotica." This, though sounding to Guy exactly like those vile hanging baskets Samantha brought back from the garden center, apparently meant belly dancers and waiters with jewels in their navels.

    "Belly dancers always go down very well," Sholto assured him with a series of lewd winks that made Guy feel sick. "Everyone likes a bit of wobble."

    Except me when I see the bloody bill, Guy thought. "Sounds like a sodding Turkish Delight ad," he muttered, and was horrified when Sholto turned, beamed delightedly, and informed him that yes, how clever of him, that was exactly the effect he was going for. The retro advertisement theme was wildly fashionable at the moment, and after this, he was doing a party themed around the seventies Martini ads starring Leonard Rossiter and Joan Collins.

    But if Sholto was a bad dream, Samantha was a nightmare. Watching her stamping about the lawns barking commands at the army of helpers Sholto had assembled with amazing speed—as well he might at the prices he was charging—Guy decided that the party had finally turned Samantha into the monster she was always going to become. Although "selfless" and "considerate" were words not even Samantha's own mother could use with regard to her daughter (partly because Samantha's mother hadn't spoken to her daughter for over ten years), Guy had stuck with his second wife in the face of all criticism. Even that of his daughter—difficult though it was to withstand her bitter railings and the passionate letters from school that, stained with tears and smeared with ink, begged him not to leave her mother. Letters that, Guy suddenly realized, he had not seen since moving to The Bottoms.