Wild Oats (20 page)

Zoe picked up her car keys with a heavy heart. She was a lousy, rotten wife. Why couldn’t she just snap out of it and enjoy what she’d got? Why did that big, black cloud of negativity follow her round, making her hate everyone and everything – not least herself? And why was Christopher so incredibly patient with her, when clearly what she needed was a good slap?

Sometimes, she longed for her friends from London to come up, just so they could sympathize with her plight. She remembered when she’d left, how they’d all promised to come for the weekend as soon as she was settled. But none of them had. Nobody wanted to pile into the car on a Friday evening and battle with the London traffic, then have a four-hour journey with the kids screaming in the back, only to
repeat the exercise in reverse after lunch on Sunday.

In some ways, Zoe was grateful that they hadn’t fulfilled their promises. She hadn’t been able to admit to any of them quite how awful it was; she went along with their impression that she was living in some
Homes & Gardens
heaven. She didn’t want to disillusion them. She couldn’t bear the thought of them all sitting round in the Bluebird Café the following week, saying ‘Poor, poor Zoe…’

Jamie bounded in through the front door of Lydbrook at seven o’clock that evening, just as she always had as a child, and then stopped short in the hallway. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so familiar now? Things had changed. She knew Kif wouldn’t mind her barging in like this, but Zoe might have other ideas, and she was the mistress of the house now. It probably wasn’t the done thing in London, to wander into someone’s house without knocking. Not that you’d be able to – Jamie remembered the armoury of Yale locks and bolts and chains on Kif’s house in Shepherd’s Bush. She was about to backtrack and knock on the door when she realized she’d been spotted. There was a figure at the bottom of the stairs. A ghostly, pale figure that it took Jamie several seconds to recognize.

‘Rosemary?’

Rosemary was standing rooted to the spot, clutching a plate. On it was a rather grey slice of dried meat and a spoonful of coleslaw.

‘Jamie.’ She gave a weary smile. ‘I heard you were
coming. I was just going upstairs for my supper…’

‘Aren’t you going to join us?’ Jamie stepped closer. Was it her imagination or did Rosemary seem to recoil?

‘No. No, no. I’ll let you young ones have fun. I’m not very good company these days, I’m afraid.’

Rosemary was already halfway up the stairs.

‘Wait!’

Rosemary halted, without turning round.

‘I’m so sorry about Hamilton,’ said Jamie. ‘I really am. It must be awful for you.’

Rosemary said nothing for a moment, just stared down at her unappetizing plate of food.

‘Yes, it is.’

And before Jamie could commiserate any further, she’d disappeared up the stairs.

Jamie stood in the hallway, rather puzzled and unsure what to do. That was a very strange reception indeed. Why on earth had Rosemary bolted like that? She’d seemed almost eager to get away from her. Perhaps, because it was inevitable that the conversation would turn to Hamilton, Rosemary found it too painful and wanted to avoid sympathy and platitudes. Jamie knew from experience how sometimes you desperately wanted people to talk about anything but your own problems. Perhaps she should have gone bowling cheerfully up to her and told her how lovely the garden was looking, or asked her for a recipe for tomato chutney? She remembered only too well seeing people after Louisa had died, steeling herself
for the inevitable commiseration, wishing that someone would come up and say something completely frivolous, so she could have a normal conversation instead of being reminded of the hideous truth…

And Rosemary had always been rather reticent. She’d never been a social animal like Hamilton; she’d always kept herself to herself. Jamie remembered her as a kindly, shadowy figure hovering in the background. Louisa had once rather cruelly referred to her as a bit of a drip, and said she didn’t know why on earth Hamilton had married her. But then Jamie had no doubt that Rosemary was just the sort of wife an energetic, robust and sociable creature like Hamilton needed. Someone to run the house, look after the children and clean his hunting boots. That didn’t make him a chauvinist; he was an English country gent and he’d been brought up to expect that sort of treatment. And Rosemary had always seemed quite happy with her role. She wasn’t downtrodden by any means. She in turn was an English country gentlewoman, with her dogs and her garden to keep her amused, her faded prettiness, her pink cheeks from spending so much time outside, her Liberty lawn blouses and needlecord skirts and sensible shoes.

When Kif’s sisters, Kate and Emma, came over to play at Bucklebury, they always wanted to sneak into Louisa’s dressing room. This was a tiny little boxroom opposite the master bedroom – an enormous mahogany wardrobe took up most of it, and it was stuffed with Louisa’s clothes: racks of silk and lace and
chiffon. The floor of the wardrobe was covered in shoes, the top of it in hats and handbags. Everything was carelessly flung back after whatever social occasion it had been aired at – a gallery opening, Ladies Day at the races, a hunt ball. To a trio of teenage girls it was dressing-up heaven. They burrowed in her make-up and perfume, draped themselves in her jewellery, tried on the dizzyingly high heels and paraded around in outfits that came in every colour of the rainbow.

‘Mum’s only got powder and one lipstick that she wears to church. And I know she didn’t buy that. Someone left it behind in the bathroom once when they came to stay.’ Emma sounded rather disgusted as she sat at Louisa’s dressing table underneath the window, slapping on her Elizabeth Arden blusher. They were deeply envious that Jamie could borrow whatever she wanted.

‘God, imagine wanting to borrow any of Mum’s clothes.’ Kate snorted with laughter at the thought. ‘Only if you wanted to dress up as Worzel Gummidge.’

‘That’s unkind,’ Jamie had protested.

‘The trouble with Mum is she just doesn’t care what she looks like. All she cares about is the dogs,’ pronounced Emma.

‘And you. She cares about you.’ Jamie was stout in her defence of Rosemary. Kate and Emma obviously didn’t appreciate her one bit.

Thinking about it now, Jamie wondered if Rosemary
had been as happy with her lot as they’d all assumed. Sometimes, when there’d been a huge crowd round the dinner table at Bucklebury, all roaring with laughter and knocking back the booze as if it was a competition, she’d glimpsed Rosemary looking rather pained. She didn’t really drink, and no doubt it was hard to find the conversation as uproariously funny as everyone else, as it deteriorated into the sort of smut and double entendre only the inebriated found amusing.

One particular night, when Jamie was about thirteen, she remembered Louisa sneaking into her bedroom, thinking she was asleep, and taking one of her games from on top of the wardrobe. Mystified, Jamie had crept down the stairs after her.

Louisa was standing triumphantly in the dining-room doorway.

‘Right, everybody. Let’s play Strip Twister,’ Louisa had said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Rosemary had panicked, and stood up sharply, making her excuses, trying to persuade Hamilton to come with her. He had refused, and Jamie remembered Rosemary scuttling off into the night, clearly terrified, as Hamilton gamely seized the dice. Jamie had shot back up to her bedroom before she was discovered.

‘Jamie, hi!’ Zoe came bounding down the stairs looking flustered, a tea towel over one shoulder. ‘I’ve just been putting the boys to bed so we can have supper in peace and quiet.’

The two girls embraced in the hallway.

‘I just walked in – sorry, I should have knocked.’ Jamie thought she should apologize.

‘Don’t be silly. Come and have a glass of wine. Christopher phoned five minutes ago. He’s on his way.’

‘Actually, I wondered if I could go and see the boys? I won’t get them overexcited, I promise.’ Jamie held up a Woolworths bag. ‘I got them something hideous and plastic each – I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No – they’ll love it. I don’t have a problem with hideous and plastic.’ Zoe grinned. ‘Their room’s upstairs; first on the –’

‘Kif’s old room. Don’t worry – I know.’ Jamie ran lightly up the stairs.

Zoe watched her. And couldn’t help wondering what exactly they’d got up to in Kif’s old room, all those years ago.

Half an hour later, Christopher had arrived home, and they all went out on to the terrace to enjoy the last of the evening sun. Christopher had mowed the lawn the evening before: the soft green velvet stripes led down to the white metal railings of the fence that separated the garden from the banks of the river, which could just be heard burbling in the distance. Beyond that lay undulating farmland punctuated by huge oaks.

‘I’d forgotten how lovely it was here,’ said Jamie. ‘It must be heaven after London.’

‘Apart from the fact that it takes three bloody
hours to mow the lawn,’ agreed Christopher. Zoe said nothing; just helped herself to a Pringle from the bowl she’d put on the wrought-iron table. She remembered she’d been going to buy olives and dips. Maybe it was easier not to make resolutions. That way you couldn’t break them. It was like going on a diet. The minute you decided you were on one, you started binging. Oh well, at least she’d put them in a bowl – she usually scoffed them straight from the cardboard tube.

Christopher picked up the bottle of Oyster Bay that was sitting in its chiller pouch.

‘Top-up, anyone?’

Jamie shook her head; she’d barely touched hers. Zoe poked her empty glass across the table towards Christopher. She thought she detected the tiniest flicker of disapproval before he poured her a miserly third of a glass, then filled his own three-quarters full.

‘So – how did it go with Edward?’ he asked Jamie.

‘He was fantastic. Incredibly helpful,’ she replied.

‘I told you he was a good bloke.’

‘He couldn’t have done more for me. I was in there nearly two hours.’

‘And?’

‘It doesn’t look too promising.’ Jamie made a face. ‘I’d worked out some rough figures the night before, but being a complete novice I’d left out all sorts of things. Like the interest on the repayments. And public liability insurance. Which made me look a bit of a fool.’

‘You’ve got to start somewhere. Edward would
know that. He’s done enough start-ups to know not everyone’s John Harvey-Jones.’

‘Oh yes – he was very sweet about it. Not at all patronizing. Anyway, he helped me work out some more realistic sums. Then came the crunch. How much capital we were going to need. And whether they’d give it to us.’

Jamie took a gulp of wine.

‘The problem is, neither Dad nor I have any liquid assets. I’ve got a couple of grand left from my savings. Dad’s got bugger all, as far as I know. Yes, in theory, we can borrow against Bucklebury, but we need to prove we’ve got the means to pay it back. The figures Edward and I worked out don’t show a healthy return for at least five years, and that’s presuming the business is a success. Which makes any loan a huge risk, because not only do we not have any cash, we don’t have any experience, or track record, to give them confidence in our ability to run a successful business.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Very oh dear,’ agreed Jamie. ‘And I’ve been dossing about for nearly a year, not earning any money, which doesn’t look good. And the business isn’t related to what I was doing before that, even though I was earning a good salary. So I’m not a good risk. And as we know, Dad’s business ventures… well, like they say, let’s not even go there. In fact, I left him out of the picture altogether. I didn’t want anyone digging about in his past.’

‘So what was the bottom line?’

‘The bottom line is I bought two lottery tickets on the way over here. I think I’ve got more chance of hitting the jackpot than getting the money we need out of the bank.’

‘Jamie, I’m sorry. I feel guilty about coming up with the idea in the first place.’

‘Don’t be daft. You’ve got to have a go, haven’t you?’

‘So what
are
you going to do?’

‘Edward did suggest another of his clients might be interested in investing. Though I don’t really want anyone else involved – I think that’s dangerous.’

‘I agree. Keep it clean and on your terms.’

‘Meanwhile, I’m going to rack my brains. And keep my fingers crossed for the bonus ball…’

Zoe had finished her miserly top-up. She didn’t want to attract attention by asking for more. She stood up, the legs of her chair scraping along the stone terrace and setting her teeth on edge.

‘I’m going to go and check on supper.’

‘Lovely,’ said Christopher, smiling at her.

I doubt it, thought Zoe, going straight into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of the Merlot Christopher had opened and left to warm on the Aga. At least she didn’t have Rosemary hovering around trying to be helpful, offering to go and snip fresh parsley out of the garden. She had taken a plate up to her room earlier, said she had one of her heads. Zoe poked at the swirling pan full of fusilli with a fork,
managed to extricate one, and put it in her mouth to see if it was done.

‘Fuck!’ It was boiling hot. She spat it back on to the worktop, but too late – she’d scalded her mouth. She felt hot tears prick the backs of her eyes as she took two jars of tomato and basil sauce out of the cupboard. Thank God for Loyd Grossman.

She humped the saucepan over to the sink and drained its contents into the colander. It was definitely done, if not overdone. She’d meant to try and keep it al dente, like you were supposed to, but she’d lost concentration for a minute. Now it was soggy and flabby and the fusilli were starting to unravel. She slopped it back into the pan and took it back over to the Aga, not noticing through the clouds of steam that Soot and Honey had parked themselves in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Zoe went flying. As did the pan of pasta, much to the delight of Soot and Honey. A minute later, Jamie and Christopher came in from the garden to find her on her hands and knees, desperately trying to scoop the remains of the fusilli back into the saucepan, hoping no one would notice the grit and the dog hairs, while the dogs gobbled frantically.