Wild Oats (29 page)

‘You know what we ought to do?’ said Jack, breaking into her reverie. ‘Have a bloody great party.’

Jamie looked at him in amazement.

‘A party? What on earth is there to celebrate?’

‘It’s my birthday next weekend.’

Jamie clapped her hand to her mouth.

‘Of course it is. I’d forgotten. Well, I hadn’t forgotten, but I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m so sorry, Dad.’

She felt stricken with guilt. Jack’s birthday, falling as it did in the middle of July, had always been an excuse for the Wildings to have a huge party. It hadn’t seemed appropriate this year, with Louisa gone.

‘Don’t be. I wasn’t going to bother. But in the circumstances, I think we should go out with a bang.’

Jamie thought about it. Maybe Jack was right. A final bash at Bucklebury would do no harm. They’d make sure that whoever took over the farm from them could never live up to their reputation for party-giving. She grinned, suddenly excited by the idea.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ll organize the booze,’ said Jack, ‘if you do the food.’

Jamie looked indignant.

‘And I’ll sort out the garden,’ added Jack hastily, realizing that the division of labour wasn’t quite fair. ‘I know I’ve let it run away. But I haven’t really had a reason to tackle it up until now.’

*

As the end of her set approached, Tanya launched into a slow, romantic ballad, and the audience needed no second telling to couple up and indulge in a good smooch. Alcohol and the heat had made them all amorous. Heads nuzzled into shoulders; wandering hands strayed over bare, warm flesh; lips and tongues introduced themselves to each other and made their probing acquaintances.

Foxy pulled Rod towards her, putting her hands round his waist as they danced – or tried to – amidst the crush. Foxy took the opportunity to grind her groin against his, grinning lasciviously. She’d taken her jacket off, and underneath all she wore was what looked like a bandanna tied on with string round her neck, her breasts underneath like playful puppies. He felt a sudden rush of fondness for her. A rush of fondness that ran straight down to his groin. Rod was astonished to feel himself grow as hard as iron. Astonished and delighted. He’d convinced himself that he was never going to get a decent erection again, yet the evidence in his trousers couldn’t be argued with. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Foxy either. As the song came to an end to rapturous applause, and Tanya took her bow, smiling and blowing kisses to her admirers, Foxy led Rod by the hand through the throng and into the men’s. Against his better judgement, overruled by pure animal instinct, he followed her.

Rod pressed her up against the wall, finding himself driven wild by her passionate response, her warm hands exploring his body, tugging up his T-shirt,
scrabbling at his flies. He wanted to lose himself in the experience; indulge in sheer, unadulterated lust; a damn good fuck that didn’t involve a military-style planning campaign and an agonizing wait to see if it had had the desired effect.

But even in his inebriated state, a little warning bell went off. He might be desperate for a shag, but he needed to be careful. As he kissed her, his left hand was struggling for loose change in his jeans. He found a pound coin and, without taking his mouth off hers, inserted it into the condom machine. He grappled for the small packet, then led her into the nearest empty cubicle for some privacy, shutting the door and sliding the lock into place.

But as he looked at the graffiti-splattered wall, the extreme tackiness of the situation struck him. What the hell was he doing, having it off with Foxy Marsden in a public toilet? He’d never, even in his most dissolute days, done anything like it. Was he totally desperate? Yes, probably, on reflection. Even in his drink-addled state, he tried to put things into perspective. He was going to regret this in the morning. Not that Foxy would make any demands on him, or read anything into it. But, actually, she deserved better. He liked Foxy. More than that, he respected her. He didn’t want to use her, like some backstreet whore he could just throw away.

He leaned back against the door, putting his hands up. His head was spinning slightly, from the booze and the heat and the intensity of their passion.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this.’

She protested and grumbled, then cajoled.

‘Come on, Rod. You’re the last one on the list. I never thought I was going to be able to get you. I’d have a full house – the only girl in Shropshire to have had all the Deacon brothers.’

If Rod had thought it was a bad idea before, this really brought it home. He’d always been the enigmatic one. He wasn’t going to blot his copybook now.

‘Listen, Foxy – if I’m going to screw you, I want to do it properly. Dinner, candlelight, champagne – the full works.’

Foxy rolled her eyes. ‘Where did that romantic bollocks ever get you?’

She put a hand on his zip and felt underneath. He was still rock hard. She shook her head regretfully.

‘What a waste.’

Later, Rod staggered out to the car park to call a cab on his mobile, impressed with his self-control. And even more impressed with his hard-on. He might have had a narrow escape with Foxy, but at least he knew he still had lead in his pencil. He’d been afraid that all that high-pressure copulation with Bella had taken its toll, but it obviously hadn’t. When he fell into bed that night, managing to remove his shoes but nothing else, he congratulated himself on a fantastic night. He’d had a good few drinks, a few laughs with his old mates and brought himself back down to earth. Perhaps the future wasn’t so bleak after all.

*

Pauline Robbins was beside herself with anxiety, anxiety that was bordering on distress. Since Bella had turned up on the doorstep on Saturday evening, distraught but tight-lipped, she hadn’t emerged from her bedroom. And no matter how hard Pauline coaxed her, she wouldn’t reveal what was the matter.

In the meantime, Pauline didn’t know how on earth she was going to hold things together at the dance school. It was obvious Bella wasn’t in a fit state to teach. Pauline could manage most classes, but Street Funk for six- to nine-year-olds was beyond even her choreographic skills. At fifty-six, she would look ridiculous wiggling and thrusting in imitation of J-Lo and Christina Aguilera. In between classes she was rushing back to see if there was any improvement in her daughter. After just one day, she was exhausted and in despair.

She knew she was guilty of living her life through Bella. Ever since her feckless husband had taken off when Bella was eleven, they had been incredibly close. And Pauline was gratified that Bella had followed in her footsteps by taking over the dance school. She’d started it in the local village hall twenty-six years ago, when Bella was three, racking her brains as to how to earn a bit of extra cash that she could keep from her bully of a husband in order to clothe the kids and give them a few treats. It had taken off at once, and probably been instrumental in Len’s departure – he was insanely jealous of her success, and tried all sorts of tricks to stop her teaching, even… well, Pauline
didn’t want to remember the effects of his fists, just thanked God that he had taken the easy option and buggered off with Carole-Ann Rogers like that.

Even now she and Bella were very close. Pauline tried hard not to let their relationship impinge on Bella’s marriage, but the truth was she didn’t have much else in her life. She was a very attractive woman still at fifty-six, she took good care of herself, but she really couldn’t be bothered with men. She’d tried a couple of times – it was all champagne and roses to start with, elaborate promises. Then the real bloke emerged, farting, whinging, snoring, demanding kinky sex – the bloody Internet had a lot to answer for, in Pauline’s view. She was quite happy to be independent. She loved the dance school – she dreaded the day when her joints would become too stiff to teach. All in all, she felt, life was good. She was in control.

Bella appearing like that had been rather a bolt from the blue. Pauline had been convinced she and Rod had a strong marriage. And she was very fond of her son-in-law. Despite her generally low opinion of men, she wouldn’t have thought he was the type to have an affair, which was the only reason she could think of for her daughter’s distress.

She knocked gently and walked into Bella’s room. Bella was curled up under the duvet, wide-awake, staring dully into space. The curtains were half-drawn, the windows closed. The room was incredibly stuffy. There was a glass and a half empty bottle of mineral water, but no sign that Bella had eaten anything.

Pauline decided she had to be firm. She sat on the bed.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. I want some answers. And if you don’t give them to me, I’m going to go and ask Rod what it’s all about.’

Bella’s reaction was most alarming. She clung to her mother, sobbing hysterically, begging her not to contact Rod. She would only be making things worse. Pauline was horrified by what she’d unleashed and backtracked immediately, assuring Bella she wouldn’t say a word, desperately trying to soothe her. Bella slumped back on to her pillows, exhausted, and Pauline stroked her daughter’s brow, noticing her hair was lank with grease and sweat. She didn’t think she’d ever seen her look this awful.

Eventually Bella’s eyes closed, and she fell asleep. Pauline sat and watched her till she was sure she wasn’t going to stir again, desperately wondering what was troubling her. All sorts of scenarios ran through Pauline’s mind. What evil had the bastard been inflicting on her precious daughter? She might be fond of Rod, but not being a great fan of the male species she had a low opinion of what any of them were capable of. Had he been beating her? She hadn’t seen any sign of bruising, but then Pauline knew only too well how clever wife-beaters were at concealing the fruits of their labour. God, if he had… Her own fists clenched at the very thought.

With the loyalty of a mother, it never once occurred to her that in fact it was Bella who was in the wrong.

18

There was, thought Jamie, nothing like planning a party for taking your mind off things. And she was going to make this a good one. If this was going to be their last celebration at Bucklebury, she wanted it to go down in local history.

She and Jack compiled a guest list then split it between them and phoned round. Happily, most people seemed able to come, even though it was short notice. They were obviously delighted that the institution had been re-established: Jack’s birthday had always been an important date on the local calendar. You knew whether or not you’d made it socially by whether or not you received an invitation.

By the time they’d finished, the final number was seventy, and Jamie knew from experience that what with gatecrashers and last-minute invitations and people bringing their long-lost cousins who had turned up at the eleventh hour, it was likely to be closer to eighty. They would just have to pray that the weather stayed fine.

It had always been the tradition for Jack’s birthday party to have some sort of theme. There had been the Pink Party, the Come As Your Alter Ego party, the S and M party, when everyone came dressed as
something beginning with S or M: there were soldiers and spacemen and morris dancers and mandarins, and they’d eaten sausages and mash followed by strawberries and meringues. Jamie remembered that her mother had been a mermaid, a glittering, shimmering siren outshone by nobody, while drab little Rosemary Drace had come dressed as a mouse. Louisa had laughingly told her how clever she was to come as herself…

For some reason the memory made Jamie feel uncomfortable. She decided it was too late to expect people to come in fancy dress, but nevertheless she wanted to create a magical atmosphere, a backdrop, something to tie the event together and make it a talking point rather than just a mundane garden party.

She rummaged through the house and outbuildings in search of inspiration. Bucklebury had long been a treasure trove, as Jack and Louisa were both great hoarders, magpies who found a use for items most people were glad to see the back of: Jack because he was always convinced he could make a profit out of the most trivial piece of rubbish; Louisa because her artistic nature meant she could turn the most unwanted item into an object of beauty. Inevitably, they did nothing with their salvage, but it made Jamie’s search an interesting one, and brought memories flooding back. Halfway through, she wondered what on earth they were going to do with all of it when they moved out. It was two lifetimes of accumulated junk that no one else would give houseroom.

Eventually, she hit gold when she discovered the remnants of one of Jack’s business ventures stuffed into a stable – flood-damaged stock from an emporium that sold ethnic goods, that he’d been planning to sell on and never got round to. There were embroidered bedspreads and cushions, lanterns, incense sticks, huge wooden bowls and chalices. They were all a bit mouldy and damp, but that didn’t matter. Thus she decided on a Middle Eastern theme – very loosely interpreted and not authentically correct, but colourful and exotic.

She had her props, and now she had to decide on the food. For that amount of people, it would have to be a buffet. Jamie spent an afternoon in the sunshine with her mother’s old cookery books, copying out recipes and making lists of ingredients, until she’d compiled a menu that she thought she could manage – food that could be cooked in advance and wouldn’t spoil. Spicy lamb kebabs threaded with peppers and tomatoes that she would bung on the barbecue. An enormous chicken tagine, with almonds and apricots. Huge earthenware bowls filled with hummus, slick with olive oil and pungent with garlic, and sesame-seed-encrusted pitta breads to dip in or stuff with salad. Couscous mixed with pine kernels and sultanas and fresh coriander. Deep, rich red plum tomatoes and chunks of cucumber tossed with shiny, wrinkly black olives and squares of crumbling feta cheese. A yogurt dip fortified with handfuls of freshly chopped mint.

And for pudding, she’d make baklava – little diamonds of layered filo pastry filled with a delicious honey-drenched mixture of pistachio nuts and almonds. And cubes of rose-scented Turkish delight dusted with icing sugar. And figs, roasted on the barbecue, then slashed open to reveal their gloriously decadent purple interiors into which even more gloriously decadent mascarpone cheese could be dolloped.