Wild Oats (34 page)

Claudia realized at once that she was wearing totally the wrong thing. The clothes that had felt so right in her bedroom in Birmingham suddenly made her feel like a bit of a footballer’s wife: satin and fishnet might be smart casual in the city, but here it looked flashy, trashy and cheap, despite the hefty price tag. She was left with the feeling that she’d tried a bit too hard; that there was too much of her body on show, even though the flesh underneath was faultless. Quite a few of the women were stunningly attractive, but obviously didn’t feel the need to draw attention to themselves by their clothing – or lack of it. It was all very relaxed and understated: linen trousers and sloppy cotton sweaters or jeans with floaty tops; jewellery that was arty rather than expensive. In fact, the dressiest person there was Jamie, who, to Claudia’s
annoyance, looked stunning in a pink Suzie Wong frock. And it didn’t take Claudia long to clock that Olivier, who was in charge of the barbecue, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Her heart missed a beat when she saw him, dressed in a blue linen shirt and cream trousers, wielding a pair of tongs as he supervised a row of kebabs. The week’s sunshine had deepened his tan and lightened his hair, and his eyes seemed an even more startling aquamarine by contrast.
David Ginola
, thought Claudia. That’s who he reminded her of. She’d seen Ginola out on the town in Birmingham a few times, when he’d been playing for Aston Villa. Olivier had the same Gallic good looks, the same ability to wear his hair slightly too long without looking either effeminate or dated, the same mesmerizing eyes…

She had to go over and say hello. But Claudia felt tongue-tied. She couldn’t for the life of her think of an opening gambit. She cringed when she remembered the drivel she had come out with the Saturday before. And all she could think of now were inane questions. She could hardly go and ask how his kebabs were doing. She took a big gulp of Bucklebury Folly, wishing fervently for inspiration and realizing that this was how normal people felt when faced with the object of their desires: awkward, bashful, terrified. But then, she supposed, it had never mattered to her before what anyone thought of her. She’d always been in control. She was the intimidating one, the unapproachable siren, the one who called the shots.

Before she could decide on a plan of action, Jamie descended on her and took her by the arm.

‘Come and meet the Preston brothers,’ she said, and led her firmly away. Next moment, Claudia found herself being introduced to three mischievous-looking young Hoorays, who were thoroughly appreciative of her trousers and her midriff and raised her spirits a little – though she couldn’t help wondering if Jamie had distracted her on purpose.

Jamie was thrilled that the party was going so well. She had been a bit nervous, never having hosted something on this scale by herself before. But she realized now there was no need to be nervous when you were amongst friends. There was Clemency, her mother’s old art teacher from London. Cyd and Nancy, the highly-strung American princesses who ran a town-house bed and breakfast in Ludlow, who’d always had Louisa’s paintings in their dining room and been responsible for most of her sales. Leo the cheesemonger, who’d brought her a huge basket of his wares – Stinking Bishop and Berkswell and Shropshire Blue. Hilly, of course. Kif, looking a bit lost, she thought. Pip and Rose Preston, local landed gentry and their three heartbreaking sons who she’d just introduced to Claudia Sedgeley – she grinned to herself as she contemplated the possible outcome of their encounter.

Time and again she found herself hugged and kissed and admired by people who had been part of
her life for as long as she could remember, bringing home the bitter-sweet reality that this was the last time they would all come together like this. And many of them exclaimed how like her mother she looked when she was young. Jamie felt proud. Louisa had, in a way, been her role model. She knew that by throwing this party she had been trying to live up to the standards she’d set, trying to emulate everything she had admired about her mother. And she thought she’d succeeded, because so many people told her it was almost as if Louisa was going to turn up any moment, that she’d captured the magical atmosphere and the chemistry of those infamous parties of the past.

High on the congratulations, and the pleasure of seeing all the people she loved enjoying themselves, she didn’t have time to wonder whether Rod was going to turn up. Anyway, she knew he wouldn’t, not in a million years.

At nine o’clock, the kebabs were pronounced ready and everyone was commanded to dig in. By dint of their seniority, Lettice and Jack were sitting at one of the tables Jamie had set up on the terrace. Other people were sprawled on the lawn, or perched on the stone retaining walls of the flower beds.

‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ said Lettice, digging her fork into a mound of golden couscous. ‘I’m not sure if this is the right time. But then again, I don’t know if there is a right time.’

Jack made a face. ‘Sounds ominous.’

‘I’m thinking of moving to South Africa,’ she explained carefully. ‘Actually, not thinking. I am. I’ve put an offer in on a house in Cape Town.’

Jack started in surprise. Lettice looked a little shamefaced at dropping such a bombshell.

‘I’m fed up with the winters here,’ she went on to explain. ‘They thoroughly depress me. There’s nothing for an old woman my age to do except huddle up in her thermal knickers. I can’t hunt any more. That bloody house of mine costs a fortune to heat and I only use two rooms. It’s crazy.’ She paused. ‘I can get a beautiful bungalow in Cape Town, with a swimming pool and a guest cottage, for a fraction of what I’d get for my place. And I thought I’d just get somewhere small here for when I want to come back. Something that won’t crumble to a ruin the minute I turn my back.’

‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ said Jack equably, trying not to look too crestfallen. He suddenly realized how dependent he’d become on Lettice of late, and how he looked forward to seeing her. The thought of not having her around any more was a depressing one.

‘I’ve thought about it long and hard,’ she went on. ‘And I have to admit that the only thing really holding me back is the thought of having to leave you behind.’

Jack felt immensely flattered. Lettice leaned forwards and lowered her voice, which in itself was unusual.

‘We both know that we’re not the love of each other’s lives. Because we’ve both had the loves of our lives. And lost them. But I don’t mind telling you I’ve become very fond of you, Jack. I wanted to ask if you’d come with me.’ She paused. ‘Actually, not ask. Invite. I think that’s a better word, and doesn’t put you under any pressure. It’s taken me a long time to realize that perhaps a clean slate is the only answer. I still get reminded of Larry ten, fifteen, thirty times a day. Not that I want to forget him, of course. It might be the answer for you too, Jack. I know it hasn’t been as long. But you’re still haunted.’

Jack looked away, pained.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Especially at times like this. Jamie… reminds me so much of Louisa. Yet in some ways, not at all.’

Lettice folded her freckled hand over his.

‘It’s an open invitation. I don’t expect an answer straight away. The offer will always be there, Jack. And purely selfishly, I’d just like you to know I’d love you to be there with me.’

Jack just about managed a smile, slightly choked by her generosity of spirit.

‘Can I think about it? It certainly sounds tempting. But there’s a lot to sort out here. More than anything, I need to make sure Jamie’s settled before I make any decisions.’

Olivier was sitting on the stone wall by the barbecue, guarding the last of the figs which were slowly
softening in the warmth of the glowing embers, when Ray Sedgeley approached, sitting next to him and offering him a cigar. Olivier shook his head, taking out one of his own Disque Bleu in preference. Ray made a great ritual of snipping the end off his cigar, before finally clearing his throat.

‘I wanted to have a word.’

‘Sure.’

Olivier flicked his lighter and Ray bent his head to light his cigar. He blew out a thick stream of smoke before enlightening him.

‘I’m not going to beat about the bush. I want you to throw the race for the Corrigan Trophy.’ Ray brushed the glowing end of the cigar against the wall casually, shaving off the ash, before looking up and meeting Olivier’s eye to prove he meant what he was saying. ‘I’d make it worth your while.’

Olivier looked at him, astounded. This was like something out of a film. He half expected Vinnie Jones to walk round the corner, or Guy Ritchie to shout ‘Cut!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean… a hundred grand?’

Ray’s gaze was steady. Olivier laughed. He was obviously winding him up. He had a strange sense of humour.

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘I’ve never been more serious. I need Claudia to win that race.’

Olivier raised an eyebrow.

‘I don’t think bribing other people to throw the race quite counts as winning.’

Ray knew he was being patronized, but in his experience even the most principled people caved in at the right price. He waved away Olivier’s objection.

‘As long as she thinks she has. That’s all that matters.’

‘What about all the other entrants? Are you going to pay them off too?’

Ray gave a curt shake of his head.

‘We all know it’s a two-horse race. There isn’t another car entered that’s powerful enough to touch you or Claudia. And I’ll be honest, I think you’ve got the edge. You’re the better driver, though she’d kill me for saying it.’

‘So – you’re going to deprive her of the opportunity to prove you wrong? By buying me off?’

Olivier’s tone was polite, not sneering, but there was no denying his underlying disgust.

Ray flicked his unfinished cigar on to the grass and ground it out with his heel. It had obviously been a prop, an excuse to sit down and feign companionship.

‘Let me explain something to you. This time three years ago, I was spending four hundred pounds a day on a private clinic for Claudia. Rehab, I believe the popular term is. Beloved of celebrities and superstars and, apparently, highly-strung little girls whose wealthy fathers don’t give them enough attention. I’ve made it my mission to rectify that ever since she came out.’

He paused for a moment. Olivier wondered if perhaps he was finding this confession difficult, but decided no – Ray was pausing merely for effect, a master of rhetoric, letting his words sink in before he continued.

‘A hundred grand to keep her on the straight and narrow is nothing to me. If she wins that trophy, that buys me another season, another year, maybe more. If she loses, she’ll lose interest, and then it will only be a matter of time before she falls back into her old ways.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Olivier. ‘I can appreciate your dilemma. I’m sure as a father you feel you’re doing the right thing. But I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned.’

‘Don’t tell me – it’s not cricket.’ Ray gave a short, cynical bark. ‘Well, if today’s cricketers are anything to go by, you’d be a fool not to take the money and run.’

‘Then I’m a fool,’ said Olivier politely. ‘But a fool that can sleep at night.’

He held out his hand.

‘We didn’t have this conversation.’ He looked Ray in the eye. ‘If the racing authorities got wind of it…’

Ray shook his hand with a bluff, genial smile whose warmth didn’t reach his eyes.

‘They’d have to prove it first,’ he said equably. ‘And if you make any allegations, I’ll sue you for libel.’

Which parting shot left Olivier in little doubt about the sort of man he was dealing with.

*

Rod was sitting with Foxy and a bunch of mates in the same pub he’d dragged his brother out of a few days before. He’d drunk up to his limit and now he was bored: the conversation was the usual bawdy innuendo that was hilarious to the inebriated. One of the blokes with them was talking about going to score some Es, and Rod felt uncomfortable with it. He wasn’t a prude, but drugs weren’t his scene. Added to his discomfort was the knowledge that, if he’d had the courage, he could be at Bucklebury Farm now. He’d gone over and over Jamie’s invitation in his head, common sense telling him that if she hadn’t wanted him to come, she wouldn’t have asked him. But then insecurity kicked in: she was just being polite, she wouldn’t give a stuff whether he turned up or not, probably wouldn’t even notice…

It was Saturday night and the lottery results were coming out on the TV behind the bar. As the balls rolled out, Rod remembered the slogan.
You’ve got to be in it to win it
.

If he didn’t take Jamie up on her invitation, if he didn’t put his head on the chopping block, he’d never know how she felt about him. There’d been a moment in the post office when he’d felt a connection between them, before she’d closed down and backed off; dismissed their affair as a teenage dalliance.

What was the worst that could happen if he went? Jamie greeting him politely and then having to stand around at the party like a spare part? He’d feel a
fool, but, after everything that had happened to him recently, it would be no great hardship.

Foxy poked him in the ribs with a sharp finger.

‘Hey – wake up. You’re not exactly the life and soul. What’s up?’

Rod ran his hand through his hair. What was he going to do? Risk his dignity? Or get totally hammered and end up with a sympathy shag from Foxy, because the worst thing would be to lie in bed alone, knowing that he hadn’t had the courage of his convictions and had bottled out of pursuing the one thing he really wanted? Visions of an empty life stretched out in front of him, a life littered with too much beer and too many one-night stands to try and patch over the hole in his heart…

‘Listen, Foxy – I’m feeling a bit rough. I think I’m going to go home; get some kip. Will you be all right for a lift?’

‘Lightweight.’ Her twinkling black eyes mocked him for a moment, then she softened. ‘Don’t worry. I can tell you don’t want to be here. Go and sleep it off.’

She kissed him on the cheek, and he slid out of the pub before the others could protest. He didn’t feel too guilty about leaving her. Foxy never found herself short of company.