Wild Oats (45 page)

Olivier trod out his second cigarette with a heavy heart. There was no way he could race tomorrow now. He decided he would leave a note for Jack apologizing, and just go. He didn’t know where, but that didn’t matter at the moment. Just as long as he put enough distance between him and the Wildings. He’d buggered things up enough for them already. They’d probably both be glad to see the back of him.

As he scrabbled about the workshop for a piece of paper and pencil, he reflected with a wry smile that at least one person would be happy with the outcome. By pulling out of the race he’d be leaving the way clear for Claudia’s victory. Ray would be made-up – not only would his daughter win the trophy,
but he’d have saved himself a hundred grand in the process.

As he started to compose a letter of apology to Jack, the implications of this gradually filtered through to Olivier’s brain. What was the point in him running off, leaving the field wide open for Claudia, when he could take Ray Sedgeley up on his offer, throw the race, clear a hundred grand. Which he could then use to assuage the guilt he felt for his betrayal of Jack, for he could buy his half of the car off him. With a hundred grand, Jack and Jamie could restore Bucklebury to its former glory. Everyone would be happy.

Olivier told himself not to be ridiculous. The plan went against everything he believed in. But then, he reasoned, he couldn’t sink much lower than he already had. He’d betrayed Jack; Jack who’d treated him almost like his own son. Certainly treated him better than Eric had done. And he’d destroyed Jamie’s illusions about her mother. Throwing the race might go against everything he stood for, but Jack and Jamie stood to benefit. And only he would ever know the truth about what he had done. Ray Sedgeley certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. And Olivier thought he could live with it on his conscience, if it meant that Bucklebury was saved for the Wildings.

Olivier weighed up the pros and cons one last time. If he walked away, everybody lost. If he threw the race, everybody won. Except him, of course. But that was all he deserved.

Before he could change his mind, he pulled out his
mobile and rang Ray’s number, praying that Claudia wouldn’t be in close proximity when he answered.

‘Sedgeley.’

‘Mr Sedgeley. It’s Olivier Templeton. Can you talk?’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Yep.’

‘The deal we discussed the other night. I’m just calling to tell you I want to take you up on it.’

There was a delighted chuckle.

‘Good lad.’ Ray sounded euphoric. ‘And listen – I know how you feel about it, but it’s the way of the world. Like I told you, if you don’t do it, someone else will. You don’t win in the long run by playing it straight.’

Olivier couldn’t be bothered to argue. He was tired and he wanted to get away before Jack returned and found out what had gone on. He’d drive to Sapersley tonight; sleep in the car. Swiftly, he hooked up the trailer to the Land Rover and drove off down the drive for the very last time.

28

Olivier arrived at Sapersley in record time. For once the meandering country lanes that made up most of the route weren’t clogged up by tractors chugging along at an infuriating pace, their drivers oblivious – or perhaps not – to the impatient drivers behind them. The track was set in the grounds of Sapersley Hall at the foot of the Clee Hills: the original owner of the house had been a racing enthusiast and had it built for his own amusement just before the war. Many vehicles had been tested here during the throes of their development; its proximity to the Midlands made it particularly convenient as a venue for putting new marques through their paces. Now it was in use as a private commercial venture, complete with a driving school, and its exquisite setting made it ideal for corporate days out as well as a popular venue for historic cars recreating the fierce competitions of yesteryear. Nowadays, of course, the races didn’t represent the pinnacle of months of research and development and investment, they didn’t make or break a car’s future and reputation and commercial success, but to the individual competitor it was still one’s pride and glory at stake.

He turned in through the gates and past the field
that had been set aside for camping: people often came down the night before a race and made a weekend of it. The good weather meant it was peppered with tents and caravans, and there was an almost carnival atmosphere. Plumes of smoke from portable barbecues were wisping their way into the sky. The smell made him hungry. He wondered if he’d be able to crash in on someone, pinch a couple of sausages. They were a friendly bunch, on the whole, rivals only for the fifteen minutes or so it took to run a race.

He checked his paperwork to see where he had been allocated a space in the paddock. There were other people still unloading. Some fussed over their cars like anxious mothers with a newborn baby, running scrupulous checks and polishing and covering them with customized tarpaulins; others, like Olivier, had a more relaxed attitude, treating their cars with respect but not mollycoddling them.

He found his allotted space and started to undo the webbing ropes that lashed the car to the trailer.

‘Want a hand?’

Olivier bent his head over a wheel arch, pretending not to have heard the teasingly provocative question. The last person he wanted to see at the moment was Claudia Sedgeley. He wanted to brood on his own, not engage in her inane chitter-chatter. She didn’t take the hint, though. She started to help without being invited. And he had to hand it to her: she was very capable and didn’t seem too worried about snagging
a nail. With an extra pair of hands the job was over far more quickly.

‘Thanks,’ he said grudgingly, and went to turn his back again, to make it clear he was busy. But she wasn’t put off that easily.

‘Do you want to come and have something to eat? I was going to make a salad.’

Olivier shook his head.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, at least come and have a drink,’ she persisted. ‘You can’t tell me you’re not hot.’

Olivier sighed. He was going to have to be bloody rude – or give in. He looked at her. She was wearing a pair of white overalls; despite the bulky fabric and the unforgiving cut, her enviable figure was still discernible underneath. She’d rolled up the trouser legs to display smooth golden calves and was wearing eminently unsuitable pink trainers. Her hair was tied high up on her head with a bandanna; several tendrils had escaped and were sticking to her brow. Her cheeks were slightly pink from exertion; her hands were dirty. Olivier smiled to himself in approval. Dishevelment definitely suited her more than the designer fashion victim look of last week’s party. In his opinion, anyway.

He hesitated. He could turn down her invitation and go and sulk somewhere; pick over his argument with Jamie and berate himself for his foolhardiness. Or he could succumb. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘Where’s your dad?’ he asked casually.

He needed to exercise caution. He might have done a deal with Ray, but he didn’t necessarily want to have to look him in the eye or spend more time with him than he had to.

‘He’s taken some clients out for dinner. He’s brought them to watch me race tomorrow. They’re all staying at the Rose and Crown.’

No wonder Ray had been so pleased when Olivier had phoned. He could show off his clever daughter in front of his customers; puff himself up with pride as she went to collect her trophy. And Olivier would walk off with a hundred grand; a hundred grand with which to assuage his guilt before he started off on a new life.

He swatted the thought away like an annoying fly. He didn’t really want to give it head-space. After all, he’d never done anything like this before. And even though he told himself he wasn’t going to be the one benefitting from the fix, it still went against the grain.

He realized he’d drifted off. Claudia was looking at him strangely.

‘Hello? Are you coming or not? Because I’m starving and I need a drink.’

He relented. Why the hell not? Claudia might take his mind off what had happened. Better to spend the evening imagining what was underneath her overalls than torturing himself for his lack of morals.

‘OK. Why not?’

He followed her across the ground and over the field to where her Winnebago was parked at a distance from everyone else. It was enormous; it couldn’t do more than two miles to the gallon. Shiny, shiny black with ‘Claudia Sedgeley’ emblazoned on the side in pink italics, and a silhouette of a girl’s head in a racing helmet with a ponytail flowing out of the back. Inside, it was snug but luxuriously kitted out, with sleek brown leather seating, a table, a streamlined kitchen and a single bed with storage underneath. Claudia flicked a switch and music oozed out of a discreetly hidden sound system.

She opened the drinks fridge. It was filled with mini bottles of Moët, two bottles of Polish vodka and several cartons of tomato juice.

‘There’s not much choice, I’m afraid. Dad only drinks Bloody Marys. And I only drink champagne.’

Olivier raised his eyebrows. Claudia opened her eyes wide in arch self-defence.

‘It’s got fewer calories than anything else. I have to watch my weight very carefully, you know.’

She took them out a bottle each, popped them open and stuck in pink bendy straws. They flopped back on the leather seats and sucked contentedly. Claudia kicked off her trainers, stuck her long legs out in front of her and wiggled her toes luxuriously. Her feet were smooth and brown, the toenails painted with what Olivier knew from his mother was a French polish, pearly pink with white tips.

‘The trouble with champagne,’ declared Claudia, ‘is
it goes straight to my head no matter how much I practise.’

Olivier had to admit that he too felt light-headed, though in his case it was probably because he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so Claudia insisted on making them supper.

‘I’m no great cook, I’m afraid, but I can open a packet,’ she said, removing the ingredients for chicken Caesar salad from another fridge. Olivier watched as she sliced up some pre-cooked char-grilled chicken, shook ready-chopped lettuce out of a packet and sprinkled them with croutons and Parmesan, then slathered it all with creamy dressing.

They sat at the table to eat, mopping up the salad with part-baked ciabatta that she warmed in the oven. Soon Olivier found he was feeling better; the food restored his strength and the champagne had lightened his mood. And as they chatted, Olivier found himself intrigued by Claudia. On the surface, she was a product of her environment: people often put up a front that did them no favours, and with her flashy lifestyle, her pre-prepared, perfectly packaged existence, her unashamedly in-your-face clothing, Claudia was eminently dislikeable on first meeting. But underneath she was warm and funny. She didn’t take herself at all seriously; she was happy to send herself up. Olivier was curious as to what made her tick.

‘So,’ said Olivier. ‘What on earth got you into all this? I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not your typical racing driver.’

Claudia grinned.

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything I hate it’s being predictable.’ She took another swig out of her bottle and leaned forwards. ‘Have you ever been to Birmingham?’

Olivier didn’t think he had.

‘Where I live, people are only interested in what you drive and how much money you have. I wanted a bit more than that. I didn’t want to turn into my mother. Obsessed with charity lunches and who’s who at the golf club.’

Claudia put an imaginary gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

‘Not that I don’t love my mother,’ she added hastily. ‘I just don’t want to be her.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Olivier darkly. ‘If I thought I was going to end up like my father…’

‘Oh dear,’ said Claudia. ‘I sense issues. Would you like to lie on my couch?’ She patted the leather bench seat, smiling. ‘I’m good with issues. I’ve had shedloads of therapy.’

‘No thanks,’ Olivier assured her. ‘We could be here all night.’

‘That’s OK,’ she replied lightly. ‘I’m not doing anything else.’

Their eyes locked for a moment, both recognizing a frisson of suggestion in her tone.

‘Another drink?’ Claudia offered, not taking her eyes off his.

Olivier shook his head regretfully, though what he
really wanted to do was get well and truly paralytic.

‘Not the night before a race.’

She smiled at him tauntingly.

‘You’re so controlled. Such will-power.’ She walked over and stood in front of him, fingering the Velcro opening of her overalls with a minxy little smile. ‘Does your abstinence extend to other things? Is it no sex before a race, like David Beckham before a match?’

Bloody hell, thought Olivier. She was a fast worker all right. She bent over and brought her face close to his, her eyes dancing with mischief.

‘Personally I find it helps me get a good night’s sleep. Otherwise I’m tossing and turning all night.’

Olivier looked at her for what seemed an eternity, mulling the prospect over in his mind. He could be uptight and po-faced, accept a cup of coffee and then go and sleep in the back of his car, freezing his balls off. Or he could accept Claudia’s fairly blatant offer, and get a decent night’s sleep in a comfortable bed into the bargain. If he turned her down, he knew he’d just go and stew over his argument with Jamie, and curse himself for breaking his promise to Jack never to tell her the truth. A night with Claudia would certainly take his mind off things.

A ripping sound broke his reverie. Claudia was sliding her finger down the entire length of the opening, a provocative grin on her face. Her overalls were now gaping open, and it was clear she had nothing on underneath. Olivier’s eyes widened as she let the sleeves drop down her arms, then shimmied out of
them altogether. She did have something on underneath – a G-string like he’d never seen before. A black satin waistband from which a string of freshwater pearls ran down between her legs. Decidedly uncomfortable, he thought – but then again, perhaps not? Perhaps it was the ultimate stimulation: pearl against pearl? It was certainly doing something for him. He couldn’t have turned her down now, even if he’d wanted to.