Country Pursuits (27 page)

The fact they now had Devon Cornwall on board was a major coup. ‘How
did
you do it, Mummy?' exclaimed Harriet at one Wednesday-night meeting at Fairoaks.

‘Yah, it was like getting blood out of a stone when I talked to him about it,' said Freddie admiringly.

Frances hoped she wasn't blushing; she could still feel the warmth of Devon's tongue licking her inner thigh. Since their first frolic on the lawn, they had tried to see each other as much as possible. Is it really only a fortnight? Frances wondered. She couldn't even remember life before him. Her waking hours had taken on a new energy, a colour she had never thought possible. ‘Oh, I didn't do much,' she said to Freddie dismissively. ‘I think Devon – Mr Cornwall – just came to his senses.'

‘Is he going to try and get Mick for us?' asked Freddie.

‘He might be away touring at the moment, but I am led to believe Nigel, Devon's secretary, has made a phone call about it,' Frances replied, in the most businesslike tone she could muster.

‘A sort of “my people will call your people” thing?' said Caro. ‘Oh, how frightfully glamorous!'

The conversation moved on then to Calypso's VIP list. The death of the Revd Goody was a terrible thing, but it had brought a certain irresistible notoriety to Churchminster. Suddenly, everyone wanted a ticket to the ball in the village all the papers had dubbed ‘the real life
Midsomer Murders
'.
Celebrities' agents were ringing up by the hour, and Calypso had even managed to secure DJ Dawg, who was going to play a set. (‘A what?' asked a baffled Clementine.) Calypso had even persuaded him to forgo his enormous fee, with a vague promise he might meet the Queen.
Soirée
's features editor had been on the phone to Calypso earlier to inform her that they were planning a much bigger piece now, and were going to send a journalist and photographer down to the village. ‘We're thinking an old money versus new money battle, yah?'

‘Oh, it's going to be a nightmare doing the guest list,' Caro wailed, but they all rallied round her with promises of help, and cries of: ‘Of course it won't!' and ‘You'll do a jolly marvellous job!'

Angie Fox-Titt was still working wonders sourcing things for the auction. Somehow she had secured twenty one-hour sessions with Madonna's personal trainer (who was otherwise booked up for the next five years), and an art critic friend was going to approach Tracey Emin about doing something. Clementine hadn't got a clue who Tracey Emin was, and had to discreetly ask Calypso afterwards.

‘She is, like, this totally cool artist, Granny,' Calypso told her. ‘People are going to bid, like,
zillions
for that. Awesome!'

If Lady Frances Fraser was on top of the world at the moment, her daughter was about to become the opposite. She loved being on the SCBA Committee. Being the site manager gave her so much more confidence; organizing, pulling things together, making it all
happen
. People asking
her
opinion and actually listening! It had made her realize she was
actually good at something. So the next Sunday, at dinner with her parents, she broke the news. She wanted to train to be an events manager.

Ambrose, who at that moment was halfway through his bowl of gazpacho soup, almost spat it out over the priceless Ming china.

‘A what?' he'd spluttered.

‘An events manager, Daddy,' explained Harriet patiently. ‘You know, someone who is in charge of putting on social functions and corporate events, for example—'

Her father cut her off, waving his spoon around furiously. ‘Yes, I do know what one is, Harriet,' he boomed. ‘I've seen those women! Bloody awful bigarsed girls running around with a clipboard, looking like something out of
Challenge
bloody
Anneka
. Vulgar, pushy, common creatures. Over my dead body!'

‘Ambrose,' said Frances sternly, but he ignored her.

‘Your ancestors will be turning in their graves. A Fraser! Working as an events manager! For Christ's sake, girl, why do you want a job like that? Don't I give you a big enough allowance? Hmm. Is that what it is?'

Harriet went quite pale. Suddenly she pushed her chair back and ran from the room, choking back a sob.

‘Ambrose!' Frances put her spoon down. ‘You really have gone too far!'

Her husband's face was purple, and Frances was worried he was going to burst a blood vessel. ‘An events manager!' he repeated again. ‘What on earth? Can you imagine what people will think?
Bloody load of nonsense.' With that, he returned to his soup, grumbling incoherently between mouthfuls.

Across the table, Frances sighed. She had to admit, she could think of a few more glamorous careers she would like to see her daughter pursue, but she was angry with her husband's reaction. The older he became, the narrower his horizons were getting. The forthright attitude that had won her over as a young, impressionable girl was now turning him into an intolerant, grumpy old man. She reached over, putting her hand over his. ‘Darling, you really shouldn't get yourself so wound up about things.' Ambrose grunted something about ‘that blasted Rice woman' and carried on eating his soup.

Frances sat back and watched him. It was starting to feel as if they were leading completely separate lives. Ambrose was retreating ever more into his own world, which seemed to consist solely of shooting game and drinking claret in his study. She worried about the effect it was having on him, their marriage and family.

God, she wished she was in Devon's arms right now.

At that precise moment, Devon was sitting with Nigel in his studio at Byron Heights. For the past hour, he had been trying out some of his new songs, guitar on knee as his inimitable rich and husky voice filled the room. Finally, Devon stopped and turned to Nigel. ‘So what do you think?' he asked, almost shyly.

Nigel hadn't said a word for some time, his face
blank and expressionless. From the very beginning, he had always been Devon's harshest critic, and it was his opinion above all others that Devon had always trusted most.

Nigel remained silent, and Devon leaned over to him. ‘Nige? Mate? Surely it wasn't that bad,' he joked, trying to hide his disappointment.

A full ten seconds passed, but when Nigel eventually spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. ‘Devon, I think this is the best stuff you've ever written.'

That night, as they were eating Nigel's delicious black bean stew, Devon made an announcement. ‘You know what, I really feel like I'm on this mad, creative trip at the moment. Melodies, lyrics, they just won't stop coming. It's like I've been reborn, y'know?'

Nigel looked him straight in the eye. ‘Anything to do with a certain lady?' Devon didn't answer, suddenly becoming very intent on his stew, but Nigel pressed on. ‘Devon, she's married.'

‘Is she? I didn't realize,' Devon joked, trying to lighten the moment. He saw the concern in his friend's eyes. ‘Nige, I know you've got my best interests at heart, but it's fine, really. You're right, she
is
married. At some point, I am going to have to deal with that. But at the moment, she's bringing the kind of joy to my life I never thought I'd have again. So don't worry, OK?'

Nigel gave him a wan smile. ‘I suppose at least we know she's not going to run off with the rest of your fortune. I'll put the apple pie on, shall I?'

‘Nice one,' replied Devon happily.

THERE WERE MORE
tears on the Clanfield estate at the end of that week as Jed called things off with Stacey. For the first time in her young but manipulative life, Stacey had really fallen for someone. When Jed broke the news, she threw herself on his bed at Bantry's Cottage and sobbed her heart out.

Jed felt awful. He had never seen it as more than a fling, and in his mind he'd always thought that was how Stacey felt, too. She begged him to take her back, and he gently disentangled himself from her and told her again that it was over. At that point, it finally sank in that she was fighting a lost cause. Angry, surprised and humiliated, Stacey called him an arsehole. ‘I've got, like, a million boys after me, what makes you so special anyway, Jed Bantry?' she spat. And with a final indignant heave of her chest, Stacey was gone, leaving a trail of sickly sweet perfume in her wake.

Despite the last fraught hour, Jed wanted to smile. She was a feisty little madam. But he still didn't care how many men wanted to take her out. It was over.

That lunchtime, Caro and Angie were sitting in the corner of the pub, at the window seat overlooking the green. Milo was squirming around on Angie's knee, and she was placating him with bits of her delicious chocolate torte.

Caro hadn't even been able to finish her main course, and Angie looked at her in concern. ‘Darling, are you OK? Are you not eating? You know, you've lost a terrific amount of weight.'

Caro had. Her post-baby fat had melted away, and from a distance she could almost pass for her youngest sister Calypso. Newly discovered cheekbones were appearing on her face, but she still looked pale and unhappy, her eyes huge and haunted.

‘I have lost my appetite recently,' she confessed. She attempted a wan smile. ‘I should be happy, really, I got into a pair of my size ten jeans for the first time in yonks yesterday.'

‘How are things with Seb?' Angie asked, perceptively.

Caro shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh! Fine really. I mean I haven't seen much of him recently. Poor man has been working flat out and spending most of his time up in town.'

Angie, who had just heard a rather disturbing rumour from a friend who was married to a millionaire city financier, didn't feel sorry for Sebastian at all. In fact, she felt quite the opposite. But she knew she couldn't bring herself to tell Caro her worst fear, when it was just that. A rumour.

‘Surely his family is more important?' she asked Caro.

Caro shrugged again. ‘He's working for some big
bonus at the moment, reckons it will change his life completely.'

Angie eyed her. ‘
His
life? What about you and Milo? And especially at the moment, with God knows who running around. He should be here, with you.'

Caro's eyes were filling with tears now. ‘Who am I kidding?' she sobbed. Angie moved to put an arm around her, ignoring the curious stares from the next table. ‘We've just grown so far apart,' Caro continued unhappily. ‘He's hardly any kind of father to Milo. If I do ask him to spend more time at home, or suggest we do something as a family, he just bites my head off. We haven't made love in months, he never pays me compliments. Oh Angie, it's like I don't exist!' She broke up, shuddering.

‘What are you going to do?' asked Angie softly. ‘You and this adorable little chap can always move into ours if you need the space, we've got tons of rooms. It might just make bloody Sebastian realize what he could lose if he carries on like this.'

Caro squeezed her friend's hand gratefully. ‘You are sweet. But I need to stay at home and give it one last shot. I can't bear the thought of Milo not having his mummy and daddy together any more.' Her eyes filled up with tears again.

‘Darling, you're not exactly together at the moment,' Angie pointed out. ‘Bloody Sebastian's off doing exactly what he wants while you're stuck at home. It doesn't seem at all fair.'

Caro smiled sadly. ‘I know it's not right, believe me I do. But I can't just give up like that. I'll talk to him. I promise.'

‘I hope you do, darling,' said Angie, smiling at
her. ‘And give him hell from me.' She hugged Caro fiercely.

Angie spent the rest of the day worrying about her friend. When she shut up the antiques shop that evening and started for home, she wondered if she should speak to Freddie about it. Get him to have a ‘man to man' talk with Sebastian perhaps? Her heart softened at the thought of dear, sweet loyal Freddie. She wouldn't swop him for a million Sebastians, no matter how big their bloody bonuses were.

When she opened the front door to the Maltings, however, her concern for Caro quite left her mind as she was assailed by a heavy waft of smoke in the hallway. She really was going to have to speak to Archie about his incense candles. They were reeking the place out. Loud music thudded from upstairs. He was obviously in, then. When her son wasn't at college, he seemed to spend all his time in his bedroom with his friend Tyrone. On the few occasions Angie had knocked on the door to ask if they wanted any food or drinks, Archie just told her to go away. Her only child was looking so pale and scruffy at the moment, it bothered her. No wonder, when he seemed to sleep half the day and stay up all night instead. Angie prayed to God he hadn't got in with the wrong crowd at college.

She made her way through to the kitchen, where she found a red-eyed Freddie toasting a Mars bar on a bit of ciabatta under the grill. ‘Darling, what on earth are you eating?'

‘I just really fancied it, I don't know why,' said Freddie absent-mindedly, kissing her on the mouth.
Angie didn't think she had ever seen her husband eat a bar of chocolate before. What was up with him? She went to the fridge to get the filtered water out and, to her surprise, found one of her husband's green Hunter wellies in there, wedged next to the leftover cold roast chicken and magnum of Möet.

Freddie came up behind her, dripping melted caramel all over the kitchen floor. ‘There it is!' he exclaimed. ‘Been looking for the blasted thing everywhere. Must have left it in there when I got the Green & Black's hazelnut spread out earlier.' Then, for no reason, he got the giggles and couldn't stop, shoulders shaking as he collapsed at the kitchen table.

In utter astonishment, Angie stared at her husband. God, was this how dementia began?

SEBASTIAN AND SABRINA,
far from having a romantic weekend, had actually had a huge falling-out in Italy, and not spoken until they were heading back home on their BA business class flight. On the Saturday night they had been having dinner at a three-star Michelin restaurant up in the mountains, when Sabrina had caught him slipping his business card to the very beautiful and very young waitress serving them.