Книга - One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon: 2 short stories
One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon: 2 short stories
Tilly Bagshawe
A delightful collection of two short stories from bestselling author, Tilly Bagshawe. Welcome to Swell Valley…ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING is not the time to get your heart broken… Dumped by the love of her life and in need of some time to recover, screenwriter Laura Tiverton retreats to the idyllic village of Fittlescombe where she used to spend time as a girl. Maybe lending her expertise to the annual nativity play will be just what she needs. But with two gorgeous men on the horizon and a disastrous night at the ball, on the night before Christmas, who will be able to persuade her that the show must go on?As ONE SUMMER’S AFTERNOON rolls around, the annual Fittlescombe vs Brockhurst cricket match is older than the Ashes, and every bit as hotly contested – and is more exclusive than the Buckingham Palace Summer Garden Party and more star-studded than Cartier Polo. The Fittlescombe team have their hopes pinned on local boy Will Nuttley, but 24 year-old Will has his heart set on winning back the love of his life, Emma Harwich. As the champagne goes on ice and the sandwiches are being cut, little do the Swell Valley residents know that Emma is intent on sleeping with the enemy, and it’s throwing Will into a spin…
ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING, ONE SUMMER’S AFTERNOON: 2-SHORT STORIES
One Christmas MorningOne Summer’s Afternoon
Tilly Bagshawe
Copyright (#u028960d2-6f44-5c44-a51c-8efae2268781)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
One Christmas Morning First published in Great Britain by Harper 2012
One Summer’s Afternoon First published in Great Britain by Harper 2013
Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2012, 2013
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013
Cover images One Christmas Morning © Simon Wilkinson/Getty Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (illustrations)
Cover images One Summer’s Afternoon © Keith Wright/Getty Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (background)
Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007472543, 9780007472550
Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007564279
Version: 2014-07-31
Table of Contents
Cover (#u6ce56a80-9afb-5a8c-a43a-c33ac84ac3a0)
Title Page (#u49416cf0-b26f-506e-9a18-2f504502ec07)
Copyright (#u6ff94b56-8c6d-5156-878e-f51f10be7fa4)
One Christmas Morning (#ub3a7623f-de60-5c83-87a0-b5f51b91146c)
One Summer’s Afternoon (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading – The Inheritance (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also By Tilly Bagshawe (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING
TILLY BAGSHAWE
Copyright (#ulink_23186159-f15a-5740-acb5-ea05dacc6974)
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This ebook first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2012
Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2012
Cover images © Simon Wilkinson/Getty Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (illustrations)
Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Epub Edition © December 2012 ISBN: 9780007472543
Version: 2014-07-31
Table of Contents
Title Page (#ua5c0c43c-83e7-56a9-b3b1-e01107580fa1)
Copyright (#u1d199a83-1d2a-5ec4-a3fd-e7dd7287177f)
Chapter One (#u129029c0-c1e4-5e97-b43c-1d4cd5be9329)
Chapter Two (#uf1ca6e33-71ed-58c4-923d-10c12e8e37de)
Chapter Three (#uf492af17-b689-5f37-89f2-08f7a34abe4c)
Chapter Four (#u2364a029-d7b6-50fc-8214-6c15a5dc8be3)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_495d8fed-9b9a-577f-848b-9443575baf38)
‘All right, Michael, let’s try it again, shall we? And this time maybe without the finger up your nose.’
Laura Tiverton gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile to the six-year-old boy on stage. The child glared back at her sullenly. For a Christmas angel in the Fittlescombe village Nativity play, Michael O’Brien was sadly lacking in festive spirit. Not that Laura blamed him for that. At this point she wanted nothing more than to go home, lock the door, pour herself an enormous Laphroaig and eat an entire bowl of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons in front of Downton Abbey.
‘“We Three Kings of Orient Are”, from the top.’ She forced the jollity into her voice as Mrs Bramdean launched into the familiar chords on St Hilda’s Primary School’s famously out-of-tune piano. What on earth possessed me to agree to direct this fiasco? Laura thought despairingly. I’m a screenwriter, not a schoolteacher. I don’t even like children. Then she thought about the baby she’d miscarried in the summer – John’s baby – and for the hundredth time that week found herself fighting back tears.
Twenty-eight years old, with a mane of curly hair the same blue-black as a crow’s feathers, pale skin and soulful, dark eyes like two wells of oil, Laura Tiverton was both attractive and successful. After three years spent working as a writer on two BBC dramas, last year she’d finally produced a pilot of her own, a show about a newly qualified teacher from the shires left to sink or swim in a failing inner-city comprehensive school. Although the series wasn’t ultimately commissioned, Laura was already winning praise for herself as an innovative and talented young TV writer. Her love affair with the BBC’s very handsome, very married Head of Drama, John Bingham, had only served to raise her profile further as one of the corporation’s brilliantly rising stars.
And then last spring, in one fell swoop, it had all gone horribly wrong. Laura fell unexpectedly pregnant. Although the baby wasn’t planned, she’d been delighted, believing John Bingham’s assurances that he loved her, that his marriage had been over for years, and that he only stayed with Felicia because of their children, now all in their late teens.
‘You’ve done the right thing for so long, darling,’ Laura told him over dinner, the night she did the test. ‘But now we’ll have a child of our own to think of. Don’t you think it’s time you made the split with Felicia official?’
John looked so noble and concerned across the table, his chiselled features somehow even handsomer at fifty than they had been in his youth. There was a wisdom about him, a maturity and solidity that Laura found sexy and reassuring at the same time. He mumbled something about timings and ‘being sensitive to everyone involved’, and Laura thought, He’ll make a wonderful father. I’m so lucky.
The next morning Laura was fired. Her show was cancelled, the producer citing ‘creative issues’. When Laura tried to call John to remonstrate, she discovered he’d changed his mobile number. His embarrassed PA, Caroline, refused even to give Laura an appointment to see him.
‘I’m so sorry. His schedule’s er … well it’s terribly full. Maybe in a month or two. When things have settled down.’
Reeling with shock, Laura had committed the cardinal sin of calling her lover at home. She would never forget the strained, tearful voice on the other end of the line.
‘If you’re that girl, the one trying to blackmail my husband, you can jolly well go away! You won’t get a penny out of him. And you won’t destroy this family either.’
John had always described his wife as distant and ‘completely uninterested’ in their marriage. This poor woman sounded utterly distraught. Hanging up, shaking, Laura could still hear John’s voice, mellow and reassuring: ‘Truly, Laura, my darling, it’s a business arrangement, nothing more. Felicia knows we’re both free agents. It’s you I love.’
Heartbroken and embarrassed, Laura determined to keep the baby anyway. But a miscarriage at eleven weeks put an end to those dreams too.
‘You’re young,’ the doctor said kindly. ‘You can try again.’
Laura went home and cried for a week. Then, unable to stand one more hour in the Battersea flat that had been her and John’s love-nest, she’d picked up the phone, found a six-month rental in Fittlescombe, the idyllic South Downs village where her granny used to live and where Laura had spent so many happy summers as a child, and left. Left London, left John, left her entire mess of a life.
I’ll write a masterpiece. I’ll recuperate. I’ll learn to cook and buy a dog and give up alcohol and go for long runs in the fresh air.
She managed the dog part, and now shared her home and so-called life with a fat, chronically lazy but endearing pug named Peggy. And she had done a bit of writing, in between fixing Briar Cottage’s leaky roof, dodgy electrics and jerry-rigged plumbing, as installed in 1932 and not ‘fiddled with’ since. But her latest play was certainly no masterpiece. Truth be told, after five months it was still little more than notes and a few character sketches. As for the healthy country lifestyle, Laura’s only runs so far had been to and from the larder, with Peggy waddling eagerly in her wake. If God had intended Laura Tiverton to bake, he would not have invented Mr Kipling. And, if he’d intended her to be sober, he wouldn’t have broken her heart.
‘Miss Tiverton. Miss Tiverton!’
Michael O’Brien’s howls brought Laura back to the present with an unpleasant bump.
‘I need the toilet.’
‘All right, Michael, off you go.’
‘I need to do a poo.’
‘All right, Michael. Thank you.’
‘Right now! It’s starting to come out …’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
Thankfully, Eileen Carter, Michael’s class teacher, rushed onto the stage and whisked the star soloist off to the loo before disaster struck.
Harry Hotham, St Hilda’s headmaster for the last fifteen years and the biggest flirt in Fittlescombe, saw his chance, sidling up to Laura and slipping a lecherous arm around her waist.
‘You know what they say, my dear. Never work with animals or children. I’m afraid with a village Nativity play, you’re rather saddled with both, ha ha!’
It was less of a laugh, more of a bray. Despite being drenched in Penhaligon’s aftershave, Harry Hotham still managed to smell of sweat and arousal, the familiar scent of the older Lothario at work. It reminded Laura of John so acutely, she gagged.
‘Yes, well, the children’s rehearsals are over now for the day,’ she said, wriggling free from the headmaster’s vicelike grip. ‘Mary, Joseph and the shepherds should be here at any moment for a read-through.’
‘Indeed, indeed. Well, I won’t keep you,’ said Harry Hotham, staring unashamedly at Laura’s breasts beneath her tight-fitting cashmere sweater. ‘I must buy you dinner some time though, my dear, to thank you properly for stepping in as our director.’
‘There’s really no need, Harry.’
‘No need? Nonsense. There’s every need. We’re expecting great things this year, you know, Laura. Great things.’
I was expecting great things, thought Laura, as St Hilda’s headmaster shuffled out with the remaining children and teachers. A baby. Marriage. But here I am in a draughty old church hall, trying to wrangle defecating six-year-olds while men old enough to be my father invite my tits to dinner.
‘Oh. You’re here.’
Laura spun around, her heart already sinking. Gabriel Baxter, a.k.a. Joseph, a.k.-also-a. the bane of Laura Tiverton’s existence since rehearsals began two weeks ago, looked at her as if she were something unpleasant he’d forgotten to wipe off his shoe.
‘Of course I’m here. I’m the director. Where else would I be?’
Gabe shrugged and grabbed himself a chair. ‘A man can hope.’
Laura remembered Gabe from summers spent in Fittlescombe as a little girl. He was an arrogant, irritating little shit back then, and he clearly hadn’t changed, improbably claiming not to remember Laura at all, despite their frequent childhood run-ins.
‘I can’t be expected to remember every tourist who ever came to the village,’ he remarked dismissively at the Parish Council meeting, when Harry Hotham introduced Laura as this year’s Nativity play director.
Like many Fittlescombe locals, Gabe Baxter resented the fact that his village had become a Mecca for second-homers and wealthy London media types. Two of the prettiest local manor houses had been bought by famous actresses, and a third belonged to a Russian industrialist whose supermodel wife had attracted unwanted paparazzi to Fittlescombe’s peaceful high street.
‘I wasn’t a tourist,’ Laura retorted crossly. ‘I came here every summer. Granny lived at Mill House for over twenty years.’
‘Oh! “Granny lived at Mill House”, did she? Over twenty ye-ahs?’ Gabe mocked Laura’s upper-class accent perfectly, and she remembered instantly why she’d always loathed him. ‘Well, one must excuse the likes of us poor servants for not remembering everything about Granny’s domestic arrangements.’
What grated most was that Gabriel Baxter was hardly a ‘poor servant’, for all his class-war rhetoric. A working farmer, Gabe owned a valuable property on the outskirts of the village and drove a Land Rover Defender. Whereas Laura rented a cottage on the brink of being condemned, was officially unemployed and drove a Fiat Punto so old and knackered that the passenger door had been welded shut.
‘Please don’t tell me it’s just us. I’ve had a long enough day as it is.’ Reaching up, Gabe rubbed his neck wearily. Even in November, he still sported a farmer’s tan, his face bronzed as much from windburn as from the sun. Blond and broad, with a stocky frame and the powerful shoulders of a shire horse, there was something mischievous about him that people generally, and women especially, found irresistible. That irked Laura too. The fact that Gabe was so popular in the village, so eminently capable of warmth and humour and kindness – just not towards her. Well, he could stick his reverse snobbery up his arse, along with the giant chip on his shoulder. She wasn’t about to let him rile her. Not today.
‘Thankfully, Lisa and the others will be here in a moment,’ she said, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps, if my instructions are a bit too tricky for you to follow, they’ll be able to translate. I’ll ask one of the shepherds to draw you a picture.’
Gabe was about to say something when Lisa James, this year’s Mary, walked in. Wearing a cut-off Metallica T-shirt and skintight jeans that enveloped her perfectly round bottom like clingfilm round a pair of peaches, the barmaid from Fittlescombe’s famous Fox Inn looked anything but virginal. Turning away from Laura, Gabe flashed his co-star a hundred-megawatt smile.
‘Hello, darling.’ He winked. ‘Come and sit with your husband while Her Royal Highness over there gets organized. She’ll be putting us through our paces in a minute, won’t you, Miss Tiverton?’
Laura sighed. She felt deeply tired all of a sudden. She’d had enough of petulant children for one day.
* * *
By the time her mechanically challenged Fiat Punto spluttered to a halt outside Briar Cottage, darkness had long since fallen. It was November, and the nights were already bitterly cold. Behind Laura, the winding lanes of the village were slick with rain that by morning would have turned to sheet ice. In front of her, behind Briar Cottage, the South Downs rose like dark, shadowy giants. In the daytime the chalk hills looked benevolent, a bed of lush green pillows protecting the house from harm, cushioning Laura from the slings and arrows of modern life. She felt wonderfully safe here, enveloped not just by the peaceful rural setting of Fittlescombe, but by her own childhood, by happier times. This village, set deep in the Swell Valley, had always been her sanctuary, a magical, intoxicating place.
But now, in the darkness, and with Gabriel Baxter’s snide remarks still ringing in her ears, the Downs seemed to jump out at her, looming threateningly like an uncertain future. Holding the Nativity play script over her head as a makeshift umbrella, Laura dashed up the garden path and ran inside, slamming the front door closed behind her.
Peggy the pug heaved her fat form out of the basket by the Aga and waddled over to greet her mistress, wiggling her stump of a tail.
‘Hello, Peg.’ Pulling a McVitie’s chocolate digestive out of the jar on the counter, Laura ate half and gave half to the dog. ‘At least you’re pleased to see me.’
It was the kitchen at Briar Cottage that had sold Laura on the place. That and the overgrown garden that had looked riotously beautiful in spring, with dog roses everywhere and hollyhocks reaching almost to the chimneys, but now, in winter, untended by Laura, was a sodden mess of brambles and weeds. The kitchen maintained its charm, however, with its uneven flagstones worn smooth from centuries of use, its cheery red Aga and the cushioned window seat looking out over the rooftops of Fittlescombe with St Hilda’s Church steeple just visible in the distance. It was impossible not to feel cheered walking into Briar Cottage’s kitchen, even with the November rain peeing down outside, and your script hopelessly unfinished, and the village Nativity play you had stupidly, stupidly agreed to direct shaping up to be the biggest fiasco in Fittlescombe since the Black Death.
Propped up next to the biscuit jar was the stiff, embossed invitation that had arrived this morning. Picking it up, Laura read it again, as surprised now as she had been when she’d first opened it:
Rory Flint-Hamilton, Esq., requests the pleasure of the company of
Miss Laura Tiverton
At Furlings Christmas Hunt Ball
Friday 23 December, 8 p.m.
Black Tie
RSVP Furlings, Fittlescombe
Rory Flint-Hamilton was what an earlier generation would have described as the lord of the manor. Owners of the magnificent Furlings Estate, unquestionably the most beautiful house in the entire Swell Valley, Rory Flint-Hamilton’s ancestors had once owned the entire village of Fittlescombe. Nine generations of Flint-Hamiltons lay buried in St Hilda’s churchyard. Unlike those of most grand old country families, the Flint-Hamiltons’ fortunes and influence had risen, rather than fallen, in modern times, thanks to canny investments by Rory’s father Hugo in a number of African mines. Now an old man himself, and never a go-getter like his father, Rory Flint-Hamilton was content with the quiet life of a country squire. Every year, however, he bridged the divide between Fittlescombe’s old guard and its newer, more glamorous part-time residents by hosting the Furlings Hunt Ball, an event so grand that prime ministers and even the occasional Hollywood film star had been known to attend.
How on earth Laura had scored an invitation she had no idea. Her grandmother had known the Flint-Hamiltons, of course, but the two families had never been close. Laura herself had only ever seen Rory Flint-Hamilton at church, and was pretty certain she had never spoken to him. Perhaps Harry Hotham had said something. Or the vicar, dear old Reverend Slaughter. This morning, excited to receive the card, Laura had impetuously posted the news of her invitation on Facebook. But, as the day wore on, the horrible thought occurred to her that perhaps local people felt sorry for her. She could picture St Hilda’s headmaster now, cornering Rory Flint-Hamilton in the village stores:
‘Pretty girl, but terribly lonely. Do ask her, old man. She needs to get out.’
Putting down the card with a shudder, Laura tried to think about supper. Deciding she was too tired to cook or even set a place for herself, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed four more chocolate biscuits out of the jar and trudged upstairs to run a bath. In London she’d always kept her flat scrupulously clean, just in case John decided to pop in unannounced. Here she thought nothing of dropping her clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor and leaving a trail of biscuit crumbs on the stairs. No one was going to see the mess, any more than anyone was going to see her unshaven legs and woefully unpedicured toes, or the small but definitely there roll of fat that had formed around her middle like a flotation device. Saving me from drowning in heartbreak, thought Laura. Then she thought how much fatter she’d be if she were still pregnant – she’d be almost ready to pop by now – and had to splash water on her face to stop herself from crying.
Five minutes later the bath was ready. Sinking her aching limbs into the hot, lavender-scented bathwater, Laura exhaled deeply, relaxed for the first time all day. Dangling her hand over the side of the bath, so Peggy could lick the chocolate from her fingers, she thought idly about Gabriel Baxter and Lisa James – Joseph and Mary. They were probably back at Gabe’s farm, having wild sex right this minute. For a split second Laura felt a pang of envy. Not because she had the slightest desire to sleep with Gabe, but because, since John and losing the baby, she hadn’t the slightest desire, full stop. She was only twenty-eight. But there were days when she couldn’t imagine ever being sexual again.
‘I’m turning into an old woman, Peggy.’
The pug snuffled dismissively. Or perhaps it was supportively. Peggy did a lot of snuffling. Lying back, Laura immersed her whole head in the water, allowing her dark curls to spread out around her like a mermaid’s locks, luxuriating in the warmth and peace. When she sat up again, the phone was ringing.
‘Goddamn it.’ She contemplated not answering. It was probably just that old pervert Harry Hotham, trying to pin her down for a dinner date. Disgusting old goat. But years spent in the cut and thrust of a TV studio had left her congenitally incapable of leaving telephones to ring. Pulling herself up out of the bath like a Kraken, dripping lavender water all over the oak floorboards, she skidded down the corridor into her bedroom. Just as she was about to pick up the phone, the answer machine kicked in. She heard her own voice played back to her.
‘This is Laura. Please leave a message.’
God, I sound awful. So depressed! I must remember to do a perkier version in the morning.
‘Laura, hi. This is Daniel.’
She froze. Daniel. Daniel Smart? Daniel Smart was an old flame – a very old flame – from her student days at Oxford. Head of the Boat Club, and president of OUDS, the prestigious university dramatic society, Daniel had always been destined to do great things. They’d had a fling in the Christmas of Laura’s second year – they’d actually spent the holiday at Fittlescombe, in the cottage at Mill House, the year before Laura’s parents sold it. When the romance fizzled out, Laura had been briefly heartbroken. But it all felt like a lifetime ago now. Last she heard, Daniel was a wildly successful West End theatre producer. Married. Happy.
‘Look, one of our old Oxford lot told me you were in Fittlescombe.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I know I shouldn’t. But I came over all nostalgic. Anyway, probably silly of me. I just thought I’d get back in touch, see how you are.’
Laura sank down on the bed, shivering. In her haste, she’d forgotten a towel. The Aga kept the kitchen warm, but what little central heating there was upstairs at Briar Cottage all seeped out through the warped and rotting windows. Laura’s bedroom was as cold as any polar base camp. Pulling the knitted bedspread off the bed, she wrapped it around herself.
‘Well.’ Daniel laughed again. ‘If you do want to call, I’m on 07891 991 686. But if not, and you think I’m a complete lunatic, I quite understand. I probably am. Love anyway. Er … bye.’
There was a click. Laura stared at the red flashing light in the answer machine for a long time, too stunned to move.
Daniel. Daniel Smart had called her! Tracked her down, here of all places. As if that weren’t bizarre enough, he’d sounded so awkward. Almost shy. The Daniel Laura remembered was supremely confident. Never in a million years would he have left her a message like that back in the old days. She, Laura, had been the nervous one, the one who couldn’t believe her luck that the likes of Daniel Smart might be interested in her.
Maybe he’d changed. Maybe time had softened him.
Perhaps Daniel Smart had also been through some tough times. Like me.
Laura pulled the bedspread more tightly around her and, quite spontaneously, smiled.
Perhaps, at long, long last, her luck was about to change.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_290684c5-153f-57c4-8761-2518bbcf73ae)
‘No, no, no and no. I am not spending four thousand pounds on a lump of ice.’
Rory Flint-Hamilton pushed aside his boiled egg bad-temperedly. It was too early for this nonsense.
‘With respect, Mr Flint-Hamilton, it’s hardly a “lump”. This would be a life-size, intricately carved statue of Eros. It would make a spectacular centrepiece for the hunt ball.’
‘I daresay. But the next morning it’ll be a four-thousand-pound puddle. I’m not the Aga Khan, you know, Mrs Worsley. We’ll have a nice vase of flowers like we usually do. Ask Jennings for some roses and whatnot.’
The Furlings housekeeper knew when she was beaten. It was the same every year. Mr Flint-Hamilton wanted to do everything on a shoestring, grumbling and moaning about the expense of the ball like Fittlescombe’s own Mr Scrooge. But somehow, thanks in no small part to Mrs Worsley’s ingenuity, they always pulled off an event to be proud of.
While the housekeeper cleared away his breakfast, Rory Flint-Hamilton gazed out of the window across Furlings Park. It was a vile day, grey and drizzly, with a vicious wind whipping at the bare oak trees and flattening the sodden grass. But Furlings’s grounds still looked magical, a carpet of vivid green spotted with deer that had lived on the estate for as long as the Flint-Hamilton family themselves.
Rory was in his early seventies but looked older. Tall and wiry, he walked with a stoop and sported a shock of hair so white it almost looked like a wig. His eyebrows were also white and grown out to an inordinate length, something Rory was secretly proud of, curling them with his fingers the way a Victorian magician might have twirled his moustache. Since his much younger wife, Vicky, had died five years ago in a car accident, Rory had aged overnight, embracing old age like a young man rushing into the arms of a lover. Rory and Vicky’s only child, their daughter Tatiana, was living in London now and rarely came home. There was no one to stay young for, no one who cared whether or not Rory went to bed at nine every night and spent entire afternoons eating fudge and watching the racing on television. He was increasingly reclusive, and so the Furlings Hunt Ball was the one time of year when Rory Flint-Hamilton was forced to engage with the outside world. He always dreaded it. This year, thanks to Tati’s behaviour, he was dreading it more than most.
Once Mrs Worsley had left the room, he reopened the offending page of the Daily Mail. Once again, his daughter was in the gossip pages. This time she was accused of stealing the husband of a minor member of the Royal Family and cavorting with him at a nightclub in Mayfair. The pictures of them together turned Rory’s stomach. The man was old enough to be Tati’s father and looked a fool in jeans and a silk shirt unbuttoned to the chest. As for Tati’s skirt, Rory had seen bigger handkerchiefs. It was clear from the photograph that Tati was very, very drunk.
She’s twenty-three, for God’s sake; she’s not a teenager any more. When is she going to grow up?
Rory Flint-Hamilton was not a demonstrative man. But he loved his daughter deeply, and hated watching her throw away her potential and talents on an empty life of partying as she dragged the Flint-Hamilton name through the mud. He also took his role as custodian of Furlings very seriously. He wasn’t going to live for ever. The thought of handing the estate down to Tatiana filled Rory with a fear so acute, it was hard to breathe.
Folding up the newspaper and putting it under his arm, he got up and shuffled slowly out into the hall. A long, marble-floored corridor lined with Flint-Hamilton family portraits led to what had always been known as the ‘Great Room’, a vast, galleried ballroom with eight-foot sash windows affording a spectacular view of the Downs. In only six weeks’ time, this room would be filled with noise and laughter, bedecked with dark-green holly, blood-red berries and plump, white mistletoe. A towering Christmas tree, cut from the estate’s own woodland, would sparkle beneath the light of the chandelier. Furlings would come back to life, for one night only, the huntsmen in their cheery red coats, and the rest of the men in black tie, with the women dressed to the nines in ball gowns and jewels, clattering across the marble in their high-heeled shoes like a troupe of tap dancers.
Vicky would have outshone all of them.
As for Tatiana, who looked so like her mother it was painful … Rory Flint-Hamilton closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Please let Tati behave herself. I couldn’t face another scandal. Not here.
He would send her an email today, telling her in no uncertain terms that her married duke was absolutely not welcome. The rest of the world may have gone to hell in a handbasket. But the Furlings Hunt Ball would remain a bastion of tradition and propriety. Rory Flint-Hamilton intended to make sure of it.
* * *
Daniel Smart gazed out of the train window, sipping his disappointingly watery hot chocolate and glad he was in the warmth of a first-class carriage and not outside in the cold and wet.
The last time he’d been to Fittlescombe, he’d been in his final year at Oxford. It was at Christmastime, and he remembered how struck he’d been by the beauty of the village, blanketed in snow, the flint cottages nestled tightly together beneath a crisp, bright-blue winter sky. He and Laura Tiverton had been lovers then. They’d spent a joyous holiday together in the gardener’s cottage at Mill House, making love by the fire and drinking mulled wine and going for long, romantic walks in the snow.
Christ, that was a long time ago.
So much had happened since that Christmas. Daniel’s career had taken off spectacularly. He now had two West End plays under his belt and a third in production. He’d got married to Rachel, had two little boys, Milo and Alexis. And now, at thirty, he was getting divorced, painfully and expensively. As the train clattered on through the Sussex countryside, he wondered whether Laura’s life had been similarly eventful in the eight years since he’d seen her last. He’d been nervous, leaving her a voicemail, afraid he’d come across like a stalker or a weirdo. But, when she’d returned his call the next day, she’d sounded so happy to hear from him, so warm and welcoming, that all his fears evaporated. She’d immediately suggested meeting, and didn’t flinch when Daniel proposed that, rather than her coming to London, he would jump on a train to Fittlescombe ‘for old times’ sake’. Her voice hadn’t changed at all, and instantly took him back to those happy, student days. Rather ungallantly, he found himself hoping that the same could be said for her figure. Most of the girls he knew at Oxford had turned into serious heifers since college. Then again, they’d all had babies. Laura Tiverton was still unmarried and gloriously child-free.
At last the train pulled up at Fittlescombe station. There was no snow this time, only grey drizzle and a wind that sliced at Daniel’s face like a razor blade as he stepped onto the platform. A lone figure in a thick Puffa jacket, woolly hat and multiple scarves stood next to the ticket office. They were so swaddled in layers of clothing, they could have been male or female, fat or thin, old or young.
‘Laura?’
‘Daniel!’
They hugged awkwardly. Laura looked at his thin sports jacket, worn over a tight-fitting cashmere sweater in duck-egg blue. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Bloody freezing.’ He grinned. ‘Where’s your car?’
He was every bit as handsome as Laura remembered him, tall and fit with thick chestnut hair and eyes the same dark green as the baize on the snooker table in the Balliol College bar.
‘Follow me. It’s a bit of a banger, I’m afraid. I’m between jobs at the moment so I’m, er, economizing.’
Daniel squeezed himself into the tiny Fiat Punto. His legs were so long they practically touched the ceiling. ‘Please tell me you live close by.’
He looked ridiculous, doubled over in the passenger seat. Laura burst out laughing. ‘Five minutes, honestly. I’ll drive fast.’
As they hurtled along the back lanes of Fittlescombe, Daniel’s attention was divided between looking at Laura – he couldn’t assess her figure beneath the enormous coat, but her skin still looked flawless and the dark curls and almost-black eyes were just as he remembered them – and the village itself, picture-perfect despite the awful weather. No wonder so many influential people from the theatre and TV worlds chose to live out here. It was only an hour and a half from London by train, but it was a different world.
It was four o’clock and darkness was already starting to set in by the time they pulled up in front of Briar Cottage. But if anything the twilight enhanced its decrepit charms. Lights blazed cosily from the downstairs windows, and a thin trail of smoke from Laura’s afternoon fire snaked up into the air above the sloping roof.
‘Wow. Pretty. It looks like every writer’s dream. You must be so productive out here.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Laura lied. It wouldn’t do to sound like a failure in front of Daniel. He didn’t need to know that she’d spent half of this morning watching Deal or No Deal on television and the other half stuffing dirty laundry into drawers and cupboards so Daniel didn’t think she’d become a total slattern. Not that she expected anything to happen between them. Or even wanted anything to happen. It was too soon after John.
Inside, Daniel dropped his overnight bag on the floor and took off his jacket, watching out of the corner of his eye as Laura peeled off layer after layer of clothing. Unwrapped to a pair of black corduroy trousers and a chocolate-brown sweater, she was plumper than she had been at Oxford, but definitely still foxy. Thankfully, at least half of the extra weight seemed to have gone on her boobs.
‘Let me take that.’ She reached for his jacket, opening the hall cupboard, then closing it again quickly when an assorted medley of dirty wellies, scrunched-up coats and dog chews tumbled out of it onto the floor. ‘It’s a lovely cottage but there’s not as much storage as I’d like.’ Laura blushed.
She’s still sexy, thought Daniel.
‘We’ll hang it in your room. Come on up.’
Following her up the narrow cottage staircase, admiring the curve of her bottom in the slightly too-tight cords, Daniel found himself being led into a low-beamed back bedroom. A small double bed with a chintzy eiderdown took up most of the room, with a small mahogany wardrobe propped up next to the window and a tiny bedside table the only other furniture.
‘If you’d like a bath, it’s across the hall. There are fresh towels in the cupboard. I thought we’d go to the pub for supper later. Might be a bit more jolly than staying in.’
In fact Laura had intended cooking at home, but the Moroccan lamb tagine she’d spent most of yesterday preparing was now a charred mess glued to the bottom of a casserole. Even Peggy had turned her nose up at the remnants of her mistress’s abortive culinary efforts. The Fox’s steak-and-kidney pie beckoned.
‘Sounds good,’ said Daniel. ‘As long as there’s wine involved and we can catch up properly. It’s really good to see you again, Laura.’
He hugged her. Instinctively she stiffened. Would she ever be able to relax with a man again?
‘Good to see you too.’
She left him to unpack. Watching her scurry back downstairs, Daniel wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here. Perhaps, after so many years, he should have booked a hotel. Or met her in London, as she’d suggested.
Too late now. Hopefully a few drinks at the pub would help her relax.
* * *
‘So,’ Laura giggled, knocking back her third glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘Let’s talk about your divorce. Tell me all the grizzly details.’
Dinner at The Fox turned out to be an excellent idea. The pub itself was festive and inviting, with a candlelit restaurant, a lively bar and a suitable roaring log fire. Bunches of Kentish hops hung from the low-beamed ceiling, and a delicious medley of smells wafted out from the kitchens, making Daniel’s mouth water.
The food so far had been simple but excellent – homemade lentil-and-bacon soup with warm farmhouse bread, followed by a steak-and-kidney pudding of quite ambrosial tenderness. But it was the change in Laura that really made the evening. Whether it was the presence of other people, or the familiar, homely setting, or the copious quantities of wine that had done the trick, Daniel neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was that the awkwardness of this afternoon had vanished, replaced by the sort of easy intimacy only ever enjoyed by very old friends.
‘Well,’ Daniel began, ‘the divorce is grizzly. But in a very boring way. You don’t want to know.’
‘I do!’ Laura insisted. His face looked even more handsome now there was two of it. ‘Did she cheat on you?’
‘Actually, I cheated on her.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes. Oh. That was what she said, obviously with a couple of other expletives thrown in. Then she took the house, and the children, and anything else she could stuff into her pockets.’
‘You did sort of deserve it, though.’
‘Yes.’ Daniel refilled his glass. ‘I was a dick.’
‘Who did you sleep with?’
‘The au pair. I was a dick and a cliché.’
‘Oh!’ Laura said again. She couldn’t seem to think of any other response. ‘Well, er, you’re very honest at least. Do you still love her?’
‘The au pair?’
‘Your wife.’
‘Honestly? No. I’m an honest, clichéd dick who doesn’t love his wife. Let’s talk about you.’
‘Let’s definitely not,’ said Laura, picking up a leftover chip from Daniel’s plate and dipping it into the gravy on her own. She was enjoying this evening more than she should be. Good food, good wine and good company had been sorely lacking in her world of late. It was as if God had decided to jolt her out of her miserable stupor by sending Daniel, dropping him back into her life like an unexpected early Christmas present. ‘Trust me, you’d be deeply bored. I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep at the table before the sticky toffee pudding arrived. The butterscotch sauce here is to die for.’
Right on cue, the puddings arrived, delivered to the table by none other than Lisa James, the Nativity play’s Virgin Mary. Judging by the giggling and complete lack of concentration at rehearsals this past week, she and Gabe Baxter were definitely having a fling.
‘Here you go.’ She set the bowls down on the table, affording Daniel an excellent view of her ample cleavage. Turning to Laura she said, ‘Sorry about rehearsals yesterday. I know we was messing about.’
Laura resisted the impulse to correct her – ‘were messing about’. I must not become my mother. ‘That’s all right. It’s still early days. Nearer the time, though, you are going to have to take it seriously if you want the play to be a success.’
‘I know,’ Lisa said sheepishly. Under all the spandex and foundation, she was a sweet girl. ‘It’s Gabe. He’s always been one for the practical jokes. He’s a bad influence on me. But I’ll get him into line, I promise.’
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Daniel, watching Lisa James’s miniskirted bottom as she walked away from the table.
Laura explained the connection.
‘That’s the most virginal girl in Fittlescombe? I truly must get my act together and move here.’
Laura laughed. ‘That’s the girl who was stupid enough to accept the starring role in a production full of live cattle and snotty primary-school children. And this is the girl who was stupid enough to agree to write and direct it.’ She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I must have been out of my mind.’
‘I hear you’re going to the Furlings Hunt Ball.’
Gabe Baxter had walked up to Laura’s table and interrupted her meal without so much as an ‘excuse me’. From the look on his face it was clear that his comment about the ball was an accusation rather than an observation.
‘That’s right,’ Laura said defensively, putting down her knife and fork. ‘Why, is there a problem with that?’
‘A problem? Why would there be a problem?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps you weren’t invited and you’re irritated that I was. Is that it?’
Gabe laughed loudly. ‘Please. I wouldn’t go to that love-in for show-offs and posers if you paid me. Who’s your boyfriend, by the way?’
He nodded rudely at Daniel, a snide smirk plastered across his handsome face.
‘Boyfriend? I should be so lucky,’ said Daniel, languidly extending his hand but not getting up. It was a power play, albeit a subtle one, and Laura loved him for it. ‘Daniel Smart. I’m an old friend of Laura’s. And you are?’
‘Gabe Baxter.’ It was unspoken, but Gabe seemed suddenly to be on the back foot.
‘Gabe plays Joseph,’ Laura explained. ‘When he’s not playing the fool.’
‘Lady Muck here doesn’t approve of a bit of fun,’ said Gabe. ‘This is Fittlescombe, not the BBC or the Oxford Bloody Footlights.’
‘Actually, the Footlights are a Cambridge society,’ said Daniel. Laura could have kissed him. There was just a hint of amusement in his voice, but it was enough to make Gabe’s cheeks colour. ‘Laura’s a brilliant director. A brilliant writer, too. You lot are lucky to have her.’
It was said light-heartedly, and with a broad smile that made it impossible for Gabe to disagree without sounding churlish.
‘Yeah, well, maybe. Enjoy your supper.’
I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to get the better of him, thought Laura. And Daniel does it in a sentence and a half.
‘He seems a bit chippy,’ said Daniel, tucking into his delicious butterscotch-soaked sponge. ‘What was that business about the ball? Have you two fallen out?’
Laura rolled her eyes. ‘We don’t know each other well enough to “fall out”. But he’s an arse. And you just made him look like one. So, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ They clinked wine glasses. Daniel’s hand lightly brushed Laura’s and she felt her libido switching back on like floodlights in a stadium. She was so buzzed, she was surprised the rest of the pub couldn’t hear her humming. ‘You’re not off the hook, you know,’ said Daniel. ‘I still want to know what’s been happening in your life. Why you left London to hide out here.’
‘I’m not hiding,’ lied Laura.
Daniel paid the bill. Up at the bar, Gabe Baxter had pulled Lisa James onto his lap and was whispering filthy nothings into her ear. Laura didn’t want to watch them, but it was hard not to. Everything Gabe Baxter did was designed for an audience. He simply had to be the centre of attention.
‘Let’s go home,’ said Daniel. ‘Leave the Holy Family to it.’
* * *
After the noise and bustle of The Fox, Briar Cottage felt eerily quiet. Only Peggy’s asthmatic snores broke the silence.
‘You must be exhausted,’ Laura babbled nervously. ‘Would you like a cup of hot chocolate before bed or should I—’
Daniel stopped her with a kiss so forceful she toppled back onto the sofa. The next thing she knew he was on top of her, kissing her passionately and with a fervour she hadn’t experienced since … well, not for a long time. He smelled of wine and butterscotch and aftershave and sweat. The most delicious smell in the world. Laura felt a jolt of desire so powerful it made her gasp. Then, inexplicably, she blurted out, ‘I had a miscarriage. I was pregnant and he dumped me and I got fired and then I lost the baby. That’s why I came here.’
Daniel stopped and looked at her for a moment, cupping her face in his hands. ‘Poor darling,’ he said softly. Without another word he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to her bedroom, laying her down gently on the bed.
‘Do you want to be alone? I can sleep in the spare room if—’
‘No,’ said Laura forcefully. ‘I want this. I didn’t know if I ever would again, after John. But I do.’
Kissing her cheek, neck and collarbone, moving slowly down her body, Daniel murmured. ‘It was the same for me, after Rachel. I was the one who fucked it up, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Christ, you’re beautiful.’
After that it was all a wonderful, erotic, semi-drunken blur. Daniel peeled off Laura’s clothes slowly, but slipped out of his own with the instant ease of a snake shedding its skin. Moments later he was inside her, his body stronger and more powerful than she’d imagined it, his erection gratifyingly large and as solid as oak. Daniel was twenty years younger than John Bingham and it showed. Laura had forgotten sex could be so fast and frenzied, so animalistic and hungry and … quick. Just as she was letting go and really getting into her stride, Daniel came, his fingers digging into her buttocks and pulling her hard against him as he yelled out in pleasure.
She hadn’t come close to an orgasm herself, but she didn’t care. It felt incredible to be desired again, as if she’d been walking around in leg irons and someone – Daniel Smart – had broken the chains.
Wordlessly she curled up in his arms and they both fell into a deep, sated sleep.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_09519624-97a8-5638-a06e-929597c4cf30)
November turned to December, and one of the coldest winters Fittlescombe had seen in a decade. Every morning, village children ran to their bedroom windows, hoping for the much-anticipated snow. Instead they saw a landscape frozen solid, sparkling white with frost like a newly glittered Christmas card. The days were short but dazzlingly bright, a pale winter sun lighting up a cloudless, crisp, sapphire-blue sky. And at night the deep winter blackness was lit by a carpet of stars so perfectly clear it was like sleeping beneath the ceiling of one’s own, private planetarium.
For Laura Tiverton, it was the vivid colours of the countryside that most lifted her spirits. The holly leaves and pine trees seemed almost to glow green against the frosted white background of the frozen chalk hills. Berries and robins’ breasts seemed redder and the sky bluer than she could ever remember them. In the mornings, Laura would try to write by the fire, but the idyllic view outside her study window never failed to distract her, calling to her like a lover, tempting her from her work. Of course, the fact that she had a real lover probably had a lot to do with her revived spirits. Although still not officially an item (he wasn’t technically divorced yet), she and Daniel now spoke to each other daily and Daniel had spent all but one weekend since their first night together holed up with Laura at Briar Cottage. They made love, went for long walks and talked a lot about writing – Daniel’s writing, mostly. He’d recently finished another quite brilliant play, a comedy, that he was in the process of editing and that would soon be making its West End debut. Laura, meanwhile, had a half-written teleplay full of plot holes gathering dust on her PC. If it was slightly soul-crushing, sleeping with someone so very obviously more talented and successful than she was, the excitement of being in a relationship again more than made up for it. Laura told herself that she would knuckle down to work properly after Christmas, once the Nativity play was over.
With only three weeks to go, play rehearsals were now every afternoon. From one till three, Laura worked with the St Hilda’s Primary School children, whose carols and poems would make up the first part of the performance. And, between three and six, the adults came to rehearse, with different actors called on different days to work around people’s various job schedules.
Last weekend, Laura had been forced to call a daytime rehearsal on Sunday after church, thanks to so many people missing their weekday slots. Daniel had been a good sport and come along to help, but Gabe Baxter had been so incredibly rude – doing mincing impressions of Daniel whenever his back was turned and flat-out ignoring his stage directions – that Laura had vowed never to bring Daniel again.
‘Do you have to be such a prick all the time?’ she said when she confronted Gabe angrily the next day. Generally, she had adopted a policy of ignoring her tormentor, hoping that eventually Gabe would tire of harassing her and find another sport to amuse himself with. So far, sadly, he showed no signs.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said laconically, not looking up from his newspaper.
‘Give me that.’ To Gabe’s amazement, Laura snatched the paper out of his hand. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. What is your problem with Daniel?’
‘I don’t have a problem with Daniel. Other than the fact that he’s got bugger all to do with this play and should keep his nose out of it.’
‘Oh, grow up!’ snapped Laura. ‘He was trying to help.’
‘Well he failed, then, didn’t he? It’s bad enough having you as a director, never mind your stuck-up, “I’m a big-shot West End playwright” boyfriend showing up to get his ego massaged.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk about egos,’ Laura shot back. ‘And what, exactly, is so wrong with having me as your director?’
‘Never mind,’ grumbled Gabe.
‘Actually, I do mind. Your attitude is affecting the rest of the cast; it’s affecting everybody. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t direct this play, other than the fact that you don’t like me.’
‘You’re an outsider,’ said Gabe, snatching back his newspaper. ‘All right? You rent a cottage for a few poxy months and you think that makes you Queen of bloody Fittlescombe.’
It was so breathtakingly childish, Laura almost laughed. But one look at Gabe’s face made her change her mind.
‘I don’t think I’m Queen of anything,’ she said. ‘Harry Hotham asked for a volunteer and I obliged.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re very obliging to Mr Hotham,’ Gabe taunted.
Ignoring the innuendo, Laura said, ‘You should know I don’t bully easily, Mr Baxter. I have no intention of stepping aside just to appease your prejudices.’
‘D’you use big words like that in bed with Danny Boy? I’ll bet that’s what gets him off. “Oh baby, say it again! Get out your thesaurus, you know I love it.”’
‘You’re pathetic,’ Laura said contemptuously.
‘And you’re blind. He’s a fake and a poseur. You don’t need an Oxford degree to see that, love. Now are we gonna rehearse or not? Because I’ve got a farm to run.’
* * *
It was a Friday morning, two weeks before Christmas, and the village was alive with excitement. Fittlescombe’s festive celebrations had been condensed this year into a single long weekend, with the Furlings Hunt Ball on the Friday night, the Nativity play on the Saturday afternoon of Christmas Eve and Christmas itself falling on a Sunday. Everyone from the postman to the vicar had a part to play, and the sense of goodwill and village camaraderie was contagious.
When Laura stopped into the paper shop for her morning copy of The Times, the talk was all of the hunt ball.
‘Mrs Worsley was in here the other morning ordering place cards for the dinner. There’s going to be over three hundred guests this year. Three hundred!’
‘Did you hear that Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s thrown over her duke for a footballer? He plays for Chelsea apparently.’
‘Poor Mr Flint-Hamilton.’
‘Thank goodness his wife’s not alive to see it.’
‘You’ll never guess who Lucy Norton saw in the chemist’s last Thursday. Keira Thingummy-bob.’
‘Who?’
‘You know. The pouty one from Love Actually. Banoffee pie? The annoying one.’
‘Keira Knightley?’
‘That’s it. Apparently she’s rented Bartley Mill Barn for a month! She’s coming to the ball for sure, and she’s bound to bring all her Hollywood friends. You don’t rent a barn that big unless you’ve got guests.’
Laura half tuned into the gossip as she waited in the queue. What with being so busy with the play, and all the excitement over Daniel, she’d barely thought about the hunt ball. Her invitation included a ‘plus one’, but the ball was the night before Christmas Eve, and she worried it might look too pushy to ask Daniel to an event on Christmas weekend. He had children, after all, and would doubtless want to spend the holiday with them. Besides, nothing had been said about Christmas plans. He and Laura had only been together (if you could call it that) for a month.
Still, it was a smart event. I’ll need something to wear, thought Laura. She was going up to London that night to see Daniel. It was his birthday and he’d asked her up to town for dinner and a show, which she took as a positive sign. Perhaps she could squeeze in some shopping while she was there and look for a dress. That way, the subject of the Furlings Hunt Ball would come up naturally.
‘That’s a pound.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Times.’ Mrs Preedy, the shopkeeper, smiled at Laura kindly. ‘It’s a pound. You’re miles away, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry.’ Laura fumbled in her purse for the coin.
‘No need to apologize, my love. If I were your age and spending every day rehearsing with Gabe Baxter, I’d spend a lot of time daydreaming too!’
The women behind Laura in the queue all laughed loudly. It was infuriating the way that three-quarters of the village seemed to view Gabe as Fittlescombe’s answer to Ryan Reynolds. No wonder the man’s ego was so big.
Blushing, Laura paid for her paper. ‘Believe me, Mrs Preedy, Gabriel Baxter couldn’t be further from my mind.’
‘Whatever you say, love.’ The shopkeeper winked. ‘Whatever you say.’
* * *
Rehearsals that afternoon went better than expected. The schoolchildren did a first run-through of their candlelit procession from the school to the church, where the play itself would take place. Laura had confidently expected at least one child’s hair to catch fire, à la Michael Jackson, but in fact everything went smoothly. Better yet, the reception infants had finally learned the words to all three versus of ‘We Three Kings’, and had sung something loosely approximating to a tune.
‘It’s coming together, isn’t it?’ Laura said excitedly to Harry Hotham, who seemed almost as amazed as she was that his pupils had made such strides. Wearing a beautifully cut wool suit with a yellow silk cravat, his greying hair slicked back, St Hilda’s headmaster had clearly made an effort this afternoon. He reminded Laura of a 1950s English film star – David Niven, perhaps. She prayed his smart get-up wasn’t for her benefit.
‘All thanks to you, my dear.’ Harry smiled wolfishly. ‘Now listen, what are your plans this weekend? Can I tempt you to dinner in Chichester? There’s a new chef at Chez Henri who’s supposed to be the best on the South Coast.’
‘I’m afraid I have plans.’ Laura struggled to hide her relief. ‘I’m going up to London tonight to stay with, er, a friend.’
‘Ah. The playwright. Smart, isn’t it? Lucky fellow,’ Harry Hotham said amiably. There was no such thing as a secret in Fittlescombe. ‘Still, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.’
At home with your wife? Laura felt like saying. But she held her tongue. After all, she was hardly in a position to judge people for having affairs, not after the wreckage she’d caused by dating John Bingham.
The adults’ rehearsal went equally well. Lisa James was sick, no doubt exhausted by Gabe Baxter’s insatiable demands, so Laura had to stand in as Mary, reading all Lisa’s lines. She’d naturally assumed that Gabe would capitalize on this turn of events and play her up even more than usual. In fact, he was remarkably subdued; a little distant, perhaps, but he made it through the shepherds’ scene without a single snide aside or smart-alec remark at Laura’s expense. He’d even learned his lines.
‘I’m impressed,’ Laura told him when they broke for tea and hot mince pies, a Nativity play rehearsal ritual. ‘If you’re that good on the night, we’ll bring the house down.’
‘I’m always that good on the night.’ He fixed her with the moss-green eyes that had so captivated the rest of Fittlescombe’s womenfolk. Laura felt suddenly naked.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit hard on you.’
‘If?’ Laura spluttered.
Gabe frowned. ‘I’m apologizing. Don’t interrupt.’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Actually, that’s it. If you want we could have a drink tonight, bury the hatchet and all that.’
Laura looked at him suspiciously. Was this some sort of setup? Some sort of joke? He seemed sincere. The awkward shuffle of the feet, the clumsy way with words. Daniel was a master of communication, firing off witticisms and insights like a champion archer shooting arrows. Gabe Baxter was the opposite, a farmer from the top of his blond head to the soles of his muddy work boots. He certainly wasn’t stupid. The annoying truth was that he’d run rings around Laura ever since they’d started this play; he was an expert manipulator. But Gabe was a man’s man. Verbal communication was not his strong suit.
Laura decided she might as well meet him halfway. ‘That would have been lovely, but I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I’m going up to London later for the weekend.’
Gabe’s face instantly darkened. ‘To see Daniel, I suppose.’ He spat out the name like a mouthful of rotten meat.
‘Yes, to see Daniel.’ Laura stiffened. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing.’ Gabe turned away, helping himself to another two mince pies and mumbling ‘none o’ my business’ through a mouthful of crumbs.
Laura was so frustrated she could have hit something, preferably Gabe’s broad back, now turned towards her beneath his thick, hole-ridden Aran sweater.
‘If you must know, it’s Daniel’s birthday,’ she found herself explaining, unnecessarily. ‘We’re going to dinner and a show and I’m going to go shopping for a dress for the Furlings Hunt Ball.’
For some reason this got Gabe’s attention. ‘You’re going to the ball?’
‘Of course.’
‘With him?’
‘Probably,’ said Laura. ‘What do you care, anyway?’
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Gabe said nastily, his olive branch of a few minutes ago now apparently withdrawn. ‘Not in the least. I’m sure you and Daniel will have a lovely time shopping in Harvey Nicks.’ He mocked Laura’s accent with ruthless accuracy, laughing as he walked away to join the shepherds on the other side of the room.
Counting to ten to stop herself from screaming, by the time Laura got to eight her mobile rang. Seeing Daniel’s name flash up on the screen, she felt her spirits lift. Fuck Gabe Baxter and his childish mind games. What do I care what he thinks?
‘Hi,’ she answered happily. ‘I’m just finishing up here. I should definitely make the six thirty train.’
* * *
From across the room, Gabe watched out of the corner of his eye as Laura took the phone call. From her smile, and the way she cupped the phone, turning away like a child with a precious new toy they don’t want to share, he knew at once who must be calling.
He was angry, at himself more than anything. Ever since they were kids, Laura Tiverton had had the power to unnerve him, to throw him off stride. He’d envied her so much then, with her beautiful house and her happy family and her perfect, Enid Blyton-esque existence. Gabe’s parents had divorced acrimoniously when he was eight. The summers that Laura had found so idyllic and perfect, Gabe remembered as times of ingrained domestic misery, of shouting and crying and plate throwing. He was out on his bike all day because he couldn’t bear to go home. Against the backdrop of his own, crumbling family, Laura Tiverton’s happiness had felt like a personal affront.
And now she was back, beautiful and successful and independent, swooping into Fittlescombe and taking over like a swan returning to lord it over all the ugly ducklings of her childhood. Simply being around her made Gabe feel like a helpless eight-year-old boy again, or at least reminded him of a time that he had spent the last twenty years trying to forget. He knew he was being a dick to Laura, and he didn’t like himself for it. But the impulse was too strong to resist. Ever since that prick Daniel Smart had come onto the scene, it had been getting stronger. Gabe distrusted Daniel deeply and instinctively. Everything about him – from his floppy hair, to his smug, entitled manner, to his metrosexual, trendy clothes – reeked of fakery. The fact that Laura couldn’t see it, that she so obviously thought the sun shone out of the guy’s arse, kept Gabe awake at night. He resented Laura for that, too.
‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to work?’ Arthur McGovern, the sweet old man who ran McGovern’s Garage in the village and who had played a shepherd in every Fittlescombe Nativity play since 1988, tapped Laura on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to nag you, but I promised my wife I’d take her to the pictures in Chichester at six, so I can’t be late tonight.’
‘Of course, Arthur, my fault. Let’s get to it.’
As they walked back to the stage, Gabe noticed the change in Laura’s face. Her happiness of a few moments ago had vanished like snow on a warm spring day.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Laura snapped. She was growing mightily tired of Gabe’s hot-and-cold treatment. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’
* * *
The rest of the rehearsal seemed to go on for ever, but at last Laura made it to the sanctuary of her car. Turning the key, she blasted up the heat to full and turned on a CD on Carols from King’s, hoping the soothing choirboys’ voices would ease her frazzled nerves.
They didn’t. Disappointment and frustration hit her like a double punch to the stomach. Daniel had cancelled. He’d been very sweet about it. Something had come up with one of his sons, the school had asked for a meeting, and he had to go.
‘Couldn’t we meet afterwards? Or tomorrow, at least?’ Laura had asked, hating herself for sounding so needy. But surely a teacher meeting couldn’t take up an entire weekend?
‘I wish I could, angel, believe me. But Rachel wants us to have lunch on Saturday to talk everything through. Apparently, Milo’s grades have fallen through the floor since we split and she’s worried about him. I have to show willing, especially with the final divorce hearing right after Christmas. If I don’t, she’s bound to paint me as a crappy parent in front of the judge. Divorce is so petty and political, you have no idea.’
He was right, of course. Naturally, his son must come first. But Laura still felt robbed. It bothered her how much the prospect of spending this weekend alone, and not with Daniel, depressed her. She’d vowed never to depend on a man for happiness again, and yet here she was, depending away, as if all the pain of last year had never happened.
Deciding to take the back way to Briar Cottage, she turned left up Lovett’s Lane, which took her directly past Furlings. The house was a Queen Anne gem, one of the finest examples of eighteenth-century architecture in the country. In perfectly square red brick, its façade almost completely covered with wisteria, Furlings managed to combine grand, stately-home proportions with quite unparalleled prettiness. The symmetry of the original sash windows – facing onto formal gardens famous for their topiary, as well as for a two-hundred-year-old maze – was softened by the rolling parkland that surrounded the house on the other three sides. Tonight, lit from within and with its chimneys cheerfully smoking, the house looked as warm and inviting as any fairytale castle. Suddenly Laura realized just how badly she wanted to have Daniel as her date for the Christmas Hunt Ball, to play Prince Charming to her Cinderella. What was the point in spending money she didn’t have on a beautiful dress if no one who mattered was going to be there to see it?
Just as she had this thought, there was an ominous splutter from the Fiat’s ancient engine and the car quite suddenly lost all power. Thankfully, Lovett’s Lane was deserted, and Laura was able to glide to a stately halt on the grass verge. But without headlights, and with nothing but a crescent moon and the distant lights of Furlings to guide her, she could barely see more than ten feet in any direction. Worse still, she’d left her coat back at the church hall, and was woefully underdressed for the December chill in jeans and a thin Uniqlo sweater. Pulling her mobile phone out of her bag, she saw that it was completely dead.
‘Fuck!’ she shouted out loud, getting out of the car and stamping her foot in anger on the frozen ground like a thwarted child. Could today possibly get any worse? The walk home to Briar Cottage from here was about thirty minutes in daylight, but at night and without a torch she was afraid she might not make it all. She could walk up Furlings’s drive and knock on the door, but she barely knew the Flint-Hamiltons, and this was an annoyance rather than emergency. The third option was to walk back to the village and ask for help there. Hugging herself for warmth and rubbing her hands together against the cold, she began to trudge down the hill.
After only about a hundred yards, she saw headlights coming her way. Thank God. Standing in the middle of the road, she flagged the car down.
‘Bit late for a walk isn’t it?’ Gabe drawled, rolling down the window of his Land Rover. It looked warm and luxurious inside. Coldplay were playing on the stereo, and a smell of new leather wafted out into the crisp night air. ‘I thought you were going to London.’
‘Change of plans,’ said Laura through gritted teeth. Gritted, chattering teeth. ‘My car just gave up the ghost.’
‘Uh huh,’ said Gabe. Was he smiling? Bastard. ‘I expect you’d like a lift home then, would you?’
Laura nodded grudgingly. Why, why, why did it have to be him? Of all the people who could have driven past. She tried the passenger door but it was locked.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me nicely?’ said Gabe. He was clearly enjoying himself.
Laura bit her tongue. If she played along she’d be home in the warm in five minutes, as opposed to being stuck out here for the next hour. ‘May I have a lift?’ She smiled sarcastically.
‘Please,’ said Gabe. ‘Go on. It won’t kill you.’
‘May I have a lift … please?’ said Laura.
With a click, the door unlocked. ‘Hop in.’
‘So,’ said Gabe, as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Mr Perfect stood you up, did he? Got a better offer?’
Laura watched his arrogant features break into a grin and felt suffused with loathing. Why was he such an utter, utter dick? And why could nobody else in Fittlescombe see it? OK, so he was handsome in a rough-and-ready, farmhand sort of a way. But it hardly made up for his fatally flawed character, his rudeness, his vindictive streak masked as humour.
‘He had a meeting about his son,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was last-minute and it couldn’t be helped.’
‘And you buy that, do you?’ Gabe asked casually, not taking his eyes off the road.
‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ Folding her arms, Laura stared out of the window in silence.
Gabe responded by turning up the music, ejecting Coldplay and tuning into Radio 1. Some awful teen band were playing, one of those Christmas songs with synthesized sleigh bells and cheesy lyrics about snowflakes and children’s wishes. Gabe hummed along tunelessly, strumming the steering wheel in time to the music until at last they arrived at Briar Cottage.
‘I’ll walk you inside.’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ said Laura.
‘I wasn’t asking,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s not gonna be my fault when they find you on your doorstep tomorrow morning, dead from hypothermia because you’ve forgotten your key.’
The garden path was treacherously icy. In her flimsy loafers, Laura found herself slipping all over the place. Throwing her arms out wildly to try to get her balance, she ended up leaning on Gabe, whose work boots gripped the ice like crampons. Halfway to the door, without asking, he scooped her up under one arm as if she were a stepladder or a Nativity play prop, depositing her on the front step like a Christmas parcel. Blushing furiously, as much from anger as embarrassment, Laura jammed her key in the lock so hard she almost snapped it.
‘You might want to invest in some boots,’ said Gabe as the door swung open and she practically fell inside. ‘And an AA membership. Next time I might not be driving by.’
‘Oh no! What on earth would I do then?’ Laura said waspishly.
Gabe scowled. ‘You might be a bit more grateful.’
‘And you might be a bit more—’
‘What? A bit more what?’
He stepped forward, so he stood just inches away from Laura, his broad shoulders filling the narrow cottage doorway like a marauding Viking warrior. It was a challenge, and Laura’s cue to step back, but something kept her rooted to the spot. For a few seconds words failed her. They remained locked in standoff.
‘Never mind,’ she said eventually. ‘To be honest with you, Gabe, I’m cold and I’m tired and I would like to go to bed.’
‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Gabe turned to go, a look of cold thunder on his face. Ungrateful cow.
Just as Laura was about to close the door behind him, resisting with some difficulty the urge to slam it, Gabe suddenly changed his mind. Turning around he said bluntly, ‘He’s lying, you know. Daniel. He’s using you.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Laura practically screamed with exasperation. ‘Using me? Using me for what? Daniel’s an amazing, talented, phenomenally successful playwright with a flat on Pelham Crescent and God knows how many millions in the bank. I’m an unknown, ex-television writer with a defunct Fiat Punto, a fat dog and an arsehole on my doorstep who I’m going to be forced to work with every fucking day between now and Christmas Eve and whose sole purpose in life seems to be to make my life hell! What could Daniel Smart possibly, possibly want from me?’
For a moment Gabe just stared at her. He’d never seen Laura lose her rag quite so comprehensively before. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, a combination of her high emotion and the biting cold, and her mass of dark curls had escaped their elastic band and fell to her shoulders in a gloriously tangled cascade. The overall effect was disturbingly sexy, but Gabe pushed the thought aside.
‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ he said coldly. Stalking off down the path, he heard the cottage door slam loudly behind him. Serve her right if it falls off its hinges in the night and she freezes to death. Stupid, stubborn woman.
* * *
Laura slumped down on the sofa, shaking like a leaf. There were too many emotions to process at once: disappointment, anger, frustration. And something else, underlying all of them, something that she didn’t want to admit to. A tiny, poisonous seed of doubt had found its way into her heart, planted by Gabe Baxter and his malicious insinuations.
Had Daniel told her the truth?
She could think of no particular reason why he should lie. And Gabe’s motivation was so obviously jealousy – he couldn’t stand the fact that Daniel was more successful than he was. Gabe Baxter might be a big fish in Fittlescombe. But in the real world he was a humble farmer, while Daniel was a bona fide theatrical star. Even so, once planted, the doubt was there. Laura resented Gabe for that with a passion that brought her close to tears. Everything seemed to bring her close to tears these days.
Sensing her mistress’s unhappiness, Peggy shuffled along the sofa and inserted her wrinkled, piglike face under Laura’s arm. Laura stroked her smooth fur gratefully. ‘Looks like it’ll just be you and me for Christmas, old girl.’ Was it weird to put up Christmas decorations that only you and your dog would see? ‘Perhaps we’ll do Christmas lunch at The Fox,’ Laura mused out loud. ‘That’s a bit less tragic than turkey for one, don’t you think?’
The phone made both Laura and Peggy jump. After the miscarriage and her months of deep depression, Laura’s London friends had all stopped calling. A ringing phone these days meant her mother, or Harry Hotham calling about the play, or just occasionally—
‘It’s Daniel.’
Just the sound of his voice was like a shot of pure happiness in the arm.
‘Look I’m about to go into this school thing. But I wanted to call and say I really miss you. I’m gutted about this weekend, I really am.’
‘Me too,’ said Laura, exhaling with relief. The seed that Gabe had planted was already beginning to wither.
‘And I was wondering – do say if you think this is too forward, or you’re not ready – but I thought maybe the two of us should spend Christmas together.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_868db241-73a7-5bf6-8d70-c89f7c8ba3c7)
Daniel Smart walked into Harrods with a spring in his step.
This was going to be a great Christmas.
The last year had been an utter nightmare from beginning to end. The divorce, the bitter end of his affair with Lenka, not to mention the immense stress of producing his most recent play had all weighed heavily. But, quite unexpectedly, fate had brought Laura Tiverton back into his life at exactly the opportune moment. And now here he was, picking up a new dinner jacket to wear to the Furlings Hunt Ball of all things, now only a week away. He felt as excited as a schoolboy about to break up for the holidays. So much rested on this trip to Fittlescombe, but Daniel was ready for the challenge.
Few places on earth were as festive and Christmassy as Fittlescombe village, but Harrods food hall was one of them. As he stepped inside, Daniel’s senses were immediately assaulted by the scents, sights and sounds of the season. Wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted over from the bakery, where smiling chefs were cheerfully sloshing brandy into bowls of Christmas pudding mixture. At the confectionary counter, mountains of marzipan glistened in every shape and colour, and sugar mice sported Christmassy red bows, piped in icing around their necks. There were hams and turkeys and huge bowls of glistening cranberry jelly. There were mince pies and candy canes, and vats of piping-hot mulled wine served in bone-china mugs decorated with holly and ivy. Carols rang out through the loudspeakers and everybody, it seemed to Daniel, was smiling.
Picking up a box of German sugarplums for Laura, because the packaging was so exquisite, and a single warm mince pie for himself, Daniel hopped on the escalator up to menswear. Given the pressures on his finances right now, he’d perhaps been hasty in splashing out quite so much for a new, bespoke dinner jacket. But Furlings Hunt Ball was the hottest ticket in England this Christmas, and was bound to be teeming with influential people: writers, producers, actors, investors. Telling himself it was a work expense and tax-deductible, Daniel mentally reduced the price by 40 per cent and pushed the image of his accountant’s disapproving face out of his mind.
‘I’m here about the jacket. Is it ready?’
The gay assistant looked wounded. ‘Of course it’s ready, sir. We are never late on our bespoke orders. If you’d like to follow me.’
He led Daniel into a changing room. The jacket, in pure wool and immaculately cut, was duly produced and lovingly slipped onto Daniel’s back. While the assistant fussed around him, pulling at the hem and straightening the cuffs, Daniel admired his reflection in the mirror. The deep, true black of the jacket contrasted marvellously with his tanned skin and dark-green eyes, and clever tailoring at the waist accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. It had cost an arm and a leg, but the confidence it gave him was priceless.
‘Is sir satisfied? We’re quite happy to make further changes if sir feels the sleeves are too long or the stitching at the lapel is a little too fine.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Daniel.
* * *
‘It’s perfect, Mrs Worsley, absolutely perfect. You’ve done a marvellous job.’
Tatiana Flint-Hamilton dropped her suitcases in the grand marble hallway at Furlings and beamed at the housekeeper. Tati had known Mrs Worsley since childhood and was well aware of the importance of keeping the old battleaxe sweet. With Mrs Worsley on her side, she had a chance of deflecting at least some of her father’s anger. But, with the two of them ranged against her, this unexpected trip home was bound to be a disaster.
‘You said you weren’t coming.’ The housekeeper’s face was set like flint. Tati could have struck a match off it to light her much-needed cigarette. ‘We rearranged the entire seating plan.’
‘I know. The thing is, I was so cross with Daddy about the Bertie thing, I sort of lashed out.’
‘Bertie?’ Mrs Worsley wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You mean the duke? The married man you took off with, breaking your poor father’s heart?’
‘Yes, but we’re not together any more.’ Tati cocked her head to one side and pulled her most adorable mea culpa face. It never failed to work with men, but Mrs Worsley was unmoved.
‘You upset Mr Flint-Hamilton no end, you know. First the affair, and then writing to him like that, saying you wouldn’t bother coming home. You know how much this ball means to him.’
‘Which is exactly why I’m here,’ said Tati. ‘To put things right.’ Her fixed smile was starting to give her jaw-ache. God, Mrs Worsley was a dragon, as humourless as a Glasgow drunk after the whisky’s run out. ‘Where is Daddy, by the way?’
‘Out,’ the housekeeper said coldly.
‘In that case I’ll have a bath and a nap,’ said Tati, giving up on the charm offensive. It clearly wasn’t working, so what was the point? ‘Ask Jenny to bring my bags up and unpack them for me, would you? And please don’t wake me. I’ll be down when I’m ready.’
Mrs Worsley watched Mr Flint-Hamilton’s wayward daughter as she skipped upstairs, as gloriously unaccountable as any spoiled child. With her flowing, honey-blonde hair, high cheekbones and endlessly long legs, Tati had the wild beauty of a racehorse, and the stubborn temperament of a mule. She could be charming when she wanted something, and generous, and on occasion Mrs Worsley had known her to be capable of great kindness. But she was also vain, insecure and deeply, deeply selfish, swanning through life with all the entitlement of the very rich and very beautiful. Most of all, she entirely lacked any sense of duty. As duty was her father’s lifeblood, this naturally made for strained relations between the two of them.
Rory Flint-Hamilton had hidden his feelings when he received Tati’s angry letter informing him that she would boycott this year’s ball. But Mrs Worsley could see how saddened and embarrassed he was, mortified by the prospect of having to explain his daughter’s absence to so many important guests.
Now, she’d ditched the royal playboy, and apparently divested herself of the unsuitable footballer too. With no new plaything to distract her, she’d decided to show up at the last minute and grace Furlings with her attendance after all.
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- Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 220 стр. 8 иллюстраций
- ISBN: 9780007564279
- Дата выхода книги: 13 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
A delightful collection of two short stories from bestselling author, Tilly Bagshawe. Welcome to Swell Valley…ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING is not the time to get your heart broken… Dumped by the love of her life and in need of some time to recover, screenwriter Laura Tiverton retreats to the idyllic village of Fittlescombe where she used to spend time as a girl. Maybe lending her expertise to the annual nativity play will be just what she needs. But with two gorgeous men on the horizon and a disastrous night at the ball, on the night before Christmas, who will be able to persuade her that the show must go on?As ONE SUMMER’S AFTERNOON rolls around, the annual Fittlescombe vs Brockhurst cricket match is older than the Ashes, and every bit as hotly contested – and is more exclusive than the Buckingham Palace Summer Garden Party and more star-studded than Cartier Polo. The Fittlescombe team have their hopes pinned on local boy Will Nuttley, but 24 year-old Will has his heart set on winning back the love of his life, Emma Harwich. As the champagne goes on ice and the sandwiches are being cut, little do the Swell Valley residents know that Emma is intent on sleeping with the enemy, and it’s throwing Will into a spin…
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