Читать книгу One Summer’s Afternoon: A perfect summer treat! - Тилли Бэгшоу - Страница 6

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

Penelope Harwich stared down at the blackened chicken casserole, so badly burned it probably couldn’t even be identified from its dental records, and ran her hands through her hair in despair.

‘Why didn’t the bloody bipper go off?’

This last question was addressed to Sebastian, Penny’s fourteen-year-old son, who was hunched over the kitchen table at Woodside Hall, deep in his Nintendo 3DS.

‘It did,’ he said without looking up. ‘I turned it off.’

‘Why?’ wailed Penny.

‘Because it was annoying,’ said Seb, reasonably.

‘Yes, but why didn’t you come and get me? I set it so I’d remember to take the lunch out of the oven!’

‘Well I didn’t know that, did I?’ said Seb, reluctantly turning off his game and pushing open the kitchen door, to allow the smoke to escape. ‘You set that thing all the time – to remember to call granny, to remember to do the ironing, to remember some other thing you’re supposed to remember.’

Penny groaned. She wished this weren’t true. That she didn’t muddle through her life like a victim of early-onset Alzheimer’s, barely able to brush her own hair or make a cup of tea without some sort of outside assistance. But, ever since her divorce last year (since her husband, Paul, had left her on their twentieth wedding anniversary, for a man, admitting to a gay double life that Penny had had literally no suspicion of whatsoever), she’d lost so much confidence she barely trusted herself to remember her own name.

‘I think we’d better leave this in the garden for a bit. Till it stops, you know, smoking,’ said Seb.

Watching her lovely, kind, capable fourteen-year-old son slip on her oven gloves and carry the charred mess outside, Penny Harwich felt poleaxed with guilt. Paul’s abandonment and spectacular coming-out had been hard on all of them, a terrible shock. But, while she had unravelled like a dropped spool of yarn and Emma, Seb’s older sister, had taken refuge in anger and acting out, Seb had held things together with a maturity and stoicism far beyond his years.

‘If someone’s gay, they’re gay,’ her son had told her calmly while she sobbed on his shoulders. ‘It’s not Dad’s fault and it’s certainly not yours. You just have to, you know, get on with it.’

And Seb had ‘got on with it’, going back to boarding school with no apparent problems, even spending occasional weekends with his father and his new partner, Mike. When Penny had steeled herself to ask Seb what the boyfriend was like, he’d shrugged and said simply, ‘All right. He can fix toasters. And he likes cricket.’

For Seb Harwich, the world was divided not into gay and straight, old and young, rich and poor, but into those who did and did not like cricket. How Penny wished her own world-view could be so simple, so accepting.

As it was, she felt guilty about everything. Guilty for not reading the signs, for not knowing about Paul, for not changing him. Guilty for not being a better mother, a better wife, a better artist, a better person. And, while Penny was busy blaming herself, her daughter Emma vociferously seconded the motion, blaming her mother for everything from her father’s sexuality, to the dilapidated state of the house, to the weather.

The chicken casserole, Emma’s favourite, had been Penny’s latest doomed attempt at appeasement. Emma was home for a week, ostensibly to watch Sebby in the big cricket match, but actually to have her photograph taken, bask in male attention and make her poor mother’s life as hellish as humanly possible. It was hard to know what, exactly, had pushed Emma Harwich from being a normal, slightly moody teenager, to a full-on-entitled, spoiled bitch. Whether it was the bombshell dropped by her father or the explosion of her modelling career, which had happened at about the same time, Penny didn’t know. Either way, it was safe to say that money, fame and attention had not had a beneficial effect on Emma’s character.

This was really Seb’s big moment, and Penny knew that she should be focusing on her son this week and not her daughter. Not only was it the first time he’d made the team, but Seb would be the youngest player in Swell Valley cricketing history to bat for Fittlescombe against their age-old rivals. As ever, however, Emma was the squeaky wheel that ended up getting the grease.

Seb came back in to find his mother pulling leftovers out of the fridge with the frenzied energy of a bag lady trawling for food in a dustbin. ‘What on earth am I going to give her now?’ she wailed. ‘She only eats chicken and fish.’

‘Mum, it’s Emma, not the bloody Queen,’ said Seb, calmly putting the food back. ‘You’ve got cheese. Let’s have pasta and cheese sauce.’

‘She’ll never eat that. Far too many calories,’ fretted Penny.

‘Well she’ll have to go hungry, then, won’t she?’ said Seb. ‘We’ll do a salad on the side. She can stick to that if she’s fussy. But you’ve got to have the pasta, Mum. You’re too thin.’

This was also true. At thirty-nine, Penelope Harwich was still extremely pretty in a wild-haired, hippyish, Pre-Raphaelite-beauty sort of a way. But the stress of divorce had stripped the pounds off her already small frame, to the point where the jut of her hip bones and ribs was clearly visible through the long cotton sundress she was wearing.

Twenty minutes later, with the cheese sauce bubbling on the Aga, the pasta almost done and a hearty-looking salad sitting in a big bowl on the table, Penny had started to relax. Seb pulled a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and had just opened it, ignoring his mother’s protests, when the front door opened and a familiar man’s voice rang out through the hall.

‘Yoo-hoo! Only me.’

‘What does he want?’ Seb’s shoulders stiffened. Penny’s son was not a fan of Piers Renton-Chambers, the local Tory MP and self-styled ‘family friend’. Seb had no memory of Piers constantly dropping round when they were a family. But, since his parents’ divorce, he’d become an almost constant visitor, offering Penny help around the house, financial advice and, as he put it, a ‘shoulder to cry on’. Seb hoped fervently that Piers’s shoulder was the only thing his mother might be crying on. He didn’t trust the man an inch.

‘Be nice,’ hissed Penny, just as Piers walked in. Considered good looking for a politician, at forty Piers Renton-Chambers was probably at the height of his charms. He was reasonably tall and regular-featured, and he still had a full head of hair, although the beginnings of a widow’s peak were starting to form, a fact that bothered him quite inordinately. His other attributes were a deep, resonant, orator’s voice – no matter what he said, he always sounded slightly as if he were making a speech – and his immaculate grooming. Unlike Penny, who rarely got through a day without wearing at least one stained item of clothing, often forgot to brush her hair and was no stranger to odd socks, Piers never looked anything less than dapper, clean-shaven and altogether beautifully turned out. But, if he was a little vain and pompous, he was also incredibly kind. For all Sebby’s misgivings, Penny didn’t know how she would have got through the last year without Piers’s support. And, despite his obvious affection and attraction for her, he had never made a move or overstepped the line – or at least, not yet.

‘Oh, you brought flowers. How lovely,’ she beamed, relieving him of a hand-tied bunch of pale-pink peonies. ‘And peonies, too, my absolute favourite.’

‘Are they?’ said Piers.

‘You know they are, you twat,’ Seb murmured under his breath. Happily, neither of the adults heard him.

‘Something smells good.’

‘It’s cheese,’ said Seb in a distinctly churlish tone, earning himself a reproachful look from his mother.

‘We’re having pasta and cheese sauce,’ said Penny, pouring Piers a glass of wine. ‘You’re very welcome to join us.’

‘I’d love to,’ he enthused.

Seb rolled his eyes and returned to his Nintendo.

‘It’s a bit of a scratch lunch, I’m afraid,’ said Penny. ‘I made a casserole for Emma this morning but I totally forgot it and we had to throw it out.’

Just then, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Emma walked in. Dropping her Balenciaga shoulder bag on the floor like a sack of potatoes, and kicking off her Jimmy Choo gladiator sandals, she strode across the room like a ship in full sail, ignoring both Piers and her mother, grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the kitchen drawer, lit one and proceeded to exhale smoke directly over the saucepan.

‘Jesus, what the fuck’s that?’ she said rudely, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of the cheese sauce. ‘It smells like boiled socks.’

‘It’s cheese sauce,’ said Seb.

‘You know, you really shouldn’t speak to your mother like that,’ Piers said bravely. ‘You’re lucky to have a mother who cooks for you, at your age.’

Emma looked at him like something she was having trouble scraping off the bottom of her shoe. ‘Fuck off,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m not eating it.’

‘Fine,’ said Seb crossly. ‘All the more for us. Do you want me to drain the pasta, Mum?’

But Penny was watching Emma fill an enormous wineglass up to the very top with Chablis and start chugging it down like water.

‘You must eat something, darling,’ she said gently.

‘I would if you made something edible,’ snapped Emma.

Piers watched the way Emma’s lip curled when she spoke to Penny, and saw the fury flashing in her strangely mesmerizing, sludge-green eyes. There was no question that Emma Harwich was wildly, intoxicatingly beautiful. At almost five foot ten, most of which was legs, and with the thick blonde hair of a seventies siren, she reminded him of the blonde icons of his own youth: Farrah Fawcett, or a young Jerry Hall, or Agnetha from Abba. Of course, she was skinnier than those girls. Models were expected to be these days. And her face was harder, more angular. There was nothing soft about Emma, nothing maternal or inviting. Instead, she exuded sexuality and arrogance in almost equal measure. It was not an endearing combination, but Piers could see why it had proved to be a successful one professionally, and no doubt in other ways.

‘Seb made a salad,’ Penny said meekly. ‘Try some of that at least.’

Gracelessly, Emma sat at the table, helping herself to a plate of salad without thanks and before the others had even sat down. A few minutes later, however, they were all eating. The pasta was delicious. Forking it down, silently watching the fractured family dynamic around the table, Piers Renton-Chambers decided he would make a point of spending a lot more time at Woodside Hall.

‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ he said conversationally to Sebastian. ‘Santiago de la Cruz has taken a house in Brockhurst. He’ll be playing on Saturday.’

Seb dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No,’ said Piers, pleased to have engaged the boy’s interest for once. ‘It’s the talk of the village. He’s rented Wheelers Cottage, apparently. Moved in a couple of days ago. I believe there have been one or two sightings of him out and about already.’

‘But he’s a professional!’ said Seb. ‘Does Will know?’

‘Will?’ Piers looked questioningly at Penny, but it was Emma who answered him.

‘Will Nutley. He’s an old boyfriend of mine, and Fittlescombe’s “secret weapon” for this year’s match. He’s quite a good batsman, apparently.’

‘He’s an amazing batsman,’ said Seb hotly.

‘My brother hero-worships him,’ said Emma bitchily. ‘It’s rather sweet.’

‘I don’t hero-worship him. I like him,’ said Seb, looking daggers at his sister. ‘And I have no idea what he ever saw in you.’

‘Hmmm. I can’t imagine.’ Emma laughed arrogantly. The news that Santiago de la Cruz had moved into the next-door village appeared to have worked wonders on her mood. ‘Wheelers Cottage, eh?’ she said to no one in particular. ‘I might have to take a stroll past there tomorrow. Welcome Mr de la Cruz to the neighbourhood.’

‘Didn’t you hear what Piers said?’ Seb was starting to lose his temper. ‘He’s bowling for Brockhurst.’

‘So?’

‘So he’s the enemy.’

‘Don’t be silly, Sebby,’ said Emma dismissively. ‘It’s a game of cricket, not a war.’

Seb Harwich looked at his sister with a withering mixture of pity and contempt. Clearly she understood nothing.

‘Well, it’s turning into a bit of a war as far as the television networks are concerned,’ Piers chimed in. ‘Now that de la Cruz is playing, Sky Sports have crawled out of the woodwork with a whopping bid for exclusive coverage.’

‘They won’t get it, will they?’ asked Penny. ‘I can’t imagine the Swell Valley match not being on BBC Two. It would be like telling the BBC they couldn’t cover the Boat Race.’

‘They won’t push the Beeb out, but they might see off ITV,’ said Piers, cheerfully. ‘Either way, it’s good news for the valley, and the constituency as a whole. Money’ll start pouring in now.’

‘Yes, but it’s not about money,’ said Seb. ‘Only a Brockhurster would think like that.’ Piers Renton-Wank-Stain seemed to understand even less about the spirit of cricket than Seb’s sister. He was surrounded by Philistines.

‘Whatever,’ said Emma, sighing dreamily, and already imagining herself on Santiago de la Cruz’s well-muscled arm. ‘I think it’s wonderful that Santiago’s playing.’

‘“Santiago?” What are you, best friends now?’ snorted Seb. ‘He won’t be interested in you anyway,’ he added, slurping up the last of his fusilli. ‘You’ll only make a fool of yourself, throwing yourself at him.’

‘Throwing myself?’ Emma tossed back her golden mane and laughed loudly. ‘He should be so lucky.’

‘He’s in his thirties. It’s disgusting! He’s almost as old as Mum.’

‘All right, Seb, that’s enough,’ said Penny, who didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. She agreed that a playboy like Santiago de la Cruz was the very last thing Emma needed in her life. But she knew her daughter well enough to know that, if she dared to say as much, she might as well be delivering Emma naked and wrapped in a bow into the unsuitable Argentine’s bed.

‘What about poor Will?’ said Seb, getting to his feet to clear away his empty bowl. ‘You know he’s still in love with you. It’s vile the way you keep him hanging.’

‘I love Will too,’ said Emma, a trace of nostalgia creeping into her voice. ‘But it’s complicated. Our lives are so different now. We’re so different.’

‘Yeah,’ snorted Seb. ‘He’s nice and you’re a total cow.’

He stormed off.

‘What’s got into him?’ Emma asked guilelessly, helping herself to her brother’s leftover salad. ‘He wasn’t this moody and obnoxious the last time I came home.’

‘I think,’ Piers said tentatively, ‘he might be a bit wound up about the match. De la Cruz polling up like this at the last minute might be good for the local economy, but it’s not exactly cricket, if you’ll pardon the pun. This game means a lot to your brother.’

‘How would you know?’ Emma shot back rudely. Pushing her plate away, she lit another cigarette. ‘You’re not family, you know.’ She too got down from the table and stalked out of the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry.’ Penny blushed. ‘I know it’s been a year. But it’s been hard for Emma. She was so close to her dad.’

Piers Renton-Chambers put a hand over Penny’s and squeezed, in a slightly more than friendly manner.

‘You’ve nothing to apologize for, my dear. She’ll grow out of it. They both will.’

I do so hope so, thought Penny. And I hope Emma was joking about setting her cap at Santiago de la Cruz.

With her brother and her besotted ex-boyfriend both playing for Fittlescombe, that really would set the cat among the pigeons.

*****

Later that afternoon, having parked his cheery red Mini Cooper on Brockhurst High Street, Piers Renton-Chambers crossed the street to the village shop with a spring in his step. Piers loved his life as MP for Arundel and South Downs. He’d grown up in West Yorkshire, but this part of the Sussex countryside was so stunning, Piers had had no qualms about moving here. Of course, it also provided the added benefit of being one of the safest Tory seats in England. Barring some spectacular scandal, Piers had landed the closest thing British politics offered to a job for life. All he had to do was fix a few potholes and keep the ladies of the local Conservative Party Association sweet. Piers flattered himself that keeping ladies sweet was one of his key political talents, and he wasn’t entirely wrong in that assumption. Unfortunately, it was a different matter when it came to finding a wife.

The Swell Valley was renowned as a home, or second home, for a plethora of England’s more attractive and eligible women. One could barely step outside one’s door without bumping into a famous actress, model, socialite or heiress and, as the local MP, Piers had a built-in excuse for approaching all of them and engaging them in conversation. Yet for some reason, when it came to asking a woman out for dinner, or ‘making a move’, as the tabloid writers put it, he found himself hamstrung. Inexplicably, the opposite sex seemed to find Piers’s chat-up lines cheesy and his romantic approaches were invariably rebuffed.

Since becoming a regular visitor at Woodside Hall, he’d taken things much, much more slowly. Here, for the first time in years, was a real chance: a chance to make a marriage that would be the envy of all his friends in Westminster and at the Carlton Club. Piers couldn’t entirely put his finger on it, but he felt sure that today, in some subtle way, he had advanced his case and improved his chances.

A bell above the door rang as he walked into Upton’s Stores. Mrs Upton, the shopkeeper, was chatting to a pretty young brunette whom Piers recognized as Laura Tiverton. Laura was a successful television writer who lived at Briar Cottage in Fittlescombe, who had inexplicably thrown herself away on a piece of local beefcake by the name of Gabriel Baxter. Gabe and Laura’s engagement party last week had been the talk of villages for miles around.

‘Is he really that ill, then? Shame,’ Mrs Upton could be heard saying to Laura.

‘I don’t know any details. But I saw the local GP making a house call to Furlings yesterday and again today. And he wasn’t at church last Sunday. That’s the first time he’s missed a service in more than ten years.’

Furlings was the ‘big house’, set on a hill above Fittlescombe with panoramic views of the village, the green and the South Downs beyond. Its master, Rory Flint-Hamilton, was the local lord of the manor. It must be Rory Flint-Hamilton they’re talking about, thought Piers.

Rory’s failing health had been the talk of all the local villages for months now – especially as his daughter and sole heir, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, was a well-known party girl and all-round tearaway. If Tatiana and her fast crowd of London friends were to move into Furlings when the old man died, who knew what would happen to the grand old estate, never mind the village?

‘Has the young Miss been home, then? Tatiana?’ Mrs Upton asked.

‘Not as far as I know.’

An irritated look crossed Laura Tiverton’s face. Laura’s path and Tatiana’s had crossed last Christmas, when Tatiana had run off into the night with Laura’s then boyfriend, a little toad by the name of Daniel Smart. Laura was delighted to be shot of Daniel, but she was not a fan of Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. Few local women were.