Farm Fatale Page 7

  "Otherwise the column gets it."

  ***

  Rosie woke up in the early hours desperate for the loo and profoundly regretting having taken so much Knickersplitter on board. It was called that, she realized, her bladder pulsating, for a reason. But their room, she knew, lacked even a sink to pee in, and the loo, of course, was outside. There was nothing for it but to brave the great, dark, cold outdoors.

  She groped her way to the door and down the silent corridor. Here at least she could see; the moon poured through the window like a spotlight, showing the way down stairs whose treads stuck gummily to her soles. Pushing open the back door, she gasped to feel the cold, although it hadn't felt all that warm inside.

  But, oh, the stars. The pain in her pelvis was almost forgotten as she stared, entranced, at the Big Dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia, the smudge of the Pleiades, the dusty sweep of the Milky Way. Then the eerie creak of the pub sign reminded her of her mission—and the wisdom of getting back inside as soon as possible. Groping to the left, she found a crude wooden latch, no more than a stick loosely nailed in the center. She twisted it and pushed the door open to encounter an eye-watering stench, glad it was too dark to view what were obviously medieval toilet facilities. Her fears were confirmed when her feet encountered soft mud. Or worse? Shuddering, Rosie lifted her nightdress and crouched.

  With terrifying suddenness, an indignant, high-pitched screech shattered the quiet into a thousand fragments. Rosie's heart shot into her mouth. Did the landlord have a wife and was she having a midnight pee too? Or—her veins froze—was the headless woman on the rampage? Petrified, Rosie flailed in the darkness, desperate not to fall into whoever—whatever—it was. She screamed with fear as something huge, smelly, and hairy knocked her violently aside and charged, snorting, past her through the open door and out into the night.

  ***

  It had taken a week of hard negotiation, but finally Samantha had done it. Her most subtle diplomatic tactics—violent tantrums, withdrawal of all sexual favors—had combined with a difficult week for Guy at work and secured his eventual capitulation. He had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to spend a weekend in the country. Samantha, although jubilant, had sensed the need to proceed with caution. She had not yet mentioned house-hunting, much less moving, as Guy's dislike of all things rural had turned out to be rather stronger than expected.

  "What do you mean I don't know what its like because I've never been there?" he demanded. "I grew up there, for Christ's sake. It's the most godawful place in the world. Nothing to do, no one to see. During the school holidays, I had a job delivering the post. I walked miles, got attacked by everyone's dogs, and none of the bloody houses or farms had a sodding number on them, much less a name. What the hell do you want to go there for?"

  Yet going there they were, on this brilliant Saturday morning, strapped in amid the luxury of Guy's XK9 with its computeradjustable super baby-soft seats made of the unblemished skins of Scandinavian calves. In the plaited ostrich-skin Bottega Veneta document wallet on Samantha's knee was a fat wad of estate agents' details. Details that must, for the moment, remain a secret, and, should Guy inquire, were officially notes for Christabel. Which they were in a way, even if it was unlikely any barmaid would ever have been able to afford the types of property Samantha had in mind. Unless she married the president of the pub company, of course. Samantha raised an eyebrow and smiled to herself. She'd done pretty well, all things considered. Life was good, even if the digital satellite-led trip planner feature on the dashboard currently showed the M1 like a blocked artery and them only just past Junction 3. As Guy gnashed his teeth and swore, Samantha looked serenely out of the tinted window at the (vastly inferior) cars grid-locked on either side of them.

  Closing her eyes in satisfaction, Samantha thought, phase one had now been accomplished. Guy had been successfully lured out of the capital. Phase two would be breaking his resistance down and showing him the delicious portfolio of houses she had built up. Forcing him to buy one and get rid of Roland Gardens was phase three: the biggest challenge of all. How this was to be achieved, Samantha had absolutely no idea. The re-granting of sexual favors, perhaps? Even though her entire career was based on the premise that where there's a willy, there's a way, she was aware that this strategy might be required for the successful completion of phase two. Destiny, she was sure, would come up with something, although it had better start trying. Hard.

  The signs, Samantha had to admit, were not good. The hope she had initially felt, on seeing Guy enthusiastically perusing Country Life, faded at the realization that it was the "Girls in Pearls" he was looking at, not the house ads. As the car purred on, Samantha's thoughts flitted to more pleasant subjects, such as the manor house in a mellow stone currently top of her wish list. The fact that it had a stable block was of particular appeal; Samantha had always fancied herself as a horsewoman. Despite never having gotten closer to a horse than watching the Grand National on television, Samantha had no problems picturing herself in skintight breeches, Titian curls tumbling out of a riding hat, looking exactly like those pictures of Stefanie Powers at the polo grounds she had always so admired in the back of Harpers & Queen.

  Mounted on the sweeping lawns, Samantha Villiers shows off her magnificent frontage…

  No, that didn't sound quite right.

  On the sweeping lawns before the frontage of her magnificent house, the acclaimed actress Samantha Villiers, mounted on a superb hunter, tosses her Titian curls and smiles dazzlingly. Her long thighs lean in Savile Row riding breeches, Samantha oversees the distribution of stirrup cups (chilled Krugz) to the assembled hunt.

  "I've always adored hunting," the Punkawallah star explains, "and we have so much room here it seemed silly not to have the meet on our lawns, which," she adds, completely unaffectedly, "it takes ten full-time gardeners to keep looking pristine." Villagers unite in praise of their celebrity lady of the manor, who, despite her fame and the endless demands of the world's best-known directors clamoring for her services, still finds time to open their carnival, crown its queen, and even set aside the time and effort to judge the Best Decorated House competition (from which Miss Villiers's own residence sportingly exempts itself)…

  Soothed by this pleasant vision and the smooth rhythm of the car, Samantha dozed off.

  "You look gorgeous when you're asleep," Guy greeted her as she woke with a jolt to find she had dribbled on her shirt. Briefly forgetting she was supposed to be charming the pants and then the objections off him, Samantha scowled viciously at her husband.

  "Where are we?" she snapped.

  "At the hotel."

  Samantha flipped down the mirror and squinted at her makeup. Apart from the dribble cutting a swathe through her foundation, she had survived the journey tolerably well. Guy, on the other hand, looked almost blue with exhaustion as he opened the trunk. "What on earth are you doing?" Samantha demanded.

  "Getting the bags."

  "But they'll come out and get them. We don't carry our own luggage."

  "It's only two bags, for God's sake. You're not at the bloody Chateau Marmont now, you know—if you ever were."

  Samantha comforted herself by patronizing Reception. "Well," she said pointedly, looking around the hallway, "it's not Chatsworth, is it?"

  "No, madam," the receptionist replied smartly. "Chatsworth's a forty-minute drive away."

  Samantha cast a furious look at the sniggering Guy.

  ***

  On their return from dinner in the hotel restaurant (which, loudly supposing it to be the handiwork of untutored locals, Samantha had barely touched, not noticing the wealth of culinary awards on display around the entrance), Samantha saw that her bag remained on the bed where she had left it. She snatched up the telephone immediately. "Excuse me," she inquired haughtily of Reception. "My case hasn't been touched."

  There was a brief, surprised silence. "I must say this is very unusual, madam. Most people only complain if there has been interference with their belonging
s."

  "You misunderstand me," said Samantha, biting off each word. "It is not—ahem, how shall I put this—unpacked.'"

  Another amazed silence from the receptionist. Mingled with what sounded suspiciously like a suppressed snort. "Guests generally unpack their own cases here, madam. As you so accurately observed yourself, this is not Chatsworth."

  Samantha forced out a high-pitched giggle. "How quaint. I haven't unpacked my own case for years."

  Meanwhile, Guy, having finally located the piece of fake linenfold paneling concealing the television, was sitting in front of it with a huge glass of whiskey, trying to ignore the drama unfolding beside him. He couldn't cope with a prima donna performance, not now. Please God, they weren't heading for a repeat of the weekend in Paris when Samantha had refused to sleep in the bed because the thread count in the sheets was below 250. Normally he could stand up to her, but not after the week he'd had. Not to mention the sleepless nights—very unusual, but it had been hard to sleep with that funny, piercing, burning feeling somewhere in his stomach. Guy's heart sank as Samantha threw down the phone.

  It sank further when, suddenly, it rang again. Don't let it be the bloody office, he prayed, feeling exhausted at the mere thought of it. The burning feeling intensified as, no doubt anticipating another spat with the hotel staff, Samantha snatched up the receiver. Guy watched as her eyes widened and her face drained of all natural color. You had, he reflected, to look very hard to see that. One hand flew to her throat as she took a step backward. Guy's hand clamped round his whiskey glass like a vise. Bad news, obviously. That crucial deal he'd been handling, without a doubt. He began to struggle to his feet.

  "How many millions?" he heard her gasp. Inside Guy's head, everything went black. Christ. It was that deal. Had to be. Whole bank had sunk by the sound of it. But why the hell were they talking about it to Samantha?

  As Guy heaved himself upright, the pain ripped across his chest like a bullet. With a bubbling croak, he slumped back into the armchair. His head slammed forward on his chest the very moment Samantha banged down the receiver.

  "Darling! Darling! You'll never guess," she squealed excitedly. "Oh, darling, do wake up. I can't bloody believe you've gone to sleep now of all times. For Christ's sake, someone—some film star—saw our house in Insider at the weekend and thinks it's a work of design genius. Wants to buy it. For millions." She tugged agitatedly at Guy's arm. "We can't afford not to," she urged. "We'll never get an offer like this again. Bloody hell, Guy, wake up, you idle bastard."

  Chapter Six

  "I don't know why you're being so touchy about it," Mark said. "It's fantastic material for 'Green-er Pastures.' Absolutely hilarious. Why can't I put it in?"

  "Because I'd rather you didn't," pleaded Rosie. "I don't really want the entire nation to read over their breakfast tables that I was knocked over by a pig while peeing in a field at midnight."

  "But it's so funny."

  Blushing, Rosie looked crossly out of the car window. "Well, it wasn't all that amusing last night." Nor this morning, come to that. If the landlord of the Silent Lady had been far from pleased to find his prize porker running amok in the village, the local shop owner on whose premises the pig had been eventually, messily run to ground had been even less so. They had left the village under clouds both metaphorical and literal and were now working through the list of the morning's properties. Which was comprised of exactly one. Nigel, understandably enough, had not thought it worth coming from the office, and as an indicator of the house's worth and condition, his instructions about finding the key under a planter by the front door had not been encouraging.

  "Can't believe you thought it was a ghost," Mark snorted as they drew up outside the house in question. Rosie reddened further, ashamed that she had thought this and not entirely for the reasons Mark assumed. Viewed in the (very) cold light of day, the lady on the sign had a dignity that suggested any kind of grunting and shoving would have been out of the question, even if her head had still been attached to her body.

  Mark's mobile shrilled into life as he searched under the planter. The previous viewers, it emerged, had offered £20,000 more than the asking price for the ramshackle dwelling in front of which they now stood. "You could always up their offer," Nigel suggested helpfully.

  "Yes, if I win the sodding lottery in the meantime," snapped Mark.

  As they walked slowly back to the car to make the return journey to London, Rosie was so disappointed that she could hardly speak. Not finding anywhere at all had been the least expected of all outcomes. Hoping against hope to spot a suitable For Sale sign that had somehow been overlooked, she cast her eyes desperately about the villages as they passed through them.

  "Eight Mile Bottom," snorted Mark as they drove into the next one. "What sort of a name is that?"

  Eight Mile Bottom was a village Rosie now recognized to be typical of the area, a huddle of gray stone cottages arranged around a central green. The cottages were small and square with thicklinteled windows and solid little doors. Although tiny, plain, and functional, they had a strongly individual appearance; not more than two together, Rosie noticed, seemed the same age or design as the others. Some were set back from the road, some built on it, some boasted pansied window boxes or had pots arranged along the front. Not Bella-style pristine Islington topiary and terracotta these; rather, stained with brilliant green lichen and showing a few skinny, early daffodils. They looked ridiculously cozy, Rosie thought with a pang, especially the ones with gray plumes of smoke rising cheerfully out of the chimneys. None of them, however, was for sale.

  The only building that was, was the mullioned manor on the main street, half hidden by sheltering trees. With a twinge of envy, Rosie recognized the same perfection of pearl-gray stone she had gazed at so longingly on the estate agents' display board. The nameplate on the lichened Jacobean gatepost confirmed that this was indeed The Bottoms, the house so far out of their price range it might as well have been Longleat.

  "It's beautiful," breathed Rosie. "And the village is so peaceful."

  Despite giveaway signs of life such as a village store–cum–post office, a small, school-like village hall, and even a tiny, net-curtained teashop called Penny Farthing, the only local in sight was a fat and lounging cat that plainly considered the entire winding main street its own. Above the roofs, on a brow overlooking the village, a church with a sharp steeple set amid towering ancient birch trees caught the evening sunshine full on its pink stone tower.

  "Not bad, is it?" Mark muttered as they drove slowly past the pub. "Let's stop for a drink."

  Although the last time she had heard those words they had presaged an evening of Gothic gloom, a headless woman, and a large pig, this time Rosie had no such fears. The Barley Mow's whitepainted, sunlit front terrace was crowded with cheerful locals tipping back the last dregs of the day along with the beer.

  Inside, lamps burned cheerfully but not too brightly in the deep-silled mullioned windows. Brass glowed against the stone of the fireplace and shining tankards dangled from thick ceiling beams. Completing the friendly picture was a vigorous-looking landlord presiding over a polished brass bar and wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a chicken and the legend HENVIRONMENTALIST. This evidence of a landlord with a sense of humor, however questionable, finally banished the dread possibility that all country pubs were like the Silent Lady. Far from gesturing sullenly at a pile of pork pies, this landlord seemed intensely involved in helping his customers—a pair of weatherbeaten old men with extremely skeptical expressions—make their selection from the menu chalked on the blackboard above the bar.

  "Scampi and chips or shepherd's pie?" spat one, who had clearly neglected to put his teeth in.

  "Both highly recommended." The landlord smiled.

  The toothless man fixed him with a suspicious stare. "Aye, Alan, but which one d'you get t'most of?"

  "Why can't they make their sodding minds up?" Mark muttered. "I'm gagging for a drink."

  A host
of printed notices were pinned down on either side of the bar. Rosie drank them in delightedly. "'Eight Mile Bottom Horticultural Show,'" she read out to Mark. "'The Percy Ollerenshaw Trophy for onions goes to Mr. F. Womersley for a specimen weighing three pounds and four ounces.' Three pounds and four ounces," Rosie repeated incredulously. "It must have been the size of a football. How can anyone grow an onion that big?"

  On the other side of the bar, Alan raised an eyebrow. "Aye, well, they say it's a trade secret. But the real secret is that all these folks have obviously found a shop trading in massive onions somewhere and they're not telling any of the rest of us where it is."

  "Are you saying," Rosie said, smiling, "that some of these vegetable growers are less than honest about their achievements?" She dug Mark hard in the ribs; this, surely, was perfect "Green-er Pastures" material. The sort of thing one couldn't make up.

  Alan sucked his teeth and pulled a face. "Far be it from me to cast nasturtiums on whether folks grow their own stuff or not. But put it this way, the tomato stocks in the nearest Somerfield go down noticeably when there's a show on. Noticeably. And some o' them supposedly homegrown bunches o' dahlias are definitely making guest appearances from the Canary Islands. As for them huge carrots—size of submachine guns, some of 'em are—if you subjected 'em to them Olympic tests for growth 'ormones or whatever, there's not one of 'em would pass. Them carrots are on steroids, no doubt about it."