Country Pursuits Read online

  Halfway up the drive, Freddie was nearly mown aside by a black GTI, bass pumping as it sped towards him at tremendous speed. ‘ARCHIE!’ Freddie yelled, squeezing up on to the verge to avoid being mown down. The car screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and then reversed back to where Freddie was standing.

  The tinted window slid down, and drum and bass music blasted out, making Freddie’s eyes water. In the driver’s seat sat a youth with a shaved head, tramlines round the sides. His eyebrows had been shaved into strips and he was wearing a baggy tracksuit and a big gold pendant. This was Freddie’s 17-year-old son, Archie.

  ‘Wassup?’ he asked insolently, smoothing his hand across his shaven head and admiring it in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Do you have to drive like a bloody maniac?’ yelled Freddie again, straining to be heard above the music. Archie sucked his teeth at his dad in response. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Freddie, this time more reasonably. He hadn’t had such a long conversation with his son in months.

  ‘College, innit?’ replied Archie, casting his eyes around and looking bored.

  ‘Are you back for supper with us this evening?’ asked Freddie hopefully.

  Archie sucked his teeth again. ‘I’m not hanging out with you olds, man! Me and Tyrone is going to this house party. Laters.’ And with that, the window rolled up and Archie revved his car, disappearing down the drive.

  Freddie watched him go and sighed. Christ, who would have teenagers? Until he turned sixteen, Archie had been a model son. At Eton he had excelled at sports and science and planned to become a vet, much to the delight of his parents. But almost overnight, Archie had changed beyond recognition. He had announced he was sick of private education, dropped out of school, and enrolled in the local college to do his A levels. Instead of spending weekends with his old friends Tarquin and Rupert, Archie started hanging around with some local lads from the nearby town of Bedlington. Shortly afterwards, he had shaved off his mop of Hugh Grant hair, swapped his chinos for ridiculously baggy-crotched jeans, and started to talk like someone who had just absconded from a Harlem ghetto. Freddie didn’t know what to do with this walking, talking, Vanilla Ice lookalike who was suddenly living under his roof.

  His wife Angie was more understanding. ‘It’s just a stage he’s going through,’ she soothed Freddie. ‘Don’t worry, Freds, he’ll soon grow out of it.’

  ‘Bloody well hope so,’ said Freddie gloomily. ‘Still, at least we haven’t got to fork out for school fees any more. It’s been a tough few years.’

  So it had. The Maltings, the handsome Cotswold stone house the Fox-Titts lived in, was in the middle of the Maltings estate. It had once been a stud farm, but when Freddie and Angie had moved in twenty years ago, Freddie had seen the potential of the two hundred acres of land it came with. As well as the shooting parties, Freddie rented his pastures to local farmers and organic produce businesses. However, the foot and mouth disaster a few years ago had hit him hard, and he was still recovering from it.

  Angie Fox-Titt ran Angie’s Antiques on the village green. She was a short, petite woman with lively brown eyes and a mane of bouncing chestnut hair. Freddie thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, even after over two decades of marriage. Freddie, in his fifties, balding and slightly portly, often wondered how he’d managed to snare such a gorgeous creature, but Angie, her heart broken by too many handsome bastards before she’d met him, had finally decided to go for personality over perfection. Freddie and Angie worked very well together, their marital harmony only slightly marred by the metamorphosis of their only child.

  Screeching up the Bedlington Road, Archie patted his pockets to make sure the cash was in there. Tyrone had called half an hour ago to tell him he had scored some weed: ‘This is like, shit hot bruv, get your ass over here.’ Archie had needed no encouragement. Who needed an afternoon of double chemistry when he could smoke himself into oblivion with Tyrone? As he rounded the bend far too fast, Archie nearly careered into two little old ladies, tottering up the road holding on to each other.

  ‘Christ!’ Archie yelled, his Eton accent resurfacing in the surprise of the moment. He slammed on his brakes and came to a smoking halt twenty metres down the road.

  Heart still hammering in his mouth, he rested his head on the steering wheel until a knock on the driver’s window made him look up. Eunice and Dora Merryweather, eighty-two if they were a day, smiled at him through the window. Archie reluctantly wound it down.

  ‘Ooh, young Archie, you were going a bit fast then!’ said Eunice, the slightly older-looking one. The two sisters had lived for years in a cottage on the green two doors down from Camilla’s and were something of a village institution. Most residents had a scratchy lurid woollen jumper hidden at the back of a wardrobe that had been knitted for them by Dora or Eunice.

  ‘Never mind, I know how you young people like to have fun,’ said Dora. ‘Where are you off to, dear? Eunice and I are just taking a walk before Countdown and . . .’

  Shock over, and attitude back, Archie scowled at them both. ‘Yeah, well I’d love to stay and chat to yous Miss Marples,’ he said, adding ‘not’ under his breath, ‘but I gotta see a man about a smoke, er, dog.’ He smirked and rolled up his window, started the car up and drove off. When he looked in his rear-view mirror, Eunice and Dora were still standing in the middle of the road, waving gaily at him. Archie wrinkled his brow in dismissal and thought about the big fat joint he’d presently be inhaling.

  That evening, Caro sat in the kitchen, pouring out her fourth glass of Bollinger. The bubbles fizzed against the flute, a cruel antidote to Caro’s flat mood. Sebastian had arrived home a few hours ago, looking every inch the city slicker in his Savile Row suit and Jermyn Street shirt. But no amount of expensive tailoring or deep tan could have hidden the purple shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Darling, you look knackered,’ Caro had said in concern as she met him on the doorstep. ‘You know, you work too jolly hard.’

  ‘Oh, stop fussing, sweetheart,’ Sebastian had replied, dropping a cursory kiss on her forehead. ‘Where’s my son, then?’

  Caro had bitten her lip. ‘His bedtime was an hour ago. I did tell you you’d have to get an earlier train if you wanted to see him . . .’

  ‘Yah, well I got held up,’ Sebastian had said evasively, thinking of Sabrina’s hold-ups in the back of the cab on the way to Paddington. They’d just had time to book into some grotty little Travelodge for a quickie, but then Sabrina had insisted on putting on an impromptu floorshow with her new vibrator. Sebastian had ended up missing the 5.03 and, as a result, he’d lost his seat in first class and had had to stand most of the two-hour journey back. Cursing Sabrina and her insatiable libido, he hadn’t arrived home in the best of moods.

  ‘Darling, pour me a stiff G and T, will you?’ Sebastian had strode down the corridor, straight past the dining room where Caro had spent ages laying an intimate table for two complete with soft lighting and candles. ‘Can we eat in front of the telly?’ he had continued. ‘I’ve eaten out at Daphne’s three times this week already. Don’t think I can hack another stuffy dinner.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he had disappeared into the comfy room. Caro had stood for a moment in the hallway, then gone into the dining room and slowly blown out the candles.

  After two courses, which Caro had spent all afternoon preparing and which Sebastian wolfed down in a matter of minutes, he had fallen asleep on the sofa. Sighing, she had carefully taken his shoes off and fetched a blanket to put over him, before going into the kitchen to comfort-eat her way through the lemon tart she had made for pudding.

  At No. 5 The Green, Camilla and Harriet were tucking into large glasses of wine. They were ensconced on opposite ends of Camilla’s comfy, flowered sofa, James Morrison on the stereo and the remains of a Waitrose fish pie for two on the floor beside them.

  Camilla and Harriet had been friends since they were little. They’d both been born in the village, gone to the same prep sc
hool, and then boarded at Benenden, the exclusive girls’ school in Kent. Over the years, they’d shared midnight feasts, exam pressures and unrequited crushes. Both homely types at heart, the pair had spurned the bright lights of London unlike many of their contemporaries, and, after a prerequisite ski season as chalet maids (Camilla in Courchevel and Harriet in Meribel) had hurried home to Churchminster as quickly as possible. Now Harriet worked as a sometime PA to her father, actually spending most of the time watching daytime TV and reading romance novels, while Camilla had her part-time job. Her boyfriend of three years was local farmer Angus Aldershot. Everyone expected Camilla and Angus to marry in the next few years, and for her to move up to his sprawling farm on the outskirts of the village. There she would readily churn out sturdy heirs to inherit the family business Angus had received from his own father.

  At the moment, though, thoughts of that were far from Camilla’s mind as she discussed her younger sister with Harriet. ‘I just don’t know what to do about her, Hats,’ she said, as she refilled their glasses again from the rapidly disappearing bottle of Chablis.

  ‘You know Calypso, she’s always been a first-rate rebel,’ Harriet replied. ‘I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, don’t worry, Bills,’ she said, using the nickname Camilla’s closest friends and family gave her.

  ‘Somehow, I can’t see that happening any time soon.’ Camilla sighed. ‘You know, this job had given her the first bit of proper stability she’d had for ages and Mummy and Daddy were so thrilled she’d found something to apply herself to.’

  ‘Has she told them yet?’

  ‘No, that’s been left to me, obviously,’ said Camilla. ‘Apparently Calypso’s pay-as-you-go has run out and she can’t afford to call them.’ She raised a wry eyebrow. ‘And she’s coming home to live with me for a while until she sorts herself out.’

  ‘Oh gosh, good luck!’ said Harriet.

  At that moment there was a violent banging on the door, followed by a loud, drunken voice.

  ‘BUTTERCUP! It’s the Shagmeister. Let me in, you horny little rabbit. I’m going to scamper up your warren and pork your brains out!’

  Camilla blushed and looked apologetically at Harriet. ‘Oh God, that’s Angus. I told him not to come back blotto from the pub. Sorry, Hats.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Harriet good-naturedly. ‘I’d better scoot off, anyway.’ She fetched her coat as Camilla went to open the front door.

  A large, red-faced young man with dishevelled floppy brown hair fell in. Angus was wearing a quilted green jacket which was flapping open to reveal the checked blue and white Thomas Pink shirt Camilla had bought him last Christmas. He looked like he’d fallen in a ditch on his way over: his brown cords and Timberland loafers were covered in mud. His blue, slightly bulbous eyes were crossed as he breathed a tsunami of beer fumes through the cottage. Angus went to stick his tongue in Camilla’s mouth but missed, and licked her cheek instead. She winced. He’d clearly been at the cheese and onion crisps in the pub.

  ‘An-gus!’ she reprimanded. ‘I told you not to come over if you got in this state.’

  ‘Yah, but “Little Angus” wants to come out to play,’ he boomed. Camilla winced again, and he slapped her on the bottom. ‘I thought I’d come and give you a good seeing-to, you naughty filly.’

  Behind them, Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Er, I’ll be off then,’ she said politely. ‘Hah!’ Angus rounded on her. ‘Fancy a threesome, Hatty?’

  This time Camilla kicked him on the ankle. ‘Angus! Don’t be so vile!’

  ‘Only joking, she’s not my type anyway!’ Camilla kicked his ankle even harder, but he had such thick red socks on he didn’t notice.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Harriet, sliding out the door gratefully. ‘I’ll see you soon, Bills.’ With that, she got in her Golf and drove off, eager to get back to her book and a dashing young hero who didn’t stink of beer and paw her like a randy bear.

  Behind the closed front door the randy bear was advancing, somewhat unsteadily, on Camilla. ‘Come here, my fair lady!’ he slurred. Angus fumbled with his zip, and a rather mediocre-sized cock popped out, weaving like a snake being charmed out of its basket. Camilla couldn’t think of anything less charming at that moment than being bonked by her drunk, sweaty boyfriend. Equally, she couldn’t bear to think of him fumbling around her nether regions all night when she wanted to sleep, so she guided him upstairs to her bedroom. There he fell on top of her, one leg still in his cords, and with his socks still on. As he thrust in and out of her, with all the tenderness of a bucking bronco, Camilla tried to make a mental list of what she had to do for Calypso’s imminent arrival. God, Angus hadn’t been this plastered since Tilly Motson-Bagshot’s thirtieth last summer. He and his best friend Ed ‘Sniffer’ Clevedon had set fire to the moose’s head in the Great Hall before putting on an impromptu Puppetry of the Penis show at the head of the table. Lady Motson-Bagshot had not been amused.

  Roaring like a wounded bull, Angus finally came, and collapsed on top of her.

  ‘Angus, you weigh a ton, get off me!’ she protested a few seconds later. He snored loudly in her ear.

  ‘So much for romance.’ Camilla heaved his sweating bulk off her before retreating to the other side of the bed.

  Chapter 6

  THE REVEREND ARTHUR Goody was a bright, cheery and enthusiastic man, very popular with the parishioners of Churchminster. He lived alone at the rather gloomy village rectory, but was often seen propping up the bar at the Jolly Boot, passing the time of day with the landlord, Jack ‘the Lad’ Turner. The Reverend’s sermons were peppered with gentle humour, which had attracted more young people from the village, and, as a result, congregation levels were at their highest in years. Mid-forties, portly with glasses and a Friar Tuck hairstyle, you wouldn’t say he’d exactly sexed-up religion, but Arthur Goody had definitely put a more human face on it.

  It was the first week in March, and Sunday dawned bright and sunny. The morning service at St Bartholomew’s was being held at eleven in the morning, and the villagers were beginning to file up the path outside the ancient, pretty church. The Reverend stood by the door and greeted them.

  ‘Freddie, Angie; beautiful day to enter the House of God.’

  ‘Better that than the House of Fraser,’ replied Freddie Fox-Titt good-naturedly. ‘Angie was in there yesterday afternoon, burning up my credit card.’

  Angie rolled her eyes affectionately as the Revd Goody chortled. ‘Come on, Freddie, or we’ll miss out on our pew. See you in there, Arthur.’

  Next to arrive were Clementine and Camilla. The former was resplendent in a maroon fitted velvet jacket and skirt, brandishing a large brown handbag that could have given Mrs Thatcher a run for her money. Her grey bun was immaculate as ever, as was the slash of coral pink lipstick across her mouth.

  ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ said Clementine briskly. ‘I did think the committee meeting went extremely well last week.’ She eyed him beadily. ‘I am still waiting to hear from you on the subject of the new pews, though.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it,’ he replied hastily. ‘Sorry, Mrs Standington-Fulthrope.’ Clementine reminded him of his old headmistress at prep school, a terrifying old dragon called Mrs Belcher. He always felt like a quivering schoolboy in her company.

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Clementine, sweeping past him. ‘I shall be in touch. Do come on, Camilla.’ The Revd Goody and Camilla exchanged weak smiles as she trailed after her grandmother.

  Camilla had the most beastly hangover. The night before, she and Angus had gone out for dinner in Bedlington, and afterwards he’d insisted on off-roading back across the muddy fields on his quad bike, with Camilla hanging on for dear life behind him, rich food and wine churning uneasily inside her. She’d been on the verge of vomiting ever since.

  The rest of the villagers filed in. This was the Revd Goody’s favourite part of his services: seeing the kaleidoscope of people that came from a village like Churchminster. Babs Sax, a forty-something artist
who lived in a cottage next to the village shop, skinny as a rake, and swathed in brightly patterned chiffon. Next was harassed-looking mum Lucinda Reinard, trailed by her three sulky children. Dora and Eunice Merryweather, throwing out cheery hellos and passing the children butterscotch sweets when their parents weren’t looking. The Turners from the pub, and Caro with baby Milo. Oh, thought the Reverend, and the husband too; nice to see families turning out together.

  In fact, Sebastian was looking round impatiently, constantly checking his watch. After forty-eight hours in the country he was going stir crazy, itching to get back to London. Caro hadn’t had the nerve to tell him yet that they were expected at her grandmother’s for lunch.

  An hour later, Camilla stretched her toes gratefully as the Revd Goody concluded his service. The fresh air had helped her nausea, and she was starting to feel human again. As the family pew was at the front of the church, Camilla and Clementine were the last people to leave. Outside, most of the villagers were still milling around, chatting or waiting for the pub to open. Consequently, virtually the entire population of Churchminster was on hand to witness what happened next.

  Shattering the tranquil calm of the surroundings, a black cab zoomed round the corner and screeched to a halt in front of the church. The passenger door was flung open, and a pair of impossibly long, slender legs encased in fishnet stockings and tipped with spiky black stilettos swung themselves out. The villagers looked on agog.

  Camilla, with a growing feeling of dread, thought she recognized the legs. They were followed by the hem of a bedraggled fur coat, a green sequin cocktail dress that couldn’t have been more inappropriate for the surroundings, and, finally, the head of an extremely pretty girl with wild, tousled long blonde hair, and black mascara streaked across her cheeks.

  ‘Yah, you can go to hell, too!’ she screamed at the red-faced cab driver. She hauled out a huge, battered old suitcase, which promptly fell open, spilling lacy G-strings, cigarette lighters, and bundles of creased clothes all over the ground.