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‘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.’
