Rivals

11

The following Sunday Monica Baddingham gave a lunch party at The Falconry to welcome Maud and Declan to Gloucestershire and launch the new conservatory built by Corinium’s studio carpenters. Accustomed to going out to lunch in London where people seldom ate before two o’clock or even two-thirty, Maud and Declan didn’t leave home until half past one. Declan tried to persuade Taggie to come too, but she blushingly refused when she heard Rupert might be there.

‘I’m sure Monica said left at The Dog and Trumpet,’ said Maud, applying a second layer of coral gloss to a pouting bottom lip.

Declan was in a vile temper. Not only had Maud made him late yet again by washing her hair at the last moment, but he had spent all morning trying to cut their hayfield of a lawn with a mower that kept choking on Gertrude’s shredded mutton bones. Now they seemed to be driving half way round Gloucestershire.

‘Why the hell can’t you take directions down properly?’ he snarled.

‘He’s your boss. You should have taken down the directions. Anyway it was you who wanted to move to the bloody country. Let’s go home.’

‘They’re giving the focking party for us. Why the hell don’t they put names on their houses in the country?’

‘You don’t.’

‘That’s because I don’t want anyone to come and see me.’

Declan was also aware that, although his wife was looking a billion dollars in a very low-cut black silk dress, a green shawl which matched her eyes, black stockings and black high heels, with her shiny red hair piled under the big black hat, she was quite unsuitably dressed for Sunday lunch.

‘There it is,’ said Declan at last, as he drove through two lichened gate posts topped with rather newer stone rams. ‘Christ, people are leaving already.’

As a dark-green BMW passed them coming the other way, the woman who was driving wound down the window:

‘Love your progamme. Frightfully sorry, we’ve got to go to a christening. Welcome to Gloucestershire; you must come to dinner. Better hurry or there won’t be any drink left.’

‘Jesus,’ muttered Declan.

The Baddinghams’ splendid Queen Anne house lay in a hollow surrounded by lush parkland. The stable clock was always kept twenty minutes fast so that people might worry they were late, and be encouraged to leave early.

In huge gold letters against a black background above the second door of the porch was written: Peaceful is the Country that is strongly armed. In the hall, stuffed heads of deer, tiger, stag and buffalo gazed down glassily.

‘My head’ll be up there next,’ muttered Declan as Tony came out of the drawing-room, plainly in a bait.

‘Can’t you ever get the time right, Declan? We’ve been trying to have lunch for three-quarters of an hour.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Maud in her most caressing tones. ‘Declan and I are used to London hours.’

‘Well, you’d better acquire a few rural habits. The Pimm’s has run out; what d’you want to drink?’

‘Oh, there you are.’ Monica swept in wearing a blue cotton shirtwaister and open-toed sandals on her big bare feet. ‘Taggie said you were on your way; pity you didn’t bring her, I’ve got so many spare men. Have a quick drink, and then we’ll have lunch. It’s probably the last time we’ll be able to eat outside this year,’ she added wistfully, thinking how much she’d prefer to be dividing the regale lilies.

Having given Maud a drink, she led her through the vast tapestried drawing-room out to the new conservatory, which stretched the entire back of the house at ground floor level and was crammed with statues of goddesses, iron seats painted white, lilies, palms, aspidistras and plants still wrapped, which people had brought as conservatory-warming presents.

‘Beautiful,’ murmured Maud, taking a huge slug of whisky.

Everyone, gathered on the lawn, turned round and stared.

‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ bellowed Charles Fairburn, who was already tight. Mistiming his kiss, his round red shiny face cannoned off Maud’s like a billiard ball.

‘Looking beautiful as usual,’ he said, drawing her aside.

‘You’re not to monopolize her, Charles,’ said Monica bossily.

‘I promise I’ll introduce her to everyone,’ said Charles. ‘Your husband’s certainly been stirring things up at Corinium,’ he added, lowering his voice.

‘Really,’ said Maud, only mildly interested.

She’d never been wild about Charles. He knew too much about her, and with such fantastic men around she didn’t want to waste her first party on one who was both drunk and gay.

‘Is that very good-looking man over there Rupert Campbell-Black?’ she asked.

‘Unfair to Rupert,’ said Charles. ‘That’s James Vereker, Corinium’s most popular presenter, drinking Perrier and working the room. He’s fearfully put out by your husband joining Corinium.’

James was, in fact, absolutely furious. He’d arrived as late as he dared in order to make an entrance, then Declan had swanned in even later. Now he was trapped by three of Monica’s friends who ‘did an enormous amount for charity’, silly old bags who all wanted him to open their Autumn bazaars and Christmas fayres for nothing. To look at Monica’s toe nails, thought James in disgust, you’d have reckoned she weeded the garden with her feet; and Paul Stratton, who’d put on a hell of a lot of weight, looked ludicrous in those tight new jeans, and a denim shirt undone to the waist to reveal scanty grey chest hair. James, who’d nearly worn jeans and an unbuttoned blue shirt, was so glad he’d put on instead a new grey jersey with a pink elephant on the front, knitted by one of his adoring fans.

‘Come and meet Maud O’Hara, James,’ yelled Charles Fairburn.

James extracted himself from the old bags and wandered over. Maud O’Hara was certainly extraordinarily beautiful.

‘Is that pink elephant on your bosom meant to reproach the rest of us for not drinking Perrier?’ said Charles.

‘If the cap fits, Charles,’ smirked James. ‘Don’t you think it’s a nice sweater, Maud? Sent me by a fan.’ He smiled engagingly.

Charles peered at the sweater: ‘Not sure about the collar.’

‘It might look better if you wore a brooch,’ said Maud.

James suddenly decided he didn’t think Maud was beautiful at all.

‘Hullo,’ said Lizzie Vereker, coming over and hugging Maud, ‘lovely to see you, I’m so pleased you’ve met James. Thank you for all that lovely whisky the other day. Are you straight yet?’

‘Don’t ever ask me that question,’ said Charles with a shudder. ‘What’s all this about five fire engines rolling up at Rupert’s house and catching him playing nude tennis with a blonde. Talk about Wobble-don.’

Lizzie giggled: ‘Rupert’s convinced some animal rights freak called the fire brigade because she thought he was cruel to burn his stubble.’

‘Who was the blonde?’ asked Charles. ‘Beattie Johnson?’

‘No, that finished months ago. Rupert won’t say. The on dit is that she’s the girl playing Mustard Seed in Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘Have you heard that Titania’s so petrified of getting AIDS, she’s refusing to kiss Bottom until he’s had a blood test?’ said Charles.

‘Is Rupert here?’ asked Maud, who was not interested in Corinium gossip.

‘Somewhere. Probably wandered off down one of those garden glades in which everyone except Monica behaves badly,’ said Lizzie.

‘Speak for yourself,’ said James disapprovingly.

It was certainly a beautiful garden. Rising out of a sea of lavender, roses coming up for a second pale-pink innings rampaged up the walls of the house. Pastel drifts of delphiniums, Japanese anemones, and Michaelmas daisies were sheltered from the bitter winds by yew hedges nine feet high. Two plump labradors panted on lawns as smooth as an Oxford quad. Beyond was a fish pond and a water garden, fed by the same winding River Fleet that flowed through Cotchester.

‘What are you going to do about the Priory garden?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Get a donkey to keep down the lawn,’ said Maud.

‘I hope to God we eat soon,’ said a harassed-looking man with a moth-eaten yellow beard, and a sleeping baby hanging from a baby sling. He was also hanging on to two frantically struggling children by the scruffs of their necks.

‘There is a limited amount of time one can entertain one’s kids feeding Tony’s fish,’ he added helplessly.

Lizzie introduced Simon Harris. All his skin seemed to be flaking in the open air, thought Maud.

‘How’s Fiona?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Still in hospital for another three weeks. It’s the nanny’s day off, or I’d never have brought this lot,’ said Simon, as the two hyperactive horrors strained at their collars like bull terriers after a cat. ‘If they get at Monica’s Meissen I’m finished. I just couldn’t resist a square meal,’ he added pathetically.

Lizzie opened her mouth to ask him to supper, then closed it again. Simon was so boring at the moment, and she knew James, who was convinced Simon was about to get the bullet, would think it a waste of time.

The panting labradors struggled to their feet, waving their tails as Monica appeared at the conservatory door.

‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You stay outside with the children,’ she added firmly to Simon. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you something out. I like children normally, but Simon’s two will keep pulling the dogs’ ears, and they keep knocking over my new plants,’ she added in an undertone to Maud.

As Maud walked into the dining-room, Declan came towards her looking really happy for the first time that week: ‘Darling, you must meet Rupert. He knows Johnny very well. He’s given me some great stuff about him. It’s added a totally new dimension to his character.’

Maud caught her breath. How could I ever have mistaken James Vereker for that, she wondered.

Rupert and Declan were both tall and broad in the shoulder, but there the resemblance ended. Declan, with his heavily lined, broken-nosed, shaggy-haired splendour, was like a battle-scarred charger returning from the wars. Rupert was like a sleek capricious thoroughbred, rippling with muscle and breeding, about to win the Derby at a canter. Yet in their great fame and their intrinsic belief (despite Declan’s current self-doubts) that they were still the greatest in the world at what they did, they were the same, and therefore separate from the rest of the party. At that moment both James and Maud felt a bitter stab of envy, that Declan had been admitted so effortlessly to the same club to which Johnny Friedlander and Rupert belonged.

‘Welcome to Penscombe.’ Rupert kissed Maud on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you moved in, but I’ve been frantically busy.’

‘So we hear, Rupert,’ said Charles archly. ‘What’s this about fire engines and a burning bush?’

‘Fuck off, Fairburn,’ said Rupert, grinning.

‘Come on, don’t hold up the queue,’ said Monica, beckoning from behind a long white table. ‘You’re getting Coronation chicken again, I’m afraid.’

Maud stood in front of Declan and Rupert, gulping down her third glass of wine and feeling totally unnerved.

‘I know your house very well,’ Rupert told her. ‘I remember pursuing something that wasn’t a fox across your haha at one party. Ended up ripping the front of my trousers off on the barbed wire. How’s the garden?’

‘A groundsel estate, and the nettles are on the warpath,’ said Declan.

‘Better get those tackled professionally,’ said Rupert, ‘or you’ll never get rid of them. I’ve got a man who’ll do it for you.’

‘What about the wood?’ asked Declan.

‘Forestry commission’ll give you a grant for that. They’ll whip out all the dead stuff and plant you new young trees as a quid pro quo for the firewood.’

‘How wonderfully positive you are,’ murmured Maud. ‘Perhaps you can give me advice on re-decorating our bedroom?’

‘Re-decorating’s never been a priority of mine. Not in bedrooms,’ said Rupert.

‘Tuck in, Maud,’ said Monica impatiently. ‘And you haven’t met my brother-in-law, Bas. He’s dying to meet you.’

Bas was about five inches taller than Tony and decidedly attractive in a sleek, wicked, Latin way. He kissed Maud’s hand, then turned it over and buried his lips in her wrist.

‘Calêche,’ he murmured. ‘I adore it. Do you wear it all over?’

Maud laughed. ‘Are you local?’

‘Near enough as the helicopter flies. I can land on the palm of your hand. I’ve got a wine bar in Cotchester High Street,’ he went on. ‘Most of my evil brother’s staff gather there to plot against him. No doubt your famous husband will shortly join them. You must get him to bring you in one day.’

‘Don’t be silly, Bas,’ said Monica briskly. ‘You haven’t met Paul Stratton, Maud, our MP for Cotchester, nor his wife Sarah.’

She looks more like his daughter, thought Maud. With his anxious, lined, somewhat petulant face, and his brushed-forward blue-grey hair, Paul looked like one of those once-famous television personalities who eke out a middle-aged existence advising housewives to buy soap powder in television commercials.

Even Maud, who had a dismissive attitude to the charms of her own sex, had to admit that the wife was ravishing.

‘Ah, the newly-weds,’ said Bas, kissing Sarah on the mouth. ‘When are you going to start being unfaithful to Paul? We’re in Beaufort country here, you know, high fences and low morals.’

‘Basil,’ snapped Monica. ‘Do stop holding up the queue. And you haven’t met Freddie Jones, our electronic whizz kid have you, Maud?’

‘Oh my goodness, you are smashing,’ said Freddie in wonder. ‘I ’ear Rupert’s going to provide your ’usband with an ’orse.’

Maud felt marvellous. It was such a long time since she’d been admired by so many attractive men, so much more macho than all those wimps in London, and for once people were paying more attention to her than Declan. This dress always worked.

‘Come along, Mrs O’Hara,’ said Rupert, who, while Maud was busy fascinating, had loaded up two plates, acquired a bottle of white and two glasses, and put them on a tray. ‘D’you want to be indoors or out?’

‘Indoors,’ said Maud joyfully. ‘I freckle so easily.’

Rupert found them a window seat in the conservatory.

‘Monica’s done this rather well,’ he said, looking round. ‘I gather it’s cost Corinium even more than your husband’s first week’s salary. You want to avoid this house in winter; it’s the sort of place eskimos send their children as punishment.’

On cue, Simon Harris’s two hyperactive monsters roared past, sending an aspidistra flying. Ten seconds later they were followed by Simon Harris, with Coronation chicken all over his beard. The baby in the sling was bawling its head off.

‘Did they go this way?’ asked Simon frantically.

There was a crash from the drawing-room.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rupert.

Maud wrinkled her nose as he rushed out.

‘That baby needs changing.’

Rupert laughed. ‘All his children do. I’d take the lot back to Harrods if I was him.’

Rushing almost as fast in the opposite direction came Paul Stratton searching for Sarah, who was sitting on a wall giggling with Bas.

‘Paul’s jeans appear to be castrating him even more than his new wife,’ said Rupert, forking up chicken at great speed. ‘If he bends over, his eyes will pop out.’

Maud admired the length of Rupert’s pale-brown corduroyed thighs. After four large glasses of wine, she suddenly had an irresistible urge to touch one of them.

‘She’s beautiful, his wife,’ said Maud.

‘She’s a tramp,’ said Rupert, ‘and Paul’s living in Cloud Cuckold Land.’

‘What’s Bas like?’ asked Maud, putting her chicken down on the floor untouched.

‘Divine,’ said Rupert. ‘One of my best mates. Runs a phenomenally successful wine bar, dabbles in property, hunts four days a week in winter, plays polo all summer, and screws all the prettiest girls in four counties. Can’t be bad.’

‘He doesn’t look like Tony,’ said Maud.

‘They had different fathers. After twenty-three years of utter fidelity to Lord Pop-Pop, Tony’s mother fell for an Argentinian polo player. The result to everyone’s amazement was Bas. Hence the name of the wine bar — the Bar Sinister.’

Maud laughed. Many men had told her that her laugh was beautiful — low, musical, joyous.

‘Tell me about your children,’ said Rupert, who’d finished his chicken.

‘I’ve got a son, Patrick.’

‘I’m not interested in him.’

‘And a daughter of just eighteen.’ Seeing Rupert’s eyes gleam, Maud added hastily, ‘But she’s shy and retiring; doesn’t go out much. And one of fourteen, who’s madly in love with you; she’s kept her binoculars trained on your house ever since we arrived.’

‘That’s nice. They’re adorable at that age.’

‘She’s got a brace on her teeth, and going through a very plain stage,’ said Maud even more hastily. ‘Tell me about Freddie Jones.’

‘He’s a saint.’

‘Because he buys your horses?’

‘Not entirely. I’ve offered Declan a horse if ever he wants a day’s hunting.’

‘Declan rides very well,’ said Maud. ‘He grew up on a farm. Who’s that little woman who’s bending his ear at the moment, who keeps making silly faces? He looks as though he needs rescuing.’

Rupert glanced round. ‘Not by me, he doesn’t. That’s Freddie’s wife, Valerie, the Lady of the Mannerism; won’t rest till she’s Queen of England. Freddie unfortunately thinks she is already. Keeping down with the Joneses is an eternal problem round here.’

‘You’re very black and white, aren’t you?’ said Maud, noticing his long fingers and wishing they were unbuttoning her silk dress.

‘I like people or I don’t.’

Looking up, Maud gave Rupert the benefit of her most bewitching smile. The great expanse of white eyeball and the beautiful teeth (unfairly even and white after so few visits to the dentist) really did light up her face. At the same time her hair escaped from its jewelled comb and cascaded down her back.

‘I hope you like me,’ she murmured.

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Rupert slowly, looking at her mouth and then her breasts. ‘I like your husband very much, but you’re certainly too disturbing to be living across the valley.’

Glancing through the conservatory window at Maud’s pale, rapt face, Declan thought she looked far more exotic than any of Monica’s orchids and felt a sick churning jealousy. Rupert had his back turned. Maud was weaving her spells again.

‘You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,’ Declan quoted to himself despairingly, ‘And bind up your long hair and sigh, And all men’s hearts must burn and beat.’

Oh Christ, if only he could get away from this party, and spend a few hours on his Yeats book. And in three days he’d got to interview Johnny. He’d done his duty at this party. He’d talked to the appallingly pompous Paul Stratton, and asked Simon Harris about his wife, and answered questions from fearful bone-headed locals about the famous people he’d interviewed, and listened to at least three women who had daughters reading English at University, who wanted to go into television, and now he was trapped by this monstrous dwarf.

‘It’s so wonderful to be able to stand at the bottom of one’s drive,’ said Valerie Jones, ‘and not be able to see one’s house.’

She was wearing a cricket sweater and white flannels, and rabbited relentlessly on like an obnoxious player who wouldn’t stop bowling when the umpire said Over.

‘We couldn’t be happier with Green Lawns,’ she went on smugly. ‘We looked at The Priory, you know. It was on the market for ages, but it’s awfully cold, and I really couldn’t live in a property that didn’t get sun until the evening. I must have sunshine.’

She held her silly face up to the sun. Declan longed to clout a six into it. He could see Maud was running her hand through her hair now, shaking it out. Her body was arched towards Rupert. Unnoticed by either of them, the fatter of Monica’s labradors was busy gobbling up Maud’s chicken.

‘Even Freddie was nervous about meetin’ you,’ Valerie was saying. ‘Ay said, don’t be silly, Fred-Fred. Famous folk are just like everyone else. Most of them are on drugs, and very lonely, because all their friends have deserted them.’

‘I wish some of ours would desert us,’ said Declan grimly. ‘That’s why we moved to the country.’

In the hall Tony was throwing out Simon Harris. The elder monster had just smashed a Ming bowl.

‘Was it very old?’ stammered Simon, white-lipped.

‘Only just over six hundred years,’ hissed Tony. ‘Out, OUT.’

‘I’ll pay for it.’

‘It would take you two years’ salary, which I don’t think you’d like from the way you’re always whining about money. Now, bugger off, before those little bastards break the whole place up.’

‘I must go,’ said Rupert.

‘Oh,’ said Maud, put out. She wanted the afternoon to go on for ever. It was as though the sun had gone in.

‘I’ve got to pick up my children from my ex.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Eight and ten.’

‘You must bring them over to see us. Taggie, my daughter, dotes on children. She’d keep them out of our hair. Has your ex-wife married again?’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert getting to his feet, ‘to my old chef d’équipe, Malise Gordon. He used to manage the British team when I was show jumping. Bit of a tartar, so I feel their twin rays of disapproval if I roll up late.’

At that moment Freddie Jones rolled up with two over-loaded plates of Pavlova.

‘’ullo my darlings; brought you some sweet.’

‘Not for me, I’m off,’ said Rupert.

‘How’s my horse getting on?’ said Freddie.

‘Bloody well. I think we’ll run him in a two-mile chase at Cheltenham. He’s ready for it.’

They were interrupted by frantic tapping on the window pane. Valerie Jones was glaring in: No dessert, Fred-Fred, she mouthed.

Lizzie Vereker took Valerie’s place beside Declan: ‘D’you need rescuing?’

‘I did,’ said Declan. ‘I don’t any more. She nails your feet to the floor, but I’m trained to cut across wafflers.’ He shook his head. ‘How’s the book going?’

‘Backwards,’ said Lizzie. ‘Are you nervous about your first programme?’

‘Yes. I shouldn’t be allowed out before a series starts. I get so wound up, I can’t talk to anyone.’

‘Good luck with Johnny, ‘said Rupert, pausing on his way out.

‘Come and have dinner with us after the programme,’ said Declan.

‘Can’t. I’m off to Ireland. I know we’re both hellishly pushed, but let’s get together soon. I’ll come and look at your wood. ‘Bye, darling.’ He gave Lizzie a kiss.

As he crossed the deserted hall Sarah Stratton came out of the downstairs loo, reeking of Anaïs Anaïs. Glancing back towards the garden, Rupert saw that James was nose to nose with Paul Stratton, each mistakenly assuming he was furthering his own career.

‘Come and feed the fish,’ said Rupert, taking Sarah’s hand.

He led her down a grassy ride, flanked on either side by yew hedges, to the fish pond. Stuffed to bursting by Simon Harris’s monsters, the carp didn’t even bother to ruffle the surface of the water lilies.

‘Any repercussions?’ asked Rupert.

Sarah shook her head. ‘It seems funny, belting away from your tennis court with a pink dress over my head. The entire Gloucestershire fire brigade will recognize my bush, but not my face.’

Rupert grinned, and pulled her inside the thick curtain of a weeping ash. After he’d kissed her, he said: ‘When are we going to finish the set?’

‘Very soon, please.’

Her smooth golden face was green in the gloom; she looked like a water nymph.

‘How was Maud O’Hara?’ she asked.

‘Seemed pretty unmoored to me,’ said Rupert.

‘Looks as though she’d like to tie herself to you.’

‘Were you jealous?’

Sarah nodded.

‘Pity your husband’s summer recess coincides with mine.’

‘He’s never away,’ moaned Sarah, as Rupert’s fingers moved between her legs. ‘Why don’t we nip into the gazebo?’

‘Got to pick up the children. I’m late already.’

‘When am I going to see you?’ gasped Sarah, as Rupert’s other hand slid down underneath her pants at the back.

‘Come to Ireland with me. I’m leaving on Wednesday afternoon.’

‘I can’t. My ghastly step-children are coming for a couple of weeks on a trial visit. I know who it’s going to be a trial to as well. Paul’s going to Gatwick on Tuesday to meet them.’

‘That’ll give us at least five hours. Ring me at home the minute he leaves.’

‘Hulloo,’ called a male voice.

Frantically straightening her dress, Sarah shot out through the ash tree curtain and bent once more over the fish pond to hide her flaming face.

Wiping off her pale-pink lipstick, Rupert followed in a more leisurely fashion.

‘Sarah and I were talking about horses,’ he told an apoplectic Paul. ‘If you’re going to fork out for a groom, feed and grazing for two hunters, you’re talking about at least fifteen thousand a year. Better if Sarah kept something at my yard.’

‘We’ll discuss it in our own time, thank you,’ spluttered Paul. ‘We must go, Sarah.’

Back in the conservatory, Maud was being heavily chatted up by Bas.

‘Shove off, Bas,’ Monica told him. ‘Declan wants to go and I want two minutes with Maud.’

‘I’ll come and see you,’ said Bas, blowing Maud a kiss.

He’s very attractive, thought Maud dreamily, but not in Rupert’s class.

‘I’m sure you’re a joiner,’ said Monica, who was now busily dead-heading a pale-blue plumbago growing up a whitewashed trellis.

‘No,’ said Maud, ‘I’m an actress.’

Very firmly, but charmingly, she managed to resist all Monica’s urging that she should get herself involved in any kind of charity work.

‘The children come first,’ said Maud simply.

‘But two of them are away,’ protested Monica, ‘and Taggie’s eighteen.’

‘But still dyslexic,’ sighed Maud. ‘She needs her mother, and of course Declan needs his wife.’

‘But you must do something for charity,’ persisted Monica. ‘It’s such a good way of meeting new people, and it’s awfully easy to get bored in the country.’

‘I never get bored,’ lied Maud. ‘There’s so much to do to the house. I can’t pass a traffic light at the moment without wondering whether yellow would go with red in one of the children’s bedrooms.’

Driving home, Maud put a hand on Declan’s thigh, edging it upwards. Pixillated by Rupert’s interest, and Bas’s extravagant compliments, hazy with drink, she felt wildly desirable and alive again.

‘Let’s go straight to bed.’

‘What about Taggie?’ said Declan.

‘Say we’re both tired.’

Declan curled a hand into the front of her black dress.

‘They all wanted you.’

‘Did you like that?’ whispered Maud.

‘I know how hard I’ve got to fight to keep you,’ he said harshly and felt her nipples hardening.

Back in their bedroom at The Priory, he undressed her slowly down to her suspender belt and stockings, so black against the soft white skin.

‘When did you get those bruises?’ she said sharply, as he took off his shirt.

‘This morning. The focking mowing machine kept stopping and I didn’t.’