They agreed that nothing would change – unless for the better.
‘Two mothers are better than one,’ Hana promised her.
‘I think I only want one mother,’ Zuzi had replied.
Now, as they were told that Sylva was ‘too busy in the Cotswolds’ to see them, and were conveyed to the main house in Amersham, Hana felt strangely elated. There had been no tearful reunion at the arrivals gate, no photocall. Perhaps Zuzi would be allowed to have one mother after all. She hugged her to her side and listened to the Christmas songs playing on the radio; both pointed in amazement at houses lit up with fairy lights like fairground rides as they passed them.
While shots of her looking sad and alone before Christmas were being syndicated, Sylva felt like the fairy on the top of a very big spruce as she anticipated climbing aboard Castigates’ huge, smooth trunk. That evening she flirted outrageously over mulled wine in a dim corner of the New Inn, her Bond-girl accent at full strength: ‘You are
very
strong. Like athlete. So many muscles.’
‘Gateses are known for their build round here,’ he told her, coughing uncomfortably.
‘I haff always loved swinging on gates – the bigger the better.’ She laughed delightedly.
‘I’d better not introduce you to my cousin Amos, then,’ he muttered, glancing at his watch.
To Sylva’s fury he only stayed for one drink before thanking her and saying that he must hurry home because was he expecting his wife back from a trip to Lapland with her sister and three nieces. And so, instead of coupling like two rapacious animals in front of the spluttering wood-burning stove of his little estate cottage as she had planned, Sylva was alone in bed by ten o’clock.
She squirmed with frustration, knowing that she would meet Dillon Rafferty in just a few days’ time, taking aim at the hand-reared game instead of playing with the keeper. As soon as Mama arrived she would take over the action plan and make sure Sylva behaved. She was relieved that she’d put her mother off, along with Hana and Zuzi, who reminded her all too vividly of her past. She needed a few more days of freedom.
Sylva lay in the semi-darkness, fingers illuminated by her telephone
screen, telling all her Twitter followers and Facebook friends that she needed a man, and smiling as a wave of offers came back, including a host of teenage fans offering their fathers. Feeling cheered, she made a quick call. ‘Darlink, I know we’re not officially speaking, but unofficially, I’m
sooo
bored and lonely.’
The reply was laced with laughter just as warming as a log fire. ‘Come over and help me choose what to pack for Malta. You always had much better taste than me.’
When Nell collected Dillon from his Abu Dhabi flight wearing a strange white beak made from surgical tape and gauze, he assumed she’d had a nose job. So did the gathered paparazzi, who captured it from every angle. Therefore her attempts to garner sympathy backfired and she was set on a serious damage limitation exercise.
The less she said about the circumstances of her accident the better, so she told Dillon that she couldn’t remember much about it.
‘Were you knocked out?’
‘Probably.’
He was contrite, blaming himself for buying the horse in the first place – ‘I’ll make it up to you, darling Nell’ – but he had that weary look in his eye that she knew spelled trouble.
‘Mummy’s got Gigi for the night,’ she told him as they pulled into the West Oddford Farm drive. ‘I’ve cooked pheasant stew.’ Actually her mother had cooked it, but Nell needed all the points on offer.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Dillon yawned, still stuffed with wedding banquet and airplane snacks. ‘I just want a bath.’
‘Then I’ll run it for you and rub your back.’ She rushed upstairs, pulling out all the stops to make up for skating around the truth and over ever-thinning ice. She lit candles and added half a bottle of Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet scented oil.
Soon Dillon was slipping around in the big claw-foot bath like the last sardine in the can.
Perching on the side she rubbed his back and shoulders, sliding her strong fingers around the knotted muscles.
He sighed, closing his eyes and knowing that he had to have some guts. ‘Nell, we need to talk.’
It was the ultimate cliché. Her fingers were carefully removed.
‘I don’t like talking.’
‘We have no choice.’
‘Sure, but I need you to soap me first. It’s your turn.’
He opened his eyes to find that she had stripped to her stockings and was bending over beside the bath, face carefully averted to hide the comedy nose. She had such a perfect heart-shaped backside and there, in that magical hollow, the exotic fruit was bursting to be touched and tasted.
His fingers, inches away, lifted without thinking, scented water dripping as he traced the skin towards that delicious opening. She perched obligingly on the lip of the bath and stood on tiptoe.
Slipping around precariously, Dillon managed to position himself for entry, but just as he plunged in, knowing that he couldn’t keep a grip on either the sides of his bath or his sexual appetite, the door shot open.
‘Dillon, my son!’
Framed within the doorway was the legendary figure of the Rockfather, clad in skinny jeans, cowboy boots and a granddad shirt, his dyed-black hair on end above his wide-eyed, oh-so-famous face.
‘Here you are! Your PA told me to come on up.’ He marched in, waving in two shadowy figures behind him. ‘I brought your uncles Lenny and Dave to see you. Get the bimbo to sling her hook for a few hours, huh? We’ve got catching up to do.’
‘Dad! Fuck offfeeeeiighhhoohhhhh …!’ Dillon slipped back in the bath with a great whoosh, banging his chin hard on the enamel edge.
With a laconic chuckle and a swagger of his narrow hips, the Rockfather admired Nell, who had grabbed a towel and was gaping at him over one shoulder as she wrapped herself up in it.
Then Pete peered down over the rim of the bath.
‘Merry Christmas to you, too. Son – Dillon –
son
? Fuck!’ he turned back to Nell in a panic as he reached into the water to haul out the incredibly slippery Dillon. ‘Get some clothes on, girl, and call an ambulance! He’s knocked himself out!’
‘Man, it’s like Brian Jones!’ croaked Dave in a rasping voice.
‘More like Jim Morrison,’ droned Lenny in a nasal whine.
Sending both of them flying in her wake, Nell dived for the phone. Behind her, Pete slithered about on a wide slick of Penhaligon-scented water and fell into the bath with his son.
Dillon had swallowed a great deal of Blenheim Bouquet but was otherwise unharmed. The paramedics were sent away with a hefty donation to the air ambulance fund and an apologetic explanation that, after so many years on drugs, Pete Rafferty was prone to seeing things.
‘As soon as I get here, people start trying to die on me. Just my luck!’ Now wrapped in a dressing gown while his clothes dried on the Aga, Pete told Dillon the much embellished story of the dead girl under the holly bush at his weekend shoot.
Their rapprochement might have got off to a sticky – slippery – start, but the two men were making an effort, and Pete was clearly genuine in his desire to build bridges.
Nell was less impressed. Coming from a world where women were as disposable as razors, Pete treated her like a fluffer available to all that night. The other men had similar attitudes.
‘You done topeless modelling?’ asked the weasily one with the whining voice.
‘No.’
‘You should – great kahunas. Small but sweet. Shame to waste them. You need to lose the beak, though.’
She felt as though she might as well still be naked. They just looked straight through her and talked over her.
She clutched Milo to her chest and went to the kitchen to fetch a drink. Amazingly, all the men were knocking back orange juice and she needed something stronger.
Typically Dillon had almost no alcohol in the house. She unearthed a small bottle of cooking brandy at the back of the larder and helped herself to a slug.
He appeared in the kitchen, hair dried flat from so much bath oil, a big bruise forming on his chin. It made him look strangely young and vulnerable.
‘Sorry about Dad. I need to deal with this, y’know. I have to give him a chance. He bought a bloody stately home up the road just so he could stage this number. The least I can do is play along.’
‘Sure.’ She fetched her coat.
‘I’ll make up for it.’
She nodded, not looking at him.
He patted her shoulder in a curiously detached gesture, then tickled Milo’s ears with far more affection. It didn’t go unnoticed.
But when she popped her head around the door to the big, comfortable sitting room to wish Pete and his friends farewell, the old rocker threw her a lifeline.
‘What are you lovers doing for Christmas?’
‘We’re staying here,’ Dillon said firmly, not looking at Nell. ‘Fawn’s bringing the girls to stay.’
‘That stuck-up cow.’ Pete winked at Nell.
Dillon smarted, the reunion already under threat. ‘It means a lot to the girls to have their parents together over Christmas.’
‘Come and see my new gaff,’ Pete offered, studying Nell’s body again.
‘Your new gaff’s my old gaff,’ she told him winningly.
‘Eh?’ He looked blank.
‘You bought the Abbey from Nell’s family, Dad,’ Dillon explained. ‘She’s Nell Cottrell.’
‘You’re from that bunch of criminals?’ he cackled. ‘Great! Invite them too. Boxing Day.’
Dillon shook his head. ‘We can’t. We’ve been invited shooting with friends.’
Nell elbowed him hard but he ignored her. She couldn’t believe he would stay loyal to an invitation from people he hardly knew, when this was the dream opportunity to combine both their families in the perfect setting.
‘At least think about it.’ Pete shot Nell’s body a hot look, which meant that she would soon be thinking about nothing else.
Dillon towed her away to the front door. ‘Please don’t rise to it. Dad does this to all my girlfriends. It’s his thing. He wants you to fancy him.’
‘Of course I’m not interested in him,’ she lied.
Dillon looked sceptical. ‘Fawn would never look twice at him. It’s why he hates her.’
Nell flared at the bait. ‘He is
so
not my type.’
He looked incredibly tired again.
‘So we’re still shooting on Boxing Day?’ she checked.
His blue eyes met with hers, so honest and full of regret, and suddenly she knew he was about to say something that she didn’t want to hear. Kissing his kiss-off away, she jumped in her car and drove away before he could do it.
Dillon trailed back into the house.
Pete and his friends had turned on the television and were watching a repeat of
The Old Grey Whistle Test
on an obscure satellite arts channel, marvelling at long-lost friends.
‘Good to see you again, son,’ Pete rasped, patting the sofa beside him. ‘Nice little crib you’ve got here. Not sure about the bird with the beak, but you always had shit taste in skirt.’
‘Touch her and you’re dead,’ he warned, knowing his father’s penchant for stealing his girlfriends only too well. He needed to do something about Nell, but not like this.
Pete raised a hand in respect, then let out a distracted wail of protest as Lenny surfed the channels, settling on an Edith Wharton adaptation that featured one of Fawn’s Oscar-nominated performances.
Dillon’s face froze as he watched his ex-wife on screen in a corseted dress, parasol aloft, flirting demurely with Daniel Day Lewis.
His father grabbed the remote and flicked on to live racing from the States. ‘Take it from one who knows,’ he sighed. ‘If marriage is a triumph of imagination over intelligence,
second
marriage is a triumph of hope over experience. Don’t hurry into it.’ He studied the horses being posted into the stalls. ‘Now
these
nags, I like.’
‘I’ve got a few in training now,’ Dillon couldn’t help boasting. ‘Event horses.’
‘That’s my boy!’ Pete patted him on the back. ‘Chip off the old block.’
Beside them, Lenny was tilting his head back in a reverie. ‘I found my
third
marriage the best one,’ he remembered fondly.
‘That so?’ Pete flashed a pirate smile. ‘Maybe I’ll take your advice, Len, and give that a go.’
‘Welcome home!’ Tash burst through the Heathrow crowds in arrivals and dashed towards Hugo, gearing up for her running jump. This was going to be her moment, her Meg Ryan leap from
Top Gun
, the ultimate demonstration of how pleased she was to see him. She eyed up her landing spot and took off beautifully. It was only during the split-second she was in the air that she realised he was carrying a large parcel under one arm. As she landed on target, embracing him lovingly, she crushed the parcel flat with an ominous breaking sound. Her ultra-supportive elastic bodyshaper chose the same moment to roll up from her thighs to her armpits, leaving her with a large Lycra sausage encircling her chest like an over-tight rubber swimming ring, and she hastily slithered back on to her own two feet again.
Hugo took it all in good spirits, grateful that he’d stayed upright, although the Lalique horse he’d bought her for Christmas had been smashed into a hundred pieces. ‘I knew I should have sent it back with Oil Tanker, with travel boots and its own in-flight groom.’
‘Was it terribly expensive?’ she asked worriedly as he binned the parcel on the way to the car park.
‘I’ll buy you something else.’ He eyed the strange bulge that was making her walk with her arms held away from her sides like an ape. ‘Is that strapping around your chest? Did you fall off?’
‘No, just a new bra.’ She didn’t have the nerve to tell him that she hadn’t got back
on
a horse to fall off it yet. ‘Rather uncomfortable, actually.’
‘Let’s buy you some new underwear for Christmas then,’ he offered as she pointed the key fob at the Shogun to unlock it.
Flashing him a worried smile, she was equally reluctant to admit that she’d already spent a small fortune on smalls. ‘I’d rather have a new watch.’