cousin Tatiana to swoop in unannounced and effectively take over proceedings. She’d even demanded that Mrs Worsley put her up in her old room at Furlings for the week of the fete.
‘I presume I’m welcome as a guest, at least? In my own bloody home,’ she fumed.
Once installed, Tati had begun the Herculean task of trying to win over the locals. Her challenge to her father’s will was based on the premise that Furlings had never really been Rory’s to leave. That there was an effective entailment, inferred from generations of local practice. It was a shaky case, to say the least, but it was all she had. In order for it to stand a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding in court, she would need extensive local support. Hence, in Gabe Baxter’s view, her cynical ‘sudden interest’ in the village.
‘You have to admit, she’s done a good job running the fete committee,’ said Will Nutley, draining the dregs of his cider and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘This must be the best turnout we’ve had in a decade. Loads of celebs have shown up because of her.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s all money for the village, isn’t it? I saw Kate Moss earlier at the craft stall. And Seb Harwich said Hugh Grant was milling around somewhere.’
‘Probably complaining,’ said Gabe, downing the rest of his Merrydown in a single gulp. ‘He’s such a miserable git.’
Will grinned. ‘Sure you’re not just jealous because he’s getting all the female attention?’
Gabe gave his trademark, arrogant laugh. ‘Jealous? Please. Anyway, he’s not getting Laura’s attention,’ he added proudly. ‘That’s the only female I’m interested in.’
At the top of the meadow, Laura Baxter, Gabe’s pretty young wife, mopped her brow with a handkerchief. Christ it was hot today! The weather at least seemed to be on Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s side. At this rate the fete would raise a fortune, and Tati would get all the credit.
‘I’ll ’ave five tickets for a pound, please.’ Mr Preedy, the proprietor of Fittlecombe Village Stores, gazed appreciatively at Laura’s breasts, straining for escape from her pale pink linen shirt-dress.
In the grip of some temporary fever, Laura had agreed weeks ago to man the tombola, without doubt the most boring job at the entire fete. She passed a handful of tickets to the little bald shopkeeper and watched as he carefully unfolded and examined each one.
‘Look at that! I’ve got a winner!’ Practically hopping with excitement, Mr Preedy handed his last ticket back to Laura. ‘Five hundred and ten. Winners end in a zero, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, what’ve I won, then? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
Laura looked along the table. She found the appropriate ticket taped to a peeling packet of Yardley bath salts.
‘Erm … these?’ She handed them over apologetically.
Unperturbed, Mr Preedy beamed as if he’d just won a luxury cruise. It was so sweet, Laura quite forgave him his earlier breast-ogle.
‘Smashing! I never win anything, me. You must be my lucky charm. I’ll give ’em to the wife,’ he said, clutching the salts to his chest. ‘Earn meself some brownie points. You can’t put a price on that now, can you?’
‘Indeed you can’t.’
Laura smiled as he disappeared into the crowd. She loved the way that such small things seemed to give people here pleasure. Especially on days like today. The Fittlescombe fete really was a throwback to another, gentler, happier world. And what a wonderful turnout this year, thanks to the combination of the glorious bank holiday weather and the undoubted star power of Miss Flint-Hamilton, returned from her jet-setting life in London to ‘recommit’ to the village.
Not that Laura, of all people, had a right to judge Tati for that. This time two years ago, Laura had been living in London herself, working all hours as a television writer, completely immersed in city life as she climbed the greasy pole. But she too had returned to the Swell Valley, the place where she’d been happiest as a child, at a low point in her life. And now here she was, utterly immersed in the rhythms of the countryside, married to Gabe – a farmer’s wife, no less – and happier than ever. It was incredible how quickly, and totally, life could change.
Of course, she and Gabe had their moments. He could be a terrible flirt sometimes, but Laura wasn’t really worried by it. She knew he loved her, and was faithful. It was annoying though, especially after he’d had one too many drinks at The Fox. Then there was his ambition, which for some reason always surprised her. He’d already started talking about trying to buy some of Furlings’ farmland from the new owners.
‘Rory Flint-Hamilton swore blind he’d never sell a single blade of grass. But he mismanaged that estate something terrible. Maybe the new bloke’ll be more amenable? Just think what we could do if we owned all that land along the valley.’
‘Go bankrupt?’ offered Laura.
The unfortunately named Wraggsbottom Farm had been in Gabe’s family for almost as long as Furlings had been in the Flint-Hamiltons’ hands, and was just as beautiful in its own way. It was, however, altogether a more modest enterprise. Like all the working farming families they knew, Gabe and Laura struggled financially, a fact that Gabe conveniently forgot during his fantasies of empire-building.
‘We’re barely breaking even as it is,’ she reminded him. ‘You’re talking about doubling the size of the farm.’
‘I know,’ Gabe grinned. ‘We’d be a real estate. If I can only convince this Aussie to let me buy those fields …’
‘With what money?’ Laura asked, exasperated.
‘Mortgage.’
The nonchalant shrug with which Gabe offered this solution sent chills down her spine.
‘I don’t want to be lady of the manor, darling.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘I just want a lovely, quiet life here. With you. Preferably not in a debtors’ prison.’
They’d dropped the subject before it turned into a proper row. But it was only a matter of time before it reared its ugly head again. Laura adored Gabe, but it did sometimes get tiring, always having to be the boring grown-up in the family.
Down the hill from the tombola, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was chatting up villagers waiting in line at the coconut shy. She’d swept down from the house earlier, making sure that everyone knew she’d been staying at Furlings – staking her claim – and looking more beautiful than ever in a demure, pale buttermilk shift dress, with her long blonde hair tied up with a whimsical blue ribbon. It was a far cry from the raunchy, barely-there outfits with sky-high stilettos she was known for in her tabloid days. But, of course, a lot had changed since then.
She wants people to like her so badly, thought Laura, pityingly. This time two years ago, she had it all. And now look at her, a guest at her own house.
Unlike Gabe, Laura Baxter felt sorry for Tati. She didn’t blame her for fighting her father’s will. If I grew up in a house like Furlings, I’d fight like hell to keep it too, she thought, glancing over her shoulder at the Queen Anne mansion perched serenely at the top of the
