no intention of “getting to know her”. She’s already been round here, I gather, causing trouble and upsetting your mother. I won’t have that.’
Why? Because nobody’s allowed to upset Mum except you, you hypocrite? Jason thought darkly.
‘And I won’t have you dating her either,’ Brett ranted on.
‘For God’s sake, I am not dating her,’ said Jason, exasperated. ‘I barely know the girl.’
‘Logan said she winked at you.’
‘She did!’ Logan insisted through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit crumbs.
‘She was being friendly. Jesus.’
‘Winking isn’t friendly. It’s flirtatious. She’s up to something, and you’re too dumb to see it. You shouldn’t even be talking to her.’ Brett’s anger was building, like a steaming kettle about to sing. ‘Where’s your family loyalty?’
‘She is family, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Jason shot back. ‘We wouldn’t be standing here in her house if she weren’t.’
‘Furlings is not her house!’ Brett erupted.
Disturbed by all the shouting, Angela walked in. After spending the better part of the day in bed with Brett, she positively beamed with contentment. Until she saw the expression on her son’s face. Angela knew that look. Angry. Detached. Shut-down.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Ask him.’ Jason glowered at his father before storming out of the room.
‘Come back here!’ Brett roared. ‘Don’t you walk away from me, you little shit!’
‘Don’t say shit, Daddy,’ said Logan, utterly unperturbed. Knockdown drag-out fights between her father and brother were a daily occurrence. Stuffing more chocolate fingers into her pockets, she went up to her bedroom to think about Gabe Baxter in peace. She wondered if she could see his farm from here, and whether or not her binoculars had been unpacked yet.
Once she’d gone, Angela put a tentative hand on Brett’s arm. ‘What happened?’
Brett’s face was set like flint. ‘Apparently Jason and that Flint-Hamilton woman were all over each other outside the school gates this afternoon.’
Angela frowned. ‘That sounds highly unlikely. Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure she was there. Logan said she winked at Jason.’
‘Well, maybe she did. But I’m sure it was quite innocent.’ Angela could not imagine the poised, sophisticated, drop-dead gorgeous Tati in any sort of romantic entanglement with her cripplingly shy, depressive son. Much as she might like to. ‘Or maybe Logan made a mistake.’
‘She’s staying in the village, isn’t she? Tatiana?’
‘Yes. At Greystones Farm. Why?’
Brett picked up his car keys from the kitchen counter.
Angela looked alarmed. ‘You’re not going over there?’
‘Damn right I am.’
‘Oh darling please, don’t. What will you say?’
‘That I don’t want her sniffing around my son, upsetting my wife, or stalking my bloody daughter on her first day at school.’
Angela wrung her hands miserably. ‘You’re being ridiculous, Brett. If you go over there it’ll only stir up trouble, and you know it.’
But it was no use. Brett was already striding down the hall towards the front door. Angela stood and watched from the kitchen window as he jumped into the driver’s seat of his new Bentley Continental GT V8 and sped off down the drive like a maddened bull. He could fuel that car on testosterone alone, she thought sadly, as the gravel sprayed up into an angry arc behind him. Testosterone and rage.
Standing at the window she offered up a silent prayer.
Please, please, don’t let him start a war with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.
Some sixth sense told her that Tatiana was every bit as angry and stubborn as Brett. Once begun, this was not a war that would be over by Christmas.
Tati lay back in a bath full of Badedas bubbles and inhaled deeply on her cigarette. Even now, a grown woman, half of the pleasure she derived from smoking in the bath was the knowledge of how vehemently both Mrs Worsley and her father would have disapproved of it.
‘Unladylike,’ Mrs Worsley would have called it. Rory would have said it was vulgar, or worse, ‘common’: the ultimate insult in Tati’s father’s book. What they had both failed to appreciate was the deep, profound sense of relaxation the combination of warm water and a shot of nicotine to the bloodstream had on the human body. Fuck yoga. This was the only way to de-stress. Better yet, it was guilt and hangover free, unlike red wine and Pringles …
Flicking ash into a horrid, fish-shaped soap dish on the ledge above the bath (her landlady’s taste really was abysmal; she must get around to putting more of her ghastly tat into boxes and out of sight), she reflected again on her interview with St Hilda’s new headmaster.
Max Bingley had rejected her. Worse, he had patronized her, humiliated her, treated her like a spoiled child who needed to be slapped down, taught a lesson. His voice in her head now made Tati’s stomach churn with shame:
‘I can’t parachute in a completely inexperienced teacher. The very idea’s ridiculous! I might consider taking you on as an assistant …’
How had her life come to this? How? This time last year she’d been sunning herself on a yacht in the Caribbean, enjoying a much-publicized dalliance with an Arab prince. By now the whole village would know that she’d come crawling to the sanctimonious Max Bingley today, begging for work, and been turned down. The humiliation was almost more than Tati could bear. She didn’t even have the luxury of not caring what the locals thought of her. She needed them and their good opinion now, more than ever.
As the bubbles and nicotine worked their combined magic, a small part of her – tiny – admitted the possibility that Max Bingley might, in fact, have been trying to help her this afternoon. That he’d thrown her a lifeline with the offer of a trial position when he really didn’t have to. That in reality it was she who had been rude and surly and entitled, not the other way around. But Tati squashed that part, snuffing it out ruthlessly. Letting it live would mean admitting weakness. That was something she could never do. Not even to herself. Not if she wanted to survive.
Be that as it may, and despite her wounded pride, she already knew that she would accept Bingley’s offer. The job might be unpaid, but without it her trustees would leave her penniless. Of course she could always find herself another rich boyfriend, as she had in the past. But in Tatiana’s experience, while men were more than happy to pay for clothes and trinkets and expensive suites in hotels, they were less
