Twenty-eight
Clare felt giddy. Sam could save her, if he told her.
‘Tell me, please. He’s suing me for defamation. I admitted I wrote those leaflets.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I reckon he’s banking on you not fighting. Someone knows who’s responsible, and I bet it’s someone close to you.’
Who did he mean by that? ‘Who knows?’ she asked.
‘Try asking your friends.’
‘I have!’
‘Then you haven’t been honest. You have to explain why you want to know. You have to admit you made a mistake and you need help.’
She winced. She couldn’t admit the extent of her plight. ‘They don’t need to know.’
‘They bloody well do.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, then drank some of her tea. ‘I don’t want to make them feel they’re to blame.’ Even as she said the words, she knew it didn’t sound convincing.
‘You can keep saying that if it makes you feel better,’ he said, a lazy smile playing at the corner of his lips, ‘but we both know it isn’t true.’ He leaned across the counter. He was so close she could smell him, a spicy scent so different from Guy who never wore cologne. ‘Now, do you want my help or not?’ he asked.
Clare gave a nervous laugh, the thrill of his closeness denting her confidence. ‘Could I have that glass of wine first?’
In the morning, exhausted by a lengthy game of chase the empty milk container with Stop-it, Clare arranged to meet her friends at Prosecco and Prose . She put the phone down, and to divert her thoughts, checked her emails. There was nothing interesting. Stop-it was standing next to the recycling bin – his new toy box. She dashed over, pulled out a plastic bottle and hurled it for him, smiling as he charged back and dropped the toy at her feet. She threw it once more, then collected Richard’s legal letter and copies of both leaflets.
Outside the café she dithered, casting her eyes over the terrace where brightly patterned blankets decorated chair backs. The sun was a mere smudge of light struggling to pierce thick layers of clouds, casting a dull silvery hue across the terrace. A few hardy tourists were huddling in thick coats, sipping steaming mugs of coffee, their breath forming small clouds in the crisp air. She spotted her friends and swallowed, wanting to retrace her steps. For a few moments she took deep breaths, then pushed open the door. Trish was behind the bar. She would start with her.
‘Trish, you know those leaflets I gave you, the ones about the chicken factory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you keep any?’
Trish screwed up her face. ‘Hang on a tick, I might just.’ She wandered into a back room. Clare listened to drawers being opened and then slammed shut, followed by doors banging. A few minutes later, her friend was back, holding a bunch of leaflets. ‘Here you go,’ she said.
The leaflet fluttered in Clare’s wavering hands. She gasped. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘From you,’ said Trish indignantly.
Clare shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t. These aren’t the ones I left for you just before meeting Bill Matthews.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Trish pulling an exasperated face, ‘I threw those away like you instructed. These are the updated ones.’
Clare shook the leaflet at Trish. ‘Who told you there were updated ones?’
Trish hesitated, a look of confusion spreading over her face. ‘I thought you did. I just found an envelope full of them with a typewritten message saying that these were the updated version. You asked me to destroy the previous lot and replace them with these. Do you want them back or not?’
Clare felt like someone was smothering her. Someone had circulated the poisonous leaflet, and even Trish seemed to think that Clare had been responsible. How widely had the culprit circulated the defamatory leaflets? No wonder Richard was angry. Clearly, Trish wasn’t the friend in the know.
Clare turned to face the terrace. Ivy was waving. Clare took baby steps towards her friends.
‘Any news from the Inspector?’ called out Fred.
Clare checked her emails again. ‘No. But that’s not why I asked to meet you all.’ She sat down next to Fred, swallowed, then blurted out, ‘I’ve screwed up.’
She told them about the night at Brambleton Hall and showed them the letter from Richard’s lawyer.
‘Five million quid?’ said Fred. ‘His reputation wasn’t worth a fiver before he applied for that factory.’
‘Or threw me and Fred out of our homes,’ said Ivy.
‘If you asked people round here to value his reputation,’ said Anna, ‘he’d be lucky to get fifty pence.’
Clare felt a warmth spreading through her chest. She wished she’d told them sooner. They were so supportive; she wanted to hug them. ‘Sadly, his reputation is worth a lot of money in the eyes of the law. It’s my mistake and I might have to pay for it.’
‘No. There’s been a simple mistake,’ said Ivy.
Clare held her breath. Ivy knew something. She was exchanging a glance with Anna. Did they both know? While Ivy tussled with her conscience, Clare checked her emails. She dropped her phone. There was one from the Planning Inspectorate.
‘Clare, are you okay? You’ve gone white,’ said Anna.
She looked at her shaky hands, then at her friends. Clare pointed at the phone. ‘There’s an email from the Planning Inspector.’
Fred leaned across her. Chairs scraped on tiles and all three crowded around her as she fiddled to download the attachment, scrolling through the formal details naming the parties and the background to the case. ‘Yup, it’s the decision.’
‘What does it say?’ demanded Anna.
Clare read aloud, her tongue tripping over words, desperate to skip to the conclusion. ‘Impact on landscape ...’ she said, then muttered a few lines to herself. She raised her voice, saying excitedly, ‘After careful consideration of visual evidence, and taking into account the plans to mitigate the impact by screening, it was determined that the proposed development ...’ She swallowed, then continued flatly, ‘ ... would not significantly detract from the rural character of the area.’ Clare’s heart was racing. This was a disaster. Hastings was going to win.
‘It’s not the shed that’s the problem. It’s what’s going in it that matters,’ said Ivy.
‘I don’t like the shed either,’ said Fred.
Clare tried to concentrate on the next paragraph while in the background Ivy and Fred continued to squabble. She blanked out their voices and read on. She felt a surge of adrenalin.
‘Hey, shush,’ she cried. ‘Listen to this next bit. In terms of noise and traffic ... it was concluded that the proposed measures to mitigate adverse effects were inadequate.’ She looked up a smile stretched across her face. ‘It’s suggesting the factory should be a minimum distance of a kilometre from the almshouses.’
‘That’ll push it pretty close to the Hall!’ cried Anna.
‘See how he likes that!’ chortled Fred. ‘See if the need to make his farm profitable overrides a view of his park!’
She heard her friends laughing and chuckling. Someone slapped her on the back, and she could feel her smile broadening. She read on and cried out. ‘It’s a no!’
She looked round. Fred’s jaw had dropped open. Ivy was clutching the cross at her neck and Anna had a pained expression on her face. But Clare was still smiling. ‘It’s a no – that means the appeal is dismissed. We’ve won!’
‘Can you forward it to us!’ demanded Anna.
‘Is that it? Is it over?’ asked Ivy.
‘Let me call Walter,’ said Clare.
Walter had received the same email and confirmed the Inspector’s findings were quite damning. Too excited to think straight, Clare tried to concentrate on what Walter was saying. He told her that if he were advising Richard, he would suggest moving the site, so it was nowhere near the village, and to come up with a better plan for managing waste. Better still, he’d be advising Richard to farm something radically different and undertake proper community consultation before submitting a revised proposal.
‘Do you think that’s the last we’ll hear of the chicken farm?’ asked Clare.
‘Don’t crow about it, but yes.’
She forgave Walter for his feeble joke. ‘You did it, guys. Oh, this is fabulous news.’ She got up and hugged everyone in turn. Squashing them against her, she was oblivious to the startled expressions on other customers’ faces. It was only noon, but Trish insisted on opening a bottle of prosecco. ‘On the house,’ she said, pouring five frothy glasses. ‘To BARS, and from the bottom of my heart ... thank you!’
Thinking at least all her sacrifices had been worth it, Clare took a gulp of bubbles.
‘I’m going to send Richard a present,’ said Fred.
‘What?’ asked Ivy.
‘A box of battery farm eggs!’
Anna spluttered over her prosecco.
‘No, I’ve a better idea,’ said Clare. ‘Let me take some of my proper free-range ones, from my rescue hens.’ She would finish her drink, then go straight over there.
Clare walked home with a sense of urgency in her step. She imagined what would be happening at Brambleton Hall. Richard would be having a tantrum. She hoped he wasn’t taking it out on Magnus.
Buoyed by two small glasses of fizz, Clare drove to Brambleton Hall. She reached the turning circle and spun the car around, so it was pointing the way she’d come, enjoying the scrunching noise of the tyres on the gravel. Clare turned off her engine and checked her appearance in the mirror.
It was Richard himself who met her at the front door. Maybe Magnus did have days off. He didn’t invite her in, just stood in the open doorway with his arms crossed, the splendour of the entrance hall seeming to magnify his presence.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I came to tell you the truth about that leaflet.’
‘You came to try and wriggle off the hook. I don’t discuss legal matters without my lawyers present.’ His bottom lip curled into a sneer. ‘Now, if that’s all ...’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I know you’re angry about the decision ...’ Why had she just said that? She shouldn’t have come here after drinking. What a stupid thing to say to someone like Richard.
‘Angry? Why should I be angry? This is just a little setback. I’ll find something else to put in that shed.’
Shit, of course. Walter had warned her. The Inspector didn’t have a problem with the shed, provided it wasn’t full of chickens. Richard’s advisers would have spotted the same loophole. Two thoughts vied for attention in her mind. What would Richard substitute for chickens? And could she persuade him to tell her?
Taking in his smug smile, Clare’s chest tightened.
‘Can’t we talk about this?’ she cried, hating the note of desperation in her voice. ‘There must be a compromise we can reach, something which will give you what you want without destroying the village.’
‘No.’ His eyes narrowed to little slits, and he spat his next words: ‘I. Will. Destroy. You.’ He walked backwards into the hallway. ‘When I’m finished, you won’t have a penny to your name. Oh, and you can tell Fred and Ivy to start packing. Their little holiday jaunts are over. The bailiffs won’t be long now. When they’ve gone, I’ll be running all four cottages as holiday lets. That much I do think my brother has got right.’ Then he shut the door in her face, leaving Clare listening to his shoes ringing on the flagstones.
She should never have come after having a drink, and certainly not without planning her speech. This time, she really had screwed up.
Later that afternoon Clare received a three-word message that sent her into a tailspin. She pushed the disastrous encounter with Richard to the back of her mind, took a shower, then pulled on a dress. Standing in front of the mirror, she ran her hands over her hips, turning left, then right. She did a little twirl before pulling the dress off and tossing it on to the bed.
Ten minutes later, Clare was still only wearing her knickers and bra. Stop-it lay on her bed nosing through each discarded outfit. She finally decided on a pair of white jeans, a green silk blouse, jade-green cowboy boots and liberal amounts of perfume. Tonight, she wanted to be festive and bold. Smiling to herself, she collected two dozen of her eggs, Stop-it’s uneaten bowl of kibble, a bottle of wine, and set off with the dog in tow.
Sam met her at his front door. He flashed her a smile. Tonight, she felt confident enough to return it. He had invited her over to celebrate. Magnus must be right – she really could trust this man. He was holding two glasses of champagne.
‘Congratulations.’ He said taking exchanging a glass for Stop-it’s bowl.
Tucking the bottle of wine under her arm, Clare unhooked the dog. He clinked his glass against hers and then she took a large gulp, the bubbles fizzing as they slid down her throat, making her almost dizzy with delight.
‘It was the right decision,’ she said.
She stepped inside. ‘There’s no way a monstrous chicken factory belongs on the outskirts of a village. He was bargaining on people whingeing but not getting organized enough to fight back.’
‘Well, he met his match in you.’
Sam hadn’t moved very far, forcing her to stand close to him. For a few moments, their eyes locked and she felt an overwhelming desire to kiss him. She tore her eyes away, hiding her embarrassment with another gulp of champagne.
‘I’m glad we won.’ Sam arched his eyes at her. ‘Come through, I’ve got a plate of nibbles for us; thought we’d have them outside as it’s such a lovely evening.’
She followed him out onto the patio, where he put down a tray loaded with champagne – in an ice bucket – a platter of canapés and a red and blue plastic flying saucer the size of a dinner plate. Sam teased Stop-it with the toy, then hurled it as far as he could. The dog hurtled after it, his legs seeming to skim over the grass. For a few pleasurable minutes Clare and Sam sipped champagne, laughing at Stop-it devouring his new toy.
‘I hope he’s not a sore loser.’ Said Clare.
‘What do you think?’ said Sam mockingly. ‘He’s not had much experience of losing, and don’t count on this being over, Clare.’ His words dragged her back to her earlier encounter with Richard. She feared Sam was right. Wanting to avoid dampening the mood she gave a small laugh. ‘Fred was all for getting a supermarket to deliver him a case of battery farm eggs.’
‘My advice would be not to gloat. He may come up with an even worse idea. His real goal was the anaerobic digester. He needs to cut his utility bills.’
Clare felt a chill run through her. Was that Richard’s plan? Walter had said if he were advising Richard, he would recommend a very different sort of farming. Waste to energy would fit the bill. She dismissed her fears. Tonight was for celebrating. She could worry about the future tomorrow.
She took a bite from a filo parcel, using one hand to catch the flaking pastry, her mouth filled with a mixture of creamy spinach and salty feta cheese. Wow, this man could cook. It was delicious. ‘Nope,’ she said, pushing the remains of the food into her mouth. ‘We won. Battle over.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I’ve read the judgement. The Inspector didn’t have a problem with the shed, only what was going in it. Personally, I’d prefer chickens to gas. I wouldn’t fancy being Fred or Ivy, living in the almshouses, going to bed each night, wondering if there was going to be an explosion yards away.’
‘Except Fred and Ivy don’t live in the almshouses.’
Sam stroked his chin. ‘What?’
For a few moments she stared at him, then she spoke slowly. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
He gave her a glassy look. ‘Know what?’
‘Richard evicted them.’ She looked at Sam’s ashen face. ‘Under Section 21.’
‘But only while he renovates their cottages,’ said Sam defiantly. ‘They won’t be in his holiday lets for much longer.’
‘Hang on ... has your brother suggested he’s allowing them to stay in those holiday lets?’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘You’d better take a deep breath before I tell you the truth.’
She told him what his brother had done. Sam shook his head. ‘Why didn’t Fred tell me, I’d have put a stop to that!’ His eyes narrowed, ‘Does the whole village know, am I the only ...’ Clare winced then nodded. ‘I guess that explains why I’ve been feeling a bit cold-shouldered these last few months. Everyone must be assuming I know what he’s done and that I condone it ... thank goodness Fred had your scheming mind helping behind the scenes.’ When she mentioned how she’d got Ivy into Rose Cottage, he roared with laughter. ‘You little minx. No wonder Richard didn’t tell me any of this. I love it!’
Sam leaned over to top up her glass and his hand grazed her skin. Her whole body seemed to fizz. She glanced up and saw his mouth lower towards hers, felt his breath warm against her face. His lips hovered just above hers. The anticipation making her heart race.
She closed her eyes and then he kissed her softly. His hand cupped her face, his fingers gently tracing her jawline as his mouth moved against hers with a slow, sensual rhythm that made her melt into him.
Clare wished the kiss could continue but she reluctantly pulled away, a flicker of doubt rising. She refused to be just another conquest, no matter how pleasant the experience.
His hands stroked her shoulders. ‘Relax, dinner will keep. Unless you’re not enjoying yourself? Am I going too fast?’ His eyes were steady on hers, and there was a look of love, not lust, in them. Had she misjudged him?
‘I’m more of a one-man, one-woman sort of girl.’
A look of astonishment crossed his face. ‘The implication being I’m not?’
She blushed. Did she have to spell it out? ‘What about your London girlfriend; the savvy bridge player in pink?’
He laughed, and it sent a pulse of desire through her. ‘Hang on, you didn’t think that gorgeous woman was my girlfriend, did you? She’s very happily married and not in the least bit interested in me. She books one of my cottages for a girls’ weekend every year. She just happens to be a shit-hot bridge player, very rich, and passionate about the environment. I thought she was just the sort of supporter your fundraiser needed.’
Clare found herself laughing, then remembered the young woman who’d answered the door when she came round to ask Sam’s advice about grafting. ‘But there was another woman in your house, in January ... ’
‘Blonde hair or dark?’
He was teasing her. He must know who she meant. ‘Dark.’
‘Dark is Carol. Blonde would have been Lucy. Neither are interested in men. They’ve been partners for five years. They both work for me, helping with the cottages and they housesit if I’m away, so there’s someone here if a holidaymaker has a problem. If you remember I was on my cider making course.’
Relief flooded through her. But then she asked herself why would Sam be interested in her? She had assumed those women were linked to him because they looked and acted like the sort of women he would date. They spoke with the same accent he did. Carol rode. She didn’t do either.
‘Clare,’ he said, sitting beside her and taking one of her hands in his. ‘I’m a rebel at heart, but this is not an act of rebellion. I’ve always admired you, but you’ve never given the remotest sign you were interested in me. I even tried to date you when you were at university.’
Clare frowned. He hadn’t tried very hard. That letter he’d written was dismissive and cold, calculated to hurt and mock her:
Last night was just a bit of fun, a dare to see if I could snare a village girl before my real life begins. Thanks for being a willing participant and for making it so enjoyable. Sam.
He’d never apologized, not in that note, nor when he had the temerity to show his face in the pub a week later. He’d just smiled that lovely smile of his and asked if she’d got his note. If anything showed he wasn’t serious tonight, it was mentioning his ‘non-interest’ when they were younger.
‘You never tried to date me.’
‘I distinctly recall kissing you. I thought you enjoyed it as much as me, that’s why I wrote and apologized when I couldn’t meet you the next evening.’
‘Yes, I got your note thank you.’ She said tersely, ‘Who was the dare with?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What dare?’
How could he have forgotten? She frowned. ‘You explained in your note – the one where you told me you’d made a mistake – that someone had dared you to kiss me.’
His jaw dropped. He shuffled in his chair and sat upright. ‘I said what?’
She repeated the lines he’d written, chiselled indelibly on her heart, as surely as if he’d etched them himself.
‘I never wrote that. I liked you, Clare. I wanted to see you again. Anyway, I would never do that to anyone – I was twenty-one, not twelve. But I think I know who wrote that note and swapped it for the one I did write, explaining I had to go to London on business with my father. No wonder you froze me out when I got back a week later.’
‘Who wrote it then?’
‘Does it matter?’
She could guess anyway. And did it matter? She could love this man, with his gorgeous eyes and his shock of grey hair. He had a zest for life and the same winning spirit she had. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth trying.
‘Could we start again?’ she asked.
‘Do you want to eat first, or afterwards?’
She picked up her glass and looked into his eyes. ‘I’m not that hungry for food.’
They ate at midnight on the terrace. Sam lit candles and wrapped up in one of his fleece jackets, Clare ate greedily. Sam flash-fried fillets of white fish he’d bought that morning in the harbour and laid them on a bed of celeriac and potato, with a splash of lemony sauce on the side.
‘How come you cook so well?’ she asked, savouring the mash. It was so well seasoned, with a hint of smoky truffle in it, offset perfectly by the lemon sauce.
‘My wife wasn’t interested in cooking, so I did it all.’
‘My husband couldn’t manage anything more exotic than to keep a takeaway warm for me.’
She gave a half-laugh. In the last few months Guy hadn’t even bothered with that. Sam put down his plate. ‘Tell me about him.’
Clare recalled the ugly scene with her mother in the orchard. Cindy had been right about Guy. If he had lived, he would have broken her heart.
‘My husband was very different from me. He did make me happy, at first,’ – and for the first few months Guy did – ‘but we were only married a short while.’
‘They say opposites attract.’
She smiled. ‘Not always a good thing.’
‘That’s what caused the rift between you and your mother? She didn’t think he was right for you?’ said Sam.
Clare inhaled sharply ‘Who told you that?’
‘She did.’
‘When.’
‘Just before she told you.’
‘Why did she tell you ?’
‘My marriage was failing, Laura had left me by then, gone back to London. I went to see Cindy to ask her if she thought I stood any chance with you, if you’d ever indicated you might be interested in me. I didn’t want to pester you directly, since you’d made your feelings clear when we were twenty-one.’
Clare’s eyes started to water. She screwed them shut. Her mother had known who would make her daughter truly happy. There was an underlying reason she had tried to stop Clare marrying Guy. But Clare didn’t want to talk about that now.
‘Does your brother know you helped BARS?’
‘He’s probably guessed. He knew I was against his plans, but he also knew I’d never fight him in public, and he thought he’d neutralized me by putting the shed somewhere it wouldn’t affect me. But I care more for the village than myself. I know the estate needs more income and if he’d put it up next to me, he might have got away with it.’
‘He nearly did get away with it. We struggled to pay for the competing EIA.’
He grinned at her.
‘You helped us?’ she said, pointing her fork at him. She counted up the occasions this man had helped defeat his brother. It was Sam who’d goaded her into fighting back, Sam who’d brought the wealthy punters to the bridge tournament.
‘Did you donate that case of wine that went for so much money at the auction?’
‘Not entirely. I brought it, but I didn’t buy it. It was a village fundraiser, and I thought Richard should make a donation, so I got Magnus to open up his cellar. He won’t miss it. He’s got more wine than he can possibly drink in a lifetime.’
‘And that final donation of seven grand ... Was that you too?’
‘We’ve both known Ivy for long enough to know her heart’s in the right place, but she wasn’t going to lose that much weight.’
He’d been on their side all along; she’d lay odds it was Sam behind the horsebox stunt at the site visit. And Clare had assumed he was a spy. ‘How come we never guessed?’
‘I couldn’t risk splitting my family by making it public. And as I said, I’ve always been good at sneaking around.’
‘Tell me, you must have some idea what Richard will do next. What do you think I should do to try and finish this drama?’
‘I was hoping you’d ask me that. Here’s what I would do ...’