The maître d’ led them to their table, tucked away in a rear corner of the restaurant. Marco ordered champagne and a plate of oysters to share, then boldly reached across the table and took Tati’s hand.
‘You look incredible.’
This was no more than a statement of fact. In a cream Alaïa minidress with a flared tennis-style skirt and raffia wedges, Tati’s flawless figure and famous, gazelle-like legs were showcased perfectly. Her make-up was minimal, just a sweep of bronzer and some lip gloss, but she radiated youth and health and natural beauty. The rose remained thorny, however.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she said coolly, reclaiming her hand.
‘All what girls?’ asked Marco.
‘All the girls you’ve been screwing while I kept you hanging.’
Marco grinned. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’
Tati grinned back. ‘I love it when you talk business. Tell me more about Avenues.’
When they’d met at Katia’s party, Katia had introduced Tati as ‘a teacher at a village school.’ Marco had flatly refused to believe this. ‘I’m sorry. I went to school. Teachers don’t look like you and I know that for a fact.’ Having successfully begun a flirtation, he’d asked Tati about her background and ambitions. She’d given him the edited version of her battle with Brett Cranley and the furore over her father’s will.
‘Once this damn court case is over, win or lose, I’m going to start my own business. Cranley’s right about one thing, there’s bugger-all money in teaching.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Marco. ‘Two good mates of mine were first-round investors in Avenues. They both made a fucking mint.’
‘Avenues?’ Tati looked blank.
‘You know. The new hot school in Manhattan? Suri Cruise goes there. They’ve got a waiting list as long as your arm. I’m telling you, the guys who started that thing are printing money.’
It was a throwaway line, and the conversation had swiftly moved on. But Tati had thought a lot about Marco’s comment since that night – almost as much as she’d thought about his hot body underneath that bespoke Savile Row business suit. This evening was a date, but she saw no harm in killing two birds with one stone.
Happily, neither did Marco. ‘All right,’ he said obligingly. ‘What do you want to know?’
Tati wanted to know everything. Whose idea was it to start the school, how much seed money had they needed, did anyone have a background in education, what fees did they charge, how had they come up with that number, what was their marketing strategy? By the time they’d finished the oysters and their first courses had arrived, Marco had got the message.
‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re thinking of setting up a school?’
‘I’m curious,’ Tati said cautiously. ‘I won’t know what the future holds till after September. But it’s something I’m considering.’
Marco took a slug of champagne. ‘You need a concept. It’s a bit like opening a restaurant. You need something that sets you apart from all your competitors.’
Tati nodded.
‘Do you have one?’
‘I might.’ A small smile flickered flirtatiously across her lips.
‘You also need money. A lot of money.’
‘Ah.’ Tati’s smile faded.
‘That’s the biggest drawback, I think,’ said Marco. ‘It’s not like other ventures where you can put your toe in the water for a couple of hundred grand. There’s no way to get into the schools business without a whopping initial investment. You need the real estate, the facilities, the staff, the insurance – all of that jazz – before you even think about the marketing strategy. And marketing’s the key, of course. If you don’t hit the ground running and fill all your places from the day you open the doors, you’ve had it. You’re deep in the hole, right off the bat.’
‘Hmm.’ Tatiana fell silent. Marco watched her mind working while she toyed with her seabass and thought for the hundredth time how badly he wanted to get her into bed. He appreciated intelligent, ambitious women. His last two girlfriends had been models – gorgeous girls, and very sweet, both of them, but ultimately the lack of challenge had bored him. Katia had assured him that Tati Flint-Hamilton did not fit this mould.
‘The last chap I knew who dated her said it was like putting your dick in a honey-pot and your heart in a shredder.’
‘Better than the other way around,’ Marco observed drily.
‘She’ll eat you for breakfast.’
‘When?’ Marco asked hopefully. He’d waited the better part of four weeks. That was quite long enough.
‘That’s enough business talk,’ he announced firmly, declining the dessert menus and signalling for the bill. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘And go where?’ Tati asked archly.
‘You’ll see.’
‘Salsa?’
At the grand old age of twenty-four, Tatiana liked to think it took a lot to surprise her. But when Marco asked the cab driver to stop outside a basement bar and club just off Kensington High Street, she looked at him in astonishment.
‘Not just salsa. They do all kinds of dance here – flamenco, you name it.’ He paid the cabbie and bundled her onto the street. It was ten thirty and cold for a summer’s night. There was no moon but the streetlights burned too brightly to see any stars. You’d see all of them in Fittlescombe, Tati thought briefly. Not that she wanted to be anywhere but here, with Marco.
‘I thought we were going to bed.’ She leaned into him, relaxed at last after half a bottle of Bollinger.
‘We are. Later. Come on.’
A burly bouncer with a shaved head let them into a dingy hallway that led directly onto narrow stairs. Leading Tati by the hand, Marco took them down into the basement. After such a grotty entrance she’d expected some smoky dive, but in fact the room was quite wonderful. It must have been an old wine vault originally. Now candlelit brick alcoves concealed plush, red-velvet loveseats, and a long, clear glass bar took up the whole of one enormous wall. Tables were arranged in a semicircle around a low dance floor, at the back of which a jazz trio were thumping out a tune. The clientele were sexy rather than glamorous: lots of slim, dark European girls in flapper dresses and costume jewellery and men in dark suits. It was like stepping back into the Twenties.
‘This is great!’ Tati’s eyes lit up. It was so long since she’d been dancing, so long since her world had consisted of anything but children’s homework, village gossip and legal papers. Just being here with Marco felt liberating, intoxicating.
‘I’m so glad you like it.’ Marco beamed back at her. ‘Shall we dance?’
The floor was almost empty, but the room was so dark and the low, fast beat of the music so hypnotic, Tati didn’t feel self-conscious. Feeling Marco’s warm body pressed against hers as they swayed to the rhythm was better than any foreplay. Closing her eyes, Tatiana let go of her worries – school, her unpaid legal bills, Dylan Pritchard Jones, Brett Cranley. One by one they flew out of her head like so many bad dreams forgotten at dawn’s first light. Because tonight felt like a dawn, a new beginning. Marco, London, the club had all reminded Tati of the person she used to be, the person she still could be, just as soon as she got Furlings back.
Opening her eyes as Marco leaned her back in a tango-esque move, she caught sight of the musicians at the back of the dance floor.
‘Oh my goodness.’
‘What?’ Marco pulled her upright. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘No no.’ She rested her head on his shoulder, glad of the darkness and the noise and Marco’s broad torso concealing her like a shield. ‘It’s just … the pianist. I know him.’
Lost in the music and his own performance, Jason Cranley hadn’t seen her. But Tati had recognized his earnest, pale face immediately. So, his parents are away in the South of France and he’s taking the opportunity to spread his wings. Good for him! She was astonished Jason had the balls to defy Brett so brazenly. He always se
emed so afraid of his father, so overshadowed. It pleased her to think of Jason executing this small defiance. But at the same time she hadn’t wanted any reminder of the Cranleys and home to creep into her perfect date with Marco.
‘Should we go and say hello after their set?’ Marco asked. ‘I guess we should if he’s a friend of yours.’
Tati shook her head. She didn’t want to acknowledge Jason tonight, and she suspected he would feel the same. In their different ways, they were both trying to escape Fittlescombe and reality.
‘That’s OK. He’s not really a friend, more of an acquaintance. Anyway, I’m not feeling sociable.’ Reaching up so her arms were around his neck, she kissed Marco passionately on the lips.
‘Nor am I,’ Marco growled, his dick hardening rapidly. He’d brought Tati dancing because he wanted the evening to be special and memorable. With Katia’s warnings ringing in his ears, he was determined to differentiate himself from Miss Flint-Hamilton’s countless other lovers. But enough was enough. If he didn’t get her home and naked within the next fifteen minutes, he was going to implode with frustration. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Back in Swell Valley four days later, Jason Cranley wiped his brow as he climbed farther up the hillside into Furlings’ woods. It was a swelteringly hot summer’s day, and Gringo, the family basset hound, had decided to run off the moment Jason let him off the lead. Well, waddle off. Gringo wasn’t the speediest of animals, with his squat, stumpy legs and barrel-round body, so it hadn’t occurred to Jason to keep much of an eye on him. But while Jason walked on, lost in a highly pleasurable daydream involving him playing piano to a packed and rapturous crowd at Ronnie Scott’s, Gringo had somehow managed to disappear completely from view. Despite having the biggest, floppiest ears known to dog, he was apparently deaf to his temporary master’s repeated calls and whistles. Hot and irritated, Jason was starting to get worried. If anything happened to that dog, his mother and Logan would be heartbroken and Brett would have a fit.
‘Gringo!’ he shouted, his voice echoing through the valley. He’d reached the top of the hill now, the basset’s lead dangling uselessly from his hand, the same bright red as Jason’s cheeks. Following a steep, narrow path through the pines and silver birch, he descended to the valley floor. The river Swell was at its widest and shallowest here, on the very edge of Furlings’ land. Dancing and burbling its way through the woods, its cool, crystal-clear water looked wonderfully inviting. Peeling off his sweaty T-shirt and discarding his shoes, Jason waded in, splashing ice-cold water onto his torso and face, and drinking a long cool draught from his scooped hands.
‘You shouldn’t drink it, you know. I know it looks clean, but you never know what microbes are in it.’
Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s voice made Jason jump out of his skin. Spinning around suddenly, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards, falling painfully and embarrassingly on his backside. By the time he scrambled to his feet, his shorts were soaked. Water dripped down his skinny legs as he wrung out his clothing like a wet rag.
‘I didn’t see you there,’ he explained unnecessarily, pulling on his dry T-shirt. Tati was wearing cut-off jeans shorts and a pale green shirt tied at the navel. As usual she looked effortlessly stunning, already lightly tanned after two days sunbathing in the garden, and with her hair tied back in a simple ponytail.
She looked at the lead in his hand. ‘Have you lost Gringo?’
Tati knew the Cranleys’ dog well. Angela often brought him to school when she came to pick up Logan, and all the St Hilda’s children were fond of him.
‘You wouldn’t think it was possible, would you, the great fat lug,’ said Jason. ‘But he wandered off somewhere almost as soon as we left the house.’
‘I’ll help you look for him if you like,’ said Tati.
‘Really? That’s very kind but it might take a while.’
Tati shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing else to do. Besides, I know these woods a lot better than you do. He’s probably down at the rabbit warren, trying his luck. Come on.’
They walked along together, Tati leading the way and chatting idly about nothing in particular while Jason dried off.
‘So how are you finding it, with your folks away?’ Tati threw the question out casually. ‘It must be quiet up at the house.’
‘It is, but I don’t mind that so much,’ said Jason. ‘I’m working most of the time anyway.’
‘Yes. And moonlighting as a pianist in West London clubs,’ said Tati.
Jason went white.
‘I saw you playing at Bar Piccata last Tuesday night,’ she explained. ‘You were very good.’
‘Please don’t tell my father,’ Jason blurted. He felt as if he might be about to throw up.
Tati stopped and turned to look at him. ‘Why on earth would I tell your father? This may have escaped your notice, but your dad and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies.’
‘I know, but he’d hit the roof if he knew. Even if you just let something slip by accident. It would be awful.’ He gave a small, involuntary shudder.
‘I’m not going to let anything slip,’ said Tati. ‘I think it’s great you’re following your dreams.’
‘I don’t know why,’ said Jason, bitterly. ‘It’s not as if they can come to anything. Dad will be back at the end of the summer and everything will go back to normal. He’ll be watching me twenty-four/seven, or having one of his minions do it for him.’
Tati found herself feeling angry, with Brett for bullying his son, but also with Jason for not standing up to his father. ‘You are over age, you know,’ she told him, holding on to a low branch for support as she hopped over a ditch, then waiting while Jason did the same. ‘You can do what you like.’
‘You don’t know my father,’ Jason said, matter-of-factly. ‘He doesn’t care how old I am. He can make my life hell if he wants to. Besides, this is really not the time to piss him off. It’s my twenty-first birthday in May,’ he confided. ‘If I keep sweet with my father till then, I’ll come into my trust fund. That should buy me some independence, at least on paper.’
Tati stifled an unworthy pang of envy. Her trust was tied up so tightly, she’d be lucky to get her hands on any capital before she turned fifty. And here was this boy, not only living in her home, but with talent and freedom and – soon – unlimited funds, but too frightened to take advantage of any of it. If Jason weren’t such a sweetheart, it would be easy to dislike him.
‘What were you doing in Bar Piccata anyway?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘I didn’t have you pegged as a jazz and salsa fan.’
‘That’s because I’m un-peggable,’ Tati laughed. ‘Actually, I was on a date. This guy I’m seeing took me there. It’s a great place.’
Now it was Jason’s turn to feel jealous. Ridiculously, as of course Tatiana had boyfriends, probably an army of them; and even if she didn’t, she was hardly likely to want to date a shy, nerdy, mildly depressed, social incompetent like him. But he flattered himself Tati was his friend. And Furlings linked them forever. That alone gave him a feeling of ownership, of entitlement, whether it was rational or not.
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ he heard himself asking.
Tati frowned. ‘No. Not yet. I’m not sure if I have room for a boyfriend in my life right now. Not with this court case hanging over me. Plus, he works in London. I can spend time there now, while St Hilda’s are on holiday, but once school starts again I’m stuck here.’
‘There are worse places to be stuck,’ said Jason, looking around them.
‘Yes,’ Tati sighed.
They’d reached a clearing in the woods. It was a place Tati knew well from her childhood, a rabbit warren of at least thirty years’ standing. The ground was mossy, a virulent green carpet studded with hundreds of brown burrows. Birch and pine had given way to oaks and sycamores, their sturdy trunks and broad, shady branches providing a thick canopy, through which dappled rays of sunlight chinked their way to the forest floor. There were bright red toadstools underfoot an
d crunchy acorns and the scent of some sweet, cloying flower – honeysuckle perhaps – hanging heavy in the warm air. It was a magical place, a place to come with a lover, to lie down on a blanket and gaze up at the clouds as they drifted softly across the blue summer sky.
‘Gringo!’
An exhausted but delighted-looking basset hound bounded out from behind a tree, in cumbersome pursuit of a rabbit that he had about as much chance of catching as Jason had of becoming the next Olympic hundred-metres champion. Sliding to a halt, his tail wagging stupidly as the rabbit shot down the nearest hole, the dog allowed Jason to clip the lead onto his collar. He was panting madly, his enormous, drooling pink tongue hanging out of his mouth like a wet sheet on a washing line.
‘I knew he’d be here,’ said Tati. ‘We should get him home and give him a drink. He must be terribly overheated in this weather.’
Back at Furlings, Mrs Worsley was on her hands and knees, polishing the parquet floor in the drawing room, when she heard voices. Darting out into the hall, she couldn’t hide her displeasure at seeing Tatiana arm in arm with young Jason Cranley, wandering into the kitchen as if she owned the place.
‘Hello, Mrs Worsley,’ Tati said brightly, filling Gringo’s bowl from the tap above the Belfast sink and setting it down on the stone floor. As she bent over, the curve of her bottom was clearly visible below her very short shorts. Jason Cranley couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was a close-run thing as to who was drooling more obviously, Jason or the dog.
‘Long time no see. How are you enjoying the summer so far?’
‘I’m keeping busy, thank you, Tatiana,’ the housekeeper said frostily. ‘What brings you to Furlings this morning? Do you not have anywhere you need to be?’
‘Tati very kindly helped me find Gringo,’ Jason explained. ‘He ran off. We had a hell of a time catching him. It’s so damn hot out there.’
‘It is,’ Mrs Worsley conceded, through pursed lips. ‘Very kindly’, my Aunt Fanny, she thought. Tatiana’s up to something, and she’s using that poor boy as a pawn. Mrs Worsley looked up at the girl she had as good as raised, with intense suspicion written all over her face.