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James didn’t reply. They’d been tailing Estelle for a couple of miles, travelling at exactly ten miles per hour below the speed limit, and he was thrumming with frustration. Living in the back of beyond was bad enough, but not being able to take advantage of the Ferrari’s handling and performance on these country roads was like forcing a sprinter to perform tied to a donkey.
He couldn’t put his car through its paces in London, but it did come with other advantages. No matter what women may have claimed, they swarmed to it, then him, like bees to black honey. His Ferrari was the one possession he refused to part with when everything went tits up. However the only females who could currently see his car didn’t give a shit. They were either in fields chewing silage, or driving in front of him slower than a tractor.
Six months. That’s all.
Coming up was a short stretch of dual carriageway. James dropped a gear as they approached. Estelle must have anticipated his move as she floored the Defender, shooting forward.
Never take a knife to a gunfight…
Slamming his foot down, the car accelerated with a joyous roar, the sound almost entirely covering Max’s yelp of fear. A smile spread across James’s face and he gave Estelle a salute as the Ferrari cruised past her.
She flipped him the bird in response.
Once the dual carriageway ended, James slowed to exactly one mile per hour above the speed limit, and gave most of his attention to the rear-view mirror, his eyes finding Estelle’s furious ones.
Being in separate cars felt in some strange way like normal rules didn’t apply, as if they were on different planets and he could ignore the professional guidelines he’d forced himself to adhere to. Before he could stop himself, he winked at her.
The change in her expression was dramatic—her eyes widened and her lips parted.
He grinned.
Slamming her mouth shut, she fixed her gaze on the road ahead, ignoring him completely.
James didn’t care. If he could get under her skin with just one wink, then he’d put up with all the childish games she could throw at him.
Driving between the enormous stone pillars that flanked the entrance to Foxbrooke Manor, James’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. The grandeur of the place was yet another reminder of how different he was from the Foxbrookes. James had had to fight for his position, but Henry and Estelle had grown up as Lord and Lady Foxbrooke and afforded every privilege that class and money could buy.
Easing the car to a stop, he got out, going to the driver’s side of the Defender and opening the door for Estelle.
‘Thank you,’ she said as she exited, moving quickly away and staring at the sandy ground.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asked. ‘Estelle, why don’t you run through how it’s going to work from the start of the festival?’
She nodded, put more distance between them, then addressed Max.
‘The festival begins on Friday, but we’ll be setting up for at least two months before that. There are three entrance points for punters—through the main gates here, and through the parkland to the side and rear of the house. There’s enough room there not only for the main stage but also camping facilities and temporary hard-standing for cars.’
‘Security?’ James asked.
‘A four-metre-high fence with a forty-five-degree overhang, built from aluminium planks and a captive joint system so there are no nuts and bolts. It’s the same one used at Glastonbury.’
And really fucking expensive. ‘Isn’t that overkill?’
She shrugged. ‘If we can’t keep people safe and numbers within our prescribed limits, then we’ll never be allowed to run another festival. And the headline act on Sunday is insanely popular.’
And also stupidly expensive. American electronica act, UberGraft, were the biggest draw and James couldn’t understand why they’d agreed to perform at such a small-scale, and brand new, festival.
‘How did you get them?’
Estelle frowned at her phone, then put it back in her pocket, still refusing to meet his gaze.
‘Mom met them in LA last year and pitched the idea. They’re headlining at Glastonbury the weekend before, so they’ll be in the country, anyway. And apparently MisTee likes Shakespeare, so wants to check out the production we’ll be doing in the gardens at the same time.’
‘Hmm.’ Of course, there had to have been a back-door route in. The band, made up of a real-life couple, were notoriously difficult to deal with.
‘What?’ she said defensively. ‘You know how it works. It’s just like what you did in London.’
‘Me?’
