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‘Drive on,’ I say to Dave.
3
James has obviously stopped at the cottage and seen my note, because the first call comes in before we’ve even reached the station. I press the reject button and turn my phone off. I’m nowhere near ready to have a conversation with him. I need time to process everything that’s happened this afternoon. Rosalind’s revelations have shocked me almost as much as what I saw in the hay store, and I feel desperately alone all of a sudden. Nothing is what it seemed to be. I think back to the first time that I met James’ parents, and how nervous I was. Although most of my friends came from similarly wealthy backgrounds to mine, this was the first time I’d been introduced to a baron. I’d spent ages looking up the correct forms of address (Lord and Lady Huntingdon-Barfoot) and trying to work out whether I should curtsey or not. Thankfully, they had gone out of their way to make me feel at ease, or so I’d thought at the time, and I’d been so grateful to them. Now, I reimagine the scene as a cartoon, with pound signs flashing in their eyes every time they look at each other. They didn’t care about me at all. In fact, it’s worse than that, because Rosalind made it perfectly clear that they would probably never have accepted me if my father wasn’t rich.
Who the hell is she to sit in judgement on my background? Yes, my dad was raised in a council flat in Shoreditch, but he’s a billionaire because he works hard and is good at what he does. At least he earned his fortune, rather than just expecting to inherit from the previous generation like James and his father did. I make a resolution to myself: even if James and I manage to get through this and stay together, not a single penny of my father’s money will go into that bloody farm.
I think of the cheque Dad gave us as our wedding present – two hundred thousand pounds ‘to get ourselves set up’. Within weeks of our return from honeymoon, James was spilling out a sob story about some temporary financial hole that he and his father had to navigate, and I gladly agreed that he could take it to tide them over until things improved. All the things that I had planned to do to the cottage, including renovating the kitchen, were put on hold. Every time I asked about it, there was some new delay, but I was assured the money would be repaid very soon. And then, of course, when Edward died and we saw the true extent of the problems, it became obvious that it was long gone. There was no way the farm would be able to pay it back.
The train to Exeter is quiet, and I stare morosely out of the window for most of the journey. It’s a beautiful autumn day, and I’d normally be enjoying looking at the rich golds and reds of the trees as they change colour, but today it’s all a blur. I’m overwhelmed by the events of this afternoon, and my mind is just an amorphous fog. As I get further from the farm, I even start to wonder if any of today has been real. Maybe this is just a dream; I’ll wake up in a minute in our bed in the cottage and none of it will have happened.
By the time I’ve changed trains at Exeter, any hope of waking up to normality has faded, and I have to stare out of the window so the other passengers can’t see the tears gliding silently down my cheeks. Darkness is falling, and I contemplate my reflection in the glass as the train speeds eastwards.
I must have drifted off at some point because the next thing I know, we’ve arrived and everyone is rushing to get off the train. I retrieve my overnight bag from the rack and join the throng heading for the barriers. It’s a while since I’ve been to London, and the crowds and the bustle take me by surprise at first. Di has promised to meet me at Paddington, even though I’m quite capable of getting the Tube on my own to Parsons Green, where she and her husband live in a pretty terraced house. I scan the concourse for her but can’t see her to begin with, so I start to thread my way through crowds to our agreed meeting point under the clock. I’m just about to reach it when I hear her calling my name. I turn, and I’m instantly enveloped in a huge, bosomy hug.
‘It’s so good to see you!’ she exclaims, squeaking a little in her excitement. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this weekend.’
‘It’s good to see you too,’ I reply as she loosens her grip. ‘It feels like ages since I was last here.’
‘We’re going to have so much fun,’ she continues. ‘Richard’s away with his golfing mates, so we’ve got the place to ourselves all weekend. I’ve stocked up the wine rack and there’s a stew waiting for us in the slow cooker. Come on!’
She grabs my hand and practically drags me into the Underground.
‘I can’t stand the Tube normally,’ she tells me as we head for the District Line platforms. ‘It’s so stuffy and airless, and there’s nothing to see. I much prefer the bus, but it takes a lot longer and we have wine to drink and gossip to catch up on, so time is of the essence.’
Her natural effervescence is infectious, and I feel my spirits rising a little. If anyone can help me to navigate my current crisis, it’s Di. On the surface, she’s easy to dismiss; she’s short, curvy, and loud, with a mess of curly brown hair. But there’s a core of steel running through her, and she’s quite capable of putting you firmly in your place if you step out of line, as a couple of her past boyfriends discovered to their cost. A train arrives at the platform, and we cram ourselves in somehow. I’m pressed up against a man dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a vest; he’s holding on to one of the overhead grab handles and my nose is uncomfortably close to his armpit. Thankfully, I can’t smell anything untoward. Di is in front of me, but conversation is impossible without everyone around us listening in, so we travel in silence.
As we move away from the centre of London, the train starts to empty and we’re able to grab a couple of seats opposite each other for the last couple of stops. During the ten-minute walk from the station to her house, she fills me in on her life. Richard, her husband, is still working incredibly long hours as an investment banker, but it’s obvious that she’s devoted to him. His income, combined with her earnings as a solicitor, mean that they’re able to live quite comfortably. She’s telling me all about their upcoming trip to the Maldives when we reach the front door, which she throws open and ushers me through before double locking it behind her and turning off the burglar alarm.
‘I know it’s all very genteel around here, but it’s still London,’ she explains, when I raise my eyebrows at the level of security.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I guess I’ve been in the country for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like.’
‘You certainly have, your Ladyship!’ she laughs, grabbing my jacket. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually wearing tweed, and it’s not even ironic! Is it a landed gentry thing? It suits you, don’t get me wrong, but it’s still funny. Now, let’s get a bottle open and you can tell me all about you.’
She leads me through into the kitchen, which is filled with the most amazing smell. I don’t know what she’s put in the stew, but my stomach growls with hunger. The sandwich I had for lunch seems a lifetime ago. It certainly belongs in a different world, a world before I found out my husband was cheating on me and his mother told me that I wasn’t good enough for him anyway. The sudden reminder of this afternoon’s events unlocks something inside, and the tears begin to fall fast and heavily again. Di is occupied opening a bottle of prosecco and doesn’t notice that I’ve crumpled, so I grab a piece of kitchen towel to try to mop up the worst of it.
‘Here you go – dear God, what’s the matter?’ Di places the full glasses on the counter and wraps me in another of her hugs. I don’t know how long we stand there, but I just let the tears come as she holds me, telling me that she knew something was up as soon as she saw me. Eventually, after a couple of large gulps of prosecco, I’m able to start telling her the story of my day. She doesn’t say anything as I fill her in on all the details, from our money worries and the Aga, through the scene at the stables, to the extraordinary conversation I had with Rosalind.
‘What a bastard!’ she cries when I’m done. ‘And who the fuck does his mother think she is? Does she know that this is the twenty-first century and shit like that doesn’t matter any more? James may be a baron, but the days of the nobility expecting to have shagging rights with everybody who works for them are long gone, thank goodness. And look at Prince William! He’s much posher than James, yet he married a commoner and nobody batted an eyelid. Everyone knows that the only reason we persist with this feudal bollocks is because it’s good for tourism. What are you going to do? I hope you’re going to cut his balls off, force-feed them to his mother, and then divorce the hell out of him!’
As I mentioned before – Di doesn’t suffer fools.
‘I have no idea what I’m going to do yet,’ I tell her, pathetically. ‘I rather hoped that some time away would help me get some perspective, and that you’d be able to give me some advice.’
‘Of course I will! I can’t guarantee to be objective, but I’ll do my best. I suspect I may have already laid my cards on the table with my previous remarks, but I’m willing to listen and we’ll figure it out somehow, okay? Let’s have a top-up and then I’ll look at the stew.’
Her no-nonsense approach is just what I need, and I feel lighter somehow now that I’ve shared everything with her. I settle myself at one of the stools at the breakfast bar, hand her my glass, and she tops us both up from the bottle. I watch her adjusting her sleek induction hob as she puts a pan of potatoes on to boil and feel a pang of envy. If I didn’t have such a bloody unreliable cooker, I might be sitting here in blissful ignorance of James’ infidelity. I can’t help wondering if I’m better off knowing about it, or whether I’d have preferred to stay in the dark.
‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ she says, as she turns back to me.
‘Go on.’
‘Why haven’t you got any money? Your dad is literally a gazillionaire.’
‘Partly because I haven’t asked him for any, but also because that’s not how Dad works. He’s always been worried about spoiling me, that I’d grow into some bratty princess who didn’t know the value of anything. So, even though I lived the high life when I was growing up, going on amazing holidays and stuff with them, he never just handed me money for anything. If I wanted something, I had to earn the money and pay for it myself.’
‘He bought you that sports car, though, didn’t he?’
