One Summer’s Afternoon: A perfect summer treat! - Тилли Бэгшоу

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as popular a society fixture as the Boat Race or the Cartier Polo. In return, the leisure group would have use of the house, and the coveted de la Cruz image, for various promotional shoots and events, all endorsing their ‘Best of Britain’ brand. And Santiago would plug their hotels relentlessly at every possible opportunity.

      It had seemed like a no-brainer at the time – money for nothing. He could still play for the county, still commute to London for weekends in the off season. But, now that he was actually here, his heart sank. The house was picture perfect, but it was the sort of house a wealthy grandmother might retire to, all low ceilings and beams and leaded-light windows. Santiago had already cracked his head twice. The whole place made him feel horribly claustrophobic. As for the wall-to-wall stunning women Santiago’s agent had promised him, so far he’d seen nothing but a couple of middle-aged village shopkeepers and a gaggle of overweight teenagers, who had pointed and stared at him as they loitered around Brockhurst’s only bus stop yesterday, as if he were an animal in a zoo.

      After putting the last of his shirts into the heavy Victorian chest of drawers by the window, he opened the latch and stuck his head outside. The views, at least, were fabulous. From his bedroom window, Santiago looked over his pretty cottage garden to the glorious Swell Valley beyond. Startlingly green fields sloped down to the River Swell, a wide, glinting swathe of silver, snaking its way along the valley floor. On the far side of the river, the South Downs rose up dramatically like great, benevolent giants. The grass on the hills was a paler green than in the valley – almost grey, in fact – and crisscrossed with bright white paths that had been etched into the chalk over thousands of years. Only one building was visible, at the foot of the Downs close to where Fittlescombe village lay hidden from view, folded between two hills. It was a medieval hall house, probably a large farm originally, and it stood surrounded by its own orchards. Curious, Santiago picked up his ‘Best of Britain’ binoculars from the dressing table (his sponsors had provided him with a number of twee, country-themed gifts, including walking sticks with carved pheasants’ heads on the top, a fly-fishing rod and an engraved hip flask, presumably for use on fictional shooting weekends) and zoomed in on the house.

      The first thing he noticed was that the binoculars were superb. He had a perfect view of the house and garden, and was even able to zoom in on the roses climbing up the brickwork. The second thing he noticed was the front door opening and an incredibly pretty blonde in a tiny floral bikini emerging into the garden. She was carrying a bath towel and a magazine and, despite being barefoot and (presumably) alone in her own garden, she carried herself as if she had an audience, with the haughty, self-satisfied bearing of the very young and very beautiful.

      Spreading out the towel, she proceeded immediately to remove her bikini top, revealing a pair of small but perfectly formed breasts, like two apples dipped in caramel.

      Santiago let out a long, low whistle. Now that really was the best of Britain, or at a minimum the best of Brockhurst. Would she be at the match on Saturday? he wondered. Surely she was bound to be. It wasn’t as if there was anything else to do around here.

      He closed the window and went downstairs in search of a cold gin and tonic, feeling mildly cheered.

      Perhaps his agent would turn out to have been right after all.

      The Swell Valley was starting to look up.

      TUESDAY

      ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

      Penelope Harwich stared down at the blackened chicken casserole, so badly burned it probably couldn’t even be identified from its dental records, and ran her hands through her hair in despair.

      ‘Why didn’t the bloody bipper go off?’

      This last question was addressed to Sebastian, Penny’s fourteen-year-old son, who was hunched over the kitchen table at Woodside Hall, deep in his Nintendo 3DS.

      ‘It did,’ he said without looking up. ‘I turned it off.’

      ‘Why?’ wailed Penny.

      ‘Because it was annoying,’ said Seb, reasonably.

      ‘Yes, but why didn’t you come and get me? I set it so I’d remember to take the lunch out of the oven!’

      ‘Well I didn’t know that, did I?’ said Seb, reluctantly turning off his game and pushing open the kitchen door, to allow the smoke to escape. ‘You set that thing all the time – to remember to call granny, to remember to do the ironing, to remember some other thing you’re supposed to remember.’

      Penny groaned. She wished this weren’t true. That she didn’t muddle through her life like a victim of early-onset Alzheimer’s, barely able to brush her own hair or make a cup of tea without some sort of outside assistance. But, ever since her divorce last year (since her husband, Paul, had left her on their twentieth wedding anniversary, for a man, admitting to a gay double life that Penny had had literally no suspicion of whatsoever), she’d lost so much confidence she barely trusted herself to remember her own name.

      ‘I think we’d better leave this in the garden for a bit. Till it stops, you know, smoking,’ said Seb.

      Watching her lovely, kind, capable fourteen-year-old son slip on her oven gloves and carry the charred mess outside, Penny Harwich felt poleaxed with guilt. Paul’s abandonment and spectacular coming-out had been hard on all of them, a terrible shock. But, while she had unravelled like a dropped spool of yarn and Emma, Seb’s older sister, had taken refuge in anger and acting out, Seb had held things together with a maturity and stoicism far beyond his years.

      ‘If someone’s gay, they’re gay,’ her son had told her calmly while she sobbed on his shoulders. ‘It’s not Dad’s fault and it’s certainly not yours. You just have to, you know, get on with it.’

      And Seb had ‘got on with it’, going back to boarding school with no apparent problems, even spending occasional weekends with his father and his new partner, Mike. When Penny had steeled herself to ask Seb what the boyfriend was like, he’d shrugged and said simply, ‘All right. He can fix toasters. And he likes cricket.’

      For Seb Harwich, the world was divided not into gay and straight, old and young, rich and poor, but into those who did and did not like cricket. How Penny wished her own world-view could be so simple, so accepting.

      As it was, she felt guilty about everything. Guilty for not reading the signs, for not knowing about Paul, for not changing him. Guilty for not being a better mother, a better wife, a better artist, a better person. And, while Penny was busy blaming herself, her daughter Emma vociferously seconded the motion, blaming her mother for everything from her father’s sexuality, to the dilapidated state of the house, to the weather.

      The chicken casserole, Emma’s favourite, had been Penny’s latest doomed attempt at appeasement. Emma was home for a week, ostensibly to watch Sebby in the big cricket match, but actually to have her photograph taken, bask in male attention and make her poor mother’s life as hellish as humanly possible. It was hard to know what, exactly, had pushed Emma Harwich from being a normal, slightly moody teenager, to a full-on-entitled, spoiled bitch. Whether it was the bombshell dropped by her father or the explosion of her modelling career, which had happened at about the same time, Penny didn’t know. Either way, it was safe to say that money, fame and attention had not had a beneficial effect on Emma’s character.

      This was really Seb’s big moment, and Penny knew that she should be focusing on her son this week and not her daughter. Not only was it the first time he’d made the team, but Seb would be the youngest player in Swell Valley cricketing history to bat for Fittlescombe against their age-old rivals. As ever, however, Emma was the squeaky wheel that ended up getting the grease.

      Seb came back in to find his mother pulling leftovers out of the fridge with the frenzied energy of a bag lady trawling for food in a dustbin. ‘What on earth am I going to give her now?’ she wailed. ‘She only eats chicken and fish.’

      ‘Mum, it’s Emma, not the bloody Queen,’ said Seb, calmly putting the food back. ‘You’ve got cheese.

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