Brett smiled broadly. He liked this boy more and more.
‘I’ll think about it.’
Gabe was itching to close the deal. He’d wanted those fields for years, for all the reasons he’d told Brett, and because they were just so bloody pretty. He wouldn’t be happy till he’d nailed a new ‘Wraggsbottom Farm’ sign onto the gate at the bottom of the lower meadow. For the first time since he’d inherited the farm from his father, he could sense they were within reach. But this was his first meeting with Brett Cranley and he knew he mustn’t push too hard.
‘Thank you.’ Standing up he shook Brett’s hand. Just then the kitchen door opened and Logan came skipping through the door, with Jason trailing in her wake, carrying her schoolbag, blazer and straw hat like a put-upon courtier.
‘Have you met my kids?’ asked Brett, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his daughter, who looked exactly like him.
Gabe smiled at Jason. ‘I met your son.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Brett, uninterested. ‘Well this is my baby girl.’ He pushed her forward proudly, as if she were a prize vegetable he’d just grown.
‘Hello,’ said Gabe.
Logan stared up at him, her dark eyes like saucers beneath her long, camel-like lashes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a handsome man in her life. He looked like a prince, or a knight, or a—
‘Say hello to Mr Baxter, Logie,’ Brett prompted. ‘She’s not normally shy,’ he added to Gabe. ‘I think she likes you.’
‘Daddy,’ Logan hissed, blushing vermilion.
‘Oh, come on, pumpkin,’ Brett ruffled her dark hair. ‘I’m only teasing you.’
Gabe said his goodbyes and left. Once he’d gone, Logan swiftly changed the subject. ‘Guess what?’ she asked Brett, making herself an orange squash that was practically neat syrup.
‘What?’
‘Jason’s got a girlfriend.’
Brett looked at his son, half amused and half amazed. ‘Have you? That was quick work. Who is it?’
‘It isn’t anyone. Stop being silly, Logie.’
‘She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen in my life,’ Logan gushed, between gulps of teeth-rotting orange squash, helping herself to a fistful of McVitie’s chocolate fingers from the jar. ‘She had very tight clothes on and long hair and big boobs. And she winked at Jason in the playground. Everyone saw her.’
‘Who knew the school run could be so exciting?’ said Brett. ‘I should have gone myself.’
He was playing it cool, but inside he was delighted. It had long bothered him that his son was so hopeless with the opposite sex. Brett viewed Jason’s shyness, like his on-and-off depression, as some sort of personal affront. It was almost as if the boy was deliberately asserting his complete ‘otherness’ to Brett and everything he stood for, throwing it in his father’s face: I don’t look like you, I don’t act like you, I don’t think like you. A gorgeous girlfriend – any girlfriend – would be a welcome development indeed.
‘So come on, Jase, spill the beans. Who is this mystery woman?’
‘There’s no mystery,’ muttered Jason, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow him. How was it that his father always managed to take every good thing in his life, however small, and ruin it? ‘Logan’s talking about Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. I ran into her briefly at school, that’s all.’
Brett stiffened. ‘What was that scheming bitch doing at the school?’
‘She’s not a bitch,’ said Jason. ‘She’s actually quite nice once you get to know her.’
‘I’ve no intention of “getting to know her”. She’s already been round here, I gather, causing trouble and upsetting your mother. I won’t have that.’
Why? Because nobody’s allowed to upset Mum except you, you hypocrite? Jason thought darkly.
‘And I won’t have you dating her either,’ Brett ranted on.
‘For God’s sake, I am not dating her,’ said Jason, exasperated. ‘I barely know the girl.’
‘Logan said she winked at you.’
‘She did!’ Logan insisted through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit crumbs.
‘She was being friendly. Jesus.’
‘Winking isn’t friendly. It’s flirtatious. She’s up to something, and you’re too dumb to see it. You shouldn’t even be talking to her.’ Brett’s anger was building, like a steaming kettle about to sing. ‘Where’s your family loyalty?’
‘She is family, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Jason shot back. ‘We wouldn’t be standing here in her house if she weren’t.’
‘Furlings is not her house!’ Brett erupted.
Disturbed by all the shouting, Angela walked in. After spending the better part of the day in bed with Brett, she positively beamed with contentment. Until she saw the expression on her son’s face. Angela knew that look. Angry. Detached. Shut-down.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Ask him.’ Jason glowered at his father before storming out of the room.
‘Come back here!’ Brett roared. ‘Don’t you walk away from me, you little shit!’
‘Don’t say shit, Daddy,’ said Logan, utterly unperturbed. Knockdown drag-out fights between her father and brother were a daily occurrence. Stuffing more chocolate fingers into her pockets, she went up to her bedroom to think about Gabe Baxter in peace. She wondered if she could see his farm from here, and whether or not her binoculars had been unpacked yet.
Once she’d gone, Angela put a tentative hand on Brett’s arm. ‘What happened?’
Brett’s face was set like flint. ‘Apparently Jason and that Flint-Hamilton woman were all over each other outside the school gates this afternoon.’
Angela frowned. ‘That sounds highly unlikely. Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure she was there. Logan said she winked at Jason.’
‘Well, maybe she did. But I’m sure it was quite innocent.’ Angela could not imagine the poised, sophisticated, drop-dead gorgeous Tati in any sort of romantic entanglement with her cripplingly shy, depressive son. Much as she might like to. ‘Or maybe Logan made a mistake.’
‘She’s staying in the village, isn’t she? Tatiana?’
‘Yes. At Greystones Farm. Why?’
Brett picked up his car keys from the kitchen counter.
Angela looked alarmed. ‘You’re not going over there?’
‘Damn right I am.’
‘Oh darling please, don’t. What will you say?’
‘That I don’t want her sniffing around my son, upsetting my wife, or stalking my bloody daughter on her first day at school.’
Angela wrung her hands miserably. ‘You’re being ridiculous, Brett. If you go over there it’ll only stir up trouble, and you know it.’
But it was no use. Brett was already striding down the hall towards the front door. Angela stood and watched from the kitchen window as he jumped into the driver’s seat of his new Bentley Continental GT V8 and sped off down the drive like a maddened bull. He could fuel that car on testosterone alone, she thought sadly, as the gravel sprayed up into an angry arc behind him. Testosterone and rage.
Standing at the window she