Not having ever met Rory Flint-Hamilton, there was little Angela could say to this. Even those who approved of the inheritance kept their distance. As the new, rich, foreign owner of ‘The Big House’, Angela was treated with polite deference by the other mums at school, rather than being met as an equal. Without equality there was little chance of friendship. Gabe Baxter’s wife Laura had been kind, even though she obviously disapproved of Brett. As had Penny Harwich, another local engaged to Sussex cricketing hero Santiago de la Cruz. Penny had gone out of her way to include Angela in village WI meetings and girls’ nights out. But Angela still missed her girlfriends back home, and wondered if she would ever truly fit in in the Swell Valley, as much as she loved it here. Of course, if Tatiana won her court case in September, it wouldn’t matter. They’d all have to move again. Angela couldn’t imagine that Brett would agree to stay in Fittlescombe if they lost Furlings. With a shudder, she pushed the thought out of her mind.
She’d arrived at the school gates now. Hovering behind a group of mothers in Logan’s class, about to steel herself to go and join them, she stopped when she overheard a snippet of their conversation.
‘Apparently he’s a total sex addict,’ one of the mums was saying. ‘Worse than Tatiana Flint-Hamilton. He was known for it in Australia.’
‘Well I don’t know about that,’ said her friend. ‘But Oliver saw him in The American Bar at the Savoy on Tuesday night with a girl half his age on his lap, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.’
‘Yes, well, he doesn’t does he?’ a third woman piped up. ‘He’s got his lovely house, his lovely wife, his lovely life in London. Cat that got the cream, I should say.’
‘Is Oliver sure it was him?’ the first mother asked.
They all laughed at that. ‘You can hardly mistake him. He’s so bloody good looking.’
‘Do you think so?’ The first mother wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ve only met him once but he gives me the creeps. Anyway, what was your husband doing at The Savoy on a Tuesday evening, that’s what I’d like to know? Oliver might have made the whole thing up to cover his own tracks!’
‘Yeah, right. Somehow I don’t think my Ollie has quite the pulling power of Brett Cranley.’
The mothers’ conversation moved on. Behind them, Angela Cranley stood rooted to the spot. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. The sounds of birdsong and chattering voices and the school bell ringing all merged into one muffled dirge that grew louder and louder until she found herself clutching her head. Spots swam before her eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Someone was touching her arm. Angela turned to look at them but could see nothing but blackness. She felt herself falling, sinking. Then nothing.
‘Mrs Cranley. Mrs Cranley, can you hear me?’
Angela opened her eyes. Max Bingley, Logan’s headmaster, was standing over her. He had one hand on her forehead and the other on her wrist, apparently taking her pulse. When he saw her look up at him he smiled reassuringly.
‘Thank goodness. You had us all worried there for a moment. Mrs Graham, would you fetch Mrs Cranley a large glass of water?’
While the school secretary scuttled off, Angela took in her surroundings. She was in the headmaster’s study, stretched out on the sofa. Copies of the latest OFSTED report lay neatly stacked on the coffee table, and the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Bingley had an eclectic collection, everything from teaching manuals and curriculum guidelines to Victorian novels and books on travel and adventure.
‘You’re a reader,’ Angela croaked.
‘I should hope so, in my job,’ Max Bingley said amiably. ‘I think you must have had a touch of sunstroke out in the playground. How do you feel?’
‘Embarrassed,’ said Angela. ‘I can’t believe I fainted.’
Painfully, the mothers’ conversation came back to her. It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself angrily. It’s just gossip. A man in Brett’s position gets that sort of crap all the time.
The secretary returned with the water and Max handed it to Angela, propping her up with cushions.
‘Nothing to be embarrassed about,’ he said kindly. ‘Its ridiculously hot out there. I suspect you got a bit dehydrated, that’s all.’
In fact, Max knew what had happened. After Angela passed out, one of the mothers admitted they’d been talking about Brett.
‘We had no idea she was there. None of us would have said a word otherwise.’
‘And you’re sure she overheard you?’ Max asked.
‘I’m not sure, no. But she keeled over right afterwards, so I’d say it’s a fairly safe bet. We all feel dreadful.’
Max loathed gossip, but unfortunately it was the very lifeblood of almost all schools, and St Hilda’s was no exception. In any case, the whispers about Brett Cranley could be heard well beyond the school gates. Everybody in the village knew that Furlings’ new owner was an inveterate womanizer, and that the Cranleys had moved here at least in part to escape an impending sexual scandal back in Oz.
Max Bingley for one couldn’t understand it. Angela Cranley was a beautiful woman, and not just on the outside. There was something luminous about her, a glow that could only come from a truly kind spirit within. If Max were married to a woman like Angela, he wouldn’t dream of playing the field. Then again, he suspected that he and Brett Cranley had very little indeed in common, in this area or any other. There was a reason that Max was headmaster of a tiny village primary school and Brett was an international real-estate mogul, a reason that went far deeper than their respective sexual mores.
‘Where’s Logan?’ Angela asked. She didn’t know why but she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to get out of this room, away from Max Bingley’s kindness and sympathy.
‘Bertie Shaw’s mother Harriet took her home. She’s fine.’