CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Autumn turned into winter, then spring, with each new season bringing fresh life and hope to the Swell Valley. Having lost her legal challenge to her father’s will, and all hope of regaining Furlings, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had considered packing up and leaving Fittlescombe. She could always move in with Marco, get a job in London, resume some toned-down version of her old, carefree life. But she chose not to, partly out of stubbornness and a desire to maintain her independence, modest though it might be; and partly because she refused to give Brett Cranley the satisfaction of thinking he’d run her out of her own village. She did want more from life than a job as a teacher in a rural primary school. She hadn’t given up her dreams, or her ambitions. But this was a time for healing and recuperation, for regaining her strength and picking her next battle wisely. The job helped. Tati was good at it, and the children all liked and respected her. Marco helped too. Their relationship was steadily building, and while Marco wasn’t the most exciting boyfriend she’d ever had, he was attractive and successful and stable, a quality Tatiana had come to value more over the last nine months. Since her one, wild night with Brett Cranley last September, after the court case, she’d also remained faithful to Marco, an astonishing personal best for a girl who hitherto had only known ‘fidelity’ as an investment fund.
Perhaps wary of screwing things up, she’d kept her relationship and her life in the village wholly separate up till now, only ever visiting Marco in London during the holidays and at weekends. But Marco had been pushing to be allowed into his girlfriend’s secretive country life, and Tati had finally acquiesced. Next weekend was the late May bank holiday and also Jason Cranley’s 21st birthday party at Furlings. Tati was invited – she’d remained in contact with Jason, much to his father’s chagrin. She decided she would bring Marco along. It would be as good a chance as any for them to make their debut as a couple, plus she could use the moral support. Jason’s party would be the first time Tatiana had been back to the house, her house, since the court case. And of course, Brett would be there. She tried hard not to think about Brett.
Dylan Pritchard Jones held up two dinner jackets in front of his wife.
‘Which one?’ he asked, gingerly stepping out of range of his baby daughter Caroline, who was sitting in her high chair armed with a plastic spoon (aka catapult) and a bowl full of some revolting greenish mush.
Maisie Pritchard Jones glanced up from the Mumsnet Rules. ‘I’m not sure it matters, does it? It’s only a twenty-first birthday party. Besides, they both look exactly the same.’
Dylan struggled to keep his temper. ‘They are not exactly the same,’ he said stiffly. ‘The Ralph Lauren clearly has a far wider lapel.’ He waved the jacket on the right at her meaningfully. ‘And it is not just a twenty-first birthday party. Not only will the entire school and village be there, not to mention all the Cranleys’ swanky London friends. But Jane Templeton is confirmed as coming. I’ll never have a better chance to impress her. It wouldn’t kill you to give me a little support.’
Maisie stared at her husband open-mouthed. She’d been up since five with Caroline (Maisie did everything with the baby; if Dylan changed a single nappy he expected a medal), and had somehow found time to pitch for two new design jobs in between pureeing vegetables, ironing a mountain of Dylan’s shirts, playing pat-a-cake with a grizzly, teething infant and making supper. And now Dylan expected her to play fashion consultant? Just how much ‘support’ did one man need?
‘I want this job for both of us, you know,’ said Dylan, sensing that perhaps he’d gone a tad too far. ‘The deputy headship at St Jude’s would be a huge step up.’
Jane Templeton, a local bigwig and chair of the Fittlescombe Conservative Association, also happened to be the chair of governors at St Jude’s, a prestigious prep school in neighbouring Brockhurst village. Having successfully charmed the old battle-axe at the Fittlescombe fete, Dylan was now actively lobbying to be considered for the deputy headship at Jude’s. (Graham Marshall, the last deputy head, had considerately dropped dead of a heart attack last month.)