[Churchminster #3] Wild Things by Jo Carnegie Page B

yeah!’
    ‘Fine,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll tell Rafe Wolfe you don’t want to serve him, then. He’s in the bar.’
    Stacey’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. ‘Oh my God, he’s here? Wait, I’m going to get changed! Who’s he with?’
    ‘Oh, Mother Theresa, Princess Di,’ Jack replied. ‘I think Freddie Mercury’s here, too.’
    A look of confusion entered Stacey’s face, until she realized her dad was winding her up. She narrowed kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘Oh
grow
up! That is so immature.’
    The bedroom door slammed shut. Chuckling, Jack went back down the stairs to serve his customers.
    The next day the
Daily Mercy
, a gossipy national newspaper, printed a double-page spread about the Britain’s Best Village competition. In it, they assessed each of the four finalists and their good and bad points, with a final score out of ten. Clementine was furious to see that Churchminster had only scored four, the lowest by far. She was particularly incensed to hear it described as a ‘
country village lacking in rural charm
’ and see that they had been marked down by the ‘
unsightly hole in the churchyard wall
’. There was an inordinate amount of detail, and none of it was good. To add salt to the wound, Maplethorpe had come out top with nine and a half out of ten, with a quote from Veronica Stockard-Manning that: ‘
even perfection can be improved on
’. Clementine wondered crossly why the journalist hadn’t approached her; the whole article was biased towards Maplethorpe. Clementine sat back in her study chair, convinced that that ghastly Stockard-Manning woman was behind it all. She knew just how devious she could be. As the old, painful memories came rushing back, her jaw tightened with resolve.
    Churchminster was not a village to be underestimated. This was war.
    The speed of the Garden Party organized at Fairoaks that night surprised even those who knew Clementine. One minute Calypso was knee-deep in paperwork in her office, the next she had been ordered by her grandmother to photocopy reams of new Garden Party literature. Camilla was commandeered to go and buy supplies of Pimms and strawberries, and hunt down fresh mint from the garden. It was here that Calypso found her shortly after six o’clock, sunlight still dancing down on the lawns.
    ‘What
are
you doing?’ Calypso asked, as she saw Camilla’s bottom sticking out of a bush by the side of the path. Camilla reversed out and stood up, her face rather red. She had a bunch of green leaves in her hand.
    ‘Getting mint for the Pimms,’ she puffed. ‘It’s in a terribly awkward place. That bush nearly had my eye out!’
    Calypso reached over and picked something out of her sister’s hair. ‘Greenfly. What’s the mega-urgency about this meeting tonight? We’ve got one on Sunday, anyway.’
    ‘I’m in the dark as much as you are,’ said Camilla. ‘But Granny Clem has definitely got a bee in her bonnet about something.’
    There was an air of tension in the drawing room as they gathered sometime later. Even Errol Flynn was subdued, lying under the chaise longue with just his paws visible.
    Clementine strode into the room, carrying a large pile of A4 papers. She dumped them on a table and held up the newspaper, which had been on the top. It was that day’s
Daily Mercy
. ‘Have you all seen this?’ she announced.
    ‘Bloody outrage!’ said Freddie Fox-Titt indignantly, and heads nodded around him in agreement.
    ‘How did they get all that
stuff
?’ someone else said.
    ‘Maybe it’s one of those reporters who’ve been hanging round trying to get on the film set,’ offered Angie. ‘They can’t get much on the actors so they’ve decided to turn the spotlight on us instead!’
    Clementine frowned. ‘It could well be. From now on, we all need to be extra vigilant!’ Her voice rose an octave. ‘May I remind you that this is not just a competition, this is our livelihood! Our dignity and pride is at stake here, and
we
need to