want is Furlings. Anyway, what do you mean “a girl like me”?’
Brett’s questions were the same ones she’d been asking herself less than half an hour ago. But she instantly bridled hearing them from him.
‘Oh, I think you know what I mean,’ Brett sneered. He had moved close to her now, too close. Tati could smell the faint, patchouli scent of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Before she knew what was happening, he had slipped one hand around the small of her back and begun gently stroking her bare skin beneath the tatty sweater, a gesture at once affectionate, erotic and breathtakingly presumptuous.
It was the latter that Tati reacted to, pushing him away violently.
Brett laughed. ‘Why so affronted? You’re a sexy girl and you know it.’
‘And you’re a revolting old lech, whether you know it or not. You don’t seriously think I’d be attracted to you?’
‘Oh that’s right, I forgot. You prefer boys now, don’t you? Like my son,’ Brett said archly, walking away. ‘Strange, that’s not what I read in the papers about you.’
‘I haven’t the remotest interest in you or your son,’ Tati insisted furiously. ‘All I want is my house back. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to get it.’
‘You’re out of your league,’ Brett said languidly. He was mocking her now, a cruel, amused smile playing on his thin lips as he pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘Pretty girls like you should stick to what they’re good at.’
‘Oh really. And what’s that?’
‘Shopping and shagging. And looking decorative.’
‘That’s what your wife does, is it?’ said Tati, touching a nerve at last. ‘How proud you must be.’
Brett’s face darkened. ‘You stay away from my wife.’
‘I’ll be glad to. Just as long as you stay away from me. I’ll see you in court, Mr Cranley.’
Brett said nothing. He merely walked back to his car, laughing.
Once he’d gone, Tatiana stood frozen to the spot, too angry to breathe, let alone move.
Disgusting, arrogant, entitled, sexist pig!
I hate him.
I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life.
It was a miracle that both the Cranley children had turned out so sweet. Clearly Angela Cranley must be quite a mother, far from the ‘decorative’ doll of her revolting husband’s imagination.
Conceited little shit.
Shopping and shagging indeed …
Tati had been determined to contest the will even before Brett Cranley showed up at her door. But now? Now she’d sell her own organs to get Furlings back if she had to. Brett Cranley was going to rue the day he underestimated Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.
Laura Baxter brushed her teeth and spat furiously into the basin.
‘I don’t know why you’re so angry,’ said Gabe. Lying on the bed in his boxer shorts in Wraggsbottom Farm’s beautiful, beamed master bedroom, he had a James Bond novel open in one hand and a packet of Maltesers in the other. It was a warm night and the lead-mullioned window beside the bed was open, revealing a glorious view of the valley, with the river Swell at its base and the Downs rolling away to the sea. Gabe had lived here since birth and loved his farm as if it were a person. Since marrying Laura he loved it even more, with all the promise it now held for the future. Their future.
‘I went to see a neighbour,’ he said, popping another Malteser into his mouth. ‘I wasn’t selling our first-born child to Pol Pot.’
‘We don’t have a first-born child,’ said Laura. ‘And we’re not likely to if you keep lying to me.’
She came back into the bedroom looking as furious as it was possible to look in a floral Laura Ashley nightdress covered in pale pink rosebuds.
‘I didn’t lie to you,’ said Gabe indignantly.
‘You went behind my back. It’s the same thing.’
‘It is not the same thing. Christ, what is wrong with trying to buy a few fields anyway?’
Throwing back the
Brett’s questions were the same ones she’d been asking herself less than half an hour ago. But she instantly bridled hearing them from him.
‘Oh, I think you know what I mean,’ Brett sneered. He had moved close to her now, too close. Tati could smell the faint, patchouli scent of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Before she knew what was happening, he had slipped one hand around the small of her back and begun gently stroking her bare skin beneath the tatty sweater, a gesture at once affectionate, erotic and breathtakingly presumptuous.
It was the latter that Tati reacted to, pushing him away violently.
Brett laughed. ‘Why so affronted? You’re a sexy girl and you know it.’
‘And you’re a revolting old lech, whether you know it or not. You don’t seriously think I’d be attracted to you?’
‘Oh that’s right, I forgot. You prefer boys now, don’t you? Like my son,’ Brett said archly, walking away. ‘Strange, that’s not what I read in the papers about you.’
‘I haven’t the remotest interest in you or your son,’ Tati insisted furiously. ‘All I want is my house back. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to get it.’
‘You’re out of your league,’ Brett said languidly. He was mocking her now, a cruel, amused smile playing on his thin lips as he pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘Pretty girls like you should stick to what they’re good at.’
‘Oh really. And what’s that?’
‘Shopping and shagging. And looking decorative.’
‘That’s what your wife does, is it?’ said Tati, touching a nerve at last. ‘How proud you must be.’
Brett’s face darkened. ‘You stay away from my wife.’
‘I’ll be glad to. Just as long as you stay away from me. I’ll see you in court, Mr Cranley.’
Brett said nothing. He merely walked back to his car, laughing.
Once he’d gone, Tatiana stood frozen to the spot, too angry to breathe, let alone move.
Disgusting, arrogant, entitled, sexist pig!
I hate him.
I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life.
It was a miracle that both the Cranley children had turned out so sweet. Clearly Angela Cranley must be quite a mother, far from the ‘decorative’ doll of her revolting husband’s imagination.
Conceited little shit.
Shopping and shagging indeed …
Tati had been determined to contest the will even before Brett Cranley showed up at her door. But now? Now she’d sell her own organs to get Furlings back if she had to. Brett Cranley was going to rue the day he underestimated Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.
Laura Baxter brushed her teeth and spat furiously into the basin.
‘I don’t know why you’re so angry,’ said Gabe. Lying on the bed in his boxer shorts in Wraggsbottom Farm’s beautiful, beamed master bedroom, he had a James Bond novel open in one hand and a packet of Maltesers in the other. It was a warm night and the lead-mullioned window beside the bed was open, revealing a glorious view of the valley, with the river Swell at its base and the Downs rolling away to the sea. Gabe had lived here since birth and loved his farm as if it were a person. Since marrying Laura he loved it even more, with all the promise it now held for the future. Their future.
‘I went to see a neighbour,’ he said, popping another Malteser into his mouth. ‘I wasn’t selling our first-born child to Pol Pot.’
‘We don’t have a first-born child,’ said Laura. ‘And we’re not likely to if you keep lying to me.’
She came back into the bedroom looking as furious as it was possible to look in a floral Laura Ashley nightdress covered in pale pink rosebuds.
‘I didn’t lie to you,’ said Gabe indignantly.
‘You went behind my back. It’s the same thing.’
‘It is not the same thing. Christ, what is wrong with trying to buy a few fields anyway?’
Throwing back the
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