[Churchminster #3] Wild Things Read Free Page A

Despite it being mid-March she was dressed like a podium dancer from Ibiza, in a crotch-skimming minidress, shiny black bomber jacket and towering high heels. Several lurid-coloured hoops dangled from both ears.
    Jack was overly protective of his only child, and he did not like what he saw. ‘What the bleedin ’ell do you look like?’
    Stacey Turner tossed her head, her shiny dark ponytail swinging like a show pony’s. She ignored her father. ‘Ma, I’m off shopping with the girls. Can I use your car?’
    Jack interrupted. ‘Oi, young lady! Don’t forget you’re working tonight. We need you back at 6.30 p.m. sharp.’
    Stacey rolled her eyes, no mean feat under four tonnes of black eyeliner. ‘As if I could forget! I’ll be stuck behind this stupid bar while everyone’s out having fun.
And
Kyle’s going’s to be at the Royal Oak later!’
    ‘You’re lucky you’ve got a job in this climate,’ Jack pointed out reasonably. His expression darkened. ‘Hold on, who’s this Kyle?’
    Stacey sighed dramatically. ‘Dad, don’t start!’ She caught sight of the poster behind the bar and her face lit up. ‘Are we putting on a rave?’
    ‘Certainly not!’ interjected Clementine hurriedly. She knew the poster would send out the wrong message!
    Stacey’s shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing ever happens round here,’ she muttered. ‘It’s
well
boring!’
    Beryl smiled at her daughter. ‘Come on, Stace! Most people would give their eye teeth to live in Churchminster.’ She winked at Clementine humorously. ‘You never know, Orlando Bloom might pop in for a pint tonight!’
    Stacey shot her mother a contemptuous look. ‘Like that’s ever gonna happen. Celebrities would never come to a dump like this.’ Snatching her mum’s car keys off the bar, she flounced out.

Chapter 3
    ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Churchminster stood Clanfield Hall, a magnificent stately home, with breathtaking gardens and a fountain that Queen Victoria herself was rumoured to have dipped her feet in during a summer party.
    This particular afternoon the owners, Lord Ambrose and Lady Frances Fraser, were heading back towards the hall having just attended a charity lunch. As he floored the Range Rover round the winding country lanes, Ambrose was full of his usual bile about the ‘bloody silly sods’ who populated such functions.
    ‘I don’t know who the hell I was sitting next to, but she didn’t even know her Belgian sheepdog from her bearded collie.’
    Ambrose had been born and raised at Clanfield Hall, which had been in his family for generations, and he had a morbid dislike of what he called the ‘town set’.
    ‘That was the Marchioness of Glenvale, she was hosting the lunch,’ his wife pointed out. ‘Ambrose, I really hope you weren’t rude to her.’
    At fifty-four, Frances Fraser was nearly twenty years younger than her husband. An elegant Joanna Lumley lookalike, her cool manner and unruffled appearance couldn’t have been more at odds with her volatile husband. When Ambrose went off on one of his legendary rants Frances was the only one who could calm him down.
    ‘Harrumph!’ retorted Ambrose. ‘A bloody waste of time if you ask me, sitting around drinking champagne and talking about flower shows.’
    Frances didn’t rise to this. She was actually rather surprised she’d got her husband along to the lunch in the first place. These days, Ambrose barely left the confines of Clanfield Hall, preferring to be out in the grounds walking his dogs, or shutting himself in his study with a tot of his beloved single-malt whisky.
    By contrast, Frances missed their once-lively social life and, in spite of its size, she was beginning to find the whole house rather claustrophobic. Of course, she knew how privileged she was, and that many women would love to be in her position, but still. Frances couldn’t help feeling that something was
missing
.
    ‘It’s wonderful news about Britain’s Best Village,’ she said, changing the subject.