Carrie Goes Off the Map (3 page)

Twenty miles from Packley in the center of Oxford, Matt was lying in a strange bed in a strange room. Snoring gently beside him was a chartered accountant called Natasha Redmond whom Matt had known since the days when they'd been at boarding school together. He'd bumped into her in one of the city center pubs the previous evening.

After getting home from Tuman, he'd unpacked, showered, and then headed to the Lamb and Flag for something to eat. He'd sat at an outside table, nursing a pint of Morrells and pretending to read a biography of Nelson Mandela so he could avoid getting into conversation with anyone. However, for Natasha, he'd made an exception.

‘Minty, darling, is that you?' she'd shrieked, making him spill his pint and drop his book on the cobbles. He knew it was her without even looking; she'd used the bloody stupid nickname he'd had at school for a start. She was also purring; she did a lot of purring—that was what had attracted him to her in the first place when he'd met her many years before. Since then they'd got together occasionally when their paths had crossed.

So when he'd seen her in the beer garden, with a girlfriend who'd discreetly disappeared after half an hour, he'd known where the night—and morning—would end.

‘Good morning, Dr. Landor, are you feeling any better?' she asked throatily.

Matt ran his hand down the length of her thigh, feeling it smooth and warm beneath his fingers.

‘What do you think?' he said, stroking her and feeling her satisfyingly wet.

Natasha gave a sigh of pleasure before closing her fingers around his. ‘This is all very tempting, Minty, but I'm going to have to pass on this one. I have to get up. I have a wedding to go to, as do you, remember?'

Slipping out of bed, she padded towards the shower room, stark naked. He'd seen it all before, but he was still very impressed. Even at school, his teenage hormones had almost exploded at the sight of her in a skirt so short it broke every rule. But best of all, at no point had Natasha ever gone soppy on him or he on her. They were two of a kind, he'd always thought. A good-time boy and girl, both desperate to throw off the shackles of education and get to university and the real world.

Above the sound of the water, he could hear cars swooshing past the flat on their way into Oxford city center. He'd rented the place from an ex-colleague, a strait-laced anesthetist who'd probably have had a heart attack if he knew what had been going on in his bed. He fumbled on the bedside tabletop for his watch. When he couldn't find it, he pulled back his share of the duvet and edged out of bed. Natasha emerged from the bathroom, half wearing a hand towel.

‘So you're alive then, darling?' she said.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes as she stared meaningfully at his crotch. ‘I could be more alive if you'd come back to bed, woman. Failing that, I guess I'll take a shower.'

Natasha groaned. ‘I feel so awful about this, but I think I've just used the last of the hot water.'

‘Don't worry. I'll manage.'

Natasha pulled a face. ‘Oh gosh. I suppose we should have shared.'

‘Maybe a cold shower would be best, unless you do want to be here all day,' he said gruffly.

Half an hour later, his skin tingling in the cool summer morning despite a shirt, sweater, and jeans, he found her at the cooker making pancakes. She was wearing one of his T-shirts from Tuman. He didn't tell her that the last time he'd worn it, he'd been syringing out a patient's ears.

‘Natasha…'

‘Hmm,' she said, licking batter off her fingers in an almost pornographic way.

‘Are you around Oxford over the next couple of weeks?'

She poured a cup of batter into the pan and swirled it round. ‘I might be,' she said.

‘And are you…'

‘Shagging anybody else?' said Natasha.

‘Well. Yes,' said Matt. ‘Because you know how much I enjoy your company, but I don't want to come between you and some bond trader from Dulwich Village.'

Sliding a pancake onto a plate, she handed it over and tutted. ‘Dear Matt. You always did have a conscience, didn't you? I'm between bond traders at the moment, so if you want to find some relief from the dreary world every now and then, I can help you out.'

‘That's good,' he said, watching her top up two mugs with coffee from the French press. He wondered why she wasn't married or living with anyone yet. She was thirty-two, the same age as he was, give or take a few weeks. God knows, she must have had plenty of offers. She sat down at the table, sipping her coffee as he ate a second pancake. ‘Aren't you going to have any?' he asked.

‘Yuck. All that fat and cholesterol. I'd rather eat a deep-fried spider,' she said.

Matt laughed. ‘Believe me you wouldn't.'

‘You don't mean… My God, Matt. That is absolutely disgusting.'

‘But very nutritious. It's a cultural thing, Natasha. No different to a langoustine or a nice piece of steak.'

She put her feet on the table next to his plate, wrinkling her pretty little toes. The fact that they were slightly grubby curiously turned him on even more.

Half an hour later, she'd cleared away the plates and he was washing up while she dried.

‘Right. That's me done, I'm afraid,' she said, wiping her hands on his top. ‘So. Shall I see you later this week? I don't suppose I'll get you to myself at the reception this evening so that won't really count as a date.'

‘Can I give you a call?'

‘Whatever,' she said, but he knew her too well not to hear the edge of disappointment in her voice.

‘Maybe Tuesday night? We could go to see a film and then for a meal?'

She brightened. ‘Mmm. I think I can fit you in on Tuesday. Shall I meet you here?'

‘We could meet in town. I'm sure you can suggest somewhere.'

‘The Duke of Cambridge then. They do gorgeous champagne cocktails and the bar staff are completely divine.'

Matt had to laugh. ‘Fine. If you get bored of me, you can pick one of them up.'

While she dressed, Matt took a couple of Tylenol to stave off the effects of his hangover and jet lag. He decided to take a walk to liven himself up and then get ready for the wedding. Natasha was back, stuffing her wallet into her handbag. Matt collected her wrap from the sofa and placed it round her shoulders. As he did he said casually, ‘Natasha, you do know I'm only on leave for four months, maybe less. I have to be back in Tuman in October. I wouldn't be here at all but they asked me to come home and sort a few things out.'

He hadn't told her about the accident and there was no way she could have heard. Even his own family only knew sketchy details of what had happened. She shook her head as if he was very dim indeed and tutted loudly.

‘Matt. I'm disappointed in you. You don't need to warn me off. I know the score. We're two peas in a pod, you and I. You want a little light relief and I want to shag your very gorgeous arse off.'

Matt smiled. Good old Tasha. Maybe he might actually enjoy his few weeks in England.

‘See you Tuesday then. By the way, I love your hair long, and as for the tattoos… Oh my word,' she said.

She clattered off down the stairs and Matt lay back on the sofa. He had a few hours before the wedding. Maybe he'd manage to read a few newspapers, find out what was going on, catch up with how Arsenal were doing and who was running the country. Maybe he should slink off to that little coffee bar round the corner. Get a few gallons of caffeine down him. Kill or cure… But first he needed his wallet. How much did they sting you for an espresso these days? he wondered. A pound? Two quid? Ten? Thirty…

He came to on the sofa some time later with a crick in his neck and a dead leg. He'd fallen asleep again and had no idea of the time. Eventually he found his watch in the bedroom under last night's boxer shorts. It seemed to have stopped sometime during the night; most likely, he guessed, when he and Natasha had fallen into a taxi when the club had closed. And yet… maybe not, because the second hand was still moving. If his watch was correct, that meant…

He unearthed his mobile phone and looked at the time on the screen. Then he closed his eyes, hoping that the jet lag and drugs were making him hallucinate. When it was obvious that he wasn't dreaming and this nightmare was actually happening to him, he crossed to the walk-in closet and opened the door. The things were still there, hanging from the rail in all their ghastly glory.

Oh fuck, he was going to be late for the wedding.

Rowena's plan for Carrie had involved a triple whammy of therapy: alcohol, shopping, and Nelson driving them. They were now at the Turf, a medieval pub shoehorned into a space between two of the college buildings. As, apparently, was half of Oxford, students, shoppers, and tourists all squashed cheek by jowl in the little courtyard. It was a hot June Saturday towards the end of the exam season and the place reeked of the cheap cider the students sprayed over each other to celebrate finishing.

‘And what can I get you, madam?'

Carrie shook her head as the barman shouted into her ear. ‘God. Yes. Sorry. Three halves of Old Rosy and a pint of Coke.'

She bumped her way through the drinkers in the beer garden towards Rowena, Hayley, and Nelson, who was Rowena's on-off boyfriend. They were huddled together on a spare patch of wall by the gents' toilets. Hayley waved madly. Too madly. She'd been hyper all morning, like Tigger on speed.

‘Carrie! Oh thank you. I'm sooo thirsty and I shouldn't have kept you all that time in Monsoon. But I have managed to get a pashmina exactly the same shade as my shoes and if I can just see a handbag to tone with it, I'll be done and dusted.'

Carrie smiled, handing Hayley a glass of cider. They'd spent two hours looking for the pashmina and she'd almost lost the will to live.

Rowena helped herself to a glass too, but not before she'd checked her watch again.

‘Got to get back for something?' said Carrie.

‘Me? No. No rush.'

‘Aren't you glad we decided to come into town today? I mean, isn't Oxford just gorgeous in the sun?'

‘Lovely,' said Carrie as a bow-tied student knocked into her, splashing her top with lager. A party popper exploded next to them. Nelson stared into his pint of Coke, looking as though he'd been invited to his own funeral.

‘Nelson's missing out on a Vintage Volkswagen Festival for this,' said Rowena, stroking the back of his neck as if he were a favorite pet. ‘I won't forget this, babe. I promise I'll make it up to you.'

‘Exactly how much longer do we have to stay here?' he grunted. Nelson had only two loves in his life: one was his collection of vintage VW camper vans; the other was Rowena. The trouble was, while he worshipped the ground she walked on, Rowena simply trampled all over him.

‘Oh, Nelson, it's not that bad,' she said.

‘You do know I was hoping to check out a new splitty at the festival, and now I won't be able to get into the place for poseurs and surfers,' he moaned.

Carrie couldn't resist. ‘What's a splitty? It sounds faintly pervy.'

Nelson sounded disgusted at her ignorance. ‘A splitty, for your information, is a VW camper van with a split screen. There's an orange one I've got my eye on. I was thinking of making an offer, if it was in any kind of condition…' he said, glaring sullenly at Rowena.

Carrie felt sorry for him. Poor long-suffering Nelson. He'd been pursuing Rowena, in his own plodding way, for several years now. Occasionally, usually when she was smashed, Rowena would throw him a bone and let him stay the night. But she had no intention of letting him move into the cottage. Carrie didn't really know how Nelson put up with it.

‘Look, Nelson, we're nearly done. Hayley's finished her shopping and it's roasting here in the city. Let's drink up and you can take us home, then maybe you can still make the festival,' she soothed.

‘Nelson's fine,' said Rowena sharply.

Carrie ignored her. ‘Nelson? You do want to go home, don't you?'

‘I'm going to take a leak,' he said, looking as if he'd been offered a choice of hanging or electrocution.

After he'd scuttled off into the gents', Hayley started to regale them about the new range of edible lingerie from Sweet Nothings, the adult shop she worked for. ‘We've just launched a special hen night collection. It's made of rice paper and tastes like chicken. You can suck it or swallow. It's perfect for hen nights, wedding nights, honeymoons…' Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry. I'd forgotten. I didn't mean anything…'

Rowena blew a smoke ring. ‘Keep digging, Hayley.'

‘It's fine. You don't have to treat me like an invalid. I don't go around stalking bridegrooms, hoping to kidnap one and keep him for my very own,' said Carrie.

Rowena sniffed. ‘What's that smell?'

Carrie wrinkled her nose. ‘Probably me. Some Hooray Henry spilled his pint over me. I'll try and get some of it out in the loo.'

Inside the toilets it was musty and quiet. She soaked a paper towel in cold water and patted the beery spot on her top before slipping into the cubicle and locking the door. She sucked in a breath, wondering what would it take to convince her friends she didn't have to be treated with kid gloves anymore.

‘Fack!'

The cubicle door rattled loudly.

‘Hell-oo, is there anyone in there?'

Carrie unlocked the door and came face to face with two girls wriggling into silk dresses. The tall blonde looked like a horsey version of Joely Richardson, while the other one reminded her of a young Nigella Lawson.

Nigella's hand flew to her mouth as Carrie stepped out of the cubicle. ‘Oops! Sor-ry. We really didn't know you were in there.'

‘Thought the lock had broken,' boomed Joely. ‘We're off to a wedding and we needed to get changed.'

Nigella picked up a hat from the washbasin. ‘We thought we'd have a little shop and a little drink, you see, before we set off.'

‘And now we're a little late and a little drunk. Bloody late, actually. Are you from round here, by any chance? Do you know any shortcuts to Steeple Fritton, darling?'

Carrie knew the place slightly, having acted in a few productions in the village hall. ‘Hmm. That's north of here. I suppose if you take the B-roads you might do it in about forty minutes, unless you get held up by a tractor.'

‘Fack,' said Joely, stabbing herself in the eye with a mascara wand.

‘What time's the wedding?' asked Carrie.

‘Half past three,' said Nigella.

‘And what time is it now?'

Joely picked up her mobile. ‘Almost three.'

‘Then I think you're going to be late.'

Joely sighed. ‘Do you think they'd mind very much if we missed the actual ceremony and just dropped in for the Pimm's and canapés?'

‘Depends how well you know them,' said Carrie, desperate to make her escape. She'd decided that Nelson had been tortured long enough.

‘Not very, actually,' said Joely conspiratorially. ‘In fact, between you and me, we hardly know her and we've never met him.'

‘She's our boss,' hissed Nigella, as if the bride could somehow hear them. ‘And we feel obliged to go.'

Joely adjusted the angle of a flying-saucer hat. ‘We must sound like such bitches!'

Carrie just smiled to herself and held her hands under the icy water from the tap, weirdly enjoying the sensation of her fingers turning numb. ‘You'd better set off now if you do want to try and make the ceremony. You never know, you might get there in time. Brides are supposed to be late…' she said, thinking how she had never made it at all.

Nigella's snort echoed round the toilets. ‘Late! You have to be joking. Fenella Harding would be early for her own funeral.'

Carrie was taken aback. ‘Fenella Harding?'

‘Yah. Do you know her?'

She shook her head and turned off the tap. ‘No. I don't.'

‘You looked as if you recognized the name,' said Nigella suspiciously.

Carrie flashed them a smile. She did know Fenella slightly—she ran the firm of accountants who looked after the farm's business affairs—but the last thing she wanted was to prolong the conversation. Her friends would be thinking she'd disappeared down the loo or something.

‘No, I can't say I've heard of her,' she said.

Nigella let out a sigh. ‘Lucky you. Just between us, she's an absolute cow. How she ever found someone to marry her, I have simply no idea.'

Joely wrinkled her nose. ‘Drugs probably, or a cattle prod. She's roped some rustic farmer person.'

Carrie caught sight of herself in the mirror and wondered whether she could be bothered to get her eyebrows waxed. ‘Really?'

‘Yah. Weird, eh? You'd have thought someone like Fenella would have sunk her claws into a stockbroker or a lawyer. Still, this guy's absolutely dripping with family money apparently, even if it is in fields and cows,' said Nigella.

‘She's been boasting about pinching him on the rebound from some poor girl he'd been living with for absolutely aeons,' said Joely, applying a Juicy Tube to her lips. ‘Though everyone thinks she was shagging the guy before they even split up.'

‘Still, the woman's always the last to know. Monty Morrison spotted Fenella in Le Quat' Saisons with some hulking great bloke in cords and a Tattersall shirt. Well, that had to be him, didn't it? They got into a brand-new Range Rover, Monty says, and headed for Wytham Woods for a quickie,' Nigella went on.

Carrie's heart stopped momentarily. Her face stared back at her in the cracked glass of the mirror. ‘What color?' she murmured.

‘Sorry?'

She spoke louder. ‘What color was the Range Rover your friend saw?'

Nigella sighed. ‘Oh, I don't know, darling, but he said they headed off for the woods in it.'

Carrie reached for a paper towel, her hands shaking. ‘How awful for his girlfriend,' she said, feeling sick.

‘God, yes. Total bummer. Still, if he was bonking a witch like Fenella, he wasn't worth having, now was he?' Joely was saying.

‘What was his name?' said Nigella. ‘Sounded rustic to me.'

‘It's got a funny spelling. Foreign, I think. I remember it from the invitation.'

‘It's Huw Brigstocke,' said Carrie.

The girls turned to her and trilled in unison, ‘Sor-ry?'

‘It's Huw with a
w
. It's Welsh,' she said to their astonished faces.

‘Oh. Gosh. Do you know him? Is he really rustic? Do you know his ex? Do you…' Their eyes widened, then they both opened their mouths at precisely the same time. ‘Oh, fack.'

Sunlight and noise spilled into the toilets as Hayley walked in.

‘Carrie? We were wondering where you'd got to. Nelson really doesn't mind missing the VW festival, so there's no need to rush off.'

She might as well have been invisible. Carrie pushed past her, knocking her against the toilet door. Outside in the courtyard, the clock on New College tower was striking the hour. Its chimes drowned out all the chatter, the laughter, the clatter of glasses.

One, two, three…

‘Carrie. Whatever's the matter?' Hayley's voice was behind her but it was coming from another planet.

‘Nothing. Just a headache. Tell Nelson and Rowena I'm off to get some aspirin,' she said.

At first she walked slowly out of the beer garden and along the cobbled alley, numbed by shock. By the time she reached the traffic lights that led into Broad Street, she was running. Her heart thumped as she pounded past the college buildings and shops, heading for the taxi rank in St. Giles. She nearly knocked over a cyclist, who wobbled past her, ringing his bell and shouting angrily.

The numbness had gone, replaced by a stabbing pain that felt like rage and hurt all rolled into one. How could Huw have done this to her? It had been bad enough bearing the pain of him jilting her a fortnight before their own wedding, but now he'd pledged his undying bloody love to another woman barely four months later. God, they'd probably been having an affair while she'd still been sharing his bed. And why Fenella Harding? The sour-faced, holier-than-thou, iron-knickered
cow
!

When she reached the taxi rank, a cab was just pulling in. A large woman with about ten shopping bags was first in the queue.

‘Sorry. Emergency!' shouted Carrie.

‘How dare you! This is my cab!'

Carrie pushed past the furious woman. ‘It's a matter of life and death.'

‘I don't care. Give me back my cab. I'm going to be late for my train.'

‘I don't want no druggies in 'ere,' said the driver.

‘I'm not on drugs and I'll pay you double the fare if you take me where I want to go.'

He still looked dubious and she didn't blame him. He must think she was a nutter, which was true. She just wasn't a drugged-up nutter.

‘Triple the fare?' she offered, hoping Rowena could do without rent that week.

‘Okay. Done.'

The cab roared away from the curb, shooting her backwards against the seat. As they queued at the lights on St. Giles, the driver called back through the grille, ‘Where exactly are we going that's so important?'

She gripped her seat and said it out loud so there could be absolutely no mistake.

‘St. Mark's church, Steeple Fritton. I'm late for a wedding.'