Wild Oats by Veronica Henry Page B

folder. It was a death announcement from The Times . A cold chill ran down Olivier’s neck as he read the details: Louisa Wilding had died two months before, after a short illness.
    Impulse made him pick up the phone and call Jack. To Olivier, scrawling a few lines of well-meaning condolence was worse than doing nothing – a meaningless piece of middle-class etiquette. And so what if he was encroaching on dangerous territory? Death was a great leveller. Death made you forgive and forget. And Jack had sounded delighted to hear from him – though Olivier suspected that his effusiveness was a result of quite clearly being drunk at three o’clock in the afternoon.
    Olivier had always seen Jack as the father he would have liked, for Jack had taken more notice of him than Eric had ever done. On the occasions Olivier had been allowed to accompany his father when they went racing, Eric had expected the boy to keep quiet and out of sight. Jack, on the other hand, had insisted on getting him involved, giving him simple tasks that wouldn’t jeopardize the car’s performance. And once he’d even allowed him behind the wheel, had patiently steered him through the first rudiments of driving, and Olivier had felt a rush of exhilaration that he’d never forgotten. As soon as his father got back, however, he’d been turfed out of the driving seat and sent to fetch bacon sandwiches and coffee. Jack had smiled sympathetically at him. ‘Never mind,’ he’d said conspiratorially. ‘You can come up and stay on your own one day. I’ll teach you how to drive then.’ But after the aborted holiday, that day had never arrived…
    So when Jack implored Olivier to come and visit, Olivier needed no second telling. He’d left the showroom, jumped in his car and driven straight up to Shropshire, to be welcomed by Jack with open arms and a full glass; the two of them had spent the weekend getting drunk. Olivier had intended, albeit reluctantly, to head back to London on the Sunday afternoon. But over a very late breakfast of bacon sandwiches and brown sauce, Jack had started reminiscing about their racing exploits. Olivier wondered about the whereabouts of the car, and was staggered when Jack admitted it was still sitting in the barn.
    It had only taken half an hour of adjustments, a change of oil and a new tank of petrol to bring about the car’s resurrection. Jack became very emotional, as the car for him held so many memories. And Olivier knew he had reached a turning point: that he had stumbled upon something that was going to provide the thrills and excitement he’d been lacking. He never went back to London. He rang his father and told him he was going into business with an old friend, only lying by omission, and Eric’s sneering implication that he would be back soon with his tail between his legs told Olivier he was doing the right thing keeping quiet about his rekindled friendship.
    There was a tacit acknowledgement between Jack and Olivier that their relationship was on an entirely fresh footing, that the history between the Templetons and the Wildings should be forgotten as much water had flowed under the bridge. And together they had forged a friendship based on a mutual obsession. Jack insisted he was too old to race the car – his reactions were too slow, the fear he felt was inhibiting rather than motivating. But he nurtured Olivier, taught him everything he knew. And Olivier took to the sport like a natural. Although it wasn’t as physically testing as skiing, many of the skills needed were the same. You had to be fit and alert, with the courage to take risks and the sense to make those risks calculated ones. There was no place for caution, but no place for foolhardiness either.
    Olivier had taken his advanced motor-racing licenceand passed with flying colours, which meant he could now compete. He took the car out into the hills on a daily basis to practise, and never tired of the rush it gave him. Such simplicity, such