At some point on Friday morning, he rang Davina to check if she’d seen the story. She was down at Chawbury and didn’t always open the newspapers, being over-occupied with her garden. Naturally he wasn’t going to reveal his own role in the planting of the item, but he wanted her to read it since he felt she was too sympathetic towards Dawn and Ross, and it would be salutary.
Davina, however, had read it already and was horrified. ‘So hurtful to poor Dawn, I can’t bear it. I rang her straightaway and assured her nobody round here thinks about them like that. Nobody I’ve met anyway. She sounded so upset, poor woman, I drove straight over. Lots of people were ringing up, saying how unnecessary it was. Philippa rang while I was there. And Bean. All that horrid stuff about Gemma and the baby, and who the father is. Do you know, I’ve a good mind to ring Nigel Dempster and tell him it’s Archie. I really am quite tempted.’
‘Davina, under no circumstances do that. I forbid you.’
‘Well, I won’t,’ Davina said. ‘For Archie’s sake, I won’t. And Dawn doesn’t want it either. She just wants everything to die down. Nothing more in the papers. But it’s so hurtful to her. And so mean about Ross’s business too. Everything.’
‘You’re right,’ Miles said. ‘Goodness only knows how the papers get hold of this rubbish. Its not even as though anyone’s that interested. Who’s even heard of Ross Clegg? It’s a mercy we weren’t dragged in ourselves, actually. At least James and Laetitia came out well.’
‘Laetitia’s horrified too,’ Davina said. ‘I should have said, she rang earlier and asked for Dawn’s telephone number. She said she wanted to apologise to her. You know how she hates that kind of publicity, they’re so private, the Pendletons.’
Miles wished he hadn’t rung home. The conversation left him feeling almost deflated.
23.
Sweeping past the Doric gate lodges and up the mile-long drive to the front of the house, Miles felt quite proprietorial. Having visited Longparish Priory several times a year for more than a decade, he regarded himself as rather more than a guest, almost a stakeholder, to use Tony Blair’s latest buzzword, in the Pendletons’ estate. His eyes approvingly scanned the specimen trees in the park, and the rustic fishing lodge commissioned by Laetitia in the style of a log cabin which could be glimpsed on the riverbank. He thought he could see Hugh—James and Laetitia’s eldest son—up to his thighs in waders, casting for trout.
Parking the car, Miles frowned. There were five or six vehicles already lined up outside the house, and he’d pulled up alongside a black Cherokee jeep which looked disturbingly like Ross’s car. Peering through the windows, he spotted a Freeza Mart plastic bag on the rear seat. Jesus: the Cleggs weren’t going to be here too, were they?
The Pendletons’ butler, Lagdon, opened the front door and led them along a wide inner hall hung with remarkable modern paintings: an enormous pair of Hockney swimming pools, a Picasso, several Graham Sutherlands, a small Bacon triptych and, opposite the cloakroom, a Degas of a ballerina.
‘Lagdon, we haven’t got a Mr and Mrs Clegg having lunch today, have we?’
‘They just arrived, Mr Straker,’ Lagdon replied. ‘I only a moment ago took them through.’
Arriving at the drawing room, the Cleggs’ recent arrival was still evident. Lady Pendleton was introducing them around to the other lunch guests, and Dawn was clutching a bunch of chrysanthemums in yellow cellophane as a gift for her hostess. Without missing a beat, Laetitia handed them tactfully to her butler, who returned with them ten minutes later in a blue willow-pattern vase and placed them on a table, next to a cashepot of poinsettias.
Whenever James Pendleton met anyone new for the first time, he was surprisingly diffident. At the office, surrounded by his own people, he was confident and even on occasions peremptory. But in a social situation he was gripped by unexpected shyness, unable to think of anything to say. So it was today, as he struggled to come up with small talk for these strangers, his guests, whom Laetitia had invited only yesterday.
In the end, he said, ‘I trust your shops are thriving.’
Slightly awed by the splendour of the house, and meeting for the first time the man who ran and largely owned such a giant competitor, Ross defaulted into the language he used when addressing his shareholders. ‘We’ve been seeing like-for-like revenue growth of between twelve and fourteen percent, and overall growth of closer to forty-five. Retail space is ahead by seventeen percent this fiscal.’
‘Wish ours was,’ James replied. ‘Well done.’ And he topped-up Ross’s scarcely-touched glass with champagne, which was his stratagem for moving on to the next guest.
Laetitia intercepted the Strakers at the door to the drawing room and softly explained, ‘I’ve asked them because of that beastly thing in the Mail. So snobbish, I hated it. I don’t want them thinking we’re all enemies or anything.’
‘Marvellous idea, Laetitia,’ Miles replied, nodding. ‘And a typically thoughtful one too.’ He glared over at the Cleggs. Ross was looking stiff and uncomfortable, and Dawn like she had an entire cosmetics department daubed on her face.
‘I expect they’re friends of yours already,’ Laetitia was saying. ‘You’re all neighbours at Chawbury, aren’t you?’
Miles was about to deny anything like friendship with the Cleggs, but Davina said, ‘Yes, we’ve become awfully fond of them. We were all at the christening of their granddaughter last weekend. Our younger daughter is a godmother, which is lovely.’
‘We’ve not met them before,’ Laetitia said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be saying this, and luckily James isn’t listening, but I do like Ross’s new store, the Andover one. Awfully well done. I slipped in the other day and bought something at their bakery. Very fresh and nice. I felt so disloyal afterwards.’
Miles already knew most of the other guests, predictable members of the Hampshire social set. Several worked in private equity, and there was the Chief Executive of a large drinks conglomerate who Miles made a point of lionising since he wanted the account for Straker Communications. There was also an earnest-looking man in spectacles with his earnest-looking wife, who turned out to be the Development Director for a regional ballet company. They referred to James and Laetitia as ‘our wonderful benefactors.’
Shortly before lunch, the Pendletons’ son Hugh joined them from the river, and Miles found himself, as usual, wishing his own eldest son, Peter, was more like him. Charming, modest, intelligent and nicely presented, Hugh moved around the room chatting up his parents’ guests, with no trace of the boredom and cynicism Miles felt he sometimes detected in Peter. It occurred to him that Hugh would make an ideal husband for Samantha one day, and was keen to get the two of them together. Sam was eighteen, Hugh twenty-three, both still slightly young you could argue, but it wasn’t clear what Sam was going to do with herself now she’d left school and done her travelling, and an early marriage to the Pendleton boy wouldn’t be at all a bad solution.
They moved through to the dining room which had once been the orangerie of the house, with a magnificent barrel ceiling and Georgian planters with full-grown orange and lemon trees. Above the fireplace hung an enormous oil by Lucian Freud of a naked man, his horse-sized genitalia swinging between his legs. As Dawn entered the room, Miles saw her horrified face. Blushing, she quickly averted her eyes. Her mouth was opening and closing in shock, like a bullfrog.
Miles and Ross found themselves in the places of honour, seated on either side of Laetitia. Miles eyed Ross patronisingly, watching him dither over the array of cutlery as the first course, a jellied consommé with chives, which he had evidently never seen in his life before, was served. To confuse him, Miles lifted his knife and fork, as though he was going to eat the jellied soup with them. Ross followed suit, as did Dawn at the opposite end of the table, taking the lead from her husband. As soon as they’d started eating, slicing at the soup with a knife, Miles deftly switched to his spoon. ‘Tell me, Laetitia,’ he said, ignoring the Cleggs’ discomfort, ‘Did you enjoy Isolde at
Sadlers Wells as much as Davina and I did?’
Ross looked rather lost during Laetitia’s reply, so Miles said, ‘Ross, we’re talking about Baryshnikov’s Isolde. Did you and Dawn see it?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is. Is it an opera?’
Miles laughed silkily. ‘The new Russian ballet at Sadlers Wells. The Bolshoi. Laetitia’s a trustee.’
‘The answer’s no then, I’m afraid,’ Ross said. ‘It’s all been a bit too full-on lately for shows. Dawn likes to go, though its been a while, I think Cats was the last one we got to.’
Miles adored it. He couldn’t wait to pass it on. Cats, indeed! But Laetitia was saying, ‘James loved Cats too. We saw it twice. That marvellous feline dancing. Very Twyla Tharp, we felt.’
‘Macavity the Mystery Cat … They made us learn that poem at school,’ Ross said. ‘Our elder daughter Gemma, she wanted to become a dancer after seeing that show. On about it for ages.’
‘Well, I hope she persevered,’ Laetitia replied. ‘Has she auditioned for any of the ballet schools?’
‘No, no,’ said Ross. ‘That fad soon passed, she was on to clothes next. Fashion and boys.’ His voice trailed away. ‘Well, she’s a mum now. She’s got little Mandy to look after. Our first grandchild.’
‘How lucky you are,’ Laetitia said. ‘James and I are longing for grandchildren. But Hugh, our eldest, is only twenty-three so it’ll be a good few years yet, sadly.’
‘Has Hugh got an, er, special girlfriend at the moment?’ Miles asked, keen to get back into the conversation.
‘I’m afraid James keeps him much too busy for that,’ Laetitia said. ‘He’s getting him to work in all the different departments, moving around the company. It’s so important he understands it all. And meets lots of people. We’re so lucky with our people at Pendletons, some of them stay with us for years and years.’ Turning to Ross, she asked, ‘Do you have good people in your business?’
‘The best. No offence, I’m sure yours are excellent too. But I have been lucky. I often think that. Several of my directors have been with me from the beginning almost. There’s my first employee over there look: Dawn. She was the very first—and she’s still with me, God help her, twenty-six years later.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Laetitia. ‘I’ve never actually had a proper job at Pendletons myself, I’m afraid. And I’m much too old and unskilled to get one now, they’d never take me on. But I do sometimes feel I work for them in any case. One does tend to get a bit involved.’
‘You certainly do, Laetitia,’ Miles pandered. Addressing Ross, he said, ‘This amazing lady does so much for the business, it’s unbelievable. She’s being ridiculously modest. I see you with James at all the corporate events.’
‘Only the nicer ones,’ corrected Laetitia. ‘I feel I’m so lucky, being able to go to these wonderful ballets and operas, and the art exhibitions too of course. We’re sponsoring the Turner show at the Tate, did you know that?’
‘Actually, I did. We organised it through Strakers,’ he reminded her lightly.
‘Of course you did, Miles. I’m sorry, I must be going senile.’ Then to Ross, ‘Miles is a marvel. He helps us with everything, all our charitable things, all the sponsorships, all our publicity. Corporate publicity I mean, of course, not personal publicity. We don’t really go in for any of that.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Ross said ruefully, still feeling burnt by the article in Dempster’s column. ‘I wouldn’t mind if I never saw my name in print again.’
‘You should get Miles to advise you. He’s the expert,’ Laetitia said.
‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ Miles said quickly. ‘Conflict of interest. Couldn’t work for a competitor.’
‘Such a pity,’ Laetitia said. ‘You could help Ross so much. Not that he needs it, his shops are so blissful. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, Ross, but I sneaked across to your new store the other day and bought myself a little cheese scone, and it was perfectly delicious!’ She placed her hand confidingly on his elbow. ‘For goodness sake don’t tell James I said that. He gets so cross if the family don’t do all their shopping at a Pendletons. They need the customers, you see.’ And she laughed prettily.
Across the table, Dawn felt she was struggling, positioned between Lord Pendleton and the development director. She couldn’t think of anything to say to either of them, and they were equally unforthcoming. She asked the ballet fundraiser about his children, but he replied they didn’t have any, without elaborating, so she thought she must have put her foot in it. She asked James how he’d first got into the supermarket business, and he replied that his father had enrolled him the day he left school and he’d never had a choice. After that, it all dried up. From time to time her eye was drawn back to the oil painting of the naked man, which she could hardly avoid since it loomed so large in her line of vision. Each time she saw it, she shuddered. It was so crude, so vulgar. She couldn’t understand how Lord and Lady Pendleton, who were so respectable, could bear to look at something like that, especially while they were eating.
‘Don’t you like it?’ James was asking her.
‘Delicious,’ Dawn replied. ‘I just couldn’t finish it all, it’s so rich.’ She had in fact been trying to conceal her almost untouched sauce hollandaise underneath the cutlery on her plate.
‘I meant the Freud, the painting. You looked dubious.’
‘Well, I must confess, it isn’t exactly my kind of thing. But it is very …,’ she searched for an appropriate adjective, ‘striking.’
‘A lot of people find Lucian too raw. But I like that about him. It’s a powerful piece. I first started collecting him twenty years ago. It was … easier back then.’
‘So you have other ones too?’ Dawn asked, aghast at the thought.
‘We’ve been very fortunate,’ James said. ‘I was able to buy seven or eight direct from his studio, well before he’d gained his current reputation. We’ve added a few more from the Marlborough Gallery since then.’
Dawn observed, ‘It’s very modern.’
‘Do you collect yourself?’ James asked. He seemed genuinely interested, and Dawn decided he was a kindly man.
‘You couldn’t say collect exactly. Just things we’ve picked up here and there that caught our eye. On holiday mostly.’
‘That’s the best way to collect,’ James assured her. ‘Only buy things you like yourself, and which make a connection.’
‘That’s what we do,’ Dawn said. ‘We found this lovely papyrus in Sharm el-Sheik, with all the old hieroglyphics and Pharaohs on it. And we bought a lovely oil painting of the boats in the harbour at Antibes. I never look at it without remembering that holiday, it brings it all back.’
‘It sounds like you’re approaching it entirely correctly,’ James said. ‘Follow your own eye and don’t deviate. Sometimes I’m afraid I disappoint our curator by not buying the pieces he’d like me to. He tells me we ought to be filling certain gaps in the collection, but if I don’t admire the work, I won’t. There has to be a coherent eye or it doesn’t make any sense.’
Dawn was digesting the fact that Lord Pendleton had a curator, especially to help him buy his pictures, when everyone started scraping back their chairs and standing up, and lunch was over. Moments later, Laetitia was bearing down on them. ‘I do hope James has been looking after you properly,’ she said. Then, to James, ‘Darling, I’ve been having such an interesting conversation with Ross. He and Dawn are great fans of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s musicals. I thought we might try and persuade them to come and see Phantom with us in Basingstoke. At the summer festival.’
‘Marvellous idea,’ said James. ‘They’re very underrated, musicals. I love them myself.’
24.
Arriving home at Holland Park Square as early as possible after work, Peter would let himself out through the garden door at the back of the house into the communal garden, and find a quiet place to practise his guitar. Second only to Lad-broke Square Gardens, the three enclosed acres o
f Holland Park Square was the largest communal garden in West London. It was also the best-maintained and, as Miles liked to inform visitors, the garden with the highest annual service charge to support the three full-time gardeners who tended the various shrubberies, lawns and the famous Holland Park Square rock garden with its collection of alpine ferns. It was a garden full of hidden bowers and glades, each with its own bench inscribed in memory of some long-dead resident. It was here Peter hid himself away to strum at his acoustic guitar. If the wind was in the right direction, you could hardly hear the traffic at all and almost believe you were in the depth of the countryside, rather than one of the city’s most desirable residential neighbourhoods.
In the eleven years the Strakers had lived at Number 32 Holland Park Square, Miles had enjoyed the heady sensation of having bought very wisely indeed. At the time he’d purchased the house, from Robert de Vass of Knight Frank, it had felt expensive at £720,000. A decade later, the same narrow cream-stucco six-story semi-detached mansions were changing hands at five million pounds, and ramping up in value at the rate of half a million a year, powered by an unending influx of American, French and Italian investment bankers and private equity shysters. Now, of course, Miles kicked himself for not having extended himself further by buying an even larger house on the south side of the square, where the prices were half again higher. In particular, there was a pair of stucco palazzos he could see directly across the garden from his bathroom window, which were said to be valued at almost eight million pounds each. They had the added prestige of pillared porticos on both elevations, on the street side and the garden side, and it irked Miles that properties existed on his communal garden that were superior to his own.
None of these considerations entered Peter’s tousled head, however, as he sheltered behind laburnum bushes working on a song about crofters on the isle of Jura and the contentment they found around the dying embers of a peat fire. His songs, which Samantha considered very samey, had a melancholy beauty. Mist, seabirds and brooding love were their constant themes.
Pride and Avarice Page 19