‘Miles looked the same as ever. He’s so slick, your old man. You have to admire it, even when you know he’s spouting bullshit. Dad says the same. He says Miles inspires confidence, he’s worth it for that alone. You want him on side.’
‘Dad loves your parents. His best clients and most distinguished neighbours. But you know that. All through our childhood he kept banging on about the Pendletons. You were always presented as these perfect beings, like the royal family or something. When I joined Dad’s company and was assigned to the Pendletons account, I was determined not to like you. But here we are.’
‘Well, those review meetings we used to go to have deteriorated since you left. I felt you were the one kindred spirit in the room. Now there isn’t one. Your successor is very heavy going. He’s so stressed out about the positive PR Ross keeps getting, he’s practically frothing at the mouth.’
They reached the headland where beach gave over to jagged rocks, and looked back at the cottage, just visible a mile and a half away. A thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney.
‘Wonders will never cease. Looks like Sam’s remembered to keep the fire going. She generally lets it burn out,’ Peter said. ‘It’s a girl thing.’
‘She’s been staying up here for ages, hasn’t she?’ Hugh asked.
‘Four months. Kicking her bad habits. It’s worked out really well having her here. I wasn’t sure it would. We were never that close before. Now we’re all part of the Straker diaspora, expelled from Camelot by Dad.’
‘He’s a long shadow in your lives, I can tell that.’
‘You’re not kidding.’
‘With us, my mother was always the stronger one. That surprises some people, but it’s true. She took all the decisions. Dad’s quite lost without her, though people are being kind, inviting him for meals and stuff. But he’s very lonely. I’ll tell you who’s being particularly nice and that’s Ross’s wife, Dawn. They play tennis quite a bit. And she goes to art exhibitions with him.’
‘I didn’t know Dawn’s interested in art. I’ve only been to their house a couple of times, but I don’t remember seeing any.’
‘Well, she is now. She’s a collector. Dad was telling me. He says she’s got a good eye for contemporary British, she’s become very knowledgeable.’
‘She’s my sister Mollie’s mother-in-law, as you know. I need hardly tell you how that went down with my dad.’
Hugh laughed. ‘Having heard him on the subject of Ross yesterday, I can imagine.’ Then he said, ‘Come on Peter, I want to hear your new songs. I insist. Sam says they’re brilliant.’
Alone at Chawbury on a Saturday afternoon, Miles brooded in his study. With no Davina and no children, the house was spookily quiet. Furthermore, he felt the place deteriorating around him. The replacements for Mrs French, lined up and interviewed by Sara White, his PA, had one after another proved themselves useless. In recent months there had been a fat housekeeper from Andover, followed by two unsatisfactory English couples and now a New Zealand girl. None had a clue how a house like Chawbury Manor should run, or the standards to be striven for. From his desk, Miles could see glass rings on a polished tabletop from tumblers placed there the previous weekend, clear evidence of carelessness. And arriving down late on Friday night, tired after a long week, he found a duvet—a duvet!—on his bed, when the master bedroom was always made up with sheets and blankets. He had lain awake half the night fuming, feeling like a child or a Scandinavian, interpreting the duvet as a calculated insult from Stefanie the Kiwi housekeeper.
These weekends at Chawbury, once his revenge against the world that living well was supposed to guarantee, became week by week more squalid. No one any longer seemed capable of keeping the larder adequately stocked, or of noticing when supplies of mint jelly, redcurrant, Tabasco, Angostura bitters, goats’ cheese, Clamato juice, cheeselets or other basic household provisions ran low. He spent his life asking for things that weren’t there because nobody was thinking. For the first time, the house felt cold and felt fusty. Piles of post lay unopened and unsorted on the piano, including bills from utility companies, mail order catalogues in plastic shrink wrap for country outfitters and spring bulb nurseries, invoices from local tradesmen, junk mail, begging letters from the church, postcards from neighbours in indecipherable handwriting asking him to lunch or for drinks. Previously it had been Davina’s role to sift through all this, drawing his attention to the more alluring invitations only. Sweeping the pile into a carrier bag, he took it to the office and dumped it on his assistants. But even with their input, it took most of a morning to dispatch.
Outdoors, the situation was critical. Wherever he looked, he found evidence of neglect. Slates slipped from the roof but nobody noticed. Ivy snaked its insidious way up treetrunks, but did his gardeners do anything about it? No, they did not. The edging around flowerbeds became blurred and overgrown. Was he expected to micro-manage everyone every minute of every day? Did nobody appreciate the pressure he was under, not only from a roster of important and demanding clients, but from an avaricious soon-to-be-ex-wife employing bloodsuckers as lawyers, four deeply disappointing and delinquent children, the Tory party which seemed to expect him to work for their benefit without even proper expenses chargeable, and a crazy ex-mistress acting like a prima donna at the very moment her big chance came along. During his second weekend in sole charge at Chawbury he had rung Serena and summoned her over at Sunday teatime. For years she had put pressure on him for a rendezvous at the manor, but he had honourably denied her while Davina remained in residence. But now Davina was history. Miles took it for granted Serena would come straight over for a session on the marital bed. Instead, she was all of a sudden full of scruples, withholding favours until her long-term position was clarified. Long-term position! Her long-term position was the same as it had always been—on all fours doggie-style. In the bedroom as in life, Miles had an aversion to women on top.
The unreliability of local tradespeople astounded him. Without Davina perpetually on their case, Chawbury Manor became virtually untenable. The simplest things such as getting a water metre read, a septic tank emptied, the dangerous bough of a tree lopped by experts, all involved hours of negotiation and long-range supervision. He commissioned the local tree surgeon, Ed Badger, to tidy the crown of an oak, but after fourteen weeks nothing had happened. Commanding his secretaries to harass him every hour on the hour until the job was completed, he was affronted when Badger resigned the work, saying he didn’t appreciate being pushed around. He had more than enough work already from Mr Clegg.
After six months with no Davina, Miles would gladly have paid £40,000 a year for her services as a project manager.
55.
Encouraged by his record company, Black Cat Wardoursound, Peter was booked to play three London gigs at venues in Hammersmith, Brixton and Putney. The idea was to try out the new material in front of a live audience and begin the process of generating positive word of mouth. Black Cat’s A&R team hoped to bring along well-disposed stringers from the music press, and Peter would also be working for the first time with backing musicians to fill out the sound. As the dates of the concerts came closer, and he worked on his lyrics at the cottage, the prospect of returning to London became scary; he’d spent so long in self-imposed exile, the big city felt threatening.
Then there was the question of what he’d wear to perform on stage. It wasn’t something he’d given a moment’s thought to, until Sam started making out it was a big deal.
‘Just my normal stuff, I guess,’ Peter said, shrugging. ‘Jeans and a sweater.’
‘Not a hairy woolly sweater,’ Sam replied, horrified. ‘You’re playing a cool London gig, not going mackerel fishing. For Christ’s sake Peter, your image is vital. We’ve got to really consider this.’
And so, over the remaining weeks, Sam appointed herself personal stylist to the artiste, scouring the various charity shops in Durness and, having rejected everything, searching on the internet from the Durness cyberc
afé. Parcels of leather waistcoats and beanie hats began arriving at the cottage, and each evening Sam caused Peter endless embarrassment by making him try everything on, and hunch over his guitar in the new gear to see what worked.
Then there was the question of the guest list. A part of Peter would have been happy for nobody to show, and to play to an empty hall. But the promoters said he could have sixty comp tickets if he gave them names for the door, so he came up with a list of former Straker Communications colleagues to invite, plus Hugh Pendleton and several old schoolfriends.
‘And don’t forget the family,’ Sam said. ‘I know Mum wants to come, she keeps asking about the dates. And Mollie says she and Greg want to.’
‘You think so? I can’t exactly imagine Greg there.’
‘Well, Mollie would like him invited, even if he doesn’t make it. And Archie and Gemma, of course.’ Then, tentatively, she asked, ‘And what will you do about Dad?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. Not sure. He’d never come, and if he did he’d hate it. It’s just so not his thing. And we haven’t been in touch for eight months, longer probably. What do you think I should do?’
‘Not invite him.’
‘I was thinking of maybe forwarding him the publicity e-mail, with the dates and venues, and leaving it at that. If he wants to come, he can pay at the door. Unless you’d rather I didn’t? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, Sam. But he won’t show up in any case.’
Sam said, ‘If he does, I won’t speak to him, I’ll turn round and walk off. Don’t worry about me. I’m practically over it anyway. I only have nightmares once or twice a week.’
They flew down to London three days ahead of the first concert and stayed with Davina in Holland Park Square. The atmosphere in the house had changed a lot, Sam sensed it the minute she stepped in; like an unloaded weapon or dismantled bomb it no longer felt so threatening. Several of the larger, more important paintings had disappeared from the walls, taken to Mount Street by Miles, but every surface was still filled with vases of flowers. Having always thought of their London garden as vast, Peter was struck by how much smaller it seemed after the endless vistas of Caithness. He was thrilled to see his mother and relieved to find her calmer than he’d expected, despite the pressure of the divorce. But London struck him as a detestable place: dirty and squalid and claustrophobic. The sooner he could get back to the cottage, the better.
The opening gig was booked at The Blind Fiddler on King Street, Hammersmith, in an upstairs room above the pub. Peter was to be the second of two acts, following the cult singer Plavka, with his set scheduled for 10:40 p.m. All afternoon he’d been rehearsing with his back-up band and ironing out technical problems at the sound check. Not having performed with session musicians before, several of whom had supported famous headline acts in the past, he felt bashful about what they thought of his songs. But then the bass guitarist, Rattan, said he really liked the whale song and Peter’s confidence returned.
By half-past ten there must have been eighty people in the room. Peter was leaning against the bar with Mollie and Sam, drinking Bud from the bottle, while the soundmen assembled the set. According to a publicist from Black Cat Wardoursound, someone had turned up from NME.com who might post a review, and a guy from Time Out had tickets waiting on the door. Peter was greeting old friends from Straker Communications who’d supported him by turning up, as well as Hugh Pendleton who’d brought along three mates to swell the crowd. Mollie reported Greg was hoping to drop by later when his council meeting ended, and just before he went on stage, Peter spotted his mother arriving with Dawn, along with Archie, Gemma and Debbie.
Afterwards, he was surprised by how quickly it all went. He performed nine songs but it only felt like he’d been up on stage for ten minutes. It helped that, with the lights, he couldn’t see much of the audience beyond the people packed right up at the front. But he sensed their support, and was bucked by the response to some of the new tracks like ‘Cormorant’s Cry’ and ‘The Secret Trapped Inside.’ At one point he noticed both Clegg girls grooving away, getting really into it, and Sam lip-syncing the lyrics she’d heard so many times. At the end of the set, he felt dazed and drained as friends and family, and people from the record company, as well as people he’d never clapped eyes on before, came up to congratulate him. Even Greg said well done, pointing out that The Blind Fiddler was supported by a bursary introduced under a Labour initiative.
He was touched when Debbie, whom he scarcely knew, came up and said how great he’d been and how moving some of the songs were. ‘You’re as good as Joan Baez.’
‘Hardly. And how come you’re a Baez fan?’
‘You won’t remember, but you sold me one of her CDs at a fete in your garden. I was about fourteen at the time. I’ve been a fan ever since.’
‘I remember now. At my junk stall. Well, I’m glad you like Joan. She’s a goddess.’
‘You’re pretty good yourself. When your record comes out, I’m definitely going to get it.’
Peter was packing up his stuff and wondering where Sam was for his lift home, when she appeared looking spooked. ‘You realise he was here, don’t you?’
‘Who was?’
‘Dad. Just before the end, there he was, standing at the back. I suddenly spotted him in his overcoat, the velvet collar one. All on his own, staring at the stage.’
‘He can’t have liked it much, he didn’t say anything.’
‘He left before the end, I was watching him. He just stood there, like he was checking everything out. And then left. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the Paris thing. It felt really creepy. I followed him downstairs, making sure he didn’t see me. Makepiece was waiting outside and he just got into his car and was driven away.’
56.
Dawn’s friendship with James Pendleton, incubated in the desolate vacuum of his loss, deepened with each passing week. Dawn felt genuinely sorry for this diffident, cultured man, so clearly bereft without Laetitia on whom he had relied completely. Alone, he was scarcely capable of functioning. As Dawn discovered, he had few friends, either male or female, anyway of the sort he felt comfortable about ringing. It had been Laetitia who always made their arrangements, who had filled the house with neighbours at the weekends and invited the procession of museum directors and curators to lunch and dinner. It was Laetitia who booked tickets for the theatre and decided which exhibitions they would visit at London galleries. James admitted to Dawn he had never rung up a single neighbour in twenty years, and she had to show him the page in the newspapers where art exhibitions are listed. Devastated in his loneliness, Lord Pendleton continued to move as he always had between his London home in Cadogan Square and his country home at the weekend but, without the intervention of Dawn, would probably have spent every evening in front of the television, eating supper off a tray.
It was Dawn who, little by little, coaxed him back into the world and rekindled his interest in life. Initially there had been the odd game of tennis at Queens Club, or at the weekends when she drove over to Longparish Priory, or James came over to Chawbury to play doubles with whomever was around. Because of his leg, Ross had never been able to play serious tennis, but Debbie was a good player, and Gemma and Archie came down for weekends with Mandy. Then Dawn began escorting James to private views at the Whitechapel Gallery and the White Cube in Hoxton, as well as to important private views at the Tate. Ross was away on business such a lot at the moment, with Freeza Mart’s expansion into California and the new superstores in Thailand and Taiwan, that it suited everyone. Ross detested art exhibitions in any case. It annoyed Dawn, on the rare occasions she made him come to anything cultural with her, the way he looked bored and dubious and just stood around wanting to leave. Recently, through James, Dawn had become interested in installation art, and it made her cross that Ross was always so negative, saying his retail display people could knock up something similar in a couple of hours. So, all in all, it was a godsend to enjoy her artistic pursuit
s with James, who was open to every new development and trend in contemporary art, and grateful to have someone to go with. Furthermore, she knew she was learning so much. To walk round a show at the Serpentine Gallery with him was like a one-to-one tutorial by a university professor, he was that knowledgeable on every period and school of art. And, of course, it made it extra special that many of the artworks they saw together actually belonged to James, having been loaned by the Pendleton Trust. Dawn couldn’t help feeling privileged when she was included with James at development board lunches at the Tate, where she was sat next to all sorts of prominent people. It was embarrassing when, once or twice, the namecard at her place at table said ‘Lady Pendleton’. The first time it happened she’d been mortified; the second, she took it more in her stride. When a party photograph of them appeared in OK! magazine, captioned ‘Lord and Lady Pendleton of Pendletons supermarket,’ she was relieved Ross wasn’t a reader of OK!, but it made her think. Constantly conscious of how lucky she was to be going on all these wonderful treats courtesy of James, she was also aware of her own contribution to the success of their expeditions. It was Dawn who decided which shows he would find interesting, and who liaised with James’s office to secure tickets and special passes. And she knew he enjoyed teaching her how to appreciate certain artists, and that her constant presence as his walker enhanced his enjoyment. As Dawn said more than once, ‘We make a very good team.’
Initially, she was entirely open with Ross about these outings with James. She was comforting a family friend in his bereavement, and certainly Ross saw no mischief in it. In fact, he found it flattering that the legendary Lord Pendleton should have become a close personal friend of theirs. And, of course, it let him off the hook that Dawn now had someone to see all those art shows with. He felt he owed James a big drink.
Over time, she didn’t quite know why, Dawn found herself saying rather less about their jaunts. When Ross returned from eight days in California, followed by a side trip to Hawaii to size-up a retail acquisition, and asked what she’d been up to while he’d been away, she felt uncomfortable admitting she’d spent every single evening with Lord Pendleton, even though it was all entirely innocent.
Pride and Avarice Page 43