‘The kids are going to Bourton-on-the-Water to see the model village. And Allyn’s off to a spa in Barnsley,’ he said. ‘All day.’
I determinedly ignored any implications that the last two words might have. ‘Barnsley? As in Yorkshire?’ Even for a woman as determined to be pampered as Allyn, that seemed a long way.
‘Idiot! The village near Cirencester. Barnsley House. There’s a wonderful garden there too – an original Rosemary Verey. I’d like something like that here,’ he mused. ‘It’s time for me to put down roots, Vee.’ He flicked me a quick sideways glance with those cornflower-blue eyes of his.
‘Both metaphorical and literal?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What does Allyn think of the idea?’
‘She thinks the boys might have a tutor until they’re ready for Eton or wherever.’ He spoke so deadpan it was hard even for me to tell what he thought of the idea.
‘I take it she had them put down at birth?’ I asked in an equally flat voice.
He threw back his head, showing off that famous profile, and gave a roar of laughter that would have impressed the very back row of the gods, as would the dental work. ‘Would that she had! Dear God, would that she had! It’s their voices, Vee – and not just when they talk. When they sing, they sound like Mickey Mouse on helium and I can’t get her to hear how dreadful it is! And their table manners!’
‘Awful voices and bad table manners aren’t an American prerogative.’ I thought of Greg’s children, whom I saw at mercifully infrequent intervals.
‘Maybe not. Poor Brummel and Nash – she’s probably marked them for life,’ he mused, putting an arm round my shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze.
‘It could be worse,’ I said. ‘Imagine if she’d called them Gronow and Scrope.’
‘Who?’
‘Two other more interesting, if less eminent, Regency characters,’ I explained.
‘You still watch all those TV quizzes?’
‘And win them! In my head, at least.’
‘Those two don’t really know where London, England is… You know, I think I’ve just discovered why it’s young people who have babies. I just don’t have the patience anymore, Vee, so help me. Must be my age. Our age,’ he added with an ironic smile – he knew I always preferred to fog the issue.
The spring breeze no doubt nipping the parts best not mentioned, he propelled me at a brisk pace to the back door, and through into my triumph, the stunning kitchen, which I’d had installed before any other work was done because it was the heart of the house. The floor area was bigger than the whole of my house, top and bottom, but then, that wouldn’t be difficult. Whether most of the expensive appliances were ever used I doubted, but then I supposed that the white-blonde Valkyrie operating the coffee machine – he introduced her as Greta, the housekeeper – must have done something to earn her keep and the use of the bijou mews cottage the far side of the stable yard. Not by making coffee, of course – the machine did all that with pre-sealed and thus environmentally unsound packages.
What I had forgotten, of course, was that a man as rich as Toby Frensham wouldn’t be interested in the attractive folder or whether the estimates were printed in ten or twelve point, in Times New Roman or in Arial. Neither would he want a breakdown of the costs of different types of lining. He just wanted a global sum.
‘The best,’ he said, dropping the unopened file on a corner of the two-acre table. ‘That’s why you’re here. Allyn wants the best.’
‘Of course,’ I said, my voice so expressionless it probably spoke volumes.
‘And I’m happy to buy it for her,’ he said, defensively, I thought.
‘Of course. Now, what I suggest is—’
He raised an eloquent hand. ‘Don’t say another word until we’ve had our caffeine fixes. Greta, could you fix us both a coffee, darling?’
The Valkyrie was all alert attention. Eyes mauling Toby, she flourished a selection of coffees.
I shook my head. ‘Greta, would it be too much trouble to ask for a mug of hot water?’ I dug in my bag and produced a green-tea bag, wrapped in its own little envelope. At home I fed such things to my worms. I always thought of Polonius as I lifted the wormery lid.
‘Green tea?’ he asked. ‘Surely we have green tea?’
Impassively Greta reached for a large wooden box, the sort you see in hotels, and presented it, open, for me to make my choice.
‘Which is the virgin tea picked by the light of a full moon and blessed in turn by the Dalai Lama and the Pope?’ I asked.
Toby laughed; Greta didn’t so much as blink.
I picked out a sachet of white tea with jasmine. ‘Antioxidant,’ I said, ‘and thus anti-ageing.’ I looked him in the eye. Two could play at that game.
He blinked at the expensive machine and then at the little sachet. ‘Is there any caffeine in it?’
‘Some, but very little.’
‘In that case I’ll stick to slopping stuff on my face. Bring on the double espresso, Greta.’ He led the way into the conservatory, where he spread his bare toes on the floor, inviting me to do the same. The warmth was luxurious. Clearly he didn’t have to worry about heating bills, either.
He wandered across to the far side, with its view of the eighteenth-century walled garden. So why did he want this conversation profile to profile? Perhaps, knowing Toby, because he felt guilty about something. ‘You heard about Howard’s fall last night?’
Howard Welsh was making a pretty poor and highly alcoholic fist of Iago to an unknown black African’s quite brilliant Othello.
‘Not on stage? Never!’
An actor could be – and sometimes was – as tired as a newt, but the absolute rule was that his affliction simply must not interfere with rehearsals or performances. Absolutely must not. No turning up late, no forgetting lines – and emphatically no keeling over on stage.
‘Taking his bloody bow! Arse over tip into the surprised lap of an old biddie in the front row. Mind you, she did say it wasn’t as bad as having him spit on her every time he came downstage.’
Howard didn’t spit deliberately, as young footballers were always doing. It was just that he sprayed saliva whenever he spoke.
‘You’d have thought he’d have sorted out that problem after all this time. Had the glands fixed or whatever. Maybe it’s the lubricant,’ I added, miming a drink.
‘Quite.’
‘What a chance for his understudy,’ I observed, full of hope for Meredith Thrale, an old mate of mine who was understudying that and other roles and no doubt praying for such an opportunity.
There were times that I didn’t like Toby very much. ‘Not up to it, darling. Just not up to it.’
How did I know where this was leading?
‘Anyway, I just had a call from my agent. Would I take it on? What do you think, Vena?’
Wasn’t it RSC policy always to turn to the understudy when a principal fell ill? I pulled a face. What I wanted to do was jump up and down and tell him not to be so greedy when other people had egos that needed massaging. For Toby was only considering it because he was an actor and needed to be needed. ‘Depends how good your memory is, darling.’ I wasn’t quite being catty – the older one got, after all, the more one preferred well-paid cameos.
‘I did it last year at the National. Should still be in here somewhere,’ he added, tapping his head.
‘Poor Meredith really needs a break like that, you know.’ I knew just how he’d feel. I’d longed for years for leading ladies to sprain their ankles – just a little sprain, nothing that would incapacitate them for more than a few weeks. What did the Bible say? To them that hath shall be given? Toby had everything, and could have lived off his film royalties for a century, provided he didn’t have to shell out for another divorce.
He wasn’t such a fool that he didn’t register my lack of enthusiasm. ‘Merry doesn’t emanate evil, just violence,’ he snapped.
Before I could raise the prospect of Cleopatr
a to his (or anyone else’s) Antony, my mobile phone told me I was being texted. Caddie Minton? I twitched in anticipation, but good manners forbade me to check.
‘Go on, take it,’ he said, wandering back into the house.
I did. No, alas, it wasn’t Caddie. But at least it was some work. Greg had an urgent job for me. Today.
In Toby’s continued absence there wasn’t any reason not to phone Greg.
‘Knottsall Lodge,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘Mr and Mrs Westfield’s place. They’re in the Bahamas, remember. A Mr Brosnic wants to view today.’
‘And have you checked his credentials?’
‘For God’s sake, Vena.’
‘No, for Suzy Lamplugh’s sake. Have you seen him? Does he check out?’ After all, it wasn’t Greg who was about to be closeted in a remote manor house with an unknown male.
‘There’s a Mrs B with him. Her earrings have got pearls the size of pigeons’ eggs in them. The hire car’s a Bentley. He’s talking about buying a Premier League soccer club. OK? Or do you need his blood group and DNA profile too?’
‘You’ve got a UK address and phone number?’
He made a slurping noise, family shorthand meaning I wasn’t to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs. ‘Hell, Vee, do you reelly need to ask?’ When he was angry, his Blackheath accent leapt to the fore.
‘Yes, reelly,’ I threw back at him. Maybe I had gone too far. ‘OK. So long as Mrs B’s with him. What time?’
‘Three.’
That didn’t give me long to wrap up here with Toby and to nip into Stratford to pick up the keys. But you didn’t tell a man buying a football club that he must wait another half-hour.
There was still no sign of Toby when I scurried back into the kitchen. Greta raised her nose a fraction – he was upstairs. I went to the bottom of the stairs and called him – not quite a yell, but a distinct projection of the voice.
Towelling his hair, which was still so thick it would have made Greg spit, he put his head over the banister, which fortunately obscured what his bathrobe, from this angle, did not. He smiled, and made the tiniest movement of his head. As if on cue, a single dark-blonde lock fell forward on to his forehead.
I told myself, just as I’d told myself every time he’d made the offer before, that I didn’t do adultery. Not even with Toby.
As if I hadn’t registered his invitation, I said, ‘I’ve just had a message – the chance of a job.’
‘The chance of a job?’ he repeated, with a swift smile. He clearly thought I had an audition. ‘Good for you, darling! Be off with you – this instant.’
‘But the curtains—’
‘A pampered Allyn shall phone you this very evening. But as for now…’ His eyes narrowed. He emanated evil. ‘Put money in thy purse.’ He blew me an extravagant kiss, which I returned.
A line from Othello! A fat chance poor Meredith had of getting his teeth into Iago. There was one actress I loathed so much I’d have killed – literally! – for her part. I hoped Meredith wouldn’t harbour such resentment.
And so it was back to the Ka for me. Bloody Toby – I wished I didn’t always wonder, every single time I left him, what might have been.
Knottsall Lodge, on which I’d made notes I now had by heart, was a gem of a house, mostly Elizabethan. Half of it was black and white timbered, the rest stone built, with crenellations concealing an almost flat roof now covered in duckboards to protect the lead beneath. I always imagined the ladies of the house coming up here when they wanted a quiet gossip. Or perhaps their menfolk would have found it a good place to keep watch from during the Civil War, though my research hadn’t shown any family involvement. Since during that period, however, practically every family in the country had endured split allegiances, I might just hint at tragic associations if the Brosnics evinced any interest in history.
I waited for them on the forecourt, and was just reading a text from Caddie when I heard their car. Mr Brosnic announced his arrival with a spray of gravel, parking the Bentley with extravagant, macho gestures. I knew the moment I saw him that they would not buy. Brosnic must have been six foot two in his socks, and was correspondingly broad. The original Elizabethan owners came in much smaller portions, codpieces apart, and not just the doorways of the house but also some of the lopsided ceilings would surely scalp him.
It wasn’t my job to point that out, however, so I greeted them as if I knew they’d found their dream home. They expressed strongly accented delight at the charming approach to the house. At least he did. Mrs Brosnic was totally silent – silent to the point of bored, you might say. Or – if the hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm was anything to go by – to the point of intimidation. She was also dithering, though this was probably with cold. She was wearing what looked like an original Stella McCartney dress and Manolos on her bony little bare feet – an outfit more suited to Ascot. Since the wind hadn’t eased since I left Aldred House and the sun was no stronger, she’d have been warmer if she’d worn, not carried, that huge Anya Hindmarch bag. All those items were top of the range – so why did she look so decidedly un-chic? Because she was trying too hard? Certainly if she’d been a picture I’d have said she’d been painted by numbers.
Brosnic strode in as if he already owned the place. For the first time I registered a bulge in his jacket the wrong size and shape for a wallet. I swallowed, and switched on my coolest persona. She teetered in his wake, silly heels inflicting God knows what damage on the ancient oak boards. In a mixture of mime and clearly enunciated English, I suggested she remove her shoes before attempting the steep and awkward stairs.
Mr Brosnic was clearly not a man to admit defeat by a series of low lintels, but his visit to the roof was no more than cursory, with not a single glance at the expanse of countryside. So why did he give what looked like a satisfied nod? He grunted something at his wife. The tour – the charade – was almost over. I prepared to usher them out and make appropriate noises about seeing them again soon.
Slightly to my surprise, after they’d inspected every last cranny, at the same time they both asked to use the bathroom. Without waiting for a reply, they headed for two separate ones. Was this how Russian oligarchs behaved? All I could do was wait on the landing for them, leaning on an oak balustrade that might once have supported the Bard’s arms as he looked down at the revels below. Now that was a line I could spin to the next viewers.
Soon, first one, then the second returned to me. Then it seemed they couldn’t wait to get out. Perhaps Mr Brosnic had cracked his head on yet another historic beam. They certainly didn’t want to see the garden, which I would have wished to do in their situation, since it was as lovely as any surrounding the sort of National Trust property people forked out a tenner each to see.
Anyway, they drove off without any of the formal expressions of gratitude and a promise to get back to the agency that most people manage at such a time. Bother them then. No commission. Again.
I returned to Stratford, with the keys and a long face. But Claire, the receptionist, had news for me. The Brosnics wanted me to show them round two other houses, Langley Park and Oxfield Place.
‘Me? What about the folk at the Henley office? They’re supposed to be handling them. I wouldn’t want to do them out of a job,’ I assured her mendaciously.
‘Greg said it was OK, and you should get the keys from Henley.’
‘Fine,’ I said, setting off. I must think only of commission and put right to the back of my mind the thought of the gun Brosnic was packing.
As soon as I let them into Langley Park, one of my favourite properties, Georgian and spacious, they bolted in opposite directions. As soon as I could, I herded them into the morning room.
There I issued a stern warning in my most headmistressy tone. ‘I must insist that you both stay with me. I appreciate that you want to see this lovely home at your own pace, and I am happy to let you do that. I’ve all the time in the world. But we must all stick together.’ I gestured them courteously ba
ck into the panelled hall.
‘You wish to sell this property? And us to buy it?’ Mr Brosnic didn’t wait for an answer but said something swiftly to his wife.
She shrugged an insolent smile in my direction, and set off towards the library. He marched us in the opposite direction. He didn’t grab my arm or anything as unsubtle as that. He did it by sheer willpower. And by the fear he’d instilled in me that if I seriously annoyed him he might simply put an arm through the old glass of the built-in display cabinet on the back wall and smash it without a pang. And then smash me. All on a sunny afternoon, while the daffodils nodded happily in the long curling borders snaking down to the stream that ran through the garden as it made its idyllic way to the Avon.
So the visit to Langley Park wasn’t going to plan. I had a feeling that the one to Oxfield Place wouldn’t be much better. It wasn’t. The fact that as the Brosnics drew up I was trying to call Caddie in response to her text didn’t improve things. Brosnic made it clear that he was entitled to every iota of my time and energy, but not in words – there was nothing tangible I could report back to Greg as constituting a threat, especially as Greg would have sided with Brosnic.
As it happened, Oxfield Place was unoccupied too, with not so much as a stick of furniture to worry about, so I shrugged mentally and let them get on with their separate prowls. Langley Park must have been more sheltered than here, or perhaps the empty house was getting damp. By the time they returned, her legs were blue and her arms covered with goose pimples. She was trying valiantly not to dither, and kept casting an anxious eye at Brosnic when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was all I could do not to offer her my jacket, but I felt that such a gesture might somehow cause offence.
I hid behind routine. As she opened the car door, I smiled, offering my card, and delivering my set spiel. ‘I do hope you’ve enjoyed seeing these properties. If you wish to see them again, or any others on our books, please do not—’ I spoke to the firmly slammed Bentley door.
Staging Death Page 2