‘He did say his name was Oliver,’ Miranda repeated.
‘He did mention you,’ Florian admitted, suddenly seeing a way to turn this sticky situation around. ‘You see … oh dear, I don’t want to embarrass anybody.’
‘Please,’ said Miranda. ‘Just tell me what I should know.’
‘Well, you see, Toni sent you off to the Manor thinking it would be a laugh. And then Oliver thought you were friends of his mother, people she’d asked to stay the weekend. And well – like I mentioned, he was pretty pleased. And then his mother thought that you were friends of his. So they’d sort of got in over their heads before they realised what was going on.’
‘Well, that is a bit embarrassing. But surely, they must have figured out they’d made a mistake at some point?’ Something about the explanation didn’t work, but Miranda couldn’t decide what it was.
‘Well, yes. At least, Oliver did. But you see – oh dear, I’m going to get into trouble.’
‘Why?’ said Miranda, now in a fever of curiosity. ‘Why should you get into trouble?’
‘Well, I don’t know I should say.’
‘You’ve got to say, you can’t leave me up in the air like this.’ Her curiosity was now so hot it made Miranda feel as if she was about to burst into flames. ‘What is it, Florian, what’s been happening? You’ve got to tell me.’
‘Yes,’ put in Dido, who, like the rest of the table, had been hanging on every faltering word. ‘You’ve got to tell her, Florian. Whatever it is. She’s got to know.’
At the word of his beloved, Florian felt it appropriate to give in. ‘Oh dear, I suppose that’s right. Yes, of course it’s right. Well you see … no, I can’t. I really shouldn’t, it’s too personal.’
The table erupted in a storm of exclamation.
‘Yes you can!’ shouted Florian’s sister.
‘For God’s sake!’ cried her husband.
‘Get it over with!’ exhorted his friends.
‘Tell her! Tell her!’ chanted the children.
‘Sweet thing,’ murmured Dido, ‘you’ve got to’fess up.’
‘But …’ Florian’s face was crumpled in agony and he looked as if he was going to pull his own hair out by the roots. His dog slunk off its chair and curled protectively around his feet.
‘TELL HER!’ everyone shouted together.
‘Oh, all right. You see, Miranda, the thing is, I mean, what it is, it’s this, really, you see …’
‘TELL HER!’ they shouted again.
‘OK. OK. I’m going to tell you. The thing is, Miranda – he sort of rather as it were … well, he fell for you. I mean, he really liked you. Actually, he thought you were just absolutely what the Americans would call some kind of wonderful. So of course, when he realised that you thought you’d arrived at a hotel and there’d been a ridiculous mistake, he – well – he decided to persuade his mother to go along with it all. Because, really, he simply couldn’t bear to straighten everything out because then he’d probably never see you again.’
‘Aaaaaaaaaah,’ said the children. And Dido.
‘Oh,’ said Miranda. No, I will not blush. I will not. I never blush. But it was hot in the dining room and the 2003 Pinot had been at work. Perhaps she was looking a bit flushed anyway. ‘But I thought … I thought he did quite like me. But when he found out who my mother was, it all went Pete Tong, somehow.’
‘Do forgive me,’ said Florian. ‘I know I should know but of course we haven’t actually met. Your mother is …’
‘Well, she’s called herself the CEO of Agraria. It’s Minister for Agriculture, really.’
‘Is she? Minister for Agriculture. That’s pretty impressive.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said his sister. ‘Nobody’s impressed round here. Half the county’s ready to burn her in effigy. I mean, I know she’s your mother, but she hasn’t had much respect for farmers, has she?’
‘She’s definitely upset some people,’ Miranda admitted. ‘I don’t think she should have let them give her a job in politics, really. And she does tend to intimidate people.’
‘But not Oliver, surely?’ said Florian’s sister. ‘Not with his background.’
‘Did you know that Oliver’s our local downshifter?’ asked Florian. ‘Did he mention that he has a secret past?’
‘No-o,’ said Miranda, getting a vague, disturbing but pleasant sense of what was to come. Florian outlined Oliver’s first career to her, in as much as he had grasped the exact nature of it.
‘So he made his fortune, then sold up everything and came down here,’ he finished.
‘And lost it all on that farm of his,’ added his sister.
‘That’s not fair,’ snapped Florian. ‘He invested. The return will come. That’s all. I mean, look at this place. It just takes time.’
‘Oh God,’ said Miranda, now seeing what she assumed was the full picture. ‘You mean they played along with the hotel thing all weekend just because …’
‘He really was taken with you,’ Florian said, seeing with relief that Miranda’s face was registering all kinds of emotions, but not disbelief. ‘You’re not offended, are you?’
‘I feel so bad,’ she said. ‘If anyone should be offended, it ought to be him. I’ve been – well, I thought he was the waiter. So I suppose I wasn’t very nice.’
‘Why should you be nice?’ demanded Florian’s sister. ‘He tricked you. I’d feel pretty cross, if it was me.’
‘Children,’ Florian announced, determined to divert the conversation before his good work was undone. ‘I’ve made Uncle Florian’s Famous Brown Bread Ice Cream. It’s in the freezer and if you’re very, very, very good and clear all the plates nicely, your mum will get you some.’
Grudgingly, his sister rose among her cheering brood and marched off to the nearest barn, where the domestic deep freeze purred quietly alongside the industrial models preserving the aromatic herbs and flowers from the previous year.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ Florian said to Miranda. ‘It really was done for the best.’ Dido reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I’ve got to know Oliver pretty well, the last couple of years,’ Florian continued. ‘He’s had a lot of stress with the farm, it was a pretty steep learning curve. And – ah – never had a girlfriend since he’s been here, that I know of. I was gob-smacked when I heard what had been going on at the Manor. Not that he told me. It was our vet – Lucy. Who took you riding, by the way. She thought I knew, so there was a bit of a misunderstanding.’
Oh. My. God, said Miranda’s inner schoolteacher. Oh. My. God. This is not a boy, it’s a grown-up guy. You came on to him. You practically pinched his bum. Your behaviour has been nothing short of utterly pathetic.
A certain sensation tried to assert itself. Flat. Insignificant. Lowly. Wet. That old invertebrate feeling. Oh no, she said to it. Not this. I haven’t felt this for … oh, a couple of days. Good heavens, a couple of days! Forty-eight hours of feeling reasonably OK. And I’m used to it. And I like it. I will not feel like a worm. I will not. Yes, this is embarrassing. Yes, I’ve been pathetic. No, I do not feel like a worm. Simple. Now slither along, please. I’m OK and I’m a grownup and I’m going to deal with this.
With his laptop, working at his desk by the kitchen window of the cottage, Oliver toiled reluctantly to finish his most elaborate creation, the bill. Yesterday, he had been proud of it. A letterhead, the sort of letterhead country house hotels always had, a line drawing of the building wreathed in roses, printed on the flash printer. Purchases and prices, which needed to look convincingly blurry, all itemised in a tiny font and printed on an old inkjet. The Rose Suite. The Wisteria Suite. Room Service. Continental Breakfast. Dinner. Full English Breakfast.
Yesterday, the whole deal had seemed basically sweet. Cash-flow crisis sorted and a good laugh on top. A fun way to hit back at the people who’d fucked up his life. Putting them in hospital, well, that was too extreme. That had not been part of the plan. And – well, the girl. Maybe that was where it had all starte
d to lose its shine. He felt bad about Miranda, a large sort of bad, probably with several different areas, shapeless but oppressive all the same. Knock off the last breakfast, maybe. Gesture of goodwill. The bad feeling persisted.
It was the courage, that was the problem. They’d been so bloody brave. Who’d have thought that some Islington princess would even get on a horse, let alone fall off it, break half her bones and then get up all covered with mud and walk away telling everyone she was quite OK and not to make a fuss? When anyone else would have expected her to pull rank, threaten to sue and call for her personal helicopter. And the daughter. Not a scream, not a tear, not a tantrum. Difficult for her, obviously. Distressing, perhaps, if these people actually felt distress, which he doubted. Oh, damn it – why the hell did Miranda have to be the daughter of the Wicked Witch of London NW1?
Oliver was approaching the second stage of a personal epiphany, in which the subject thinks, just for a second, that his own actions may possibly have had some bearing on the situation, then violently rejects the idea. Their own bloody fault, of course. Miranda had never said who she was. She’d just sat there being sweet and let him find out. Why, her behaviour had been just as dodgy as his! All he’d done was exactly what they’d asked. Still, grace under pressure. Unexpected. Worth a free breakfast. But no more.
He set off for the Manor to deliver his masterpiece.
Miranda. Miranda. She’d been running through his mind all night. Hadn’t he always intended to meet someone like Miranda, one day? Someone with that amazing combination of confidence and fragility. Someone who gave him a strange, magical, tender sort of feeling that he’d never had before. Someone who it would be pretty great to be adored by, in a spirited sort of way. Why, the whole affair had that sense of inevitability about it that he’d been expecting to feel one day – but not now.
It really wasn’t fair. He hadn’t had any warning. How was a man supposed to know, when the doorbell rings in his mother’s house on a miserable wet night, and he goes to answer it, that the woman on the doorstep is going to be the one? His life was temporarily looking like a complete mess, and so she turns up now. It really wasn’t fair.
He came into the Manor through the back door. The kitchen was quiet, and smelled strange. Irritatingly, the only person in the room was his stepsister, who was sitting on the sofa, lacing up her boots.
‘Is that the bill? How much is it?’ said Toni. The strange smell, he realised, was some scent she was wearing.
‘You smell terrible,’ he said, fraternally.
‘Since you gave me this muck for Christmas, you should know,’ she said, with sisterly logic. ‘Go on, how much is it?’
‘There,’ he answered, showing her the total. ‘Nine hundred and fifty-six pounds and forty pence.’
‘No VAT?’
‘I thought about it. But it might be committing fraud, you know. Charging VAT when we aren’t actually registered.’
‘We aren’t actually a hotel, bro. Haven’t we been committing fraud all weekend?’
‘Well …’
‘Making money by deception, or something? Course we have. I dunno what you and Bel are doing this for, anyway.’
‘We’re doing it because we need the money, if you must know. What did you think that bailiff was here for? My mother’s in real trouble and I’m trying to help her. Not that I’d expect you to care.’
‘Well, if she’s so stuffed for money, why’s she blown the whole scam, then?’
Oliver immediately had the feeling of bright mauve nausea that was uniquely associated with his mother. ‘What do you mean, blown the whole scam?’
‘She told her. That Minister woman. She told her what the whole game was. Last night. Well, this morning, really. In here. Right after we’d all been out chasing your pigs.’
And Toni gave him the edited highlights of the conversation between her stepmother and Clare Marlow, which she had overheard on waking up that morning.
‘So they know everything,’ Oliver said, the nausea giving way to deep dark chills.
‘Yeah. And they decided they’d play along and hope you’ll get together with wossername.’
‘That’s just …’ He had an instant attack of emotional thermostat disorder. On top of the chills came the anger, hot and strong. And the embarrassment, like burning lava. And the freezing consciousness of absolute, utter, complete, all-round total disaster, riding in like the iceberg in front of the Titanic. ‘My bloody mother.’
‘What is she like, eh?’
‘Interfering …’
‘Telling everybody what to do. Now you know what I’ve had to put up with.’
‘Thinks she can dictate your life.’
‘Should have married Saddam Hussein. They’d have got along just fine.’
‘That is a bit strong. Oh hell, no it isn’t. God, what a fucking mess.’
‘You do like her, though. Wossername.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘You do. Go on, you’ve got to admit it. You come over all unnecessary when she’s around.’
‘I do not.’
‘Yes you do, I’ve seen you.’
‘Rubbish. Toni, I’m not getting into another of your stupid conversations. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to find my mother and sort this out.’
He discovered Bel in the sitting room, peacefully watching television while Garrick lay zonked on the rug in front of the fire. The conversation began stridently, got ugly quickly, proceeded with a lot of shouting, reduced Bel to tears and ended when Oliver stormed out of the house, slammed the front door so hard that the carved walnut pediment above it fell down, and drove off down the lane to his own home, swearing all the way.
Bel got up and walked around the room, dabbing her eyes dry. After a while, she heard a distant car engine. Car coming down the lane. Not stopping at Oliver’s. Not stopping at Colin’s. Not stopping at Jimmy’s. It was that girl, and she was coming back.
She darted across the room for the light switch. When the house was dark, except for the hall and stairs, she went back to the sitting room, sat by the window and waited. This was not over. She was not defeated. She had one last card to play, one final move to make.
Later that night, Tolvo sat with his angel on the garden wall, and named the stars for her. ‘Alpha Orion,’ he said, pointing up at the heavens. ‘Big and red. Easy to see. And with him is Beta, his name is also Rigel. More big. Blue star, very big. Most bright in Orion.’
‘Where’s Orion?’ said Toni. Nobody had shown her stars before. Come to think of it, you never saw stars in London. Too many fucking streetlights and office blocks and shop signs and car headlights.
‘Orion is man. Is hunter. I learn this word today. Hunter. With two dogs. Big dog and little dog.’
‘Cool,’ said Toni, meaning the singer, as well as the song.
‘You have cold?’ He put his arm around the angel’s shoulders. Of course she was cold, she wore these thin clothes. Nobody in England had proper clothes, he had noticed.
‘No,’ said Toni.
Politely, Tolvo removed his arm. Politely, Toni took hold of it by the hand and put it back around her shoulders.
‘Do you understand girlfriend?’ she asked him.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Yes. Do you understand what it is? Girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend? Of course.’
‘Well, I can be your girlfriend. If you like.’
Tolvo ran this through the program of his English syntax. Girlfriend. Can be, is possible. Yours. Mine. My girlfriend, is possible. Is possible? Nasty, slippery stuff, language, Nothing solid about it, you could never trust it. Not pure and constant and beautiful like mathematics. Language was just a mess. He ran the words through the program again. Same answer.
‘Yes?’ he suggested.
‘Cool,’ said Toni. ‘Good. Cool means good, OK?’
14. Settling Up
As if the clear skies had done their job and gone home, Monday d
awned dark and rainy. The rain fell in earnest, a torrent from the almost-black sky. Miranda heard it before she opened her eyes, hammering brutally on the roof. A buzzing like a wasp. No, that was somebody on a moped or something.
Miranda got up and went to the window. It looked as if it had been raining since the beginning of recorded time and would keep on raining until the end of eternity, because any other weather apart from total rain was just a tiny geophysical blip in a water-based climate. Or possibly even just a hallucination, and never really real at all.
Just as this was not a real hotel. She had come back full of the intention to sort out this hideous misunderstanding immediately, but found the house dark and deserted. And it had been late. Late for the country, anyway. She could hardly have woken people up to tell them – whatever she had to tell them. Difficult to call. I know you’re pretending. No, please, you don’t have to pretend, I know. I’ve behaved badly and I apologise. You’ve behaved badly and you really should apologise too. This is all too silly and ridiculous.
The silliest and most ridiculous part of it was the idea that Oliver had created this massive deception because he fancied her. Florian must have been wrong about that. Miranda’s experience of life so far told her that she was a woman who definitely lacked the Cleopatra factor. Nobody was ever going to throw away an empire or launch a thousand ships for her sake. Maybe it wasn’t all her fault, perhaps modern males had lost the faculty of romantic madness anyway. Normally, she reckoned she was doing well if she could inspire a man to change a light bulb for her.
So it was quite impossible that a man like Oliver – who, now she knew more about him, was really quite impressive as well as undeniably fit – would have been ready to make a complete fool of himself for a whole weekend just to keep her around. There had to be another explanation. Given that he was a farmer, it was probably some revenge plot against her mother.
As she dressed and packed her things, the idea of slipping away and saying nothing and forgetting the whole business as fast as possible seemed highly attractive. No, she told herself. The old Miranda might have done that. Back in the worm era, slithering away was an option. The new Miranda will not do this. And besides …
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