‘Well he certainly cheats in his private life,’ said Laura with feeling. ‘At least if the press coverage is anything to go by.’
‘Oh, yeah, but that’s different,’ said Gabe.
‘Why? Because it’s OK to cheat on women? Just as long as you’re honest with men, is that it?’
Laura felt her hackles rising again. She loved Gabe but sometimes he could be so … unreconstructed.
Gabe sighed. ‘Give it a rest, Germaine Greer. You asked, I answered. I liked him. Sorry if you and the rest of the village lynch mob have already decided he’s the Swell Valley’s answer to Vladimir Putin. But I do have the advantage of having actually met the guy.’
‘Well, bully for you. I hope the two of you will be very happy together,’ said Laura.
Turning away from her, Gabe turned off his own bedside light.
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ he added defiantly. ‘I’m going to get him to sell those fields to me. So put that in your bra and burn it.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘Have you seen that stack of marked Year Three homework anywhere? The robot sketches?’
Dylan Pritchard Jones ran a hand through his curly chestnut hair and scanned the mess that was his kitchen. Aside from the detritus of breakfast, almost every surface was covered with copies of Country Living, Elle Décor, Period Homes and every other conceivable variety of interiors magazine. Dylan’s wife, Maisie, was expecting their first child and had gone into a frenzy of what the pregnancy websites called ‘nesting’. Apparently this was a woman’s primitive urge to spend thousands of pounds on expensive Farrow & Ball paint and decorative antique rocking chairs. Dylan prayed it would soon pass. On an art teacher’s salary, it was not easy to make Maisie’s Homes & Gardens dreams come true.
‘Last I saw them they were upstairs on the landing.’ Maisie chewed grimly on a piece of dry toast. ‘I passed them on my way to the loo at about five a.m.’
Pregnancy had not been kind to Dylan’s young wife. Relentless morning sickness had turned Maisie’s former peaches and cream complexion an unattractive shade of greenish-grey. At only a few months gone she was already thirty pounds heavier than usual, and her legs were covered with revolting varicose veins that reminded Dylan of mould running through a slab of Stilton cheese. Apparently there were men who found their pregnant wives uniquely attractive and desirable. Dylan Pritchard Jones could only imagine that their wives looked more like expectant supermodels – lithe amazons with compact little bumps beneath their lululemon tank tops – and less like the swollen, exhausted figure of his own other half. He tried to be a patient and understanding husband. But he couldn’t help but count down the days till it was over, and prayed that Maisie intended to get her figure back quickly afterwards. His suggestion last week that she think about hiring a trainer had been met with what he felt was excessive frostiness.
‘Thanks, you’re an angel.’ Kissing her on the head, Dylan raced upstairs, grabbed the work and ran out to his car, a piece of peanut butter toast still clamped between his teeth. St Hilda’s art teacher was perennially late. It was part of his charm, along with his broad, boyish smile, twinkly, bright blue eyes, and the mop of curls that made him look years younger than his actual age of thirty-three, and that women had always found hugely attractive. Dylan Pritchard Jones enjoyed being the ‘cool’ teacher at St Hilda’s, the one whose classes the children actually looked forward to, and with whom all the pretty mothers flirted at parents’ evening. Yes, Fittlescombe’s primary school was a small pool. But Dylan was the prettiest fish in it, if not the biggest. He loved his life.
In the staff room at St Hilda’s, tempers were fraying. The Year Six SAT exams were less than a month away now, but the government had seen fit to choose this moment to dump an enormous amount of additional paperwork on its already overloaded state teachers. This morning’s staff meeting had been called to agree a consensus on whether or not Max Bingley should hire an additional administration person. Cuts would have to be made to pay for such a hire, so it was vital that all the departments be represented. The art department, as usual, was late.
‘We really can’t put this off any longer.’ Ella Bates, one of the two Year Six class teachers, voiced what the entire room was thinking. ‘If Dylan can’t be bothered to turn up for the vote, he doesn’t deserve a say in it.’
‘It’s not a matter of what he deserves,’ Max Bingley said calmly. ‘We need consensus, Ella.’
In Max’s long experience, all staff rooms were political snake pits, even in a tiny, tight-knit school like this one. It had been the same story at Gresham Manor, the private boys prep school in Hampshire where Max had spent most of his career, as head of History and, latterly, deputy head of the school.
Max Bingley had loved his job at Gresham Manor. He would never have taken the St Hilda’s headship had his beloved wife not died two years ago, plunging him into a deep depression. Susie Bingley had had a heart attack aged fifty-two, completely unexpectedly. She’d collapsed at the breakfast table one morning in front of Max’s eyes, keeled over like a skittle. By the time the ambulance arrived at Chichester Hospital she was already dead. Max had kept working. At only fifty-three – with a mortgage to pay, not to mention two daughters still at university – he didn’t have much choice. But without Susie, life had lost all meaning, all joy. He moved through his days at Gresham like a zombie, barely able to find the energy to get dressed in the mornings. The Fittlescombe headship offered a new start and a distraction. Max had taken it under pressure from his girls, but it had been the right decision.
Right, but not easy, either personally or professionally. When Max first arrived at St Hilda’s he’d been forced to cut back a lot of dead wood. Inevitably his decisions to fire certain people had angered some of the remaining staff. As had his hiring choices. The staff room was already divided into ‘Camp Hotham’, the old guard hired by his predecessor and championed by Ella Bates, a heavy-set mathematician in her late fifties with a whiskery moustache, brusque manner and penchant for pop socks that drew an unfortunate amount of attention to her wrinkly knees; and ‘Camp Bingley’, made up of the new teachers and those amongst the old who, like Dylan Pritchard Jones, approved of Max’s old-school teaching style and relentless focus on results. Even Camp Bingley, however, had been resentful of Max’s hiring of Tatiana Flint-Hamilton as an assistant teacher. The fact that Tati was unpaid did little to assuage the anger.
‘We don’t have time to waste training charity cases,’ was how Ella Bates had put it. ‘She’s a drain on resources.’
With the notable exception of Dylan, the other teachers all agreed. So far Max Bingley had held his ground: ‘If we do our jobs and train her properly she could be a vital addition to resources at a fractional cost,’ he argued. But, in truth, he too had doubts about the wisdom of bringing Tatiana on board, doubts made worse by the new administrative pressures they were under.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Dylan breezed in, looking anything but sorry. Mrs Bates and the headmaster both gave him angry looks, but the rest of the (mostly female) staff swiftly melted beneath the warm glow of the famous Pritchard Jones smile.
‘Traffic,’ he grinned. ‘It was bumper to bumper on Mill Lane this morning.’
This was a joke. There was no traffic in Fittlescombe. Tatiana laughed loudly, then clapped a hand over her mouth when she realized that no one else was following suit. ‘Sorry.’
She’d made the mistake of inviting a girlfriend from her party days, Rita Babbington, down to Greystones for the night last night. Inevitably the two of them had begun reminiscing – Tati’s days and nights had been so unutterably boring recently, just talking about excitements past felt like a thrill – and Rita had demanded cocktails. Multiple home-made margaritas later – Tati might never have had to pay for a drink in her life, but she certainly knew how to make a world-class cocktail and after four lines of some truly spectacular cocaine that Rita had brought down with her ‘in case of emergency’, Tatiana had collapse
d into bed with her heart and mind racing. She’d woken this morning with a dry mouth and a head that felt as if she’d spent the night with her skull wedged in a vice, tightened hourly by malevolent elves. It was a testament to her friendship with Dylan Pritchard Jones that he still had the capacity to make her laugh.
Not for the first time, Dylan reflected on how beautiful St Hilda’s new teaching assistant was, and how out of place such a stunning young creature looked in their grotty staff room. Although he did notice the shadows under Tatiana’s feline green eyes this morning. Clearly she’d had a lot more fun last night than he had.
The headmaster’s voice cut through his reverie. ‘Right. Now that we’re all here, a vote. To hire an additional PA for a year will cost us thirty thousand pounds. That’s money we don’t have. It would have to be funded out of a combination of cuts to nonessential classes – that’s art, music and games – and salary cuts. I don’t have all the numbers worked out yet. I just need to know if, in theory, this is something you’re open to or not. So. A show of hands please for making this hire.’
Nine hands, including Mrs Bates’s, went reluctantly up. Dylan Pritchard Jones’s did not. Nor did Orla O’Reilly’s, the reception teacher, or Tatiana’s.
‘I can’t afford a pay-cut,’ said Orla. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘And I don’t see art as nonessential,’ said Dylan. ‘I’m not sorry,’ he added, winking at Tatiana.
‘What about you, Tatiana?’ Max Bingley asked.
‘What?’ Sarah Yeardye, the Year Two teacher, failed to conceal her outrage. ‘You can’t seriously propose giving her a vote? She doesn’t teach here. None of this affects her.’
A chorus of angry ‘hear-hears!’ rang out around the room.
‘I assumed I didn’t have a vote,’ Tati said meekly.
‘Well you do,’ said Max. He believed in consulting his staff and gaining consensus where he could. But he was headmaster here. He wasn’t going to be dictated to by Miss Yeardye and Mrs Bates. He also suspected, rightly, that a lot of the antipathy towards Tati from the other teachers was rooted in nothing more worthy than old-fashioned envy. Before Tati came along, Sarah Yeardye had been widely acknowledged as the most attractive teacher at St Hilda’s, the one that all the fathers fancied. Now she was as good as invisible.
‘Yes or no?’
Surveying the sea of hostile faces, Tati locked on to Dylan Pritchard Jones’s encouraging smile.
‘No,’ she said boldly.
Fuck them all. They’re never going to like me, even if I vote yes. And Dylan could use the support.
‘That’s still nine to four in favour,’ said Ella Bates stridently.
‘Nine to five. I also vote no,’ said Max Bingley. ‘It’s an unnecessary expense.’
‘It is not unnecessary!’ Mrs Bates snapped.
Things looked set to deteriorate into a full-on slanging match until Sarah Yeardye piped up: ‘Why can’t Tatiana take on the extra paperwork?’
Everyone fell silent.
‘She’s a free resource we already have just sitting here,’ said Sarah.
The entire room brightened up at this suggestion. Even Max had to admit it was quite a good idea. Before long the chorus of ‘yes, why nots?’ was quite deafening.
‘Tatiana,’ Max asked. ‘Would you be willing?’
‘Of course,’ Tati said through gritted teeth. Bloody Sarah. That bitch had been out to get her since day one. ‘I mean, I may need some guidance …’
‘I’m afraid none of us has time for handholding,’ Ella Bates barked unkindly. ‘If you can’t fill in some simple administrative forms, then you’ve no business being here in the first place.’
Ella Bates’s chin was so whiskery and wart-ridden, she reminded Tati of a Roald Dahl character. Mrs Twit, perhaps. The fact that there was apparently a Mr Bates somewhere, or had been once, astounded her.
‘I have time,’ said Dylan, helping himself to coffee from the machine in the corner. ‘If Tati’s prepared to help me save the art programme for our children, the least I can do is give her some guidance.’
‘Marvellous.’ Max Bingley rubbed his hands together with satisfaction just as the bell went. ‘That’s settled then. Let’s get to class.’
‘Thanks,’ Tati said to Dylan as they all filed out.
‘What for?’ said Dylan. ‘You just saved my neck. All our necks, although those old clucks are too blind to see it.’
‘They hate me,’ Tati sighed.
‘No they don’t.’ Dylan put a friendly arm around her shoulders. ‘They hate change, that’s all. They’re set in their ways. And maybe just a wee bit jealous. Don’t let them get you down.’
Dylan dashed off to his art class while Tati headed to the library. On the rare occasions she was actually allowed to help with teaching, she felt flashes of happiness and confidence. But most of her days were spent on menial chores such as today’s, when she was scheduled to spend the morning re-cataloguing the school’s library books. It was a boring, mindless job. But it gave her much-needed time to think about her legal battle and the all-important next steps.
Tatiana’s challenge to her father’s will was due in court in September, only three months hence. Raymond Baines, Tati’s lawyer, had asked her to put together a dossier of all emails, letters and conversations in which Rory had alluded to her inheritance of Furlings. She was also supposed to be getting him detailed research on the estate’s history, particularly anything that might smack of an historic entailment; and a list of villagers prepared to attest to the fact that they understood the local manor would always be owned by a Flint-Hamilton and who were actively supporting Tati’s claim. So far she had about thirty definites on the list, including Mr and Mrs Preedy at the Village Stores, Danny Jenner, the publican at The Fox, who’d always fancied her, Harry Hotham, St Hilda’s ex-headmaster, and Lady Mitchelham, a prominent local magistrate. Will Nutley, Fittlescombe’s cricketing hero, was a highly probable, and a smattering of other families had agreed to help Tati in her fight to oust the Cranleys. She was touched by their support – she’d worked hard for it – but the case was still a long shot at best. Collating the documents her solicitor needed was a painstaking, time-consuming and frequently frustrating job, which was already monopolizing all Tatiana’s evenings and weekends. Just how she was supposed to fit in a boat-load of St Hilda’s paperwork on top of all that, she had no idea. But she had to try, or the money would stop dead. And it might help her win round some of the staff to add to her list of supporters.
So far her trustees had been as good as their word and released a monthly income to her as soon as she accepted this poxy unpaid job at the school. Tatiana’s father had what he wanted – for now. She was back in the village, working with children, keeping out of trouble.
But not for long, she told herself, pulling stacks of the Oxford Reading Tree down from the shelves and dumping them on one of the library tables for sorting. After September I’ll have my life back. First Furlings. Then all of the rest. This whole period will seem like a bad dream.
An image of Brett Cranley’s arrogant, taunting face popped into her mind, strengthening her resolve. This would be her first and last term at St Hilda’s, putting up with the backstabbing and bitchiness of Ella and Sarah and the rest of them.
Thank God for Dylan Pritchard Jones. Without his kindness and good humour, Tati wasn’t sure she could survive even that.
‘What the hell is this?’
Brett Cranley waved the presentation document in his son’s face furiously, as if it were a weapon. Which, in some ways, it was.
‘I put you in charge of this. I gave you more responsibility, which you said you wanted. And this is the best you can come up with? Jesus Christ, Jason. It’s embarrassing.’
Jason stared out of the window of his father’s London office, wishing he were somewhere else.
Had he said he wanted more responsibility? He certainly couldn’t remember doing so. It seemed most unlike him. Jason viewed coming to
work in the family business the way that most people needing root-canal surgery viewed a trip to the dentist. As something deeply and profoundly unpleasant that could not be put off forever.
Brett’s office had great views across the Thames to Tower Bridge. All Brett’s offices had had killer views. The one in Sydney, looking out across the harbour towards the iconic opera house, had been jaw-dropping. Jason assumed it was a power thing, this need for a big, swanky corner office and huge windows and a view that said, Look at me, world. I’ve made it.
Most of Cranley Estates staff worked in modest cubicles on the floor below, with the little natural light coming from windows overlooking the car park and council estate housing blocks to the rear of the building. As they had in Sydney. Brett might have changed things up geographically, but he was still the same bullying megalomaniac he’d always been.
‘I’m sorry you don’t like it.’ Jason spoke in a monotone.
‘It’s not a question of me not liking it,’ Brett goaded. ‘This isn’t a matter of taste. It’s crap. It’s full of typos. The artwork’s shit and what there is of it is out of focus. I’ve seen school kids put together more professional-looking work on Photoshop. This is for McAlpine, for fuck’s sake. They’re a huge potential client.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Jason said again, staring at his shoes.
‘Look at me when you’re talking to me,’ Brett commanded. ‘You really don’t give a shit, do you?’
About the real-estate business? No, I don’t. About you being a dick? Yes, Dad, I give a shit about that. But what can I do?
To his intense distress, Jason found his eyes were filling with tears. He fought them back desperately, forcing himself to meet his father’s angry, disappointed gaze. How he wished he didn’t care! How he wished he had the strength to shrug off Brett’s relentless, soul-crushing criticism and become his own man, making his way in his own world. But that was like a penguin wishing it could fly.
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