‘Yes, of course. She’s on her way back from Cornwall, but I’ll get her to give you a ring later.’
‘Thank you so much, the moment she comes through the door, please. My name’s Polly Penhalligan. Please could you tell her it’s very important, it’s regarding the location of the forthcoming shoot,’ I said importantly.
‘I certainly will,’ she replied respectfully.
I replaced the receiver and walked slowly upstairs again, chewing my thumbnail and smiling to myself. How uplifting it was to have something to look forward to, to have a plan. I was a great one for plans, but when the biggest and most ambitious one of my career had miraculously come off and I’d become Mrs Penhalligan I’d collapsed in a heap, flummoxed by my own success, all planned out, so to speak.
But not any longer. No, this plan was equally ambitious and far-sighted and would really put Trewarren on the map. Oh yes, this commercial was just the beginning. When it was over I’d register the house with loads of other film companies and they’d all be clamouring to use it. Remakes of Pride and Prejudice, Rebecca, Wuthering Heights – they’d all be made here. It would become a local tourist attraction; people would come from miles around to peer over the walls. I might even open it to the public, give guided tours, have a tea shop, sell souvenirs – a touch of the Raine Spencers – God, there’d be no end to the moneymaking schemes I’d dream up. I’d be an entrepreneur – more like Richard Branson than Raine Spencer, actually – it would give me a sense of purpose.
I sat down decisively at my dressing table and began to cleanse my face vigorously. I grinned at my reflection. Gosh, life was easy once you got a grip on it. I reached for a cigarette and wondered what else I could do to improve my lot. I dropped the cigarette. Yes. Absolutely. If Pippa could do it, so could I. I’d give up right now.
Pulling open my dressing-table drawer, I rooted around amongst the empty deodorant bottles and chewed-up lipsticks and found an ancient packet of Nicorette patches, bought on a whim with an excruciating hangover and an overwhelming desire never to smoke again. I’d obviously opened them because the instructions appeared to be missing, but I’d certainly never used them.
Now what did one do, I wondered – stick them on the arm? Like this? I slapped one on my wrist and waited. Nothing seemed to be happening. If anything, my need for a fag was increasing. I eyed the packet of Silk Cut and my hand twitched nervously. No, I mustn’t. My hand twitched again. I shook more patches out and slapped one on the other arm – oh, and one on my cheek too, because perhaps it helped if it went near the mouth? I slapped one on the other cheek just for good measure. Well, that was four and I was still dying for a cigarette. In fact I seemed to have got hold of one, how odd. My other hand crept towards the lighter. Perhaps if I put a patch actually on my mouth it would have more of a chance to ward off the cigarette when it approached? It would certainly make it jolly hard to get it in. I was just plastering one over my lips with one hand and simultaneously trying to cram a cigarette in with the other, when I heard the door handle turn behind me.
I swung around to see Mrs Bradshaw, my daily, standing in the doorway. We stared at each other for a moment, then I ripped the patch off my lips.
‘Oh! Er, Mrs Bradshaw, I didn’t hear you arrive, I was just – just tidying up my drawers!’
Mrs Bradshaw cast a cold eye around the room, taking in the unmade bed, the still-drawn curtains, the piles of dirty washing on the floor, the clothes spilling out of the chest of drawers, and, in the midst of all this chaos, the lady of the house, in a chocolate-stained T-shirt and covered in patches. She folded her arms and pursed her lips.
I caught sight of my reflection. ‘Oh! Oh, yes, these plasters, cut myself slicing the bread this morning, so silly. Now, wh-what exactly are you – we doing this morning?’ I twittered nervously.
Mrs Bradshaw frightened the life out of me, but I’d inherited her with the house and had kept her on out of a sense of loyalty. Can’t think why, she certainly didn’t feel any loyalty to me. In fact, word had filtered back to me via the village that she’d fervently hoped Nick would marry his previous girlfriend, the glamorous actress Serena Montgomery, so she could swank that she worked for a film star. According to my sister-in-law Sarah, who lived on the adjacent farm, during Serena’s brief occupation at Trewarren she and Mrs Bradshaw had been as thick as thieves, so it must have been a severe blow when he’d eventually plumped (an appropriate verb) for me instead. Not much kudos attached to charring for an erstwhile secretary with dyed roots, I imagined, a suspicion that was confirmed the day I overheard her on the telephone referring to me as ‘that jumped-up fancy piece wot married my boss’.
Of course I should have fired her there and then, but I didn’t. I had some crazy, misguided notion that I could charm her. I went for the egalitarian I-was-a-worker-too-once approach, but unfortunately overdid it to such an extent that sometimes I wondered who was working for whom. I was forever suggesting tea breaks lest I should be accused of overworking her, the result being that she took complete advantage of me and spent most of the morning sitting on her backside eating me out of chocolate biscuits and watching me with disdain as I made nervous small talk. Like now.
‘Another beautiful day, Mrs Bradshaw!’ I gabbled.
Mrs Bradshaw eyed me with a mixture of distrust and incredulity. ‘If you like rain it is,’ she growled eventually, in her deep Cornish brogue.
‘Oh, er, has it been raining? Silly me, I hadn’t noticed, only it was so beautiful earlier on, and of course I’ve got the curtains drawn so I can’t see – not that I haven’t opened them yet, I have, been up for hours, in fact. No, I was trying on some clothes, you see, didn’t want anyone peeking in!’
I think it occurred to both of us to wonder who, apart from the sheep, might be lurking in the open country desperate for a peek at my untoned body, but we let it pass.
Mrs Bradshaw pursed her lips, waiting for her orders. What she probably would have liked to hear was, ‘Right, Mrs B, clean the floors, do the windows, polish the silver and when you’ve finished all that I’ll see what else there is,’ to which she would have doubtless responded, ‘Right you are, Mrs Penhalligan,’ and scurried about her business, mop in hand.
Instead, I tended to fidget awkwardly, scratch my chin and say things like, ‘Well, gosh, you probably know this place better than I do, why don’t you just sort of see what needs doing and, um, have a quick flick round with a duster and maybe a Hoover if it’s not too much trouble,’ to which she’d sneer and move slowly towards the broom cupboard, before moving even more slowly into another room, probably to put her feet up. Mrs Bradshaw had a lot of sit-down-and-stop when it came to cleaning my house.
This morning, however, I’d had orders from above to get her to do something specific.
‘Can’t you get that bloody woman to clean the loos? Anyone would think it was beneath her,’ Nick had stormed.
It was true. Someone was going to have to get to grips with some rather unattractive limescale and I was damned if it was going to be me. On the other hand I had the feeling she was damned if it was going to be her either. I braced myself, took a deep breath, and took the plunge, loowards, so to speak.
‘Um, Mrs Bradshaw, there is actually something I’d like, or rather Nick and I’ – I shamelessly dragged him into this for moral support – ‘would like you to do this morning.’
I paused. Now most normal people would have taken advantage of this gap in the dialogue to say something like, ‘Oh yes?’ or ‘Really?’ but Mrs Bradshaw stayed silent. She just stared unblinkingly at me, like something out of a horror movie. I was rapidly losing my nerve.
‘It’s – it’s the loos,’ I managed.
The silence prevailed.
‘Yes,’ I went on courageously, ‘I’d like you to clean them.’
There. It was out. I gulped, waiting. She eyed me contemptuously.
‘There’s nothing I can do about them toilets,’ she growled. ‘They’re too old. You got limescal
e in them; they need replacin’. Them toilets have had too much use – that’s their problem!’
I nodded vigorously. ‘Ah, ah, right. Too much use, how right you are, we do use them an awful lot, too much probably, in fact, we’re always using them, I am anyway, all the time!’
She regarded me more with pity than contempt now.
‘Oh! Oh, no, not that I use them any more than the next person,’ I gabbled, ‘no more than is usual – I mean, I don’t have, you know, a problem, or anything like that!’
Still the stony silence and the icy glare.
‘But how clever of you!’ I continued desperately. ‘Yes, yes of course, new loos, that’s what we need.’
She nodded briefly as if to illustrate that she’d won hands down, and turned to go, but not before she’d stooped to recover my basque from the floor, holding it between thumb and fingertip as if it were something revolting that Badger had brought in. She deposited it gingerly on a chair, gave me one last disdainful glare and left.
I sighed and slumped exhausted on the dressing table. Thank God she’d gone. I ripped my patches off and lit a shaky fag, taking it right down to my toenails. Then I pulled on my clothes and went out to find Nick.
He was in the cow shed, kneeling down, fixing one of the partitions between the stalls. I leaned over, resting my chin on the top.
‘Mrs Bradshaw says we need new loos,’ I reported gloomily. ‘She says ours have had it.’
‘Balls,’ retorted Nick without even looking up. ‘They just need a damn good clean. Tell her to pull her finger out.’
‘Don’t be silly, I couldn’t possibly! I’m terrified of her!’
Nick paused. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at me. ‘Are you? Well, sack her then, for God’s sake.’
I looked at him in horror. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that either – it would be all round the village in minutes.’ I had an idea. ‘I know, you sack her!’
‘Don’t be silly, Polly, you’ll have to do it, otherwise it’ll be all round the village that you didn’t have the nerve and you got your husband to do it.’
I sighed and wandered back to the house. He was right of course, so I was stuck with her. Too much of a woolly-minded liberal to tell her to buck her ideas up or I’d dock her wages, and too much of a lily-livered coward to send her packing. We’d just have to carry on as normal with her munching her way through my biscuit tin, despising me all the while, and me pussyfooting around trying to keep out of her way. I slunk down to the village for an hour or two with this very aim in mind, and when I came back through the front door was relieved to hear her slam simultaneously out of the back, bang on four o’clock and not a moment later.
Later that afternoon I rang Pippa. Finally, at six thirty, just when I thought she must have gone straight home, she answered.
‘Pippa Hamilton.’
‘Pippa, it’s me, did you get my message?’
‘Yes, I was going to ring you, but I’ve literally just sat down. I need to go through some papers, make a few calls, see my boss and generally sort myself –’
‘Well, never mind about all that, this is important. Listen, I’ve decided to do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘The location thing. Lend you the house, the grounds, whatever you like.’
‘Really? Are you sure? What did Nick say?’
‘Oh, er, don’t worry about Nick. I’ll get round him later.’
‘You mean you haven’t asked him?’
‘Well, not exactly, but I’ll ask him soon. I know he’ll agree.’
‘Will he? I should have thought he’d hate the very idea.’
‘Pippa,’ I said a trifle crossly, ‘believe me, I know my own husband. He’ll be thrilled, absolutely thrilled. Especially when I tell him how much we’re going to make from it.’
‘Well, I’ll have to talk to Bruce about that. I’m not sure what sort of figure he had in mind, but if you’re sure, I’ll put it forward at the next meeting as a suggestion.’
‘A suggestion? You mean it’s not definite? I thought you said this place was ideal?’
‘It is, but I can’t possibly just say yes over the phone. I’ll have to talk to Sam and we’ll have to show the client some pictures and that sort of thing.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll pop some photos in the post to you.’
‘Fine, but I have to tell you we saw quite a good place in Devon on the way back, so don’t get your hopes up too much.’
‘What?’ I was aghast. ‘In Devon? But it wasn’t as nice, surely?’
‘Well, it was quite pretty, and closer to London of course.’
‘Well – well, pretend you didn’t see it!’
‘What?’
‘Pretend you didn’t go there – they’ll never know.’
‘Polly, I can’t do that!’
‘Course you can! Pippa, think of all the fun we’ll have – it’ll be just like old times! You can stay here at the house and we’ll stay up late drinking and smoking – well, drinking anyway, and we’ll –’
‘Polly, I can’t possibly stay at the house. I have to stay with the crew.’
‘Do you? Oh. Oh, but surely –’
‘Listen, I’ve got to run, my other phone’s going. I’ll talk to Sam and Bruce and ring you back, OK? But don’t bank on it – it’s by no means certain. Bye.’
She hung up. I stared at the receiver incredulously. By no means certain? What on earth was she talking about? Surely she could wangle it? Didn’t she know my happiness depended on it? What did it matter if the house in Devon was better? I shook my head in amazement. Goodness, what on earth had got into poor old Pippa? She was sounding so cross and businesslike these days.
I spent the next few days loitering by the telephone, willing it to ring. I was terrified Nick would get to it first to be casually informed that a film crew would be descending on him shortly, so I craftily unplugged the phone in the bedroom and set up camp by the one in the hall. I sat for hours on the really uncomfortable wooden chair at the bottom of the stairs pretending to do my tapestry. I’d started it when I first got married, thinking it was the sort of thing ladies who lived in large houses probably did, but I’d only managed about two square inches in as many years. It was predominantly a revolting shade of mauve and I loathed the very sight of it, but it was serving an awfully useful purpose now.
‘Still doing that delightful cushion cover?’ grinned Nick as he passed by for the fourth time that day. ‘Why on earth d’you do it here? Surely the light’s better in the drawing room?’
‘I like it here. I think I shall cover this chair with it when I’ve finished, so it sort of puts me in the mood sitting here.’
Nick eyed me suspiciously. Unfortunately he knew me too well these days.
‘You’re up to something, Polly, I can tell.’
‘Me?’ I enquired, eyebrows raised innocently. ‘Up to something? Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not – I just like sitting here, that’s all.’
‘All right, have it your way, but I smell a rat.’
‘Oh, Nick, just because I fancy a change of scene you automatically assume that – I’LL GET IT!’ I screeched as the telephone rang.
I almost broke his fingers, wrenching it from his hand as he went to pick it up. Nick backed away in surprise.
‘Yes? Hello?’ I gasped. ‘Pippa!’
I swung round to him, flushed and triumphant. ‘It’s for me! It’s Pippa!’
‘So I gathered,’ he murmured, watching me in amazement. He didn’t move.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘See you later then,’ I hissed, shooing him away with my other hand.
Nick shook his head incredulously, turned and walked out of the front door into the garden.
‘Pippa!’ I hissed, turning away and cupping my hand round the mouthpiece to muffle my voice. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Well, it’s all set. They liked the photos and they’re planning to start shooting on the fifth.’
&
nbsp; ‘Really? Seriously? You mean it’s on? YIPPEE!’ I leaped up and punched the air. Through the open front door Nick’s head rotated in surprise, but he strode on.
‘God, that’s fantastic, Pippa, absolutely brilliant! The fifth of what?’
‘May, of course.’
‘May? But that’s – that’s only a couple of weeks away, isn’t it?’
‘About ten days. I know it’s quite soon, but we’re so behind schedule we’ve just got to get a move on. That will be all right, won’t it?’ Pippa sounded anxious. ‘I’ve more or less said it’s definite because you were so keen.’
‘Oh yes, yes, fine.’ Ten days. Christ!
‘And Nick’s OK about the whole thing?’
‘Oh yes, delighted. Um, how much will we get for it, Pippa?’
‘About seven hundred pounds, I should think, but I’ll check with Bruce. D’you want to talk to him now?’
‘Er, no, no, that’s all right.’
Seven hundred pounds. I’d expected slightly more than that somehow. Still, it was better than nothing and it would certainly help our ailing finances.
‘Oh, and, Polly, could you possibly send me a list of local hotels? I’ll have to arrange for the crew to stay somewhere. Any ideas?’
‘Sure, there are a few places in Helston. I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Great. Oh, and also a local kennel for the dogs.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Yes, they’ll have to stay somewhere too.’
‘What dogs?’
‘The dogs in the commercial, you moron. I told you it was for Doggy Chocs Deluxe, didn’t I?’
I sat down hard on the hall chair.
‘Um, yes, at least … well, I probably forgot. Er, how many dogs?’
‘Oh, not more than twenty, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Twenty!’ I gripped the banisters.
‘Well, I don’t think it’ll be more than that, but it all depends on how many Sam wants in the charging scene.’
The charging scene! I covered my eyes with my hand and groaned. Jesus Christ – the sheep! The cows! Twenty charging dogs! Nick!
‘Polly? Polly, is this OK? I really hope so because it’s all arranged now and I shall be in the deepest shit imaginable if it isn’t.’
Going Too Far Page 6