by Maeve Haran
‘Mrs Minchin, this is my mother-in-law,’ announced Mr A, ‘the distinguished Mrs Lalita Lal, a very famous lady.’
Laura felt momentarily tempted to curtsey. ‘Come in, Mrs Lal, you are extremely welcome.’ She almost added, ‘to my humble abode’. What on earth was happening to her? She could see why Mr A was so terrified of the woman.
She led Mrs Lal into her sitting room, with Mr A following behind at a respectful distance pulling an enormous and wildly expensive Louis Vuitton suitcase.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
Mrs Lal checked her Patek Philippe jewelled watch. ‘I would prefer a gin and tonic,’ she announced grandly. ‘It has been a trying day.’ She looked accusingly at Mr A as if this were entirely to be laid at his door.
‘Let me show you where to put the suitcase.’ She led her kind employer up the stairs to the spare room. ‘Will this be all right? What exactly was the problem with the White Swan?’
‘Mrs Minchin,’ he replied despairingly, ‘what was not a problem? You would think we had placed my mother-in-law in a Delhi prison.’ He looked around approvingly. ‘This is a very fine room. My wife and I will earnestly attempt to find alternative accommodation as soon as possible but in the meanwhile I cannot thank you enough.’
‘You don’t need to. Just come down and advise on how strong to make the G&T.’
The answer was very strong indeed.
‘I blame the British,’ Mrs Lal opined as she knocked it back in three large gulps. ‘We Indians didn’t touch the stuff till the Raj.’
‘I thought it helped prevent malaria,’ Laura asked innocently. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
‘Pure excuse,’ pronounced Mrs Lal, holding out her empty glass.
‘Maybe time for the Mini Cheddars,’ advised Mr A as they made for the kitchen to replenish her drink.
‘Why don’t you chat to her while I start the supper?’ Laura suggested, reducing him to such a look of wild-eyed panic that she took pity on him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll put the oven on for the chips. The rest will only take a moment. Does your mother-in-law like her steak well done or rare?’
‘Probably still alive,’ he whispered with a rebellious grin. ‘Like Indian tigress.’
‘Why don’t you head off now? I expect I’ll cope.’
He produced a bottle of red wine from his parka pocket. ‘Vintage is very fine.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Not from shop. From off licence.’
‘Go on, off you go. I’m sure we have more if we need it. My husband liked his wine and since he left rather quickly he didn’t have the chance to take it. We have plenty in the garage.’
They both went back into the sitting room.
‘A long time to mix one gin and tonic.’ Mrs Lal fixed them with a gimlet gaze.
‘We were discussing how you like your steak,’ Laura countered.
‘With chips. Another bad British habit.’ Laura was beginning to think that however short a time Mrs Lal was billeted with her would be too long.
‘Tell my daughter I will be ready at noon tomorrow,’ she instructed her hapless son-in-law. ‘Has she bought the tickets for The Mousetrap?’
Mr A nodded enthusiastically.
‘I am a great admirer of Mrs Agatha Christie. I saw the play performed in Delhi the year of the coronation.’
‘Whose coronation was that?’ Laura prattled on, thinking it must be some Indian potentate’s.
‘Queen Elizabeth II of course,’ Mrs Lal replied as if there were no other royal worth considering.
The oven pinged just as Mr A took his leave and Laura was able to busy herself with the supper.
‘Would you like the television on?’ Laura enquired, putting her head round the kitchen door.
‘No thank you,’ Mrs Lal replied. ‘I am not yet a dribbling old person. I will consult Twitter on my iPad.’
Laura quietly laid the table for two, wondering what had happened to Sam. He hadn’t even replied to her message which wasn’t like him.
Rather to her surprise the simple meal of steak and chips with French beans and salad seemed to go down excellently with Mrs Lal, especially the red wine. Laura made sure she got most of it and the effect seemed to mellow her.
‘What I want to know,’ she enquired affably once the meal was cleared away, ‘is why a lady like you who lives in a nice house like this is working for my waste of space of a son-in-law in his tiddly little supermarket?’ She surveyed Laura over the top of her glass. ‘You can tell me it’s none of my business, that I’m an interfering old harridan, which no doubt is what you’ve been told already.’
Laura laughed, liking her for the first time.
‘The thing is,’ Laura admitted, ‘I’m getting divorced.’
‘Husband left you for younger woman?’
Laura nodded.
‘Always the same story. Men have no imagination. The new woman is subordinate: secretary, flight attendant, junior colleague. All ego. Men are ninety per cent ego, ten per cent penis. Brain is bypassed altogether.’
‘Anyway, I wanted a job but not one I had to worry about. Your daughter and son-in-law have been really kind to me.’
‘I am glad they have that much sense.’
‘Why do you disapprove of your son-in-law?’
‘Marriage is my business. I found her a good catch. But she wouldn’t marry him.’
‘Of course, I’d forgotten. You’re a matchmaker.’
Mrs Lal sniffed. ‘I make introductions between suitable people of equal status.’
Behind them Laura heard the front door open and Sam tumbled in, looking dizzily happy, his arm round an exceptionally sexy-looking girl in a tiny clinging dress that just about covered her knickers. Oh God, what timing. This was almost the first occasion he’d ever brought a girl home and it had to be one who looked like every mother’s nightmare.
‘I mean,’ Mrs Lal continued, waving her empty wine glass and ignoring the interruption, ‘what is better? Behaving like young generation, going to pub, getting drunk and falling into bed with first person they meet and never them seeing again? Or finding someone through introduction who is on the same wavelength and they can at least talk to in the morning?’
Laura turned to find a scarlet-faced Sam looking as if he would rather be anywhere than here.
‘Hi, darling. I did leave you a message. This is Mrs Lal, the mother of the kind lady I work for. She’s staying with us for a day or two.’
‘Right. Okay.’
‘And who is this?’ Mrs Lal surveyed Sam’s friend with the critical eye of a butcher examining a chop.
‘My name’s Kylie,’ the girl answered with a defiant edge to her voice. ‘As in Kylie Minogue. You may have heard of her.’
‘Come on.’ Sam grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s go to my room.’
Mrs Lal watched them depart. ‘Bad,’ she pronounced. ‘Very bad. Not the kind of girl I would introduce to your son.’
Laura tried not to laugh that in the age of Tinder a Mrs Lal could still exist. She began to feel sorry for all those culture- and religion-free singles Mrs Lal had in her sights.
Sal arrived at Manningbury station, the nearest to Igden Manor, and looked round for a taxi. Before she had time to hail one, a smiling young man approached. ‘Ms Grainger? Mr Maynard booked me to meet you and take you to the hotel. He was really sorry not to meet you himself but he said he’d be back in time for a drink before dinner.’
Sal had to admit that sounded a very pleasant prospect. It also gave her time to unpack and sort out what she was going to wear tonight. Maybe even have a quick shower to wash off the city dirt.
Igden Manor turned out to be even more attractive than the website led you to believe. A large medieval-looking central block in mellow golden stone with Gothic-shaped mullioned windows, surrounded by rows of cottages in the same style on either side of a lavender-lined path. A peacock even stood on the lawn posing with its tail feathers fanning out exotically.
‘What an amazing place,’ she confid
ed to the young man as he took her case. He clearly worked here.
‘Yes, and the extraordinary thing is, it isn’t really old. The father of Lord Binns, who owns the hotel, built it from scratch out of bits of old building. Apparently his wife was an actress who loved “The Lady of Shalott” and he was trying to create the right backdrop for her to feel at home.’
‘Lucky lady.’
They crossed a lawn and halted beside the last cottage which looked out over a pond with ducks swimming on it.
‘How pretty,’ commented Sal.
The young man opened the door onto a room that certainly lived up to the medieval fantasy of the surroundings. ‘This is one of our cottage suites. Two bedrooms, a seating area and even your own kitchen.’
‘I’m not really the domestic type,’ confessed Sal.
‘Me neither, but you can make tea in the morning and there’s fresh milk in the fridge.’
‘Now that’s what I really call luxury.’ She glanced round at the four-poster bed with its crimson and gold hangings and decided it wouldn’t be out of place in a castle.
‘It is a little over the top,’ commented the young man, following her gaze.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sal almost purred. ‘I can live with over the top.’ He had been so friendly that she didn’t know whether it would be appropriate to tip him but then she remembered what it was like to be young and hard up. It was always appropriate to be given a tip.
And so it proved from his broad smile and nod of thanks.
‘Anything you want, just dial zero for reception. You can register when you go over later.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
She unpacked her bag, laid out the slinky black dress she intended to wear later, and began to run a bath with the lovely little free toiletries from the White Company. Then she opened the fridge. Normally she tried to avoid hotel minibars because they struck her as such a rip-off but not tonight. Tonight she opened the quarter bottle of champagne and poured some into a long-stemmed glass.
She had survived cancer and got her hair back. She might have lost a breast in the process, but that was surely a small price to pay for life. The thought crossed her mind again about what Lou was expecting. Would this weekend be a romantic one? There was no reason on earth she could think of that he should have asked her here unless he liked her, but it could be on a platonic basis. Maybe three marriages, nine grandchildren plus running his businesses was enough for him. Sex might have become an optional extra rather than the yawning hunger it once was.
For both of them.
It was driving Claudia crazy to think that Sal was just a few miles down the road – at Igden Manor of all places. Even though the whole idea of living there was ridiculous she’d still been doing some more digging into what was happening with the place. The difficulty seemed to be that Lord Binns, who owned it, was only prepared to grant a thirty-year lease which meant that any sane businessman or consortium wouldn’t pour money into something so short-term. On top of that the kind of people who were prepared to pay the room rates expected five-star facilities including an indoor pool, spa and gym. But when the hotel had applied for planning permission to convert a barn in the grounds, it had been refused when local objectors pointed out that the barn was the only genuinely old building on the property.
The Quakers had apparently made Lord Binns an offer to convert the house into a care home, but Lord Binns didn’t approve of God, and even less of the paltry sum they were offering in his name. He was still hoping Mammon would come up with a better offer.
Sitting at her sunny kitchen table, Claudia picked up a message from her daughter Gaby, who worked in the same architect’s office as her new husband, Douglas. The fantasy suddenly came to Claudia that if they ever did get their hands on Igden Manor, her likeable and efficient son-in-law Douglas would be a terrific asset as an architect.
‘Not still thinking about your potty scheme to house the Coven?’ her husband Don said, interrupting her pleasant daydream.
‘Even if I was,’ she answered acidly, ‘there’s no way we could get the money.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘Come on,’ she relented, remembering they were supposed to be reinventing their relationship. ‘Let’s go out for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.’
‘As long as you promise me the walk isn’t going to accidentally end up at Igden Manor.’
‘Brownie’s honour,’ she agreed and reached for her jacket.
Sal looked at herself in the mirror. She had bathed, washed her hair, and anointed herself with an aromatic oil then slipped into her sleek black dress which was low-cut, but not low enough to hint at the black lace bra that contained the foam pad that replaced her missing breast. Fortunately she had always been so small-breasted that at least she didn’t look lopsided. She smiled to herself, remembering the obsession with boobs they’d all had at school, sending off for ridiculous bosom-promoting creams and doing an exercise while repeating ‘I must, I must, increase my bust.’ And now here she was, minus a breast. How strange what life had in store. Just as well you had no inkling.
She decided, rather than stay here alone, she’d head off and have a look round the hotel, maybe even head for the bar. As she walked to the door she noticed a brochure listing the prices of the various rooms and almost had a heart attack. This room was over £400! And she was staying two nights!
She strolled along the lavender path, breathing in the heady early evening scent, amazed that the summer was advancing. Where did all the time go? When you were young it almost seemed to stand still, yet now it raced by. She passed through an ancient-looking arched door, which took her into a lovely courtyard where tables and chairs were laid out for dinner. On the other side of the courtyard was another ancient door and this led into a labyrinth of passageways until she finally arrived at reception. She quietly informed the young woman behind the desk which room she was staying in and asked if they needed her credit card. The girl consulted her screen and smiled broadly.
‘No need at all. The bill plus any extras is all taken care of. Enjoy!’
Relief flooded through Sal, and with it the tiniest twinge of anxiety. ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ she announced. ‘A Mr Maynard. When he arrives could you tell him that I’ll be waiting in the bar.’ She looked round at the confusing passageways. ‘Assuming there is one?’
‘Let me show you.’
Sal followed the dark-suited figure through two small cosy sitting rooms with deep garnet velvet sofas, antique rugs and jewel-coloured flower arrangements to a long bar facing an enormous inglenook fireplace, dotted with tables and chairs. Sal settled into the corner with another glass of champagne. After all the worries of recent months she could get used to this.
Ten minutes later she sensed his presence before she actually saw him. It was as if the energy level in the bar had risen inexplicably. Then there was the bustling as Lou erupted into the room followed by two members of staff, one clutching a menu and the other diligently requesting if he would like a drink. Clearly Lou Maynard was not the kind of man you left in a corner. She wondered how he did it. Was it the liberal application of large tips on arrival or simply the force of his personality?
‘Sally, welcome to Surrey,’ he greeted her, then, noticing her empty glass, he turned to the drinks waiter. ‘What happened to the rest of the bottle?’
‘I opened a new one specially, sir,’ apologized the waiter.
‘Then bring it plus another glass.’ He sat on the stool opposite her and took in her smart appearance. ‘You look wonderful. I’ll go and change in a moment.’ He indicated his chinos and cardigan. ‘Grandpa gear.’
‘You really don’t need to,’ she smiled.
‘But, my dear, I really must,’ Lou put on his best Noël Coward accent which sounded a hoot on top of his sardonic New Yorker twang. ‘We can’t have you dining with a derelict when you’re looking a million dollars.’
The champagne arrived and he topped up her glass then filled hi
s own. He got to his feet, still holding on to his. ‘Just give me five. My room’s next door and I won’t go for the full George Clooney. Just a lounge suit.’ He raised his glass to hers and Sal found she was laughing as she watched his progress through the bar.
The dinner was delicious, just as good as anything she’d had in London, and afterwards he suggested they stroll round the grounds to a small stream he’d spotted earlier. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all lit up down there,’ he remarked rather cryptically.
‘You mean in case I slip in my advanced years and break my hip?’
‘In case there were any satyrs lurking in the bushes waiting to pull you in and ravish you,’ he grinned.
‘I don’t think there are satyrs in Surrey,’ she offered.
‘My dear, there are satyrs everywhere. In Surrey they probably wear three-piece suits and drive Jaguars.’
It was a glorious night with the stars like diamonds tossed onto a bolt of dark blue velvet. The air seemed to shimmer in the warm flower-scented night. Just as they turned back towards the hotel Lou pulled her against him and kissed her. Sal, who had been so uncertain about an advance from him, felt his lips, strong and dry and sexy but somehow reassuring, and kissed him back. Just as suddenly he let her go.
‘Thank you for coming this weekend,’ he said simply and led her back to her cottage by the duck pond. Just as she felt the buzz of tension rise again, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight. Breakfast is till ten o’clock. Sleep well.’
He waved and swiftly departed, leaving Sal standing outside her room, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
‘Cup of tea! It’s a beautiful morning!’ Claudia woke up to the sight of her husband Don, who always slept in the nude, standing beside the bed in a Masterchef pinny and nothing else.