Best Practice

by Penny Parkes

  For a moment, Grace couldn’t help thinking that this was so much more appealing than a night of champagne and self-congratulation.

  Teddy Kingsley walked over to join them. ‘Daft buggers,’ he said fondly. ‘Blimey, Grace. You scrub up okay! What’s the occasion?’

  With a perfection of timing that Grace could only be grateful for, Chris Virtue’s Volvo pulled up beside them. Gentleman that he was, he hopped out and opened the passenger door for Grace, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  Dan stumbled to his feet. ‘Hey, Chris? I have to ask, mate—’ The ‘mate’ had a slightly belligerent tone to it. ‘Who’s funding all this champagne and revelry? Gracie told us about your shindig tonight. Shouldn’t we concentrate on getting that second helicopter up in the air rather than dishing out awards?’

  Chris stiffened slightly, giving Grace a tight smile. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Mate. It’s a sponsored award, so please don’t think we’re just frittering money away. Tonight is about morale. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.’

  He checked that Grace’s dress was clear and closed the passenger door. Grace looked up and saw the anger on Dan’s face. Whatever his thoughts on fundraising, or even not being invited himself, it seemed rather disproportionate to her.

  Grace was almost grateful that Dan couldn’t see the sheer luxury of the country house hotel where the awards ceremony was being held. It would only feed into his assumption that the money could be better spent elsewhere.

  For a moment, even with Chris’s hand in the small of her back guiding her towards the sweeping staircase, Grace had the uncharitable thought that, as their inside man – strike that, inside woman – it was probably a good idea to find out the truth of the situation.

  ‘So, did Dan have a point?’ Grace asked quietly, as she took in the opulent floral arrangements around them, and the waistcoated waiters with silver platters.

  Chris shook his head. ‘I can see why he might think that, but honestly, this is one of our most profitable fundraisers – and a valuable boost to morale. We have one corporate sponsor who provides the awards to the various crews and then every table is sold at a sixty per cent profit; the hotel do the catering at cost and we get loads of coverage in the glossy lifestyle section.’ He shrugged. ‘I do get that it’s counterintuitive, to spend money to make money, but a lot of people around here don’t like the idea of suffering for a cause; they won’t run a marathon but are all too happy to contribute an absolute fortune for a little fizz and hobnobbing.’

  As they picked up flutes of champagne and began to mingle at the edge of the vast ballroom, Grace couldn’t help but notice several furtive glances thrown her way. Women in particular seemed to spend a lot of time looking at Chris Virtue, their eyes lingering on his broad shoulders as he passed, before flicking down towards Grace appraisingly.

  It should have felt wonderful, to realise that she was here as Chris’s guest; he was obviously quite the catch. Not to mention charming to boot, she realised, as his attentive and considerate nature became increasingly apparent. Quite why she couldn’t let go and enjoy herself, she didn’t know.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit, unless you’d rather mingle,’ he suggested, as Grace’s heels made her a little unsteady on her feet. Collapsing back into a heavily upholstered sofa, with Chris beside her, Grace felt herself begin to relax. The evening so far felt as though it were happening at a remove: the dress, the necklace, even the venue – it felt as though she were wearing a costume and playing a character whose role was as yet unclear.

  Chris’s arm around her shoulders provided a little clarification. As did his ever-attentive concern that she was having a nice time, pointing out people from his crew and giving her amusing little back stories for each. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he wanted her to feel as at home in his world as she did in her own.

  So why did her thoughts keep returning to Larkford? Was it the little worm of a notion that this might be how Alice felt every day that was proving so distracting? It was easy to be fooled by Alice, and to forget how young she was. Grace wondered how often she too felt out of place, or out of her depth – was that where the need for designer ‘armour’ came in?

  Was Alice actually the only one dissembling at work, she wondered, thinking back to Holly’s highly unusual, and therefore suspicious, lack of caffeine? She didn’t dare hope that it meant what she thought it might.

  Or was it simply that, for Grace, evenings arsing about in the pub with her colleagues felt so much easier and more comfortable than this overstated luxury? She could certainly identify with Holly’s concerns about Sarandon Hall now.

  The invitation from Chris had actually taken her by surprise, and part of her still wondered if she’d been right the first time and this was actually a professional outing, despite all his actions to the contrary. She had no idea how to find her feet in the new dating landscape; the last time she’d been in the market for a boyfriend it was easy: turn up to bar with like-minded students, apply alcohol, repeat as necessary. This? This was a whole new ballgame. And however much she may have protested in The Deli last night, it was now obvious that Chris had singled her out for his attentions and invitation. This was personal.

  As their bodies were naturally thrown together by the deepest sofa cushions that Grace had ever encountered, she decided to simply go with the flow. Just because they were having dinner together in public didn’t necessarily make them an item. Or did it?

  Chris leaned in further. ‘Would you mind if we went and talked to my boss? I’d love him to meet you.’

  His tone, his affection, the gentle way he brushed her hair from her face made Grace’s heart skip a beat. If they had been alone there was no question he would have kissed her. As it was, they escaped the sofa’s clutches and made their way through the crowd to make small talk with the head of Air Ambulance South West. His hand in hers and his smile so intoxicating, it felt a little as though they were going to Meet The Parents.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Chris.

  Grace only smiled; hoping his question was rhetorical.

  In her mind, she wasn’t actually sure she was ready for any of this. Or indeed, whether she ever really would be.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning Holly was on a roll, and had never been so delighted about having so many no-shows. Normally it was her bête-noire, running figures about wasted time and overhead costs in her head. Today, she simply didn’t care.

  Ever since Elsie had casually mentioned that her annual check-up with the stroke consultant had been brought forward, it had been preying on Holly’s mind. Elsie had been decidedly cagey about whether this was simply a case of getting a medical report for her Sarandon Hall application or something more worrying, but either way, everything felt a little out of kilter. Maybe it was her own pregnancy hormones – projecting her nerves about next week’s hurriedly scheduled prenatal scan perhaps? – or maybe it was some sixth sense she just couldn’t put her finger on?

  Taking advantage of this unexpectedly free time, she picked up her car keys and, double-checking with Grace that she actually was done for the morning, Holly impulsively headed for Bath. With a bit of luck, she could at least be there when Elsie came out of her appointment with the Big Cheese of Stroke Consultants.

  Pulling up outside the leafy Georgian mansion that was the private clinic made Holly pause, wrenching the complaining Golf into reverse and gingerly parking with extra concentration between a Jaguar and a Mercedes. Both of them, she noticed as she climbed out, were sporting Hospital ID badges in the windshield. She tried not to throw her morals and her beliefs out of the window, as her traitorous mind pointed out that this was the very medical path she had always shied away from on principle, the very path that would mean their financial concerns about having this little bean could be a thing of the past.

  Even the rarefied atmosphere in the waiting room was so different from the squalling, sometimes even
brawling, situation at The Practice that Holly was taken aback. She helped herself to a cappuccino and sat down to wait, flicking through this month’s – this month’s – Country Living magazine. She sipped at the cappuccino, the delicious scent making it irresistible, but gagging slightly as the coffee turned to sawdust in her mouth. Old habits died hard.

  She felt unaccountably guilty, as though she were betraying her NHS roots simply by sitting here, decadently flicking through magazines and sipping frothy coffee. She breathed out slowly, her eye immediately caught by the photo shoot on the pages in her lap. A beautiful summer picnic was laid out on a river bank, canoes festooned with flowers, and petals floating on the water. Now that, thought Holly, was the kind of wedding she could get on board with, even if it did rather resemble a scene from a Flower Fairies book. Hardly the stuff that Taffy’s dreams were undoubtedly made of. Although he might be more up for it if they had matching dragon boats and the theme from Hawaii Five-0 belting from the river banks!

  The gust of air as the huge double doors from the consulting rooms were pushed open made Holly look up to see Elsie making an entrance, looking decidedly peeved. She clocked Holly’s presence without even blinking and didn’t bother to wait until she was within twenty yards to start talking loudly. ‘Well I always thought you paid peanuts and got monkeys, but apparently these were just more expensive peanuts!’

  Holly stood up and walked towards her, laying a finger on her lips in an attempt to get Elsie to turn the volume down. ‘Hello, gorgeous. Surprise!’ She linked her arm through Elsie’s. ‘So, did the doctor you paid tell you what you wanted to hear?’

  Elsie gave her a scathing look. ‘It’s my money, darling. I can fritter it away on a second opinion I might actually prefer if I choose.’ She sighed deeply. ‘But apparently even at three hundred pounds an hour the diagnosis is the same. Previous mini-stroke equals high-risk and no bloody fun.’

  ‘Were you secretly hoping he’d give you a clean bill of health and full permission to do whatever the hell you like?’ Holly asked, voicing the suspicion she’d harboured ever since Elsie had first mooted the suggestion of going private.

  ‘Well obviously,’ said Elsie with feeling.

  The automatic doors hissed open, disgorging them from the cool and rarefied environment into the heat of the car park, where wafts of petrol fumes were trailing in the wake of an expensive sports car.

  ‘Scuse me,’ managed Holly, before peeling off abruptly and heaving into the shrubbery.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Elsie, holding out her small bottle of water, ‘are you okay? Is this morning sickness, or should I be giving you a very wide berth?’

  Holly put her hands on her thighs and breathed slowly. She nodded. ‘It’ll pass, if last time’s anything to go by. But I’ve been a bit worked up about one thing and another the last few days though. I’m sure that isn’t helping.’

  Elsie didn’t look impressed – in fact she was rather piqued at having her thunder stolen. ‘You can take empathy too far, you know.’

  Holly nodded. ‘Sorry, Elsie.’ She managed a smile. ‘You go ahead and puke too if you need to.’

  Elsie just huffed, as Holly pivoted towards the bushes again. Elsie waved away the luxury sedan that had been idling outside waiting for her, the chauffeur looking incredibly relieved as the retching from the shrubbery continued. ‘We’ll go in your car,’ Elsie announced.

  ‘Jemima’s protest really made me think about your wedding,’ said Elsie, as they drove into the Market Place. ‘Even with this baby on board, I still think we need to go big or go home.’

  ‘Well, here we are! Home at last!’ said Holly with a grin, timing it to perfection as she pulled up outside Elsie’s Georgian townhouse. ‘I guess that answers that then.’

  Elsie, to her credit, managed a chuckle. ‘I’m not giving up that easily, darling. Oh—’ Elsie stopped and blinked, leaning forward to squint through the rather dirty windscreen. ‘Oh, well this should be interesting.’

  Holly followed her gaze, to see a rather alarmingly tanned-to-the-point-of-orange woman in designer clothes standing on tiptoe to peer through Elsie’s sash windows.

  ‘You’d think I’d get some warning that Hurricane Harriet would be turning up sniffing around,’ said Elsie, sounding suddenly exhausted and not at all pleased.

  ‘Harriet? Your daughter, Harriet?’ Holly clarified in surprise. Said Harriet seemed to have spent most of Holly’s acquaintance with Elsie in and out of various exclusive rehab facilities in America – it was almost as though this woman enjoyed the process of getting clean, more than the promise of sober living.

  ‘I know. It’s hardly cause for celebration, is it? I wonder how much she wants this time?’ Elsie popped open the passenger door before turning back to Holly in a rare moment of weakness. ‘Come in with me, darling. I’m not feeling on top form and Harriet’s never an easy person to say no to. Come and be my moral conscience for a while?’

  ‘There you are, Mummy!’ cried Harriet, as Elsie walked towards her. ‘I was worried I’d missed you and you were already set up at Sarandon Hall!’

  For the record, Holly thought, Harriet actually looked anything but worried; thoroughly pissed off might be a more accurate statement.

  ‘How on earth did you hear about my little visit there?’ Elsie said crossly, as she unearthed her Tiffany keyring from her handbag and let them all in.

  ‘Visit? You mean, you’re not moving into a home?’ Harriet persisted, by way of a greeting, as they all made their way inside.

  ‘How lovely to see you too, darling,’ said Elsie. ‘Do join me and Holly for a little lunch.’

  ‘Lunch with the staff?’ sniffed Harriet, peeling off a delicate cashmere wrap and discarding it on the table, as she glanced around at her mother’s possessions hungrily. ‘Really?’

  ‘Dr Holly Graham, do meet my daughter Harriet. Please excuse her manners, she’s just stepped off a long flight from California, but I’m sure she’ll remember herself momentarily.’ Elsie fixed her daughter with such a hard look that even the most insensitive of offspring would surely have registered her displeasure.

  It seemed to flow over Harriet’s bottle-blonde head like quicksilver. Her lips were plump with fillers and her forehead strangely immobile; indeed the only similarity to her mother was in the striking depth of colour in her eyes. She rummaged through her designer handbag and popped a couple of tablets without missing a beat. They looked suspiciously like melatonin and Holly bristled at the notion of such casual dosing.

  ‘Dr Graham? I presume you’re here to assess my mother’s mental competency? I gather she’s been frittering away the family possessions with little or no regard as to their true value, or indeed line of succession.’

  ‘Oh, do get over yourself, Harriet,’ Elsie chided her. ‘We’re not the Royal fucking Family. There is no “line of succession” and we’re hardly short of enough to go round. And by the way, Holly may be a doctor, but she’s also my best friend, so perhaps a slight adjustment in your approach is in order. This isn’t LA, darling. We’re in the Cotswolds, so take a breath, have a cup of tea and, for the love of God, stop popping random pharmaceuticals as though they’re Smarties.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Holly,’ Harriet said after a pause, in which mother and daughter seemed to hold eye contact in a duel for supremacy. Harriet turned and stared at Holly with such intensity that Holly actually felt a prickle at the back of her neck, the way she did in Pru Hartley’s house, where the ghost allegedly walked.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Holly easily, flicking on the kettle and delighting in Harriet’s displeasure that she was quite so familiar with her mother’s kitchen.

  ‘But I did get a call,’ Harriet said, like a dog with a bone, as Holly poured the tea. ‘The family solicitor – Arnold something? He specifically wanted me to know your plans. As your next of kin.’ She was whining now, as though she had been promised a treat, only to have it snatched out from under her very nose.

  ‘Ah, it seems t
he rustle of money can even cross the Atlantic. Useless man. He ought to know better by now.’ Elsie’s tight control of her voice only served to highlight just how very furious she was.

  Holly knew only too well the battles that Elsie had fought with her children over the years, maintaining that being born into a life of money and privilege had actually been the ruination of them. Her darling Ginger had died too young, living fast and loose. Otto, a boiled egg on legs, puffed up by his own self-importance, only featured in his mother’s life when he needed a handout, or to patronise her about how she was running her financial affairs. And then there was Harriet: poor, weak-willed, utterly spoiled Harriet. She was certainly no oil painting, yet the promise of wealth seemed to attract a carousel of unsuitable men, each break-up inevitably triggering another relapse into addiction.

  There was something shrewd and underhand about the way Harriet’s gaze skittered about the room though, that made Holly think of that Cash in the Attic programme that Elsie loved so much. At this point, she was mindful not only of Elsie’s blood pressure, but also her own. She was pretty sure that this was not what the doctor had ordered for either of them.

  As Holly prepared a simple salad and Elsie fought to keep her temper in check, it was obvious there was no love lost between mother and daughter and Holly couldn’t decide which was worse, leaving the two of them alone, or staying here as the gooseberry at the lunch table.

  Harriet wandered around the room, trailing a hand across the furniture as she did so. When she turned it was as though she had flicked a switch from angry and accusatory to sulky and flouncing. ‘I was worried, Mummy. You have no idea what it’s like to get a phone call on the other side of the world that your mother has been moved to a nursing home.’

  ‘Or that there might be a Georgian townhouse going begging?’ Elsie finished for her. ‘Am I not allowed to plan my estate the way I see fit, Harriet?’