Honeymoon Suite

by Wendy Holden

  Angela, with her nose for intrigue, sensed she had hit on something. Something, by the look on Nell Simpson’s face, that she didn’t want her friend to know about. Bingo!

  ‘Ooh yes,’ Angela cackled. ‘The lovely Adam! She hasn’t told you about him? And his kiss of life!’

  ‘Layzangennelmen . . .’ The bell was ringing. Only the four of them stood outside the auditorium now.

  ‘Who does he think is the gentleman?’ Juno hissed.

  As they were ushered hurriedly to their seats, and Angela sashayed off into the gloom, Rachel nudged Nell. ‘Adam Greenleaf?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Nell muttered.

  ‘You’ve gone bright red,’ Juno said loudly. ‘I can even see it in the dark.’

  Murderous Death was finally over. The last bow had been hogged by Candice Floss and Caradoc was free to go. Home, to Juliet at Birch Hall. His taxi would be waiting outside, even now.

  Perhaps it was disappointing that she hadn’t been to his last night. But the play was hardly one to increase his stature in her eyes; a stature which, as it was, needed all the help it could get. But he made up for it in other ways, as she was about to find out.

  He would possess her at last!

  So excited was Caradoc that his clothes slipped in his hands as he changed and he kept dropping things. But at last he was packed and ready to go home. His last act was to grind the Pierrot moustache very hard into the gritty dressing-room floor.

  Gripping the handle of his rolling suitcase, he paused at the door and took one unregretful last look around. Then he strode out in his built-up heels and made his way down the murky corridor to the front of house.

  The bar, to his surprise, was empty. The hideous pattern of the uninhabited carpet blared up at him. The rest of the cast, the barlady informed him, had already departed in the minibus.

  ‘But they’ve left you these, love.’ The barlady, whose badge read ‘Ivy’, handed over a wrapped rectangular box with a ribbon round it. A label dangled from it: To Caradoc, from your fellow Backstabbers. Let’s stay in touch, it’s been a pleasure.

  ‘Aw,’ said Ivy, craning her neck to read. ‘That’s nice of ’em.’

  Caradoc remembered the old theatrical adage. ‘When you say let’s stay in touch and it’s been a pleasure, chances are that you won’t and it wasn’t.’

  ‘Go on,’ Ivy urged. ‘Open it.’

  Caradoc peeled off the paper. It was a box of chocolates: a black and pink box tied with black grosgrain ribbon.

  ‘Ooh,’ said Ivy longingly.

  Reluctantly, Caradoc opened the box and offered her one. It took some time for Ivy to read each description on the lid before making her selection. ‘I’m going for this one!’ she exclaimed. ‘Salted Caramel Surprise. A tongue-tingling tangle of toffee and smoked Himalayan salt enrobed in rich chocolate made with organic Welsh milk!’

  ‘Delicious,’ said Caradoc, thinking impatiently of the taxi outside.

  Ivy, meanwhile, had alighted on another option. ‘Ooh, hang on. Maybe I’ll have Eton Mess Sundae! A decadent explosion of meringue-studded raspberry ripple chocolate filled with raspberry ganache!’ As she looked up at him, eyes shining, Caradoc reflected that this was probably the only genuinely pleasurable moment to occur in the theatre all night.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ Ivy murmured, eyes swivelling between Eton Mess and Salted Caramel. ‘There’s someone waiting for you outside.’

  ‘The taxi,’ Caradoc said.

  ‘No, love. It’s a woman. She were at the stage door but I sent her round the front.’

  ‘What?’

  His wife! Caradoc’s heart lifted; more than that, it soared. Juliet had done better than come to see him in the play, she had actually come to meet him at the stage door! Could there be any clearer sign that this was the beginning of a whole new phase in their marriage? Now, tonight, at last . . .

  A great rush of lust surged through him. His own Juliet! Pure and unsullied, whatever that bastard Leather had insinuated in Peterborough. And had insinuated again, last night, in Tunbridge Wells.

  Of course Juliet had not been unfaithful. She would never dream of such a thing. Which was just as well, Caradoc thought, now swirling with violent desire, as he really would not hesitate to kill anyone who usurped his bed. The bed from which he had been kept for so long but which, tonight, like a returning hero, he would triumphantly conquer.

  ‘I think I’ll go for the Salted Caramel,’ Ivy said, her digits poised to dive.

  But it was too late; Caradoc had shoved the lid back on the chocolates, grabbed his suitcase and rushed out.

  A woman was there, sure enough, but despite the lamplit gloom he could see immediately that it wasn’t Juliet with her long hair and tight yet floaty clothes. This woman wore clumsy high heels and a tarty dress. Her hair stuck out in all directions.

  Caradoc was confused. A fan? She didn’t look like one. Most stage-door Johnnies had six fingers and tea-cosy hats. He fumbled for his pen. ‘Shall I sign your programme?’

  ‘You can if you like,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘But I’ve come here to give you some information. It’s about your wife.’

  ‘My wife?’ Caradoc gasped, thinking immediately of the garden full of poison. ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Dan Parker,’ was the grim response.

  Later that night, glass of wine in hand, before the fireplace of Beggar’s Roost, Nell described her various encounters with Adam Greenleaf. She had hoped to feel relief in the unburdening, but Rachel’s face was giving nothing away.

  Rachel spoke only after Nell had finished. ‘Gotta hand it to you,’ she remarked. ‘You do like a drama. First Joey, and now this.’

  ‘There’s no resemblance,’ Nell replied sharply, stung by the suggestion. ‘I’m not involved with Adam, for a start.’

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘He’s just a bloke who works round here. Who I’ve met before.’

  ‘Yes. In pubs in peculiar circumstances.’

  Nell stared into the flames, blushing. Rachel had asked some very probing questions, especially about the scene in Paddington. ‘Why didn’t you say anything about that before?’ she asked accusingly.

  ‘Because I thought it made me look stupid,’ Nell admitted.

  Rachel, diplomatically, did not reply to this. ‘It all sounds very complicated,’ she concluded. ‘But I have to say this Adam Greenleaf sounds slightly, well . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘The first time you see him inside a pub he pretends to be someone else. The second time you see him outside a pub you row with him. Then he turns up in an old man’s garden out of the blue . . .’

  ‘Saving his life,’ Nell felt compelled to point out.

  ‘I think you should keep away from him,’ Rachel said sternly.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to do anything else,’ Nell said indignantly. ‘He did save George’s life, though,’ she couldn’t resist repeating.

  Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Granted. And that was great, obviously. Amazing, admirable, heroic.’ She paused. ‘But that doesn’t make him sound any less dubious. I’d definitely give him a wide berth if I were you.’

  CHAPTER 45

  ‘Feeling bloody awful, mate,’ Dan groaned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Dylan yawned into the mobile. It was early Monday morning and he wasn’t quite conscious.

  ‘’Orrible stomach ache.’ Dan took a rasping, painful breath before continuing, as if with his last effort. ‘Don’t think I’m going to make it today, mate.’

  When Dylan arrived at Kenilworth Lodge alone, Mrs Palethorpe was unimpressed to hear about Dan’s malady. ‘Well, he had better recover soon,’ she said curtly. ‘There’s a great deal to do in this garden a
nd I can’t have people letting me down.’ She handed over the inevitable list and strode off, the sharp pleats of her skirt slicing the air.

  The list, Dylan saw, was even longer than the previous week’s. But as most of it was weeding, that suited him. The repetitive task freed up the mind. He could think about Nell, as much as he wanted.

  And he hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t help it. Dan’s words kept coming back to him. She’s bloody gorgeous. Come on. You can’t fool me. I saw her give you that look, and I saw you give ’er a look back an’ all.

  He should keep out of her way, even so. It wasn’t as if their encounters so far had been particularly straightforward. And he’d vowed never to get involved with women again.

  I’d definitely give him a wide berth . . . Rachel and Juno had left on the Sunday afternoon, but her friend’s warnings were still ringing in Nell’s ears when she arrived at Weddings on Monday.

  She resolved to throw herself into her work and forget about Adam Greenleaf. There was plenty else to occupy her anyway. Julie wanted to know all about the weekend at Beggar’s Roost, the furniture that had been bought, Nell’s plans for the garden. It was touching to see, as Nell heaped praise on her husband, Julie’s proud blushes. Good, solid men like Tim were a much better bet than mysterious gardeners.

  ‘Right,’ Julie said eventually, putting down her ‘Bridezilla’ coffee mug. ‘To work. And the first thing you need to know about the weddings department on Monday is that it means a full inbox. Brides spend the weekend talking to people, looking online, going to other weddings, even. They’ve usually got a few, um, thoughts. Come and see.’

  Nell went round to the back of Julie’s chair. As she had predicted, her inbox was black with unopened mail. There were ten from Carly, fifteen from Hannah and twenty-one from Will.

  As Julie began to open them. Nell read them over her shoulder. ‘They’ve all completely changed their minds! I can’t believe it. They all seemed so sure.’

  ‘They always do,’ Julie said wearily. ‘The sure ones are the worst, in fact. What I’ve learned in this job is that there’s nothing sure about a wedding until it’s over.’

  ‘You’re not joking,’ Nell said, with an emphasis she rather regretted. Fortunately, Julie was too deep in the emails to notice.

  Nell read on. Josh and Hannah’s festival-themed wedding was now nudging into pagan territory. Hannah was wondering about a shaman and a tarot reader.

  ‘They want a cake to throw over Hannah’s head,’ Julie mused, several emails further down. ‘It’s all about fertility, apparently. Pagans used to throw or crumble the cake over the bride.’

  ‘Messy. Imagine all those crumbs down your front.’

  Julie was reading on. ‘It’s got to be flat and round. And have fruit and nuts in it.’

  ‘Sounds as if a packet of biscuits would do. How do you cope with this? It’s madness.’

  Julie looked up, grinning. ‘The secret of this job is to get round things. It gets a lot worse than this. Oooh . . . speak of the devil. New email from Carly!’

  Nell had gone back to her desk now. She watched Julie’s face change from apprehension to amazement as she read the communication. ‘You’re not going to believe this . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They want a period dance instructor. I thought I’d heard it all, but . . .’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone who can teach them to waltz, polka, whatever. Carly mentions the mazurka.’

  ‘They’re planning a ball now?’

  ‘Yup. A Pride and Prejudice candlelit ball. And get this, they want it in the house.’

  ‘In Pemberton?’

  Julie nodded. ‘To get the full Pemberley effect, they say.’

  ‘Surely that’s not possible. What about the fire risk? And all the antiques?’

  Julie smiled at her. Her unending cheeriness was amazing, Nell thought. ‘At Pemberton, anything’s possible. Although this is a bit left field, I’ll give you that. We’ll have to see what His Lordship has to say.’

  At lunchtime they went down to the stable-yard café for chicken, basil and avocado salad. The food was delicious and staff discounts, Nell had discovered, were generous.

  ‘Oh look,’ she said, spotting a familiar figure in the distance. ‘We can ask him about Carly’s candles right now.’

  The Earl was earnestly engaging a pair of old ladies over a cup of tea. Spotting Nell and Julie, he hurried towards them.

  ‘Ladies over there have just been telling me there’s too much jam in the Victoria sponge. And not enough raisins in the scones.’ The Earl shook his head before looking impishly at Julie. ‘Bridezillas behaving themselves?’

  Julie grinned. ‘Much the same.’

  ‘Still changing their minds all the time?’

  As Julie explained the latest Pride and Prejudice development, Nell watched the Earl’s face, anticipating horror as he contemplated blazing candles among his treasures. He looked, instead, thoughtful.

  ‘House is licensed for weddings, of course. Not sure about naked flames, though. Housekeeper might have something to say, all that wax dropping on her floors.’

  Julie was nodding in agreement.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said the Earl, ‘houses like Pemberton are meant to be used. They were built for parties, for big events.’ He paused. ‘How much did you say they were prepared to pay?’

  Julie named the sum. ‘Hmm. Not bad. Could get two whole paintings restored for that.’ He stood up. ‘Leave it with me, ladies.’ He smiled again, raised his hand and walked off.

  CHAPTER 46

  When Dan was no better on the Tuesday morning, Dylan knew it must be serious. Tuesday was Birch Hall and Mrs Turner. Yet it was obvious from his voice that Dan could hardly stand up, let alone perform to the level that Dylan had overheard.

  ‘Shouldn’t you go and see a doctor?’ he suggested.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ came the choked and agonised reply. ‘I’ll be reight enough.’

  ‘You sound awful, though.’ It seemed to Dylan that his boss was being ludicrously stoical. He pictured him, alone in the scruffy house on the bleak estate.

  ‘I’ll be reight,’ Dan repeated.

  ‘You must have eaten something.’

  ‘Nowt out o’ t’ordinary.’

  The ordinary was quite bad enough. From what Dylan could gather, Dan lived on a diet of fish and chips alternated with pizza and kebabs.

  ‘OK,’ Dylan said resignedly. ‘I’ll go to Birch Hall on my own.’

  He thought gloomily of the dark and knotty grounds.

  ‘What?’ Dan was saying something. Dylan pressed his ear closer to the phone.

  ‘They don’t want us there any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mr Turner. Says he’s going to. Do it from now on,’ Dan could only managed a few words at a time.

  ‘Mr Turner?’ The actor husband, Dylan recalled. The peripatetic star of touring murder mystery productions. ‘He’s back home then?’

  Dan gave an affirmitive grunt.

  ‘And he’s going to do all the gardening?’

  Dan grunted again.

  It made no sense to Dylan. Why would Turner – why would anyone – want to take on that Forth Bridge of a garden all by himself? It was too much work for two people, let alone one. Dylan pictured the thespian squire of Birch Hall as a small man in spats with a Poirot moustache gingerly approaching the rhododendrons with a hacksaw.

  But why? It could hardly be expense; Birch Hall, like Mrs Palethorpe, paid the minimum wage. There must be something else.

  And of course, potentially, there was. If Mr Turner had found out about Dan and his wife, he would obviously be furious and wouldn’t hesitate to sack him. So, had he found out. Did he know?

  �
�Came to tell me in person, he did, Mr Turner,’ Dan croaked. ‘Very nice about it, he was.’

  ‘He came to your house?’ Dylan now abandoned the angry cuckold theory. While it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that the deceived Turner might have confronted Dan, it really wasn’t likely that he would have been nice about it.

  ‘Very friendly, ’e were. Thanked me and gave me some chocolates. Said it were for everything I’d done. Oooohhh,’ Dan groaned, as if the effort of talking had doubled his agony.

  The sound was so awful that Dylan decided firm action was necessary. ‘I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.’

  He slammed out of Bess’s Tower and leapt into the hatchback. As he tore down the track between the trees he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Dan had probably just had a dodgy kebab. But as the ghastly groaning echoed in his mind, Dylan put his foot down.

  He drove like the wind to Dan’s house, playing fast and loose with the speed cameras. He roared through the ramshackle estate, narrowly avoiding a paper boy simultaneously smoking, consulting his mobile and staggering under a bag of tabloids.

  Dylan drew up with a screech of brakes and leapt out of the car almost before he had turned the engine off. Dan’s smashed gate slammed back against the wrecked fence as he shoved it open and sped up the broken path. Urgently, he thumped on the dirty front door with its boarded-up window.

  Dan took some minutes to shuffle to the door, but it took only one look for all Dylan’s fears to be realised. His employer’s eyes burned feverishly in his face and his huge jaw had a sickly yellow tinge. He hung over his feet, rocking slightly as if he might collapse at any moment.

  Glancing down the hall, Dylan could see a shabby sitting room containing a battered sofa.

  He helped Dan out to the car. The usual boys were roistering past, smoking, shoving each other and swearing.

  ‘Awright, Shagger?’ one of them called.

  ‘Shag-ger, Shag-ger!’ chanted the others.

  Dylan was touched to see that even in extremis Dan was capable of an appreciative, if weak, thumbs-up.