Bad Heir Day

by Wendy Holden

  Anna managed a smile. Geri looked at her. “Come on. We’re wasting valuable man-meeting time. Once more into the breeches.”

  By now, miniature bacon sandwiches had given way to tiny vegetarian burgers, each with their Savannah and Siena skewer and a V-shaped blob of mustard on the side denoting their meat-free state. Anna again approached the Guardian editor and his wife.

  “J.J.—you know, the one who has a decoupage shop in Fulham—rang me yesterday,” Mrs. Gibbons was twittering. “Ooh, thank you. Look, darling, little veggie burgers…well, she’s just got back from running with the sheep. Ovine alignment therapy, it’s called.”

  Frank Gibbons, although heavily occupied stuffing in two burgers and balancing another two in his napkin, stared in astonishment at his wife. “Uuggghhh?”

  “Terribly good for you. You go to an Australian sheep ranch, live in a tent, and run with the baa-baas all day. Gets rid of all your city neuroses, apparently. Mmm, may I just have another one? So delicious.”

  “That,” said Gibbons decisively, “is a feature.” Placing his burgers down on a nearby construction of plastic and wood whose function was not immediately apparent, he fished out his mobile and started to stab the keys.

  “So I might stop having monkey gland injections in my bottom and try that,” Mrs. Gibbons was saying. “I’m not sure they did me much good anyway. But lots of people swear by them. Ooh, just one more then.”

  “Well, you swore by them when you came home,” Gibbons observed, pressing his mobile to his ear. “The air was blue until the pain wore off and you could sit down again…Hello? Editor here. Get me Features.”

  The Gibbonses having decimated her supplies, Anna returned to the kitchen. Geri was peering through a porthole in the connecting door to the children’s room. “Entertainer’s going down a storm,” she reported. “He’s getting them all to pretend to be animals.”

  “Pretend?” said Anna with feeling.

  “I always find it amazing how entertainers remember the children’s names,” Geri mused. “But then I suppose they’re called either Venetia, Jack, or something ending in ‘o’ so it’s not that difficult.” She turned back into the kitchen.

  “Puddings now,” she announced. “I’ll take the little tartes au citron and you take the miniature jam roly-polys. Don’t forget the thimbles of custard.”

  As they opened the door into the adult room, the sound of braying voices hit them like a wall.

  As Anna took a deep breath and prepared to plunge in, a soft voice beside her said, “Hello.”

  Anna turned. Someone with floppy dark hair and wide-apart eyes looked back at her. Dressed in a smart three-piece suit in Prince of Wales check, Jamie looked very different from his last appearance as the uncertain bearer of a tray full of dirty glasses.

  “Er…just going to the loo,” trilled Geri, over-obviously making herself scarce.

  Chapter Twelve

  Spreadeagled on the loo seat, Cassandra was feeling distinctly inebriated. She’d had a good four glasses to calm her nerves and had now retired to the bathroom to regroup her forces. After all, the two great challenges of the day were still to come—the meeting with Cherie Blair, still not here but expected, and that wretched Promises auction. It was imperative that things went well at both.

  Cassandra’s head swam. Champagne always had a devastating effect on delicate nervous systems like hers, particularly in the quantities she’d consumed it. She tried to focus on her surroundings, but immediately wished she hadn’t. Damn, thought Cassandra, looking about her with twisted and envious lips at the blanket-sized taupe towels, the vast greige granite bath, the recycled green glass cistern in which a number of tropical fish glided serenely around, and the tiny chrome pushbutton taps tucked away above the granite sink.

  It was all so bloody tasteful. It made her own attempts at minimalism look about as stylish and assured as those things they used to make on Blue Peter with sticky-back plastic and toilet rolls. Loo rolls, Cassandra corrected herself. But then, the Tressells’ converted Islington prison was universally acknowledged to be a modern masterpiece, even though some dissenting voices—Jett’s for one—had been contemptuous of its pointed eschewal of obvious luxury. “Still looks like the inside of Pentonville,” Jett had scoffed when Cassandra had shown him the feature on it in House and Garden. She had been so busy condemning him as a Philistine that it only occurred to her later to wonder how he knew.

  It was odd, but Cassandra could not wrest her thoughts away from Julian Tressell. She’d always found him handsome, but today…well, she’d initially had trouble identifying the unfamiliar feeling but she felt positively randy towards him. But architects were sexy, she thought. All that talk about pillars and erections…

  Standing up, she looked in the mirror that covered the whole of one wall. She looked stunning today. This skirt, well, she had wondered if it was a bit short, but no, how could it be—it showed almost the entire length of her still-excellent legs. No man could resist a really cracking pair of pins and Julian was a better judge of fine structures than most. Cassandra moved closer to the mirror, ran her tongue round her lips, and thrust her hips out. Her nipples pinged erect under the thin fabric of her top. Christ, she was a sexy beast.

  Cassandra lowered herself with difficulty onto the marble floor. You never knew, it might still work, and there were few better ways of relieving tension. Flipping off her knickers—not that there was enough of those to seriously get in the way—Cassandra slid a hand between her legs. Christ, it was like a swimming pool down there. Somewhere down here was that bit…ah, here it was. Cassandra began to rub slowly up and down, caressing her nipple with her free hand, running her tongue around her lips and thinking of Julian Tressell. Mmm.

  This was good. That sort of electric build-up feeling in her legs…She raised her pelvis and rubbed harder. Damn, lost it…ah, no, here it was again. “Mmmm. Mmmmm…oh, oh…” Cassandra gasped.

  “You OK?”

  Cassandra shot upright and stared wildly at the doorway. Peering round the blond wooden door was that bitch of a United Nations nanny.

  “Can I help at all?” said Geri, struggling to control her facial expression.

  “No thank you,” gasped Cassandra. “Period pains. You know,” she added hurriedly.

  As Geri withdrew and audibly exploded with mirth in the corridor, Cassandra lay on her back again. Well, it had worked, in a way. It had relieved her former worries. The thought of the Promises auction and the Prime Minister’s wife faded into insignificance beside the thought of Geri telling Julian she’d caught Cassandra wanking in his bathroom.

  ***

  “You look different,” Jamie said to Anna.

  “I’m thinner.” Wonderful to be able to say it as a mere statement of fact. But sad that there had been no joy in achieving it.

  “That’s it. Thinner. Suits you. Not that you didn’t look great before…”

  Seen in full daylight—or at least under Julian Tressell’s concept spotlights—Jamie, too, looked better. Suited and booted, he looked even handsomer than she remembered. Anna had lost no time in telling him she no longer had a boyfriend. Unfortunately, she had not left it at that, not left the door open for a pleasant, ego-boosting flirty conversation. Oh no. Instead, she had stupidly ploughed on through the events of recent weeks, told him all about Cassandra, all about Zak and Jett, and how miserable she was, becoming increasingly aware as she did so that none of it reflected particularly well on her judgement and intelligence. He probably thinks I’m more stupid than even I think I am, she reflected miserably, drawing the sorry tale to a close.

  Jamie looked at her speculatively. He did not speak.

  “Anyway, enough of me,” Anna said hurriedly, plastering a vast smile over the exposed cracks in her life. “How’s the wonderful world of waiting?”

  Jamie’s composure dramatically slipped at this. “Sorry? W
aiting? Waiting for what?” His eyes, most unexpectedly, appeared to narrow in suspicion.

  “When I met you,” Anna persisted, puzzled, “you were a waiter at the wedding.”

  An unmistakable expression of relief crossed Jamie’s face. “Oh, er, um, yes, well, actually, I’m not a waiter.”

  “You’re not?” This at least explained why he had been so bad at it. “You’re a student then? Holiday job?” He looked too old for that, though.

  “No, I live at the castle, you see. It belongs to my, er, family.”

  “Oh.” Anna felt her mind ripple with the effort of reassessment. That explained the signet ring still gleaming—she shot it a look—on his finger. He actually lived in the castle. Probably owned the island. How wonderful. “So you’re a laird?” How romantic. “Skul is so pretty.” As Jamie’s expression changed from faint gratification to utter astonishment Anna panicked that she had said the wrong thing.

  “Pretty? Do you think so?” he demanded, amazement still tingeing his tone. He smiled incredulously. Anna nodded, relieved. For she had thought so. In the few snatched seconds she had been allowed to take her eyes off the map book, she had admired from the car window great misty sweeps of grass and heather. Pewter lochs, air as cold and clear as water, Seb cursing that the signposts in Gaelic read like a monkey let loose on a typewriter. “Bloody stupid language. Like the worst possible letters in Scrabble.”

  Jamie shook his head so his hair flopped once again into his eyes. Needs someone to cut that for him, Anna thought, longing to reach up a hand to push the errant lock aside. His smile was dazzling now. Good teeth.

  “And did you like the castle?”

  “Loved it,” Anna said, thinking of the view of the moon from the oriel window. Did Jamie remember? she wondered, blushing. Suddenly, she asked him, “So how come you were handing out the drinks?”

  “Well, Dampie gets rented out for weddings sometimes, and I was just helping.”

  “How wonderful to actually live there.”

  “Bit damp sometimes.”

  “But I’m sure that doesn’t matter, does it?” For how could living in a castle not be wonderful? “It must be so romantic.” As she said this, Geri came past and gave her a huge, encouraging wink.

  “Actually, I do rather like it myself, but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Some people find it a bit too remote.”

  “Do they?” Anna could see their point, but chose not to say so. Such a shame he was stuck up there in the middle of the Atlantic. That ruled out any taking up where they had left off after the wedding. Although, come to think of it, they had left off almost immediately.

  She looked at him again and lowered her eyes. There was silence. Anna was aware, from the other side of the room, of Geri shooting her a concerned gaze. She was also aware of the tray of untouched miniature jam roly-polys in her hands. People were looking meaningfully at her, obviously wanting her wares. Time was running out. If she didn’t say something—anything—soon, he could just turn on his shining leather heel and leave, having had no more than a pleasant/meaningless exchange with someone once met at a wedding. Anna cudgelled her brains for a topic. Something to catch his imagination. Something original. “Er, um,” she finally said, as inspiration struck. “How do you know the Tressells?”

  “Met Kate ages ago when she did some report about Scottish nobility for Harpers & Queen. And now I’m Siena’s godfather.”

  Siena had, Anna concluded, more godfathers than the whole of Southern Italy.

  “And your firm,” Jamie was saying. “Do you often get asked to cater…?”

  “Oh, I’m not a waitress. I’m a writer. But frankly,” Anna sighed as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cassandra picking her way down the spiral metal staircase, “my writing’s been more trouble than it’s worth. And that’s the reason why.” She pointed out her employer to Jamie. “My boss.”

  Jamie looked hard at Cassandra. “Christ.”

  Anna suddenly noticed Julian Tressell heading towards them. He whirled up and seized Jamie’s Prince of Wales checked wrist. “Cherie’s refused to do the Promises auction; says it’s her day off,” he sighed theatrically. “So Kate and I were wondering whether, as our resident squire, you’d get us out of jail…”

  “See you later,” Jamie whispered, as he was led away.

  Anna hoped so. As she nodded eagerly, every nerve in her body thrilled.

  ***

  Every nerve in Cassandra’s body jangled. Not because of the recent events in the bathroom—by the look of it, that wretched Geri had kept her trap shut and the story had got no further.

  But the auction was now about to begin. Just let Fenella Greatorex dare bid for the dinner. Cassandra shot her a vicious look from where she huddled on the floor cross-legged. Cross everything, in fact. Chairs, it seemed, were banned throughout the house.

  “An enemy to good posture, apparently,” someone behind Cassandra whispered. “Julian and Kate eat dinner by candlelight on leather cushions on the floor.”

  “That sounds like an enemy to good digestion to me,” replied her companion. “Oh look, the auction’s starting.”

  Anna watched, impressed, as Jamie immediately got into the swing of the auction. He had a natural authority—she supposed it went with the territory; aristocrats, after all, spent half their lives in salerooms, buying or selling according to how their luck was going. There was even a wicked gleam in Jamie’s eye; like a naughty little boy, Anna thought fondly, until she remembered Zak. Still, at least he was next door for the moment. Pretending to be an animal.

  Bidding for the health club, newspaper subscription, and an organic food box delivery service which had mysteriously appeared from somewhere swiftly dispensed with, it didn’t take long for the moment Cassandra dreaded.

  “Dinner party for eight at the home of, um, Sandra Knight.” Jamie peered at the card in his hand, then brandished the Philippe Starck toffee hammer that stood in for a gavel.

  “Cassandra,” yelled Cassandra furiously.

  “The bidding starts at fifty pounds,” announced Jamie.

  Cassandra bristled. Fifty pounds? It had better raise more than that. She’d be a laughing stock.

  “Do I hear a hundred pounds?” said Jamie in his soft Scottish voice, cupping a hand to his ear. “Wonderful menu. Foie gras to start with, partnered with the most wonderful old Sauternes, then noisettes of Highgrove lamb, served with a Chateau Margaux nineteen fifty-nine.

  There was a stirring of interest. Hands sprouted in the air. Cassandra goggled. Sauternes…Margaux…what was this ridiculous man talking about? It would cost a fortune. She hadn’t been thinking beyond boeuf bourguignon and supermarket plonk. “Er,” she called, raising her hand.

  “No, sorry,” Jamie said, all charming Caledonian firmness. “You can’t bid for your own promise. Dessert is, um, yes, of course, champagne sorbet followed by tarte au citron especially flown in from Fauchon. Do I hear a hundred pounds? The lady over there.”

  Fenella Greatorex. Cassandra’s spine froze. This was worse than the worst nightmare. She looked desperately at Cherie Blair. Entertaining the Prime Minister would put an entirely different complexion on things; one might well run to the Margaux then. Something chateau-bottled, at least. But Cherie Blair’s hand remained resolutely on the shoulders of her son Nicky. Her large brown eyes swivelled round the room in amusement.

  “One hundred and fifty pounds. To the gentleman in the grey suit.”

  Orlando Gossett, Anna saw with dismay. For once she was with Cassandra in wanting the bidding to get higher.

  “At this point,” Jamie said, grinning, “I’m going to depart from convention and put a bid in myself. Three hundred pounds.”

  There was a surprised murmur, then silence. “Sold to the Scotsman,” smiled Jamie as Kate rushed up and shoved a note in his fist. “Now, um, I hold in my hand a piece of paper say
ing the disco’s started. Ladies and gentlemen, everyone into the next room and join the children for the disco.” As the room scrambled to its feet, Anna glimpsed Cassandra sitting, stunned, in the middle of the floor. Then she saw Jamie coming towards her, looking very pleased with himself.

  “What on earth did you do that for? You know who’ll have to cook it all, don’t you? Moi.”

  Jamie looked astonished. “You surely don’t think I’m going to take her up on it, do you? Go to her wretched house and have dinner? Not to mention waste three hundred pounds.”

  “Yes, why bother,” said Anna, grinning with relief. “You’d have to be a masochist, not to mention stinking rich.”

  “You’ve seen Dampie,” Jamie said. “Does it look stinking rich? Stinking, certainly, particularly when the tide is out and the sun heats up the rotting seaweed…um…but it’s absolutely beautiful, of course. Wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

  Anna smiled. The disco could now be heard thumping away in the room previously occupied by the forms, trestle tables, and pizzas with faces on them. Jamie placed a hand on her bare arm, the shock of his touch shuddering all over her body. He put his mouth close to her ear. “Did it for you. Call it bribery if you like. Now, I have to go, but perhaps I could take you out to dinner later? What’s your address?”

  Hoping desperately that he meant it, Anna scribbled Liv’s location down in a tiny leather-backed notebook Jamie produced from the inside of his jacket. “Pick you up at seven thirty. But not a word to her about the dinner party. Let her sweat a bit.”

  ***

  “You see. You see.” As Anna entered the disco, someone shot to her side and nudged her hard. It was Geri, looking smugger than Mrs. Bennet at the wedding of Elizabeth and Darcy. “Told you you’d score with someone. Very nice, I must say. Actually, I’m rather jealous.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be jealous of,” Anna told her. “He’s only asked me out for dinner.”