I could hear the sound of children squealing and laughing in the background. Good. At least they sounded happy and not traumatized by their current family saga.
‘Oh, there is one thing.’ I frowned. ‘Zara’s wedding! I don’t know where to start; I’ve never organized a wedding before.’
‘Piece of cake,’ Pippa assured me. ‘Lady Fortescue and Zara have everything in hand, even though Zara lives in Bath.’
‘Thank heavens for that!’ I breathed a sigh of relief; I’d spent an hour researching wedding checklists this afternoon. ‘I thought—’
‘Arrghh!’ she shrieked suddenly, startling me. ‘Matilda, come down from that tree! Freddy, go and rescue your sister please. Thank you. No, no, don’t pull her by her ankle! Wait a minute, Holly.’
I chuckled to myself and waited while Pippa sorted out her offspring.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said breathlessly, returning to the phone a few moments later. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes, remember, our role is to manage public events. The wedding is private. However, we will both be expected to work on the day of the wedding and ensure that no paparazzi gain unauthorized entrance; they can be tricky so-and-sos, believe me. Now, do you know about tomorrow’s meeting?’
We finished the call a couple of minutes later after she’d passed on a few instructions for the following day and I went in search of my diary to add the date of Zara’s wedding to Monsieur Philippe Valois and underline it in red pen. A posh wedding! I could hardly wait to tell Esme. What would Zara’s dress be like? I wondered. And how on earth was one supposed to handle paparazzi?
Esme was sitting on the floor of Joop, legs crossed, bent down over a heap of taffeta when I tapped on the shop window later that evening.
She and her mum had won several awards for shop design over the years. Clothes were displayed in French armoires with the doors removed, opulent chandeliers made the space sparkle and each spacious fitting room was papered with a different vibrant wallpaper. It looked luxurious; only a select few of us knew that the lights were from a DIY store, the wallpaper was from the remnant bin and the wardrobes were courtesy of a closing-down auction at a local hotel.
‘Holster!’ Esme yelled, flinging the fabric aside and leaping to her feet as I entered. ‘Look at you in your personally selected Joop dress! How did you get on? Did you wow her with your extreme diary-keeping?’
I gave her a hug and laughed.
‘My boss wasn’t there, but I get the impression that she’s not as dogged as I am when it comes to paperwork. Anyway, I loved it. There’s such an aura about the place. Oh, and the Long Gallery . . .’ I sighed wistfully. ‘Close your eyes and you can imagine the Fortescues’ ancestors all going about their lives. It must be lovely for the current Fortescues to have such strong ties to their family.’
Esme’s eyes held mine. She was the only person who I shared everything with, the only one who knew I felt adrift sometimes with no one except Mum to anchor me to my place in the world.
‘I’m glad for you.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘I was beginning to worry about you, cooped up in that cottage all the time. I even thought of offering you a job here, but . . .’ Her voice tailed off and she bent to gather the fabric, scissors and pin tin from the floor.
‘But what?’ I prompted, following her to the tiny room at the back of the shop. ‘Es, what’s up?’
I leaned against the doorframe and watched while she packed up for the day. As well as being Joop’s stock room, the tiny space doubled up as the workroom and every iota of surface was filled with pieces of fabric, boxes of buttons, reels of ribbon and Bryony’s sewing machine and sewing box.
‘Oh, probably nothing,’ she said, giving me a lopsided grin. ‘But the bank wants to see us about our overdraft and, er . . . Mum’s not well. She’s getting all sorts of aches and pains. She blames it on her age, but I’m not so sure. What if she’s taking after Gran?’
My heart sank. Bryony had mentioned on Saturday that her fingers ached and given that Esme’s grandmother was wheelchair-bound with rheumatoid arthritis, it was understandable that Esme was concerned.
I stepped into the stock room and gave her a hug. ‘Poor Bryony, I didn’t realize. Is that why you shortened my hem on Saturday?’
She nodded. ‘Mum finds alterations too painful at the moment. It’s not my favourite part of the job but it’s money we can’t afford to lose.’
‘Esme, I am sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help, say the word.’
‘In that case,’ my best friend waggled her eyebrows at me, ‘the word is ice cream. Come on, I’ve got a parcel to pick up from the post office in Henley first and then you can treat me to a double scoop of coconut.’
Half an hour later, Esme had collected a floppy brown-paper parcel and the two of us were sauntering back towards her car clutching our rapidly melting ice creams. I glanced at her; she looked like an exotic flower walking down Henley High Street in her tangerine summer dress, her light brown skin glistening in the afternoon sun and her corkscrew curls lifting gently in the breeze. There was the merest hint of sadness in her eyes, though, and I knew she was more worried about her mum and the shop than she cared to admit.
‘So, your birthday,’ I said, determined to cheer her up. ‘Not long now. Have you had any ideas yet?’
I twirled my raspberry ripple as I licked it to keep it nice and round and looked at her out of the corner of my eye.
‘Urgh, can’t we just ignore it?’ she moaned through a mouthful of coconut ice cream. She was biting huge chunks off hers and was nearly at the cone.
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘It’s your thirtieth. I know, why don’t I organize tickets to that new Salsa club in Stratford? We might meet some snake-hipped Latinos to sweep us off our feet. Come on, Es, we need to plan something.’
We reached her tiny vintage racing-green sports car and I took the parcel from her while she juggled with her ice cream and handbag to retrieve the keys.
We climbed in, the old cream leather seats creaking underneath us, and I reached across and dropped the parcel in her lap.
‘You and your plans,’ laughed Esme. She popped the end of her ice cream cone into her mouth and wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘I’m more of a moment-to-moment kind of girl, much more exciting.’
Hmm, I thought to myself, hiding a smile behind my ice cream, that was why she always ran out of money before pay day and had to come to me for a loan.
‘Stop trying to wriggle out of it, Esme Wilde. We’re celebrating whether you like it or not.’
She rolled her eyes and stuck the key in the ignition. ‘I’ll think about it, OK? Now wait till you see what’s in here.’
She unpicked the sticky tape on the brown paper to reveal a piece of folded ivory lace.
‘Look at that,’ she breathed, stroking a potentially sticky finger over the scalloped edge. ‘Have you ever seen anything so delicate?’
I giggled at the expression of ecstasy on her face. ‘More fabric, Es! What’s your mum going to say?’
‘Fabric!’ exclaimed Esme indignantly. ‘This is five metres of handmade vintage lace. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I couldn’t resist it. Now, do you fancy going for a drink?’
‘I would,’ I said, ‘but I’m meeting Lord and Lady Fortescue tomorrow for the first time and I need to present my plan for next year’s calendar.’
‘And what is your plan?’
I pressed my lips together with a secretive smile. ‘I’m still cogitating but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be brilliant.’
The next morning, I reported to Mrs Beckwith at ten o’clock for the meeting Pippa had briefed me about.
‘Go through, Holly,’ she said and smiled, eyeing my navy shift dress with what I hoped was approval. ‘Her Ladyship will join you shortly.’
I paused at the door to Lord Fortescue’s private office; I hadn’t been in this room yet. It was big and square and overlooked the Fortescues’ personal garden. French leaded doors stood open, f
looding the room with sunshine. Seated together at an oval, polished-wood table were Nikki and Andy. A frowning Lord Fortescue was sitting at a large ornate desk under the window. He was on the phone and seemed to be saying nothing other than ‘Yah, yah,’ and ‘Beg pardon?’ His desk, I noticed, was clear except for the phone and his elbows.
Nikki tapped the back of the empty chair next to her and I sat down.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so glad to see a friendly face.’
I studiously avoided looking at Andy as I spoke. ‘What are you here for?’
‘Wedding flowers.’ Nikki winked at me. ‘I have to give a weekly progress report on every bloom destined for Zara’s bouquet.’
She was wearing shorts again today and a multi-pocketed khaki gilet that wouldn’t have been out of place in the jungle. She reached into one of the pockets.
‘Here, I’ve saved you a blue poppy.’ She grinned, handing over the flimsy collection of petals. ‘You can press it and have it as a keepsake of your first day at Wickham.’
‘How sweet! That is so kind of you.’ I beamed at her, slipping the flower between the pages of my diary. I turned my attention to Andy, who had been inspecting his nails pointedly ever since I entered the room.
Best get this over with.
‘Andy?’ I leaned across Nikki and extended a hand of friendship. ‘Sorry to miss you yesterday, but Edith did a great job of showing me round your amazing gift shop. I absolutely love the Wickham Hall range of fragrance products.’
Andy raised his eyebrows and returned my handshake limply. ‘Glad you appreciate my efforts. I source them myself from a local craftsman.’
Edith had told me that Lady Fortescue did all the buying, but I nodded enthusiastically, ignoring what could have been a snort from Nikki.
‘You’ve definitely got an eye for quality,’ I said. ‘And what are you here for?’
‘Finalizing the Christmas decorations for the hall, the most important season at Wickham Hall,’ he said in hallowed tones.
‘In June?’ I exclaimed, wrinkling my nose.
‘Of course in June; we start planning in January.’ He tutted. ‘What do they want to see you for?’
‘The Wickham Hall calendar,’ I said, permitting myself a little smile.
I’d spent an hour developing some ideas last night and, though I said so myself, I’d come up with a corker. One that I hoped all my new colleagues would approve of.
Andy leaned forward and fixed me with a pair of piercing pale blue eyes. ‘I hope you’re going to put the gift shop on the cover,’ he said in a low voice.
Nikki raised her eyebrows. ‘Excuse me.’
‘For God’s sake, Nikki, we are the most profitable part of the business,’ he muttered, holding his hands out. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’
‘Huh!’ She elbowed him in the ribs. ‘I beg to differ.’
Andy sat back, quite possibly forced back under the weight of Nikki’s hard stare. ‘Profit on a cup of tea? Fifty pence. Profit on a mohair throw? Um,’ his eyes shifted side to side, ‘massive.’
‘It’s not all about profit,’ Nikki whispered, turning to me. ‘The gardens at Wickham are as much a part of its heritage as the hall itself. You can’t put a price on that.’
‘I agree,’ I said diplomatically. ‘All areas of the hall are equally precious, which is why none of them will be on the cover.’
Andy blinked at me in disgust and Nikki made a huffing noise.
I was saved any further examination as Lord Fortescue finished his phone call and strode towards me, hands outstretched.
‘And you must be our newest recruit, er . . .?’
‘Holly Swift,’ I answered for him, standing up as he pumped my hand enthusiastically.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said, nodding. ‘Righty-o, let’s get started.’ Lord Fortescue clapped his hands together. ‘Any sign of Beatrice, Sheila?’ he bellowed.
Just then Lady Fortescue glided into the room, a picture of elegance in a silk shirt, fitted trousers and spiky heels. Her dark hair was swept up into a smooth chignon and her brown eyes darted round the room until they stopped at me. I smiled politely as she arranged herself at the head of the table.
‘Good grief, Hugo!’ She tutted affectionately. ‘I’m not sure our future son-in-law’s family quite heard you in Bordeaux, would you like to shout a bit louder?’
‘What?’ He blinked at his wife and sat down next to her.
‘Lord Fortescue is a bit hard of hearing,’ she explained, her lips twitching with a smile, ‘although he denies it most vigorously, of course.’
‘I heard that,’ he harrumphed.
‘Good, then let’s get started. You must be Pippa’s new assistant,’ she said, extending a hand.
She had long slim fingers and the biggest rock on her finger that I’d ever seen.
‘That’s right, I’m Holly Swift, I’m—’
‘You’re going to tell us about the calendar,’ she finished for me, checking her watch. ‘Thoughts?’
Here goes . . .
I cleared my throat and turned to the notes I’d made last night.
‘Hidden treasures,’ I said mysteriously. ‘That’s the theme for this year’s calendar.’
‘Huh?’ grunted Andy.
Lady Fortescue regarded me with interest. ‘Go on.’
I took a deep breath and told them that yesterday, on my first day, what had stood out to me was that there were so many hidden treasures at Wickham Hall, from the flowers in the garden – I paused to smile at Nikki – to the treasure trove of beautiful things in the gift shop – I nodded at Andy – through to the gold leaf used in the Elizabethan recipes from the kitchen. As a marketing theme, that idea could run and run: treasured memories, treasure hunts, maybe a treasure chest window display for the gift shop . . .
‘And who better to be the face of the calendar, on your thirtieth anniversary at the hall, than you, Lord Fortescue, Lady Fortescue. I thought that the cover of the calendar could be a lovely informal photograph of you both, with a collection of your favourite Wickham Hall treasures.’
Lord Fortescue was nodding thoughtfully. Lady Fortescue was smiling. Phew.
I ploughed on. ‘And as thirty is traditionally the “pearl” anniversary, perhaps we could do something with that?’ Pearl was also my middle name, for reasons known only to my mother.
‘I’m with you there,’ said Nikki. ‘I was already planning a pearly-white theme for the Summer Festival show garden.’
I flashed her a smile of thanks.
‘What about you, Andy?’ I asked, smiling innocently at him. ‘I know you wanted the gift shop on the front of the calendar, but what do you think?’
He shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘I can work with it, I suppose.’
‘Oh, Hugo, it’s such a sweet idea. I’m sure we can come up with some lovely treasures.’ Lady Fortescue sighed wistfully, laying a hand on her husband’s arm.
‘My bird hide. That’s hidden treasure,’ said Lord Fortescue. ‘Although I wouldn’t want anyone knowing about that.’
I stifled a smile; it was not the most useful suggestion. ‘Preferably something you’d be happy to be photographed with, Lord Fortescue.’
‘Such a shame about my pearl bracelet,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘That would have been perfect. Do you remember that, Hugo, the one I lost?’
‘No.’ He took a checked handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose three times. ‘But you’ve got boxes and boxes of trinkets, haven’t you?’
‘I used to think I looked like Madonna in that bracelet.’ She gazed dreamily out of the window.
‘Oh, I adore Madonna’s eighties stuff,’ Andy gushed. ‘All that lace and layers. I wasn’t born then, of course—’
Lady Fortescue silenced him with an icy stare, before gracing me with a smile. ‘Hidden treasures,’ she purred. ‘I like it. Well done, Holly, I think you and I are going to get on very well indeed.’
Nikki nudged me under the table.
<
br /> ‘Thank you, Lady Fortescue,’ I replied, doing my best to keep my elation under control. ‘I very much hope so.’
Chapter 6
For the rest of the week, I threw myself into my work, learning on the job as previously organized events took place and getting up to speed with where Pippa had got to on new projects too. I carried on in her absence as best I could: issuing press releases for the Summer Festival, mailing exhibitors their information packs, and dealing with tons of different problems on an almost hourly basis. But by Friday Pippa still hadn’t come back. Nor had she returned a week after that and I began to get a bit worried about her. I asked Jenny and Nikki if they’d had any news, but no one had heard a peep from her and they were just as concerned as I was.
On my second Friday afternoon, I was starting to wind down for the weekend when Mrs Beckwith came to see me in my office.
‘Have you got a moment?’ she said, lowering herself into the spare chair.
‘Of course. This is an unexpected pleasure.’ I smiled, jumping up to switch on the kettle. ‘I don’t get many visitors. Tea?’
Mrs Beckwith cast her eye around the room as I made us both a drink. ‘You’ve been tidying, I see?’
‘Yes,’ I said, adding milk to two mugs. ‘I hope Pippa won’t be offended, but I function much better in a neat and tidy space. Too much clutter and I get all claustrophobic.’
My mind raced back to the argument Mum and I had had the night before when I’d come home to find her trying to stuff a suitcase full of old clothes under my bed. I wouldn’t have minded so much if they’d been winter clothes that she wanted to put aside for the summer or something. But they were my granddad’s old suits, for goodness’ sake. There was one room in the house that hadn’t been stuffed to the rafters with her rubbish – or as she liked to call it her memories – and that was my room. I’d dragged the suitcase out and left it on the landing while she yelled at me for being selfish. The row had left me trembling with frustration and that suitcase would probably stay at the top of the stairs for ever now.
I took a deep breath and hoped Mrs Beckwith didn’t notice the tremor in my hands as I set the mugs down on the desk.
Wickham Hall, Part 1 Page 5