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Dedicated to my dear friends whose exceeding good humour has kept me sane during Lockdown
Tiff Beilby
Lisa Carter
Brigitte Dowsett
Wendy Knatchbull
Clare Rutherford
Chapter 1
Badley Compton, Devon, 2010
Flappy Scott-Booth, the self-styled queen of the small but not insignificant Devon town of Badley Compton, sat on the high-backed Russian imperial chair she’d bought at auction from Christie’s and scrutinized the fresh face of the young woman sitting formally, and a little nervously, on the other side of the antique walnut desk. The girl was no beauty, but Flappy was not looking for that. She was looking for efficiency, capability, honesty and obedience. After all, she saw enough beauty every time she looked in the mirror, for, in her sixties, Flappy was undeniably still a strikingly good-looking woman. Her cheekbones were high, her chin strong, her aquamarine eyes set wide apart and framed by long, jet-black lashes. Her skin was flawless and her hair, dyed an ash-blonde colour, was cut into a precise bob that enhanced the sharp line of her jaw and ensured she stuck out in a crowd. Only her lips were on the thin side, revealing, in their tendency to turn down, a critical and unforgiving nature. No, she was not after a beauty; there was only room at Darnley for one of those.
‘One is terribly busy, you see,’ Flappy said in her slow, well-articulated voice. ‘Of course, one really wants to be all things to all people, but that’s simply not possible. Darnley is not just a home where I live with Mr Scott-Booth, it is the very heartbeat of Badley Compton. Being the biggest house in the town with endless gardens and lawns and,’ she sighed, for such privilege came with a terrible weight of responsibility, ‘an arboretum among other splendours too plenty to mention. Oh, we are so so lucky. But sometimes, it’s just too much to take care of on one’s own. You see, the diary is full of events. All year round we open our doors to the local community. For three weeks in June we share our gardens with the public so that they can enjoy this uniquely magical place. Then there’s the garden party in July, the jumble sale in September, the Harvest Festival tea at the beginning of October and the Halloween children’s fancy dress parade at the end, Bonfire Night in November, the Christmas dinner in December and then, of course, the weekly book club meetings, church meetings, parish meetings. I could go on.’ She sighed again and fixed her piercing, aquiline eyes on the young woman listening attentively opposite her. ‘But I won’t. You will see for yourself how very busy one is and why one is in need of a Girl Friday. Someone to ease the load. You see, I did have a dear friend called Gracie, who used to be enormously helpful with all the arrangements, but then she went off to Italy last spring, met a count and married him. At sixty-eight, imagine! She’s a countess now, which is lovely for her because she wasn’t anything before. Just a very ordinary woman. I mean, you wouldn’t have done a double take if you’d seen her in the street.’ Flappy gave a little sniff and managed a tight smile. ‘But I’ve been very understanding and generous because, I can tell you, it was extremely inconsiderate of her to leave me in the lurch like this. I need a personal assistant. You, Persephone, I believe, will be just the thing.’ She lifted her interviewee’s curriculum vitae off the desk. ‘You have lots of experience. You speak Italian, French and Spanish, are a good organizer and you can cook, which is marvellous, even though I have a darling girl called Karen who does a teeny bit of cooking every now and then when things get too busy. I’m an excellent cook, of course, but one simply can’t be everywhere all at once and my expertise is required in so many other places besides the kitchen.’ She looked at her directly. ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’
‘Garden?’ Persephone replied uncertainly, hoping that the admission wouldn’t cost her the job.
Flappy laughed and waved a manicured hand. ‘Well, I can do without that. We are so so lucky to have an army of gardeners here at Darnley – and a sweet little Polish girl who comes to clean every morning, so I don’t require you to do that either.’ She put the CV back on the desk and tapped it with long talons, painted an elegant shell pink. ‘I need you to start straight away.’
Persephone’s eyes lit up with delight. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you,’ she gushed.
‘I want you ready for work in the hall and looking presentable at nine every morning. Hair tied back, shirt ironed, skirt below the knee, and tights. I cannot abide bare legs. And I don’t like high heels.’ Flappy screwed up her nose. ‘Frightfully common. Now, is there anything you would like to ask me?’
‘How would you like me to address you?’ Persephone asked.
‘Mrs Scott-Booth will do. Oh, and most importantly, when you answer the telephone I would like you to say, “Darnley Manor, Mrs Scott-Booth’s assistant speaking.” Is that understood?’
Persephone nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘Absolutely, Mrs Scott-Booth.’
Flappy smiled. This twenty-five-year-old was a quick learner.
* * *
After Persephone had gone, Flappy remained at her desk in her study and glanced out of the window. This charming room, decorated so tastefully in muted greens and greys, had a pleasing view of the garden. Well, of one of the gardens. Flappy was very fortunate at Darnley to have more than one. To have a whole array, in fact, to show off to her friends and the local community. This particular garden was called the croquet lawn, even though no one played croquet on it. They used to, of course, when her four children were young, but now they had flown the nest and gone to live in various faraway corners of the globe, the lawn was used for events. The ground was perfectly flat for a marquee and along the left-hand side ran an old stone wall, in front of which was planted the widely celebrated herbaceous border. Flappy was very proud of this feature and delighted in giving people the ‘Darnley Manor Herbaceous Tour’, which involved walking at a stately pace and pointing out the various plants, using their correct names, of course, which she had committed to memory. ‘Subalpine larkspur’ sounded much more exotic than the more common name ‘delphinium’, and ‘hemerocallis’ gave the day lily a certain mystique. Even a petunia was rendered more alluring when called by its botanical name Ruellia brittoniana. She had four full-time gardeners, dressed in green T-shirts and khaki trousers, who did all the hard work, but occasionally (and especially if she was expecting guests) Flappy herself would pick up her barely used pair of secateurs and waft around the rose garden, lopping off the odd dead head. Now she waved at one of the young lads who was pushing a wheelbarrow across the lawn. He tipped his hat. She smiled graciously, because Flappy was always gracious whatever her mood, then returned to the matter at hand. The questions she was going to raise at the Badley Compton ladies’ book club meeting the following evening.
The telephone rang.
Flappy counted the rings, then answered on the eighth ring to give the impression that she was exceedingly busy and had perhaps had to walk a great distance to reach it. ‘Darnley Manor, Flappy Scott-Booth speaking.’
‘Flappy, I have news.’
It was Mabel. If Flappy was the self-appointed queen of Badley Compton, Mabel Hitchens was her eager-to-please lady-in-waiting. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ said Mabel breathlessly. ‘I know how busy you are.’
‘You know what they say, Mabel, give a job to a busy person and it will always get done. Busy people make
time for everything. Now, what have you got for me?’
‘Hedda Harvey-Smith has bought a house in Badley Compton,’ said Mabel triumphantly, knowing almost without doubt that this would be news to Flappy, who liked to be the first to know everything.
There was a long pause as she digested this horrifying piece of information. Flappy had had the misfortune of meeting Hedda Harvey-Smith back in April when she had made an impromptu appearance at Hedda’s brother’s funeral. Back then, when Hedda had suggested she and her husband Charles were going to move to Badley Compton, Flappy had thought, indeed she had hoped, that it was just an idle threat. Now it seemed, if Mabel’s source was to be believed, that the threat had been realized. She stiffened like a dog sensing a challenge to her territory and replied with well-practised breeziness, ‘I’m not sure which house they will have bought, Mabel, as the only other big house in the town belongs to Sir Algernon and Lady Micklethwaite, and I don’t imagine Hedda would deign to buy anything smaller than that.’ She laughed, heartened by her logic. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got it wrong, Mabel?’
‘That’s the most intriguing thing about it, Flappy. The house Hedda has bought is indeed none other than Compton Court.’ Mabel heard Flappy’s sharp intake of breath and felt a frisson of satisfaction. This was all news to Flappy. ‘The very one,’ she continued, her voice rising with enthusiasm. ‘Sir Algernon and Lady Micklethwaite have moved to Spain.’
If Flappy had not been sitting down already she would have sunk into her chair like a deflating soufflé. How was it possible that all this had happened right under her nose without her having the slightest notion of it? Surely Phyllida Micklethwaite should have informed her that they were leaving? Of course, Flappy couldn’t count her as a friend, even though she had made many attempts over the years to acquire her as one, but it would not be wrong to consider her an acquaintance. Hadn’t she attended many of Flappy’s events, after all? In fact, she had been the guest of honour at her garden party back in July. Flappy sighed heavily and rallied. For if there was one thing Flappy was good at, it was hiding how flustered she really felt. ‘I think it’s wonderful that Hedda and Charles are coming to live here in Badley Compton,’ she said, as gracious as ever. And then, all at once, a space cleared in Flappy’s busy mind and a brilliant idea popped in. ‘We must welcome them with a party,’ she said. Oh yes! A party, here at Darnley, she thought to herself with a rush of excitement. A lavish party to show Badley Compton that the queen feels no challenge to her position, and to let Hedda know early on that there is a hierarchy in this town and that she’d be best advised to adhere to it. ‘Do you know when they are moving in?’ she asked.
‘Ooooh! A party! How exciting, Flappy. No one throws a party like you!’ When Flappy didn’t reply, Mabel added quickly, ‘John saw a big removal van heading that way this morning when he went out to buy the papers.’ John was Mabel’s husband. ‘It was a very large and grand one. The kind of removal van a woman like Hedda Harvey-Smith would hire.’
‘Indeed?’ said Flappy ponderously.
‘Oh yes. I bet it’s full of treasures.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it is,’ Flappy snapped, bristling at the thought of a very large and grand removal van full of Hedda Harvey-Smith’s treasures. ‘If they’re moving in as we speak then we don’t have much time. It will have to be in the next couple of weeks. The beginning of September. A cocktail party in the garden. The last of the summer parties. Something for everyone to look back on during the long winter months and talk about when it gets dark at three and is drizzling and cold. The garden still looks exquisite. In fact, Darnley has never looked more magnificent. I will telephone Hedda right away.’
‘Oh, she’ll be delighted to hear from you,’ said Mabel innocently.
‘Of course she will. If I welcome them warmly into the community, everyone else will follow my lead. And you know, Mabel, I’m very happy to give them a little leg-up. After all, it’s nothing for me, is it? And it will mean so much to them.’
* * *
When Flappy put down the receiver her competitive spirit was already at boiling point. She flicked open her red leather address book and ran a polished nail down the index of gold letters until it landed on M. There, a few addresses beneath the mayor, were Sir Algernon and Lady Micklethwaite. She pursed her lips irritably at the thought of having to replace their address with the new one in Spain, thus making a mess of her immaculate book, but it couldn’t be helped. She picked up the telephone and dialled.
After a great many rings a man’s voice responded. ‘Compton Court.’
‘Ah, hello, to whom am I speaking? This is Mrs Scott-Booth of Darnley Manor,’ said Flappy grandly.
‘Good day to you, madam. I’m Johnson, the butler. I’m afraid the lady of the house is indisposed. Would you care to leave a message?’
Flappy was put out on two counts. One, because Hedda had a butler, and two, because the butler was clearly not aware of how important she was. ‘Yes, if you would be so kind,’ she said, digging deep to find her graciousness. ‘Please will you let her know that Flappy Scott-Booth of Darnley Manor would like to welcome her into the community at a small gathering of like-minded people next week, here at Darnley. Nothing too elaborate, we country folk find ostentation frightfully vulgar. Perhaps she would be good enough to give me a call when she has a moment and let me know which day suits.’ She promptly gave him her number.
‘I will make sure she receives your message this morning,’ said Johnson.
‘That would be most kind, thank you.’ Then she added, as an afterthought, ‘If I’m not at home, my personal assistant Persephone will answer the phone and Mrs Harvey-Smith can leave a message with her.’ Hedda might have a butler but she had a PA. Flappy put down the receiver, feeling very pleased with herself.
* * *
As usual, just before lunch, Kenneth Scott-Booth’s caramel-coloured Jaguar purred into the forecourt of Darnley Manor and came to a smooth halt beside Flappy’s shiny grey Range Rover. Kenneth opened the door and, with a groan because of the obstruction of his voluminous belly, he heaved himself off the seat and placed two pristine white golfing shoes firmly on the gravel. Barely five feet eight inches tall, in a pair of yellow tattersall plus fours, yellow socks and matching cashmere V-neck sweater, he might have cut a comical figure had he not been so seriously rich. Kenneth was not a man to be taken lightly. Nor did he take himself lightly. Here was a man who was reaping the rewards of seeds sewn shrewdly, playing regular rounds of golf on the course he had built in Badley Compton, which bore his name, and living life high on the hog. Golf, more than anything else, was what inspired him and propelled him through his days. After all, why should his hours be filled with anything less self-indulgent? Hedonism was his by right, for he had done his fair share of hard work building his empire of popular fast food restaurants in the 1970s, and selling it for millions ten years later. That had taken guile, cunning and good business acumen, which he had in abundance. He was a boy from the wrong side of the tracks who’d made good. And Flappy Booth, as she’d been called when he married her, was the cherry on his cake. It was she who had come up with the idea of joining their two names together. Thus, with the double-barrelled Scott-Booth, they gave themselves the one thing they lacked: an air of grandeur.
Kenneth flung open the front door and strode into the hall where two important-looking portraits of him and Flappy, by the famous artist Jonathan Yeo, were hung either side of the marble fireplace, and a chequerboard floor gleamed beneath exquisite eighteenth-century furniture. The hall was, indeed, very impressive at Darnley. He sighed with satisfaction. He could smell lunch. Was it lamb? He loved lamb. None of this vegetarian nonsense that Flappy had once flirted with. Kenneth was a man who liked his meat and two veg. ‘Darling!’ he called, standing squarely on the chequerboard floor with his hands on his hips.
Flappy emerged from her study and floated into the hall in a billowing pale blue shirt, white palazzo trousers and lots of gold jewellery. �
��Darling,’ she replied, offering him her cheek upon which he duly planted a kiss. ‘Did you have a lovely morning?’
‘Not bad. Not bad. I missed a short putt on the second. Should have bogeyed on the seventh – I usually do. If I hadn’t hit my ball out of bounds on the eighteenth, I would have had one of my best rounds, ever.’
Flappy let his report go in one ear and out the other for she found golf a most tedious sport. It wasn’t like tennis, which was glamorous. It was like darts, or pool, which were not. ‘You must be starving, darling. Karen’s cooked a leg of lamb. I told her to take it out of the Aga a little earlier this time because we prefer it a teeny bit pink, don’t we? I’m an expert at cooking lamb, as you know, but I’ve been so busy this morning I simply didn’t have the time.’
He followed her upstairs, because Flappy knew he liked to change out of his golfing clothes before lunch. While he swapped the plus fours for chinos in his dressing room, Flappy sat at the vanity table in her bedroom next door and dabbed her pretty nose with a powder puff. It was exceedingly uplifting to look a good ten years younger than all the other women of her age in Badley Compton, she thought with a smile. ‘I’ve taken on a PA,’ she shouted. ‘She’s called Persephone and she’s starting tomorrow.’
‘Jolly good,’ Kenneth shouted back. ‘Six months in Olympus and six months in Hades,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘Oh and do you remember Hedda Harvey-Smith from Harry Pratt’s funeral? The big woman with the loud voice.’
‘There were lots of big women with loud voices,’ he shouted back. ‘Which one do you mean?’
‘You know, darling. The one with lots of hair, brown, badly dyed, poor thing.’ Flappy ran a hand down her expertly dyed ash-blonde bob. ‘She considers herself very grand. You know, darling, Hedda Harvey-Smith.’
Flappy Entertains Page 1