‘Not again, you bastard! How could you?’
I launch into action mode, shooing Karen off into the house; barring the Tattler photographer from the area; grabbing a broom when Cee-Cee starts smashing champagne glasses on the terrace one by one. I manage to save a few glasses, pass them around to the members of the bridal party who have come out of the marquee to watch the spectacle, and pour everyone a brandy.
‘Cee-Cee sweetie, it meant nothing – just one last fling. You know, like the one you had on your hen night with that bass guitarist…’
A slightly squiffy ‘Mummy’ Heath-Churchley chooses that moment to jump on the bandwagon. ‘How dare you?’ She brandishes a half-empty bottle at Ernie. I gesture to the Robbie Williams lookalike who’s fronting the dance band. He grabs her arms before she can physically unman her son-in-law-not-to-be.
‘And what will Daddy say about cancelling this wedding AGAIN?’
I marshal together a few of the bridesmaids to help phone the wedding guests and cancel. I’m about to speak to the caterers when ‘Mummy’ Heath-Churchley’s rage changes direction.
‘And where’s that whore of a vicar? I’m going to make sure she’s… defrocked.’
Not that Karen’s likely to mind – in a literal sense, at least. But I realise I haven’t seen her since the moment of revelation, and I decide I’d better check on her. I find her sprawled out on the sofa in the blue drawing room.
‘I’m so sorry, Alex!’ She gulps back tears (and the last dregs of a bottle of Pol Roger nicked from the bar).
‘You’re sorry?!’ I seethe. ‘Too bad your “revelation” didn’t include the fact that your “big strapping lad” was the groom! You knew how important this was to me. It was our first wedding. It had to go right. Instead, it’s a complete disaster!’
‘I had no idea who he was – really.’ She looks more remorseful than I’ve seen her. ‘I should go out and apologise in person.’ Her lips inch upwards into a momentary smile. ‘Do you think it would be awful if I asked Ernie for his number?’
She’s joking – I think. ‘You stay right here,’ I command.
‘Fine. Get yourself a glass – we can have that “long overdue catch-up” you promised.’
‘What?’
She looks hurt. ‘Or did you have me to come all the way here just to marry your posh paying guests.’
Guilt pinches inside my chest. It’s true that Karen did me the favour of coming up here at the last minute, and I’d said we could catch up down the pub. But at the last minute, I’d cancelled. I had lots of things to do before the wedding, and then Mrs Fairchild asked me to sit with her. She’d received a letter that had seemed to upset her, so I’d stayed at the main house until almost ten. When I’d got back to my flat, I’d rung Karen’s mobile, but she hadn’t answered.
‘I’d thought we could catch up tonight,’ I say. ‘Since obviously, I won’t have to stick around here for the wedding to finish.’
She shakes her head. ‘I told you on the phone that I couldn’t stick around. I’ve got a Venezuelan bishop coming round tomorrow. It would have been nice to see you, but I guess you’re too busy.’
‘Well, sorry,’ I say, getting riled. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it down the pub, so you had to screw the groom. Sorry that I’d budgeted my posh paying guests’ deposit towards upgrading the guest loos and the carpet on the stairs, and wanted everything to go well. And now I’ll have to face Mrs Fairchild and tell her about the awful cock-up.’
‘Gosh, Alex.’ Her blues eyes are round and wounded. ‘I had no idea how important those things were to you. I mean… guest loos? When we were at uni your mind was on “the sacred and profane in medieval architecture” and “historical mysteries surrounding the Ghent Altarpiece”. Not to mention you-know-who. I’d no idea that these other things had taken over.’ She shakes her head dismissively.
‘That was a long time ago,’ I say.
She nods, and in her eyes I see the reflection of my last year at uni, when she stood by me while I broke myself on the rock of a doomed love affair with Xavier, an Argentine poet who conveniently happened to be my academic advisor, but inconveniently happened to be married.
‘Three years,’ she muses. ‘How things change.’
‘Look, Karen,’ I say, my anger rising, ‘you were the one who told me that I needed to move on. So that’s what I did!’
‘Have you, Alex? Because to me it looks like you’ve been hiding away from the real world. I bet you never leave this place. Never have any fun.’
‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ I counter. Karen and I have never shared a common idea of fun. From the moment we began rooming together at uni, I discovered that she liked parties, waking up with strangers, and drinking a raw egg with Worcester sauce for breakfast. I, on the other hand, liked having small groups of friends over to discuss books and politics; taking long, solitary walks along the river, and curling up in the window seat with a glass of wine and a mystery novel. I suppose it was because we were so different that we got along so well.
‘I love it here,’ I say, feeling defensive. ‘I’m much closer to the real world now than I ever was at uni. And in the real world – whether we’re talking medieval times or right now – vicars don’t sleep with the groom on the eve of the wedding.’
‘I guess I’d better be going, then.’ Her natural enthusiasm seems to bubble out of her. She sets down the empty bottle.
‘I guess you’d better. You can’t drive in that state, so I’ll find someone to give you a lift to the village.’
She stands up and gives her dog collar a little tug, straightening it. ‘Look, Alex. I really am sorry.’ She begins walking to the door. ‘I was out of line. And for the record, I really had turned over a new leaf. For my penance I shall compose a sermon – something along the lines of “we’re all human, and sometimes we fall from grace”.’
‘I know you’re sorry, Karen. And I am too.’ I sigh. ‘I should have met up with you last night. We should catch up. I really miss you. It’s just… well… I’ve been so busy.’
‘Busy is good, Alex. Usually. And it’s obvious that you’ve worked wonders on this place – it’s lovely and polished, and seems to be practically running itself…’
‘That’s where you’re wrong…’
She holds up her hand. ‘But are you going to be doing this forever? You may love living here, but are you really happy? At this moment I may be in the doghouse with God. But it doesn’t take Mother Teresa to see that you’re lonely. You keep busy so you don’t have to face real life. The bad – or the good. I mean, when’s the last time you had a holiday?’
I hang my head.
‘That’s what I thought. Come visit me one of these weekends. I’ve got a spare room in the vicarage. It may be in Essex, but it’s a hell of a lot livelier than here.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Remember, you gotta be innit to winnit.’ She winks.
‘Can’t I just enjoy what I’ve got? A steady job in a beautiful place. It may not be enough for you. But for me – things are good.’
‘Are they, Alex?’ she looks me deep in the eye. ‘Are they really?’
‘Yes.’ But as the word leaves my mouth, I begin to wonder if it’s really true.
*
When Karen’s gone, I resolve to put this awful day behind me and get back to normal. The wedding party gradually begins to disperse, leaving in various limousines and taxies, and the cleaning crew gets to work. I sneak away to my office: a cosy little room with wood panelling, a carved stone fireplace, and a window seat with red velvet cushions. A big oak desk takes up most of the room. I sit down and turn on my computer. There are emails to check, calls to return, invoices to pay, workmen to schedule – all of which I can do in my sleep. Though admittedly, I am feeling a bit low. But surely, that will change when—
‘Ahhem.’
A hulking figure in a black tailcoat and bulging white cummerbund occupies the entirety of the doorway. I recognise Charles
August Heath-Churchley, father-of-the-bride.
‘Oh,’ I say, startled. ‘Hello, sir.’
‘You—’ his jowls shake, Churchill style, when he rounds on me, his small eyes penetrating my inner armour. ‘Who do you think you are?’
A loaded question, not that he’s to know that.
‘Do you know what you’ve done today? The damage you’ve caused to one of the nation’s oldest, proudest families?’
‘I’ve caused?’ I look at him aghast. ‘With respect, sir, that’s not fair. I can’t be held responsible for whatever the wedding party get up to in their own time.’ Even if the replacement vicar is my best friend, I don’t add.
Venom leaks out as he laughs in my face. ‘Not responsible? What are you then, the cleaner? The gift shop girl? Some little nobody? I thought you were the manger here. And in my book, the manager is responsible for everything.’
Cleaner? Gift shop girl? The man can probably trace his family back as far as the Neanderthals – but does that give him the right to insult me?
‘I apologise that the day didn’t turn out as planned,’ I say through my teeth. ‘But I think we’re done here.’
‘Oh, we’re not done,’ he bellows. ‘Not by a long way. I’ll ring Catherine – have you out on your ear, make no mistake.’ He turns his broad, pin-striped backside to me and begins walking away.
‘Do your worst, SIR,’ I mutter under my breath.
*
As soon as he leaves, I put my head in my hands. Despite my bravado, the whole awful business has ruined my day – probably my whole month. Catherine – he’d called Mrs Fairchild by her first name like he knew her. Working here at Mallow Court has become a lot more than just a job to me. Could he have enough clout to get me sacked?
No – that’s silly. I straighten up, raking my fingers through my hair. Mrs Fairchild is not the type to be bullied by pedigreed buffoons. Her father, Frank Bolton – the ‘Knicker King’ – was working-class, a self-made man.
I check my emails and update my diary, determined to go on as if nothing untoward has happened. After today, I’ll never have to see anyone connected to the awful Heath-Churchley clan again – unless they happen to relist Cee-Cee as an eligible bacheloress in another edition of Country Life and I have the misfortune to catch a glimpse of it in a dentist’s waiting room or something.
And in the meantime – nothing else that ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley said has the power to affect me, nothing at all. I’m an independent woman. I don’t need roots, or family history, or a fancy name or anything else to be happy just as I am.
Cleaner, gift shop girl… little nobody…
I whistle tunelessly to block out the words. It shouldn’t matter – and I’m sure I’ll be fine later – or tomorrow – or next week. But right now, a long-buried seed of self-doubt has been uncovered at the back of my mind. The worry that, as my unfortunate encounter proves, it takes a lifetime to forge an identity from nothing, and less than ten seconds to tear it to shreds.
- Chapter 3 -
‘Welcome to Mallow Court,’ I say, my smile a little forced. It’s a week since the Churchley-Thursley wedding debacle, and I’ve yet to put it fully behind me. Though Mrs Fairchild has made no noises about sacking me, I have an irritating gnaw inside me that won’t go away. Have I put everything into my job at Mallow Court to avoid focusing on my own future? Is my life nothing more than a house of cards waiting to topple over?
‘I hope you’ll enjoy today’s tour through one of the loveliest Elizabethan houses in the South East.’ I make eye contact with a few members of the American tour group. ‘The house was built in 1604 by a wealthy wool merchant who was also—’
Someone’s phone goes off. I stop my spiel, waiting patiently (if a little pained) for a short bald man in a green bowling shirt to dig around his pocket, find his phone, take it out, squint at the name on the screen – and then, instead of muting it, answer it with a loud southern drawl: ‘Hi honey, how are the kids?’
A few people scowl in his direction, and someone has the nerve to laugh.
He keeps on talking. ‘Yeah, we’re seeing some old house now.’
I clear my throat, glowering at him. He raises a pudgy hand like he’ll only be a second.
When I first started working at Mallow Court, I wrote the script for the tours and gave them all myself. Now, however, there are two other full time guides. Usually for me, giving tours is a welcome break from admin and management, and I enjoy meeting people who are interested in the house. But lately, I’ve been struggling to maintain my enthusiasm.
‘Before I continue,’ I say as I wave the others forward into the library, ‘I’d like to get a few ground rules straight. First, can I ask that you please put your phones on mute…’
Thus follows a good thirty seconds of grumbling, rustling, digging, and beeping.
The man on the phone finally hangs up and rejoins the group. ‘Sorry folks,’ he says.
I ignore his apology while the last of the phones go back into pockets and handbags. An elderly man in a Red Sox baseball cap takes advantage of the chaos to remove his chewing gum from his mouth, and stick it firmly to the bottom of a carved oak table.
‘Also,’ I say, my voice unnaturally high, ‘I’d like to remind you that there’s no eating or drinking inside the house.’
The old man grins at me through gapped front teeth, and pops another tab of Orbit into his mouth. I sigh. Next to him, a pear-shaped lady in a ‘Go ahead, make my day’ T-shirt raises her hand.
‘Yes?’
‘But there’s a tea room, right? That’s what the bus driver said. I want to buy some of that organic marmalade stuff for my daughter-in-law. And some artistic beer for me!’
‘Of course. The tour will end at the tearoom and gift shop. Now, if we—’
Another woman raises her hand. ‘And where’s the ladies room? The bathroom on the bus was just so stinky…’ She shifts from side to side, managing to look desperate.
‘Outside to the left. And now, please can you hold your questions so we can start the tour? I promise I’ll answer them as we go along.’
Another hand shoots up.
‘Or at the end,’ I say pointedly. ‘Now, as I was saying…’
I gloss over the dates and identities of pale-faced subjects of old portraits. Lots of people who come to visit the house are interested in those things, but there’s no use pretending that everyone is. Instead, I skip to the fun part.
‘You might be interested to know about the current owner of the house – Mrs Catherine Fairchild. Her father, Frank Bolton, was known as “the Knicker King”.’ I smile as a few people whisper amongst themselves. ‘His company was famous for British-made ladies underwear in the 1950s and 60s.’
There are a few sniggers now. It’s the same with most groups, even the erudite ones.
‘He was the first man in Britain to mass-produce the double gusset.’ I say. ‘For those of you who don’t know what that is…’ I raise my eyebrows mischievously, ‘it’s the business end of the knicker.’
Full on laughter now as this new information is considered and underwear jokes are ‘cracked’.
The ice now broken, I move the group along to the billiard room. As I’m doing so, I come face to face with a tall, light-brown-haired man that I didn’t notice before who must have been standing at the back. He’s much younger than the rest – early-thirties, maybe. Instead of passing, he stops and looks me in the eye. His are the most delicious shade of chocolate brown that I’ve ever seen. An unexpected rush of heat shoots down my body.
‘Umm,’ I gabble, ‘the next room is the billiard room.’ Like that’s not completely obvious (given the enormous green baize billiard table that’s taking up pretty much the entire room).
I stumble through my description of how the game differs from pool, all the while aware of him watching me and listening intently. As I’m about ready to move the group on, he raises his hand.
‘I have a question about Frank Bolton,�
� he says. His voice is deep, resonant, and definitely English.
‘Yes?’
‘Was it the ancestral home, or did he buy the house after the war?’
It’s a perfectly valid question, but for a moment my mind goes blank. ‘Mr Bolton purchased the house at auction in 1944,’ I say eventually. ‘It was quite run-down, and after the war, he began renovations to restore it to its former glory.’
‘So how did he make his money?’
‘Well…’ I frown, ‘it’s like I said – knickers.’
‘Before that, I mean. How did he make the money to found his underwear empire?’
I take a breath, determined not to blather an answer. It’s a question that no one has asked me before, and I get the feeling that he’s testing me. ‘After the war there were lots of opportunities out there for ambitious young men,’ I say. ‘Frank Bolton came from a humble background, but he was hardworking and determined. He was a self-made man.’
I’m relieved that my answer sounds credible. In fact, I have no idea how Frank Bolton originally raised capital to buy an underwear factory, but the Americans nod appreciatively – they always respond well to the idea of a self-made man.
The group is clearly getting impatient. I continue the tour but can’t seem to find my stride. I transpose dates and forget the names of former denizens of the house, who they married, and the scandals they caused. We go swiftly through the rooms on the ground floor. I give gentle reminders not to touch the delicate fabrics or to sit on the antique chairs – on autopilot. All the while, I’m aware of the man at the back, lagging behind, taking everything in.
The tour ends upstairs in the state bedroom where a young Elizabeth I was rumoured to have spent the night on her way to Hatfield following a visit to a northern cousin. When everyone has finished viewing the huge oak canopy bed, the group gathers in a clump at the top of the back stairs. I thank them and invite them to explore the kitchens and visit the gift shop and tea room below. Two people ask me if there’s an elevator because their knees can’t take the descent. I quickly direct them to the tiny lift we had installed behind the panelling. When they’re sorted, I turn back, looking for the tall, chocolate-eyed man. There’s no sign of him. My adrenalin ebbs away and is replaced by disappointment. For all his questions, I was hoping that maybe the attraction I felt for him was mutual.
Finding Secrets Page 2