As her voice rose to a crescendo, diners at the nearby tables stopped speaking and turned to stare. Impervious to their glares and raised eyebrows, she carried on.
‘So tell me, how did the Tories react to that one? Did they now?’ She whipped a pad and silver pencil out of her bag and began scribbling. ‘Got it! You bet I will! This could be just what I need.’
‘Mum, for God’s sake,’ Felix pleaded, as a man on the neighbouring table muttered audibly about the manners of some people being beyond belief. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’
Cassandra waved her hand impatiently. ‘OK, so let’s see . . . I could be with you in . . .’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Four hours max. OK. Ciao – oh, and thanks!’ She stuffed her mobile back into her bag and turned to Felix.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry,’ she began. ‘But something’s cropped up – I’m going to have to go.’
‘That suits me fine. Go and be embarrassing somewhere else.’
‘Felix, don’t be like that. I’ve said I’m sorry. I know I was out of order.’
‘Mum, just go, OK?’ Felix said. ‘It’s fine. Anna’s here. And you know what? She actually wants to be here and, surprise, surprise, she knows how to behave.’
‘OK, well, I’ll be on my way,’ she said, bending forward to give Felix a kiss which he deftly dodged, and then turning to Anna and briefly squeezing her hand. ‘Good to have met you,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sure we’ll meet again, one way or another. Ciao now!’
Anna was so busy concentrating on Felix that she didn’t notice the stocky man from the talk get up from a neighbouring table and hurry after Cassandra. Nor did she notice that slung over his shoulder was a very expensive-looking camera bag.
To Anna’s relief, the recruits were allowed the evening off to be with their guests and so she and Felix were able to be by themselves again. It had taken him ages to calm down, but Zac, Phoebe and Mrs Harville, who had witnessed the whole scene in the lecture hall, assured him that everyone would forget it in next to no time. Mrs Harville was very gracious and said it was probably all down to her love for Felix and fear for his well-being.
While the Harvilles went off to Exeter for the evening, Felix and Anna headed into Exmouth, bought fish and chips and sat on the sea wall, eating them out of paper and talking non-stop. At first, all Felix could talk about was his anger at his mother, but when Anna mentioned his mother had said she was keen to campaign for drugs to be made available to everyone suffering from Alzheimer’s, he calmed down a bit and grudgingly said that time would tell, and at least if she focused on that she might leave him to get on with his own life and do something, however indirect, to help his dad.
‘And now, your surprise,’ she said, desperate to change the subject, and handed him the concert tickets. ‘It’s way ahead, but you said they were your favourite band and I had to act fast – they were all sold out within hours of going online.’
He was totally overwhelmed, and told her that no one had ever meant as much to him as she did. ‘The fact that you went to all that trouble and expense just for me – I’m blown away!’
And then the talking stopped and they had walked down to the water’s edge, and, ignoring the rapidly falling temperature, kissed and sank down on to the sand and gazed up at the darkening sky and tried not to think about all the weeks that would have to pass before they could be together again. He walked with her to the station and waved the train off, and suddenly Anna realised why everyone cried at Brief Encounter. She tried to remain upbeat because Mrs Harville looked weepy and Phoebe was far quieter than usual, but when she finally got home and closed her bedroom door, and flicked the pages of her diary to count how many days would have to pass before she saw Felix again, she couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.
CHAPTER 8
‘One man’s ways may be as good as another’s but we all like our own best.’
( Jane Austen, Persuasion)
‘ANNA? IN HERE! NOW!’
Anna had been about to leave for school the following Monday morning when her father flung open his study door and called to her.
‘You’re in the paper!’ he cried, thrusting it under her nose. ‘Not that it’s a particularly flattering picture.’
Anna dropped her bag on to the floor and seized the paper. Her father had folded it back to the In The Know diary section where a picture of Cassandra, arms waving, and Felix looking moody and scowling, took the centre of the page. And at the edge of the picture was Anna, a nervous expression on her face, her tongue protruding slightly the way it always did when she was anxious.
UNDER FIRE – PROSPECTIVE MP HURLS A BROADSIDE AT THE MARINES
Anna’s eyes scanned the page.
Cassandra Wentworth, who is standing as an Independent in the forthcoming Muckleborough and Bythorn by-election, has never made a secret of her pacifist viewpoint. A regular at the Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp in the early eighties and one of the motivating forces behind countless protests about research laboratories across the country, she has more recently been at the forefront of many peace campaigns. Clearly the decision by her son, Felix, to join the Royal Marines does not sit well with her. At an Open Day for families of new recruits, held at the Commando Training Centre in Lympstone on Saturday, she was extremely vocal about her views on the military . . .
‘You didn’t mention any of this,’ her father challenged her. ‘I mean, this is powerful stuff.’
Anna frowned as she read the next paragraph.
I asked her how she felt when her nineteen-year-old son announced his intention of joining the Marines.
‘Felix is his own man,’ she said. ‘He may not share my moral values, and I’m certainly not comfortable seeing all this show of force, but I’m his mum first and foremost. It pains me to see what he is doing, but all I can hope is that he will see sense and realise that he could spend his time so much more profitably.’
‘It’s this bit that matters,’ her father said, prodding a paragraph that he had already marked with a yellow highlighter pen.
Ms Wentworth, who is standing as an Independent in protest at what she calls ‘the inefficacy of party politics’, went on to say that his girlfriend, Anna Eliot (pictured above left with Ms Wentworth and son Felix), the daughter of the well-known television personality and host of Walt on Wednesday and Walt at the Weekend, shared her views and was equally distressed by her son’s decision and wished he had chosen a different career path.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Anna muttured.
‘Wonderful plug for the show there,’ Walter enthused, ignoring her completely. ‘And for me, of course.’ He pointed at the small inset head and shoulders picture of himself to the left of the text.
‘We must get her on the show as soon as possible. Could make for great viewing.’ He smiled at Anna. ‘Much as I don’t approve of you hanging out with this Felix guy, at least something good has come out of it, and it’s not as if it’ll go anywhere.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Anna, be sensible. Working-class black guy and a mother who is clearly totally off the wall . . . No common ground between you at all. And as for the mother . . .’
‘Actually, she’s rather nice. And I feel quite sorry for her.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s having a tough time, what with her husband in a home and . . .’
‘A home? Go on.’
By the time she had filled her father in on the details, she was relieved to see his attitude had changed from one of eager anticipation of controversy to a concerned and compassionate desire to allow Cassandra air time to push for changes to government policy. Within minutes, he was on the phone deep in conversation with his producer.
‘Now that,’ she heard him say as she collected her things and headed for the door, ‘is something worth pursuing. Alzheimer’s . . . yes, exactly! Get the researchers on to it!’
Good, she thought. He’ll be gentle on her, Felix will see that she really is concerned about hi
s dad and raising Alzheimer’s awareness, and Dad’ll realise that Felix isn’t as bad as he thinks.
It was to be only a few days before she realised that where her father was concerned, it was foolish to make such assumptions.
‘So come on, dish the dirt – what happened exactly? I want every last detail.’ Shannon grabbed Anna’s arm as she arrived in the Sixth Form common room on Monday.
‘Oh no,’ Anna groaned. ‘Who else knows?’
‘Knows what?’ Shannon frowned. ‘That Saturday was the big lurve-in? Mia, Lauren, and anyone else within earshot of you all last week!’
‘So you didn’t see the paper?’
Shannon frowned. ‘What paper?’
‘Never mind,’ Anna said hastily, as out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mia and Lauren heading her way.
‘So how was it with the love of your life?’ Lauren asked. ‘Did you have a big romantic farewell?’
‘Don’t get her started,’ Mia chipped in. ‘We’ve got more important things to sort right now – like the music for the band.’
Anna felt a surge of relief. If anything could take her mind off Felix, it was music. Wild Chicks had been her brainwave during her first term at Fleckford College, and it had cemented the new friendship between her, Shannon, Mia who played drums, and Lauren – the best double bass player Anna had ever heard. They were doing well; Mr Longhurst, the head of music, had encouraged them to enter the Fleckford Music Festival, and when they won second place in their class playing Anna and Shannon’s new composition, ‘Rattlesnake Stomp’, he had told them that he was throwing a party for his parents’ Golden Wedding in June and, if by then they were up to scratch, they could play in the hallway of his house as a surprise to greet his mum and dad on their arrival.
‘My father’s a jazz fanatic,’ he had told them. ‘Chicago style, Bebop, fusion – you name it, he goes wild for it.’
The concept of anyone old enough to be the grey-haired Mr Longhurst’s father going wild had reduced Lauren to a fit of the giggles but, when he had offered them hard cash if they would agree to play, they had become seriously enthusiastic.
‘Mia’s right. If we mess up we don’t get paid,’ Anna reminded them now. ‘How about we meet up after school every day this week and give it all we’ve got?’
‘Every day?’ Lauren groaned.
Anna smiled. She knew that concentrating on playing was the only thing that would keep her mind off Felix and the seemingly interminable weeks she had to wait before seeing him again.
Thanks to Araminta’s persistence and Cassandra’s desire for publicity, Walter managed to get her on the programme the following Saturday. Marina poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Anna. ‘This will be good,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Your father is such a skilled interviewer.’
‘You hit the headlines in a rather spectacular manner this week,’ Walter began, his legs crossed as he smiled amiably in what Anna knew was an attempt to lull his guest into a false sense of security. ‘Your views on the military are well known . . . you are anti-war, am I right?’
‘I am against violence and conflict of all sorts,’ she said.
Walter nodded sagely and suddenly switched topics and asked her to talk about her campaign for more help for carers and easier access to drugs that could treat Alzheimer’s. Cassandra grew more and more enthusiastic, speaking energetically about her distress over her husband’s decline and looking directly at the camera. She spoke of the need for far more research into the illness, and insisted that the Government should do all in its power to increase the funds available. The studio audience were clearly rooting for her, and her remarks were peppered by bursts of applause.
And that was when Walter’s tone changed.
‘For the sake of our no doubt bemused viewers, let me get this perfectly straight. You are against violence and conflict —’
‘I am against violence and conflict of any sort . . . Yes.’
‘And yet you have in the past been prepared to use physical violence in an attempt to prevent research work of which you are now suddenly in favour? Correct me if I’m wrong.’
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open and for a moment she was speechless.
‘Let me put it simply for you,’ Walter went on, adopting the tone of one speaking to a rather confused and distracted child. ‘Not long ago, you were at the forefront of the protests on animal testing – indeed you appeared in court having vandalised a laboratory, I believe?’
There was an audible gasp from the studio audience.
‘I fail to see the relevance . . .’ Cassandra stammered.
‘The laboratories which you and your fellow protestors targeted four years ago, are the very ones that were testing the drug you now say must be made available to everyone. A strange change of heart, is it not?’
‘Tee hee,’ Marina chuckled. ‘I do love high definition TV – it shows off their blushes so well!’
‘Join us after the break . . .’ Walter smiled to the camera. ‘. . . when I will be asking Ms Wentworth to share with us any elements in her manifesto that do actually hold water.’
Anna picked up the remote control and zapped the sound while the adverts were on. She was used to the way her father pulled his studio guests to pieces and had always thought it rather clever, in a sadistic sort of way. This time she wanted to wring his neck.
Anna forced her eyes open as the house phone rang persistently. Groping for her bedside clock, she peered at the dial.
Six-thirty a.m. Felix! It could only be Felix. She leaped out of bed, sped down the stairs and grabbed the handset, thinking that she must have forgotten to charge her mobile.
‘Hello?’
‘May I speak to Walter Eliot please?’ a woman’s voice with a slight Scottish burr demanded.
Anna’s heart sank like a stone. ‘He’s asleep,’ she said. ‘He did a show last night and . . .’
‘I’m only too well aware of that,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘That’s the reason I’m ringing. It’s Valerie, the show’s producer. It’s urgent, so please will you get him?’
‘He won’t like it,’ Anna ventured to suggest.
‘Too flaming right he won’t,’ Valerie snapped. ‘But he’ll like it even less if he doesn’t speak to me at once while I have the chance to save his skin.’
‘This is preposterous! It’s outrageous – how dare she . . .? And to summon me to the studios as if I were some minion to be ordered about . . .’
The air in the kitchen was blue with expletives when, twenty minutes later, Anna came down to breakfast. Marina, who had spent the night at the house having decided that driving home after a large glass of wine was hardly sensible, was leaning against the breakfast bar, sipping coffee and looking none too pleased at being woken before eight-thirty.
‘What’s wrong?’ Anna asked.
‘What’s wrong? Someone – well, clearly it’s that wretched Wentworth woman – has lodged some pathetic little complaint about me,’ Walter blustered. ‘Valerie says it’s too sensitive to go into details on the telephone. What a load of utter rubbish!’
‘Dad, calm down, it’s probably nothing major,’ Anna said. ‘People have complained before and you’ve sorted it.’
‘And sorting Ms Wentworth will give me the greatest pleasure,’ her father declared. ‘I knew the moment I saw her that she was trouble. Well, she’ll soon learn that you don’t mess with Walter Eliot.’
CHAPTER 9
‘Vanity was the beginning and end of . . . Walter Eliot’s character.’
( Jane Austen, Persuasion)
‘HI, IT'S SHANNON! I SAW THE PROGRAMME LAST NIGHT – oh my God!’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Anna sighed. ‘All hell’s been let loose since then. Apparently . . . hang on a minute!’
She paused as the front door slammed. Within seconds, the kitchen door flew open. Her father stood in the doorway. His face was as white as a sheet.
‘Sorry – Dad’s back – got t
o go,’ Anna muttered down the phone. ‘I’ll call you in a bit.’
She tossed the phone to one side as her father slumped down in the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands.
‘Dad? Dad, are you OK?’ Anna asked.
‘No.’ His voice was thick with emotion. ‘In fact, I’m far from OK.’
Every fibre of Anna’s being went on red alert. She knew her father so well – and normally, if something or someone had upset him, he would have been swearing and slamming doors and shouting the house down. Instead, he looked drained and diminshed.
‘Are you ill?’ she gasped, memories of the day her mum admitted how ill she was flooding back into her mind.
‘No, I’m not ill,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been accused of something. Wrongly accused – I didn’t do it. I swear to you on your darling mother’s memory, I didn’t do it.’
From that moment on, the day became a bit of a blur. Walter, silent and morose, refusing food but drinking whisky in a rather alarming manner, Araminta turning up a couple of hours later (much to Marina’s annoyance) and Anna being told to field phone calls, most of which were from the press.
‘OK, now let’s get this perfectly clear,’ Araminta said, removing the bottle of Glenmorangie and sitting down beside Walter on the white leather sofa. ‘You were in the Green Room after the show talking to Valerie, the producer, and your other guest, Jack what’shisname from that new soap, right?
‘Jack Flanders,’ he nodded.
‘And Cassandra was there?’ Araminta took his hand, while Marina looked on daggers drawn.
‘Briefly – said she was going on to some reception.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Of course someone else,’ Walter snapped, the alcohol bringing back patches of florid colour to his cheeks. ‘The place was teeming – put a tray of free canapés on a table and they descend like flaming locusts!’
‘According to Valerie, Cassandra is adamant that, not only did you humiliate her on air,’ Araminta pressed on, ‘but that Jack swore to her that you made blatantly racist comments about Anna hanging out with some ill-educated half-caste – his words, not mine!’
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