Kissing Toads

by Jemma Harvey

  ‘It is too much!’ I overheard her saying to HG. ‘First, I have to put up with the jardinera, who has the manners of a pig and the temper of a mad bull. Now, it is su padre. Next, it will be toda la familia. This is mi casa. It is a situation insoportable! Why do you not make the viejo leave? He is disgusting. He look at me with the eyes of lujuria – the eyes of lust – though he is so old he cannot have used his deek for many years.’

  ‘The same age as me,’ HG said evenly.

  For an instant Basilisa faltered, then she steam-rollered on. ‘He seem older,’ she declared.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ HG’s voice had an edge I hadn’t heard before. Maybe nor had the Basilisk. I wondered, hopefully, if he was reaching the limit of his tolerance.

  They went off to dinner in HG’s private dungeon and I found a minute to repeat the conversation to Roo.

  ‘Do you think we could use the Basilisk to get rid of my father?’ I speculated.

  ‘Maybe,’ Roo said. ‘Provided she doesn’t twig that’s what you want.’

  ‘We need a plan,’ I said.

  I was beginning to feel like myself again.

  The following morning I came down to breakfast early. I don’t usually do anything early, it’s against my creed; if you don’t have your sleep, you get tired, and you look like hell, and you don’t have that glow that Russell was on about. Early rising is incredibly bad for your health. But I can do it if it’s really important. Besides, I’d gone to bed around ten-thirty to avoid a late-night session with my father, so I was awake well before eight. Alex had evidently stayed up drinking; he barely stirred when I wriggled out from under the duvet, dislodging Fenny in transit, and headed for the bathroom. (We really must have sex soon, but somehow the more I thought about it the less I wanted it. It was weird, like Hamlet: ‘. . . the native hue of lust Gets sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.’ I would have worried I was becoming frigid, not to mention getting saggy tits, if I hadn’t had so many other things to worry about.)

  Downstairs, as I had hoped, I found the dining room empty except for the servants. Well, one servant. I sat down, requested coffee.

  ‘Winkworth,’ I said, ‘I need your help.’

  He leaned against the table beside me, arms folded, a little too close for comfort. But I wasn’t going to snub him right now.

  ‘I thought you decided I wasn’t a real butler,’ he said. ‘You can hardly trust me to help you if I’m a fraud.’

  ‘That’s exactly why you’re the person I need,’ I said. ‘You’re naturally devious and underhand. The thing is, I have to get rid of my father—’

  ‘I don’t do murder.’

  ‘Stop being stupid. I don’t want to murder him, I just want him to leave. That’s what he’s good at. Why is it people only walk out when you don’t want them to? When you’re desperate for them to go, they stay and stay.’

  ‘Are you desperate?’ Harry asked.

  I nodded. He didn’t push me on the personal stuff. He just said: ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’

  ‘He might go to the press,’ I explained. ‘You can imagine the headlines. ‘GARDENING DIVA DELPHINIUM DUMPS DAD’. You know the kind of thing. It would be awful.’

  ‘Would he do that?’

  ‘Yep. He’s sort of hinted to Alex already.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Basilisa doesn’t like him. I thought, if HG invited him to stay here, she might have a temperament and start screeching and force him to leave. He’s got nothing to do with the show, so he wouldn’t be able to come back to Dunblair. He’d have no option but to quit the area.’

  ‘And you want me to talk to HG?’

  I nodded again. ‘On account of your natural deviosity. I thought you could handle it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘What’s in it for me.’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be anything in it for you,’ I objected. ‘You’re a butler. It’s your job to sort out awkward domestic tangles.’

  ‘What have you been reading? Anyway, according to you I’m a fraud, so . . .’

  ‘Yes, but you’re pretending to be a butler, so you can still buttle. Jeeves would have done it.’

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Harry said, ‘Jeeves was a valet.’

  ‘Alfred would have done it.’

  ‘All Alfred had to do was polish the Batmobile and iron Robin’s tights – or possibly vice versa. No one ever asked him to outwit Catwoman’s mother or spike the Ovaltine for the Penguin’s dad. Deviosity wasn’t in the job description. So I repeat, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘A very large tip?’ I suggested viciously.

  He considered for a minute. ‘Only if I get to specify the precise amount and the nature of the currency.’

  For a wild moment I had visions of him demanding South African rand to be lodged in a Swiss bank account. ‘What the hell . . .’

  ‘You can afford it. You’re a C-list celeb, after all.’

  ‘C-list? C-list?’ I got to my feet, bringing us almost nose to nose. (Almost – he’s taller than me.) ‘I refuse to respond to provocation. I’m definitely B-list: we both know that. If you can’t handle my parent problem, forget the whole thing.’

  Harry grinned that maddening grin. ‘Calm down. You haven’t heard my price.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘All I’m asking is a kiss.’

  I stared at him. I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything at all.

  ‘One kiss. With tongues. Duration: minimum two minutes. Oh, and half before, half after. That’s the usual arrangement with dodgy deals of this kind.’

  I found my voice again, though my nervous system was spinning out of control and I had an extraordinary feeling that the floor heaved beneath my feet. ‘I am not going to kiss you! I don’t go around kissing the butler—’

  ‘Fake butler.’

  ‘I don’t kiss fake butlers either! I am never, ever—’

  ‘You want me to get rid of Roddy, that’s my price. Deal?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I don’t believe you can do it, anyway.’ I meant, get my father away from Scotland. Not kiss me.

  ‘Of course I can,’ he said.

  I should have backed off – we were still too close for comfort, too close for safety. I shouldn’t have hesitated. He caught my arms and twisted them behind my back, holding them with one hand. I suppose I struggled; I don’t remember. He was stronger than I expected. He took my face in his other hand – I must have tried to turn away. The grin was gone; his expression was somehow intent. I thought: he’s not even good-looking. Not like Alex . . .

  He kissed me.

  I don’t know why I opened my mouth – probably to protest – but it was very bad timing. His tongue went in and it pressed all the wrong buttons: it was terrifying, intimate, halfway to sex. His body was clamped against me and the biggest erection I’d ever felt was pressing into my groin. Just for a second I lost it completely. It was like when I was fourteen and Ben Garvin kissed me for the first time, only worse. Much worse. My whole body was sliding out of control, melting into him, melding into him . . .

  It must have been well over the allotted time when he drew back . . .

  Several heartbeats before he let me go.

  ‘That was something else,’ he said. ‘Mm. Definitely . . . something else.’

  ‘I didn’t agree to you kissing me!’ I fumed, groping for indignation, outrage, life-saving fury. ‘It’s eight-thirty in the morning! You can’t – you can’t maul me about at breakfast . . .’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll remember to collect the second instalment later in the day.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything to collect on! We don’t have a deal – we never had a deal. And if you lay so much as a finger on me again, I’ll sue you for assault – I’ll tell HG – I’ll—’

  ‘You could tell Alex.’

  That was below the belt. Alex in the gri
p of protective rage, Alex on the warpath doubling a fist in Harry’s face . . . the fantasy was beyond the reach of imagination.

  ‘I don’t need Alex,’ I declared. ‘I’ll deal with you myself.’

  ‘So we do have a deal?’

  That, of course, was the moment when we heard voices outside, and Russell came in, followed by Roo.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she said, gazing at me in faint surprise.

  ‘I . . . I had something to sort out.’ I didn’t look at Harry. ‘Anyway, I went to bed early.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said Russell. ‘It isn’t natural. Are those scrambled eggs? Good. Roo tells me we’ve had the Scoop on the line already. They want to come and take some pix this morning. They’ll want you too, Harry. Also Young Andrew and Ash.’

  ‘I don’t need PR,’ Harry said, disconcerted.

  ‘Don’t worry, you can stay in the background. Delphinium’ll see to that.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit busy . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, relishing his discomfiture. ‘You led the rescue party. You have to be there.’ Latching on to the chance of a small revenge, I radiated sweetness and generosity. Russell looked startled, Harry both annoyed and faintly appreciative of my tactics. ‘I won’t do it without you,’ I announced.

  It didn’t occur to me to wonder why Harry should be quite so camera-shy. It should have done.

  Ruth

  We spent most of the morning posing for pictures against the background of Dunblair castle, while the surviving journalist from the Scoop took notes about our expedition. Young Andrew was both tickled and uncomfortable at being included, making him more inarticulate than usual (especially since Auld Andrew came along to supervise). Ash was bored and increasingly impatient, Harry curiously reluctant to be involved at all. Delphi enjoyed herself hugely, thrusting Fenny into the limelight and evidently determined to make Harry take his share. I had no idea what she was up to, but in the end he said curtly: ‘If that’s enough, I’m off. I need to talk to HG about something,’ shooting Delphi a look which totally bewildered me. The Scoop fished for HG’s participation, but in vain.

  In fact, he was doing the final re-enactment scenes with Basilisa, well out of range of Delphi and me. I was so relieved I allowed myself to be inveigled into the front row of the publicity shots without complaint, although in the main I hate being photographed. I was itching to ask Delphi what she was up to, but we didn’t get the chance for a private word. She seemed to have got her glow back with a vengeance, though perhaps it was more glitter than glow, a kind of diabolical sparkle that made me deeply suspicious.

  At lunchtime, I began to have an inkling of the truth.

  Roddy Dacres was present, being chummy with everyone, acting as if he was part of the scenery instead of somebody whose only claim to be there was a tenuous relationship with his daughter. He had a strangely mesmeric effect on the company: he was so much at ease, so sure he belonged that no one had the nerve – or the effrontery – to question him. Even HG, putting in an appearance in the wake of his acting success, seemed to accept him at his own valuation. They’d talked golf and mutual friends (none, but Roddy stretched a few acquaintances) the previous day; now, to my amazement, I heard HG actually proposing that Roddy should stay in the castle, ‘Join the crowd – much more convenient than being stuck in the village.’ I glanced at Delphi, expecting to see raw horror in her face. But she seemed preoccupied, and was looking beyond HG to the door.

  None of us had noticed Basilisa. For once, she had made an unobtrusive entrance, following on the heels of Harry, who was at his most butlerish. It took about five seconds for the entrance to become obtrusive.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. In the heat of the moment, any concerns about the security of her marital position went out the window. ‘You invite this deekhead to stay here – in mi casa? I will not permit – no le dejo – he cannot stay! First, I must have these TV people everywhere – they insult me – I am atacada in my own home by una jardinera psicótica. Then you invite su padre to stay here! Ya estoy harta! He go, or I go. Now!’

  ‘Basilisa . . .’ HG turned towards her, extending a conciliatory hand.

  ‘And if I go, you know what I take with me? You know?’

  HG slipped into Spanish, murmuring reassurance, until Basilisa was persuaded to back off, throwing repulsive glances at Roddy. Then HG reverted to him, apologising smoothly, withdrawing his invitation, and explaining that he was afraid Roddy would have to leave Dunblair for good, all in a single faultless manoeuvre. Feminine caprice was touched on, masculine fellow-feeling appealed to, but HG wasn’t a superstar for nothing; without uttering an impolite word he made it very clear that Roddy was no longer welcome anywhere in the vicinity of the castle.

  Bewildered by the turn of events, Roddy found himself edged towards the door before he had time to object. Eager to save face, he did his best to salvage his leftover dignity, acting as if his mild departure was a special favour to HG.

  ‘Surprised someone like Hot God has marriage problems,’ he remarked to Delphi in transit. ‘Still, anything I can do to help him out. Handsome woman, Basilisa, but temperamental. I gather you upset her, Del. You should be more careful. Remember: your behaviour reflects on your old father.’

  Delphi’s expression tensed, but Harry snatched Roddy away before he could come up with any more comments on her filial shortcomings.

  ‘Time to leave. Jules is waiting to escort you back to the village.’

  That was quick, I thought. Much too quick. Jules was already at the door with Sting by his side; evidently he had been forewarned.

  ‘You set that up,’ I whispered to Delphi as Roddy departed, muttering something about visiting friends in Gloucestershire. ‘When did you get hold of HG?’

  ‘I didn’t. I don’t know him well enough to ask a favour like that.’

  ‘Then how . . . ?’

  ‘I asked Harry to help me – I mean Winkworth.’ As he re-entered the room, I saw him catch her eye with the familiar incorrigible grin. To my surprise, considering he’d just bailed her out of a serious dilemma, she didn’t respond in kind.

  ‘At least he must be in your good books for once,’ I said, ‘whatever your suspicions of him.’

  ‘No,’ Delphi said baldly.

  ‘What d’you mean, no?’

  ‘I think I’ve just swapped one problem for another. I can’t talk about it now, though. Tell you later.’ She was looking very thoughtful – generally an alarming prospect – but this didn’t look like the kind of thought that preceded a brainwave, more the sort where you’re thinking about something unpleasant or disturbing. As her biggest bugbear had just walked out of the door, I wondered what could be bothering her. I resolved to find out when the first opportunity offered, but work absorbed my attention for the rest of the afternoon, and Delphi, between filming with bog asphodel and some rather attractive tasselled grasses, rushed off to telephone Jennifer about her ex and return calls from Maddalena on the sacred subject of The Dress.

  As we’d finally finished the historical scenes, the actors, extras and so on were due to depart the following day. (Alex and Brie were leaving a day later in acknowledgement of their superior status.) Inevitably, that meant a party. An impromptu, let’s-do-the-show-right-here sort of party, with last-minute catering by Cedric and large quantities of booze imported from the pub by Dirk and Angus. As they clearly felt themselves to be honorary members of the team, they stayed to help, though I wasn’t sure what they were helping with. Probably eating and drinking. One of the actresses (the ghost-spotter) had a birthday (we were too tactful to enquire which), and HG donated a crate of champagne, despite his dislike of the drink, and allowed himself to be persuaded to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. He did it in a low-key style which went down well – with everyone except Dorian.

  ‘They’ll ask him to sing again now,’ he said despondently. ‘They always do. He’ll act modest and say no, and they’ll beg him and then he will. He’
ll sing that awful stuff from the sixties and seventies and dance about and everything – sometimes he goes on for hours. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘It mayn’t be your kind of music,’ I said, ‘but most people love it. He’s a great star. I would’ve thought you’d be proud of him.’

  ‘I am proud of him,’ Dorian said awkwardly, ‘sort of. It’s just . . .’

  ‘I bet your schoolfriends think he’s cool.’

  Dorian shuddered. ‘No they don’t. We were at this do once – someone’s sister’s wedding – and Joshua Kensington-Gore was there, and Dad was singing, and I went into the kitchen and there was Josh doing a piss-take, sticking his pelvis out with a frying pan for a guitar, and the others were all standing round laughing and laughing. When they saw me they went quiet, like, really embarrassed, and I tried to hit Josh, but he’s bigger than me, and back at school he’d keep doing it – the pelvic wiggle thing – whenever I was around, and all his mates would be sniggering . . . I can’t tell Dad. I mean, he thinks he’s cool – of course I can’t tell him. But I wish he wouldn’t sing. I sometimes pray he’ll be ill and lose his voice for good.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I sat down beside him on the settle. We were in the great hall, which had, among other things, superb acoustics. HG, as predicted, was just launching into ‘Get Down and Get Dirty’, Number One in 1968, with a backing tape filling in for the Fallen Angels and a lot of audience participation. ‘Right, where do I start? First of all, imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery. If your dad wasn’t a superstar, if he couldn’t sing, couldn’t wiggle, and did nothing to justify his existence but juggle his share options, your classmates wouldn’t take the piss. One of the penalties of success is that it spawns envy, and people who are envious do everything they can to denigrate what you do. Stars are always a target. In a sense, it’s fair enough – too much idolisation is bad for them. But it can be hard on their families. Your schoolfriends are jealous – not so much of your dad, but of you, because of him.’