“Table in the name of Rigoni,” I said as he wordlessly ran a finger down the page of an enormous leather-bound ledger.
He grunted when he located the booking and gestured for me to follow him into the bowels of the discreetly lit restaurant to a table where Maria was chatting on her phone, oblivious to the disapproving looks of her fellow diners.
The atmosphere in Scott’s of Mayfair is thick with money and tradition. Much like many of its clientele, Scott’s has had its fair share of facelifts over the years, but the things that matter most to the very rich remain the same: The table linen is so heavily starched you could hurt yourself on it, there is a crystal glass set out for every eventuality, and the black-and-white-clad waiters maintain a haughty disdain at all times. It’s the kind of restaurant that makes you automatically sit up straight in your plushly upholstered seat.
“Sì, sì, grazie. Ciao !” Maria said into her phone, ending her call abruptly as the waiter pulled out a chair for me and laid a white napkin across my lap.
“What’s all this then?” I said looking down at a bowl of caviar surrounded by blinis.
“Caviar,” she said matter-of-factly. “The fact that you are jobless and penniless is no reason for lowering one’s standards. Sit, eat.”
“Osetra?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, heaping a mound of the stuff onto one of the tiny pancakes with a mother of pearl spoon. “Beluga—infinitely better.”
“And twice the price,” I added, laughing.
“Madame Szabo is paying, so eat up like a good boy.”
“I’ve had a chance to think about it,” I said, changing the subject.
“Am I going to like what I hear?” Maria asked through a mouthful.
“I’ll update my CV and e-mail it to you in the morning. I’d be happy for you to forward it to Lord Shanderson for his consideration.” I felt a huge sense of relief as I said the words.
“Darling,” Maria said, leaning over the table and taking my hand, “don’t bother with a CV—you’ve already got the job. You start on Friday.”
CHAPTER 3
The following morning I was woken up by the sound of an e-mail arriving on my iPhone. As soon as I began to fumble down the side of the bed for it, I realized just how hungover I was. With every tiny movement my brain slammed into the side of my skull, and my tongue was so dry you could have struck a match on it.
When I finally managed to focus on the tiny screen, I saw the e-mail was from Maria, sent at the unlikely hour of 7 a.m.
Maria Rigoni, you sly bitch! I thought as I began to read.
It had obviously been composed before she had turned up at the Connaught, and she had simply pressed Send this morning before turning over and topping up her beauty sleep. I began to laugh, but it hurt so much I quickly stopped.
The e-mail contained a map of how to find Castle Beadale, and details of my accommodation, what my salary was (she was right; it was very generous), and what uniform I was being supplied with. Castle Beadale was obviously an old-school kind of place, as I would be expected to wear the full monkey suit: traditional tailcoat, striped trousers, gray waistcoat, matching silk tie, and, best of all, white gloves.
How very Remains of the Day. Things started to look up when I got to the part about my accommodation—the charmingly named Rose View Cottage. Judging by the name I imagined a chocolate-box cottage with roses around the door and a tiny two ring Aga in the beamed kitchen, but then I suddenly had the horrible thought that Rose View might just be 1950s prefab next to the cowsheds. I hoped to God it was the former and not the latter, because if Maria ever came to visit she’d be calling for a cab back to London at the first whiff of cow shit.
The e-mail ended by saying that I needed to be at Castle Beadale by Friday lunchtime at the latest. It was now Wednesday, so it didn’t leave me with much time to get myself organized.
I dragged myself out of bed and padded barefoot through to the kitchen of my tiny flat. I had moved here when I started at the Landseer, and although it’s only rented I’m very attached to it. It’s at the top of what once would have been a very grand house in Stanley Gardens, just a stone’s throw from Portobello Road, and would have formed the servant’s quarters when the house was built at the turn of the nineteenth century. Being in the attic the ceilings slope dramatically on either side of each room, causing most people to smack their heads at least once on their first visit.
One whole wall in the living room was dedicated to my vast collection of framed Polaroid photographs. Most had been taken the summer I arrived in London after I bought a vintage Polaroid in Portobello Road market and became obsessed with documenting every aspect of my burgeoning social life.
Many pictured me with people I no longer recognized, and some were of people I’d rather forget, but my absolute favorite was of Maria and me, impossibly young, tanned, and semi-naked on a Greek beach. We had gone there the year we first met and had lived off cheap beer and Greek salad for a whole week. She and I often remembered that holiday as being the best on record and vowed to try to relive it in style one day.
I stood, as I often did, transfixed by the wall of Polaroids, as each tiny photograph brought vivid memories flooding back. Some were happy, some not so much, but those memories were the glue that bonded me to my life in London and to this little rented flat.
As I waited for my precious Gaggenau espresso machine to warm up, I gazed out of the small kitchen window at the private gardens below. I had watched the seasons change the face of the garden for five years and felt a knot in my stomach at the thought of leaving it behind.
As a kid I had lived in so many different places that the idea of suddenly packing up all my things and moving house made me feel uncomfortable, but I knew deep down that I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.
Even so, there was always a chance that my new job wouldn’t work out and then what? If I gave the flat up completely I’d have nowhere to come back to. And what would I do with all my stuff? I could hardly turn up on Friday with a removal van. I would have to find someone to look after the place and pay the rent for at least six months until I knew whether or not I could hack it in deepest, darkest Sussex. And I knew just the person to call.
I dialed Chris’s number and waited for the ring tone to tell me whether or not he was in the UK. The familiar sound told me that he was on home turf, but after a few rings the call went to voice mail.
“Chris, it’s your very favorite person here—at least I will be when you hear what I’ve got for you. Call me, and I will reveal all. Bye!” I hung up knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist a message like that.
Chris and I had become friends many years ago when he worked as an under butler for the late Queen Mother. Under normal circumstances the Buckingham Palace staff and the Clarence House staff would avoid each other like a dose of the clap, but for one long, torturous month every summer they were forced to work cheek by jowl when the Queen and the Queen Mother traveled to Balmoral for their annual summer holiday. The rivalry between the households was long held and deep-seated, but soon after meeting it became obvious that neither Chris nor I wanted to play any part in the bullying and backstabbing that went on below stairs. He had a quick mouth and a sharp brain, so any bitchy comments aimed in his direction were deflected effortlessly and with aplomb. Thankfully, he looked out for me too. In those days I was considered fresh young meat, so I had bigger things to worry about than snide comments. During my first trip to Balmoral I was practically stalked by one of the Queen Mother’s old footmen, Mr. Mills. Chris warned me about him, but I took little notice until one day when he followed me into the silver pantry, locking the door behind him.
“I like to play a little game with all the new boys,” I remember him saying. “It’s a bit like hide-and-seek.”
The dirty old bastard then put the key down the front of his uniform breeches and told me if I wanted to get out I had to retrieve it myself. Even back then, I was nobody’s fool,
so when he stood back and thrust his hips at me I shoved my hand down the front of his trousers and rummaged around for a few seconds before taking his scrawny old balls in my hand.
“Now there’s a good boy,” he moaned, just seconds before I squeezed as hard as I could.
When he doubled over, screaming in agony, the key shot out of the leg of his trousers, and I calmly unlocked the door to find Chris standing there. Mr. Mills pushed past us both and scuttled off into the dark recesses of the castle like a cockroach, leaving Chris and me howling with laughter.
“I think you and I are going to get on just fine,” he said when he finally composed himself enough to speak.
Chris continued to look out for me that summer, and I suppose in a way he’s never really stopped.
When the Queen Mother died in 2002, all sixty-five members of the Clarence House staff were turfed out on their ears. Some of them had been there since their teens, but when it came right down to it that counted for nothing. If there had ever been any doubt as to how ruthless the British monarchy is, it was promptly removed when “Backstairs Billy,” the Queen Mother’s favorite footman, was evicted from his grace and favor cottage just days after her death. Less than a week later his home for over forty years was turned into a ticket office and gift shop, in preparation for the opening of Clarence House to the public. He died just five years later, but not before describing his fall from royal favor as like being “stabbed in the back with a diamond encrusted dagger.”
But rather than join in with the chorus of complaining, Chris pulled his finger out and fulfilled a lifelong ambition by applying to be a purser for British Airways. Unsurprisingly, given his pedigree, he’d been in the job for less than six months before they put him in charge of the first-class cabin, and he couldn’t have been happier. The first-class passengers loved his witty but respectful banter, and he adored flitting back and forth between LA, New York, and London. The one thing he was unhappy with, however, was his living situation. He had recently split with his boyfriend, Barry, but the two of them were stuck with a mortgage neither could really afford. Chris earns good money, but it’s nowhere near enough to cover both his share of the mortgage and the rent for a flat. Barry had made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of budging his fat arse out of the flat and has always behaved appallingly whenever they are together. I’d always suspected that he’d knocked Chris about during various stages of their relationship. I’d asked Chris about it, and whilst he’s never actually confirmed my suspicions, he sure as hell hasn’t denied them either.
So my plan to invite him to stay at my place would provide a safety net of sorts and hopefully make the future look an awful lot less scary for the pair of us.
My phone vibrated, and just as I suspected it was Chris.
“What’s up, girlfriend?” His American accent was the worst I’d ever heard, but it was guaranteed to make me laugh.
“How’s wedded bliss?” I asked sarcastically.
“Don’t ask. You should have seen the state of this place when I got back from New York yesterday. Barry’s refusing to do any housework whatsoever. It’s a fucking pigsty.” All traces of humor had gone from his voice now. “Anyone would think he was trying to drive me out. Anyway, forget him. What is it you have to tell me?”
“Well, first of all I should tell you that I’ve been fired from the Landseer,” I said.
“What?” Chris screeched, his voice shooting up an octave. “I thought you’d never leave that place. What on earth are you going to do?” he demanded.
“I have a new job. I’m going back to butlering,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect.
“You. Are. Going. Back. To. Butlering,” he said in staccato, as if exploring the exact meaning of each word. “I don’t believe you.”
I laughed out loud at his certainty. That’s Chris all over: If he doesn’t believe something, it must simply be untrue.
“I’ve been offered a job in the country,” I said, bracing myself for his reaction.
“Oh! My God, it’s worse than I thought.”
“Yes, but that’s where you come into it,” I said, trying to calm him down. “I wondered if you would like to move into my flat for the next few months or just until I know whether or not I can hack it in the country.”
The line went so quiet that at first I thought I’d been disconnected.
“Really?” he asked eventually in a small voice. “Move into your flat in Notting Hill? The one right next to Portobello Road, the one overlooking the beautiful private garden? Hang on a minute, let me think.” He paused. “Hell yes! When can I move my stuff in?”
“I have to be out of here by the end of the week, so you can move in at the weekend if you like.”
“Anthony Gowers, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you. Thank you, thank you.”
I felt a sudden surge of happiness. Happy to be helping Chris get away from that pig of a boyfriend and happy that my flat would be cared for whilst I eased myself into rural life. If it didn’t work out for me, then the worst that could happen was that Chris and I would have to share the flat until he sorted something else out.
“What are you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Well, I was going to indulge in a spot of anal bleaching, but if you come up with anything more interesting, I’d be all ears,” he replied.
“Good. Come over here—I have a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Rose with our names on it. Be here around 8 p.m.,” I said, before hanging up.
With a couple of hours to kill before Chris was due to arrive, I pottered around the flat trying to get my head around what needed to come with me to my new job and what should stay. In the true spirit of procrastination I first rearranged all the bottles of cologne on the bathroom shelf. When I was happy with the results I got to work folding my ridiculously thick towels so that the embroidered Landseer crest was clearly visible on each—I doubt there was a single employee of the Landseer who hadn’t stolen at least a couple of these towels over the years. When I got to the bedroom I flung open the large double wardrobe and tried to take in all of its meticulously organized contents. On the top rail were suits and jackets organized in order of color from left to right, starting with my favorite Helmut Lang suit (very fitted jacket and ridiculously narrow trousers that did wonders for my rear view) through to a slightly frivolous white linen jacket picked up in the Harvey Nichols sale one year but which I had never worn. On the day I bought it Maria took one look and declared it “far too vulgar unless worn on a yacht.” Being nothing if not an optimist I decided to hang on to it just in case.
In the other half of the wardrobe was my vast collection of cashmere sweaters. Every shade and hue was there, and each one lovingly folded and interleaved with tissue paper. In times of great stress nothing brought me more pleasure than an hour or two folding sweaters until the inside of my wardrobe looked like a branch of the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. Suddenly a lump formed in my throat when I realized that Martyn had actually helped to pay for most of the designer gear in front of me, but I was also struck by how terribly urban my clothes were. There would be little opportunity to wear my handmade Church’s brogues or my silver nylon Prada raincoat in rural West Sussex. I knew that if I were to make a decent attempt at country life I would need to invest in some appropriate attire; a Barbour jacket and some wellies would do the trick. For once in my life I would attempt to blend in.
I finished straightening a row of shoes until they were mathematically perfect and then went into the kitchen in search of champagne flutes. As I was blindly feeling around in the back of the cupboard, the phone rang. I let the answer machine pick up as my need to find decent glassware was greater than my need for double glazing or whatever else I was about to be sold over the phone.
Nobody of interest ever calls me on the landline; I don’t know why I pay for it, I thought as I eventually found what I was looking for and gingerly removed them from the cupboard.
I walked into the living room just as the tiny pla
stic box squawked to life, and the second I heard the caller’s voice I felt the flutes slip from my fingers and smash into a thousand jagged pieces on the wooden floor.
“Hi, Tony—It’s your mother. . . .”
CHAPTER 4
I stood rooted to the spot, horrified, as my mother’s voice filled the room. With every word she uttered I felt my blood pressure rise. Even the tiny speaker failed to mask the booze-soaked tone of her voice.
“Long time no see, son,” she slurred. “I saw the papers the other day, and I thought I’d call to make sure you’re okay. Anyway, you’re not in so I guess I’ll see you soon. Bye, Tony.”
“Don’t call me Tony!” I screamed at the box before landing a kick on it that wrenched it from the wall. “And not if I see you first, you drunken old cow!”
Once I’d calmed down a bit I began to think about what she had said: I saw the papers the other day. At first it didn’t make sense, but then I remembered that one of the tabloids had managed to snap me coming out of the goods entrance of the hotel the day after Martyn died. I had thought nothing of it at the time, but the following day I was wrongly named as Anthony Gowers, “Hotel Manager.” Mr. Henderson had been furious at first, but when he realized it meant his name was going to be kept out of the scandal, he said no more about it. I couldn’t have cared less, as by then I knew my days were numbered at the Landseer, but my mother obviously thought I’d been promoted.
Typical, I thought. Never one to miss an opportunity to squeeze a few quid out of her only son.
An hour later, the broken flutes replaced and the shards of glass cleared away, I showered and changed in time for Chris’s arrival. I needed to see a friendly face more than ever after my mother’s impromptu call.
He arrived dead on eight o’clock, but given the events of the evening so far I double-checked it was him before buzzing him up.
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