by Daisy Waugh
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Maurice yelled, alarming the piglets on the other side of the wall, and setting them all to bleating. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘I was not,’ Les said slowly. ‘Only I heard you talkin’ away, and Charlie said to watch out for strangers. So I came to see. But it’s only you. An’ you’re stayin’ at the house, aren’t you? ’Scuse me fer interruptin’.’ But instead of walking away he shuffled a little bit closer. He looked slyly (or so, unfortunately, Morrison interpreted it) at the tiny mobile telephone Morrison was holding, and said, ‘I love them walkabout doodahs, funny enough. I think they’re beautiful things. I wish I ’ad one sometimes. Jus’ for holdin’ reelly. May I have a look an’ see?’
‘You little shit!’ hissed Morrison, outraged. ‘You’re trying to blackmail me!’
Les stared at him. ‘What’s that, Sir?’
‘Go on!’ Morrison hid his telephone behind his back. ‘Fuck off out of here, you silly cunt!’ Les stared at him. ‘Go on! Fuck off!’
Bewildered, but only a fraction more than usual, Les, who lived in a permanent haze of subdued confusion, wandered away not thinking much, thinking you got some odd sorts at Fiddleford nowadays. And within seconds he’d as good as forgotten the entire incident.
Morrison, on the other hand, who lived in a permanent state of near-psychotic clarity, found it harder to move on. He did not know how long Les had been standing there. Nor could he know if Les had understood the significance of what he may or may not have overheard. But he knew how much there was riding on it now – too much to leave anything to chance. Which meant Les would have to go.
He redialled Sue-Marie. ‘Sue-Marie,’ he said. ‘So sorry about that. Now. Where were we again?’ They made a date for dinner, three or four weeks hence, which he didn’t even bother to write down. Then he dropped his voice by another semi-tone and said, ‘So tell me, Miss Gunston. What, exactly, are you wearing today?’
Her answer didn’t fit the is-it-interesting criteria so while she chortled and chided, and informed him at intolerable length, Morrison made a mental note to give his nails one of those calcium treatments, and bided his time.
Unfortunately, he said, the reason their previous conversation had had to end so abruptly was because he’d discovered an eavesdropper. ‘It wouldn’t look too good, my angel, if you and I were known to be trading confidences…’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Exactly. So I’m going to ask you to do something for me. How do you feel about that?’
‘That’s OK!’
‘You’re going to have to trust me.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think you can do that, Sue-Marie. Can you trust me?’
‘Honestly!’ she guffawed. ‘I should certainly think I can…Minister!’
‘Good girl! Now I need you to call the news desk at one of my favourite newspapers and I’ll give you a name – Andrew Rampton. Have you got that? I want you to tell him that, while hiding out at Fiddleford Manor, Princess Anatollatia von Schlossenerg – and I’ll spell that for you, but he’ll know who it is – has fallen blissfully in love with fellow guest, the disgraced British tennis hopeful. Ex-hopeful. Nigel Harkwell. Have you got that?’
‘Goodness!’
‘And if Andrew doesn’t bite, I’m going to give you some names for a few other papers, OK? Now then.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s eleven o’clock now. In about an hour’s time I hope to be able to leave an envelope in the letter box at the bottom of the drive with a film in it…If Nigel and Anatollatia do what they usually do at this time of day, I should be able to snatch a picture of them together. OK?
She didn’t reply.
‘It’s all very simple,’ he said irritably. ‘Have you got it?’
‘I don’t know, Maurice.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘It seems a bit cloak-and-dagger to me. I’m not sure I approve.’
Maurice swallowed his first response, and his second. He purred into the telephone something about that dinner date, and she melted. And who could blame her? Until Mr Morrison appeared in Sue-Marie’s solitary life, not one man had bothered to look beyond the long, flabby cheeks, the double chin, the short, rectangular body, the self-obstructing beady little eyes…No man had listened to her talk as Maurice had; no man had shared so many of her dreams. Not only that, Maurice was no ordinary man. He was Maurice Morrison. Rich and handsome and famous. He was more than she had ever dared to imagine – and more besides. He was her prince. Her knight in shining armour. Since their evening in the drawing room together she had thought of no one and nothing else. Day and night she dreamed of their hot, passionate love in Venetian gondolas, of their candlelit dinners when (carnal desires briefly satiated) they would talk with quiet understanding, with mutual respect, about the things that really mattered, and he would listen to her…and national policy would be affected…and then later, back at the hotel…of satin sheets…and of sex and more sex and then room service…Sue-Marie, though unusually plain and bossy, was only human. She would have done anything he asked of her. And he knew it.
When Jo came down to breakfast the following day she found Charlie and Messy alone in the kitchen together, huddled in untimely proximity over one of the morning’s newspapers.
‘Good morning,’ said Jo, very sourly.
Charlie jumped as if he’d been given an electric shock.
‘Jo! Darling! Hello, hello! How are you feeling this morning?’
‘We only saw each other five minutes ago,’ she muttered. ‘Calm down.’
‘Morning, Jo,’ said Messy.
Jo ignored her.
Charlie took the paper from Messy and slid it over to her. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Anatollatia’s been up to her old tricks again. Only this time she must have actually let them in through the gates. They’ve got a picture.’
Jo scrutinised the photograph. Spread over half a page, and beneath the headline GAME, SEX AND MATCH!, were Nigel and Anatollatia lolling harmlessly on the tennis court as usual. Not touching, probably not speaking, but looking at each other in a way that might have indicated love. ‘Bloody hell. That bloody girl. D’you know she was telling me yesterday how happy she was here. Because when she got up in the morning she knew there wouldn’t be “anything to humiliate” her in the papers. And I believed her!’
‘Mind you, there’s nothing particularly humiliating about that picture,’ Messy said reasonably.
‘That’s beside the point,’ snapped Jo. ‘She’s a liability.’
‘I’m afraid she is.’ Sadly, Charlie shook his head. ‘She hasn’t surfaced yet,’ he said. ‘But I think when she does, we’re going to have to ask her to leave. Don’t you think, Jo?’
Jo sighed. ‘It’s a shame. I know she’s ridiculous but I was actually beginning to quite like her.’
‘Same here,’ said Charlie and Messy. In unison. And then looked at each other and laughed.
Jo counted to three. ‘Right,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m going to wake her up.’ She turned towards Messy, sitting innocently at the table, sipping coffee and listening. ‘By the way, Messy,’ she said, ‘I think I heard Chloe crying. She may have locked herself in the bathroom.’
Messy jumped up to rescue her and, as she left, Jo sent a glacial stare to her husband.
Who laughed.
‘Oh come on, Jo.’
She walked out of the room.
An hour later Anatollatia was in the hall, packed and sobbing and wrapped in the arms of Nigel. Which was something at least. The sight of his princess’s anguish had finally forced him to conquer his reticence. And as they stood together in front of the door, and Les waited nearby to drive her back to London, and Charlie and Jo loitered awkwardly beside them, Nigel had taken her thin orange cheeks in his meaty hands and kissed her full on the lips. It had gone on for ages.
‘Come on,’ Charlie said eventually. ‘Les is waiting.’
Anatollatia pulled back from the long embrace and immediately started crying again. ‘But I don’t want to go! I l
ove it here! I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘I wish we could believe you,’ said Jo. ‘I really do.’ Looking at her bloodshot eyes, her wounded child-like confusion, Jo felt a flash of doubt – and quickly suppressed it. Anatollatia was famously addicted to her own fame. Apart from the Royal pant-wetting incident, and the phantom naked photo-spread, it was pretty much the only famous thing about her. And after all, she had contacted the papers – and denied it – once before.
Nigel held her tight and glared resentfully at Charlie and Jo. ‘She’s not lying, you know,’ he said. ‘She didn’t do it.’
‘Well, who else would have done it?’ said Charlie impatiently. ‘Look, we can’t stand around all day. Anatollatia – please – it’s been a pleasure having you here. It really has. But Les is waiting.’
As if from nowhere, Maurice appeared, apparently deep in thought. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said merrily. ‘What’s everyone doing here? Anything I should know about?’ He glanced across at Nigel and Anatollatia, still clinging to one another, and smiled indulgently. ‘How sweet,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that sweet? Don’t you think? D’you know I suspected there was a bit of a frisson developing between you two – and of course I was quite right! Isn’t that lovely? Well!’
‘Yes, yes. We’re very happy for them,’ said Charlie. ‘Maurice, I don’t know if you’ve read the papers today, but unfortunately Anatollatia is just leaving. So if you want to say goodbye…then NOW…is going to be pretty much your last chance.’
‘I did read the papers, yes,’ he said sombrely. ‘Indeed I did. As a matter of fact I was just coming to talk to you about it.’
‘But I didn’t do it,’ Anatollatia wailed. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘I was going to come and find you as soon as…’ Jo glanced at Anatollatia ‘…I’m so sorry, Maurice. But as you can see we are dealing with it and no damage has been done. I mean, regarding your own position here. Which remains a closely guarded secret. As before…Please,’ she added lamely, ‘will you accept our apologies?’
‘Aaah. Jo and Charlie,’ he said, raising a hand to his chin and looking very serious. ‘Would you mind? Could I have a quick word?’
‘But we’re dealing with it!’ Jo pleaded. ‘You can see we’re dealing with it! There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. The case is closed.’
‘My dear Jo – of course. But that’s exactly my point.’
‘Can’t it wait?’ snapped Charlie. There was something about Maurice, in spite of all the help he had given to Fiddleford and to everybody staying there, which set Charlie’s teeth on edge. He couldn’t come up with a decent explanation for it and had been forced to the regretful conclusion that it was most likely related to his own jealousy. Which made it even worse. ‘I mean,’ he added more politely, ‘perhaps we should see off Anatollatia first.’
‘Only I think you may be doing Anatollatia a tremendous disservice. The fact of the matter is—’ He turned, saw Les lolling outside the front door. ‘I must say I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I could have this conversation elsewhere…’
Not long afterwards Anatollatia was allowed back upstairs to unpack, and Charlie, with a heavy heart, called Les into the library. In spite of Les’s angry protestations, half-crazed counter-allegations and finally even his tears, Charlie stuck to his guns, and fired him.
Since that first successful foray into Jo’s office Maurice had taken to dropping in all the time, bringing with him a steady trickle of carefully disguised hints and insinuations about the state of her marriage. She had begun to believe that he and the ‘poppets’ in her belly were the only true friends she had left in the world.
She watched Charlie and Messy constantly, whenever they were together. She watched Charlie passing Messy the mustard; Charlie not passing Messy the mustard – pretending he hadn’t heard her asking. Charlie laughing too hard at something she said; Charlie not laughing at something she said. Charlie sitting next to her on the sofa. Charlie sitting on the chair furthest from her in the room. Charlie passing her a coffee cup, and their hands touching…or not touching…or barely touching…She found evidence of a secret connection in the most innocent, non-existent exchanges. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to say a word. She was too angry, too proud and – by now in such a hyped-up state – too afraid of what his response would be.
The General noticed something wasn’t right about her but felt it wasn’t his place to say anything. Grey and Messy noticed it too and finally, at Messy’s instigation, Grey asked Charlie what was going on.
‘She’s beginnin’ to look a bit crazy, Charlie my friend. What are you doin’ to her?’
Charlie held his head in his hands. ‘Nothing,’ he said adamantly. ‘Nothing. I wish I knew what was wrong.’ He had imagined all sorts of things: that she hated Fiddleford was one possibility – and one that she had denied; that she hated being married was another, or hated being married to him; that she had fallen in love with Maurice Morrison (they spent enough time whispering together in her office.) But the idea that Messy, although clearly an irritant, could possibly have been at the root of Jo’s misery simply hadn’t crossed his mind. Everyone else seemed to know about her and Grey. He assumed Jo did – and only hadn’t mentioned it for fear of putting her nose even further out of joint.
‘Grey,’ he said miserably, ‘I don’t know what to do. She barely talks to me anymore! All she does is work. And whisper to that little shit Morrison.’
Grey gave a surprised laugh. ‘He’s helped us out of a few scrapes, you know.’
‘She won’t stop working. Whenever I suggest we take a break – or I suggest we do anything together – she says she’s got to work. She pretends to be asleep the second she gets into bed. Which isn’t to say – I’m sorry. That’s more than you probably needed to know. I mean she won’t talk to me. And then I see her looking at me—’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Like she hates me.’
‘Messy says maybe she just hates bein’ pregnant. Apparently most people do. Plus having twins an’ all that…’
‘She swears it isn’t that.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Mind you that doesn’t mean much. She can’t open her mouth without lying.’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh God, I didn’t mean that…’
‘I know you didn’t. I mean I know you did but it doesn’t matter. Only somethin’s eatin’ at her, Charlie. Whatever it is you should get it out of her.’
‘Jesus, Grey. Don’t you think I’ve tried?’
‘I’m sure you have. Of course you have.’
‘It’s got so bad. She’s so fucking angry all the time. She’s making herself ill.’
Later that same day Maurice Morrison tapped politely on the door of the library, where Charlie was diverting his sorrows with the newest batch of incomprehensible government forms. ‘Quick word?’ he said, slithering into the room.
He was in a good mood that afternoon, having finally been given the OK by the money-grubbing Albanian auntie. She wanted £30,000 wired immediately to a son in the United States. Which was simple enough. If all went according to plan, Maurice would be standing at the boy’s bedside within the next couple of days. It gave him the impetus he needed to tie up affairs down at Fiddleford. ‘D’you mind? I know you’re busy.’
Charlie felt the familiar flutter of ill will when he saw him, but managed to nod politely. ‘Come on in.’
‘Only it’s absolutely none of my business,’ Morrison said, rearranging a few papers on Charlie’s desk so, like an over-familiar teacher, he could lightly rest his bottom on the edge of it. ‘And, as I said to your wife, with two divorces behind me I’m hardly a man to be offering advice. Having said that, I do have some experience of relationships falling apart and frankly…’
Charlie smiled wearily. His unhappy marriage appeared to have become everyone’s Topic for the Day. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said, laying down his pen, leaning back. ‘It’s none of your business at all. But go on…any suggestions welcome. At this sta
ge…I suppose.’
‘Quite,’ said Maurice. ‘I wish I had been so wise.’ He paused, as if thinking how best to continue. ‘Bottom line is, Charlie,’ he blurted out. ‘It’s Messy. She thinks you and she are having an affair.’
Charlie laughed. ‘…She what?’
‘I know. It’s barking. She’s barking – if you’ll excuse me for saying so. All those hormones probably. My second wife went completely mad when she was pregnant with the second one…Marcus. When she was carrying Marcus.’ He frowned. ‘And frankly I’m not certain she ever recovered. But that’s not the point.’
‘How can she possibly think anything so stupid?’
Maurice gave the faintest of shrugs.
‘And anyway how the bloody hell do you know?’
‘Oh—’ Maurice ran a brown hand through his blond hair and looked suitably embarrassed. ‘God, I don’t know, Charlie. You know how it is. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone else. A stranger…Anyway I just thought I’d tell you. Because frankly she’s beginning to look very unwell. And miserable. And if I were you, I mean it’s unfair, of course I realise that, and I for one shall be sorry to see her go. But if you care for your wife even half as much as I think you do, I should give poor old Messy her marching orders. P D bloody well Q.’
‘That’s ridiculous! She hasn’t done anything wrong. Anyway, for Christ’s sake, the whole thing’s completely pathetic. She’s having it off with Grey.’
‘Is she?’
‘Oh God. Shit! I probably shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Well, I never,’ said Maurice. ‘This place is a little hothouse, isn’t it? Cupid’s GB HQ, nothing less.’
‘Not for me,’ said Charlie gloomily.
‘No. Me neither.’
Charlie laughed.