Arnaud was studying his card with raised eyebrows and a dubious expression. My heart sank, for I knew from experience there are few things worse than a wine buff who reckons there is nothing fit for him to drink, then to my relief he pointed to one and said, ‘That one might be reasonable. They have a properly trained winemaker. He is French.’
The woman beamed, her indignation at our tardiness forgotten. ‘You’re French! Oh, I do love a French accent, it takes me right back to when I was a teenager and I used to swoon over Louis Jourdan!’ She gazed up at Arnaud in admiration. ‘You remind me of him too!’
She must have been very short-sighted. Arnaud looked nothing like Louis Jourdan. He accepted the compliment as his due and took her hand, kissing it in the most outrageously ostentatious fashion. ‘Merci, madame, you are too kind,’ he said. She was still fluttering with pleasure as we walked away.
‘Arnaud, that was the hammiest thing I ever saw,’ I said severely.
‘Hammiest? Like jambon?’ he began, and when I fixed him with a reproving look, for though his pronunciation can be dodgy his knowledge of colloquial English is excellent, grinned and asked, ‘But when in England should I not be what you English think a Frenchman should be?’
‘Not if you don’t want to be lynched by half the men present,’ I retorted. ‘Englishmen aren’t keen on their wives palpitating over a foreign accent, and as for hand-kissing…’
Despite the puce lady’s reproaches, I delayed getting down to my work for another few minutes by taking the long way round to where the action was, so Arnaud could look at the house and gardens before they filled up with guests. Whatever he might have been anticipating with his visions of le style Anglais, it certainly wasn’t a house where about ten different architectural styles had been flung together in what was usually - but not always - a happy accident. It wasn’t what he was used to, French châteaux don’t tend to have bits added on at random, and he didn’t altogether approve of it. But he admired the gardens and the view thoroughly, saying that the English truly knew how to landscape a park, even when they didn’t have the estimable Monsieur Capability Brown working for them.
We sat on a curved stone bench, enjoying the peace for a moment. A small herd of Jersey cows had positioned themselves centre stage in a field below the ha-ha with the instincts of a set designer looking for that final perfect touch, their coats almost gold under the rays of a slowly sinking sun, and a brilliant contrast to the long lush grass and cow parsley. Music drifted down from the house like some muted film score. Rose had lost the battle over the local bank’s dance-band, now installed at the bottom of the terrace steps, far enough away not to deafen the guests. The lead sax held considerable sway over the overdrafts of several committee members and it was generally felt it wouldn’t be a good idea to hurt his feelings by not accepting his offer to play. Since Rose was moving her account to the same branch, she came round to their point of view.
There were a few other people wandering around, looking at the flowers and commenting on the quality of the weeding, though most of the early birds had headed for the booze and were huddled around the tasting tables that had been laid in a line down the far end of the terrace. They were studying their tasting sheets with frowning concentration as they swirled their wines around in their glasses and lifted them up to examine the colour. Arnaud’s lip curled in an ominously familiar way and I threatened to kick him if he even started to make a rude remark. He lifted his eyebrows haughtily. ‘Me, rude? I am honest, but if you do not want honesty…’
‘Not here, I don’t,’ I said through gritted teeth, wondering not for the first time why it is that all wine buffs seem to think it’s obligatory to be absolutely honest about what they’ve been given to drink, even if they’re guests in someone else’s house. After all, if your hostess says, ‘What do you think of my new recipe for the lamb?’ you don’t reply, ‘Well, it’s rather overcooked, you used too much seasoning and the coriander was a complete mistake…’ Not if you want to keep your friend. But the keen wine-fancier has no such scruples.
I got Arnaud a glass of the wine he’d said was made by someone French and gave him mine as well for good measure. That might keep him quiet for a while. I could see Hamish’s dark head bobbing around further along the terrace as he served white wine, and was going to go and say hello to him. But I felt strangely shy about approaching him and decided he was probably too busy for socialising. Besides, I was going to be in mega trouble with Rose if I didn’t present myself for duty soon, so I looked around for someone to keep Arnaud happily occupied for a while. The nearest possibility was Flavia, which turned out to be a stroke of genius. Like the puce lady, Flavia was a sucker for French accents, and even more so for a French accent which belonged to someone who had de in his surname. And Arnaud was equally happy to be talking to someone he could recognise as a genuine English Lady, even if she didn’t actually have a title. Especially an English Lady who, unusually for the species, was dressed with enormous elegance and style and was looking a good ten years younger than her true age. I left them discussing lineage, they’d no doubt find out they were related in some way, since both were tracing their ancestry back centuries and eventually they were bound to get back to Adam.
Rose must have already had a couple of tasting glasses under her belt, for she was in a remarkably good mood and instead of receiving a rocket for my lateness I was greeted with a big smile and, ‘Wow! Like the dress,’ followed by a suggestive smile and, ‘No wonder you’re so late.’
‘It was nothing like that at all,’ I said stiffly and then spoilt my dignified air by adding, ‘I see you must have been in a bit of a hurry getting ready. At least I remembered to put my dress on over my petticoat.’
Rose stuck her tongue out at me. ‘Bitch!’ she said equably. Score one all. She was stunning in a navy-blue slip dress, her legs looking even longer than usual in her one and only pair of Manolo Blahnik’s, very high-heeled Roman sandals that laced right up to the knee. ‘Now come on you, there’s work to do. And no hanging around chatting up the talent while you’re supposed to be selling,’ she said severely.
I looked at the middle-aged and rotund stomachs that surrounded us. ‘I don’t think I’ll feel inclined to.’
‘No,’ she agreed gloomily. ‘Pretty poor showing so far. Still, there’s time for more to arrive. Stephen, Luke…’
‘Married women aren’t meant to cruise parties looking for talent,’ I told her.
‘Why not?’ she protested. ‘I don’t see why I can’t have some fun as well. Where’s your particular bit of talent, by the way?’
For a moment I couldn’t think what she was talking about, then I gestured down the terrace. ‘There, talking to Flavia. They’re getting on like a house on fire.’
She looked at them, open-mouthed. ‘Why did I never think before that what Flavia needs is a toy boy?’ she breathed. ‘Those two could be made for each other. I’m sure there must be something against it, but what could it be?’
‘That Arnaud’s going out with me?’ I suggested.
‘No, I don’t think that’s it,’ she returned serenely. Two-one to Rose, I thought resignedly as I picked up a huge wad of raffle tickets and my money bag and started persuading people that they really wanted to spend five pounds on the chance of winning a near-life-sized toy lion, a white handbag that looked suspiciously as if it was made of plastic and a ten-pound voucher for Maison Valerie (specialising in special-occasion outfits for the fuller figure). It was easier than I’d expected, everybody seemed to expect to spend loads of money and bought one or two books of tickets at a time. The tombola stall was doing a roaring trade as well, though I couldn’t help noticing that my bottle of Algerian red had been won and returned twice so far and we hadn’t even had supper yet.
I’d been keeping a sneaky eye out for Luke, a little worried that he might try to lay claim to me in front of Arnaud, that firm believer in the double standard, but I needn’t have worried. When Luke finally did breeze in, an
hour late, but a sight for sore eyes in tight black trousers and a snowy-white shirt, (just like a Spanish waiter - a look that no one but he could have got away with), he barely stopped to kiss my cheek, saying he’d catch up with me later and he must say hello to his hostess. I eyed his admirable back-view as he threaded his way through the crowd towards Rose, feeling distinctly put out. I knew he was probably only being tactful by not making a fuss of me in front of Arnaud, but he could have shown a little more enthusiasm towards me than he would for his maiden aunt - the one without the money too.
I doubted too if Arnaud would have noticed if Luke had enfolded me in the sort of embrace best confined to the bedroom. He was having far too much fun teasing his rival for Flavia’s attentions, a portly man in his fifties with a close-cropped moustache, who had ‘retired colonel’ stamped all over him, to even look my way. The colonel, an upstanding example of the stiff-upper-lip type, didn’t stand much of a chance against someone who had begun to perfect his flirting techniques while still at maternelle, and was driven to resorting to glaring at Arnaud with a ‘who’s this young whipper-snapper?’ sort of expression while Flavia simpered and preened under blandishments that were getting more French by the minute. When Arnaud took her hand, tenderly turned it over and made as if he was reading her future, the colonel’s face went so red I thought he was about to explode. But I knew that if I went over at least two of the party would find me about as welcome as an accurate mirror in a changing room, so I left them to it.
So much for worrying about whether I’d be able to divide my time between my two men without annoying either of them, I thought sourly, feeling distinctly unloved. My moneybag was getting heavy with the proceeds of my efforts, I’d dump it with the treasurer and go and find myself a drink. I reckoned I deserved a break.
CHAPTER 15
I had a frustrating time with the treasurer. She made me re-count the one hundred and forty-three pounds and twenty-nine pence I’d collected three times, saying severely the tickets cost a pound each so how had I come by the extra pennies? On the cusp of the fourth recount I bared my teeth in a smile and said through a clenched jaw that I remembered now, someone had given me his loose change as a donation. I hoped a thunderbolt wasn’t going to come down and smite me for lying, but it was in a good cause. The Susie not being kept here until midnight good cause. The treasurer nodded happily, bureaucratic soul satisfied, and wrote down painstakingly in her account book under ‘Miscellaneous’, “Donation to raffle - 29p”. I made good my escape.
‘Skiving off already?’ said a disapproving voice behind me.
‘And just how much money have you personally raised this evening?’ I asked, turning around to a grinning Rose, noting resentfully that judging from her sparkling eyes and slightly flushed cheeks she hadn’t been too busy to get herself a single drink in the last hour and a half. Unlike me.
She raised her eyes piously upwards. ‘I don’t sully myself with actually touching the money. Someone has to be the fat cat who sits back and tells everybody else what to do.’ She laughed at my expression and speedily changed the subject. ‘I haven’t seen Arnaud recently. Where is he?’
‘Still charming the pants off your mother-in-law, I expect,’ I said.
She opened her eyes very wide. ‘Not literally?’ she breathed.
‘God, I hope not!’ I said. ‘On the other hand . . . you’d love Arnaud as your beau père, wouldn’t you?’ I grinned as her face fell and added, ‘But he’s got competition from a man with a toothbrush moustache who doesn’t approve of him one little bit.’
‘Oh goody, is there going to be a fight over Flavia? That should really make this a memorable do,’ she exclaimed. ‘That’ll be Colonel Wilding. He’s known Flavia for ages, but he won’t make up his mind if he’s really interested or not. Oh, I do hope Arnaud’s making him jealous enough to whisk her off to his place in Yorkshire. He’s a widower too. Just think how perfect it would be,’ she said, eyes gleaming. ‘Flavia a hundred miles away.’
‘They might decide to set up their love nest in her wing here.’
Rose’s mouth dropped open in dismay, then she shook her head. ‘Jeremy wouldn’t allow it,’ she said, though her voice held a note of doubt. She looked around at the crowd stretching down the terrace, chattering away noisily. ‘It’s going well, don’t you think? Luke was saying how well he thinks I’ve organised everything.’ Her face looked all pink and pleased at the compliment. ‘He suggested perhaps I ought to think of doing party organising. He says I’ve got a talent for it. What do you think?’
‘That you do a good party or you should make a career of it?’ I asked. Luke was absolutely right. She was very good at doing parties, and it suited her restless energy perfectly, as she never spent long enough on any one thing to get bored. I hoped the nasty little sensation in my stomach wasn’t jealousy over him choosing to flatter her and not me. It probably was. ‘It’s not a bad idea,’ I said, making a big effort to be fair. ‘You should look into it, see if there’s enough demand for that sort of thing up here. You’ve done this brilliantly.’
‘I have to admit Luke gave me some good ideas,’ she confessed.
‘Luke did? When did he come around doing party planning?’ I demanded, keeping my voice casual with a determined effort.
‘He didn’t come here,' she said quickly. ‘Jeremy doesn’t like him much, though he hardly knows him so I can’t think why.’ If Jeremy had noticed his wife’s expression each time Luke’s name was mentioned I could think why very easily indeed. ‘But I told him the other day I had some problems with little details so he’s been ringing with suggestions. He’s been really helpful.’ She giggled. ‘He said if he had to spend an evening supporting charity he wanted to make sure it wasn’t too painful.’
She looked up with a broad smile as Luke threaded his way through the crowd with two glasses in his hands, dodging the first takers for supper, who were wandering around with dangerously loaded plates in their hands, looking for a table to sit down at. Two teenage girls, dressed up to the nines in black skimpy dresses, heavy eyeliner and Doc Martens, who had probably been dragged along on the grounds that their parents didn’t trust them alone in the house for the evening, were eyeing him with frankly lascivious expressions. One nudged the other as he came to a halt in front of us, and they began to sidle purposefully our way.
‘I’m so sorry, Susie, I’d have bought you a drink if I’d known you were here,’ Luke said and held up his glass. ‘You can have mine if you don’t mind my germs, I’ve already had a swig.’
‘I’m sure you don’t have any germs,’ I said waving it away, ‘but I wouldn’t dream of depriving you.’ I have to admit he looked distinctly relieved, especially when I assured him that he didn’t have to go and fetch me a drink either, because I was on my way to do it myself.
He put his arm around my waist, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. ‘What a star amongst women you are, Susie,’ he said lightly. ‘Beautiful, intelligent - and independent.’
I felt a pleased flattered tingle go all the way through me at the compliment, even though I’d come to realise that flattery dropped as easily from Luke’s lips as curses do from a navvy’s. Still, that was part of his charm, wasn’t it? It didn’t necessarily mean that he was insincere - just that he liked women. The two teenagers had got to within about five feet and were staring at me with a venomous expression that was making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. They probably thought someone as old as myself had had her chances and blown them, so should make way for the younger generation. I left them to battle it out with Rose, saying I’d talk to her later, and made my way down the terrace.
Hamish was busy at work, collar open and sleeves rolled up, looking remarkably unrumpled and fresh despite the fact that, judging from the continual press of people around, he must have been opening and pouring almost solidly for the last two hours. He was answering a question from a middle-aged man and put his bottle down, glancing up in my direction. I smiled at him. His eyes slid ov
er me as if I wasn’t there. Someone bumped into me and trod painfully on my heel as I slowed to a halt, staring at him while he turned around to get a new bottle. Was he just too busy to notice me or had I annoyed him somehow? I’d had the impression we’d parted good friends last week, apparently I was mistaken. Now my brief period of usefulness as a smokescreen was over, maybe he’d decided he didn’t want to be bothered with me any more. I felt an acute funk attack coming on and was about to forget all about getting a drink when I saw Stephen, perched on the end of the table in a manner that must have been considerably detrimental to its stability, holding a glass up to the light. It gave me an excuse to approach the drinks table without it looking as if I was thrusting myself forward for Hamish’s attention.
Stephen was taking little sips from a glass of white wine and studying his tasting notes with frowning concentration. ‘Can’t say I can taste any pineapply, bananary or blackcurranty notes in this,’ he grumbled to no one in particular. ‘No strawberries either. And if I’d wanted them I’d have had a plate of fruit salad. Who wrote this rubbish anyway? And why can’t they make this muck taste of grapes, that’s what I’d like to know,’ he demanded rhetorically.
Liddy, hovering by his side, frantically tried to shush him, probably fearing the supplier of the wine was within earshot. ‘Oh look, here’s Susie,’ she said, with an enthusiasm for my company that I’d never noticed in her before.
He looked up and exclaimed, ‘Susie. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.’
‘I’ve been selling these.’ I held up a bundle of tickets. Always loath to let a sales opportunity slip, I said, ‘Once you’ve finished that glass of wine I daresay you’d like to buy some as well, wouldn’t you? Even if you wouldn’t like,’ I added meaningfully, ‘I’m sure you’ll still buy some, won’t you?’
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