by Wendy Holden
Laura closed the book and moved on down the shelf. Here were UberDirector by the ever-modest Tim Lacey and F*** Art by Zeb Spaw, an exhibition catalogue to go with the sell-out Serpentine show of the same name.
And here, oh dear, was Good To Goji by Willow St George, a compilation of favourites from her successful chain of clean-eating Spiraliza restaurants. Presumably in view of recent developments, it was marked at half price, but even that seemed steep to Laura leafing through recipes for crisped carrot peelings on shredded cardoon root sprinkled with carbonised toast dust. Willow beamed blissfully out from the back cover, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited. And here she was being clean, green and queenly, beaming at a grizzled old cheesemaker at a farmer’s market and holding a dripping mozzarella. There was not a Happy Meal in sight. Laura slid the volume back and passed on.
She felt she would like to buy a novel. For all its decoration there were no books at Riffs, nor bookcases, come to that. Her bedroom, which had belonged to one of Roger Slutt’s granddaughters, was a loud pink festooned with drapes and crowns. The odd volume might tone down this effect.
Did this bookshop, Laura wondered, have a second-hand section? She liked books that were worn, that showed evidence of having been read and enjoyed. Pre-loved paperbacks would also be cheap.
She walked around, looking carefully at the shelves for creased black or orange spines denoting Penguin Classics. As she neared the back of the shop she heard the low murmur of a voice. The bookseller must have an office there.
At the same time she spotted a slender section of shelving whose contents looked more worn than all the whizzy new productions around it. She went over to look.
Here were the classics, many she knew, some she didn’t. Here too was a collection of hardbacks with worn leather spines. One caught her eye immediately. Indigenous Fats and Waxes of Norway. Who even knew that this was a subject?
Harry would love it, she felt immediately. He adored obscure facts about unusual things. Perhaps she could buy it for him. She pulled it out; a damp, musty smell rose to her nostrils as she opened it. No price was visible on the thick, cream pages, their edges brown with age. She began to read, and smiled. This book was so Harry. He would adore that Norwegian fishermen used whale fat to weatherproof their houses, and that there was a type of crisp made from dried blubber.
‘Excuse me. I must seem very rude. I didn’t hear you come in.’
The bookshop proprietor was suddenly at her elbow. His blue eyes twinkled with welcome and his long, rather sensual mouth stretched in a measured smile. Noticing that he didn’t reveal his teeth, Laura thought of how her grandmother would approve. ‘Never show your gums, not in smiling, not in talking.’ Great dazzling Hollywood beams à la Savannah Bouche filled Mimi with horror.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve been looking round.’ Laura was watching him carefully for any sign that he remembered her from the pub quiz. He had been in charge of it and had ultimately had to deny them the prize. He would have obviously taken on board Kiki’s opinion that she was a troublemaker.
And yet there seemed no spark of recognition in the bookseller’s frank blue gaze. His name now suddenly came back to her. Peter. Peter Delabole.
‘Can I be of any assistance? Is there a particular book you’re looking for?’
Laura waved Indigenous Fats and Waxes of Norway. ‘I’d like this one.’
The bookseller looked apologetic. ‘I’m terribly sorry. But that book’s actually not for sale.’
‘So why’s it in the bookshelf?’ Laura challenged.
‘Yes, quite. A perfectly valid question. The answer is that it seems to have got there from a box of books I just bought at auction and haven’t catalogued yet. I’m so sorry. Not very efficient of me.’ He pulled a rueful face.
‘Can’t you catalogue it now?’ Laura felt that she really wanted the book for Harry, even at the risk of seeming stubborn.
‘That’s not really possible, I’m afraid. I really am sorry. You are absolutely right, of course. I need to overhaul my system. But just for now I’m stuck with it.’
It was impossible not to be charmed by him, nor respond to his obvious embarrassment. It would be churlish, Laura felt, to insist.
‘May I?’ Peter Delabole deftly removed the volume from Laura’s hand, closed it and placed it securely under his tweed-jacketed arm. ‘If I might make some alternative recommendations,’ he added, steering Laura back towards the front of the shop, ‘we are fortunate in having a number of well-known local authors. Dame Hermione Grantchester’s probably our biggest name. Nasty and Brutish are very popular. Have you read the Saddle-Saw series?’
Under his warm blue gaze Laura felt herself unravelling. ‘Er... no.’
The measured smile reappeared, slightly broadened. ‘Goodness me, you’ve missed a treat. They’re about Napoleon’s horse Marengo, they’re absolutely fascinating. It’s all written from his point of view, you see, and the bits about the Retreat from Moscow, when Napoleon was suffering from haemorrhoids, are especially well-imagined. One might almost imagine Dame Hermione was writing from personal experience.’
Laura left Great Hording Books with a copy of Nasty in a smart blue bag that echoed the shop’s azure livery. She regretted not getting Indigenous Fats and Waxes of Norway, but it had mainly been intended for Harry, so what was the point? Now Laura was out of London and away from all the places which reminded her of him, her obsession seemed to be fading. She felt more able to take stock and face the fact that she might not be seeing him again. But so what? Laura squared her shoulders and tilted her chin upwards. She could cope without a man.
But she could not cope without food. She was hungry, and here was Di’s Deli, with its old-fashioned delivery bicycle propped outside it. The shop looked wonderful, if rather expensive, its windows featuring bottles of champagne, pots of caviar and tins of foie gras arranged in wicker hampers fitted with leather straps and padded with muted checks. Picnics in Great Hording were clearly smart affairs.
The doorbell pinged as Laura entered. There were more baskets inside, as well as colourful tins of Italian biscuits and gleaming bottles of oil, wine and vinegar with elaborate scrolled labels. Loaves of all shapes and sizes were arranged like something by Arcimboldo. A large glass chiller cabinet displayed what were presumably fashionable salads in painted china bowls. What, Laura wondered, was dukkah? Ancient Grains sounded like something from the British Museum. A blackboard above the cabinet announced that the soup of the day was edamame. Had someone really popped out all the tiny green beans, only to make them into soup?
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman had appeared from a back room, large and truculent in a ribboned straw boater. It made an odd contrast with the blue hair and black lipstick beneath it.
‘Wyatt!’
‘Laura!’ The belligerent expression in the thickly made-up eyes changed to amazement.
‘Love the hat. What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing. You’re not here to spy on me as well, are you?’
Laura admitted that her spying days were over. The piece was on hold.
Resplendent in a Di’s Deli apron, her erstwhile intern rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t mean that. It’s me that’s being spied on now. It’s like living under the Stasi. My parents watch me all the time. And Di.’
‘She owns the deli?’
Wyatt nodded. ‘She’s out at the moment, thank God. Gone to the helipad with a delivery.’
Laura recalled the Jeff Koons dog statue.
‘Our friendly local oligarch wants some sausages,’ Wyatt added.
‘Can’t she just take the bike?’
‘This is Great Hording, remember. Sergei’s in St Petersburg right now. The bangers are being choppered to his private jet.’
Laura whistled. ‘So why is everyone spying on you?’
‘Because of Kearn. He’s Public Enemy Number One. Since the quiz.’
He was pretty amazing.’ Laura smiled at the memo
ry; the three of them wiping the floor with the massed ranks of Great Hording. Cheating MPs and all.
‘He is amazing.’ Below her dead white make-up, Wyatt flushed with pleasure. ‘Not that anyone round here thinks so. They all think he’s behind the stories that are getting out. About Jolyon Jackson, Willow and Lady Mandy’s list.’
‘Which one is Lady Mandy?’
Wyatt grinned. ‘She’s this ghastly pompous hag who holds the village over a barrel about her pantomime. The list is of who’s got what part.’
The terrifying old bat who had shouted at Savannah, Laura remembered.
‘Everyone’s desperate to be in it, even my parents. It’s a sort of collective madness. But Lady Mandy’s so picky even Kenneth Branagh wouldn’t stand a chance. I think he’s been turned down in the past, actually.’
With a stab of concern, Laura thought of Lulu. If competition was this tough, she wouldn’t have a hope of a role. ‘But why are they blaming Kearn? He’s done nothing.’
Wyatt’s smile died away. ‘But he does computer studies. And... well... he has form. The Little Hording Popular Front. He led a group which resisted the planning application for the Golden Goose. And he very nearly succeeded, except the council changed their mind at the last minute. The Mayor had the casting vote.’
Laura remembered the conversation she overheard between Kiki and Jolyon Jackson in the Golden Goose. And, further back, the remarks Wyatt had made in her own office. About the Farmer’s Arms once being a local pub for local people and Great Hording’s great sense of entitlement. She had been behind Kearn all the way, all the time. But what had he been behind? Perhaps he wasn’t blameless after all.
‘It isn’t him!’ Wyatt said fiercely, shoving a lock of blue hair back up into her boater. ‘And the Popular Front never hacked into people’s private lists and released them on the internet. Kearn is innocent.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Laura, staunchly.
Wyatt gave her a grateful glance. ‘It’s really hard,’ she confessed, looking suddenly vulnerable. ‘People are being so horrible about him. He’s trying to study for exams and doesn’t need this hassle. And the pub’s being boycotted; anyone in Little Hording with links to Great Hording’s being told not to drink there. Kearn’s parents are worried sick.’
‘What an awful situation. Has he no idea who’s actually behind all the leaks?’
Wyatt’s boater twisted from side to side. ‘None. Everyone assumes he’s guilty, though. My parents won’t let me see him or even talk to him. I’m not allowed on the internet or anything. They’ve taken my phone, even.’ Her eyes flickered hopefully about Laura’s pocket.
‘Here,’ Laura said, taking the hint and fishing out her smartphone.
Wyatt seized it gratefully and rushed into the rear. ‘Won’t be a sec. Cough hard if anyone comes.’
‘Okay,’ said Laura, hoping she was aiding star-crossed lovers and not abetting a treacherous plot. She needed to find out with all speed; in other words, go to Little Hording and see Kearn. Wyatt was clearly convinced of his innocence but Laura was not so sure. He had the skills, motive and also the opportunity to have made Jackson’s cheating public at least.
Later, she would get Vlad to drive her over. See him face to face. Get to the bottom of things.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Walking back to Riffs, carrying her book bag in one hand and the self-consciously retro wax paper and string parcel from the deli in the other, Laura wondered how Lulu had fared with Lady Mandy. She feared the worst, in which case the small piece of gold-leaf ewe’s cheese and the truffle sourdough baguette, which had been all she was able to afford, wouldn’t help much. Wyatt had slipped in a free seaweed and pomegranate aril salad, but mainly as something in which to bury the borrowed smartphone so Di, the returned proprietor, wouldn’t see her handing it back. Getting it out on the way home, Laura had had to wipe off clinging vegetation and plenty of oil.
She entered the huge, carved front door of Riffs to find Lulu dancing excitedly round the entrance hall. ‘Am in pantsomime!’
‘Lady Mandy gave you a part? That’s unbelievable.’
Lulu’s sunglasses flashed reprovingly. ‘Lady Mandy love me!’ she declared, clasping both hands in ecstasy to her quilted bodice. She had, Laura saw, dressed for the visit in John Galliano at his most exuberant; the difference between herself and an actual pantomime heroine was so slight as to be non-existent. Perhaps it was this that had influenced the queen of the village’s amateur thespians.
‘Did you audition?’
‘No. She say she love me because I fight Savannah. Cheeselady hate Savannah because she dump cheese son.’
Laura grinned admiringly. ‘Wow, Lulu. You always find a way, don’t you? What’s the part?’
‘I am sleeper.’
Laura frowned. Wasn’t Snow White the one about sleeping? Or Sleeping Beauty, come to that?
‘Grass sleeper,’ Lulu added, making Laura think again. Wasn’t there one called Babes in the Wood?
Then she realised. ‘Glass slipper? You mean, you’re the actual shoe?’
‘Yes, yes! Is special harchitectural one. Kind of boot-shaped. Made of brizzblock. Is by Bingo Borgen, you know?’
‘You’re playing a breezeblock boot?’
Lulu was too excited to listen. ‘Is panto, all famous people in willage do stuff? Zeb Spaw do scene, hmm?’
‘Zeb Spaw paints the scenery?’ God, what was that going to look like?
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Lulu was dancing about again. She was like a child when excited. Her joy was infectious and lit up the room. Even this room, blazing with mirrors and gilt, which was quite well lit up already.
‘And Wonky do garden, hmm?’
‘Cinderella’s garden?’
‘My garden! Wonky lovely sister.’
‘What?’ Laura pressed her hands to her temples. ‘Whose lovely sister?’
‘In panto.’
‘You mean Ugly Sisters?’
It took some time to decode the facts. Wonky de Launay had arrived at Promptings shortly after Lulu. She had no intention of playing an Ugly Sister, and once Lady Mandy had agreed to rename the part more flatteringly, Wonky and Lulu had got into conversation. Wonky, who obviously didn’t let the grass grow under her feet – especially if she could stick it in a jam jar and sell it – had offered to help Lulu overhaul the garden at Riffs.
‘She give me good price!’ Lulu enthused. ‘Want to do rustic planting. Buttertubs. Daisies.’
‘But they’re weeds,’ Laura pointed out. ‘They’re free.’
Lulu was not listening. She was full of Wonky’s vision. Central to this vision, it turned out, was transforming the guitar-shaped swimming pool into a guitar-shaped herb garden.
‘Is good idea,’ Lulu stated firmly. ‘Who can swim in outside pool in England anyway?’
Laura looked out through the multi-curtained windows of Riffs. The earlier rain had given way to a fine calm afternoon, with the droplets on the grass glittering under a strengthening sun. You could probably just about swim in such weather. And why had Lulu bothered to move to the seaside if she held such views about alfresco bathing?
There was little time to dwell on this because Vlad now entered the room. Laura was relieved to see her. After the humiliations of SmartButler, for her to consider her position would have been understandable. Vlad raised her chin. ‘I regret to report something of a hitch with the computer system, madam.’
Laura stared at her, hard. The butler met her gaze unflinchingly.
‘Is what happen?’ Lulu exclaimed.
Vlad explained in her usual restrained and respectful tones but Laura was sure she could hear triumph in the butler’s account of how the robot in the wine cellar had started shoving antique vintages into the recycling. And how, while Vlad had been unpacking upstairs, the revolving six-foot shoe tree had lost control and spun like a roundabout in a children’s playground, firing spike-heeled footwear in all directions. ‘I fear that the system may be s
omething of a danger, madam,’ was Vlad’s sober conclusion.
Laura looked down to hide a smile. How much of what had happened was really an accident? Lulu, meanwhile, looked at Vlad in dismay. ‘We call someone to fix, hmm?’
‘I know someone,’ Laura said, thinking quickly. Kearn. She needed to see him and this would kill two birds with one stone. She could talk to him face to face and he would have the system under control in seconds – in the sense that he would be able to shut it down completely. Maintaining SmartButler was going to do nothing for employee relationships.
She turned to Vlad. ‘I’ll contact him. Perhaps you could go and get him.’
Vlad met her gaze steadily. Possibly slightly truculently.
‘He’s very good, and he’ll obviously do his best,’ Laura went on. ‘But I’m not saying he’ll be able to fix it altogether.’
The butler’s stiff features relaxed. ‘Very good, madam. I’ll get the car ready.’
*
Kearn arrived an hour or so later. Being picked up by a chauffeured Bentley had caused a sensation in Little Hording, he said. ‘Attracted quite a crowd, it did. My mum was straight out there with the free pork pies. One or two stayed for a drink, so that came out of it, at least. Where’s this malfunctioning system then?’
Vlad escorted him to Riff’s central control room from which he emerged some twenty minutes later. ‘It’s terminal,’ he said.
‘Is terminal, yes,’ Lulu agreed with a toss of her hair. ‘But can you fix terminal?’
Kearn shook his head. His close-cropped hair and ungainly features contrasted dramatically with the flowing locks and noble cheekbones of Che Guevara on his T-shirt. But Wyatt, Laura knew, considered him quite perfect.
‘It’s quite an old-fashioned system,’ Kearn explained, ‘and some of the parts are obsolete. My recommendation is that you simply disconnect it and carry on with the normal circuits.’ He exchanged the slightest of slight glances with Vlad.