Noblet said something that included ‘very kind’ and ‘Savoy’ and ‘convenient’ but not necessarily in any kind of coherent order. The food arrived and they all fell to, Saskia offering a piece of her gory steak to Noblet five or six times.
‘Anyway, babe. I was saying to Henry, I can’t make it tomorrow because I’ve got meetings, but I’m gonna be there on the big day, so you needn’t worry about that.’
The steak hadn’t quite soaked up the wine yet and things were still blurry.
‘Shorry, don’t follow. Big day?’
‘Saskia’s offered to come and help out on the sixth, Bob. She thought we might need a female point of view on things. I think it’s a great idea.’
‘The sixth?’
‘Yes, the open day at the village hall.’
‘Village hall?’
‘Yes, Bob. Keep up – the interviews.’
‘Oh! The interviews. At the village hall. Yes. On the sixth. What about them?’
‘Saskia’s coming to help.’
‘What!’
‘I offered as a favour,’ snapped Saskia. ‘If you don’t want me there, believe me, I’ve got plenty of other things to be doing.’
She whipped her phone out of her handbag and jabbed at the screen.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean… I’d be very apprehensive… I mean appreciative…’ He turned to Henry, a plea for help stamped in crimson across his face. ‘Don’t I?’
‘Bob would be very grateful, darling, you know he would. He’s a bit nervy about the whole thing, that’s all.’
‘Exshtremely nervy,’ agreed Noblet.
‘Oh yeah, he sounds really grateful,’ sneered Saskia.
‘Come on, sweetheart, you know he didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Silly, silly old Bob,’ said Noblet, with a pitying shake of the head.
‘Well…’ putting down the phone she seemed to relent. ‘I don’t see how you can do without me, to be honest. You need a woman’s eye. Caroline’s fabulous, of course, but I can’t imagine she’d want to get involved?’
‘Mother refers to it as the cattle market,’ confirmed Noblet.
‘And I can see her point of view. But on the other hand, it’s everything that The Vacuum stands for. It’s a platform to allow an ancient family to embrace the twenty-first century in an ultra-modern way.’
‘Is it?’
‘God, yeah! It’s sweeping away the old-fashioned traditions of courtship and reducing the marital process down to its essential elements of barter and exchange.’
‘Is it really? Well.’ Noblet was taken aback.
‘Absolutely. And Henry’s a goddamn genius for thinking it up.’ She beamed at him, then pulled him towards her for a kiss.
Smiling back, Henry said, ‘I’m not going to disagree with anyone who calls me a genius, but I think you’ll find yourself in the minority. It’s not a new idea – most TV talent shows started with an open auditions round.’
‘Yes, babe, but the genius comes in taking an existing idea and applying it to an entirely new sphere. You’ve got one of those minds that refuses to be bound by tradition – you’re an innovator, like me.’
Noblet had one of those minds that thought some kind of chocolate pudding was in order after a main course of steak and chips. He tried to attract the waiter’s attention with one eye, while keeping the other trained on Saskia’s face in an effort to appear keen and alert. The restaurant was at its busiest and the band were struggling to be heard over the buzz of voices and clatter of cutlery on crockery. When Henry’s phone rang, he was alerted by the discreet blue light of the screen next to his wine glass.
‘Henry de Beeble. Who? I’m sorry, who? Oh – Gareth! Yes.’
‘Who’s Gareth?’ asked Noblet.
‘No idea, babe. Maybe someone from Henry’s work.’
‘Yes, go on. When? How many? Right. Thanks, that’s useful. Keep in touch.’
Henry hung up.
‘That was Gareth, Bob. He’s heard something.’
‘Who the devilled kidneys is Gareth?’
‘The chap up the tree – the paparazzo. He’s been told to cover a meeting in Gently Rising on the sixteenth. Some of the villagers are agitating.’
‘Agitating?’
‘Yes. Not too happy about us swanning in and playing Lord of the Manor apparently.’
‘But I am the Lord of the Manor. Aren’t I?’
‘According to him, certain villagers are accusing us of riding roughshod over them. Using their facilities without proper permission.’
Saskia rolled her eyes.
‘We should have expected this, babe. Villagers are worse than small-town people in some ways. Narrow-minded, you know?’
‘But all we’re doing is borrowing the village hall, Henry! Where’s the harm in that?’
The waiter arrived to take their dessert orders and conversation ceased for a moment. When the waiter had withdrawn, Henry said, stroking a thoughtful eyebrow, ‘Perhaps we should have been more diplomatic. If we’d involved the villagers in the process, we could have got them on side. Stupid of me.’
‘Oh, come on, babe. Like Noblet says, you’re only using the village hall.’
‘It’s the principle. People like to be consulted.’ The eyebrow seemed in danger of being rubbed off entirely. ‘Maybe there’s a way to smooth things over, though,’ he mused.
‘Does it involve me?’ asked Noblet.
‘No.’
‘Excellent! Do whatever you need to do, young Henry, you have my complete support.’
Chapter 5
Canter canter canter. Turn. Canter canter canter. Turn. More cantering.
What was the point, wondered Chip? Either they want to be in one place, or another. Why the turning? Why the cantering in the other direction? Why the turning again? Chip knew where she wanted to be. She wanted to be back in the stable flirting with Don Juan and nibbling seductively on a little fresh hay. Once she got back there, she sure as hell wasn’t going to be turning and cantering away again. She had a little bit more nous, she liked to think, than these bossy pink barnacles. Not that she minded this one so much. This one was light and agile and didn’t hurt her mouth like some of them. She smelt like hay and trees and other nice things. She gave Chip lots of pats and stroked her nose with soft fingers. Off they went again, cantering. Then turning. This one might be nice, but she had no more sense of direction than the rest of them. Pick a place, get there and stop, that was Chip’s motto. Much more restful and less strain on the joints.
Something small and hard hit Chip’s back and she reared up, imagining monsters throwing rocks. Her rider slipped off and a couple of people darted across from behind the railings.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Naughty Chip! Bad girl!’
‘No, no,’ laughed Mia. ‘It wasn’t her fault – my mobile fell out of my pocket. It must have scared her.’
She got up and stroked Chip’s nose. The pony refused to make eye contact.
‘Sorry, sweetheart. It won’t happen again.’
Chip was unimpressed. Fine words buttered no parsnips in her book. Someone had picked up Mia’s phone and handed it back to her. Noticing a text message, Mia touched the screen and read: ‘Local bigwig Elaine Jowlett holding meeting on the 16th about Lord de Beeble’s interviews. Could be interesting. Hope you’re well, nice and sunny here, love Alice.’
Interesting, certainly. Particularly if Lord de Beeble put in an appearance. But she had plenty of time to organise a flight; no point missing the rest of the polo match. Handing her phone to the groom she remounted Chip and, after a couple of pats on the neck they set off again, cantering and turning and cantering. Chip let out a whinny of exasperation. Where would it all end?
***
Tap tappity tap tap tap went Sinead Dumper’s acrylic nails on her computer keyboard. The curtains of Lake House (known from 1870–2016 as Pond House but promoted to lake status by its current owner) were drawn and the only light was the glare o
f the screen as it picked out the sharp angles of Sinead’s face. Her jaws were clamped shut, her shoulders hunched and her body motionless other than the fingers flying across the keys. She was concentrating hard. A former legal secretary, her typing speed was a hundred words a minute and her brain struggled at times to keep up. Coco lay at her feet, fluffy head slumped on his front paws. He was silent other than an occasional sigh of disgust.
Strategy for ‘Becoming Lady de Beeble’ (BLDB)
“If you fail to plan, you plan to fail”
Phase 1
Appearance
Increase St. Tropez sessions from fortnightly to weekly
Trip to West End for hair restyling consultation (Duchess of Cambridge? Victoria Beckham? Claudia Winkleman?)
Facial expressions. Practice aristocratic looks in front of mirror daily (pull chin in, frown, loosen mouth, avoid eye contact)
Research and preparation
Daily revision of Wilkie Collins facts
Learn five entries of Who’s Who (Mereshire residents) per day
One chapter of etiquette manual per day
Flower-arranging lessons
Action
Daily walks with Coco past gates of d B Hall
Increase volunteer sessions at community shop to ensure hearing all local news
Execute strategy for attaining first place in queue 6th June (Operation Bouncer)
Exploit all opportunities of bumping into Lady Caroline (church?)
Remember to smile!
Next steps
Keep daily log of all new information and progress
Note main competition
Go for gold!!
Sinead pressed save and reviewed her work. It looked good. It looked businesslike. It would give her the edge. She liked plans. Plans were the framework around which a successful life was built. Her ex-husband had been the fruit of a lever arch file full of research, notes and Gantt charts. He’d been quite startled when he came across it one day, but by that time they were safely married and there was no turning back.
He’d been last on her list of targets when she started work at Rowe, Rowe, Rowe and Yibbut; but having discovered that the three Rowe brothers were married, she had moved on to the acquisition of, and merger with, Simon Yibbut. He seemed timid and so rather than scare him off with an immediate revelation of her sexual attractions, she took tips from a book by an American author she’d found in the library called The Husband Trap – Softly, Softly, Catchee Money. She lowered her lashes in what she understood to be a ‘coy’ manner when he entered the room. She tried making her chest heave a little when he spoke to her, although soon gave up on this; concerned that it might look like she was doing buttock clenches at her desk. She allowed herself the luxury of time and built up her attack over several weeks.
Her hard work, research and continual reapplication of make-up paid off. Simon Yibbut surprised himself one day, when he and Sinead chanced to be alone in a meeting room, by inviting her to go to La Traviata with him that Friday evening. He had been somewhat bewildered at Sinead’s instant declaration that she loved Italian food, but on the whole, she appeared keen to accept the invitation and he hurried away to his own office, to marvel at his own audacity. The date went brilliantly. Sinead had learnt sections of the latest issue of The Lawyer by heart and spent the moments before curtain up probing Simon on his opinion of the latest amendments to section 34 of the Property Act. He was thrilled to discover that someone so attractive could also be such a sparkling conversationalist, and at the interval relaxed enough to regale her with his thoughts on the likely ramifications of the proposed white paper on the standard due diligence process. One thing led to another and before the year was out Simon had persuaded Sinead to dump the Dumper and say yes to Yibbut: a proposal she accepted with the same businesslike attitude she had brought to the entire transaction. Barely were the words out of his mouth than she was slipping engagement ring catalogues out of her handbag and firming up provisional reception venue bookings. The wedding was elegant in the extreme: nothing was omitted, from the salmon-pink-plumed horses pulling her glass carriage, to the ‘sunset and rainbows’ theme and the seven flower girls in shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. She had done it. She had set out to marry well, she had planned it down to the last flutter of eyelashes and she had achieved her goal. From now on she knew whatever she set out to achieve was within her grasp, as long as she applied herself.
Compared to the effort she put into snaring him, divorcing Simon Yibbut was a cinch. Almost before he knew what had hit him he was on his own again, one or two million pounds the poorer and with considerably more grey hairs. And Sinead, unpacking in her new house in the country, had filled a shelf with pristine and – as yet – empty lever arch files.
***
‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.’ No matter how hard she tried not to, Alice would find herself reciting these words in her head at the sight of Elaine and Ted Jowlett. Elaine was a mountain of flesh and beside her Ted looked like a sliver had been sheared off and then remoulded into something resembling a man. He was narrow everywhere: narrow hips; narrow, sloping shoulders; long, narrow head and narrow lips. Even his hair was narrow: an oval island of brown marooned in the middle of his white, waxy forehead.
Alice was looking through the serving hatch doing a rough headcount. There had to be at least a hundred people crammed into the hall. Thank goodness she’d made extra of her home-made brownies and millionaire’s shortbread. Elaine and her husband were standing by the stage, surrounded by a gaggle of villagers. Behind them, the rows of wooden chairs were filling up with familiar faces. Sinead Dumper was prominent in the front row, glammed up to the nines in a little black dress and diamonds. Colonel Markham was a few rows back, sitting bolt upright, one hand on his walking stick. Alice had spotted one or two other village stalwarts arriving: Mrs Fratterbury looking windswept, Lorraine Watford with her jumper on inside out and Jerry Brewer, the aptly-named landlord of the Lion and Lamb, potbelly straining against the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt. Elaine glanced up at the clock, which was showing three minutes to seven. Raising one rather mottled hand, she hushed the group of villagers that surrounded her and strode to the stage. Ted, lost in admiration, was brought to heel with a sudden look shot from under his wife’s caterpillar brows as she ascended the rickety wooden steps. Everyone hurried to find seats and settled themselves with some muttering and rustling before an expectant silence leached across the room. Elaine approached the edge of the stage and paused, feet shoulder-width apart and arms folded as if she were drawing breath before throwing herself into a demonstration of traditional Cossack dancing.
‘Gently Risingers!’ The way her voice swelled and rolled around the room called to mind a great warrior, rallying her clan before battle. There was a certain air of the Highland chieftain about her with her tartan kilt, squat black shoes and white tights; and had any ancient chieftains been endowed with magnificent bosoms, no doubt they too would have displayed their fearsome arsenal in a tight black polo neck, thus striking terror into their flatter-chested opponents. She raised her right forefinger and lowered her voice to a penetrating stage whisper.
‘I ask you one question. What does Gently Rising mean to you?’
Taking one step backwards and clasping her hands behind her back she seemed to be inviting her audience to take a quiet moment to ponder her question. And, obediently, they pondered.
Colonel Markham thought of an Englishman’s home, castles, manicured lawns and a cosy billet.
Sinead Dumper thought of a small smattering of houses viewed from the height of a grand Hall on a hill.
Jan Fratterbury thought of glasses of wine in the garden, pleasantly fuzzy summer afternoons and endless columns of neat schoolchildren parading away into the distance.
Lorraine Watford thought of something impossible to put into words but which resembled globules of bright paint being splattered onto a large, ragged
canvas. But then, she wasn’t thinking about Gently Rising.
Alice thought of a happy child in a safe place and unknown dangers beyond the perimeter.
Stepping forward again, Elaine smiled around the room, before nodding vigorously several times.
‘Gently Rising means different things, no doubt, to all of us. But whatever those different things may be, they are ours and they are sacrosanct,’ bringing one fist swinging down from shoulder height to emphasise her final word, ‘Gently Rising is ours – nay, it is us, and we,’ again swinging the fist, ‘decide its fate and its future.’
Catching her breath, she leant forward onto the lectern and continued, switching to a more businesslike tone, ‘And so, the second question I ask you all is, do we allow the sacred body of this most gentle village to be violated by the many-headed monster?’ No immediate response being forthcoming, she paraphrased. ‘I put it to you: are we to allow crowds of rampaging strangers to overrun these hallowed streets, lanes and green places?’
Ted, overcome by the emotion of the moment, shot out from the wings, bellowing, ‘Never!’ and waving one narrow fist in the air. Finding himself alone centre stage, a look of horror spread across his face and he continued at full pelt straight on into the wings on the other side.
Some villagers were stirring and a few approving noises had followed Elaine’s words, but Jerry Brewer now rose to his feet.
‘What about businesses in the village? Don’t we get a say? If His Lordship wants to invite coachloads of young ladies to Gently Rising, I say let ’em come! I’ll be stocking up on white wine and Babycham!’ Laughing heartily at his own wit, his belly wobbled over his low-slung belt as he winked at a couple of regulars. Some appreciative chuckles and ‘hear hear’s followed this from certain factions in the room, along with some tutting and dark mutterings from others.
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 6