‘Ugh!’
‘Yes. I was here first. Lorraine Penelope Eric Watford, local resident. From the village, you see. Not like those.’
Derek rubbed his stomach and unleashed The Stare. Lorraine took this to be a most promising sign, and continued.
‘Age thirty-six, excellent teeth,’ she bared them at this point to demonstrate, ‘childbearing hips’ – she looked as if she were about to bare those also but Derek put out a restraining hand – ‘excellent family, related to George the Third, sunny disposition, GSOH, piano to grade eight and above.’ She wound up on a triumphal note and fell back a step, evidently expecting to be waved straight through to the matrimonial suite.
Derek maintained The Stare.
‘Nothin’ to do with me,’ he observed. ‘Save it for in there.’
Lorraine frowned at him for a moment and then comprehension seemed to spread across her face along with a knowing smile. ‘Enough said. Mum’s the word.’ She tapped her nose.
Derek cranked The Stare up a notch before pointedly looking over her head towards something important in the distance. It was hard to ignore her, given that at regular intervals she would yell comments at him such as ‘Nod nod, wink wink!’ and ‘Charlie’s your uncle, Bob’s your maiden aunt!’ but Derek was a professional. Other door supervisors would have crumbled under the strain, but he stood back and thought of England.
By a quarter to nine, the village was at a standstill. The lane leading up to the hall, the streets surrounding the green, and several lanes leading out of the village were all crammed with prospective interviewees. Henry, driving himself, Noblet and Saskia down to the village, was glad of the accompanying security escort ploughing a path through the crowds. Noblet, who had planned to walk down through the fields to get a bit of air before his ordeal, was relieved he’d allowed Henry to talk him into coming in the car.
‘Great…’ he paused, open-mouthed, ‘God.’ He shook his head, staring out the window at the press of people all around the car. ‘Where have all these people come from? What on earth do they want?’
‘They want to marry you, Noblet, man!’ laughed Saskia. ‘You’re in trouble if you’ve not worked that out by now, shit!’
‘No, no, I mean, I know what they want… but what do they want? What do they think will happen if they marry me? Has someone been telling them we’re billionaires?’
‘They saw your picture in the paper, Bob.’
‘Oh ha-ha, Henry. Ha bloody ha. This has all been a big joke to you from the beginning, hasn’t it?’
They were pulling up to the village hall and Saskia caught sight of Derek at the door.
‘Fucking hell! That’s him! That’s the asshole who threw me out of the party and attacked me! You’ve got to get rid of him, babe! I don’t want him here!’
‘You don’t have to speak to him, darling, we’re going round the back. I can’t get rid of him, we won’t have enough crowd control.’
Saskia continued protesting until she clocked the photographers making a beeline for the car as they parked up. Assuming a look of utter boredom, she slid out of her seat and prowled into the hall, giving the photographers plenty of time to snap her electric blue tea dress and bondage-style boots. Conversely, Noblet cannoned from the car into the building as if propelled by a misfiring ejector seat, deaf to the shouted invitations to give the assembled photographers a smile, a wave or a flex of his muscles.
And so the interviews began in earnest. Weeks of speculation, hours of agonising, gallons of ink and acres of online comment came down to this one moment: the front door of the village hall opening with a sound like an angry duck and the apparition of a dishevelled, portly woman, peering over her glasses and proffering a battered photograph album.
‘Name?’
‘Lorraine P. E. Watford, NVQ.’
‘Age?’
‘Thirty-three, Your Honour.’
Pregnant pause. ‘I’m sorry, I think you misheard me. I asked your age?’
‘Thirty-three, Your Honour. Although they say I look a lot younger. More like thirty-two.’
‘Thirty-three,’ Henry repeated, noting something down on the paper in front of him. ‘And can you tell us, in a few words, what makes you think you’d make a good wife to Lord de Beeble?’
The photograph album was slapped down onto the table and Lorraine riffled through.
‘My father – there, you see. And my mother. Aunt Bea. Aunt Cissy. Uncle Deirdre. Auntie Ed.’
‘What…’
‘Connections. Excellent connections. Trace our family back to George the Third via a wet nurse and the groom.’
Noblet was blenching and Saskia seemed to have been struck dumb for once, but Henry remembered Lorraine from the village meeting. Taking the album off her and closing it firmly he handed it back, saying, ‘Wonderful. We’ll make a note of your excellent qualifications and we’ll be in touch if you’re successful in making it to the next round. NEXT!’
Once Derek had succeeded in unclasping Lorraine’s fingers from Noblet’s ankles, the second applicant was ushered in.
‘Name?’
‘Sinead Desiree Dumper.’
Sinead had rolled up a couple of minutes after nine and been ushered to the front by Derek, to the accompaniment of furious catcalls from the rest of the queue.
‘Age?’
‘Thirty-three.’
‘Really? Remarkable coincidence.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. Could you tell us why you think you’d make a good wife to my brother?’
This was what she’d been preparing for for weeks. The phrases flowed off her tongue; carefully crafted and planned, planned and planned again. She covered the main points – her age, neither young and flighty nor old and desiccated but perfectly experienced and mature. Her background as a legal secretary, demonstrating her excellent organisational skills. Her interests – never was a woman as eloquent on the themes of flower arranging, gardening, charity work and smallholdings as Sinead Desiree Dumper. Even these, however, were eclipsed when it came to her main passion in life: Wilkie Collins. Had she been teleported there and then to the Mastermind chair, she would have received full marks on the specialist subject of that particular author. Noblet himself was taken aback at the depth of feeling she displayed for his works and her knowledge of even his most obscure scribblings.
As Sinead concluded her pitch and sat back, there was a moment of stunned silence before Henry said, taking her proffered CV and application form, ‘Thank you. I think that about covers it, unless?’ He looked around at the others.
Noblet cleared his throat, loosening his collar with one finger.
‘Ahem. There was one thing. I – er – I wondered…’
Sinead leant forward, lips parted, gimlet eyes trained on his.
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered – in The Woman in White, would you say the relationship between the Count and his wife stands up to scrutiny? You know, in your opinion, as it were?’
Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. Recollecting herself, however, she (remembering to smile first) answered brightly, ‘Amazing writer, Collins. Could make you believe anything. And some men do have a magnetic attraction for women.’ Her gaze dropped from Noblet’s eyes to caress his mouth, throat and chest before dropping to about the point his crotch would have been, were it not chastely concealed by pants, trousers and the table. Noblet blushed and even Saskia spluttered a little, staring agog at Sinead. The interview was concluded, Sinead withdrew and the next candidate was ushered in. It took several more interviews before Noblet was able to regain his composure. As he did so, a tall, languid man slid into the seat before them.
‘Name?’
‘Whatever you want it to be.’
Henry put down his pen.
‘Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch.’
‘Oh dear. Not even afforded the courtesy of a proper interview? Some might say His Lordship is paying lip service to the anti-discriminati
on laws. Some newspapers, for instance.’
‘If you’ll do me the courtesy of telling me your name, I’ll do you the courtesy of interviewing you.’
‘Delighted, old sport. The post office, police, passport office and my mother know me as Jason. Everyone else knows me as Jay.’
‘Do you have a surname, Jay?’
‘Not yet. I’m hoping to acquire one shortly. JdB. Quite a ring, no?’ he asked, treating Noblet to an intimate glance from under his eyelashes.
Some of the panel seemed to be finding the room a little hot. The sun shone relentlessly through tall, narrow windows, lighting up Noblet’s pink face. Saskia had slipped on a huge pair of sunglasses and manoeuvred herself into a patch of shadow.
‘Tell us why you think you’d make a good partner for my brother.’
‘Don’t get me started! Firstly’ – counting off the points on his fingers – ‘we’ve got so much in common. We’re both stylish, intelligent gentlemen of leisure with a predilection for queens. Victoria, in your case,’ inclining his head towards Noblet, ‘several, lesser-known monarchs in mine. Next, His Lordship needs someone to help him run his estate. I was raised on a smallholding, and have a natural affinity for the beasts of the field, mulching, husbandry, composting and all those sorts of words. Thirdly, we’re both crazy about literature. His Lordship is an aficionado of the English Victorian era, while I myself favour American writers of a later period: F Scott Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Steinbeck, Schulz. I flatter myself that we can educate each other – filling in each other’s gaps, if you like.’
Henry was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, listening.
‘Shouldn’t you be making notes?’ enquired Jay.
‘Oh, I won’t forget anything.’
‘Which segues into my next point. Number four, if my top-class arithmetic skills don’t deceive me. I stand out from the crowd. His Lordship needs – I hesitate to say a trophy wife, but the learned panel get my drift. Whereas Earls up and down the country are hauling dowdy frumpsters in pearls to the altar, imagine the publicity if Lord de Beeble announced he was taking me up the aisle.’
‘Yes. I can imagine it. But what makes you think Lord de Beeble wants any publicity?’
Jay gazed above their heads.
‘Tres interessant. Yes, what makes me think that? Why would I imagine that a man who poses for pictures in national newspapers and conducts his courtship via the local news bulletins would want publicity? Why, why, why? No,’ he shook his head apologetically, ‘the answer eludes me, I’m afraid. We’ll chalk that one down to interview nerves.’
‘Now look here—’ began Noblet, but Henry carried on.
‘I take your point. If the interview nerves aren’t too overwhelming, I wonder if you could answer another question. My brother is keen to start a family.’ Noblet twitched and looked at the ceiling. ‘Can you tell us how you would fulfil this particular element of the job specification?’
‘The same way all the best people do. I would fly out to, say, Angola – or Kazakhstan, or wherever, I’m not picky – with a large entourage in tow, sprinkling silver and gold as I went, and I would gather up the nearest photogenic cherub from the local orphanage, before sweeping back to my husband’s arms via a double-page spread in Hello! magazine.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘What else?’
Henry held out a hand.
‘Thank you. It’s been entertaining. We’ll be in touch if you make it to the next round.’
Jay pouted.
‘Over so soon? I haven’t even touched on my firm, smooth body.’
‘That is a shame, but perhaps you can touch on that outside – we’ve still got hundreds of people to see.’
With a nod to Derek, Jay was dispatched. As he flounced out of the door, Noblet expelled a lungful of air so enormous he seemed to have been holding it in through the whole interview. He stood up.
‘I need a break. And some air.’
He lurched over to the tea table, sloshed some tea into a cup and headed out the back door; reappearing almost instantly, slamming the door shut on the noise of overexcited photographers, journalists and interviewees.
‘Can’t get away from it! Can’t even pop outside for a bit of p and q without grown men demanding I strip down to my undies!’
Stumping over to the stage, he heaved himself up onto the edge and slurped his tea.
Saskia murmured to Henry, ‘Shall I have a word with him, babe? A woman’s voice is scientifically proven to be soothing, you know.’
‘To be honest I think he just needs to be left on his own for a bit.’ Henry got up and stretched. ‘Tea?’
‘I’ll have a herbal if there is some. Camomile.’
They sipped their tea together, occasionally glancing at the stage where Noblet was eating ginger nuts with an air of hurt dignity.
‘We’re going to have to speed up or we’ll never get through them all,’ remarked Henry, loud enough for Noblet to hear. ‘Perhaps we should have some sort of code. If Bob can tell it’s going to be a no, he could…’
‘Sing a verse of “What shall we do with a drunken sailor”?’ proposed Noblet, interested in spite of himself.
‘I was thinking something more discreet. Like blowing your nose.’
‘Yes. Yes, I could do that.’
‘OK If she’s a definite no you blow your nose and we move on to the next one.’
‘Good-o.’
‘And if she’s a definite yes? So, we all know to pay particular attention?’
They all considered what could be the sign for a definite yes.
‘I could clear my throat?’ suggested Noblet.
‘But mightn’t you clear your throat from time to time anyway?’
‘Well, I would do it in a very definite manner. Like this.’ He drew himself up to his full height and placed a large fist before his mouth. ‘Ahem!’
Pleased with himself, he repeated the process, louder this time. ‘You see. Ahem!’
Derek came shooting through the door.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Er – we’re ready for the next candidate,’ blustered Noblet and Derek hurried to usher her in.
By lunchtime, Noblet’s handkerchief was beginning to look worn, and the panel had found their rhythm. Perhaps one in ten candidates would not be greeted with a sound like the trumpeting of a baby elephant, and these fortunates were accorded more than thirty seconds. The pile of ‘yeses’ was about an inch thick compared to a foot of ‘noes’. Riffling through the yes pile as he stuffed a prawn mayonnaise sandwich in his mouth, Noblet asked, ‘Where’s the first lady?’
‘The first lady?’ repeated Henry incredulously. ‘You’d like to invite the lunatic offspring of George the Third and a groom back to the second interview?’
‘Not her! I don’t count her. No, the Irish lady. Who knew so much about Collins.’
Henry was taken aback.
‘I assumed she was a no?’
‘Did you hear her speak about Collins?’ demanded Noblet, eyes sparkling. ‘For that alone she should be invited back. I forgot to ask her opinion on an interesting minor character in Armadale.’
Noblet found himself receiving support from an unexpected quarter.
‘Babe, I thought she was quite promising. Vulgar and pushy – but that could be toned down, and otherwise she was strong. Good organisational skills, eager to please…’
‘If I was looking for a new PA, she would be my number one candidate. But as Noblet’s wife?’
‘It’s my decision, old chap, and I say she’s through to the next round.’
***
Sinead, unaware of how precariously her fate had been hanging in the balance moments earlier, was tapping an impatient court-shoe clad foot on Alice’s doorstep. She needed something to fill her afternoon, and happily, the thought of Alice had sprung to mind. Interrogating her on all the gory details about the tabloid article and boasting about how well her interview had gone would take her to, say, 4pm; which was perfect as her elocu
tion teacher was due at half-past. And now bloody Alice was threatening to ruin her plans by not answering the door. Sinead was sure she was in. She’d heard something that sounded like a body falling to the floor as she’d clip-clopped up the garden path. She peered through the window but the living room appeared to be empty. She considered calling out ‘Yoo-hoo, Alice! It’s Sinead!’ but doubt as to whether that would hasten the opening of the door or ensure it remained closed, sealed her lips. She held a finger on the doorbell for a minute and snapped the letterbox for good measure. Coco helped her out with a couple of sharp barks.
‘Hello there,’ said a silky voice behind her. Mia stood in the lane, looking, in her gauzy blue dress, like an off-duty water nymph.
Sinead flicked a strained smile at her.
‘Trying to get hold of Alice.’
‘She’s not in, I’m afraid.’
‘But I heard something…’
‘Must have been the cat,’ said Mia. On cue, Tom hurled himself through the hedge like a stuntman through a paper hoop and butted her legs, purring at top volume. ‘Or something else,’ she continued, undaunted. ‘She popped in at my house earlier on the way to her parents. I’ll let her know you called.’
Sinead looked like she might protest, but in the end shrugged and marched back down the path. Passing through the gate, she said, ‘So what are you doing here? If you don’t mind me asking,’ she added, with a sneer.
‘Not in the slightest. I’m getting a breath of fresh air.’
Sinead stared at her. Mia smiled back and, very deliberately, inhaled. ‘Lovely,’ she confirmed.
As soon as Sinead was out of sight Mia walked up to the house and tapped on the living-room window.
‘The coast’s clear.’
There was a moment of silence and then a pale face rose from beneath the windowsill and hung there like the moon over a desert. The window opened.
‘Are you sure she’s gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Just a guess. Why don’t you get up and open the door?’
Alice looked down at her grubby dressing gown and let out an involuntary sigh. ‘I’m not very good company at the moment.’
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 11