In the end, margaritas seemed more appropriate. The air was thick with perfume in Mia’s garden. Beyond the hedge, a wildflower meadow sloped towards the star-speckled sky. Sprawled on cushions with the chirruping of night insects all around they gazed up at the starkness of the moon in the deep black above. When Mia lit another joint and passed it across, Alice found herself, in her new guise of spontaneity, accepting it. She’d not smoked anything since university, and then not much, but tonight it seemed to suit the mood. Everything started to become a little indistinct, and then very defined and then very, very funny. They couldn’t say a word without the other laughing, and the more they said the more they laughed until their stomachs ached and their cheeks hurt. Louise Crawley next door threw up the sash of her bedroom window and asked if they could please keep the noise down. And that was the funniest of all.
***
The following day, Lady Caroline stood on the terrace watching the dismantling of the marquee on the lawn.
‘Hello, darling, you’re up late,’ she said as Henry appeared with a cup of tea and the papers. ‘Late to bed?’
‘Very.’
‘Have you found a wife for Noblet?’
‘Not yet, but I’m hopeful.’
One of the main upright supports was lowered and the empty canvas billowed and sank to the ground. Half-naked men hauled poles away towards the waiting truck.
‘Those Brownies are worse than hooligans, you know.’
‘What happened?’
‘You might well ask, what didn’t happen. Rioting, looting, savagery of all descriptions.’
‘You’re exaggerating, Mother.’
‘Indeed! Would you call girls vomiting in the rose garden rioting or would you not? Would you call Martyr having to expel thieving girls from the pantry looting, or would you not? Would you call girls running half-naked into the lake savagery, or would you not?’
Henry smiled. ‘Sounds no worse than anything Noblet and I got up to in our time.’
‘Well. Perhaps not. But multiplied by several hundred it is extremely tiring, I assure you.’
Saskia shuffled out of the house looking wan.
‘I’ll never understand why it’s so hard to get a good cup of lemongrass tea outside of London. Hi, Caroline.’ She pecked the older lady on the cheek.
‘Good morning, Saskia. I’m sure Martyr will do her best if you let her know what you want.’
‘It’s fine, she’s getting me some hot spring water and lemon juice. I haven’t done my stretches yet, that’s why I’m not myself.’
Descending the steps to the lawn, oblivious to the comings and goings of the workmen, she assumed the yoga pose known as ‘downward-facing dog’: a position which presented the others with the sight of her small, pert bottom. Henry had a flashback to red crosses.
Lady Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘And what do you have planned for the day, Saskia dear?’
‘I’ve got work to do,’ Saskia called through the gap between her legs. ‘I still haven’t got the shots for my English eccentricity piece so I’m gonna take Joel down to the village and see what we can find. What about you, babe? Want to come with us?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid. I need to work on the format for the second interview stage. Then Noblet’s got some media interviews this afternoon.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Does who know what?’ Noblet stood framed in the doorway, eyeing Saskia – now balancing on one leg, holding her other ankle behind her head – with annoyance.
‘Saskia was asking if you knew about the media interviews this afternoon, Bob.’
‘Media interviews? No, I do not. What media interviews?’
‘I told you, Bob – a couple of papers and local TV news. They want to hear how yesterday went.’
‘What! You did not tell me, Henry. I am sick and tired of everyone in this house treating me like a forgetful halfwit. I refuse to do them.’
Turning on his heel he stomped back into the house.
Saskia and Lady Caroline looked expectantly at Henry.
‘He’ll do it. Once I explain it’s all for his own good.’
‘His own good?’ Lady Caroline enquired.
‘Yes. Positive PR. I’d rather the media told the story we want to tell. Bob’ll listen to reason.’
‘It’ll be the first time,’ drawled Lady Caroline as the final piece of the marquee was rolled up and borne away.
***
Down in the village, the green looked almost normal again. Most of the tents had been dismantled; only a handful remaining half erect or spread out on the grass ready to be packed away. The main route out of the village towards the A4 was clogged with cars and camper vans edging their way, nose to tail, into the countryside. Beside the ‘Welcome to Gently Rising – Please Drive Carefully’ sign, Lorraine Watford was waiting to salute each exiting car with a loud raspberry followed by an exhibition of her tongue.
Elaine and Valerie were supervising the exodus from a bench outside the Lion and Lamb.
‘They may all be gone by this afternoon, Elaine,’ ventured Valerie.
Ted appeared at Elaine’s side, awaiting permission to speak.
‘Report?’ barked Elaine.
‘All clear, my love. I made a complete circuit of the village and apprehended no obvious theft or criminal damage. I checked,’ flipping open a small notebook, ‘the church, the telephone box, all eight benches, the bridge, the postbox, the bus stop, and the war memorial.’ The notebook snapped shut and he stood to attention.
‘And the village hall?’
He looked stricken.
‘The village hall!’ He flipped the notepad open again. ‘I omitted to include it in my itinerary. God forgive me for my forgetfulness.’ And he was gone, a thin brown flash across the grass.
***
Saskia, tottering across the green on her Vivienne Westwood platforms, nudged Joel. ‘Look at those two, man. They’d be perfect for the piece.’ Waving a hand as she approached, she called out ‘Hi there! We’re doing a feature on village life for a magazine in London. You two look so – quintessential. Can we take a couple of shots?’
Elaine seemed to double in size.
‘Of course, my dear! We’d be proud to represent Gently Rising, wouldn’t we, Valerie? That’s Valerie – V-A-L…’
‘Great, now don’t move – we’ve got to capture you just as you are.’
Click.
Captured in the frame are two ladies in the autumn of their days, seated side by side on a wooden bench. The larger lady is clad in brown tweed and sensible shoes; meaty arms crossed, supporting a prize-winning bosom. The smaller lady cringes, pale face strained beneath colourless hair; pale hands grip a shapeless beige handbag on her shapeless beige lap. The photograph is composed so as to include the pub sign: above Elaine’s head is the word ‘Lion’ and above Valerie’s the word ‘Lamb’.
‘Thanks so much, ladies, that’s great. Gotta get on, loads to do, ciao-ciao.’
Click.
Colonel Markham, standing to attention outside his white-painted garden gate. Behind him dahlias, camellias and gladioli march away in military rows. In the bottom right-hand corner, a small child toddles into view, finger in nose.
Click.
Through the railings, a glimpse of an Edwardian primary school building; in the background children playing on the grass; in the foreground Mrs Fratterbury, cigarette dangling from lips.
Click.
Lorraine Watford sitting in her back garden at a table set for tea. Cups and saucers commemorating royal weddings (Charles and Diana, Charles and Camilla) surround a teapot in the shape of the Queen’s head. Lorraine holds aloft a plastic Union Jack in one hand and a chocolate eclair in another. She wears a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan ‘I love NY’.
Click.
Sinead Dumper looking startled. She kneels on a waterproof gardening cushion by a flower bed at the edge of her garden. She wears a pink twin-set, pearls and flesh-coloured tights. In her hand
is a pristine trowel which hovers above perfectly-tended, weed-free soil. In a window behind her, Coco’s small grey face stares out.
Click.
Jerry Brewer behind the bar in his empty pub, brooding. Motes of dust stand out as gold flecks against the dark wood, spinning through the gloom.
Click.
Alice, caught unawares. She is crouching on the pavement outside her house, stroking Tom; a sound has made her raise her head but the look of warm affection still lingers in her eyes. Tom’s mouth is open, mid-miaow, and his ginger tail points ramrod straight towards the sky.
Chapter 13
Sinead poured herself a glass of white wine and opened her dinner party planner file. She had planned to drop Derek faster than you could say ‘sucker’ after he’d got her to the front of the queue at the interviews, but something in the back of her mind had whispered that he might not have outlived his usefulness. It didn’t harm to keep him sweet and, after all, if she hadn’t invited him round for dinner, she would have spent the evening watching her box set of Downton Abbey, again, while intermittently shooing Coco off the settee. Now. The menu. She had bought the ingredients for Menu Number 23: a starter of twice-baked smoked salmon soufflés, followed by rack of lamb with fondant potatoes and chocolate pots for dessert. She pulled out the laminated sheets and got to work.
As usual, she’d followed her plan to the letter and when the doorbell rang at 8pm sharp, everything was ready. She had laid the table with the second-best service, showered, changed, lit the candles, arranged the gerberas in three separate vases (grouped in height order) and made the butter pats with her favourite handbag-shaped butter mould. Derek stood on the front doorstep: pink, scrubbed face sprouting out of his thick, pink neck which in turn thrust its way through the collar of a black shirt so pristine it still had the creases in it from the packaging. The shirt was tucked into a smart pair of jeans and his feet were shod in brand-new desert boots – bought earlier that day in an effort to look cool, yet casual. The great, hulking bulk of his top half sat on top of slim hips and legs, making him, in his black shirt and blue jeans, look like a Liquorice Allsort from the rejects bin.
‘Come in,’ Sinead ordered, briskly. ‘Shoes there,’ she said, indicating a neatly-ordered rack. ‘Cream carpets,’ she added, by way of explanation.
He knelt down and removed the desert boots to reveal white terry-towelling sports socks. Having placed the boots on the rack, a safe distance from a pair of Sinead’s white suede high heels, he followed her into the living room and thrust a bunch of gerberas and a bottle of wine at her.
‘F’you,’ he growled.
‘Gerberas! My favourite.’
Derek clocked the three vasefuls already scattered around the room and grunted.
‘Now,’ said Sinead. ‘Drinks. Wine? Beer?’
He stood awkwardly in the middle of the living-room carpet and looked at his socks.
He wanted a lager but wasn’t sure what the etiquette was. ‘Beer, please. Small one.’ It seemed a good compromise.
As the soufflés took their second turn in the oven, Sinead settled herself on the edge of an armchair and prepared to entertain her guest.
‘So…’ she purred, preparing to once again draw him out with intensive questioning on the ins and outs (mainly the outs) of the door supervision business. Coco, sensing a potential new friend in the house, came bounding out of his bed in the utility room, straight through the kitchen and onto Derek’s denim lap.
‘Coco! Bad boy!’
‘S’alright,’ Derek assured her, pleasure lighting up his face and uncrinkling the piggy eyes. ‘Love dogs.’
He patted Coco, accepting a barrage of wet salutations without flinching.
‘Really?’ prompted Sinead.
‘Yurr.’
‘Got one?’
‘Nope.’
‘Why?’
‘Mother.’
‘Allergic?’
‘Cats.’
‘Shame.’
He pointed at Coco. ‘Pedigree?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cross?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘Coco.’
‘Nice.’
He was certainly a gifted conversationalist, she had to admit. She approved of his no-nonsense style.
She found that she’d relaxed so much she was sitting back in her chair with her legs crossed at the knee. She never did that in public. Not since she’d studied footage of Lady Diana and seen that she always sat with her legs to one side, crossed demurely at the ankle.
The timer went off and she leapt up to tend to the soufflés, calling over her shoulder, ‘Through to the dining room!’
She returned with two small plates bearing the soufflés and salad garnish drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Derek brought a forkful of soufflé to his lip, the delicate silver fork looking like children’s cutlery in his enormous fist.
‘Delicious,’ he informed Sinead, who was working her way through hers with workmanlike precision.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Good cook,’ he ventured.
‘Yes.’
‘Lessons?’
‘Yes. London.’
‘Shows.’
‘Thanks.’
She smiled at him, a real smile that went right up to her eyes, and saw his face flush.
‘Like to better myself. Keep learning. Be the best at everything I do. No excuse for failure. Got to plan and put the effort in. Didn’t have much growing up but by working hard got all this.’ Her hand swept round, taking in the ruched curtains, velvet tasselled tie-backs and framed photograph of herself, alone, in her wedding dress.
She sat back, surprised at herself. Probably the most revealing thing she’d said in years. Where had that come from?
Derek took a gulp of his wine. ‘I think you’re amazin’,’ he confided.
She was taken aback by his openness, and her initial pleasure was swamped by sensible thoughts marching across her cerebral cortex and slapping her emotions into shape. Her eyes were on the prize, and the prize was Noblet de Beeble. Yes, Derek was a great raconteur and had a certain raw sex appeal but he was not the main event. If Lord de Beeble was the Big Top, Derek was the bearded lady – worth a look, but ultimately a sideshow.
She stood up and whipped away his empty plate.
‘Got to check on the main,’ she snapped, ignoring his crestfallen look as she whisked out of the room.
When she returned with the main courses, she found Coco had snuck in. He was sitting at Derek’s feet, looking disconsolately at him, first from under one eyebrow, then the other. She was in time to see Derek give him a pat and mutter, ‘Messed up. Annoyed her.’
Coco licked his hand before retreating under the table as Sinead approached.
‘Rack of lamb and fondant pommes de terres,’ she announced. He thanked her as she put the plate in front of him and from then on, the meal went forward in silence. Derek would attempt a remark on the food or the wine, but other than a brief yes or no Sinead wouldn’t be drawn out. When the chocolate pot was deposited on his place mat he set down his teaspoon with a crash on the china plate.
‘Have I said somethin’? Offended you?’
At the look of anguish on his face, Sinead relented.
‘No – no. It’s not you. It’s…’ she cast around, looking for a plausible excuse – reasoning that ‘you’re not Noblet de Beeble or some other rich man with a title’ wouldn’t be diplomatic. Particularly if she wanted to keep him sweet for some, as yet unknown, purpose in the future. The photograph of herself in her wedding dress caught her eye. ‘It’s my wedding anniversary. Would have been. Brought it all back. You know. A man, saying nice things.’
Derek looked stricken. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know.’
‘No! You wouldn’t.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Forget it. It’s all over now. He’s gone and I’m alone.’
Coco gave a little cough and emerged from under the table
, as if to remind her that remark wasn’t strictly factual. She gave him a shove and he shuffled out of the room, tail drooping.
‘Not allowed in here,’ she explained to Derek.
Something about the slump of Coco’s shoulders and his long-suffering expression was familiar to Derek.
‘Reminds me of His Lordship,’ he remarked.
‘His Lordship?’ Sinead’s ears pricked up.
‘Yurr. Not happy. Doesn’t like havin’ to do all this interview stuff.’
‘No?’
Seeing that Sinead was thawing out, Derek warmed to his theme.
‘No. Overheard him and his brother at the big house the other day talking about the next lot.’
‘Really? You’re still working there?’
‘Yurr. Still need to keep an eye on the journos and that. Paps,’ he added, darkly.
‘So… the second-round interviews,’ Sinead prompted. ‘Noblet’s not happy about them?’
‘No. Thing is…’
As Derek relayed the conversation he’d overheard between Noblet and Henry, including detailed plans for the format of the second interviews, Sinead drank it all in, not a word escaping her. And when he had told all he had to tell she hustled him out into the night with a peck on the cheek as a reward. She had been right; he hadn’t outgrown his usefulness. Knowing what the interviews would involve before everyone else would allow her to plan. And once Sinead Desiree Dumper began to plan, nothing could stand in her way.
Sweeping a surprised Coco out of his basket and into her arms, she waltzed around the room, muttering, ‘An honour to meet you, Sinead, Countess of Pantling, Lady de Beeble, ma’am. A privilege to make your acquaintance…’
Chapter 14
Three days later, phones were ringing off the hook and text messages were flinging themselves through the ether the length and breadth of the country as successful interviewees let friends and family know they were through to the second round. Some took it in their stride. Sinead received the news as a formality. Others were shocked and delighted or shocked and nervous; or, in Alice’s case, shocked and nauseous. The first interview had been an off-the-cuff kind of thing; Mia’s way of dragging her out of the dumps. She’d been tipsy and reckless and looking back on it, she was taken aback by her own audacity. So when the call came through to say that she’d been successful and was invited back for a second interview on Saturday 20th June, just under two weeks away, her stomach started churning. It was a second interview which, it stood to reason, would be more gruelling than the first. It was unlikely she’d be drunk this time and the recklessness seemed to have worn off now that she was back into the humdrum of the working week, with tabloid exposés and miracle-working Argentines melting into the past.
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 13