He did so, ignoring her squeals that he was pulling her hair. She looked at him, eyebrows raised. He looked blank.
‘It’s me, Saskia Stonor! Henry de Beeble’s girlfriend! You’ve seen me around the place loads of times.’
He shrugged. She couldn’t help noticing that he bore a striking resemblance to a hippo.
‘And…’ she added reluctantly, ‘you threw me out of the party at the village hall.’
He turned her round to face the light. ‘Urr!’ he agreed, ‘the ejection.’
‘Yeah, man, whatever. But you know who I am now, right?’
‘Yurr.’
‘You’ve seen me around the place.’
‘Yurr.’
‘OK, fantastic. Now listen, babe, I’ve got a favour to ask.’
Derek looked guarded. ‘Yurr?’
‘Yurr – I mean yeah.’ For her plan to succeed she had to hope that Derek hadn’t been privy to news of the break-up. ‘It’s mine and Henry’s anniversary coming up next week, and I want to make a big deal of it. I’m stuck in London working and Henry’s down here so I want to arrange lots of special gifts and surprises for him. So, I need someone here to help me deliver stuff, you know?’
Derek still looked unsure.
‘Someone discreet, who can keep a secret.’
Derek continued looking unsure until a wad of fifty-pound notes was pressed into his hand. He wavered for a moment. Was it unprofessional to accept money from his boss’s girlfriend? It couldn’t harm, could it? The thought of all the gerberas he could buy Sinead with the cash clinched it. He pocketed the wad of notes.
‘Well done, babe, there’s plenty more where that came from.’
She led him off the terrace and into the shadows.
‘This is what I need you to do…’
***
How to Bag Yourself a Rock Star – Ten Top Tips by Alice Brand:
Play it cool. When he asks you back to his place, respond coquettishly, ‘I’d love to’. Do NOT say you’ll need to check with your sister.
If you feel he’s taking things too fast, say so. Do NOT make up excuses involving fungal infections.
Avoid drinking so much that you wake in the middle of the night to discover you’ve been sick over the edge of the bed.
Should the aforementioned vomiting take place, do NOT compound matters by trying to clear it up with the nearest thing to hand. In case the nearest thing to hand happens to be the Rock Star’s favourite T-shirt.
Should point 3 and 4 unhappily both occur, do NOT attempt to creep out of the flat like a thief in the night. Have more faith in the Rock Star’s good nature.
When the Rock Star persuades you to stay and offers to make you breakfast, DO mention that the smell of bacon may make you feel sick again.
If the Rock Star should ask for your number, jot down EITHER home, work or mobile.
Arrange for your sister’s boyfriend to pick you up some distance from the Rock Star’s flat, to avoid him yelling across a crowded street, ‘Look who it is! Little Alice “bury me in a Y-shaped coffin” Brand!’
Do remember to pack earplugs in order to drown out the sound of your sister’s boyfriend singing, all the way down the M4, ‘Alster and Avery up a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g’.
Do remember that pretending to read your book in an attempt to avoid speaking to said sister’s boyfriend is a sure-fire route to further vomiting.
***
It was the week that would be forever engraved in Henry’s mind as the Seven Days of Weirdness.
‘On the First Day of Weirdness, my true love gave to me/
A sheaf of illegible scrawl.’
He read the first three pages of the wad of paper which sat, ominously, outside his bedroom door that Sunday morning, and took an educated guess that the remaining twenty-five contained more of the same. Summarising it for Noblet’s benefit over breakfast, he described it as a love letter seasoned with resentment.
‘I never thought Saskia would react like this. It’s madness.’
‘She is mad,’ Noblet pointed out. ‘The woman has somehow infiltrated our staff in order to have her stream of consciousness delivered to your bedroom door.’
‘That’s the oddest part. How did it get there?’
Lady Caroline, who had joined them, asked, ‘Have you asked Sally? Sally will know.’
Henry shook his head. ‘She’s stumped too.’
‘Have her round everybody up, force it out of them.’
‘Already done. No one’s owning up.’
‘Have them whipped.’
‘Yes, Mother. Excellent suggestion.’
‘Soon have them talking.’
‘Talking, screaming, suing…’
‘It does seem ridiculous, old chap,’ said Noblet through a mouthful of scrambled egg, ‘when we’ve got these security fellows pounding the terraces, that the wacko somehow still got in. Can’t believe nobody saw a thing.’
‘And yet that’s what they claim.’
‘Ask Saskia how she did it,’ suggested Noblet.
‘No,’ Henry said, firmly. ‘That would mean opening up the channels of communication again. Exactly what I don’t want to do.’
‘See what you mean, old man. Negotiating with terrorists.’
‘A little extreme, but that’s the gist.’
‘Poor dear Saskia. I never would have thought it of her. So undignified,’ sighed Lady Caroline.
‘I would,’ declared Noblet. ‘Anyone who cavorts around the lawn in a leotard has no notion of dignity.’
‘I think,’ pursued Henry, ‘unless anyone decides to make a clean breast of it, I’ll have to let it go. She’s made her point, hopefully that will be the end of it.’
‘On the Second Day of Weirdness my true love gave to me/
A gold-plated vial and a sheaf of illegible scrawl.’
The beautifully-wrapped box was waiting for him when Henry opened his bedroom door on Monday morning. He found himself instinctively looking down as he exited the room – and yet it still gave him a jolt to see the blue and silver wrapping and another wodge of paper covered in Saskia’s huge, looping handwriting. He sighed and carried box and papers down to breakfast with him.
Noblet was there before him, one hand shovelling in sausage, the other holding open the pages of a paperback. As soon as he’d swallowed, he accosted Henry.
‘It makes my blood boil! Three typos – and I’m being generous in calling them typos, you understand, I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt that they know how to spell – three typos and I’m only a hundred pages in. I mean to say, is it not worth their while to read the text with a modicum of care? Perhaps it was a rush job, I hear you ask? Perhaps, yes! After all, it’s been a mere matter of a hundred and sixty years since the thing was written.’
‘Collins?’ ventured Henry.
‘Collins! I think not. I dare them to publish a new edition of Collins with so much as a page number askew. I have written to every publisher of every Collins novel and listed the errors in order that never again may the readers of that genius suffer from an editorial oversight. No, this is Dickens. Oh, yes!’ Splashing coffee all over the tablecloth as he gestured at the book. ‘Merely the Master, Dickens!’
With his brother’s blood pressure in mind, Henry changed the subject. Placing the box on the table beside his plate, he said, ‘Not quite as noteworthy as an error in a Dickens novel, but I’ve had another delivery.’
It had the desired effect. Noblet put down his book.
‘What is it?’
‘I haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Well open it, man, open it. And stand back, one never knows what that degenerate might have sent you. Dynamite. Anthrax. Could be anything.’
Henry undid the ribbon. Pulling off the lid he found, nestling in swathes of silver tissue paper, a gold-plated bottle engraved with his initials. Noblet craned his neck to see.
‘Well? What is it?’
Henry held up the bottle.
‘Wh
at’s inside?’
‘I’m not sure I want to know.’ Picking up the sheaf of papers, he read the first few lines and then dropped the bottle back onto the tissue.
‘It’s blood.’
‘Whose?’
‘Hers, apparently.’
Henry scanned some more of Saskia’s letter.
‘She says she’s been to see a shaman-slash-oracle, in Kensington – of course, where else would you go to find a shaman-slash-oracle? – and he told her that if I could be persuaded to intermingle a little of my blood with her own, my negative energy would drain away and the true path of my destiny would reveal itself. I don’t mind telling you, Bob, I feel pretty guilty about all this. I think she’s having a breakdown.’
Noblet waggled a finger at him. ‘That’s what she wants, old man – for you to crumble. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind, Henners – keep a stiff upper lip and before you know it, she’ll have forgotten all about you and be living in a commune with sixty organic lesbians. Or something like that – you take my meaning.’
Henry packed the box up again gingerly.
‘I think I’ll return the letters and this to her without a message. You’re right, Bob, consistency is the key.’
On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday mornings more gifts appeared for Henry, no longer outside his bedroom door where a security guard had been put on watch, but instead in various places around the house and grounds. Each time Henry would pack the letter and gifts up and return them to Saskia, receiving in return a bombardment of aggrieved text messages and voicemails.
On Saturday morning, the day of the second-round interviews, no gift or letter appeared. Henry breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Saskia had got the message.
Chapter 17
The week before the interviews was a dreary one to Alice. The initial euphoria of her encounter with Stein had worn off and she was left deflated and sad. Stein wasn’t someone she had strong feelings for; he was just a nice enough man who had shown her some timely attention. On Monday she got a text from him, a breezy bit of nonsense, and she replied in a similar vein. Work seemed to drag and in the long evenings, she would sit alone, trying to occupy herself with a book, TV, cooking: anything that could distract her for a short while from feeling flat. Added to this was the looming interview. She’d promised herself she would do it and to back out now would be cowardly, but it was the last thing she needed. Particularly after a strange conversation with Sinead in the community shop which increased her apprehensions.
Sinead had volunteered for more and more shifts in the shop recently. Almost every time Alice popped in, she seemed to be behind the counter, immaculately made up and flicking through a copy of Hello! or Country Life. Alice felt her heart sink whenever she caught sight of the sleek blonde head over the top of a magazine. Sinead had a habit of picking up Alice’s purchases with the tips of her fingers, a sneer on her face, as she tapped the price into the low-tech till. Several times Alice had popped in to buy a ready-meal but at the last minute had come out with cashew milk and tempeh.
Today, however, she was determined to come out of the shop with what she’d gone in for. It was Friday evening, she was tired, and she was going to treat herself to a high-fat, low-fibre, fully-salted ready-meal for one. She was going to eat it in front of Pretty Woman with a box of Ferrero Rocher to follow. She marched over to the ready-meal section and made her selection. Sinead’s beady eyes followed her round the shop as she picked up the chocolates and a bottle of wine. When Alice arrived at the counter and presented her purchases, Sinead’s eyebrows had disappeared under her glossy fringe.
‘Treating ourselves?’ she enquired.
‘Yes,’ Alice agreed, trying to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. ‘It’s Friday night, after all.’
‘Exactly. Saturday tomorrow,’ Sinead replied, looking as if this should mean something very particular.
‘Ye-es.’
‘The interviews. Hear you’ve been invited back.’ Whether Alice’s progression to the second round had been via a clerical error or temporary insanity on the part of Noblet de Beeble wasn’t clear. That it must be one or the other, was.
‘Yes, the interviews,’ echoed Alice, wishing Sinead would tot up the offending items and let her escape.
‘Need to be alert. On top form.’ Sinead paused and let her eyes linger on the chocolate and wine. ‘Looking our best. No extra pounds.’
Alice stared at her. Even for Sinead, this was unsurpassed rudeness.
Glancing up and seeming to reflect that she had gone too far, Sinead continued. ‘Going to be a long day. Need to be in peak condition.’
‘How do you know it’s going to be a long day? All they said to me on the phone was to be there at ten and that lunch would be provided.’
‘Little bird told me.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mmm. Could be there for hours. Strenuous.’
‘Really? What kind of things are they going to ask us to do?’
Sinead began jabbing at buttons on the till and hurling Alice’s shopping into her reusable bag.
‘Couldn’t say. No idea. Sixteen pounds forty.’
Alice handed over a twenty-pound note, took her change and left, clutching her bag of indulgences.
Her enjoyment of film, ready-meal, chocolates and wine was marred by Sinead’s words echoing round her brain. Strenuous, she’d said. A long day. Be alert. Why was she putting herself through it?
In homes around the country that Friday evening, many women – and some men – were echoing Alice’s words, or some approximation of them, not least, Noblet de Beeble.
***
On the way back from Morocco, Mia stopped off in the South of France to catch up with some old friends. At the moment when Alice was braving Sinead in the community shop, Mia was leaning back in her chair, glass of wine in hand, watching the sun sink behind distant hills. The long, rickety table had been laid in the orchard behind the rambling old farmhouse. As darkness fell, candles were lit to allow the twenty or so guests to continue their conversations as they lingered around the remnants of a hearty meal. Helping herself to a piece of cheese, Mia smiled across at her neighbour.
‘This is what I miss.’
‘I’m not surprised, my dear. Tasteless, mass-produced cheddar is no substitute for good French cheese.’
‘Not the cheese, you nincompoop. The atmosphere. People who know how to live. You.’
The older woman took her hand. ‘I’m here whenever you want me.’ She stroked Mia’s cheek with soft fingertips and smiled. Then, from a bag on the floor, she brought out an old photograph. ‘There. Is that the one you wanted?’
Mia looked at it for a moment and nodded. ‘Thank you. I hope I won’t need it.’
***
Alice stood before the full-length mirror and tried to look at herself objectively. This dress made her look fat. That much was certain. However, this dress also looked something like her conception of what the upper classes wore. It was a demure shift dress, in thick silk patterned with bunches of pale blue flowers on a cream background. She’d bought it for a wedding but never worn it, having decided on getting it home that it was too unflattering. She’d ended up in her old fail-safe, faded, black A-line skirt with cream silk top and pearls (fake). Alice took the dress off. It was too hideous, even if it did make her look posher. She reached into the wardrobe for another rarely-worn outfit.
Two hours later, she raced out of the house in her old fail-safe, faded, black A-line skirt with cream silk top and pearls (fake). Mia was waiting in the lane in a vintage Jaguar.
‘What a lovely car,’ gasped Alice as she climbed into the passenger seat.
‘I borrowed it.’
‘Who from?’
‘I didn’t catch the name. How are you feeling?’
‘Nervous.’
‘I’ll bet you anything you like Noblet de Beeble feels worse.’
***
Noblet wasn’t feeling nervous. He was feeling distraug
ht.
‘Why am I doing this? Why? What kind of an infernal, wrong-headed, madman am I? They ought to take people like me and lock us away in padded cells for our own safety. God knows why they don’t. It’s irresponsible.’
Sally, to whom this tirade was directed as she attempted to smooth the lumpy knot in Noblet’s tie, tutted.
‘You know, this is all Henry’s fault,’ he continued. ‘If it had been left to me, we would have had a few sackfuls of post to trawl through, yes, but letters I can deal with. But no! He has to be clever about it. “Invite the many-headed beast to our home,” he says! “Tart yourself up,” he says! “Parade yourself about like a prize pig,” he says!’
‘I’m sure he said nothing of the sort,’ frowned Sally.
‘He might as well have done, because look what it’s come to. Me, quaking in my boots, about to receive into the sanctuary of my home hundreds of strange women as if I’m some kind of – of – sultan recruiting his harem. It’s not dignified, Sally. Goddammit, it’s not English!’
Finishing the tie with a final jerk, Sally gave a couple of brisk brushes and slaps to Noblet’s shoulders and shirt front.
‘Quite presentable. Well,’ she added under her breath, ‘better than usual anyway.’ Clipping off the head of a white rose she stuck it into his buttonhole. ‘There. Very smart. Now don’t stay up here too long, they’ll start arriving any minute. Shoulders back and face them like a man.’ With one final, rather hard, slap on the solar plexus, she was gone.
Noblet looked at himself in the mirror. ‘And the most ridiculous thing of all is, I don’t even want to get married.’ He ruminated for a moment. ‘Perhaps none of them will do. Yes, that’s a thought. Mother will dismiss all the applicants, agree that I did my best and we can all settle back to how things were before. I can carry on writing undisturbed. After all, I have just embarked on that rather gripping deconstruction of his attack on Walford…’
When Henry popped his head round the door fifteen minutes later, he found his brother sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously, ink all over one of his cuffs.
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 16