Lastminute.com had obviously done well out of Jonathan’s guests.
‘No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘We watch television mainly, but it would have been rude to give you a TV licence. Anyway, think yourself lucky you didn’t end up with a pile of plastic Beefeaters and pre-paid Congestion Charge vouchers.’
‘No, I got those, from Quentin,’ said Jonathan. ‘He’s pretty sore about that, hey? But, thanks for this. You shouldn’t have.’ He fiddled with the envelope and extracted the tickets. ‘So, what we got here . . . ? Two tickets for . . . the London Eye? That Ferris wheel thing?’
I nodded. ‘You can tell everyone they’re timed tickets and we have to be there by six. Then they’ll have to leave, so we can.’
‘And we can drive into town and stand on a big Ferris wheel with a bunch of tourists?’
‘Not necessarily.’ I bridled to disguise the unexpected jolt of embarrassment; I should have guessed Mr Stand-Offish wouldn’t want to mingle with the common tourist. ‘They’re not really timed. You can take them any time you want.’
‘Only kidding,’ he said, doing his annoying pointing thing. ‘That sounds like a really cool thing to do.’
‘Mmm.’ Sometimes Jonathan could be incredibly formal and distant, and at other times he could seem positively high school. Like now. I didn’t pick him up on the pointing thing because the discussion at the drinks table had gone beyond heated and now Carolyn was moving in, her hands held up in a conciliatory fashion – which could only make things worse.
‘Jonathan,’ I said, trying to keep the concern out of my voice, ‘I think we should perhaps have a word with—’
Suddenly he clasped me to his chest in a big bearhug and my nose filled up with the smell of Creed and warm male skin.
‘Now then, Patrice,’ I heard him say over my head, ‘don’t I get a moment’s privacy?’
My first thought was: has he been drinking?
My second thought was: oh my God, he smells divine.
And when I struggled to get free and saw Patrice’s thunderous face, my third thought was: oh great, now Patrice hates me, as well as Carolyn.
‘Pardon me,’ said Patrice, icily. ‘But I need to talk to you about Monday’s meeting with Henderson Corshaw.’
‘Patrice, your job is to arrange those meetings and let me know time, place and agenda,’ Jonathan snapped testily. ‘That’s what I pay you for. I don’t want to have to think about it during my minimal time off, OK?’
Patrice reeled slightly. ‘But I need to . . .’
‘Please, Patrice! Not now, OK?’
My attention, however, was elsewhere.
‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, pointing at the fractious scene unfolding by the huge bucket of ice. ‘I knew we should have stopped serving Pimms at four! Aren’t they awful?’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Jonathan spat, sounding deeply annoyed. ‘Jesus. Can’t you English go anywhere without having a fight? Can’t you just go to the gym more often?’
My mood, which had been turning quite mellow, dissolved into panic. I tried to explain that the estate agents I knew would probably have heart attacks should they look at an exercise bike too quickly, but Jonathan’s flash of annoyance froze the words in my throat.
So this was the office Stalin Gabi had been talking about.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I began weakly. ‘I’m sure they’re just bickering . . .’
As I spoke, Hughy started windmilling his arms at a lettings agent from Battersea and I knew we were in for trouble.
Jonathan and Patrice immediately set off at a gym-honed trot to break up the schoolboy pushing and shoving that was sending guests scattering like frightened ducks off a pond. I could have told them that, traditionally, tipsy alpha male public-school boys indulge in meaningless shoving at most social events and that it was highly unlikely to turn into anything else – but, in these shoes, I couldn’t get across the lawn fast enough to do that.
As Jonathan approached, one of the Martingales lot gave Hughy a shove which momentum turned into a barrelling stagger; he crashed into the table, bringing it down on top of him, whereupon Quentin, emboldened by Pimms, punched the offender, then ducked out of the way before the return punch could land on him. It landed instead on Carolyn, who went down vertically like one of Fred Dibnah’s tower demolitions, knees first.
Well, I did what any self-respecting hostess would do, seeing her beautiful, elegant garden party degenerate into a free-for-all.
I set off the nearest intruder alarm.
11
‘What did you say to the police?’ demanded Gabi when we met up for our picnic lunch in the park the Tuesday after. ‘I don’t expect they get many house break-ins attended by a hundred people in garden party outfits, accompanied by a string quartet.’
As it turned out, the aftermath of the party hadn’t been as challenging as I’d anticipated, since most middle-class people rather enjoy seeing a policeman in action. The local guests, in particular, left with a warm glow about the prompt response times of the Barnes constabulary. Well, that and the Pimms.
‘Oh, I told them it was a faulty alarm and plied them with strawberry tartlets,’ I said, upending a sachet of brown sugar into my cappuccino.
‘Hmm,’ said Gabi. ‘And what did you tell Jonathan’s guests?’
‘Well, you know. I sort of managed to persuade most of them that it was part of the Welcome to London theme. “Our famous boys in blue” and all that, just making sure they all got home safely, without drinking and driving.’
‘And Jonathan? Did he see the funny side? Or did he go off on one?’ Gabi’s incredulous expression told me exactly where she’d put her money.
‘Well . . . we laughed about it eventually.’ I bit my lip. Jonathan hadn’t seen the funny side at all, in fact. He hadn’t exactly blamed me, but I’d got a real broadside of office brusqueness that chilled me to the marrow.
It had been particularly unpleasant, coming after that rather enjoyable display of ‘affection’; if I’d had any illusions about what was real and what was faked with Jonathan, they’d certainly been cleared up now.
‘And did he enjoy himself?’ asked Gabi, raising her eyebrow suggestively. ‘Because it looked that way from where I was standing. I’ve never seen him so amused. Well, until the police rocked up.’
‘Oh, yes, I think so. By the time I’d ushered everyone out and got the police settled, he was running late for his tennis trainer and had to leave in a hurry.’
‘Still, you made an impression.’ She eyed me curiously. ‘The office is abuzz, as Carolyn would say.’
‘Mmm,’ I agreed, trying not to let my disappointment about the debacle show. Instead of a pleasant post-mortem à deux, I’d been left to deal with the largely non-English-speaking hired staff, none of whom seemed to understand about washing glasses properly. Not even any flowers to say sorry. Or thank you.
I rallied myself. This wasn’t the point, and anyway, he didn’t have my address. ‘Yes, indeed. Mission accomplished on that front.’
‘See what a moody arsehole he is now?’ she added, with a distinct trace of gloat.
I lifted my chin. ‘I imagine he’s trying to establish his authority. I’m sure he’ll relax into his role once he’s more settled.’
‘Yeah, right. And you say Carolyn got whacked in the eye?’ Gabi asked gleefully, for the second time.
‘Full on. Like something from a kung-fu film, only with real sound effects.’
Gabi snorted uncharitably. ‘No wonder she’s taken some time off. What a waste of her fake tan!’ she snickered. ‘God, I’m sorry to have missed that.’
‘Yes,’ I said, turning to look her in the face. ‘Where did you get to? I tried to find you but you’d vanished.’
Gabi had the grace to turn red and miss a bit of pasta salad with her fork. ‘I was talking to Nelson in the conservatory. About charity work,’ she added, as if that made it better. ‘With the lead piping.’
‘Gabi.’ I attempted to
look disapproving – not hard, since for once I really was. I liked Aaron – he was hard-working and cheerful, but I had my doubts about Gabi’s somewhat businesslike approach to their relationship. I’d never seen her go fluttery when she talked about him, the way she did whenever Nelson was around.
‘Nothing happened!’ she protested, unnecessarily.
‘Too right! Oh, Gabi. I thought you and Aaron were getting on better. What about your weekend break? At Champneys?’
‘It was OK.’ Gabi had been nagging Aaron about minibreaks for ages. They were the currency of romance for her.
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’ She examined her beautiful French manicure, and twisted the platinum band Aaron had given her for her birthday. Most girls would have been thrilled with a platinum band, but for Gabi it lacked a certain something. Like a massive diamond solitaire. ‘We had a nice time.’
‘Just a nice time?’
‘We had a nice time. He played golf and I had three consecutive reiki massages. What? Don’t look at me like that!’
I sighed. I wasn’t London’s Greatest Romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but I just didn’t believe Gabi’s ‘kissing doesn’t last as long as his’n’hers Rolexes’ view of romance. She couldn’t be that hard-nosed, and still fancy a do-gooder like Nelson. ‘Gabi, if Aaron has nothing else to offer you besides your own set of matching store cards, then don’t you think maybe you should be looking elsewhere? Where’s the love? The romance? I mean, is it fair on Aaron, for a start?’
‘No. Oh no. I’ve heard your Marry for Love lecture too many times before, Mel,’ she said, bundling her empty plastic containers into the paper Pret bag. ‘And we’re not going to have it again. Me and Aaron, we understand each other. We’re a good team. And believe me, I’m a lot nicer to be around when I know the bills are all paid.’ She gave me a ‘that’s the end of that’ look, and went on, ‘Tell me about Jonathan instead. I was dying to get inside the house and nose around. Why did you let him keep all the doors locked? What is he, Bluebeard?’ She eyed me, hungry for gossip, and leaned in closer. ‘What’s his bedroom like? You must have had a sneaky peek.’
‘I didn’t go in his bedroom,’ I spluttered, thrown off balance by the force of Gabi’s curiosity.
‘Well, what about his bathroom? Has he got fabulous toiletries?’ She looked wistful. ‘You always know when Jonathan’s in the office, because the place smells sexy, instead of reeking of stale wine and old socks.’
I turned to look at her. ‘Sexy? I thought you all loathed and detested him?’ I asked, curious. ‘Are you sure he isn’t starting to defrost, now he’s got you all under control?’
‘Chuh! Some hope. He’s stepped up his campaign, if anything. We’ve got motivation charts and God knows what else to fill in. But . . .’ Gabi pulled her sympathetic face. ‘Apparently, there’s a rumour that he came to London to escape some terrible heartbreak in New York. So now we all think, well, we hope, it’s all to compensate for his inner turmoil and not just because he’s a total bastard.’ She peered at me. ‘Is it? Can you find out?’
‘No, I cannot,’ I protested. ‘Jonathan’s never even mentioned his . . . situation.’
‘So why are you pretending to be his girlfriend?’ she demanded.
‘He’s . . . busy.’ My mind whirred, trying to be discreet but at the same time give Gabi sufficient information to satisfy the roaring flames of her nosiness. She wouldn’t let it lie otherwise. ‘He needs someone to organise his personal life, but hasn’t got time for a real girlfriend.’
She pointed at me. ‘Is he gay?’
‘No,’ I said firmly.
‘Is there a vengeful ex in the picture?’
‘Gabi, this isn’t Twenty Questions!’ I snapped. I was starting to see why Jonathan was so buttoned-up at work with gossip-hounds like Gabi slavering for details of his painful personal life.
Besides, he hadn’t mentioned Cindy, the ex-wife, since our initial meeting. I hadn’t asked, but that wasn’t to say I wasn’t starting to get curious.
‘Hmm. I can’t imagine him with a woman. She’d have to be extraordinarily patient and thick-skinned.’ Gabi put her finger on her lips. ‘If there was ever a woman at all . . . God, I wish I’d been able to have a quick shufty round his house! He does play things very close to his chest. We’ve all noticed that. No pictures in his office. Kyrle & Pope screen-saver. A bit secretive. Enigmatic. Would you say? Is that fair?’
‘Gabi, it’s called being professional!’ I exclaimed, inching back a little on the bench. I felt a protectiveness towards Jonathan that I’d never have dreamed possible.
‘Do you have his card there?’ asked Gabi innocently. ‘Just a quick look and I could silence all manner of inaccurate gossip at work . . .’
I shuffled back, but not quick enough to stop her lurching for the file cards on my knee.
‘Gabi, no!’ I screeched, trying to knock her hands away, but I managed only to upend the box, spilling cards all over the path. ‘Oh, shit!’ I wailed, scrabbling around to pick them up before the wind got them.
We got on our knees and grabbed wildly, much to the amusement of some kids on the benches opposite.
‘Royston Pilling: needs chiropody. Destroy “snuggly”. Aries?’ read Gabi.
‘Give me that,’ I said, snatching the cards off her.
‘This isn’t what you’d call secure, is it?’ she said, as I managed to seize Jeremy Wilde’s card from the duck pond in the nick of time. ‘Carrying everyone’s details around with you in a bag. What if you were mugged? Do your clients know how vulnerable their social defects are?’
‘I can’t afford an office and I can’t work from home.’
‘Can’t you?’ mused Gabi. ‘Does Nelson not approve?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘He’s so principled, you know,’ she said, a dreamy look spreading over her face. ‘Such high standards.’
‘I know,’ I snapped, shaking grass cuttings off Jeremy’s card. ‘But either you’re with Aaron or you’re not. You can’t be in love with two people at once. Gabi, you mustn’t marry someone you don’t love.’ I could see she was about to kick off, so I patted her on the knee. ‘Now, let’s not talk about this any more. I have to go home this weekend to show Emery her toile, and I can’t afford to lose a gram of positivity.’
As I said this a passing pigeon pooed on Barnaby Mulligan’s file card, the only one that hadn’t fallen out of the box.
‘The natural world has spoken,’ said Gabi, returning to her normal beady-eyed state. ‘You’ve got to get an office. I’m going to start looking for you at work, and we’ll worry about how to pay for it later.’
There were four cars parked outside my parents’ house when the taxi from the station dropped me off, and I immediately felt the pain of my pedestrian state.
Cars were a big deal in our family, representing, as they did, independence, money, and the power to run things over. My father had a large black Jaguar XJS, my mother had a Mercedes estate (‘for the dogs’), Emery had a dilapidated old Beetle and my grandmother had a little red Alfa Romeo sports car. I was especially pleased to see that parked outside, even if it was blocking in my father’s Jag.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Granny when I walked into the kitchen.
She was the only one who acknowledged my arrival; my parents didn’t even break off from the hissed argument they were conducting over the table.
‘You tell her!’ hissed my mother.
‘No, you can tell her!’ my father hissed back. ‘I can’t deal with Emery. It’s like talking to you, but under general bloody anaesthetic. She’s your daughter, you tell her.’
‘You are such a manipulative swine, Martin!’
‘At least I’m not half-witted, unlike the female members of this family!’
‘Is this about Emery’s wedding?’ I guessed.
Granny poured me a cup of tea. ‘In a way. Your father isn’t keen to pay for the fleet of Rolls-Royces for the brid
al party.’
‘But he paid for Allegra to have nine cars. Even the vicar arrived in a Roller.’
‘Well, he did and he didn’t, darling,’ whispered Granny, as though she was updating a late-comer at the theatre. ‘It seems your father did some deal with a friend of his who runs a top-end car-fleet business. They made some murky pact, by all accounts, something to do with getting publicity in the constituency. But now they’ve fallen out and so the cars are no-go.’
‘I see.’
My mother let out a frustrated squeal of annoyance and hurled a plate of salad at my father.
‘Do you want to be detoxed next month, you raddled old soak?’ he demanded, picking tomato off his shirt. ‘Or are you working up to being entirely pickled for the wedding? Like Lord Nelson but in a seven-hundred-quid hat and Teflon corselette?’
‘Emer-eeeeee!’ wailed my mother. ‘Your father wants you to arrive at the church in a Ford Granada!’
‘Shall we go for a turn about the grounds?’ suggested Granny cheerfully, then added, ‘There’s something you and I need to talk about,’ in an undertone.
We walked round the apple orchard, arm-in-arm, and not for the first time I decided that home would be almost bearable if it was just Granny living there. She was the only member of the family I actually felt related to, although her imperial cheekbones and cat-like eyes had gone to Emery and Allegra and not me. Granny was like the calm in the storm, a fresh breeze in a sulky atmosphere. She never asked me whether I’d met anyone nice; instead she sort of intimated that, like hers, my life must be too full for words, which was awfully flattering, if not exactly true.
My father liked to mutter that she lived in a fantasy world and had been an appalling mother, but as far as I was concerned her sole error seemed to be that she’d allowed her daughter to marry a bounder like him. Besides, when it came to parenting skills he was hardly qualified to judge.
After some gossip about the wedding – Emery’s sports-mad fiancé, William, including shooting lessons and season tickets on their wedding list, Mummy wanting a low-carb croquembouche and so on – she asked, ‘How’s that adorable Nelson?’ Granny had a soft spot for Nelson and Woolfe. Most people did.