The Party Season

  'Aunt Winnie?' I call. 'Are you all right?'

  She seems incapable of speech but then the hill out of the village is quite steep and she's hardly in peak physical condition. She's still waving the newspaper around in a maniacal sort of fashion. She eventually reaches me and, amid much huffing and puffing, hands the paper over. The Telegraph. I look at the headline: TUBE STRIKE BRINGS CITY TO STANDSTILL.

  'Em, I can catch the bus to work, Aunt Winnie. It's not a problem.'

  She grinds her teeth and impatiently shakes her head. She bends over and puts one hand on her thigh, still trying to catch her breath, and holds the other hand up to indicate the number two. At least I think that's what she means – she could just be being rude.

  I turn to page two. A headline about halfway down the page screams: MONKWELLS HOSTILE BID FOR MANUFACTURER IN TATTERS.

  'Oh my God!' I say to Aunt Winnie.

  She makes an impatient read-on gesture. I read on.

  Sensational revelations have made the difference between business and bust for Simon Monkwell. An unnamed American investment bank has decided to back the ailing manufacturing plant Monkwell was trying to buy after some unsavoury disclosures about his business and personal ethics led the bank to believe that various promises and conditions of the sale were unlikely to be met. 'This is a man,' says a source close to the Monkwell family, 'who throws his tenants out of cottages where their families grew up. A man who leaves his family home to rot. He is also sleeping with the family lawyer so don't expect much sense out of her either.'

  'Oh my God,' I repeat. I sit down suddenly on the grass underneath the apple tree. The ground is still damp, I notice hazily.

  Aunt Winnie, who in the interim has managed to get her breathing under control, kneels down beside me. 'Are these things true?'

  'Yes, but the paper makes them sound so awful. I don't know anything about this lawyer woman though. I think Aunt Flo might have mentioned something the other night. But so what if he is? It has nothing to do with the takeover.'

  'I suppose it's a bit like politicians and their personal lives. You could argue that it's got nothing to do with their work, but you get a good idea of their integrity from it.'

  'I suppose. I'm not Simon's greatest fan but I still think this is awful. I'd better call Pantiles; it might affect the ball somehow.'

  I stand up with this purpose in mind and walk inside. My mobile rings and I leap on it, my stomach filled with butterflies. I have a very bad feeling about all of this and I don't know why. It's Will.

  'Hi! Have you seen the news?' I ask anxiously.

  'Yes, we got the paper about an hour ago. Izzy, I really think you should get back here …' His voice sounds distant and faint.

  'I'm just about to leave. Awful, isn't it?'

  'Er, yes. Actually, it's worse than that. Simon says he knows who the leak is.'

  'Oh really?' I say.

  'Yes. He says it's you.'

  C h a p t e r 14

  I'm keen to make a bolt for the nearest airport but Aunt Winnie persuades me to return to Pantiles. I'm not the bravest person in the world and it's only when she threatens to take me there by force – a coercion she has resorted to in the past (admittedly not at the weight I am now but she does still have the advantage there) – and then looks pointedly at her golt clubs that I relent. She agrees to feed me breakfast first, a sub-clause in our verbal contract that I shoved in at the last minute in order to buy me some time.

  Aunt Winnie is cooking me some bacon (she labours under the misapprehension that I need at least three thousand calories to get out of bed in the morning). The smell is making me want to vomit. Perhaps I could throw up into Jameson's bowl and no one would be any the wiser. She shakes the pan vigorously. 'So,' she booms above the noise of the smoke alarm going off and Terry Wogan on the radio, 'why on earth does Simon think you told the press all those things?'

  I keep my eyes trained on the butter dish on the table and one hand on the top of Jameson's head. He has already taken up position next to me in anticipation of some pig coming his way.

  'Aunt Winnie, I have absolutely no idea,' I say wearily. So far, this has been one hell of a morning. It's not even eight o'clock. I get up, smack the smoke alarm dementedly with a large fish slice and then sit back down again. 'He probably thinks I'm likely to want to extract some sort of revenge on him; we didn't exactly part on the best of terms.'

  Aunt Winnie snorts scornfully. 'I doubt that, Izzy. You must be in quite a long queue.'

  'Yes, but I'm the only one he has actually let into the house.'

  Aunt Winnie shoves half a swine in between four doorstops of bread, plonks the plate in front of me and sits down suddenly, covering one of my hands with hers. 'It wasn't you was it, darling? You didn't call the Telegraph, I don't know, for a chat or something and then inadvertently tell them a few things?'

  'Why on earth would I call the Telegraph for a chat?'

  'I don't know. Because of your job?' she offers weakly.

  I fix her with a look.

  'Er, no. Of course not. I was just wondering how Simon could be so sure.'

  I frown. 'Will didn't say "Simon thinks it's you". He said "he knows it's you". Do you think Simon will sue me? I signed a confidentiality agreement.'

  'He can't sue you if you didn't do it!' Aunt Winnie says indignantly and returns to the stove.

  'Want to bet?' I mutter darkly and slip Jameson half a tonne of bacon.

  The drive back to the estate is none too pleasant. I call Dominic en-route and babble incoherently at him for ten minutes. After my initial non-stop verbal dysentery, I pause to take in some oxygen and Dominic jumps in. 'Izzy, I'm a bit confused. Why would he think you were the leak?'

  'THAT'S my point, Dom. Why? Just because we didn't get on so well when we were younger? Why let me into the house at all if he was that distrustful?'

  'Well, Monty actually let you in.'

  I ignore this pedantic detail. 'Does he really think I would carry that sort of grudge after all these years? We're not all as petty-minded as him!' I rage hysterically. 'Besides, I would never do that to the family!'

  Dom is probably picking his nails or playing Solitaire on the computer by now. 'Now don't get in a tizzy, Izzy. He is probably only thinking of the strangers he has let into the house over the last few weeks. You're presumably the only one.'

  'What about you?'

  'Oh, everyone always trusts me. I've got that sort of face. You are altogether more shifty-looking.'

  'Oh, well, he might as well just take me out and shoot me now.'

  'He probably will. It's all rough justice in the country, isn't it? Look, Izzy, just go up there and sort it out. It's probably some sort of misunderstanding.'

  I put the phone down and feel much better simply because I have managed to work up a small rage, an infinitely superior emotion to plain lily-livered fear. But as the miles drop away, my courage goes with them. 'Come back!' I want to yell. Where's the old Dunkirk spirit? Rally it fast, please.

  Better to walk into the lion's den, I say to myself. But the fear begins to creep in again. How on earth will I defend myself? Does the entire family think the same as Simon? That I am some sort of turncoat and not to be trusted? That would be almost too much to bear. Even if I manage to convince them all that it wasn't me, the rest of my stay will be awful. Actually, I wouldn't be able to stay. Gerald would have to send someone else up in my place and I would have to leave Pantiles, this time for good. Why is that such a dreadful thought?

  The estate gates are shut but I shout through them to Daniel, the gamekeeper, who comes and opens them for me. I crawl up the driveway in my Smart car and spend quite some time dawdling in the courtyard before I can drag myself to the back door. I spend a few seconds practising saying 'hello', to see if my voice still works. Just as I'm about to knock the door flies open and Will stands before me. Oh God. He looks incredibly serious. Almost bereft.

  "Hello, Izzy. We heard you arrive,' he says stiffly and
looks away in embarrassment.

  'Hello,' I whisper, probably looking incredibly guilty.

  He stands to one side and I creep in. The entire family are seated around the kitchen table. Christ, this is a bit much, isn't it? What's happened to innocent before proven guilty? Jasper is the only dog in the room and the only one who seems pleased to see me.

  Monty manages a smile which doesn't reach his eyes. 'Hello Izzy. Simon is waiting for you in the study. What's left of it.'

  'What do you mean, what's left of it?' Everyone looks shifty and won't meet my gaze so I turn on my heel and walk quickly down the corridor. I stop short in the hallway and look around me in amazement. Where's all the furniture? Have they been burgled? Do the police know? It would explain the bleak faces in the kitchen a little better. I run towards the study door and open it. This room has also been stripped of all furniture, but odd things are piled up in the corners like rejects from a bric-a-brac sale. Simon is leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into space.

  He looks up as I enter. 'Isabel. You're back.'

  'Simon, how awful! You've been burgled! Are the police on their way?'

  'What were you thinking of?' he asks softly. He obviously has no wish to discuss the burglary which, unluckily for me, isn't going to make his mood any sunnier.

  'How do you mean?' I whisper, still looking at the empty room.

  'I mean, what the HELL WERE YOU THINKING OF?' His voice rises dangerously at the end. His eyes blaze threateningly at me. He's pretty mad.

  'I don't know how the press got hold of that information. It wasn't anything to do with—'

  'Oh come on, Isabel! You can't be that stupid!'

  'I don't know what you mean.' I bite my lip and try desperately not to cry. It would just be too pathetic.

  'I'm surprised you have the nerve to come back here.'

  'But I haven't done anything!' A little note of indignation comes into my voice. Thank God. I can rely on Simon to rile me.

  'Where do you think the press got the information from?'

  'I … I don't know.'

  'It was completely irresponsible of you not to tell me you still had links with that firm. I suppose you were absolutely desperate for the business. How did you think I wouldn't find out?'

  'Simon, I honestly don't know what you're talking about.'

  'Don't you?'

  'No, I don't. I was as surprised as you to see the newspaper article.'

  'What about your ex-boyfriend? Although I doubt he's that at all. Was he surprised?'

  'My ex-boyfriend?'

  'Robert Gillingham.'

  I bite my lip. 'Rob? But we finished about a month ago. I told you the other night,' I whisper. 'Why? What has this goi to do with him?'

  'Have you seen him recently?'

  'Yes, I saw him about a week ago.' My words slow as my befuddled brain tries to make some sense of it all.

  'You honestly don't know, do you?' he says, staring hard at me. 'I couldn't believe it was a coincidence but I think it really is. I wondered why you would blatantly mention him in front of me. I thought it was your way of giving me the subtle two fingers.'

  'What?' I ask in distress. 'What don't I know?'

  Simon noticeably calms down. 'You mentioned Gillingham the other night?' I nod, still baffled. 'Well, it's been bothering me for days where I've seen that name. Dad said it was just familiar because Gillinghams are a large pic, but I knew I had actually seen it written down somewhere. Then last night I remembered. Rob Gillingham is a nonexecutive director of Wings, the manufacturing plant I was' I wince at the use of the past tense 'trying to take over.'

  'What does that mean?' I ask, a small suspicion starting to gnaw at me.

  'It means that Rob Gillingham sits on the board of directors of Wings. He doesn't actually work for them but he attends board meetings once a month for a couple of hours and gets paid handsomely for it. It wouldn't be in his interest for me to take over the company because the first thing that usually happens in a hostile takeover is that the board of directors gets sacked. When you saw him last week, did he ask anything about the estate? About me?' he asks quietly.

  I think back. 'Em, I think he might have asked a few questions, I can't remember.'

  'Did you tell him I was in Chicago?'

  'I might have done,' I say in a small voice. 'Why?'

  'Because Wings knew which shareholders we were talking to.'

  'But he did seem really surprised that I was working for you.'

  'Oh, I doubt that.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean that he was trying to find out what you knew.'

  'But how would he know I was working here?'

  'Mutual acquaintances? Contacts in the industry? I don't know! There's dozens of ways for him to find out.'

  'But he came over to say …' My words trail off. He came over to say that he wanted me back, I finish in my head. That he had made a mistake.

  'Came over to say what?'

  I blush bright red. 'Nothing. So you're saying he came over just to get some information out of me?' The bastard. How could I have been so stupid? Men who finish with their girlfriends by voicemail are not the sort to then say, 'Sorry! Can't imagine what I was thinking! I do love you after all!' But at least I wasn't stupid enough to actually take him back, I think grimly. Thank God for that. What would he have done then? Slept with me until he had all the information he needed?

  'But I didn't tell him any of the stuff mentioned in today's article. Well, perhaps I might have mentioned the tenants being evicted but nothing else!'

  'From what our PR people can tell, the tenants were a little disgruntled to say the least. Apparently they spilled the beans quite happily.'

  'But Rob found out about them from me. Oh God, I had no idea what he was doing, I thought he was just being interested in my work. And I didn't tell him those things maliciously, I never said anything about the takeover. I wouldn't do that – I signed the confidentiality agreement.' Oh well done, Izzy. Bring that up, why don't you? He had probably forgotten all about it until you carefully lobbed the idea into his head. You might as well put a sign over your head saying 'SUE ME PLEASE'. I move swiftly on: 'He just asked me a couple of questions. Could we tell that to the newspaper? Get them to retract the story?'

  'Isabel, it's all true. Okay, it's not been portrayed in the most sympathetic light but there is an essence of truth there.' We fall into silence. Simon pulls over two bean bags from the corner of the room and we sit down. One bean bag has pictures of little pigs all over it. I think I recognise it.

  'I'm sorry I shouted at you. I just couldn't believe it wasn't a coincidence. Dad said you would never do something like that.'

  'He's right, I wouldn't. But I am sorry about Rob. I really didn't know what he was up to.' We fall into an uncomfortable silence. 'When did you find out about the burglary?' I ask suddenly.

  'No burglars, Isabel. The bailiffs took the furniture. The bank sent them in.'

  'What? Bailiffs? The bank?'

  'Yep. We personally, as in the house, owe them over half a million.'

  'Oh no!' I whisper.

  He nods and continues, 'When they read in the paper that the takeover had fallen through, I couldn't persuade them to hold off any longer. They arrived first thing this morning. Some of the furniture is valuable.'

  This is my fault.

  'Are you okay, Isabel?' he asks in concern. 'You look a little ill.'

  I whimper in answer. Simon gets up and goes back to the pile of stuff in the corner and extracts something. He throws a packet into my lap. 'Nicotine patches. I got Dad to buy some to help you give up. The bank didn't want them.' He smiles and sits back down opposite me.

  'Why don't you put one on now?' he says after a pause. 'You look like you could do with a cigarette.'

  Oh, I could. As a non-smoker I could really do with a cigarette. A drink wouldn't go amiss either. I shakily take out two patches and slap one on each knee. I wonder how he can be so calm.
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  'So why did you owe the bank all this money? Couldn't you have mortgaged the house or something instead?' I ask.

  'It's already been mortgaged. Several times. And if we can't figure out a way to keep the payments up, the mortgage company will take it.'

  He sees my bewildered expression and explains further. 'Isabel, when my mother died, I was at university. It was the middle of my second year and I was having a whale of a time. Her death was quite sudden, a heart attack, and I came home immediately. I was devastated – we all were – and Dad didn't want to run Pantiles any more, he just kind of gave up. I thought we could employ an estate manager for a couple of years until I finished university and then I could take over.' He pauses as there is a knock at the door. Mrs Delaney brings in a cup of coffee. For Simon, not me. I wonder if she has had the foresight to put a shot of brandy in it.

  'Simon, come through to the kitchen.' There is real affection in her voice.

  'In a minute, Mrs D.' He grins up at her. 'They didn't want the kitchen furniture; Mrs Delaney has obviously been ragging it up too much.'

  'Good thing too,' she says rather stiffly, without looking at either of us. 'What else would I have to cook on now?'

  'Go on,' I urge after she has left because I really need to hear all of this. I need to know the extent of it all. Simon hands his cup of coffee over to me. As he does so, his hand grazes mine and I unthinkingly flinch. Our eyes meet and he looks taken aback.

  'Go on,' I say quickly, to cover the discomfort, 'what happened then?'

  'Em, well, when I took a look at the accounts, I couldn't quite believe my eyes. Thank God I was doing economics at uni or else we would all have been turfed out years ago. I found that instead of the estate making a comfortable amount of money, enough for everyone to live on, it was losing money and rather a lot of it. The house had been mortgaged and re-mortgaged. We had an overdraft at the bank which we never came out of. Dad has always been not much of a businessman and too much of a philanthropist, but the whole thing really wasn't his fault. Over the last fifty years there has been a huge decline in farming. And the foot and mouth situation hasn't helped matters either; in fact, it plunged the whole estate much faster into bankruptcy.'