The Party Season

  'You will stay, won't you?' says Simon to Aunt Winnie. 'Presumably you can't go home if your neighbours are expecting to see you on the box with Hugh Scully any day now.'

  'I was going to stay with a friend.'

  'Do stay, Winnie,' says Monty earnestly. I open my mouth to add my plea but it's not needed. She looks over at Monty and smiles. 'Okay. I don't think I'd want to miss all the excitement anyway!'

  After a bit of fuss about an overnight bag which appears to have been locked in the lorry – the same lorry that Will has just spent ten minutes reversing into one of the stables – Mrs Delaney and Aunt Winnie disappear upstairs together to find a suitable bedroom.

  Simon tells us that the press are turning up at nine tomorrow morning, the PR company are here to take care of them and that if we come across any reporters we are to look casual but on no account answer any questions. Simon is looking very long and hard at Monty and Flo when he says this.

  We all retire to bed. Meg has obviously decided that since Albert got to accompany us earlier she now gets to sleep in my room, which is fine by me as a bit of company is much appreciated. I get to my room to find all the windows still open, so the room is freezing cold but still smells faintly of burnt knickers. I can't believe it was only this morning that I was burning Rob's photo; it feels like weeks ago. I crawl into bed feeling absolutely exhausted but then have a small panic that some madman might have come in through the windows while we were all otherwise engaged and is now hiding in the wardrobe. I check the wardrobe by opening the door with a coathanger. No madman. I clamber back into bed and drop off instantly.

  A few minutes later, my alarm wakes me at six. I sit bolt upright in bed and wonder why I'm feeling so awful. Then the events of the last few days slowly come back to me and I suppress a small groan. What I would really like to do is crawl back underneath my duvet and dissolve in a pile of apathy; I feel weighed down with guilt at causing such a horrendous mess. At least I have both Dominic and Aunt Winnie with me; I hope Aunt Winnie has brought her golf clubs.

  I duly perform my morning toilette which takes much longer than Meg's. Hers consists of stretching and yawning for twenty seconds. If I get a choice the next time around I want to come back as a dog. I pack up my things and strip the bed as I am moving into a twin room with Dominic this evening, and then Meg and I make our way downstairs in search of artificial stimulants. Monty seems to have abandoned his normal morning routine and is sitting very calmly at the kitchen table chatting to Aunt Winnie. Why is it that, however late they go to bed, aged relatives are always up before you?

  Even I think it might be a little early for a nicotine patch so I accept Aunt Winnie's offer of a very strong cup of coffee. Besides which, I don't quite know how to explain their presence to her – I think I will just have to tell her they are plasters.

  When I am confident the caffeine has actually reached my bloodstream, I fish my files and laptop out of the back of the Smart car, grab a second cup of coffee and wander through to the library, completely forgetting the lack of furniture. I open the door, stand staring at the empty room for a moment, tut to myself and then try the drawing room in the quest for some sort of desk or table to work at. Someone has put a table and a swivel chair in here. There's still an awful lot of work to be done for the ball. It takes me a little while to catch up with my plans but soon enough I am back in the swing of things and have produced an alarmingly long list of things to do today.

  For the fifth time in the last couple of weeks I leave a message on my sister's mobile. 'Sophie, it's me. Isabel,' I add, just in case the mobile has distorted my voice somehow. 'You haven't returned my calls and I'm a bit worried. Call me back.' What I really want to do is talk to her about my problems but I don't want to sound selfish.

  It's about eight o'clock when I stride back into the kitchen, ready to start some heavy-handed delegation. Harry is about to be catapulted into first place ahead of ruddy Godfrey Farlington in the bob-a-job league tables if I have anything to do with it. Thankfully, most of the family are downstairs and seated around the kitchen table eating breakfast. Mrs Delaney and I have a quick chat about her plans for the American visitors to see if I can help in any way. Despite, or maybe because of, yesterday's dramas, she seems to have relaxed her attitude towards me and we actually manage to have quite a civilised exchange.

  After protracted negotiations on how many bob-a-jobs it actually adds up to (we agree on four but I am convinced I could have had him for three), Harry and Aunt Winnie disappear upstairs to finish off the guest rooms while Dominic and I go to the utility room to make a start on the flowers.

  'How are you?' Dom whispers.

  I bob my head around in an 'okay-ish' way.

  'God, you must be feeling absolutely dire. I mean, what with the Rob thing and then the awful atmosphere here yesterday.'

  I eye Dominic and accidentally break the head off a lily. I'm not quite sure what he's trying to achieve here. If it's the screaming heebie-jeebies from me then this is the most direct route.

  'At least you get to have me around.' He starts dancing a little jig in front of me.

  'That isn't as much fun as you think it is.'

  'But I wouldn't miss it for the world! Simon actually took me to one side yesterday and made me sign a confidentiality agreement. He said that if I breathed a word of what is actually going on to anyone he would wring my neck!' Dom looks absolutely thrilled at this prospect. 'But I told him that you and I were quite close and I wouldn't dream of telling anyone. He didn't look too convinced though – probably because your track record isn't so great.'

  I give him another look.

  'Izzy, are you sure he was quite so nasty to you in child-hood? I mean, it doesn't seem to fit, does it? I know he can be a little abrupt at times – are you sure it wasn't just that?'

  'Quite sure,' I say, remembering his spiteful behaviour. 'But you're right. It is strange.'

  'Simon strikes me as being quite honourable and he could have made life very difficult for you over the Rob thing. He could have sued you! What exactly did he do when you were eleven?' he asks, piling some roses haphazardly into a vase.

  I pause for a second, unwilling to unearth the memories, but then I start to tell Dom and find that I can't stop. The games, the taunts come pouring out until Dom is completely silent.

  'Oh,' he says.

  'I don't think any of that could be attributed to abruptness, do you?'

  'Er, no. Sorry, Izzy. I wasn't thinking.'

  We continue our work in silence.

  Dom is right, I think to myself as I take the prepared flowers through to the hall. The recent revelations about Simon don't seem to fit with my childhood memories of him. I have no time to ponder this further, however, as the press suddenly appear, on a tour of the house. I can hear the snatches of the PR girl's spiel: ' … as Mark Twain once wrote, "The report of my death was an exaggeration". As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, no furniture has been removed from the house. The vans yesterday were merely carrying out some work at Mr Monkwell's request.' I sincerely hope God isn't listening and decides to strike the house with lightning. ' … Mr Monkwell is expecting representatives from the American investment bank later this morning in order to continue negotiations for Wings manufacturers …'

  I go to the drawing room to deposit the rest of the flowers and stop to watch Simon as he comes out of the study to meet the press. It's the first time I've seen him today and he looks absolutely pristine in a beautiful suit, complete with immaculately pressed lilac shirt and tie which complement his dark looks. I wonder if his lawyer girlfriend picked them out for him. This is the same man who was such a bully to me fifteen years ago. Does anyone really change? Surely our childhood behaviour truly reflects us, is forever at our core. I shake my head to myself. Dom's right. It doesn't add up.

  I don't have time for any more introspection as the American investment bankers will be arriving soon for lunch. I manage to get away with a half hour conversation with Rose
on the phone where we rearrange the charity meeting for the start of next week so I can give my full attention to the visitors. Mrs Delaney has planned a menu of rocket salad with Parma ham and blueberries, followed by roasted scallops in a ginger and sesame sauce, with chocolate tart and poached pears to finish. Tonight's feast sounds just as sumptuous and the plan is for all the family, including myself, to eat dinner with the visitors. A frantic hour follows, including minor hysterics from Mrs Delaney on the lateness of the hour, minor hysterics from me as I realise Will has forgotten to pick up Harry from a Scouts trip and then minor hysterics from Dom because he is feeling left out. I am about to stride upstairs at around midday to get changed when I bump into Simon in the hallway.

  'There you are! I was just about to come looking for you,' he says, smiling and fixing me with his brown eyes. 'The guests will be here soon. Thank you for offering to look after them.'

  'No problem, I do it almost every day! By the way, is Mrs Delaney up to cooking all that food? Some of the recipes are quite complex.'

  'Oh yes!' says Simon cheerfully. 'She'll be fine. She was head chef at a restaurant in Oxford.'

  'Was she really?' For the first time I wonder about Mrs Delaney's past and how she ended up here. 'Aunt Winnie is helping her, although I hope Mrs Delaney doesn't let her too near the actual food. She tends to tip Tabasco on pretty much everything. Your father is there too.'

  'For God's sake, try to keep him away from the visitors. He seems obsessed with his health.'

  'I know, he's already told the reporters in great detail about his bunions.'

  Simon smiles. 'I hope he hasn't been a pain.'

  'No! Everyone's been really helpful. Harry and his bob-a-jobs have been a real boon.'

  'First time I've, ever been thankful for the mention of Godfrey Farlington.'

  'Me too. I was starting to think I might throttle him if I ever met him.'

  'Is everything ready?'

  'Em, yes. Unforeseen disasters not withstanding!'

  'Do you count my family in that?'

  'Er, em …' He's caught me on the hop with this one. I don't quite know how to answer; I think it might be a little rude to say, 'God, yes, they're an absolute liability.' But his brown eyes are twinkling, so obviously he is just kidding, but somehow this confuses me even more. It is almost as though he's flirting with me. And I think I might be flirting back. I look at my shoes for a second and then risk another glance up at him. He is still staring at me, a slight smile on his face. What on earth is going on? Thank God he continues the conversation as I have completely forgotten what we were talking about.

  'Actually, Izzy, I wanted to say thank you. For all you've done. You and Aunt Winnie have been amazing.'

  I bite my lip and stare fixedly at a side table. 'Er, well. This is kind of all my fault in the first place, let's not forget.'

  'Not really. You didn't know Rob Gillingham was such a shit.'

  I blush furiously, pleased he has forgiven me but also thinking that this sounds quite ironic coming from Simon. But Rob is a shit and I hope, more than anything, that this takeover goes ahead and Simon throws him off the board of directors. Dominic is right; revenge is a dish best served cold and I'm thinking Gazpacho.

  'Do you think you'll persuade the Americans?' I ask, suddenly quite desperate for him to succeed.

  'I don't know but I guess it's worth a try.'

  C h a p t e r 18

  Upstairs in my new room, I change into a smart lilac suit, throw on some make-up and then swap my white shirt for a black one as throwing foundation around isn't actually a very good idea. Dominic wanders in, yawns widely and throws himself on to one of the beds.

  'Have you got a cigarette, Izz?'

  I fix him with a.look. 'No, but I do have a nicotine patch. Which is a strange position for a non-smoker to be in.'

  'Well, if you will get yourself into these situations. Have you got one on?'

  'Yes, actually.' I pull my sleeve up over my elbow and show him. 'I quite like them. They make me feel buzzy. Don't you think you ought to be changing into your butler outfit? You did pick it up, didn't you?' I'd sent him into Bury St Edmunds this morning to hire a suit.

  'I suppose I ought to try it on.'

  'Try it on? You mean you haven't tried it on?'

  'Was I supposed to?'

  'Oh God, Dom! Try it on. Try it on now.'

  He goes over to the back of the door where the suit is hanging, strips off the plastic covering and pulls on the trousers. They're about six sizes too large and there's a big hole in one leg where a grateful moth has filled its boots. He pulls on the jacket to find that it is at least ten sizes too big for him as well. There is no time to do any sewing, much less to take the suit back to Bury St Edmunds. After much wringing of hands and wistfully wishing them to be around Dom's neck, I run down to the study, rifle through the mound of supplies in the corner and run back up to our room clutching a stapler. I staple the trousers and jacket sleeves and with a large black marker pen colour a neat square about ten centimetres wide on Dominic's leg where the hole is. I survey my handiwork and Dominic leaps around the room for a while checking for any position where the paleness of his flesh might show through. I can't focus for long enough to tell whether the hole is there or not.

  'Don't keep still for very long and they'll never know it's there.'

  'Right. Izzy?'

  'Yes?'

  'Do you think I could be Irish?'

  'Sorry?'

  'Irish. I've always wanted to be Irish. I could call myself Dominic O'Leary! Americans love the Irish!'

  'Dominic, have you completely taken leave of your senses?'

  'Aww, come on, Izzy! Where's your sense of fun?'

  'It left, along with my sense of humour, a couple of days ago. I saw them packing. If I hear you speaking with an Irish accent, I swear to God I will throttle you. In front of the Americans.'

  'Miserable old cow.'

  Fantastic. An Irish butler who looks like he's Mr Bean on speed. Dom marches as manfully as he can wearing an oversize coat and tails down the back stairs.

  We all stand awkwardly in the hallway and wait for the American investment bankers to pitch up. Simon's team of advisers look worried to say the least and Simon stands quietly to one side with his hands behind his back, looking thoughtfully down at the floor. The atmosphere in the room is highly charged and suddenly I feel an enormous wave of relief that's it's not going to be me who has to face this and shoulder the responsibility. Simon, probably feeling my eyes upon him, looks up and smiles at me.

  I wander over to have a chat with Sam. 'Hello! How are you?' I whisper because the atmosphere is so rarefied it feels like we're in the atrium of a church.

  Sam smiles and fiddles nervously with his glasses. 'I'm fine.'

  'Have you got a plan?' It must be the party planning bit in me; I always like to know if there's a plan.

  'Em …' He is frowning and still fiddling with the glasses, probably wondering how much I know about the situation.

  'It's okay, I'm a friend of the family,' I say reassuringly, not bothering to add 'and the one who got you all into this mess in the first place'.

  He nods slightly at this and then shrugs his shoulders. 'We're just going to try to convince them that we're not such a bad group of people after all. Try to get around the things that Wings have told them and convince them to sell.'

  'Is that going to be easy?'

  'The press have built up such a bad image of Simon that it's going to be a tough sell. And they would have spoken directly to Rob Gillingham.' I almost start at the name; it is surprising to hear how easily it runs off Sam's tongue. 'He's a non-executive director of Wings,' he explains, 'the one who we think gave us all the problems with the press.'

  I nod dumbly, feeling surprised (and I have to say somewhat relieved) that Simon hasn't told them of my involvement in all this. And Gutless Gertie here doesn't feel much like filling them in; they would probably hang me from the nearest beam.
br />   'Anyway, Gillingham has told them all sorts of things and we need to try to restore their confidence in us and the takeover bid.'

  'Why can't they just sell their shares and be done with it? Why all the song and dance?'

  'It's not that simple. There will be various conditions attached to the sale and they have to know that we will carry out our side of the bargain.'

  I have no time to question Sam further because the radio crackles into life and the gatekeeper announces the arrival of the visitors. Due to the press onslaught we have kept the front gates closed and padlocked, which is a bit of a bummer when you realise you've just left the butter behind in the village shop as I did this morning. Simon has insisted that we carry on as normal and still use the village shop in order to minimise gossip. I'm not entirely convinced that my creeping around the old shop looking as though I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown, twitching madly whenever spoken to, actually helped.

  Dominic swings the large studded door open and we watch as two limousines glide down the driveway and stop in front of the house. The driver of each vehicle gets out and, after opening the passenger doors, starts removing luggage from the boot. Five gentlemen get out. Dominic whisks down the steps to help them.

  The five men start walking up the steps towards us like high noon in a cowboy movie. On first impressions, they don't appear to be a barrel of laughs. In fact, collectively they look as though they are having the same sort of week as me. The heat of the day scarcely seems to bother them as they assemble in front of us. Simon stands with the guy in charge whose name I think is Mr Berryman. He is dressed in an olive green suit with an orange tie and is clutching a small wooden box. Simon introduces everyone as the visitors progress down the line until he reaches me: 'This is Isabel who will be looking after you during your stay here. Please ask her for anything you need.'

  I shake Mr Berryman's hand. 'How do you do,' I murmur. 'Would you like me to take that to your room?' I ask, indicating the box he is carrying.

  He hesitates. 'Er, sure. But it's very valuable to me.'