The Party Season

  We arrive at the picturesque village of Pantiles. The Monkwells also own all the houses here. I look around me with interest; after all, this was my stomping ground for a few years. Amazingly, the village of Pantiles has managed to remain completely unaltered. My head swivels from side to side as I recognise and remember. The little village shop that doubled up as the post office, where Sophie and I used to haggle with the proprietor over the maximum number of penny sweets we could buy with our pocket money. The village green with its ancient cherry tree. More than fifty years ago the then vicar grafted a pink blossoming cherry on to an existing white one, and every year the core of the tree blossoms pink while surrounded by a halo of white. There's a gnarled old seat under the tree which is known as the wedding seat, supposedly because the tree looks like a bride from a certain angle, and all couples who sit on it are supposed to get married. The fact that you would need to have taken a kilo of the magic mushrooms that purportedly grow in the local woods in order to see the similarity seems to have completely passed the locals by.

  Next to the post office is the little Saxon church, and opposite the church are the giant wrought iron gates which I remember used to be closed every evening by one of the gamekeepers. These gates are the only opening in the wall that encompasses the estate, house and grounds. I lean forward as we pass through them and then get thrown around as we bounce and grunt our way up the slight hill, weaving between the various pot holes, the road flanked by tall poplar trees. In the spring, daffodils wave from the banks either side of us for as far as the eye can see, but these are long dead and gone. We finally pop up over the hill and the house comes into view. If you branch off right at this point, the driveway leads to our old house hidden in the woods, but we mostly went unnoticed as it is hard to draw your eyes away from the Monkwell domicile. We pause for a minute while Aunt Winnie fights to find the appropriate gear. I stare at the grand old house with fondness while Aunt Winnie grunts and thrusts the gearstick in all directions. My reliving of Brideshead Revisited is shattered by Aunt Winnie shouting, 'Come on, you bastard car!' into my right ear and we charge forward at quite a lick down the hill.

  The house was designed by a former pupil of Lutyens and I can now clearly see hints of the master's trademark style. It sits in a perfect location in the cleft of a gentle valley, protected from the harsher elements and yet accessible to the sunlight. The gardens slope gently away while dozens of mullioned windows dot the house's façade and reflect the perfectly manicured lawns.

  Aunt Winnie shoots up the drive, through an archway and into the cobbled courtyard at the back of the house. The front door was only ever used on formal occasions and I'm guessing this isn't one of them. On the other side of the courtyard sits the seemingly deserted stable yard.

  'Looks like they don't own horses anymore, Aunt Winnie,' I say and point towards the yard.

  'Simon sold them all after Elizabeth died.' She snorts to herself. 'I'll wait here for you. Good luck.' Aunt Winnie leans over and opens the passenger door, undoes Jameson's seatbelt and shoves him out. I push the passenger seat forward and clamber out reluctantly after him.

  C h a p t e r 6

  As I wait at the back door, I look down at my stomach and pull it in slightly. Five days of dieting has left me a wonderful three pounds lighter and I can already see the difference. Elle Macpherson I am not but I don't think anyone's going to divert me to the delivery ward now. I swivel round to look at Aunt Winnie, whose idea of low profile means heavyweight opera booming from the car. I make a couple of flapping hand gestures at her which she completely ignores.

  The door clatters open and I swivel back. A tall lady with a very thin mouth stares expectantly at me.

  'Hello! I'm here to see Monty Monkwell.' I beam. She doesn't.

  'You are?'

  'Isabel Serranti. He is expecting me.'

  She attempts a smile but actually just stretches her mouth taut across her teeth. 'Follow me, Miss Serranti.'

  She turns back into the kitchen and as I follow her I notice that she is extremely thin and bony. Already we are destined not to get on. Her dark hair is swept back in a severe bun and I would guess she is in her mid-thirties.

  I take a good look around the huge kitchen and notice with surprise that not one item of decor has changed. When I was a child it looked fresh and modern with its pale lemon walls and curtains and rustic, farmhouse-style units. Now it just seems faded and shabby, but maybe that's because of my older, more pedantic eye. The same enormous scrubbed oak table sits in the middle of the vast room, surrounded by chairs of all different shapes and sizes. There is a very familiar smell in the air which shoots me back to my childhood more vividly than any photograph could. A combination, I think, of dog, a particular washing powder and the smell of baking. Our progress is arrested by a gaggle of dogs who fall on me joyously. I pat them all, trying desperately to get to a small white one who is constantly being butted out by the rest.

  'BASKET!' the woman barks. We all jump and they slope off to their corner. I'm sorely tempted to follow them.

  'This way,' she says and sets off at a roaring pace down the labyrinth of corridors. I race to catch up with her.

  'Have you been with the Monkwells for long?' I ask politely when I do.

  'Long enough.'

  I bob my head around and fish desperately for more innocuous comments. 'And you are?' I ask politely.

  'Mrs Delaney.' We obviously aren't on a first-name basis here. 'I'm their housekeeper. Have been for the last eight years.' Her chin tilts up and she looks defiantly at me. There's some sort of challenge in those words.

  'Well, Mrs Delaney, it's very nice to meet you. I daresay we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other until this charity ball.' I give a cheery smile to intimate how marvellous that will be.

  Mrs Delaney gives a snort to indicate exactly what she thinks of the idea. 'Charity ball,' she says in the sort of way you would say 'my arse'. 'You wouldn't have had this nonsense while the lady of the house was alive.' This has more than a slight twang of Mrs-Danvers-talking-to-the-second-Mrs-de-Winter about it.

  'I know. Elizabeth always liked the estate to remain strictly private,' I say sweetly, just to remind her that I also have some history with the place.

  She looks at me sharply but chooses to say nothing more about the subject.

  My Aunt Winnie, although achieving top-class honours in the art of being rude, at least couples it with a form of charm. I suspect Mrs Delaney lacks the latter. We fall into silence as we whistle past numerous closed doors until we reach the heart of the house: an absolutely enormous hallway that connects the several wings. I stifle a small gasp and involuntarily slow down. In my childhood memory this hallway was the largest, grandest thing I had ever seen. It has a huge arched, cathedral-like ceiling separated by several oak beams. An enormous staircase begins in the middle of the hall and then splits into two after the first landing. The grey marble fireplace is at least six feet tall and ten feet wide. But in my memory the hall was warm and welcoming, full of voluptuous velvet curtains and cushions in rich colours along with plenty of lush greenery. Now it is cold and stark. The fireplace is desolate and no fire has been lit there for quite some time. The plants have disappeared, the velvets faded and the place smells of damp. I shiver involuntarily and stop in front of the fireplace. I look up.

  There is something bothering me there. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

  'Miss Serranti?' Mrs Delaney queries. I look over to her as she stands in front of one of the doors, her hand resting on the handle.

  'Sorry,' I say hastily and walk over as she knocks firmly.

  'Come in!' calls a voice from within.

  'Miss Serranti is here to see you, Monty,' says Mrs Delaney. I feel a smidgen of surprise at her familiar use of his first name but then Monty never had any of Elizabeth Monkwell's frostiness running through him. She steps to one side to let me enter the library.

  A much older version of the Monty I remember hastily drops his
newspaper and levers himself out of one of the chairs. He seems to have shrunk considerably since the last time I saw him but then I suppose I was shorter then.

  'Izzy, me dear!' he outstretches his arms, 'how wonderful! I've been looking forward to seeing you all morning!' He kisses me warmly on one cheek. 'You've grown up into a beautiful young lady!'

  I blush slightly, which I hope makes me appear prettily dainty rather than menopausal.

  Monty's a terribly distinguished man. I remember regarding him with absolute awe during my childhood but he always had a friendly word for us and some sweets tucked around his person. Like Aunt Winnie, he's overly fond of tweed. His hair is much shorter than I remember it – he used to favour a Hugh Grant floppy style – but there's still plenty of it. He's dressed in faded corduroys, an open-necked checked shirt, a jumper and a tweed jacket which is patched at the elbows, seemingly oblivious to the weather outside. The sun streams in the large bay window at the back of the room, highlighting a little dust storm dancing above an antique desk.

  'I was sorry to hear about Elizabeth,' I say gently.

  'Bad business.' He shakes his head slowly and looks sad. 'It's a few years ago now. Time is a great healer.'

  He takes me by the elbow and we walk towards the middle of the room.

  'Could we have some coffee, Mrs Delaney?' he asks over his shoulder. 'Would coffee be okay for you, Izzy? Or would you prefer tea?'

  'No, coffee would be lovely,' I say and smile at Mrs Delaney who melts away, shutting the door behind her. Whenever we are doing functions which involve non-company staff, either directly or indirectly, we go to enormous lengths to try to keep them on side. It's less trouble in the long run. I'm not sure how I'm going to pull this off with Mrs Delaney.

  Monty plonks me down in a squishy Colefax armchair in front of the un-lit but ready-laid fire and then takes up his recently vacated seat opposite me. The library is a beautiful but relatively small room of oak panels and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I take a few minutes to pat the elderly Labrador lying at the foot of Monty's chair. The dog apologises for not getting up with a loud thump-thump of his tail.

  'You won't remember old Jasper. I leave the other dogs in the kitchen so he can have a bit of peace and quiet. Doesn't like too much fuss nowadays. Golly! He wouldn't even have been born when you left here! Can it really have been that long, Izzy?'

  'It's been a while,' I smile.

  'Does the old place bring back memories?'

  'Lots!' I say brightly, thinking that he would be horrified to learn that some of them involve his bullying son.

  'So tell me about everything you've done since you left here! How are your parents? How's Sophie?' His eyes twinkle at me.

  I embark on a halting rendition of everyone's health until Mrs Delaney interrupts us with coffee. She brings in a tray holding a large cafetière, mis-matched china cups, a large jug of milk and a plate of oaty biscuits. She doesn't make eye contact with either of us but plonks the tray on the small coffee table and makes her exit.

  'Thank you, Mrs Delaney,' calls Monty to her departing back.

  'Thank you!' I echo.

  He shifts forward to the edge of his chair, surveys the tray and rubs his hands together. 'Biscuits! She's in one of her good moods!' he announces. Really. One of her good moods. God help us all. 'But no sugar,' he frowns.

  'Oh, I don't take it,' I interject.

  'Good!' He looks relieved. I wouldn't have fancied my chances if I had. It's obvious neither of us would have had the courage to ask for any.

  We chat about my family some more until I tentatively ask how Will is.

  'Will? He works here on the estate now.'

  'Does he?' I say in surprise. I always thought he would do something wildly exciting. He was the thrill-seeker out of all of us.

  'Yes, he's our new estate manager! Got back from travelling a year ago!'

  'I expected Will to become an astronaut or a deep sea diver or something!'

  'He used to be a bit wild but he's settled down now. Besides, we desperately needed an estate manager. Simon, as you probably know, has been a bit busy with his various companies to worry about Pantiles.'

  'Yes, I, er, have read a bit about him.' I glance down at my coffee cup in embarrassment.

  'He's not as bad as they say, Izzy,' Monty says softly. 'The press can get things wrong.'

  But I've had first-hand experience of him, I want to cry. And I daresay many a mass murderer has an indignant parent sticking up for them.

  'He's done awfully well,' I mumble instead. 'So where did Will go travelling?' I add, pretty keen to get off the subject of Simon.

  'All over the world! Let's see, we had postcards from Africa and South America – he climbed to that lost city place, 'straordinary how they lumped bits of rock up there, not much oxygen. Then Indonesia and Thailand and Australia. He'd probably love to have a chat with you about the places you've lived in!'

  'Yes, that would be lovely, if I can remember back that far! Sophie and I have been in England since I was eight.' I smile back at him. 'And what about you, Monty? Estate still keeping you busy?'

  'No! I haven't run the estate for a few years! When Elizabeth died I simply couldn't face it any more. Simon has been in charge since then; after all, it is his inheritance!'

  Again I look down at my cup in embarrassment. It seems pretty clear to me, and also to Monty judging by the uncomfortable silence, that Simon Monkwell couldn't give a toss for his inheritance. Monty eventually says, 'I suppose we ought to get on and talk about this charity event!

  'Yes!' I say rather too eagerly. I reach for my notebook.

  'I was so glad when your company said you were available,' Morty continues. 'Of course, as soon as Mrs Charlesty told me you were a party planner I knew that we couldn't have anyone else! I'm sorry we could only offer you a smallish fee. Because it was such short notice I had to call Simon to ask his permission and he told me it would be ample.' Ample isn't quite the word. 'And because it's for a charity I didn't want to extract too much money from them.'

  They should count themselves lucky Simon isn't here then, I think to myself. 'Oh don't worry about that!' I say aloud. 'Gerald, my MD, was perfectly happy to accept it. So what changed your mind about holding an event here? I always thought Pantiles was strictly private.'

  'Simon has been talking about trying to make Pantiles more commercial for a while now, so while we haven't been actively looking for business I thought it would be silly not to take the opportunity when it came along. Besides, it'll give an old cove like me something to do! Thought it would be fun!'

  I look at him dubiously. He obviously hasn't been stuck up a ladder at three in the morning when a bird of paradise theme isn't working and Aidan is having the screaming hysterics. 'What information has the charity given you so far?'

  'Well, there will be about five hundred guests.'

  'So a marquee on the lawn then?' Please tell me they've booked it. Please tell me they've booked it.

  'They're using the marquee company that they had booked for the other venue.' Phew.

  'And what specifically do they want us to supply?'

  'Um, everything.'

  'Everything?'

  'Er, yes. They gave me a list.' He fishes around in his inside pocket for a few seconds. 'Here! They want catering – they've given me a price per head for that – decorations, tables and chairs, cutlery, crockery and glassware and entertainment.'

  I scribble all of this down. 'So not much then,' I say with a sigh while cross-checking the requirements against my standard list of questions.

  'Is it too much?' Monty looks anxious.

  'No, no!' I say in what I hope is a comforting manner. 'We've just got our work cut out!'

  'You will be able to do it though?' he asks anxiously.

  Gerald always gives me carte blanche on whether to accept a job or not. Ordinarily I would think twice about accepting this one but I don't hesitate for a second when I say, 'But of course!' I am rewarded
by Monty looking excessively relieved.

  'Your fee isn't going to be enough, is it?'

  'Don't worry! We have the catering for five hundred to factor in now; we weren't expecting that bonus! Can I meet with the charity to discuss details? Soon?' I endeavour to keep a slightly panicky note out of my voice. Clients don't tend to like it.

  'I took the liberty of arranging a meeting this Thursday. The marquee company is coming on Friday. They haven't seen the site yet. You must stay with us, Izzy, I absolutely insist.'

  I'll be moving in straightaway, I think to myself. 'Thanks, Monty. That'll help. It's a bit of trek back to London.'

  'Oh, by the way, they said they wanted a circus theme.'

  'Sorry?'

  'You know, big top, that sort of thing! A circus!'

  I have a feeling that's what we're going to get with or without my help. 'Marvellous!' I say and smile brightly. 'What will they think of next?' Yes, indeed.

  I can't do much more without speaking to the charity first so we get up and wander towards the kitchen. 'Are you parked at the back?' asks Monty.

  'Yes, Aunt Winnie brought me over.'

  'Winnie did? Why didn't you say, Izzy? She should have come in!'

  'Sorry, I always forget you must have met her once or twice!'

  We charge along the corridor at a rate of knots. Monty strides across the kitchen and flings open the back door. The pea-green Mini still has opera booming out of it and Monty raps loudly on the driver's window. Aunt Winnie jumps in horror but her face soon spreads into a wide grin and she leaps out as best she can from the Mini.

  'Monty you old dog!' she roars.

  'Winnie, me dear, how the devil are you?' he booms.

  God, it's like being at a convention for the hard of hearing. They don't know each other very well but Aunt Winnie always makes an impression.

  I hang about while they noisily ask about each other's health and generally get skittish until Monty says, 'I've suggested that Izzy comes and stays with us for a few days at the end of the week to sort out this charity malarkey. Will you come and have supper with us?'