So she said, ‘I’m Sam. What subject are you doing?’
‘Sociology and Politics. At the LSE. London School of Economics. I’m Greg.’
He loomed above them, awkward at first, uncertain whether to stay or go. So Samantha asked, ‘Have you been travelling a long time?’
‘It feels that way. Around ten months. Not all here, mostly Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam’.
He talked about visiting the tunnels built by the Vietcong, and the old American embassy in Saigon, from which the last evacuees had left by helicopter. He said his PhD was on the long-term effect of the Vietnam war on the economies of the region ‘or what the Yanks left of it, after they’d carpet-bombed it flat.’
When they arrived at Ko Pha-Ngan, it seemed natural Greg should join them for a snack at a harbour-side noodle bar, and afterwards they should travel together up the coast to find accommodation. When the girls approached a taxi, Greg disapproved, insisting they pile into a mini-bus with a dozen others. When he asked what they’d seen on Koh Samui and realised they’d seen nothing, he said, ‘Sounds like you could have gone to Torremolinos, if you’re not interested in culture.’
Samantha felt rather snubbed.
Greg, meanwhile, was thinking what a very fanciable bird Sam was. She was completely different to the normal women he came across. For a start, she was thinner and more … what was the word … more classy. Her figure was incredible, her shorts so short it was almost indecent. He considered giving her a lecture on appropriate modesty in the Far East, and what the local women would make of her dressed like that, let alone Thai men. But he also experienced a morale boost, walking down the street with three such beautiful chicks.
He realised they were socially more upmarket than he was, which made him inclined to sneer. He despised spoilt rich girls with their private school educations and sense of entitlement, who didn’t know a thing about the real world and took everything for granted. And these girls didn’t seem to know anything at all. The one called Rosie had never even heard of the Tet Offensive, and they weren’t interested in politics either. He’d mentioned Peter Mandelson, one of his heroes, who’d done so much to make Labour electable, and it meant nothing. Moronic.
But he was also thinking how much he lusted after Sam. Not for her mind, of course, but her body. He watched her long brown legs swaying from side to side as he followed her down the sandy path to the Blue Lagoon Beach Bungalows, and all sorts of grubby fantasies entered his head. Obviously it would be shameful to hook up with a girl like her—he could imagine what his friends at the LSE would say—but who’d ever know? It wasn’t like anyone would get to hear about it. And it would be an interesting intellectual experiment, to experience a posh girl. Greg’s piggy eyes ogled her smooth brown back, and he drooled.
It was dusk when they checked into the beach bungalows. The three girls shared a cabana, and Greg rented one of his own. He took care, when making his choice, to take a hut as far away from the girls’ hut as possible, in case he got lucky; he hoped he might need the privacy. He tipped the contents of his rucksack onto the floor in a heap. Above the bed was a wooden shelf with a wonky anglepoise lamp screwed to it, and he arranged his half dozen fat paperbacks along it, to convey the message he was highly intelligent.
Outside on the bleached white beach was a French couple playing frisbee. No sign of any of the girls. Greg sat on a stool at the beach bar under a coconut umbrella and tried to concentrate on his book. The more he thought about Sam, the more confident he felt of his chances.
Had he known what was going through Sam’s mind, he’d have been even more optimistic. Hetty and Rosie were complaining about Greg, whom they found a pain. ‘I don’t know why he’s globbed onto us’, Rosie said. ‘We’ve got to lose him.’
‘He’s so up himself,’ Hetty said. ‘He’s completely obsessed with his own brilliance. Doesn’t he realise how boring he is?’
But Samantha, from the shower cubicle, called out, ‘Well, I think he’s rather a hunk, actually.’
There was a chorus of protest. ‘You couldn’t. You can’t be serious. Not with those sandals. And that voice.’
Rosie tried to impersonate Greg. ‘You must have heard of the Tet Offensive …’ in his flat, whining intonation.
‘I think he’s quite fit,’ Samantha said, squinting into the dark bathroom mirror to apply eyeliner. ‘Not for England, obviously. For out here, I mean.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve always fancied a bit of rough.’
They drank cocktails on the beach—elaborate rum-and-coconut concoctions with paper umbrellas and fruit—and as the alcohol kicked in and the sun dipped into the ocean, Samantha felt light-headed. She flirted openly with Greg, called him her ‘Commie,’ joshed him by saying she fancied William Hague, and that Hague and he had identical voices. ‘We could wear matching baseball caps and be William and Ffion.’ It was a game made more fun by her friends’ disapproval. And she enjoyed Greg’s evident unease. His lack of smoothness was part of his appeal, this lumpen northern grockle. Samantha got a kick from tantalising him.
Greg asked them all where they lived, and Hetty replied, ‘Half in London, half near Winchester,’ and Rosie, ‘A bit in London, mostly in West Sussex.’ Sam said, ‘London and Hampshire. You?’
‘You’ll never have heard of it. Droitwich. But my folks are relocating down south, near a place called Andover in Hampshire.’
‘That’s close to where we live,’ Samantha said. ‘A village called Chawbury.’
Greg looked surprised. ‘That’s their village too, I think. I’m almost sure that’s where they said. Is it a big place, Chawbury?’
‘No, tiny. Some cottages, a pub and the church. Do you know which house theirs is?’
‘I’ve not visited. It all happened after I left England. They’ve bought some old wreck and building a new place on the site.’
Samantha started. ‘You don’t know its name?’
‘Just some cottage at the end of a track, supposedly.’
‘Your surname’s not Clegg, is it?’ Samantha felt queasy.
‘How’d you know? Been looking at my passport?’
‘Ohmigod, your family are building that revolting house. It’s ruining our whole valley.’
‘What do you mean your valley? You don’t own a whole valley?’
‘Actually we live at Chawbury Manor. And my parents do own the valley, yes.’
‘People shouldn’t own property,’ Greg said. ‘Property’s theft. Well, land ownership is. Land should be a common resource, not claimed by individuals.’
Samantha stared at Greg. Now she looked at his face, she could see a resemblance. He had Ross Clegg’s mouth, the same narrow eyes. She felt weak, thinking what might have happened. She couldn’t believe her narrow escape. ‘You know what,’ she said, addressing Rosie and Hetty and pointedly ignoring Greg, ‘I don’t particularly like this island. Let’s go back to Koh Samui tomorrow. There’s more to do there.’
11.
Dawn still found committee meetings at Philippa Mountleigh’s house intimidating. She must have attended seven or eight now, but something could always surprise her, the other ladies behaved so unpredictably. The Mountleighs’ home, Stockbridge House, was very large and cold, built in a style she’d learnt was Victorian Gothic, with rendered turrets and a crow’s feet parapet, and stood at the end of a long drive leading directly off a dual carriageway, with a pair of Gothic lodge cottages. Philippa was much less smartly dressed than Dawn had expected, considering her husband’s position; at the first meeting, Dawn felt quite awkward, having turned up in a red trouser suit, peach Escada top and white slingbacks, and found Philippa in tweed skirt and poloneck sweater. The other ladies were no smarter, with the exception of Davina Straker, who always looked nice and tidy. And then Bean Winstanton appeared in jodhpurs, saying she’d come straight from riding, and several other ladies wore jeans, including one who turned out to be Lady something-or-other, though you’d never have guessed it.
For Dawn, the meetings
were a mass of conflicting signals. They sat around the dining table in an enormous cold room, full of magnificent oil paintings of racehorses and sitting on chairs which had to be Chippendale, drinking tea out of kitchen mugs. Not even matching mugs, but lots of odd ones with Smilies and mottos on them, which looked like they’d come free from the garage. Dawn thought if she’d had all these people coming over to her own place, she’d have got the best tea service out, and spread a cloth on the table.
Then there was the language. Dawn found it hard to believe. Some of the ladies used swear words—the worst ones too—as if they were nothing. At the first meeting, when Philippa announced under agenda item four—Staff Updates—that the Assistant Matron at Alton hospice was retiring, Bean Winstanton had said, ‘Thank God for that, that woman’s an utter cunt, pardon my French.’ Dawn hadn’t known where to look. But no one else batted an eyelid. And later, when they were comparing diaries to fix a date for the next meeting, one lady had said, ‘Bugger, I can’t do a single Friday in January. It’s all bloody let shoots.’
Nevertheless, Dawn relished being part of this new, unfamiliar group, and was touched by the friendliness she was shown. A quick learner, she soon picked up on the repertoire of good local hairdressers, cheese shops and butchers the other ladies favoured. After six months, she almost began to feel accepted, and unintentionally to irritate her old Droitwich girlfriends, Vera and Naomi, with accounts of what her smart new Hampshire friends thought about this and that.
The Cleggs were still commuting long-distance between Droitwich and Hampshire, waiting for Chawbury Park to be ready for occupation. Based in the Midlands half the week, Dawn stayed at the pub in Chawbury supervising the architect and chivvying builders. As the project took shape, she thought of other things they might as well do while the builders were on site, so they applied for, and obtained permission for, a floodlit tennis court as well as decorative garden lighting. She was delighted by the cast-iron replica Victorian streetlamps which soon lined the new drive and marked the boundaries of the lawn.
Ross was working harder than ever on his expansion strategy, and Dawn found herself in sole charge of overseeing progress on the house. The heightened public profile of Freeza Mart following their successful rebuff of the Pendletons’ takeover, boosted investor interest, and Ross was keen to roll out the programme as rapidly as possible. Often, when Dawn tried to tell him the twists and turns of the building works, Ross smiled encouragingly, having long ago lost the thread of what his wife was saying. He was happy Dawn was happy, because the move south was going to be a big step for the family, and if she was behind it, that was half the battle. It pleased him, too, that Dawn seemed to get on well with Davina Straker, since they were such near neighbours. Ross wasn’t sure what he made of Miles, who seemed a bit standoffish, but Davina sounded like a good sort, from the way Dawn spoke of her. Davina promised to come up to the building site and advise on the planting of the new garden, though she explained she was no expert on rock gardens, which Dawn saw as a central focus.
At one committee meeting at Stockbridge House, after Philippa Mountleigh had reviewed the disappointing proceeds of various recent fundraising events including a riding for the disabled rally (£104) and a Spring flower festival at Winchester Cathedral (£317), she emphasised how important it was they ‘really go for it with this year’s garden party.’ In previous years, she reminded the group, ‘we have raised almost a thousand pounds, which is excellent, but this year we aim to double that.’
Then, to Dawn’s simultaneous anxiety and delight, Philippa turned to her and said, ‘Dawn, I was wondering whether you might possibly have time to be one of this year’s co-chairwomen jointly with Davina? I though that could work rather well, since you’re both in Chawbury. Though we’d perfectly understand if you feel you can’t, with your great move and everything.’
Not thinking she could say no to the wife of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, and thrilled by the implied compliment, Dawn immediately accepted, and it was decided the annual garden party should be held at the Strakers’ place, Chawbury Manor, with the organisation equally split between the two neighbours.
In the following weeks, Dawn was seldom out of the kitchen at Chawbury Manor, planning everything with Davina. More than 250 people were expected for an afternoon spent admiring the Strakers’ garden and traipsing round a range of stalls. Many of these, such as the bring-and-buy and jam and cake stalls, could not be expected to raise more than modest sums. All Davina and Dawn’s hopes lay in a better-than-usual raffle and tombola, with really superior prizes, which the two women set about securing with determination.
For Dawn, working alongside Davina was an inspiration. She read the begging letters Davina sent out and learnt from their mixture of charm and firmness. Nobody receiving one of her two-sided missives in her large, confident handwriting could possibly refuse her, especially since her target donors were the hairdressers and shops she patronised so loyally. Soon pledges from all the smartest local tradesmen were flooding in. The delicatessen in Micheldever promised a summer hamper, and the aromatherapist in Odiham a complimentary 45-minute treatment. The riding school offered a dressage lesson for beginners, and the shooting school a clay pigeon session for four guns.
Dawn embarked upon her own offensive, writing to Ross’s suppliers asking for gifts. Her letters were faithful adaptations of Davina’s, with a word or sentence changed here and there. Ross’s PA, Jacqui, was wonderful about forwarding her the right names and addresses, and soon a stream of requests went off to trading estates all over the West Midlands. When a biscuit supplier to Freeza Mart sent twenty tins of sweet digestives and chocolate bourbons, Dawn was ecstatic, and these were followed by a year’s supply of tuna and deep-frozen peeled Atlantic prawns, cartons of Arctic Roll, black cherry cheesecake and frozen-profiteroles, and breaded chicken mini-bites. When some of Dawn’s successes were reported by Davina at the next committee meeting, Dawn blushed at the public vote-of-thanks and applause from the other ladies.
The time Dawn spent with Davina, bonding through their common purpose, gave her a deeper insight into her near-perfect neighbour. There was no doubt Dawn almost hero-worshipped her, envying her competence and knowledge about practically everything: English flowers (Davina knew them by their proper Latin names, while Dawn could barely identify anything beyond a daffodil or a carnation), her smoothly run house, perfect clothes for every occasion (never over-dressed, never under-dressed), her apparently effortless way of planning every meal a week ahead and instructing her cook, so everything ran like clockwork, even down to which china they’d eat off and which sauces and condiments would be placed on the table.
But Dawn also detected a degree of unhappiness in Davina, a deep-seated fatalism which seemed to be to do with Miles. Although she never even implied as much, Dawn guessed Davina was a little afraid of her husband. The standards she faithfully maintained were Miles’ standards, not her own, and when he was expected home at Chawbury Manor she would cancel everything to concentrate on making things perfect for him. She mentioned that, when they were having people over to the house, Miles sometimes commanded her at the very last minute to change all the plates and the tablecloth, if he thought it more appropriate; and Dawn saw the way Davina fretted over the seating plans for their Saturday night dinner parties, which Miles insisted she devise, though he invariably switched them about at the last moment.
As the date of the garden party approached, Dawn’s respect for Davina grew and grew. As well as running the house, Davina seemed to be driving miles to one school or another to watch Archie or Mollie in a match or play, and facilitating her husband’s restless socialising and ambition. Sometimes, Dawn wondered how she stood it. But Davina never complained, and Dawn realised she simply didn’t yet understand the complicated dynamic of the relationship.
A clue—or what she thought might be a clue—came in the final days before the garden party. Davina said she’d been telling Miles about it, and Dawn got the impression
she had not previously mentioned the event at all, and been fearful of doing so. The conversation had evidently gone well and Miles announced he would get them some raffle prizes himself.
In no time, Miles came up with a week’s holiday for two at a 6-star resort hotel in the West Indies, including Business Class return flights, plus a £5000 voucher for groceries from Pendletons and dinner for six at Le Gavroche restaurant. When Davina told the committee, Dawn thought it might have been her imagination, or was Davina slightly deflated by these astonishing prizes, which undoubtedly eclipsed their own best efforts.
12.
Gemma was seriously alarmed and didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t tell her dad, who’d go crazy if he got to hear about it, and if she spoke to her mum she was bound to tell dad anyway, which came to the same thing. And it might not be anything anyway, so there was no point going into it all because then it would have been a big fuss about nothing. So she decided to leave it a few days more, or maybe till the end of the week, and pray her period came, which was what she’d been doing for about four months now, or was it longer than that?
She had told nobody what had occurred at Archie’s house. Apart from fleeting images which flashed into her head making her shudder and feel hot and sweaty, she never allowed herself to focus on the evening at all. It was an episode which made her feel ashamed and dirty, and so, so stupid. It helped she couldn’t remember anything clearly. The next morning, her head had felt like it was cracking open, which her mum had said was a hangover, and she’d sat for nearly an hour in the narrow plastic bathtub at the Thistle hotel, frozen with embarrassment and determined no one should ever know. Her mum had found it all rather a laugh, though she’d pretended to tell her off, and made her drink cups of sugary tea and several bottles of mineral water on the train.
Pride and Avarice Page 8
