Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  The overall effect, Miles smugly concluded, was every bit as glorious as it had been in any previous year, better if anything. Which only went to show how little difference Davina had made in the past, and how superfluous to the arrangements. When he thought of the fuss she used to make! And yet he had effortlessly arranged the entire thing himself assisted only by his three PAs and Nico Ballantyne and his five-woman events team. He could see Sara White and the other girls now, bustling about with clipboards, double checking the final details.

  There was no two ways about it: this year’s Chawbury Manor summer lunch party would be the largest and most glamorous of them all. The list of acceptances far exceeded that of previous years, both in numbers and quality. Most of his senior clients were coming, all the big hitters, as well as several prospective ones. One thing he’d learnt over the years was that nothing encourages a prospective client more than the sight of significant competitors in a social context. Eleven Footsie 100 chairmen had accepted, plus seven chief executives. Furthermore, two national newspaper editors were expected (one bringing his wife, the other his PA), three City editors and five Tory shadow cabinet ministers. This year, Miles had decided not to invite any socialists, who suddenly seemed past their sell-by date. Once a Conservative government was safely installed in Westminster, Miles looked forward to the knighthood he felt he so richly deserved. Recently, it had begun to annoy him at large dinners to see his placecard still read ‘Mr’ when so many of his clients were ennobled, often at his own instigation.

  The weather being sunny for once, Miles decreed that two sides of the marquee be left open on the garden and valley side, so a breeze could circulate and guests better enjoy the views. As usual, he glanced up the valley towards Ross’s house—the Park!—to see how obtrusive it looked. The night before, when Greg and Mollie had arrived in time for supper, he’d fulminated against the house, and Mollie annoyed him by claiming not to notice it. ‘The trees have grown, you can scarcely see it now.’

  ‘Believe me, I can see it alright,’ Miles had replied. ‘I never stop seeing it. One would have to be blind not to. What about you, Greg? What does the prospective Member of Parliament for Mid-Hampshire think? Can you see it?’

  And Greg, to Miles’s satisfaction, replied he could most certainly see it, and he was surprised it had ever been given planning permission in the first place.

  Soon afterwards, Archie and Gemma had rolled up in the black BMW which was Archie’s company car, and which Miles, for the sake of his cover, made a big thing about denigrating. ‘I don’t know I even want that thing parked on my gravel. Not in front of the house. Take it round the back, please. Ghastly Freeza Mart vehicle.’

  ‘What do you reckon, Archie?’ he soon asked him, apropos the view. ‘We’ve been discussing what we think of Ross’s monstrosity these days, your boss’s show home. Mollie claims she doesn’t notice it. But Greg agrees with me. What about you? Proud to work for the kind of man who puts up a house like that, are you?’

  Archie replied he’d always considered it a very ugly house, and Gemma, who had grown up at Chawbury Park, felt horribly uncomfortable and said nothing. Sitting on the terrace beneath a big white umbrella and sipping the glass of champagne Miles had handed to her, she remembered the anguished years when she’d first been in love with Archie and was carrying his baby and couldn’t tell anyone about it. And how she used to stare up at the manor on the hill, where she now sat, and wonder whether she’d ever see Archie again. And all these years later she was finally here, for the very first time as a houseguest, not actually married to Archie but at least as his publicly acknowledged partner, with Mandy asleep upstairs, and this was as close to a happy normal life as she’d ever come in Chawbury. She knew she should be blissfully happy, but for some reason she was not. She watched Archie talking to his father and, she couldn’t say why, but she didn’t trust him. For several weeks now he’d been behaving very strangely, and she didn’t like it.

  Miles spent the best part of three weeks deliberating over the seating plan for his lunch. With so many VIPs to place, it was exceptionally complicated, since it was easy to cause offence. In the end, he decided to create three top tables of twenty people each, one presided over by himself, one by Archie and a third by Greg. Peter, he decided, was not up to the job and would doubtless arrive looking like a homeless person. Peter was driving down with Samantha on Sunday morning from Heathrow, having rejected the invitation to spend Saturday night at Chawbury.

  Miles’s one and only serious issue was with Serena, who had never even replied to the lunch party invitation, let alone responded to his amorous overtures. Well, it was her loss. Some people will always miss the train in life.

  Shortly before noon, when the first guests were scheduled to arrive, Miles made a final inspection of the tent with Nico Ballantyne. This year, the plates were all to be different shades of Tory blue glass, upon which the first course of mixed organic salad leaves and organic quail eggs, all from Dawn’s Longparish Organics shop, would be artfully displayed. In front of each place setting was a printed menu card with an engraving of Chawbury Manor.

  Miles reviewed his table to check the name cards were all in their correct places. Dawn would sit on his right. On his left, Suzie Nairn, wife of the retiring MP. Also at his table: James Pendleton, as well as the two most senior shadow cabinet ministers, three chairmen, one Sunday newspaper editor and the Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire Johnnie Mountleigh with Philippa. It looked pretty good, Miles reckoned. He was particularly pleased that James and Dawn were going to be there today, since he expected the takeover to be imminently abandoned, so wanted to be as publicly associated with the outcome as possible. The supply of inside information he’d been receiving from Archie in the past five days certainly suggested that Freeza Mart was about to roll over and concede defeat.

  At midday he took up his position on the terrace. Archie and Gemma were both in place beside him on the greeting line, looking presentable and smart. Gemma was quite a pretty little thing, he had decided, provided she didn’t open her mouth. Greg was also there, sweating in a beige linen suit, but no Mollie, late as usual. Nor had Peter and Samantha arrived yet, which was unforgivable since they’d promised to get there in plenty of time. As the first guests were ushered onto the terrace, Mollie surfaced in a baggy corduroy smock. But her face flushed pink and she looked excited. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed. ‘I’ve been on the phone.’ Miles thought it odd that two of the five people on the receiving line at his party were children of Ross Clegg. He wondered what people would think, and whether it might be misinterpreted.

  For the next ninety minutes, Miles was absorbed with the receiving of his guests. With no Davina at his side, he found himself over-compensating for the omission with an even greater show of hospitality than usual, grasping hands and hugging his clients and neighbours with gusto. Dick Gunn rolled up with a new young girlfriend who looked no older than seventeen, and both Nick and Michael Pendleton arrived with their respective wives. With each new arrival, he said, ‘And have you met Greg and Mollie yet? Greg is going to be our new Member of Parliament. His wife, of course, is my younger daughter.’ And then people would assure Greg how delighted they were to meet him, and how he could certainly rely on their vote. Mollie felt increasingly sickened by all these wealthy neighbours with their red faces and Panama hats, all sucking up to Greg, who was lapping up the attention. She guessed this lot would have voted for a chimpanzee if it was put up as the Conservative candidate and wore a blue rosette. She thought of Greg’s previous constituents in Droitwich, and how much more real they were. Well, the secret would be out soon enough and the thought of it terrified her.

  James and Dawn arrived with Hugh, and Miles noticed how confident Dawn looked. She was wearing a very large, chic, expensive-looking bleached straw sunhat, with a white fitted linen trouser suit. Her sole piece of jewellery was a modern ring comprising of a huge uncut diamond wrapped in gold. Her skin, once permanently brown from the sunbed, was these day
s almost wanly pale, and her make-up, if she wore any at all, undetectable. ‘You are so sweet to invite us,’ Dawn declared in a gracious, lady-of-the-manorish voice. ‘Goodness, look at all these people. What an amusing group you’ve put together.’

  Dawn and Miles both privately remembered this was her first ever invitation to Chawbury Manor, in all the years they had lived so close by, and Miles felt briefly uneasy. Dawn was thinking about the ghastly evening when she and Ross had called on the Strakers after Gemma turned out to be pregnant with Archie’s baby. She shuddered. She had never actually gone into any of that business with James—it just seemed unnecessary to tell him, it was so long ago—and she hoped he would never hear about it.

  Having got past the receiving line, and said hello to his soon-to-be step-children Greg and Gemma, James became suddenly shy and introverted, as often happened at large parties. Dawn was accustomed to this now, so directed him to a quiet area of the terrace where there were no other people, and allowed him time to gather himself. This was a little trick Laetitia had told her long ago, at a time when it was inconceivable she would ever become Lady Pendleton herself. In a while she would see if she could spot any of their old friends, and bring them over in turn to talk to James.

  Looking down the valley, James said, ‘This is a beautiful piece of country. Lovely trees. Shame about that house across the valley, though. Ruins the view.’ Dawn decided not to mention it was her old house, which she had helped design.

  Lunch was announced and Miles’s PAs and the assistants from Gourmand Solutions circled the terrace coaxing guests towards the marquee. Miles felt everything was going brilliantly, he was elated. He had just been informed that one hundred percent of the VIPs had turned up—there were no no-shows at all—which just went to show what a hot ticket the Chawbury lunch had become. He spotted Peter and Samantha slipping into the throng, disgracefully late but at least they’d arrived. Sam looked sexy in a yellow Freeza Mart sundress, Peter off-message in denim jeans with holes.

  Miles took his place at the top table between Dawn and Suzie, and surveyed the tent. Every seat at every table was filled, everyone appeared to be happy. Lines of waitresses were emerging from the field kitchen with the first courses, the quail egg salad from Long-parish Organics. Miles congratulated himself on that particular stroke of genius, which would create a sense of obligation in Dawn. Elsewhere in the tent he could see his political VIPs and neighbours, all seemingly with full wine glasses. It surprised him to spot a line of guests forming up at an outlying table, the table where Peter was nominally in charge. Six or seven people at a time were queuing up, with new ones taking their places as others departed. He couldn’t imagine what it was all about.

  Beckoning a waitress, he asked, ‘What’s going on at table twenty-six? Is there a problem?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘It’s Pete Straker. The rock star. People are getting autographs.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ Miles replied in a disapproving voice.

  ‘He’s a really nice guy,’ said the waitress. ‘Really friendly and normal. It’s so amazing he’s here, being in the same marquee as Pete Straker.’

  It was while the plates from the first course were being cleared away that Miles’s BlackBerry vibrated in his suit pocket. Automatically, he removed it and clicked on the Google Alert. Expecting some item about himself, he frowned to see it was about Mollie. ‘Mollie Clegg to stand as Labour candidate for Droitwich and Redditch,’ read the breaking news. ‘Following the defection of her husband, Greg Clegg, from the Labour party to Conservatives to stand as candidate for the safe Tory seat of Mid-Hampshire, his wife Mollie has been named official Labour candidate for the West Midlands constituency he was formerly contesting.’

  Miles peered at the tiny screen in disbelief. This had to be some kind of joke, surely. He sought out Mollie and spotted her at the next table. Their eyes met and Mollie blushed. In an instant, he knew it was true and the shock was unbearable. To have a daughter as a Labour candidate, he felt consumed by shame. Everywhere he looked he could see important people who’d soon hear about it. The damage to himself would be incalculable.

  A text pinged onto his mobile, rapidly followed by a second. The first read: ‘Have u comment re yr daughter’s defection 2 Labour? Plse call, Times Newspapers.’ The second: ‘Need 2 speak soonst abt family politics rift. Daily Mail.’

  Turning in his direction, Dawn said, ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you, Miles. I know you had a hand in getting Greg his seat. One feels much happier having him as a proper Conservative. James is delighted about it too.’

  It was during the main course of half a wild lobster, new potatoes and mayonnaise and frisée lettuce, that his mobile began vibrating.

  ‘Forgive me, Dawn,’ he said, leaning away from the table to pick up.

  It was the chief business reporter of The Independent; not one of the grandee City editors Miles included in his golden circle, but a man with a reputation for getting hold of scoops. In the past, he had caused problems for clients of Straker Communications.

  ‘Is that Miles? Sorry to trouble you on your weekend, but I wanted your reaction to this Pendletons–Freeza Mart development?’

  ‘Actually, this isn’t very convenient, I’m hosting a large lunch party for three hundred people at the moment. Lord Pendleton’s here with me, as a matter of fact. And I don’t know about any developments either.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you would. There’s a rumour going round that eighty percent of the institutions have declared for Ross Clegg. That’s what the market’s saying. It’ll be officially announced when they open tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s remotely likely,’ Miles replied airily. ‘Our own information’s suggesting the precise opposite. Sentiment is strongly behind Pendletons.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what we’re hearing. We’re reporting it’s all over bar the shouting.’

  Miles longed to whip out his mobile and put in some calls but felt impossibly constrained. Most of the City editors he’d have rung were here in the tent anyway, and he could hardly go from table to table asking if they’d heard anything. Nor did it help having the Pendletons seated so close by, and he didn’t want to disturb them with a no doubt erroneous rumour. So he did his best to act natural, making polite conversation with Dawn while feeling slightly sick inside. It couldn’t possibly be true, he reassured himself, it was out of the question. For the past fortnight Archie had been passing on statistics which showed how badly things were going inside the Ross camp, and how close to the wire they were

  A flurry of texts pinged onto his mobile, and the vibrating drone of the BlackBerry downloading message after message, including Google Alerts with links to blogs. Half refered to Mollie; the rest to the Freeza Mart rumour, all predicting the takeover would go through on Monday.

  Wiping his forehead with a napkin, Miles became conscious of the distant drone of machinery. At first, he thought it must be a tractor working in a nearby field, but it became rapidly louder and seemed to be coming from above. At that moment, the black and gold fuselage of Ross’s helicopter swooped low across the marquee, hovered above the lawn and tipped in the direction of the guests. Inside the bubble cockpit he could clearly see Ross, laughing and giving a cheery thumbs-up.

  The down-draft from the chopper, now hovering less than four feet above the lawn, blew the flowers and plants in the herbaceous borders almost horizontal, and petals were strewn like confetti in the breeze. Even more infuriatingly, many of the guests were now standing up in excitement at the sight of the helicopter, leaving their tables and clustering round the open flaps of the marquee for a better view. ‘That’s Ross Clegg,’ people exclaimed. ‘He looks very happy about something.’

  Ross was staring round the interior of the tent, as if searching for someone in particular. From the cockpit he spotted Archie and Gemma, then at an adjacent table Greg. Then he saw James Pendleton, virtually the only person left in the marquee concentrating on his lunch, and Dawn—still legall
y Ross’s wife—sitting opposite him. Then, at last, he spotted Miles. Miles was glaring out at the helicopter, eyes bulging with fury.

  For a split second they held eye contact and then Ross, very deliberately, raised the middle finger of his right hand in an obscene gesture. Then he accelerated into the air and headed off down the valley.

  It was at this precise moment Miles snapped. It was the moment that thirty-five years of coiled ambition and achievement, of his quest for respect and perfection, finally fell apart. He surveyed the top table, he surveyed the tent, taking in his guests, his children—Mollie the socialist candidate, Samantha the callgirl, Peter the so-called pop star, Archie … even Archie had let him down in the end—and felt only hot rage and humiliation. Ross had given him the finger! Ross Clegg of Chawbury Park in the county of Hampshire, with his damned helicopter (which Miles so wanted himself), with his bigger, more expensive house in Holland Park Square, with his grander country address, with the shoot Miles himself coveted, all of it. And now it seemed he had stolen Pendletons too, and with it Miles’s oldest, most important, most lucrative client.

  Without a word Miles left the tent, weaving his way through the tables of guests which passed in a blur on each side of him. He walked up the yew walk like a man in a trance in the direction of the house, before turning into the cobbled yard where he kept his collection of tractors and JCBs. The keys to the vehicles hung on a special keyboard in an outhouse, meticulously labelled. Stepping up into the cabin of a yellow JCB excavator with hammer attachement, he turned the key and began his trundling progress across the yard. Eventually he reached the wall of beech hedges and the track down to the valley floor. Still in a trance, he stared through tunnel eyes at the valley ahead. Slowly he crossed the ornamental bridge over the Test, then out into open parkland. Half a mile ahead, at the crest of the hill, he could see the upper storey and rooftops of Chawbury Park.