Bad Brides

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘It’s rather a shame, in a way,’ Eva murmured from the back of the car, looking at Stanclere Hall gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, partly because every single one of its windows was now perfectly clean and they reflected the sun much more than they had when dusty and cobwebbed. Tarquin mm’ed a yes of agreement.

  ‘Oh, you’re both just silly nostalgics!’ Milly said briskly. ‘What’s so glamorous about a crumbling old house no one can afford to heat? I bet if you visited before the Fracking Queen threw millions at it, it would have been all draughty and freezing and probably infested with mice, too.’

  ‘Not glamorous, Milly, but maybe romantic?’ Eva said dreamily. ‘Faded tapestries, pulling on extra sweaters in the evening, sitting around the fire, cooking over a big range in the kitchen . . . Can you imagine the attics full of old furniture, trunks with stacks of old letters and family photographs, dresses in rickety old cupboards that go back centuries? Rocking horses, maybe, covered in cobwebs . . . Think how lovely it would be to explore . . .’

  ‘Ugh, the dust,’ Milly commented, but neither of them were listening.

  ‘Rooms no one’s gone into for absolutely ages,’ Tarquin chimed in. ‘Wow, that’s so evocative. I can just imagine it. Like layer upon layer of history, a sort of palimpsest of the Hall going back through time. That’s what we mean, darling,’ he said to Milly with his sweet smile. ‘When you clean everything up, you sort of sweep those layers away for ever, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Eva added with great enthusiasm. ‘It’s like you’re whitewashing away the past. The house is like a memory keeper – almost like its own diary going back through the ages – and when you lose that, it’s almost like you lose its essential essence—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Milly interrupted impatiently as the Prius followed the sweep of the drive as it curved towards the Hall. ‘You’re both talking absolute nonsense! Honestly, Tark, you’ll end up presenting some TV show on stately homes for American heritage nostalgics, the way you go on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that, actually,’ her fiancé said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I think I’d rather like it.’

  But, as so often, Milly had tuned him out. She didn’t just invite Eva almost everywhere she and Tarquin went because she loved Eva’s company; she had realized, quite early on when she started to date Tarquin, that the more Eva was around, the less Milly herself had to even pretend to be interested as Tarquin wittered on about poetry and fêtes champêtres and layers of history. It worked wonderfully. Milly took care of Tarquin’s romantic and physical needs, Eva his intellectual ones. This made life ridiculously easy for Milly, who needed to keep Tarquin happy. Getting engaged to him, planning the wedding, had catapulted Milly into a much higher level of celebrity: snagging Style Bride of the Year would be a pinnacle for her – not just being on the front of the magazine in itself, but the flood of media coverage that would disseminate her image to the rest of the world.

  This weekend, Milly was perfectly aware, had been set up by Brianna Jade, her rival for the magazine cover, and her scheming mother. They were planning to make Brianna Jade the star of the show, position her front and central for the Style shoot that was planned, make it seem inevitable to Jodie Raeburn, the editor, that she should choose the future Countess of Respers as her Bride of the Year. But Milly had her own plans, her own posse lined up, and she was fully preparing to destabilize her rival. And although her fiancé was happily distracted chatting away about essential essences to her best friend, Milly didn’t have the slightest worry that Tarquin would start swapping real essential essences with Eva. He was naturally faithful, and Eva, though obviously in love with him, was far too morally evolved to do anything like trying to seduce an engaged man.

  More fool her! I’d totally give it a go if I were in her shoes, Milly thought cynically as the Prius came to a halt in front of Stanclere Hall.

  Two footmen had been stationed at the base of the double-winged stone staircase which led up to the entrance, and they were coming forward to open the car doors for the new arrivals. On formal occasions, like the party to celebrate the Earl’s engagement, it was perfectly acceptable to use the main entrance, though it was certainly the first time in the history of the Hall that two liveried footmen were assigned to wait outside, one to organize the luggage, one to perform a valet parking service for the arriving guests.

  ‘Good Lord, it really is like a hotel. They’ve got doormen. Um, do I tip?’ Tarquin said, seeing their approach. ‘One would never normally do so, of course, but if it’s being run in an American sort of way . . .’

  ‘You probably should,’ Milly said, shrugging.

  ‘No, you never tip till the last day when you’re staying with people,’ Eva, whose own background was Welsh country gentry, said swiftly. ‘Just because this looks all five-star hotel doesn’t mean we’re not private guests, so it’s the same rules.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, Eves,’ Tarquin said, relieved. ‘Good call.’

  He threw her a quick smile over his shoulder as one footman opened the car doors while the other went to the boot to unload their luggage. Tarquin thanked the closer one as he handed him the keys and gave their names to be checked off on a list.

  But as they walked up the entrance stairs and into the transformed Great Hall, it became harder and harder to keep in mind that they truly weren’t entering a boutique hotel. Milly actually gasped in open appreciation, and Tarquin shook his head in amazement. The heavy oil landscapes hanging ponderously on the walls had all been cleaned, and their details were clear for the first time in at least half a century. Previously, the Hall had never contained much furniture, being more of an antechamber to showcase the superb cantilevered staircase, whose double wings were larger versions of the stone ones outside, creating a satisfying sense of symmetry for the arriving guests, but making them want to move through it as quickly as possible. Big open rooms make people feel very uncomfortable, and perhaps that was the effect the Hall’s architect had intended, to create an entrance so imposing that it would remind almost all the guests that they were of a lesser rank than the Earls of Respers.

  Now, however, Tamra had transformed the big, draughty, intimidating space into something that did so closely resemble the lobby of a country-house hotel that it was hard not to look around for the check-in desk. Deep emerald velvet armchairs and sofas were artfully arranged around low coffee tables, bearing folded newspapers and magazines. Behind them stood the enormous Chinese vases that had collected dust for centuries by various fireplaces around the Hall, now full of giant arrangements of elegant branches; an applewood fire crackled invitingly in the huge marble grate, while scented diffusers against the walls infused the air with an extra, delicious perfume of orange zest and cinnamon.

  The centrepiece was a gleaming Bechstein piano, a giant silver candelabra on its lid; it was mid-afternoon, so the candles were not yet lit, but clearly, a maid would be tasked to come around at dusk and light them and the candles in the matching candelabra on the mantelpiece, so that their flames could reflect enticingly in the gigantic silver mirror above. The pieces of furniture were deliberately placed to create an asymmetry that balanced out the two even wings of the staircase, turning the unwieldy space of the long, echoing hall into the most inviting of sitting rooms.

  It was, in short, a masterpiece. It signalled instantly and perfectly to any new visitor that the Hall had been pulled firmly into the twenty-first century with immaculate taste. Tamra might as well have hung out an ‘Under New Management’ sign outside by the huge oak entrance doors.

  ‘Oh my God, I love it!’ Milly breathed despite herself; she was perfectly aware that she was visiting the home of her rival, the girl who was up against her for Style Bride of the Year, but she couldn’t hold back for this brief moment. From now on, however, she decided that she would copy Eva and Tarquin’s more aristocratic attitude, swan around with a series of faint sighs for the more nostalgic and bygone past of Stanclere Hall.


  I’ll need to google that word Tark just used, she thought. Palimpsest, wasn’t it? I’ll look that up and drop it into conversation with the Americans, pump Eva and Tark for more of their pretentious guff to wind up the Fracking Queen and the Fracking Princess . . .

  ‘Hi! Welcome to Stanclere Hall!’ came a voice, and they all looked up to see Tamra standing at the top of the stairs, just as if she were the chatelaine. Sunshine flooded in from the high windows on either side of the staircase, bathing her red-gold hair in light, turning it almost into a halo. She descended the stairs like a Vegas showgirl, never looking down, using the trick of swinging one long leg in its black leather high-heeled pump a little backward with every step so she would be sure to find a solid, newly carpeted riser beneath her foot without having to glance down to check. In a cowl-neck pale grey Lanvin dress cinched with a wide black leather belt low around her waist, Tamra’s only jewellery was a huge layered gold necklace which perfectly echoed the shape of the cowl neck. Her make-up was restrained but perfect, her hair caught back from her face in a simple clip; she didn’t look suitable for any kind of traditional country afternoon, but, equally, she was clearly not pretending to be anything but what she was, the drop-dead beautiful American multi-millionairess mother of the bride.

  ‘You must be Tarquin and Milly,’ Tamra said with a smile that flashed her perfect teeth, her hands outstretched in greeting as she finished her descent of the stairs and walked towards their little group, bunched together just inside the doors where they had stopped to marvel at the transformation of the Great Hall. ‘How lovely! Brianna Jade and Edmund were so glad that you could make it. I’m Tamra, Brianna Jade’s mom, as you must have already guessed.’

  Even Milly, reluctanctly, had to admit that Tamra had made an entrance worthy of the Fracking Queen title that London society had bestowed upon her. The nickname might have been acid-lemon, but Tamra had made lemonade from it, behaving regally enough – in public, anyway – to turn what had been meant as an unpleasant little comment on her lack of breeding into a backhanded compliment.

  ‘Yes, I’m Tarquin,’ he said, returning her smile with one of his own that was so blindingly charming that Tamra’s eyes widened as she took in not only the full extent of his beauty, but also his natural charisma. Gliding towards him, she took his hands and kissed him on either cheek, turning to Milly and doing the same.

  ‘This is—’ Milly started, but Tamra cut her off.

  ‘And you must be Eva, the jewellery designer,’ she said to Eva, who duly came forward to be kissed too, the other two shuffling back to make room; clearly, Tamra was in charge, would coordinate every aspect of this social encounter. ‘How lovely of you to come! Your luggage is being taken up to your rooms, and Jane will show you where you’re sleeping. Why don’t you all freshen up and then come down to the Rose Room for cocktails? I’m sure Tarquin remembers where that is, but if not, just tell Jane to come back when you’re ready and she’ll take you down. Brianna Jade is just longing to meet you all.’

  There was nothing to say to this highly polished speech but ‘Thank you,’ which they all mumbled, sounding and feeling rather like pupils new to boarding school being granted a brief audience with an improbably glamorous headmistress. Tamra flashed another smile at them, turned to glide away, and then paused with one hand on the piano, turning to look back at them, her figure so gloriously shaped that Eva was horribly conscious of her own imperfect posture, her slightly hunched shoulders, her bony frame, compared to Tamra’s exquisite curves and straight spine.

  ‘Oh, just to say, I’m so sorry that we couldn’t accommodate you in the wing that’s been newly refurbished,’ Tamra said, her tone entirely unapologetic. ‘But we simply couldn’t do it all in time, and Edmund said that as you were family, Tarquin, and Milly and Eva are kind of family by association . . .’ – another wonderful smile accompanied these words, flashing between the two girls – ‘that you wouldn’t mind what he calls “Spartan living quarters”. Jane will show you where the bathroom is, too. You share it with the rest of the floor. Well, see you later!’

  And with those last words, she swept away as graciously as Scarlett O’Hara across the ballroom of Tara.

  Oh, I see what that bitch just did, Milly thought grimly. It’s definitely war.

  It was insult to injury that she had to listen to Tarquin and Eva’s coos of happiness that they were being accommodated in the pre-upgraded wing of the Hall, the one that was indeed so Spartan that its facilities were almost as poor as those at the boarding school which they had briefly pictured on thanking Tamra.

  Even Jane, the maid, looked visibly apologetic as she pushed open the door of the room where Tarquin and Milly were to sleep, saying: ‘It’s all spick and span – and you have nice clean towels,’ as if this were the only thing she could find to give a positive spin on the state of the bedroom.

  ‘I think I actually slept here when I was a boy!’ Tarquin said appreciatively, looking around at the faded engravings on the walls, the bare floorboards, the pitifully inadequate rugs, the very basic wrought-iron double bed, the window seat with its equally faded and patched cushions. The bed itself was covered with a yellowing candlewick bedspread, on which was a flimsy stack of equally yellowing crocheted lace-trimmed towels, which had been good quality once, a long, long time ago.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ Eva practically pounced on the towels, stroking the lace between her fingers, admiring its quality. ‘Look, I think this is all hand work.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ Tarquin marvelled, as Milly pulled a horrible face and muttered something vicious about Tamra.

  A footman carried in their suitcases from the car. Tarquin’s ancient leather carry-all looked much more appropriate when placed on the equally ancient trunk at the foot of the bed than Milly’s matching set of beige Mandarina Duck cases, each decorated with raised padded stripes in paler beige thermoform rubber – modern, chic and bound to pick up any speck of dirt – a far cry from Eva’s own battered canvas and leather duffel, which the footman took next door to a smaller single bedroom.

  He then disappeared immediately, showing that Tarquin and Eva’s instincts had been correct. Tamra had learnt from Lady Margaret that the correct procedure for a guest staying in a country house was to tip the staff on the last day, not as they went along, and all of the new employees at Stanclere Hall had been firmly instructed that any lingering, that silent moment of stasis where a hotel worker indicated by stilling their body and smiling hopefully that they were waiting for a tip, would be considered a sackable offence.

  ‘Oh, look at the bathroom!’ Milly heard Eva exclaiming from down the hall – far down the hall – and she gritted her teeth.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come if I knew there wasn’t going to be a bathroom en suite,’ she said angrily to Tarquin. ‘This is just totally slumming.’

  ‘Darling, no.’ He enfolded her tenderly in his arms. ‘Think of the festivals – surely they’re worse. No en-suite loos there!’

  It was true that at Latitude, at Glastonbury and many, many of the other festivals that Milly had attended with Tarquin, she was sometimes required to queue up to use the Portaloos and Port-a-Showers if they weren’t staying in an RV. But what Tarquin wasn’t taking into account was that those toilets and showers were in the Boutique Camping area of the VIP backstage section, that Milly was sleeping in a top-of-the-line yurt with wooden floors, wooden beds with Egyptian cotton sheets, thick-pile towels, dressing mirrors, and handily located power points for her heated eyelash curling irons and hair tongs. They were the most luxurious accommodation available at festivals, giving Milly a huge advantage over almost all the other women there; she could emerge from her yurt looking ready for a modelling shoot, having slept wonderfully on a proper mattress, all her clothes fresh from hangers rather than crumpled on a tent floor.

  At a festival, when they stayed in those boutique yurts, Milly was at the top of the pecking order, just how she liked it. Here at Stanclere Hall, she was very much at the
bottom.

  It’s as if Tamra’s deliberately put me where it’s going to be really hard to get dressed and ready and all done-up, Milly realized as she surveyed the bathroom which, like Edmund’s, was unnecessarily, even mockingly huge, considering that its entire contents were a sink, a towel rail and a bath with a rickety showerhead above it and a plastic curtain running round it which was bound to stick to the occupant clammily as they tried to soap themselves. The toilet was next door, and had a wooden seat (very unhygienic in Milly’s opinion), old blue and white tiles, and an ancient chain with a ceramic handle that matched the tiles, sending Tarquin and Eva into fresh ecstasies of appreciation and making Milly’s palm itch to slap them both.

  She was in such a bad mood when she and Tarquin returned to their room after exploring the facilities that she made Tarquin go down on her for a good twenty minutes and then told him that he’d have to bring himself off if he wanted to come, because she still wasn’t relaxed enough to do it for him. His mute expression of disappointment and frustration – because she knew that he was much too gentlemanly to lie there and do it in front of her, and from the door-banging down the corridor as other guests all scrambled for the loo and bathroom before dinner, he’d be lucky to get into either one of those and have a private moment before his erection dissipated – cheered her up enough for her to get up and start the elaborate process of dressing and doing her hair and make-up to look as artlessly charming as if she had spent the afternoon wandering through an apple orchard in fairyland.

  Her better mood lasted, however, only until she realized that the one power outlet in the room was situated next to the bed, miles away from the huge cheval mirror. Any chance for Tarquin to finish himself off was lost as he scrambled to drag the heavy mirror, squeaking and groaning, across the creaking floorboards, Milly cursing like a sailor. She broke off the swearing to tell him that by tomorrow he’d have to get her an extension cord or she was walking out of this bloody fucking shitheap, and added grimly that she was willing to bet that Tamra, Brianna Jade and the VIP guests had en-suite bathrooms with rain-shower wet rooms and slipper baths, plus walk-in dressing rooms with adjustable lighting and power points next to the dressing tables. In which supposition she was absolutely right.