by Jo Carnegie
Caro had only seen Benedict Towey a handful of times in the past couple of weeks. From what she could gather, he had moved in on a part-time basis, spending a few nights there in the week and then disappearing God knows where at weekends. ‘Probably ravishing some long-legged blonde mistress just as vile as he is,’ Caro had ranted to Angie over a spritzer in the Jolly Boot. ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t just push off and let a nice family move in, some people who are actually going to live in that lovely house. It’s such a waste.’
Now Caro started to wonder what his garden looked like. Was it as nice as theirs, or would it be wild and overgrown? The front of the house looked like a show home, with the curtains up but nobody home.
Milo was now fast asleep on the rug. All of a sudden, Caro had an overwhelming urge to look over the high stone wall that separated the gardens. Benedict hadn’t been home for days, and if anyone else caught her, she could always say she had heard a funny noise and gone to investigate. But first, she needed to stand on something. She jogged back to the house and dragged out one of the extremely heavy Philippe Starck bar stools from the kitchen. Huffing and puffing, Caro pulled the stool across the grass, praying it wouldn’t leave skid marks.
She glanced at Milo. He was still out like a light, so she positioned the stool carefully against the wall. Then Caro carefully climbed up and, wobbling slightly, looked over into Benedict Towey’s garden.
It was the same size and shape as hers, the lovely Cotswold stone wall circling the length and breadth of it. There was a set of French windows as well, but instead of looking out on to an impressive deck, they faced a smaller paved patio which was woefully bare. A few chairs were scattered randomly about the slightly overgrown lawn, and the flowerbeds stood empty, as if waiting for someone to fill them.
Disappointed, Caro turned her attention back to the house. If she just hoisted herself up a bit higher, she could see in through the kitchen window. It was huge and square, the units made from some kind of light wood. There was a breakfast bar there, too, bare apart from an empty fruit bowl. Ooh, if she leaned in a bit more she could see through the French windows . . .
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ Caro squeaked in surprise and almost lost her balance as a man’s voice boomed across the garden. She looked up, and to her absolute horror, a fuming Benedict Towey was leaning out of one of the upstairs windows.
‘I er, well actually . . .’ she stuttered, her ready made excuse going straight out of her mind. Christ, did he have to be so bloody gorgeous? Benedict was wearing a crisp white shirt which showed off his tanned skin and blue eyes perfectly, a dark blue tie casually pulled away from the collar.
‘I said: What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing?’ This time he lowered his voice to a menacing growl. Caro quivered even more.
‘Er, I just wanted to know, er, what kind of garden furniture you’ve got. We’re thinking about getting a new set you see . . .’ The excuse sounded hollow, even to her ears.
Her neighbour narrowed his eyes and leaned further out of the window. ‘Don’t give me that crap! If I see you spying into my property one more time, I’ll call the bloody police on you!’
Caro felt her temper rise. ‘There’s no need to be so rude,’ she yelled back. ‘And don’t you dare threaten me!’ The window slammed shut.
Behind her, Milo had been woken by the angry exchange and started to cry. The tranquillity of the afternoon was shattered. Caro, still shaking from her encounter, climbed down off the stool, and as she went to comfort her son caught sight of her reflection in her own windows. Her hands flew to her mouth in horror – she was still in her bra. ‘Shit!’ she wailed, gazing at her sunburnt, wobbly chest, unflatteringly encased in the shell-pink maternity contraption she still hadn’t stopped wearing.
Caro’s mortification made her hatred for Benedict Towey burn ever more strongly. She swore never to speak to the detestable man again.
Somehow, by the time Caro popped round to see her grandmother the next day, Clementine had heard all about Caro’s shouting match.
‘How did you find out?’ asked Caro, appalled.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Clementine replied crisply. ‘But darling, in future do try and refrain from screaming like a fishwife with one’s new neighbour in public.’
‘I was in my own back garden!’ protested Caro indignantly.
‘Noise travels,’ was all her grandmother would say, enigmatically. But, in fact, Caro’s row was the least of Clementine’s troubles at the moment. She had also had a very unsettling experience in the village that morning.
Clementine had taken Errol Flynn to stretch his legs, and had decided to pop into St Bartholomew’s to see if the new pews had been delivered. And indeed they had. The Revd Goody had been in the church sitting on one, stroking the shiny wood happily.
‘Aren’t they marvellous?’ he had said when he saw her. Clementine had agreed, and after a quick discussion about the order of service for Sunday, she had left the Reverend and started for home. She had just reached the start of Bramble Lane, which led off the green towards her house, when a gleaming blue Bentley had pulled up beside her. The window on the driver’s side had glided down silently.
‘Which way to the Meadows, luv?’ the oily looking man inside had asked. He had had a rough, estuary accent, jet-black hair slicked back, and hooded, dark eyes. Clementine had thought he looked like some kind of mafia gangster, especially with the flash pinstripe suit he was wearing and chunky gold rings littering his hands, which rested on the cream leather steering wheel. She had taken an instant dislike to him, and besides, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope was not the kind of woman you called ‘luv’.
‘Carry along the road, half a mile on your right,’ she had said frostily, tugging Errol away from peeing on the Bentley’s spotless wheels, and turning to walk briskly home. The car crawled along beside her.
‘You live round here, then?’ the driver had asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ Clementine had stared straight ahead. God, he was one of those awful nouveau riche types that came nosing about here sometimes. But when he had made no move to drive on she had begun to feel distinctly unsettled. ‘Well, good day, then,’ she had said, nodding to him curtly. He had stared at her for a second and then smiled wolfishly, revealing a set of teeth more gold than they were white.
‘See ya,’ he had said casually, before the tinted window slid up again. The Bentley had revved, and poor Errol Flynn had nearly fallen into the ditch in fright. As it had passed her, Clementine had caught sight of the car’s registration and nearly choked: SYKES 1. It had to be Sid Sykes! What a revolting man! He was even worse than she had imagined. And to have the audacity to show his face round here! Thoroughly ruffled, Clementine had hurried the rest of the way home.
Over at No. 5 The Green, Calypso was trying not to giggle at a pair of nipple tassels Sam had bought for her. ‘Don’t you like them?’ asked an affronted Sam, as if she’d just handed over a pair of knickers from M&S.
‘Yah, they’re fun, babes, but I don’t really think they’re me.’ Calypso was lounging on her bed, long legs crossed, while Sam stood in front of her holding a nipple tassel in each hand, like a pair of dangly earrings. Sensing a mood coming on, Calypso tried to placate Sam. ‘Honestly, they’re totally cool. I do like them.’
‘Maybe you could wear them to Pink Rush?’ asked Sam hopefully. Pink Rush was a girls-only nightclub in Brighton. ‘I’ve even got a pair of dungarees I can coordinate them with.’
Calypso sighed. She didn’t know why Sam insisted on dressing like a stereotypical dyke whenever they went out; it was as if she was trying to ram the point home. Luckily Calypso’s mobile rang at that moment, and she pounced on it gratefully and peered at the screen. ‘Granny Clem!’ she exclaimed warmly, and listened for a few moments. ‘Mmm, yah. OK, I’ll be over in two ticks.’
‘You’re going out?’ grumbled Sam.
‘You can come if you want,’ offered Calypso half-heartedly.
‘No way!’ she replied. ‘Your grandmother thinks I’m the devil’s spawn.’
‘Better than the devil’s sperm,’ said Calypso cheekily, and swung her legs off the bed. She planted a quick kiss on Sam’s mouth. ‘See you later.’
She had no doubt Sam would be perfectly happy rolling a joint and settling back to watch a DVD. Sam was a mature student at Brighton University, and for someone who claimed they were on a very demanding art course, she seemed to be spending an awful lot of time in Churchminster.
Clementine had decided she wanted to do a bit of research on Sid Sykes to see exactly who they were up against. On the advice of her family, she had acquired a computer and had Broadband installed in her house last summer, but she hadn’t used it once. ‘Blasted newfangled things, what’s wrong with using one’s library?’ she had said. But Clementine knew there would be nothing about the likes of Sid Sykes in any of the hundreds of books which adorned the walls of the library at Fairoaks.
‘Calypso, I need you to get me on that Goggle thing,’ announced Clementine as Calypso walked into the study.
‘Google,’ corrected Calypso, pulling off her electric-blue raincoat.
‘Precisely,’ said Clementine impatiently. ‘The search motor.’
Calypso rolled her eyes. ‘Search engine. Look, let’s switch the computer on and I’ll show you . . .’
A few minutes later, they were sitting at Clementine’s huge mahogany writing desk, staring wide-eyed at the screen. Sid Sykes had done a lot in his fifty-three years, and not much of it was good. Born in East London as the eighth child of a poor family, Sid Sykes had run away from home at thirteen and joined a travelling fair. He had then worked in a series of betting shops, taking only a decade to rise from shop boy to owner. He sold his business for a huge profit and moved into property. Fifteen years on, Sykes Estates was one of the most formidable building firms in the country. Sid Sykes lived with his wife Gloria and two children in a five-million-pound Tudor mansion in Essex.
That was the official history. The unofficial one was a record of money laundering, extortion and trading in stolen goods. And of course, his infamous appearance on Watchdog. The police had tried several times to press charges, but each time Sykes had hired the best defence lawyer money could buy and the case had been picked apart and blown out of the water. The notoriety had stuck though: Sid Sykes was not a man you messed with.
‘Granny, he sounds horrible!’ Calypso shuddered and wrapped her arms round herself.
‘Not the most savoury of characters, I have to agree.’ Clementine closed her eyes tightly for a second. Oh Bertie, I wish you were here! she said silently to herself.
‘Lumme, did you hear that Sid Sykes was here yesterday?’ Brenda asked Pearl Potts. The two neighbours were standing in their gardens, having their usual gas over the fence. Benedict Towey would have had a fit if one of them had moved in next door to him.
‘Here?’ Pearl raised a scandalized eyebrow. ‘In Churchminster?’
Brenda nodded knowingly. ‘Mrs S-F ran into him yesterday. Driving around in a bleedin’ great motor like he was lord of the manor!’
‘Which he might well be soon,’ Pearl pointed out darkly.
‘Oh, Pearl, don’t speak like that!’ Brenda scolded her. She shivered dramatically. ‘Quite a nasty character by all accounts. Dressed completely in black he was, and he hasn’t got teeth, he’s got fangs! All yellow and dripping from what I heard . . .’
‘Is that what her nibs told you?’ asked Pearl archly. Brenda’s overactive imagination was well known in the village. Brenda flushed. ‘Not exactly, but that was the feeling I got from her, anyway.’
Pearl glanced at her watch. ‘Ooh, lordy! It’s Friday and the bummers are arriving in two hours. I promised I’d go water their plants and turn the heating on.’
‘Pearl, you can’t call Stephen and Klaus that!’ said Brenda, overcome by an unfamiliar attack of political correctness.
‘That’s what they do, isn’t it?’ Pearl gathered up her washing basket. ‘Each to their own and, besides, they don’t mind. Nice boys, they are.’
‘You say it to their faces?’ asked a horrified Brenda, but the tiny pensioner was already bustling across the lawn to her back door, arms full of clean washing.
Chapter 24
SPURRED ON BY her run-in with Sid Sykes, Clementine called an SCBA committee meeting at her house. Sykes’s visit had somehow contaminated the village, his residue still lingering, and Clementine was determined to eradicate it as soon as possible.
It was a warm evening, and the committee sat out on the huge veranda at the back of the house. Clementine glanced around; yet again, it was a jolly good turnout and she had been touched by the number of new members who had flocked to put their names down. Alongside stalwarts such as Freddie and Angie were some younger residents like Jed Bantry. Stephen and Klaus had commitments in London, but Clementine had decided they could be absent members and represent the committee in the influential London circles they moved in.
Clementine had already been elected chairperson. ‘As many of you are aware, I have many years of organizing charity events,’ she addressed the room. ‘I don’t have to tell you that it is extremely hard work, but of course, most rewarding at the end. In the meanwhile, you have to be motivated, well-connected and resourceful. We don’t have much money in the pot, but this ball needs to be the best bash the Cotswolds has ever seen. This means calling in as many favours as one can from friends, business associates and any sponsors we can get on board. Understood?’
Heads nodded vigorously. Clementine looked down at the list in front of her. ‘Right, I have a list of what needs to be done, and the people I think would be suitable for each task.’ She put on her reading glasses and started scanning a bony finger down the page.
‘As chairperson I shall be overseeing everyone. I shall also be in touch with the council about the Meadows to make sure they keep us abreast of all arrangements.’ She glanced round the room. ‘As you know, it is extremely important we get VIP guests to attend.’ She looked at her youngest granddaughter. ‘Calypso, I am leaving you in charge of this. Also you will be responsible for getting us media coverage for the event. I don’t know much about that, so I am entrusting you with it.’ Clementine tried to fix Calypso with her infamous beady eye, but she was already furiously scribbling into a pink leather Filofax.
‘Caro, you are going to be in charge of the guest list overall. You will take my address book for starters, and phone your mother and father to make sure we haven’t left anyone off. We need an Hon sitting on every table. Any suggestions from others would be gratefully received. I am also leaving you in charge of the most important part of the evening, the seating plan.’
Caro gulped. She had seen grown women reduced to tears over seating arrangements for a simple dinner. It was such a political process; she might have to take a crash course at the House of Commons.
‘We will also be having a sit-down dinner,’ Clementine continued. She looked beseechingly at Jack Turner and his wife Beryl. ‘I was rather hoping you would be able to help . . .’
‘We’ve already spoken to Pierre,’ said Beryl. ‘He’s going to think up a top-notch menu using produce donated from local sources.’ Jack nodded in agreement.
Freddie spoke up. ‘As far as alcohol, I’ve got a friend who runs a rather good vineyard in the south of France. He says he’s happy to provide the wine and the fizz. Says it’s great PR for him.’
Clementine clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful! This is turning out better than I could have hoped for. Now Camilla, I want you to be in charge of entertainment . . .’
As the meeting went on, more roles were dished out. Harriet was going to be the site manager at Clanfield Hall, to ensure everything was put in place and ran smoothly on the night. She was to oversee the ballroom, cloakrooms and toilets and the car park. Camilla’s friend’s brother ran his own fireworks company in London, so Camilla was going to ask him if he’d do some kind of show for them. �
�He was involved with the Sydney Harbour display at the Millennium, so, yah, he does know what he’s talking about,’ she explained.
Calypso had also insisted on being in charge of music on the night: ‘We’ll get like, a totally amazing band and DJ!’
‘I don’t want any of that dreadful car-alarm music,’ warned her grandmother.
‘Hey, maybe we could get Devon Cornwall on board,’ suggested Freddie. ‘He might be able to get Mick Jagger or something, I bet they’re mates.’
‘Good idea, Freddie!’ said Clementine. ‘Can you go round and talk to him about it? Now, Angie, I was wondering if you could be in charge of securing donations for the auction? The more expensive and inventive the better my dear . . .’ And so it went on.
After two hours the committee had covered all aspects of the ball, and everyone was exhausted. But they had a gleam of something else in their eyes.
Hope.
Chapter 25
TO KICK-START THE fundraising the Jolly Boot was putting on a French evening the following Friday. Tickets were fifty pounds a head and, for that, guests would receive a champagne (French, naturally) cocktail on arrival, followed by a set five-course dinner. The tickets sold out in a day.
Camilla managed to bag herself and Angus two, as well as tickets for Calypso and Harriet and, much against her better judgement, a pair for Sniffer and Horse. She gave them strict instructions via Angus to behave themselves. When Harriet found out they would be there she tried to pull out, but Camilla talked her round. ‘Come on, Hats, it will be such fun! Pierre is putting on quite a spread, from what I hear.’ Harriet eventually agreed, on condition that she didn’t have to sit next to Horse.
Caro was also going along, with Sebastian and a couple they were friendly with from skiing called Tilly and Tobey. Clementine had graciously forgone a ticket to babysit Milo: ‘That place is ghastly when it’s busy, no matter how good Pierre’s escargots are.’ Milo was going to sleep in the old nursery Caro used to stay in as a little girl.
