by Jo Carnegie
‘Granny Clem, you are so naughty. You blackmailed them!’ scolded Calypso, before she too fell about laughing. Clementine composed herself and wiped her eyes.
‘All’s fair in love and war when it comes to charity, darling,’ she said.
Chapter 29
IT WAS CAMILLA’S thirty-first birthday. As she’d had a black tie do in a marquee at Fairoaks for her thirtieth, she wasn’t that bothered about doing anything special this time. But to her surprise, Angus had offered to cook a birthday supper at his place. Highlands Farm was one of the biggest in the county, and to Angus’s credit, the outbuildings and land were well looked after. It was inside the actual farmhouse, a rambling low-roofed building that had been magnificent in its day, that the problems started.
Since his widowed father had gone into a home five years ago, Angus had been living there alone. Algernon Aldershot had subsequently died, leaving the farm to his only son and rightful heir. Having spent most of his childhood at boarding school, it was fair to say Angus didn’t know the meaning of ‘domesticity’. The house had become the ultimate bachelor pad – and not in a good way. On the rare occasions Camilla had been persuaded to stay there she had found old pizza boxes and empty bottles of beer strewn across every room. Even the downstairs loo. She had once found a dead rat in the cupboard under the sink, which Angus had left there because he thought it was some kind of scrubbing pad. Not that he did any cleaning; the whole place was covered with a thick layer of grime. Camilla always brought her own towels and bedsheets when she stayed, and always felt she had to have a shower the minute she got home. Thankfully Angus was fairly hygienic himself; it was just unfortunate that he lived in the domestic equivalent of a compost heap.
So far, Camilla had had a lovely birthday. Calypso had woken her up with breakfast in bed and a pretty pair of handmade silver-drop earrings. ‘You have got good taste, thank you!’ Camilla had said as her sister had carefully put them in for her. Next had come a call from Barbados, with her parents singing ‘Happy Birthday’ down the phone. They had already generously offered to buy her a new Golf to replace her rather battered old one, it was just up to Camilla to go to the Volkswagen garage in Cheltenham and choose what she wanted. After that Harriet had popped round with a beautifully wrapped, deliciously scented candle set from Jo Malone. ‘They’re gorgeous!’ Camilla had said, hugging her friend. ‘You will join us for lunch at Fairoaks, won’t you?’
Even though Camilla had told her she didn’t want any fuss, her grandmother had insisted on holding a lunch in her honour. ‘Just family, darling.’ Harriet was practically part of the clan, anyway, so just before one o’clock, two Standington-Fulthropes and one Fraser made their way round to Clementine’s, where Caro and Milo would also be joining them.
After champagne in the drawing room and another round of presents, Brenda announced lunch was being served and they moved into the dining room. For once, she hadn’t burnt anything and they ate a perfectly respectable chicken dish, followed by raspberry fool. One of Brenda’s friends had even made a wonderful birthday cake in the shape of the gold signet ring Camilla always wore on her little finger.
‘So Angus is cooking for you tonight, then?’ Caro raised an eyebrow in jest as she tucked into a slice of cake.
‘Oh, don’t!’ said Camilla. ‘God knows what it will be. I don’t think he’s ever cooked a proper meal in his life.’
‘Do you know what he’s getting you?’ asked Harriet.
‘No idea,’ Camilla replied, leaning over and feeding Milo a bit of icing as he sat gurgling in his high chair.
‘Probably a lifelong membership to Tractor Weekly or something,’ suggested Calypso wickedly.
As she clattered up the muddy mile-long track to the farm that evening, Camilla wondered what present she would receive from Angus. She didn’t hold out much hope. Last year he’d proudly presented her with a hideous cashmere tartan dressing gown with her initials monogrammed on the breast pocket. It had been swiftly recycled by Clementine into a lining for Errol Flynn’s basket.
The lights of the farmhouse twinkled in front of her, and as Camilla drew into the stone courtyard she was surprised to see Angus already waiting for her by the front door. What’s more, he was dressed in black tie, his huge shoulders straining to get out of his dinner jacket.
He rushed over to the car and opened the door for Camilla. ‘Angus, what’s all this?’ she said. ‘You’ve made such a special effort. I’m afraid I didn’t dress up. I feel like a right scruff, now.’
‘You look beautiful to me,’ said Angus. He looked extremely nervous, his left eye twitching slightly and sweat gathering at the back of his neck.
Camilla had never seen her big, oafish boyfriend like this. She stared at him. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Of course, of course!’ he replied in an over-hearty fashion, before leading her through the front door and into the kitchen.
Camilla’s jaw dropped. It was like a different house. The pots and pans hanging from the overhead range were polished and shining brightly. The stone floor had been washed so you could almost see your face in it. A jug of fresh flowers stood on the wooden table where a pile of old newspapers used to be. Instead of the usual musty, damp smell the scent of fresh lemons permeated the place.
‘I hired a cleaner to come in and tidy the place up,’ Angus said shyly. He grabbed her by the hand. ‘Let me show you the rest of the house.’
He led her from room to room, and they had each been given an injection of new life. There wasn’t a cobweb or muddy footprint to be seen. All the antique wooden furniture had been polished until it glowed. Clean curtains hung from the crystal clear windows. Now all the dirt and dust had gone, Camilla could see just what a beautiful place it really was.
‘Angus, it looks wonderful!’ she gasped.
‘I’m not finished yet,’ said Angus, and dragged her back to the drawing room, where, as if from nowhere, a butler appeared with two flutes of champagne.
‘Madam,’ he said solicitously, and presented her with one.
‘I hired him from “A Night to Remember” in Cirencester,’ Angus explained, after the butler had graciously backed out of the room. The clatter of pots could be heard from the kitchen. ‘Er, he cooks as well,’ said Angus apologetically.
Camilla finally found her tongue again. ‘I can’t believe this! I’m gobsmacked.’
‘So you like it?’ he asked.
‘I love it!’ she cried. ‘But, why . . .?’ This was such a turnaround from the Angus she knew, and Camilla was struggling to take it in. Angus was sweating even more now, his fingers pulling at the collar of his shirt. Camilla half-laughed. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked, kindly.
Before she knew it, Angus was down on one knee in front of her, with a small blue box in his bear-like hands. He opened it and a stunning diamond ring glittered up at them. ‘Camilla Beatrice Candida Leonora Standington-Fulthrope,’ he said, his voice wobbling slightly. ‘Since I met you, I’ve been the happiest chap alive. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Camilla felt like she was dreaming. ‘Goodness! I wasn’t expecting this. Er, er . . .’ Why was she stuttering like such a bumbling idiot? Angus looked at her beseechingly, his brown eyes like a puppy dog’s, and Camilla felt her heart melt. ‘Oh Angus, of course I will!’ He slid the ring on her finger and they collapsed to the floor clasping each other tightly.
After that, it was like a whirlwind. Angus had already phoned Johnnie to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage, but it didn’t stop Tink crying tears of joy when Camilla phoned her parents to tell them the news. Camilla had barely had time to admire the sparkling ring before Clementine was on the phone, with Caro and Calypso in the background. ‘Darling, that’s wonderful news! We’re all so pleased for you both.’
Later, after they’d phoned Angus’s relatives, the couple sat down to an exquisite supper of oysters and lobster, followed by strawberries dipped in rich dark chocolate sauce. Neil, the butler, discreetly washed
up and left, and Angus carried Camilla upstairs to the bedroom. He’d even sprinkled red rose petals on the bed. There, he made tender love to his future bride. (As tender as a big oaf like Angus could manage.) Afterwards, holding Camilla in his arms, he took her hand in his and looked at the ring, turning it this way and that so it caught the candlelight and sparkled.
‘Camilla Aldershot! That has a good ring to it, don’t you agree?’
‘Yah, deffo,’ said Camilla, laying her head against his chest.
‘I can’t wait to make babies with you,’ Angus declared, before he drifted into a happy sleep.
Camilla, on the other hand, spent half the night lying there awake. It was meant to be one of the happiest moments of her life. So why did she feel so empty inside?
‘You’re engaged! Oh my God!’ squealed Harriet, throwing her arms around her best friend. It was the next morning and Camilla had popped into Gate Cottage on her way home to tell Harriet the news. They were standing in her small, charmingly rustic kitchen, which looked out on to the garden. ‘How does it feel? Is it any different?’ asked Harriet excitedly.
‘To be honest, it all feels a bit weird,’ Camilla admitted.
‘Oh, it’s bound to take some getting used to,’ Harriet reassured her. ‘So you’ll be moving to Highlands Farm?’
Camilla nodded. ‘I guess so, but not for a while yet. There’s so much to do! We’re going to set the date for next summer.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,’ offered Harriet. Camilla eyed her for a second. ‘Well, there is, actually.’ She took her friend’s hand. ‘Darling Hats, how do you feel about being my matron of honour?’
‘Oh my God!’ squealed Harriet for the second time in ten minutes. ‘I would love to!’ They hugged each other again, Harriet jumping up and down in excitement.
‘What’s going on here, then?’ A deep voice came through the open window. Jed was standing outside, toolkit in hand.
‘Oh Jed, Camilla’s just got engaged!’ cried Harriet. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
His mysterious green eyes clouded over. ‘Marriage is a load of crap if you ask me.’
‘Jed!’ reproached Harriet, shocked.
He was still staring at Camilla. ‘Whatever makes you happy.’ He shrugged and walked off.
‘What on earth has got into him?’ said Harriet.
Chapter 30
IT WAS THE SCBA Committee’s first official meeting since everyone had been given their roles. After the glorious sunny start to July, it had now been raining solidly for two days, so everyone retreated to the biggest living room at Fairoaks. It was west-facing and looked over the garden. Rivulets ran down the window panes, while Clementine’s normally glorious flowerbeds had been turned into a muddy, sodden mess.
Everyone had much more pressing things on their mind than the weather, however. Clementine was still reeling from a phone call she had received that morning from Coutts bank. A mystery benefactor who wished to remain anonymous was donating a million pounds to the fund. When Clementine told everyone there was a stunned silence.
‘That is fucking a-mazing!’ cried Calypso eventually. ‘Sorry, Granny Clem, but it is! Who the hell is it?’
Clementine tried to look as if she disapproved of her granddaughter’s language but failed miserably. ‘I agree with your sentiments entirely, darling!’ she said, eyes twinkling. After a brief discussion about who the benefactor could be, with suggestions ranging from Paul McCartney to Prince Charles (‘after all, Highgrove is only down the road, really’), to JK Rowling and even the Sultan of Brunei, Clementine insisted they moved on.
Calypso was bursting to bring them up to date on her progress. As well as inviting every young Honourable and titled amongst her friends and acquaintances, it looked like the entire Goldsmith clan would be attending. Calypso was also ‘like, totally new best friends’ with Kate Moss’s PA. ‘Hopefully she can talk to Kate about it. Just think if she comes . . .’ After much begging and pleading, Calypso had also persuaded Annabel Trowbridge, features editor for renowned glossy magazine Soirée, to put a piece about the ball in their November issue, pinpointing it as the social event of the Christmas calendar. ‘So, like, we have got to make this the best thing ever,’ said Calypso dramatically. ‘Or I can never show my face in SW3 again.’
Lucinda had taken on the role of chief organizer for the fun run. She had done a marvellous job, handing out leaflets from the back of her Range Rover in Bedlington’s market square one lunchtime, and personally marching into the Bedlington Bugle editor’s office one day to bully him into running a front-page story on the fun run. As a result, over three hundred people had entered, most of them raising money towards the SCBA fund; and it had been sponsored handsomely by the rich patrons of the district. The plight of Churchminster had reached beyond the hedgerows and fields of the village.
Lucinda herself was walking on air, anyway. After weeks of heavy flirting her sweaty private workout sessions with Henry had moved up a gear. Yesterday afternoon had unexpectedly culminated in him taking her on the stretching mats for the most energetic, passionate shag of her life. Years of self-conscious sex with the lights off had flown out the window and she’d ridden him like Frankie Dettori riding the winner at Cheltenham. Afterwards, they’d had to go round picking up all the exercise balls that had been kicked round the gym in the throes of passion. Lucinda was expecting to feel racked with guilt afterwards, but to her surprise, she didn’t. For the first time in so many years, she felt alive. Caro had even remarked on how well she was looking when she walked in.
‘Oh, it’s just this new wrinkle cream I’ve got, it’s been working wonders,’ she lied.
‘You must tell me what brand it is, you look marvellous!’ Caro had said admiringly, and Lucinda had smiled and hastily changed the subject. She felt she practically had the word SEX tattooed across her forehead.
On a more mundane note, tickets were now going on sale for the ball, with ten people to a table for dinner. Using money from the Standington-Fulthrope Committee fund, Harriet had managed to secure all the tables and chairs from an events firm in Bristol. The firm, sensing some lucrative future business with the calibre of guests attending, was delighted to be involved, and had offered a hefty discount, even promising to supply people for free to set the ballroom up.
Angie Fox-Titt was still putting the feelers out in the antiques world. Through an old friend, she had secured a much coveted two-week work-placement with an uber-cool designer who had been the darling of London Fashion Week. Some adoring parent was bound to snap it up for their darling Tabitha, fresh out of a textiles course at St Martins, she explained to the rest of them. Even more exciting was her Tiger Tomlinson connection. Tiger was a billionaire entrepreneur, and many years ago his wife Candy and Angie had given birth in the same private hospital, right next door to each other. They had struck up a firm friendship and stayed in touch ever since. Angie had been on the phone to Candy at the Tomlinsons’ palatial mansion in Mustique and told her about the SCBA. Candy, an ardent fundraiser herself, thought it was a ‘simply super’ idea. Provided Tiger gave it the go-ahead, Candy offered their own private island in the Bahamas for a week’s holiday for a party of ten. The island, a two-by-five-mile stretch of paradise, had been named by Traveller magazine as one of the most luxurious holiday spots in the world. You couldn’t just buy your way on; you had to be personally invited by the Tomlinsons. As far as an auction prize went, it was social dynamite. ‘Angie, that is wonderful!’ exclaimed Clementine. Even Calypso looked impressed.
Poor old Freddie wasn’t having as much success. He had heard nothing from Nigel since he’d been round to Byron Heights.
‘Do you think he’ll do it?’ asked Clementine anxiously.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Freddie. ‘He was going to be my lead to Mick Jagger as well . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Look, I’m still going to try and get a big-name DJ,’ offered Calypso. ‘I’m sure it will come together.’
‘Just hate to let the lot of you down, blasted unreliable rock stars,’ said Freddie gloomily. ‘You’ve all done such a bloody good job so far—’
‘So have you!’ interrupted his wife. ‘We’d all be drinking tap water if it wasn’t for you sorting out all the booze and bubbly.’
‘Hear hear!’ piped up Caro. But Freddie didn’t cheer up until Clementine asked Brenda to go down into the cellar to bring up a magnum of his favourite champagne. After the group had stopped for a glass, Freddie’s spirits lifted. ‘I’ll get that Cornwall man if it kills me!’
‘There’s no need to go that far, Freds,’ said Clementine.
Over at Byron Heights later that morning, the atmosphere between Devon and Nigel was slowly returning to normal. After their argument, Nigel had retreated to his wing of the house, and the pair hadn’t crossed paths for two days. Bloody-minded as he was, Devon wasn’t going to apologize, and it was only when Nigel offered to cook him conciliatory buckwheat pancakes for breakfast that things had started to thaw. They hadn’t spoken about the fight, but secretly Devon was still reeling from Nigel’s words. He’d been shocked at the outburst from his usually mild-mannered PA, especially as a lot of it had hit home.
To prove that he wasn’t turning into a complete hermit, Devon decided to go for a walk. Since he’d moved in, the nearest he’d got to exploring the local countryside was a few laps of the garden. Shouting to a surprised Nigel that he was off out, Devon dug out his old panama hat – the one that made him look rather raffish and handsome – and set off.
At last the rain had stopped and it was now a beautiful day. Outside his house Devon turned left on to the road, the verges framed by sturdy stone walls the colour of honey. On the lawn by Hollyhocks Cottage, home to Brenda Briggs, a big ginger cat lay stretched out, dozing. As Devon passed, the curtains twitched and an excited shriek came from inside. The noise made the cat jump up like it had been scalded and it shot off over the wall. Despite himself, Devon laughed, feeling slightly flattered. ‘Still got the magic, you old dog,’ he said to himself wryly. Meanwhile, inside, a palpitating Brenda Briggs was being fanned back into consciousness by her bemused husband and a copy of the Bedlington Bugle.
