by Jo Carnegie
A few hours later, at Byron Heights, Devon was going through a similar crisis of confidence. It was only eleven o’clock, and already a group of fans and photographers had gathered at the end of his drive, hoping to glimpse the pop star on the day of his grand comeback. Devon had looked out of the window, gulped and drawn the heavy curtains across it. He flung himself down on the sofa and turned on the television, trying to take his mind off what lay ahead. The pretty face of the newsreader on the local news station flashed up. She announced solemnly:
Today is the day of the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction. The biggest event the area has seen in many years: a whole host of celebrities are attending, including Mick Jagger. But the REAL focus of the night is on comeback king, Devon Cornwall, playing his first live performance in almost two decades. Critics are divided as to whether he will be able to reclaim his throne. Music supremo Simon Cowell is adamant that . . .
Devon could stand it no longer. ‘Arggh!’ he yelled and clicked the set off, throwing the remote across the room. Nigel, hearing the commotion down the corridor, rushed in looking alarmed. He found Devon lying face-down on the sofa, a cushion pulled over his head.
‘What on earth is wrong?’ he cried, running over to him.
Devon slowly lifted his head up and gazed at him. ‘Nige, I don’t think I can do it. I thought I was ready for it, but now it’s here, I can’t. I’m bricking it!’
A voice sounded from behind them. ‘Devon, you can do it. I know you can. Come on, darling.’ Devon sat up and they both turned to face the door. Looking effortlessly chic in a navy-blue polka-dotted scarf and blue quilted riding-jacket, Frances was leaning against the doorway. She looked apologetic. ‘I did knock but no one answered. I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in.’
Nigel smiled in relief. If anyone could talk Devon round, it was Frances. ‘Not at all, come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He gave her arm a grateful squeeze as he passed, and she smiled at him reassuringly.
‘Now then, what’s all this?’ She sat down next to Devon on the sofa.
He gave a loud groan. ‘Frances, I can’t do it, man! What if I go down like a lead balloon? What if they hate all my new stuff? I’ll never recover from that.’
Frances took Devon’s chin in her hand tenderly and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Devon Cornwall, you are the most talented man I have ever met. You are going to bring the house down tonight, no question.’ He began to protest but she stopped him. ‘It’s just last-minute jitters, darling, which are entirely understandable,’ she said soothingly.
Devon started to look slightly less stricken. ‘But what if me nerves fail me?’
‘They won’t,’ she told him firmly. A pained look flashed across her eyes. ‘Devon, you need to do this. Not just for you, but for the village. For Harriet . . .’ Her lower lip wobbled.
Devon sat up straight, guilt flooding over him. What a selfish git he was being. ‘My beautiful Frances,’ he murmured, hugging her. ‘You’re right, of course I’ll do it. There’s a lot at stake tonight, and it’s not just my bleedin’ career.’
Frances closed her eyes and clasped him tightly.
Around lunchtime Clementine went down to Clanfield Hall to see how everything was going. It looked slightly chaotic. At least a dozen cars were parked outside the magnificent building, ranging from a white florist’s van with bright pink roses painted down the side to a dusty looking lorry from which several muscular men were unloading pieces of the stage. Several more people were shouting across to each other, staggering as they carried large flower displays and boxes of food and drink across the gravel drive. Someone had dropped a tray of eggs by the front door, the yolk spreading out in a big, gloopy yellow puddle. A workman in overalls, with a pencil stuck behind his ear, cursed as he stepped in it, lifting his dripping boot up and looking around unsuccessfully for somewhere to wipe it.
In the middle of all this, a short, excitable young black man was standing beside a black Saab shouting furiously down the mobile phone he had clamped to his ear.
‘What do you mean, you forgot to pack my CDJ 1,000s!’ He had a high-pitched, slightly manic voice. ‘What am I supposed to do, rig up to the old guy’s gramophone?’ The man paused as a babble of protest could be heard down the line. ‘G-Man, I don’t care if they’ve fucked up your weave at the hairdressers, get your sorry boy ass down the M4 now!’ He lowered his voice slightly. ‘And don’t forget my wheatgrass juice, it’s in the fridge, yeah?’
Clementine stared at the stranger in bemusement. He had braided hair, worn incongruously in bunches on either side of his head. Big diamond studs glittered in both ears, while immaculate white trainers with some kind of tick down the side dazzled on his feet. The man was wearing a full-length brown fur coat, which fell aside as he jiggled round impatiently, revealing a huge oversized T-shirt with the words ‘Dirty Dawg’ emblazoned across it. Irritably he snapped the tiny diamanté phone shut and, looking round, noticed Clementine for the first time. His whole face lit up in a beaming smile, revealing even more diamonds in his dental work.
‘Hey, girl!’ he called out in a friendly manner. ‘Can you tell me where I can find the lord of this manor?’ He proceeded to moonwalk across the drive towards a very disconcerted Clementine. ‘I’m Dawg!’ he said, turning round and pointing with both hands to his T-shirt. ‘Just like it says on the tin!’ He gave a booming laugh and extended his hand in greeting. The name rang a bell.
‘Dawg? Mr Dawg, are you performing tonight? I think my granddaughter Calypso has been in charge of the arrangements,’ she said formally.
‘You’re Calypso’s gran? Damn, good looks run in the family!’ Dawg slapped his thigh and chuckled again. ‘Yeah, I’m the Dawg, DJ Dawg, if you’d be so kind.’ He eyed Clementine’s tweed trouser suit critically. ‘Man, that country look is so yesterday! Why don’t I get my assistant G to bring up one of our ‘Dawg’s Bitch’ tracksuits for ya? It would look well fly. My old ma loves hers, wears it out for bingo with a pair of heels.’
‘No, thank you,’ a slightly thrown Clementine told him.
He shrugged good-naturedly. ‘If you change your mind, let me know. “Dawg On Dawg” is one of Selfridges’ bestselling lines at the moment.’ Suddenly loud barking rang out from nowhere, making Clementine almost jump out of her skin.
‘Chillax, it’s just my ring tone,’ he told her, amused, as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He slapped his thigh again. ‘P Diddy! My main man! What’s going down?’
‘Laters, home girl,’ he said to Clementine, and wandered off to take the call.
What’s later? How does he know I like staying at home, she wondered, feeling rather perplexed. Reeling slightly from this encounter, Clementine walked in through the enormous oak front doors, which had been propped open. As she stepped over the threshold she was assailed by the smell of fresh pine, and her confidence was restored. A huge, beautifully dressed Christmas tree stood in the centre of the sweeping entrance hall, a man in overalls perched precariously on a step ladder as he reached to put a decadent silver star on the top. The whole place looked positively festive.
‘Isn’t it wonderful? It was Ambrose’s idea,’ said Frances, appearing behind her, her arms full of bottle-green sprigs of mistletoe. ‘We thought this would get everyone in the mood at the drinks reception.’ She had just returned from Byron Heights, having left Devon in an encouragingly buoyant mood.
‘It’s really very kind of you,’ said Clementine gratefully. ‘Good old Ambrose!’ She looked concerned. ‘How is he holding up?’ She studied Frances. ‘How are you holding up?’
Frances smiled bravely. ‘To be honest, tonight has been the only thing that’s kept me going. One tends to sit and dwell less when one is so busy.’ She leaned in confidingly. ‘I have had serious doubts about Ambrose, but he’s seemed a bit brighter in the last week.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘You know my husband, he can’t bear not to be involved!’
‘I can’t put into words how grateful we are
for all this. You’ve been so brave,’ Clementine said emotionally. The two women smiled and clasped each other’s hands.
At this moment there was a loud crash from the back of the house, followed by an angry babble of distant voices.
‘Ah, I was going to pop in and see how Pierre was doing,’ said Clementine.
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ Frances warned her. ‘The last I heard, the suppliers had delivered partridge instead of prawns, and one of the sous chefs dropped a saucepan on his foot and had to be carted off to A and E. I believe Pierre is in one of his more fraught moods.’
Another noise made them jump as a loud barking sounded out at the front.
‘What is that awful racket?’ asked Frances, craning her neck round the door. Her face was a picture as she caught sight of Dawg, answering his phone, holding it with one hand, the other stuck down the front of his baggy jeans rearranging his particulars.
‘Ah, I don’t believe you’ve met the DJ yet, have you?’ said Clementine delicately.
Chapter 56
AFTER A THOROUGH inspection of the car park and newly erected cloakrooms and toilets, Clementine was satisfied everything was ready. Driving back through the village, she saw Babs Sax wandering across the green, carrying a long, canary-yellow dress on a hanger. Babs waved the car down and Clementine stopped begrudgingly. A straightforward, no-nonsense woman, she really couldn’t see the point of silly, affected people like Babs.
‘Just picked my dress up from the dry cleaners,’ Babs announced shrilly. She stuck her bony face through the window and Clementine got a disconcerting waft of gin-fuelled breath. ‘Got the bloody thing covered in green gloss at Lucien’s – that’s Lucien Freud’s – painting party last year. I was beside myself they wouldn’t be able to get it out, but they did! Otherwise I don’t know what I would have done.’ She held the dress up to the window. ‘Marvellous, isn’t it? I got it from a frightfully expensive boutique off Portobello Road.’
It was hideous, thought Clementine. On closer inspection, the clingy fabric would have looked more at home in an ice-skater’s closet. It was also covered with yellow feathers, and someone appeared to have attacked the jagged hemline with a pair of gardening shears. Billowy chiffon sleeves hung off each side like a pair of limp windsocks. The whole effect was absurd and strangely terrifying.
Clementine decided to exercise her tact. ‘It’s very original,’ she told Babs, and looked at the clock on the dashboard pointedly. ‘I must be off, Brenda’s due round at Fairoaks to babysit Milo soon.’ The artist stepped back from the car with a flourish.
‘Of course,’ she cried. ‘See you later!’ She swayed dangerously, like a tall poppy blowing in a gale-force wind. For a worrying second, Clementine thought she was going to fall over. But Babs managed to right herself and wove off back towards Hard-on House. As Clementine drove off she made a mental note to make sure Babs was served the non-alcoholic champagne at the drinks reception.
The invitation stated guests were to arrive from seven o’clock. Dinner was at 7.45 p.m., the all-important auction starting at nine thirty. At eleven o’clock, Devon Cornwall was opening the live entertainment on stage – hopefully still with an appearance from Mick Jagger. For those who were still standing at midnight, DJ Dawg would be spinning and mixing his choice of dance-floor fillers. Carriages were at two o’clock and Ambrose hoped to be tucked up in bed with a tot of single malt scotch by 2.10 a.m. ‘Maybe a trifle ambitious, darling,’ Frances tactfully informed him.
By six o’clock, all the committee members were down at the Hall doing last-minute preparations. Her granddaughters did scrub up well, thought Clementine admiringly, as she watched them rush about clutching clipboards, to-do lists and table plans. She had been slightly worried Calypso would shame the family by arriving dressed as a Soho streetwalker, but her youngest granddaughter was the epitome of elegance in a long, gold, strapless dress, her normally messy bed-hair swept up in a sophisticated topknot. Camilla was making the most of her fabulous legs in a short black dress. Long-sleeved, it had a low scooped back that showed off her honey-coloured skin, courtesy of the fake tan she’d had done at the Sunshine beauty salon in Bedlington the day before. It made her hair look blonder than ever, and her eyes smouldered under artfully applied smoky make-up. No wonder Jed Bantry, helping to bring the last few crates of wine in, couldn’t take his eyes off her.
In his rented dinner jacket and with his black hair swept back, exposing his imperious cheekbones, Jed looked every inch the young aristocrat. Clementine smiled wryly as she thought of the look that would surely appear on some people’s faces tonight when Jed opened his mouth and exposed his country roots. She was rather relieved he had finally made his move on Camilla. Clementine’s beady eyes had missed nothing over the years, and she probably realized the extent of Jed’s feelings towards her middle granddaughter before he did. For all her breeding and connections, Clementine was not a snob and was more concerned with manners, decency and honesty than which school someone had been to or what their father did for a living. She had encountered far too many boorish, unscrupulous Hooray Henrys in her lifetime.
This was why she was so worried about Caro. She had never seen her granddaughter look so stunning. But at what cost emotionally? Her slim shape was clad in a beautiful olive-green dress that hugged her in a bodice and flared out at the bottom into a fishtail shape. Exquisite diamonds, given to her on her twenty-first by Johnnie and Tink, glittered at her ears, neck and wrists. Her hair, freshly streaked from the hairdressers, had been artfully put up in a sexy, almost casual chignon, a few select strands falling about her neck. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm, Clementine thought.
Aware of being watched, Caro looked up from a table plan and glanced at her grandmother. She smiled, but it failed to mask the sadness and hurt in her eyes. As if a fist was being squeezed around it, Clementine’s heart contracted in sorrow and anger. She had seen Sebastian Belmont for what he was from the moment she’d met him. But Caro had been so head-over-heels in love Clementine hadn’t been able to bring herself to interfere. Now, she wondered if maybe she should have. She had hoped Milo would tame Seb and give him a sense of responsibility for the first time in his life. To her dismay, he seemed to have had the opposite effect.
‘All ready, Granny Clem?’ Calypso appeared beside her, patting the back of her hair to check it was still in place. ‘It’s five to; I’m going to stand by the front door to welcome the VIPs.’ Clementine nodded, feeling slightly nauseous as nerves and anticipation stirred in the pit of her stomach. Calypso squeezed her grandmother’s arm. ‘It’s going to be fine!’ she assured her.
‘I hope so, darling!’
Calypso hurried off and Clementine looked around the ballroom for the umpteenth time. It looked fabulous. Fifty tables decorated in the finest white tablecloths and laid with gleaming solid silver cutlery, a glorious winter flower display the centrepiece on each. An intoxicating scent from the flowers wafted across the room, mixed in with the heady smell of recently polished mahogany. Three huge arched windows ran along each side of the room, and floor-to-ceiling silk magenta curtains framed each one perfectly, pulled back to show the twinkling velvety night sky outside. The heavy, ornate chandeliers had been turned down low, casting a decadent, romantic glow over the room.
We’ve done our absolute best, thought Clementine. The rest of it was in the lap of the gods.
A few minutes later, the first headlights appeared at the bottom of the drive. They were swiftly followed by more and more. Angie, who was standing at the entrance, thought it looked almost biblical, the bobbing, swaying lights moving nearer like a procession through the distant darkness. Everyone suddenly galvanized into action, burly looking security men in dark suits with ear sets shouting instructions into their walkie-talkies, and the valets and car park attendants milling about expectantly. Inside, waiters in dicky bows hovered, champagne flutes at the ready.
A few minutes later the first car, a midnight-blue Bentley, pu
lled up outside. The smartly dressed valet, who didn’t look a day over sixteen, stepped forward and opened the door reverently and an old man, dressed in black tie, with splendid white whiskers, emerged. He turned to help his companion out, a grey-haired regal-looking woman in a lavender ball gown. Looking around as if they owned the place, they walked slowly up the front steps. They were followed by a younger, similar-looking couple.
‘The Earl and Countess of Radmore,’ Calypso whispered to Angie. ‘That’s their son Rollo behind, with his wife Millicent. Between them, they own half of Warwickshire. Oh look – there’s the Marquess and Marchioness of Havensbury.’ She smiled winningly as the guests swept imperiously in.
After that the floodgates opened. Car after expensive car pulled up and deposited their rich, famous and privileged guests. By 7.30 p.m., one could barely move in the car park for Bentleys, Rolls Royces and Mercedes, the chauffeurs standing around and chatting to each other. For most it would be a long night’s wait, but they were used to it.
A sleek, black BMW pulled up, tyres crunching on the frost-covered gravel, and out stepped Elizabeth Hurley, looking every inch the superstar in a long, red, figure-hugging dress and fur stole. A dashing Indian man climbed out of the other side of the car and walked round. ‘That’s her husband Arun Nayar, quite cute, isn’t he?’ Calypso whispered to Angie. Linking arms with Arun, Elizabeth glided up the steps, her dress moving like flowing water. Across the entrance hall, Camilla looked on with admiration as Calypso greeted the couple, complimenting the celebrity on her outfit and beckoning over attendants to take coats. She is not the slightest bit star-struck, thought Camilla. Moments later, Calypso was air-kissing a debonair-looking Bryan Ferry and sharing a joke with the upper-crust environmental campaigner Zac Goldsmith. The whole Goldsmith clan was there, Zac’s sister Jemima Khan looking impossibly glamorous in a cream Chanel number. When an over-excited male admirer rushed up to fawn over her, Calypso stepped in from nowhere and smoothly directed him away in the direction of the champagne.
