by Jo Carnegie
Camilla jumped as she felt a soft pair of lips brush her neck. She whirled around to find Jed standing there. Her heart missed a beat. Under the soft light of the chandeliers Jed’s chiselled face looked like a Grecian statue.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said softly.
Camilla blushed. Why did he make her feel like a giddy schoolgirl? ‘Thank you, so do you,’ she managed. ‘Well, not beautiful. Handsome.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Oh, are you sure about sitting with me on Mummy and Daddy’s table? Won’t it be a dreadful bore for you?’
Jed caressed the top of her hand. ‘I’m looking forward to it, don’t worry.’ One of Johnnie and Tink’s friends had pulled out that morning with a nasty bout of tonsillitis. They had generously given the place to Jed. Camilla had readily accepted and phoned Jed straight away, but now she was regretting it slightly. What if her parents didn’t get on with him? She couldn’t imagine the easy-going Johnnie and Tink having a problem, but she would still have preferred a less full-on introduction for Jed.
Calypso was on cloud nine. Getting stars to confirm they were attending was one thing, actually seeing them turn up was a completely different story. To her delight, they had all arrived, including a famous American pop star and her new toy-boy husband, who swanned in looking fabulous in sunglasses and matching black tuxedoes. They were followed by a gamine-looking Kate Moss in a striking Alexander McQueen dress. Her trademark rock-chick locks had been cut into a startling peroxide blonde crop. The other guests started chattering wildly when they saw her, and Calypso fervently hoped the photographers loitering at the end of the drive had got a picture. The supermodel’s new hairstyle would be all over the papers tomorrow and give them even more publicity.
‘Urgh, what’s she doing here?’ Calypso made no effort to stop her nose wrinkling as a heavily made-up Sabrina slunk in, wearing a rather tarty short pink satin dress. She was accompanied by a tall, thin brunette with legs up to her armpits, and a hard, knowing face.
‘Who?’ asked Camilla. She’d just had a furious snog with Jed behind a suit of armour and had reluctantly disengaged herself to bring her sister a glass of champagne and to see if she needed any help. Caro was still rushing around the ballroom like a madwoman, making sure all the name cards were in the right place.
‘Sabrina Cox. And boy does she love them! She’s a low-rent model from Chelsea who makes a living out of latching on to rich playboys. Until they get bored of her, or vice versa. I hear she’s shagging some Mafioso billionaire now.’ Calypso looked her up and down as contemptuously as only she could. ‘God, what does she look like?’ She took the glass from Camilla. ‘Thanks, Bills. I think all the VIPs are in now, trust old slaggy pants to come in last and try and upstage everyone.’ She paused and studied Sabrina, who was looking around at the crowd like a meerkat. ‘I heard she was after Sebastian as well.’
‘Caro’s Sebastian?’ exclaimed Camilla. She watched as Sabrina grabbed a flute from a waiter, unsubtly yanking the neckline of her dress down to expose even more cleavage. ‘He wouldn’t, would he? I mean, I know he’s not perfect but . . .’
‘Bloody hope not,’ said Calypso dismissively. ‘One thing I do know is that that old trout is about fifteen years older than she tells everyone. A girl who works at the Botox clinic she goes to told me she’s ancient. About forty-three at least.’
As the glamorous guests filled the room, the place reeked of power, fame and money, both old and new. Caro was just using her compact to put on a hasty application of lipstick when she saw Benedict Towey walk in, Amelia on his arm. He’d obviously been away somewhere hot and exotic. His hair was bleached by the sun to a dirty surfer-boy blond, and a deep tan made his blue eyes sparkle. Momentarily he and Caro had eye-contact. He looked at her as if he’d just scraped her off the bottom of his Tod’s loafer and turned sharply away.
In spite of receiving umpteen compliments on her appearance, Caro was feeling dead inside. She’d had yet another row with Sebastian just before they’d come out. He’d wanted to wake Milo up to show him off to his awful City friends. They’d come down for the ball and had been gathered in the sitting room downstairs with their equally awful wives, downing glasses of Cristal and bragging about how much money they made. Caro, quite rightly, had refused. After all, she’d just put Milo down, and had to finish getting ready herself.
‘Don’t be such a precious little bitch,’ Sebastian had snapped at her, before stalking downstairs to announce to the entire room that his wife was clearly suffering from a bad bout of PMT and refused to get Milo up. ‘No shag for me tonight, then,’ he had said, throwing back the last of his Cristal.
‘Oh, I’m sure that won’t stop you getting your end away somewhere, Sebbo,’ one of the men had drawled. The whole room had erupted: the men guffawing into their glasses, and the wives gleefully tittering and shooting nervous looks at one another, maliciously grateful it wasn’t one of them in the firing line tonight instead. Caro, standing on the landing getting her tights out of the airing cupboard, had heard every word.
By now the reception was in full swing. Richard Branson was chatting with Naomi Campbell and the Duchess of York, making them laugh at a riotous joke. In the middle of the room, ex-Daily Mirror editor Piers Morgan was receiving glowering looks from several disgraced aristocrats he’d done risqué exposés on. Luckily Piers seemed blissfully oblivious to the animosity as he engaged in an intense conversation with Salman Rushdie. A large group of guests were being entertained by the celebrated street magician Dynamo, who was wowing his audience by levitating one of their solid gold pens whilst simultaneously body popping on the spot.
Camilla was standing chatting to Poppy Cadwell, an old school chum of hers. ‘Have you heard Angus is here tonight?’ Poppy asked her. As if on cue, Camilla caught sight of her ex-fiancé across the room. He was looking more red-cheeked than ever in a dusty dinner jacket. Beside him was a horsy looking girl. She was about Camilla’s age, but matched Angus for height and broadness of shoulders. She was wearing an unflattering mustard-yellow taffeta dress, her long brown hair pulled back with a black Alice band. Angus said something to her and she threw back her head and brayed with laughter, exposing huge, buck-like front teeth. He gazed at her as if she was the prettiest girl in the world.
‘That’s Tamara Knatchbull-Drake, I hear she’s Angus’s new girlfriend,’ said Poppy, looking anxiously at Camilla. She needn’t have worried. Camilla watched as Tamara downed a glass of champagne in one gulp and promptly put the glass on her head. Angus roared with laughter, and Camilla couldn’t help but smile.
‘Poppy, I think they’re absolutely perfect for each other. I mean it.’
‘Phew,’ said Poppy. ‘I thought things were going to get a bit hairy, then.’ She took a sip of her champagne. ‘I say, what on earth is wrong with Lady Fraser? She looks like she’s seen a ghost!’
Camilla swivelled her head round. Frances was standing in the middle of a group of men and women. She was looking as elegant as ever in a simple black cocktail dress, and had obviously been holding court when something had made her stop in her tracks. Her guests were looking at her with a mixture of bemusement and concern. Every drop of colour had drained from Frances’s face, even her lips. She was standing stock still, staring through the crowds towards the front door.
Instinctively Camilla followed her gaze. What on earth was Frances looking at? At the door, she could see that some guests were gathered, drinking and laughing, while a pretty brunette had just walked in. Several men were eyeballing her with interest, but the girl seemed oblivious, surveying the room as if she was working up the courage to go further in. She looked vaguely familiar. It must be one of the celebrity guests, Camilla thought.
Then she looked again. And nearly keeled over as the features she knew so well suddenly fell into place. Later, she described the moment to her parents as like watching television with bad reception and suddenly getting the aerial fixed.
‘Harriet?’ she tried to say, but it came out as a cr
oak. It couldn’t be!
She was snapped out of her shock by a long-drawn-out scream. Camilla turned around just in time to see Lady Frances Fraser slide gracefully to the floor in a dead faint.
‘But where have you been?’ asked Sir Ambrose Fraser shakily. He, Frances, Camilla and Harriet were in a small, cosy sitting room at the back of the house.
‘Does it matter? She’s back with us now, and that’s all that counts.’ Frances had recovered sufficiently, and was lying on a chaise longue, a glass of water in her hand. She looked at her daughter and her voice broke. ‘Oh darling, we thought you were dead!’
Harriet rushed over and threw her arms around her. ‘Oh Mummy, I am so sorry! I had no idea the police had got involved. I feel so terrible.’ As mother and daughter embraced, Ambrose gazed at Harriet in wonder. She looked like a different person entirely.
Gone was his podgy, dumpy daughter with her frizzy mop of hair, unflattering wardrobe and ungainly walk. In her place was a stunning young woman. Harriet must have lost at least two stone, and her hair, which Frances had so despaired of, was now a poker straight, glossy chestnut, and styled in a flattering layered cut. Harriet’s once-pasty complexion was tanned, and she looked beautifully elegant in a long, white chiffon dress and strappy silver heels. She stood up again and looked at her father. A tear-stained Camilla moved next to Harriet, arm linked in hers. She hadn’t stopped crying or hugging her best friend in the last fifteen minutes.
‘Where have you been, Harriet?’ Ambrose asked again.
She looked round at them and smiled hopefully.
‘I’ve been in South East Asia. Back-packing. Don’t look like that, Daddy, it was the best thing I have ever done! The place, the people . . .’ Harriet looked at Ambrose imploringly. ‘I had to get away. Please understand.’
‘But why?’ he croaked. ‘I’ve always made sure you’ve never wanted for anything. You’re Sir Ambrose Fraser’s only child, for goodness’ sake.’
Harriet threw out her hands despairingly. ‘But that’s exactly why! Can’t you see? I know you have my best interests at heart – both of you – but I felt like I was suffocating here. I was never allowed to be my own person, and too scared to stand up to you or for anything else I believed in. Because I wasn’t a boy, I always felt like a disappointment.’
Ambrose opened and closed his mouth again, for once struggling for words.
Frances understood and nodded weakly. She knew what her faults had been as a mother. ‘How long had you been planning it?’ she asked gently.
Harriet gave a small smile. ‘I hadn’t, really, it was just a knee-jerk reaction. One minute I was gazing out of the window wondering what to do with my life. The next I’d booked a ticket with Trailfinders for a flight out of Heathrow that evening and was suddenly running around like a mad thing trying to get packed!’
‘Why didn’t you tell us where you were going, so your mother didn’t have to go through all this?’ asked Ambrose, a familiar hint of irritation creeping into his voice.
Harriet stared at him, aghast. ‘But Daddy, I did! I left two envelopes, one to you and Mummy and one to Camilla, on the desk in your study. I couldn’t face telling you face-to-face because I knew you’d probably talk me out of it. Oh, please don’t tell me you didn’t get them . . .’
Now it was Ambrose’s turn to look horror-struck.
‘Two white envelopes with purple handwriting?’
Harriet nodded.
‘I thought they were another set of those God-awful invites!’ Ambrose looked at each of them in turn, with a pleading glance. ‘I’m too old for all this gallivanting around, I’d had enough of the blasted things.’
When Frances spoke, her voice was dangerously quiet.
‘What did you do with the letters, Ambrose?’
He turned to her, shame-faced.
‘I threw them away.’
Frances’s face darkened in anger. ‘For God’s sake, man! Can’t you for once in your life stop charging around like a bear with a sore head, with no thought for anyone but yourself? Look where your bloody-mindedness has got us!’
In all their years of marriage, Frances had never questioned or criticized her husband. Harriet, expecting the Third World War to kick off, threw herself in-between them. ‘Mummy, please don’t take it out on Daddy. He didn’t know what he was doing.’
Ambrose exhaled loudly. It sounded like a thousand regrets in one breath. ‘Your mother is right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been a bloody fool. You’re better than a dozen sons!’ His voice cracked. ‘I know I’ve always been hard on you, but I thought I was doing the right thing. Will you forgive me?’
Harriet threw her arms around him. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Daddy.’
Eventually, she pulled away and looked around the room at them. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you all so much! I’m sorry I made you all sick with worry.’ She shot Camilla a pleading look. ‘Bills, do you hate me?’
‘Of course not, you dolt!’ Camilla said tearfully. ‘I’m just so pleased you’re home again!’ She hugged her friend. ‘We have got so much to discuss!’ she whispered in her ear.
Harriet laughed. ‘So I see,’ she told her wryly. ‘When I was plucking up the courage to come in I saw you with Jed. Are you happy?’ Camilla nodded. Harriet clapped her hands in delight. ‘I always knew he had a soft spot for you, how romantic!’
Ambrose put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Are you sure you want to go ahead with this tonight?’ he asked her.
Harriet nodded. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, we’ve got a village to save, haven’t we?’
As they got up to leave, Frances stopped her daughter. ‘Darling, there is one thing I must ask you. I hope you don’t think it’s inappropriate but how did . . .’ She trailed off uncertainly.
Harriet, intuitive as ever, grinned at her mother. ‘I’ve discovered the joys of hair-straighteners, Mummy!’
Pierre had excelled himself. As the courses were brought out, guests ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the exquisite plates of lobster, foie gras and roast veal. The dark chocolate mousse was so delicious that dozens of guests asked for the recipe afterwards.
Just after coffee was served, Stephen and Klaus approached Clementine at her table. ‘Would you like to come and meet Belvedere? He’s just arrived,’ asked Stephen.
The famous auctioneer was pulling off his coat in a small study off to the side of the ballroom when Clementine walked in.
‘Delighted, dear lady!’ he cried. ‘I’ve heard so much about you and the Meadows, thrilled I can be of service!’
Clementine smiled. ‘It’s very much appreciated.’ Belvedere Radley was a short, rotund man with a small, neat moustache. With his immaculate well-cut dinner jacket covering his portly frame, he reminded her of David Suchet’s Poirot.
‘What kind of result are you hoping for?’ Belvedere asked her briskly.
‘A lot,’ admitted Clementine. ‘We’ve raised a significant amount already, but we really need to raise at least ten million.’
Belvedere raised an eyebrow, reflecting on the amount. ‘I’ve seen a few familiar faces as I walked in,’ he said. ‘If they’re in a generous mood tonight, we’ll be laughing all the way.’
‘And if they’re not?’ she asked.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Belvedere muttered darkly.
‘Oh dear,’ said Clementine faintly.
By nine thirty on the dot, the coffee cups had been cleared away and the waiting staff had retired discreetly. Voices and laughter filled the very eaves of the impressive, stately room. Harriet, sitting with her parents at one of the head tables, was by far the most sought-after person of the evening, and had a constant flow of people coming up to clasp her hands and marvel at her miraculous reappearance. At one point Ambrose, his nerves fortified by several large single malt whiskies, became so fed up with the interruptions that he started chasing the unfortunate well-wishers away with a solid silver candelabrum.
At the fa
r end, the stage had been set up with various speakers, microphone leads, and a red and black drum kit. The dance floor was immediately in front, and a portion of it had been set up for the auction. When Belvedere Radley regally climbed up to his wooden rostrum and surveyed the room, the audience’s attention was instantly claimed. As the chatter faded away naturally, it was for sheer effect that he brought his hammer down loudly, three times.
‘He’s a showman, I’ll say that,’ whispered Tink to Clementine from their table. ‘Look at him working the crowd!’
Belvedere studied the crowd more closely, nodding solemnly at the people he knew. Then, clearing his throat, he addressed the audience.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I take great pleasure in welcoming you to the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction,’ he announced. ‘I would like to thank Lord and Lady Fraser for opening their charming home to us, and I would like to thank the SCBA Committee, as I believe it is called round these parts, and all who have worked so tirelessly to put on this splendid night for us.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Now, I am sure you are all aware of the real reason we are here tonight—’
‘Drink, eat and hopefully get a shag!’ a young voice brayed from the back of the room. The Countess of Radmore and several of the older guests frowned in the direction of the heckler. Belvedere allowed a ghost of a smile to flicker across his face, and smoothly moved on.
‘The reason we are here tonight is, of course, the Meadows,’ he told them. ‘An area of outstanding natural beauty, it is even mentioned in the Domesday book.’ Clementine raised an impressed eyebrow; the man had clearly done his homework. ‘Now it is under threat of disappearing, as are many other places like it. Concrete jungles, busy roads and other such horrors are descending in their droves upon the countryside.’ The little man was getting quite worked up now, his forehead and bald spot shining under the lights. He gripped the sides of the rostrum and leaned forward. ‘It’s up to you folks tonight to put your hands in your pockets and do the decent thing. Save the Meadows and save Churchminster!’
