‘You said you weren’t coming.’ The housekeeper’s face was set like flint. Tati could have struck a match off it to light her much-needed cigarette. ‘We rearranged the entire seating plan.’
‘I know. The thing is, I was so cross with Daddy about the Bertie thing, I sort of lashed out.’
‘Bertie?’ Mrs Worsley wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You mean the duke? The married man you took off with, breaking your poor father’s heart?’
‘Yes, but we’re not together any more.’ Tati cocked her head to one side and pulled her most adorable mea culpa face. It never failed to work with men, but Mrs Worsley was unmoved.
‘You upset Mr Flint-Hamilton no end, you know. First the affair, and then writing to him like that, saying you wouldn’t bother coming home. You know how much this ball means to him.’
‘Which is exactly why I’m here,’ said Tati. ‘To put things right.’ Her fixed smile was starting to give her jaw-ache. God, Mrs Worsley was a dragon, as humourless as a Glasgow drunk after the whisky’s run out. ‘Where is Daddy, by the way?’
‘Out,’ the housekeeper said coldly.
‘In that case I’ll have a bath and a nap,’ said Tati, giving up on the charm offensive. It clearly wasn’t working, so what was the point? ‘Ask Jenny to bring my bags up and unpack them for me, would you? And please don’t wake me. I’ll be down when I’m ready.’
Mrs Worsley watched Mr Flint-Hamilton’s wayward daughter as she skipped upstairs, as gloriously unaccountable as any spoiled child. With her flowing, honey-blonde hair, high cheekbones and endlessly long legs, Tati had the wild beauty of a racehorse, and the stubborn temperament of a mule. She could be charming when she wanted something, and generous, and on occasion Mrs Worsley had known her to be capable of great kindness. But she was also vain, insecure and deeply, deeply selfish, swanning through life with all the entitlement of the very rich and very beautiful. Most of all, she entirely lacked any sense of duty. As duty was her father’s lifeblood, this naturally made for strained relations between the two of them.
Rory Flint-Hamilton had hidden his feelings when he received Tati’s angry letter informing him that she would boycott this year’s ball. But Mrs Worsley could see how saddened and embarrassed he was, mortified by the prospect of having to explain his daughter’s absence to so many important guests.
Now, she’d ditched the royal playboy, and apparently divested herself of the unsuitable footballer too. With no new plaything to distract her, she’d decided to show up at the last minute and grace Furlings with her attendance after all.
Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was coming to the Furlings Hunt Ball, and it was obvious to Mrs Worsley what the little minx was hunting for.
* * *
‘I’m sorry, Tatiana, but it’s just not on!’
Rory Flint-Hamilton was as angry as his daughter had ever seen him. Returning from a relaxing afternoon’s shooting on the estate (with only twenty-four hours to go before the ball, Furlings was like Piccadilly Circus; he had to get out of the house), he’d come home to discover his daughter sprawled out on the drawing-room sofa eating Maltesers and painting her toenails an unbecoming shade of dark blue.
‘You can’t just change your mind at the last minute and upset all the arrangements. A lot of people have put a lot of work into this ball.’
‘I can see that, Daddy, and the house looks wonderful. I told Mrs Worsley that the moment I arrived. Didn’t I, Mrs Worsley?’
The housekeeper’s stony silence spoke volumes.
‘I haven’t come here to cause problems. Quite the opposite. I’ll help,’ Tati said cheerfully, dripping navy-blue varnish onto the antique Persian rug.
‘The seating plan’s been finalized.’ Picking two sheets of paper up off the Egton sideboard, Rory waved them at her angrily. ‘RSVPs were due ten days ago and, if memory serves, you “R’d” in no uncertain terms.’
‘I was cross. I didn’t mean it.’
‘We’ve got three hundred-odd people coming, Tati. This isn’t some family dinner party you can squeeze yourself into at a moment’s notice.’
With a sigh, Tati snatched the seating plan out of her father’s hand. Scanning it for a moment she said triumphantly ‘There. Table twelve. You’re a woman short between William Frobisher and the Lord Lieutenant. I’ll go there. I’m not fussy.’
‘You will not.’
William Frobisher was Master of the Furlings Hunt and a devout Anglican, and Jamie Gannon, the Lord Lieutenant of East Sussex, was an arch Conservative and paid-up member of the hang-’em-and-flog-’em brigade. The very idea of Tatiana sitting between these two local luminaries was enough to bring Rory Flint-Hamilton out in hives.
‘Fine,’ Tati pouted, handing him back the papers. ‘If that’s the way you feel, if you really can’t be bothered to swap one of the women around so your own daughter can come to the dinner, I’ll go back to London tonight.’
Her eyes welled with tears. Bloody little actress, thought Mrs Worsley. But she could see in Mr Flint-Hamilton’s eyes that he was falling for it.
‘You can’t keep doing this, Tatiana,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Letting people down and then acting as if nothing’s happened.’
Unfortunately, despite the strong words, his tone made it perfectly clear that Tatiana could keep doing it. That, when it came to her father, all it took was tears and a pleading look and he would eventually crumple like a house of cards.
‘I understand. I’ll go upstairs and pack.’ Tati sniffed.
Getting up from the sofa, spilling Maltesers everywhere, she swept out of the room, bumping into Harry Hotham as he walked in.
‘Tatiana, my dear, whatever’s the matter?’ St Hilda’s headmaster sensed a Flint-Hamilton family drama with all the relish of a dog sniffing out a juicy bone. Harry had taught Tati as a little girl, but that didn’t stop him fancying her madly now. If recent events were anything to go by, she’d clearly developed a penchant for the older man. Perhaps, if Harry could smooth over troubled waters with her father, he’d be rewarded for his troubles. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘Merry Christmas, Mr Hotham.’ Tati stifled a sob.
‘There, there.’ Harry hugged her, shooting Rory a ‘what’s up?’ look over her shoulder. ‘I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’
‘Well, actually, it is. I came home for Christmas, as a surprise for Daddy, but he doesn’t want me here!’
‘Tatiana, that is nonsense,’ protested Rory. Mrs Worsley, seeing where this was going and unable to take any more, wisely left the room. ‘I merely said that you couldn’t expect to come to the hunt ball at a moment’s notice. You’re perfectly welcome to stay for Christmas.’
‘Oh, I’m “perfectly welcome”, am I? In my own home! Well, that’s good to know,’ Tati spat sarcastically. ‘I’m welcome to sit locked upstairs in my ivory tower like bloody Rapunzel, while the world and his wife dance the night away downstairs? No, thanks. Can’t you talk some sense into him, Mr Hotham?’
‘Please, call me Harry. You make me feel so old.’
‘All right … Harry.’ Tatiana giggled coquettishly.
‘You are old, you damned fool,’ Rory snapped. He considered Harry Hotham a good friend, but watching the old roué flirting with his daughter was enough to turn even Rory’s stomach. Happily, Harry didn’t seem to take offence.
‘I may be old, but I like to think I’m wise as well.’ He winked at Tati. ‘Life’s too short to hold grudges, especially with family. Let Cinderella come to the ball, Rory. I’m sure you can squeeze her in somewhere.’
‘I already found a space on table twelve,’ said Tati, helpfully.
‘There you go, then.’ Harry Hotham smiled.
‘There you go, my arse. Over my dead body am I sitting Tatiana next to the Master!’
‘Well, swap her out for one of the older ladies then, old man,’ said Harry. ‘Last time I saw the seating plan I’d been put next to Mrs Hotham. Terribly bad form for couples to sit together. Marjorie gets alo
ng famously with Will Frobisher. Put those two next to each other, and then Tatiana can sit next to me.’
‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Tati, kissing her old headmaster on the cheek. ‘Come on, Daddy. What do you say? I promise to be on my best behaviour. If I’m not, Mr Hotham will put me straight into detention, won’t you?’
Watching his daughter wrap the old fool round her little finger, Rory Flint-Hamilton felt a deep sense of foreboding. Having Tati behave disgracefully in London was bad enough. If she did it in Fittlescombe, Rory’s life wouldn’t be worth living.
‘Fine,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You can come. But I mean it, Tatiana: I don’t want any trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Daddy,’ Tati beamed. ‘We’re all going to have a lovely Christmas.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Friday, 23 December, was always going to be a big day for Laura Tiverton. It was the day that Daniel Smart was arriving to spend Christmas with her, a huge leap forward in their relationship. It was also the day of the Furlings Hunt Ball. Most importantly of all, it was the dress rehearsal for the Nativity play, an event that had raised Laura’s anxiety levels to borderline insanity.
She woke at 4 a.m., haunted by dreams of collapsing sets, children singing out-of-tune carols, live animals running amok through the audience and Gabriel Baxter having disturbingly graphic sex with Lisa James on the straw-strewn stage.
Drenched in sweat, she got herself a glass of water and tried to go back to sleep, but it was useless. The image of Gabe’s handsome, mocking face refused to leave her mind. He knew his lines and was perfectly capable of giving a good performance. But he wasn’t above messing things up on purpose just to get a laugh out of the audience, or to irritate Laura.
Ever since Laura heard that Graham Kenley, a hugely successful TV producer with a house in Chichester, would be in the audience (he was in Fittlescombe for the Furlings Hunt Ball, and had a niece at St Hilda’s playing one of the angels), she’d been in paroxysms of doubt and terror. Graham Kenley was bound to have heard rumours about Laura’s swift, unexpected exit from the BBC. Her name was featured prominently on the programmes as both writer and director of this year’s Nativity. That was an embarrassing enough comedown in itself. But, if the play was awful, if Gabe Baxter ruined it, Laura would never be able to show her face in the British television world again.
By six o’clock, exhausted but unable to lie staring at the ceiling a minute longer, Laura had a hot bath, dressed and went down to the kitchen to brew herself a strong coffee. Daniel’s arrival had given her all the excuse she needed to go wild with the Christmas decorations at Briar Cottage, which now glittered with more tinsel and baubles than Santa’s grotto. Pressing play on her iPod speakers to allow the calming opening bars of ‘In Dulce Jubilo’ to fill the room, Laura opened the bread bin, tore off a huge chunk of Marks & Spencer’s panettone, and lit a White Company ‘Winter’ candle to lift her spirits. She threw a piece of the sweet bread to Peggy the pug, who ate it, lifting her head momentarily from the comfort of her fireside basket before lowering it again with a disgusted snuffle. It was pitch dark outside and clearly far too early for any sane person, or dog, to be awake.
By the time Laura had cleared away breakfast, plumped the sofa cushions and arranged fresh logs and kindling in the grate (Daniel’s imminent arrival had brought on a rare burst of domesticity), the sun had finally peeped its head up over the horizon. Outside, the air was cold and crisp, but the usual blue skies had been replaced by a thick, brooding blanket of clouds. The heavens looked swollen and pregnant with the snow that had been forecast for weeks now. In one way, of course, it would be lovely to have a white Christmas. But fresh-fallen snow would wreak havoc with narrow village lanes. Laura was already having nightmares about half her cast being snowed in, not to mention the audience. After so many months of work, she would not see the funny side if this Nativity play were cancelled.
By the time the dress rehearsal got under way, Laura felt as if she’d been awake for a year. Her nerves, on top of the sleepless night and four enormous mugs of coffee, had left her wired and jittery. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.
‘I want a word with you about my boy.’
Gary Trotter, a great, fat slob of a man with a reputation in the village as a bully and a troublemaker, marched up to Laura as the children took their places. Gary’s son, the improbably named Denver Trotter, was a chip off the old block, popular at school at least in part because he and his cronies bullied any kids who dared to stand up to them.
‘How come Denver ain’t got a solo?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Laura said distractedly.
‘You gave the solo to that posh kid. Stick together, your lot, doncha? Well I’m not ’aving it. My lad’s got a much better voice.’
‘That posh kid’ was George Monroe, a shy, nerdy little boy with an absolutely angelic treble. Denver Trotter could hold a tune, but he wasn’t in the same league. It hadn’t escaped Laura’s notice the way that Denver and his mates picked on George. Most of the middle-class families in Fittlescombe sent their children to one of the local private prep schools, but George Monroe’s parents hadn’t two beans to rub together, so St Hilda’s was their only option. With over 80 per cent of the pupils coming from the local village estate, George had struggled to fit in, but his efforts weren’t helped by the likes of Denver Trotter.
‘Mr Trotter, the auditions were held weeks ago. George Monroe has the solo because he was felt to have the most suitable voice.’
‘The poshest voice, you mean.’
Laura bit back her irritation. ‘The music department allocated the children their roles, not me. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with them, but this is a dress rehearsal. We are certainly not going to reallocate roles now.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ The fat man stalked off.
‘What was all that about?’ Gabe appeared next to Laura. In his simply fashioned brown woollen robe and sandals, and with a dark beard glued onto his chin, he looked unrecognizable as Joseph.
‘Wow.’ Laura looked him up and down. ‘You look amazing.’
‘I look like a knob end. And this bloody beard’s itchy as shit,’ Gabe grumbled. ‘What did Gary Trotter want?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just stupid playground politics.’
‘The man’s a cock,’ said Gabe.
‘Yes,’ Laura agreed. ‘He doesn’t like George Monroe, or his son doesn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s posh.’ Laura gave Gabe a meaningful look.
‘What are you looking at me like that for? I like George. I think he’s a sweetheart.’
‘Mm-hmm. So people being posh doesn’t bother you, then?’ Laura asked archly.
‘No. It doesn’t,’ said Gabe, annoyed now that he finally understood her meaning. ‘It’s people being bossy, stuck-up know-it-alls that I don’t like. How is Daniel, by the way?’
If the morning had started badly, it was about to get worse. Someone had overheated the hall, no doubt in anticipation of the snow, and the children were wilting under the bright stage lights. Laura, who’d opted for a new, skintight, bottle-green, cashmere polo-neck and slouchy wool French Connection trousers in honour of Daniel’s arrival, was sweating like a Christmas turkey in an abattoir. Her face had turned an unbecoming shade of red, and her freshly blow-dried hair already looked greasy and damp with sweat. The animals fared no better. By lunchtime, one of the heifers, scared by the spotlights, panicked and lashed out with its hind legs, destroying the Baby Jesus’s crib and putting a sizeable hole in the wooden stable wall. Lisa James had fluffed almost all her cues as Mary, and a scuffle had broken out among the Year Four angels that resulted in George Monroe falling off the stage and badly scraping his knee.
One of the teachers helped the boy up. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ said George. Up on stage, Denver Trotter and his friends had formed a huddle, their whispering interspersed with loud bursts of malicious laughter.
Ken Ruddell, the choirmaster, broke them up, but it was obvious what was going on.
‘Don’t let them get to you,’ Gabe whispered in George’s ear, taking him aside. ‘They’re just jealous because you’re the star of the show.’
‘Thanks, Mr Baxter. Unfortunately that doesn’t help me much. And the teachers never do anything.’ George Monroe was a gentle soul, but he looked up at his tormentors with eyes alight with hatred.
They broke at eleven thirty for biscuits and squash for the children, and a much-needed cup of tea for the adults. Gary Trotter was still hanging around, ostensibly to help with the children’s drinks and snacks, but actually to harangue poor Ken Ruddell about Denver having been robbed of his rightful position of star of the show. Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw George Monroe reach for a cup of squash, only to have Denver Trotter snatch it up and down its contents in a single, mean-spirited gulp.
‘Children can be so cruel,’ she observed to Harry Hotham.
‘My dear girl, they’re animals. Always have been, always will be. There are few environments more ruthless than a primary-school playground, believe me.’
‘Spoken by a man who never worked for the BBC,’ quipped Laura. She felt awful for poor George, but there was no time to ride to the rescue now.
‘Places, everybody! Two minutes to curtain.’
Act Two of the play opened in the now-wrecked stable – how the hell were they going to get that fixed by tomorrow lunchtime? – with a set piece involving the shepherds and kings bringing their gifts. Lisa James, centre stage but with nothing to do except nod and smile, began at last to look like a convincing Mary. And Gabe delivered his few lines with no court-jester embellishments. Even the schoolchildren, as the heavenly host of angels, seemed to have pulled themselves together, with Denver Trotter in particular looking subdued.
It wasn’t until George Monroe launched into his first verse solo of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, his pure, reedy treble cutting through the air like the voice of heaven itself, that Laura noticed it. Denver wasn’t just subdued. He was grimacing, clutching his stomach. No one on stage seemed concerned. They were all focusing on their own lines and cues. Until suddenly Denver’s eyes widened and with a horrified, helpless wail of ‘Oh, shit!’ he made a run for the stage door. Unfortunately for Denver, a particularly large and obstinate donkey stood between him and salvation.
One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon Page 5
