Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Try one flavoured with mint or jasmine,’ I suggested. ‘There’s less underlying taste of compost heap. I’m glad you bumped into me,’ I continued, lying though my teeth but determined not to be led in any way astray. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you if Allyn is well.’

  ‘If she’s anorexic, you mean.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘And no, she’s not. The sodding media had a go at her for looking fat. Hell, she’s never been more than a size ten since I’ve known her. Well, US size ten.’

  And I worried myself silly when I went above a UK size ten.

  ‘But she decided that she’d take them on,’ he went on proudly. ‘She’s got a personal nutritionist and a personal trainer.’

  That would hardly have been my interpretation of taking them on, but I said nothing.

  ‘Have you seen our so-called games room?’

  ‘Not since the refurb.’

  ‘Nothing recreational about it now, believe me. Weights all over the place. Cross-trainer, rowing machine, treadmill, exercise bike – you name it, we’ve got it. I told her: we’ve got a lake for rowing on, we’ve got a brand new swimming pool, a professional-quality tennis court, and all around us we’ve got the most beautiful countryside, which is absolutely ideal for cycling. And all she does is stay indoors sweating away on her own until she deems herself thin enough to meet the press. God Almighty, why do you women do it?’

  ‘She seemed pretty depressed, too,’ I ventured.

  He eyed me. ‘Takes one to recognise one, Vee.’

  ‘Touché. But we were talking about Allyn. She must – trainers and such apart – be pretty lonely. Away from her family and all,’ I added, in an approximation of her very light Virginian accent.

  ‘Who in these socially and geographically mobile times has family? Oh, I know you do, and from what I remember of Greg I wish you joy of him.’

  ‘Thank you. The trouble is, Allyn’s surrounded by people who are employees, not neighbours or friends. Imagine having a girlie conversation with Miss Fairford, for example.’

  His grin was vulpine. ‘It’d be like having a natter with a filing cabinet.’

  ‘It’s a pity about her name, too. People must want to call her Jane Fairfax. You know, as in Jane Austen. The unhappy spinster filling in time while her errant lover flirts with the awful Emma.’

  ‘Of course!’ He slapped his knee in glee and threw back his head in a roar of laughter. Thank goodness the students were still yelling at each other or into their mobiles. ‘I wonder if she plays the pianoforte and has friends in Ireland.’

  Before I knew it we had collapsed into giggles, which were altogether too intimate.

  ‘She’s absolutely the paragon that Emma Woodhouse would have loathed. And so horribly willing,’ he continued, as I tried to stop laughing. ‘You want her to say, “Hang on, this is my time off,” but she never so much as raises an eyebrow. And it’s not as if she’s old enough to have had them Botoxed.’

  ‘Do you pay her enough to kowtow to you all the time?’ I asked, trying to be serious.

  ‘A great deal but probably not enough. Not enough to work on Friday evenings, which is when I gather she showed you the latest instalment of Allyn’s plans. I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Vee. I gather something urgent cropped up,’ he added, almost daring me to ask what.

  ‘No problem. Ted reckoned dropping into Aldred House might have saved me from some bother. He said he thought someone was tailing me. God knows why.’

  He took what I had meant as a flip remark very seriously. ‘Why he thought so or why someone should tail you?’

  ‘The latter. I suppose if I’m carrying keys to two or three luscious properties I might be worth robbing.’ Again I tried for lightness.

  He wasn’t having it. ‘And might get beaten up until you reveal the burglar alarms’ codes? Come on, Vee, you should be watching your back in a job like yours. Ted’s a good bloke – if he’s worried, you should take notice of what he says.’

  ‘Like you do?’

  ‘Well, we’re having some handsome gates installed to augment our already pretty serious security. And his advice to you is…?’ he prompted.

  ‘Ditch the advert-mobile and get some anonymous wheels.’

  ‘And when will you?’

  ‘When Greg pays my bonus.’

  ‘For God’s sake – do it now, woman! Ask him for an advance or something.’ He frowned. ‘Was it Greg who upset you?’

  ‘Angered me, more like. I had a nice idea, which he then diluted and passed off as his own,’ I explained. ‘At least I get all the bonus from the Andy Rivers sale. Unless Andy changes his mind.’ God forbid.

  ‘You know how Andy gets these impulses, Vee. Do you remember those crazy parties he used to throw? Of course you do – you helped him throw one or two, didn’t you? And now he’s greying and respectable and worrying about one of his grandchildren,’ he added, with something of a sigh. ‘He’ll buy, all right, even if he flits off somewhere else once the grandchild’s better.’

  The waitress brought our tea. Did Toby have regrets about not having his own children? If I asked, he’d turn the question back on me and my childlessness, and I wasn’t prepared to go down that road. So should I drag the conversation back to Allyn? Or wait? With Toby it was often best to sow a seed, as it were, and let him respond in his own time.

  ‘So why are you depressed?’ he asked, making me choke on my tea. I hadn’t meant to plant that seed.

  ‘I’m not depressed, just fed up. And there is a difference,’ I insisted, having experienced both.

  ‘Greg apart, why are you fed up? Nothing to do with your dear ex, Dale Teacher, landing that huge TV role?’

  I nearly took a bite out of the cup. ‘He hasn’t, has he? Not that Dickens serial?’

  He nodded.

  He might as well have punched me in the stomach, as Dale used to do. ‘Oh, shit.’ I lapsed into Elizabethan curses again. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Toby, I may not wish him ill, not anymore, but I certainly don’t wish him well. And definitely not that well.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘Life’s not fair, is it? He gambles away all your money, blacks your eyes so you can’t work – didn’t he even break your arm once? – beats you up so that you lose your baby, and after a few years he’s suddenly a blue-eyed boy who gets every part going.’

  ‘Apart from those you get.’ I stuck my tongue out at him, mockingly. Because I simply could not bear to speak of Dale and all his doings, I made a huge effort to change the subject. ‘Tell me, how are you getting on with Chris Wild? Have you made any plans yet?’

  He squeezed my hand a second, to show he understood. ‘I’m meeting Chris this afternoon, as it happens. I’ve got one or two ideas I want to float, and he says he has too.’ He dropped his voice. ‘He needs the money, doesn’t he?’

  It wasn’t my job to reveal how much effort it cost Chris to look presentable. I asked lightly, ‘Don’t we all, darling?’

  He looked at me, concern oozing from every pore. ‘Does that mean you’re as hard up as he is?’

  ‘Mine’s a cash-flow problem, that’s all. I told you,’ I declared. To deflect him, I added, ‘Actually, I do think Chris is hard up. When he was made bankrupt, he swore he’d pay back all he owed. I don’t know if he’s succeeded. But if he hasn’t, it’s not through lack of effort. Hell, darling, a voice-over or two would be the making of him.’

  He frowned exaggeratedly, but looked up swiftly with that wicked smile. ‘What was it you advertised, Vee? Incontinence pads? Denture fixative?’

  My frown was genuine. ‘You know damned well what it was. Everyone knows damned well what it was. But at the moment I’d jump at the chance to do it again,’ I said defiantly. I added, my voice more wistful than I liked, ‘And I’d kill for the chance of a proper part.’ Lest he start being kind, I said mock-winsomely, ‘I suppose you don’t know any Hollywood casting agents do you, darling? Or a director who wants to do the definitive Antony and Cleo?’

  H
e pushed aside his cup of tea, barely tasted. ‘I promise you that if I do you’ll be the first to hear. Now, let’s take a constitutional along the river, and you can tell Uncle Toby how he can help.’

  I stayed put, shaking my head. ‘I told you, it’s cash flow. When Greg gets round to paying me the bonuses he owes me all will be well.’

  ‘How much outlay have you had to make on Aldred House?’ he asked shrewdly.

  I would not shudder. ‘You’ll get the bill when everything’s finished to your satisfaction.’ I couldn’t resist adding, ‘Mind you, the guy who’s trying to sell you the silk carpets pays me a handsome commission. Make sure you choose the silvery-gold one.’

  ‘Make sure you stand close enough to nudge me.’

  Despite my efforts, I found myself strolling with him towards the monster building site that was currently the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. But our conversation was innocuous enough, largely about the twins. For all his caustic words about them, it was clear he was involved in their lives as much as Allyn would let him be.

  ‘Mind you, I got into horrible hot water over the tree business,’ he said. ‘I tried to tell her that, if they do happen to fall, kids that age bounce, by which I meant they tend not to break limbs. But she took it as an attack on her for letting them get obese.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘I might have observed that real, live exercise was good for them and that they might get teased, even bullied, about their weight when they start school. But I really, truly just wanted them to have the sort of fun I was having at their age. Anyway, there’s now talk of a tree house and climbing frame, with regulation thick playground rubber underneath. And tennis coaching.’ He counted the activities off on his fingers. ‘And soccer training. And rugby – because they’ll most likely go to a fee-paying school, even if it makes my dear old dad spin in his grave. And of course there’s piano, guitar, voice and deportment. And no rampaging round monster tree roots. Poor little swine.’

  ‘Sounds like Greg’s kids’ lifestyle,’ I said sadly. I came slowly to a halt, looking at my watch and slapping my forehead, as if I had a mound of work to do. Well, I did have all those seeds to plant.

  ‘Greg?’

  ‘He may not pay promptly, but he’s a hell of a slave-driver,’ I said, with some truth, even if it wasn’t applicable at the moment. We retraced our footsteps.

  After a surprisingly contented hour in the garden I was just at my muddiest when the phone rang. But if it was Caddie I didn’t dare miss the call. Shedding gloves and shoes as I ran in, I seized the handset just as the answerphone cut in.

  ‘Vena, darling.’ No, not Caddie, but Christopher Wild. Not worth getting footprints all over the kitchen floor for. ‘I simply must thank you for putting my way this work with the delectable Toby. You’re an absolute angel and should be worshipped accordingly.’

  ‘Are you sure you worship angels, Chris? Aren’t they busy worshipping too, rather better than we do?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a God-botherer, darling. Anyway, you have earned yourself a slap-up dinner. At least, you’ll have one as soon as Toby pays me. Meanwhile, I can certainly rise to a pie and chips in the Harvest Moon. Are you free this evening?’

  ‘For you, Chris, I will clear my diary.’ And with luck even clean my fingernails, under which the greater part of my vegetable patch appeared to have taken up residence.

  ‘A son et lumière!’ I repeated. ‘Heavens!’

  Chris preened. ‘I thought it might be an appropriate way to launch the sculpture park, darling, when he opens it to the public.’ He topped up my glass with what we both knew was really cava but drank with as much ceremony as if it was a grand cru champagne.

  ‘Sculpture park? I thought he just meant to stick a few of his late father’s statues out there.’

  ‘Have you seen the size of the figures, which are not, of course, representational? Whoppers, absolute whoppers. Imagine Henry Moore, only bigger.’ He gestured hugely, nearly knocking a lad’s pint out of his hand. ‘So sorry, darling. Only I’ve just landed this wonderful job and fizz makes one so expansive, doesn’t it?’

  The youngster, who had been prepared to bridle when first addressed, nodded kindly, and looked at me over Chris’s head, as if to check that Chris was OK.

  ‘A celebration,’ I explained, in case he wasn’t sure old folk had such things.

  ‘Let me buy you another,’ Chris insisted, struggling to his feet. ‘A pint of the best. By way of apology.’

  The lad looked at the glass, which had only shed a couple of drops, and at me, and at Chris, and did the maths. Then, hardly surprisingly, opportunism won. ‘That guest beer’s very tasty.’

  So it might be, but it was ages before it got anywhere near his palate. Chris had installed himself by the bar, and was clearly boring the socks off the barman. At last he returned, with the pint glass, several packets of crisps and another bottle of fizz tucked under his arm. If he was going to spread the good news to every new acquaintance, this was going to be a very long evening indeed.

  Fortunately for his licence, I had persuaded Chris to leave his car outside my house. By now the barman, the barmaid and half the folk waiting to get served knew about his good fortune. Unfortunately his credit card company didn’t share the general, if bemused joy, and I had to bail him out with mine, which must have been pretty well near its limit now. I eventually eased him out of the door, where the cool spring air slapped us kindly across our faces. With the amount of alcohol I’d managed to get hold of, I didn’t need much sobering, but the sudden chill gave Chris the twirlies, and he desperately grabbed my arm to stop falling over. At least he refrained from singing, or my reputation would have been shattered indeed.

  I pulled out the bed-settee in the living room – he’d hardly have appreciated being in mine, would he? – and reminded him where the loo was. I also slipped the key to my drinks cupboard somewhere he wouldn’t think of looking for it. No point in making several problems worse. And then I made my chaste and solitary way to bed.

  To my amazement, he was up and about and in apparently sparkling form by the time I emerged from the shower. He’d even been out to the corner shop to buy bacon and eggs, assuring me that they were the best ever cure for a hangover. It seemed, however, that cooking them wasn’t part of his cure; he retired to the living room ostensibly to collapse the bed but in fact to switch on the TV news. I was a Today woman myself (I confess to carrying a torch for John Humphrys), because of the depth and range of coverage, invaluable for competing from my couch in Mastermind and University Challenge.

  I was dragged from my task by Chris’s explosive comments on the state of the human race. I could understand the reason for his anger. It was time for the local news, which regaled us with several things guaranteed to make even the brightest day gloomy and which one would certainly not wish to think about over a cooked breakfast – raids on Birmingham brothels and the discovery of young women the reporter probably correctly called sex slaves; a hospital unit with several addicts fighting for their lives after using drugs stronger than they expected; a Solihull crematorium robbed of all the commemorative bronze plaques mourners have had erected for their loved ones.

  The bacon, locally cured, was crisp, the sausages from the same farm were succulent and the eggs so fresh a hen might have laid them on the shop doorstep. But nothing could console me for the last piece of news – overnight thieves had stripped lead from the roofs of several village churches, and poor St Jude’s was top of their list.

  ‘You’ll think of something to help the repair fund,’ Chris assured me as he kissed me goodbye. ‘I know it would be easier if you were still a household name, but at least you know some famous people. Toby, for instance – I’m sure he’ll chip in. And didn’t he say Andy Rivers was coming back? He always had nice deep pockets. And there’s always your brother, of course.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  I was just waving Chris off, hoping that the alcohol levels in his blood were now low
enough for him to drive, when I heard my phone ring.

  I sprinted with more haste than dignity back into the house. Caddie! Let it be Caddie, please! For the sake of St Jude’s roof, let alone for my own, I needed a job. Let it be something, even a naff advert for naff beds. Naff anything! Chris never meant to be unkind, but he always managed to say precisely the wrong thing.

  Or perhaps it was the right thing.

  I forced my face into a welcoming smile; that’s the way to make your voice sound pleased.

  The phone was silent. There was someone there, all right, but they weren’t speaking. So I put the handset down very quietly, put my index fingers in my mouth, and whistled as loudly as I could at the waiting ear. The call was cut very quickly.

  And then the phone rang again. It might be the same little sod as before, or it might be Caddie. I’d better assume it was Caddie. Be positive.

  The voice that responded to my most cheery and upbeat greeting was not Caddie’s, however, but Greg’s.

  There were more punters for Knottsall Lodge.

  ‘Two more from Russia or thereabouts,’ he said blithely – so despite all my warnings he was still slipshod when it came to nationality. ‘And don’t worry, Vee, they’re the real deal. They’re staying at a top London hotel – and before you ask, I’ve phoned the hotel to confirm they are who they say they are. How soon can you come over and pick up the keys? They’d like a morning viewing if possible, as they’re hoping to get back to London this evening – the hotel’s keeping their suite.’ He leant on the last words slightly.

  ‘I need to change and put on some slap. I’ll be with you in – say – half an hour. Then I can get to Knottsall Lodge by eleven, easy-peasy.’

  The viewing suit, as I was coming to think of it, was certainly coming into its own. And maybe some of the rosy blusher that had come as a freebie with my cosmetics would help a rather tired-looking face. I’d done enough quick changes to make sure that everything looked its best in the minimum time. What did hold me up, however, was something the best-trained dresser could never have anticipated. Someone had left, of all things, a bunch of daffodils on the Ka’s driving seat. No longer fluttering and dancing, but definitely golden. They were still cool and fresh. What a sweetie Chris could be when he tried. I only hoped he hadn’t pinched them from the garden of one of my immediate neighbours.