by Sarah Mason
'You are, aren't you? Where is the "hell hath no fury like an extremely pissed-off woman" thing? Eh?'
'What could I do?'
'I don't know! Send him bags of offal, paint his Boxter, anything!'
'I don't want to do stuff like that. Although you're right, I don't see why he should get away with it,' I say, feeling slightly more incensed.
'Well, we'll think about it. There's more than one way to wash a lettuce, as we in the catering world would say.' We would say no such thing. 'Revenge is a dish best served cold. Think Vichyssoise.'
'Okay, let's burn the photo!' I say with more enthusiasm. After all, this is much more fun than mooching around.
'Atta girl!' Dom leaps up, strides across the room and returns with the metal wastepaper bin. He sits with it between his knees. 'Right! You light it!' He hands me the photo and his lighter.
'Right!' I agree, a large grin spreading across my face. I light the bottom corner of the photo and watch with pleasure as the flames start to lick up the paper, Rob's face bubbling long before the flames reach it. I drop it with satisfaction into the bin.
Unfortunately, the pads of cotton wool that I used to remove my nail varnish go up with a small WHOOSH!
'Oh Christ!' says Dom, looking down into our own miniature version of the Towering Inferno and quickly dropping the bin. 'Oh Christ!' I repeat.
'Quick, Izzy! Help me!'
I leap up and look around the room for something to douse the flames. I run from corner to corner but there isn't even a flannel in sight. 'Izzy!! Quick, quick!' shouts Dom, still transfixed by the spectacle.
I pull out three pairs of damp knickers from the top of my travel bag, washed just before I left, and run back. I am debating which pair I would least like to lose when Dom grabs the lot and dumps them on the fire. I watch with resignation as my best M&S pants successfully douse the flames.
'Thank God for your large arse, Izzy,' says Dominic cheerfully.
This really isn't my day.
After a mammoth sulking session I finally agree to go back downstairs because, as Dom points out, it's the only way I'll get my hands on a stiff drink. I take my mobile with me. A bit of Dutch courage might give me the strength to turn the damn thing on and face the calls I know will be waiting for me from Gerald. He's bound to have read the papers this morning and will want to know the implications of the failed takeover.
Dom holds the door open for me and together we start walking towards the kitchen. 'I think it's probably best, Izz, if we keep the small blaze in your bedroom to ourselves,' he says. 'The family might start to think you don't like them very much if they realise that you just tried to burn the house down on top of single-handedly ruining the takeover. Maybe we should put bells on your ankles to warn people of your approach.'
I ignore him and call the charity instead to cancel our meeting. I tell Rose that I will reschedule as soon as everything is clearer, reassure her that the ball will still go ahead as planned, and then ring off before I can be questioned any further. I switch the mobile off again, still unable to face Gerald, and follow Dominic into the kitchen.
The whole family, apart from Harry and Simon who I presume are still out fishing, are in the same position as we left them – slumped around the kitchen table.
'Will you and Dominic be going back to London?' asks Aunt Flo as soon as we walk into the room. The question has obviously been on her mind. The rest of the family look at us expectantly. 'Where will you hold your meetings for the ball?'
'We'll figure something out. I could meet Rose and Mary in Bury St Edmunds tomorrow. But if Simon doesn't want us here, I suppose we can go back and try to arrange things from the office in London. Otherwise we'd like to stay and help. If we can,' I say awkwardly. Dom meets my eye and nods slightly to indicate his agreement. I probably couldn't tear him away even if I wanted to – he seems to have taken quite a shine to the Monkwell family.
Just as I say this, the back door flies open and Simon and Harry march in looking a little dishevelled. We all perk up.
'I've thought of something,' announces Simon. 'It might not work but it's worth a try. Now, who's for a drink?' The man is a genius. Two winning phrases in one breath.
Our group dynamic now takes on an almost party atmosphere. Monty leaps up, rubbing his hands together, and rushes to get his twenty-year-old malt from its secret hidey hole.
I help Mrs Delaney gather some glasses from the cupboard.
'What have you done to your knees, Izzy?' asks Harry, pointing at my nicotine patches. 'I could have dressed the wounds for you. I have my badge in first aid.'
I blush and glance down at the offending patches. I had forgotten all about them. I am just about to pass them off as plasters when Simon says, 'They're nicotine patches. Izzy is giving up smoking.'
The family look at me in surprise. 'You used to smoke, Izzy?' asks Will.
I open my mouth to reply but Dominic is too quick for me. 'Like a chimney' he choruses. My hands tighten involuntarily around my glass. I could brain him with it.
Monty pours a shot of his whisky into each glass. I glug mine in one go and feel all the better for it, even though my eyes are watering. I think these patches might be having a beneficial effect on me; I feel positively gung-ho.
We all savour the whisky in silence until Monty eventually asks, 'So what have you thought of, Simon?'
We all look at Simon expectantly. 'Well, there's no guarantee this will work. I've asked the American shareholders up here to visit. To see if we can salvage this takeover.'
'Up here?' echoes Monty.
'But the furniture … ?' says Aunt Flo slowly.
'Well, that's where you lot come in. We need the house re-furnished by tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow?'
'Yes. I'm going to brief our PR agency to invite the press up here tomorrow morning. So they can see for themselves that no bailiffs have visited. The Americans will be arriving at lunchtime.' He looks steadily at us.
'But that's impossible,' says Will.
'Which is exactly why it will work. The quicker we can turn this around, the less anyone will suspect anything is up. If the press see the house furnished there is no way any of them will dare to print that the bailiffs have been here even if the villagers tell them to the contrary. They wouldn't imagine that we could re-furnish the house as quickly as that. The Americans arriving will further refute any rumours, if only in their own minds, and we can try to salvage the takeover at the same time. Any questions?' He looks around the room.
About a dozen are poised on my lips but I don't feel I can ask them since I was the one who got everyone into this mess in the first place. It's an interesting task considering we have two OAPs, a cub scout and a pissy housekeeper on our team. And Dom, who is a bit of a liability at the best of times. I think the others are struck dumb which Simon takes as a sign of assent.
'Great! I've got a ton of work to do! I've called my team and they're on their way up from London. Are you sure you want to stay, Izzy, Dominic?' asks Simon before he leaves.
Dominic looks completely thrilled by the entire scenario so Simon turns his attention to me. I surprise myself by nodding firmly. He gives me a half-smile, nods and disappears, leaving the rest of us with the task of returning the house to a furnished state. I fish around for some paper and a pen in the hope that I will be positively swamped with ideas.
'Right!' says Monty, 'we need the furniture back!'
'Right!' everyone choruses.
'Right!' says Monty. We all look at each other for a moment. I start a doodle on the corner of my paper. Silence ensues and I can feel the mood of the group begin to deflate like a slow puncture.
'I don't think we're going to be able to get your furniture back from the bailiffs,' I venture. 'They won't release it until Simon has coughed up the money to the bank.'
'Well, we only need to furnish the hallway, the dining room and the drawing room for the visitors. We needn't bother with the library or the rest of the rooms.'
'And the bedrooms are okay, aren't they? They didn't take anything from there?'
'No, they're fine.'
'What about if we hire some furniture?' I suggest.
Monty excitedly slaps the table. 'Yes! We'll hire it! Izz, go and get the Yellow Pages!'
I run all the way down to the study, quietly open the door and find Simon talking animatedly on the phone. I extract the Yellow Pages from the pile of debris in the corner and then run back to the kitchen. We look up furniture hire, dismiss quite a few entries since we are specifically looking for 'period' furniture and then find a discreet advertisement for 'Merrill and Son' who promise quality anliques.
Monty dials the number while we all sit around expectantly. He explains that he has been let down by someone else but needs to furnish three reception rooms by tomorrow. From the various responses we galher this isn't a problem and that the company could deliver tomorrow if wished. We look at each other in relief and I almosl lean back in my chair. But when Monty goes on to explain that we have a van and would like to collect the furniture ourselves, the tone of the conversation shifts. We all frown and Monty says he'll gel back to them and then rings off.
'They won't let us colled because they need lo see where it's going. I suppose we could say we were anyone and then run off with it. Besides which, it isn't insured if we colled it ourselves.'
'Couldn'l they deliver it?' asks Aunt Flo.
'Thing is, we don't want them lo see where it's going in case they talk to the press. And if the villagers or the reporters see their vans coming up the drive, they'll put two and two together.'
'Aren't we going to have the same problem if we collect it?'
'I was thinking we could hire a van and then lake a differenl route into the estate, which would bypass the village altogether. You can come in through the woods.'
'Can't the hire people come in through the woods?'
'We're still left with the problem of them lalking to the press. And it will look very suspicious if we ask them to come up through the woods. They would know they're coming to Pantiles.'
We all slump forward again and think in silence. Nobody says what we're all thinking: can we really pull this off?
C h a p t e r 16
At about three o'clock (which feels about midnight) Sam comes through to ask it refreshments could be brought in for the takeover team, who have been holed up in the study ever since they arrived a few hours ago. I busy myself preparing huge cafetières of coffee and Mrs Delaney finds some biscuits and half a cake as well. I take the tray through to the study. I push the door open with my bum and find a collection ot lawyers, accountants and God knows who else sitting on the floor, all with martyred expressions on their faces. I don't want to know what Simon has said to explain the absence of any furniture but I fervently hope he has kept me out of it.
'Thanks, Izzy' says Simon, looking up and nodding at me.
'You're going to need food at some point; do you want me to sort it out?'
'That would be great, Izzy. Mrs D will have stuff about.'
I nod and gladly escape.
While we have all taken a small break from the furniture replacement problem, I take the opportunity to call Gerald. I access my voicemail to discover he has indeed been trying to get hold of me. Seven messages, the last one talking darkly of P45s and public lynching. I give my nicotine patches an extra rub and dial the office number with a slightly trembling hand. Stephanie doesn't even pause to tell me how much trouble I'm in; she simply mumbles 'Oh shit,' and puts me through.
'Where in the name of God have you been?'
I have to hold the phone away from my ear. 'Er calm down now, Gerald—'
'I have been calling and calling.'
'Well, I only just turned my mobile on—'
'So you found the "on" button, did you? Now there's a miracle.'
'We've been very busy here.'
'Do you think you could occasionally perform a random act of intelligence and actually call in?'
'Well, as you've no doubt seen from the papers, stuff has been going on …'
'Is the ball still going ahead? What is going on? Lady Boswell has been calling every hour on the hour.'
I have a go at explaining the situation. 'Well, to be honest, not much is going on.' That's the stuff, Izzy, blind him with science. 'The papers have got it all wrong and the takeover is still going ahead. Which naturally means the ball is still going ahead. Simon has also asked me to help with some American visitors who are arriving tomorrow and so I am very busy.' This is said in an imperious, don't-disturb-me tone. I know Gerald will be pleased about the extra corporate work so I cross everything and hope.
It does the trick and slightly takes the wind out of his sails. 'Trust the press to get things arse about tit. I should have known. Next time, however, do you think you could possibly call the office first when something like this happens? You know, the place where you supposedly work? A good party planner excels at communication.'
'Of course,' I say, fervently hoping that there will never ever be a next time. 'It means I won't be back on Friday. How are things at your end?' I ask quickly.
'Fine, apart from the fact that Dawsons have announced they've invited another hundred. They're your clients, you must have got them into bad habits or something. People are wandering about with streamers and muttering four-letter words; it's like hell is throwing a party. How's Dominic?' Everyone is obsessed with Dominic's health.
'He's fine.'
'How's he getting on? Is he annoying anyone?'
'No, the family love him.'
'Good. Keep it that way.'
We hang up.
Feeling vaguely grateful that I am not about to join the ranks of the great unemployed, I head back to the kitchen where Monty and Flo are in the middle of a row about who has received the worst bee sting ever, both being allergic to them. Mrs Delaney is trying to sell tuna sandwiches to Harry on the grounds that Butt Ugly Martians live on nothing else and Dominic is sitting on the floor feeding the dogs Jaffa Cakes – but only after he has eaten the orange bit.
'Have you solved our problem with the furniture?' I ask Dominic, hoping this is the reason that anarchy has broken out.
'Huh? Oh no, we were waiting for you to come back.' I didn't realise I was essential to the solution and the pressure has me reaching for another glass of whisky.
Our little group of vigilantes reconverge at the table. 'Right, where were we?' asks Monty.
'We can't get back the original furniture from the bailiffs and we've tried a hire firm.'
'Any thoughts anyone?'
I don't have any thoughts apart from the one where Simon kills me because we haven't arranged any furniture. We organise ourselves into thinking positions and settle down in silence.
Ten minutes later, with no solution in sight, Will returns from a fact-finding expedition into the village. I sit up, glad for a little distraction.
'What happened?'
He looks depressed. 'Basically, the villagers did see the vans and they did tell the press. Some reporters are hanging about at the front gate. Daniel is driving around the perimeter trying to keep them out.' This is not the news any of us wanted to hear. 'I'd better go and tell Simon.'
I get up. 'I've got to make some food for them, so if you wait five minutes we can interrupt them together.' Mrs Delaney and I make up a pile of tuna sandwiches and Will and I carry them through to the library.
The group is deep in conversation as we walk in. Will pulls Simon to one side and starts to relate his news to him in a low voice. Simon beckons me over. 'How is the furniture solution looking?' he whispers.
'Errmmm …'
'Izzy, I don't care how you do it, just get some furniture here for tomorrow. Our PR firm are on their way up here to look after the press situation.'
'We'll get there.' I try to sound as positive as possible. My mobile rings and I walk out to the hallway to take the call.
'Hello?' I answer, my voic
e echoing strangely in the empty space.
'Me dear, it's me. I've been worried about you and so I've called to see how you got on. You still sound reasonably alive so I presume Simon hasn't done anything heinous to you!' booms Aunt Winnie.
I go over to the stairs, sit on the bottom one and try to explain the events of the last five hours to her. ' … and I don't know where to get enough furniture to fill three gigantic rooms and I still have to organise the ball and then there are Simon's American visitors arriving tomorrow who are very important for the takeover.' My voice rises dangerously at the end of the sentence. The act of relating events to Aunt Winnie has made me realise the Herculean task before me. I'm beginning to feel a little hysterical.
'Can see your problem, me dear. Rotten old luck.' Rotten? Old? Luck? Rotten old luck that I happened to be going out with the worst shit in England who was prepared to do anything to keep his stupid seat on a board of directors? Rotten old luck that the house owes trillions of pounds to the bank and they've taken all the furniture away? Or rotten old luck that a tonne of foreign visitors will be descending on the house tomorrow?
'I might have an idea. The old grey cells are whirring,' Aunt Winnie says before I can reply. 'Can I call you back?'
'Sure!' I say in surprise and go through to eat something. Things always look better after tuna sandwiches.
I am just tucking into my third when the phone rings again. It's Aunt Winnie.
'I think I might have the solution, me dear! It came to me in a flash!' she shouts. There is no need to relay the conversation as the entire room can hear exactly what she is saying. 'I was watching that marvellous Hugh Scully! Gorgeous man!'
'What is it?'
'Don't you worry about it. I'll turn up tonight with the furniture.'
'We need it for sure, Aunt Winnie.'
'And you'll have it for sure. Now, which rooms are you talking about and is there anything specific you need?'
I hand the mobile over to Monty so he can issue further instructions. Thank God for Aunt Winnie. A pity they can't clone her and fill the government with her.
'Astounding woman, that,' says Monty as he puts the phone down. 'She says she'll turn up tonight with it. I told her not to use the main gate. One of us will have to go down to the gate in the woods to meet her.'
