by Rosie Dean
‘Having fun?’ he asked.
‘Loads,’ Sacha answered, batting her eyelashes. ‘Going somewhere?’ she asked, nodding towards the kit-bag he was carrying.
‘Sunday’s a work day for me.’
I glanced at my watch – five-thirty. And there was me hoping he might be about to suggest a nice, long, cool drink in the village pub.
Arabella twitched a little. ‘Hope you didn’t mind us leaning against your car.’
He glanced down. ‘Not at all, thanks for polishing the bonnet.’
‘What?’ Sacha shrieked, twisting round to check her white denim backside for dust.
Josh opened the car door and threw his bag in. Anyone could see the car was immaculate.
‘Is this your pride and joy?’ I asked.
‘And a drain on my resources,’ he grinned as he climbed in.
‘Cool,’ I said, sounding pathetically half my age.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. And, er…it might be a good idea to keep your eye on the cricket.’ This last comment he aimed directly at me.
We stepped back to allow him to manoeuvre his car out of the parking space. Before accelerating away, he smiled at us and said, ‘Peace be with you.’
‘Amen,’ Sacha intoned. ‘Now, who’da thought that could be sexy?’
Arabella blushed and giggled. ‘He’s lovely isn’t he?’
In answer, I began packing my camera away. This wasn’t right. This really wasn’t right at all.
Chapter 9
Pouring over storyboards for a bra-fitting video – which apparently people really do watch – I determined to scratch Josh from the leader board, delete him from my spreadsheet and…sigh…erase his photos. He was out of the running and I saw no point in muddying the waters. When I’d finished making my notes, he would be history.
And I did. I deleted them from the X-Men folder. However, I did create another one called ‘Vicar’ just for the Josh shots but only because they would be sensational – should I ever decide to hold an exhibition. As far as my personal project was concerned, Josh was out.
Onward and Upward. I returned to my portfolio of images and drew up a new shortlist. Arabella had given me a few titbits of information on a couple of guys, so I’d established three contenders were unmarried, although one had been in a two-year relationship which, according to Arabella, was probably not going to last, since her mother had recently seen him in a tête-à-tête with another woman in town. I wasn’t sure I wanted those complications, so I put a query by his name.
Sacha thought I was mad to drop Josh, reasoning that if the Vicar of Dibley could bag Richard Armitage, there should be no impediment to my union with the Vicar of Marshalhampton; although she worded it a little more explicitly.
As I reconsidered my criteria for the ideal husband, my mobile jangled into life. I didn’t recognise the number, but it was local.
‘Millie. It’s Vonnie Marshal, here. Do you remember me? We met at the cricket.’
‘Hello Vonnie.’ She must have got my number from her daughter, who wanted me to help her choose a camera.
‘Arabella seems really quite impressed with your pictures, and I was wondering if you might take some photos of me.’
Wow! My first commission and I wasn’t even touting for business. I was hugely flattered but concerned. Would I be up to it? Okay, so I’d watched the tutorial DVD that came with the camera, and I’d tinkered with a few depth of field settings but a commission? ‘Well, it’s very nice of you to ask…’
‘Oh good,’ she cut in. ‘I don’t want the impersonal service of a city studio. Much rather have you do it here, at home.’
‘O…kay…’
She gushed ahead. ‘You see, I want to give a really nice picture to my gentleman friend; he has a birthday coming up and well…why don’t you pop over and take a few shots. I’ll pay you, of course.’
Money? ‘I’ve no idea what to charge. Being an amateur, I’m not sure I should…’
‘Nonsense. Why don’t I cook you supper and then, if I like the pictures, you can charge me for the materials and printing? Think of it as useful experience.’
To be honest, I’d already decided I’d do it, if only because I was nosy and wanted to find out more about the cricketers. Vonnie might be a useful ally.
‘Okay, then. When would you like to do it?’
‘I’ll have the house to myself tomorrow night, would that be too soon?’
I glanced at a stack of ironing on the chair. ‘Actually, tomorrow’s a good night. Give me your postcode and I’ll put it into my Sat-Nav.’
As I turned into the drive, just beyond Marshalhampton village hall, I wondered whether my Sat-Nav could be trusted. I was bumping along a wide, pitted track, flanked on either side by mature trees. It would make the ideal location for a murder scene – something dark and gruesome. After a while, the trees thinned out until, to my right, they revealed a broad lawn, sweeping down towards an orchard. I was considering turning back when I caught my first view of the house – large and imposing. I was approaching it from the side and its terrace overlooked the lawn. Surely I hadn’t ventured onto a National Trust property by mistake, had I? Maybe Vonnie lived in a flat, here. But if not, and this was her house, it explained why she was so well-connected in the village – she practically owned it. And then the penny dropped; her name was Vonnie Marshal…of Marshalhampton.
Duh!
The driveway split and I drove behind the house to some out-buildings and a group of cars. As soon as I pulled up alongside an aged Landrover, I heard the deep and intimidating barks of more than one dog. I glanced around to see two lively black labs, one very melancholy greyhound and a shaggy dachshund. I lowered the window and peered out. Arabella was jogging down a short flight of steps at the far corner of the building. She was wearing some sort of uniform.
‘It’s okay,’ she called as she approached, ‘They’re really friendly, just a bit excitable.’
I gathered my camera bag from the passenger seat. As soon as my door was open, three snouts began investigating me, while the greyhound held back. I stood up and one of the large black snouts immediately foraged around my crotch.
‘Leave!’ shouted Arabella with alarming force, as I attempted to appear unruffled by such canine intimacy.
The dogs backed off, although the dachshund kept darting forwards, its tail going like a metronome. Arabella, her face beaming, draped her arms around me and dipped her face to left and right of mine. ‘Hellooo.’
‘What’s with the uniform?’ I asked.
‘Explorers. It’s our parade practice tonight. I’m going in ten minutes.’
‘Oh, shame. You’re not going to be here to see me photograph your mum, then?’
‘I know. I was sooo cross about that. But she says I’ll see the results.’
‘This house is lovely,’ I said. ‘Do you live in all of it?’
‘Oh yes.’
Silly me.
‘Well, most of it. One or two rooms are a bit shabby so we don’t go in those.’
We went through what must have once been the laundry. There were black and white tiles on the floor and airing racks hanging from the ceiling. Top of the range appliances were packed beneath a work surface that had seen better days. Piles of magazines leaned against an old printer, empty wine bottles and a couple of silver trophies. Four wicker dog baskets filled the corner behind the door, blankets and toys were strewn across the tiles.
And I thought Sacha was untidy.
There was a delicious smell of garlic being fried in butter. As Arabella guided me into the kitchen, I saw Vonnie standing against an old, cream-coloured Aga, briskly stirring something which promised to be very tasty. The kitchen units were old, with wonky doors and a laden pan rack hung over a refectory table. She left her creation to greet me with a hands-free peck on either cheek.
‘Sorry, Millie. I’ve got tacky hands from onions and garlic. Bit rushed. Once I’ve put this in the oven, we can chat. What would you lik
e to drink?’
The honest answer was a large V&T but since I had to drive home, I opted for fizzy water.
‘How cleansing,’ she remarked, tipping chunks of meat into the pan, which sizzled and steamed. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have the other kind of fizz.’
Arabella opened a huge refrigerator to pull out two bottles, then began pouring the drinks.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Personally – twenty-two years. The family’s been here for generations.’
‘So, Marshalhampton is named after the family?’
‘Indeed so. Abraham Marshal made a fortune out of wool. Farmed hereabouts for years, built a mill and houses for his workers. The mill’s gone, of course. Bombed during the war. But we’re still here.’
There was a scrunch of tyres outside and the dogs, who had been consigned to their baskets, launched into a discordant chorus of barking, accompanied by the click and scuffle of claws on the tiled floor.
Arabella grabbed a coat from the back of a chair. ‘That’ll be for me. Bye Mummy,’ she said, and leaned up to peck her mother on the cheek before giving me another double peck. ‘You must come again when I’m NOT going out.’ She glared at her mother.
‘Love to,’ I confessed – although that might all depend on how this evening progressed.
Vonnie added a large jug of stock into the pan, which sizzled and spat.
‘Smells delicious, what is it?’
‘Pork à la Vonnie – a melange of recipes I’ve tinkered with over the years. I assume you’re not vegetarian?’ she asked, her forehead and brows crumpling in that irregular way a forehead does when due another shot of Botox.
‘No. I sometimes wish I was, I’d be a lot healthier, I’m sure.’
‘Nonsense. You’re already slim as a blade – how do you do it?’
Slim as a blade? I relied on cellulite for my curves. ‘I don’t know. I eat pretty much what I like and I never go to the gym.’
‘Lucky you. Make the most of it, darling, it gets a lot harder.’
She put a lid on the pan, opened one of the oven doors, and placed it in the centre. ‘There,’ she said, closing the door firmly and moving over to the sink to wash her hands. A collection of gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she squirted three lots of soap into her palm.
We took our drinks through to a small sitting room. The wallpaper was striking – huge pink and yellow tulips marched across a black background. Two squashy sofas in faded raspberry fabric sat opposite each other with two equally squashy yellow pouffes between them. Vonnie invited me to sit, and placed one of the pouffes so I could put my feet up. ‘I’ve had a long day. I expect you have too. Time to relax.’
Relax? I was still overawed at the responsibility of photographing the first lady of Marshalhampton.
Vonnie was seriously up for relaxing though. Her champagne flute was the largest I’d ever seen – somewhere between a small vase and a yard of ale.
‘So,’ I leaned forward, shunning the pouffe. ‘Do you have any particular location in mind? I’m sure there must be a lot to choose from here.’
Vonnie took another sip, a curious little smile in her eyes. ‘One or two. I suppose it rather depends on the light, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, lighting is very important.’ Thank goodness I’d borrowed a small spotlight from work – I might be able to do something clever with it.
‘I’m sure you can’t go far wrong, not with technology these days…a little blur here, a little airbrush there…’
She was expecting the works. I’d have to call in a favour from Gus in the graphics department. He owed me one for not snitching on him after he threw up outside one of our client’s offices, the morning after a night on the lash.
I tried to sound encouraging. ‘Well, I’m sure they won’t need too much doctoring. You’re probably very photogenic.’
‘Hell. I used to be. Fifty-three years and two children takes its toll, Millie.’
‘Two children?’
‘Yes. Arabella is my baby – a bit of an afterthought, really. Alexander is my eldest, he’s thirty.’ She took another large swallow of champagne. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Neither should I.’ She leaned over to an ornate cigarette box on a table at the end of the sofa. I almost laughed. I hadn’t seen anyone smoke Balkan Sobranie Blacks since Art college when, for a term, we thought it made us look cool and uber-creative.
She clicked frantically on the lighter.
Ooh, I could almost feel the need myself – and I hadn’t smoked for years.
She closed her eyes against the plume of smoke and filled her lungs. A cloud of smoke accompanied her words. ‘Now, bring your drink and I’ll show you the locations I had in mind.’
Chapter 10
She led me along the dark panelled hallway to a broad staircase. Halfway up, where the stairs split, was a large stained glass window with a window-seat in dark green, brocade.
‘I thought, perhaps here?’ she suggested. ‘Or there’s rather a nice room up in the tower.’
We carried on upstairs, where the deep landing divided like a large T-junction. Vonnie turned left and led me down to the end of the passageway and up a narrow spiral staircase into a square tower, with windows on all sides. The evening sun poured in, illuminating dust particles as they drifted across the light beams.
‘What a fabulous room.’ I moved over to one of the windows which looked across the lawn and beyond to the village. Further to the right, another tower was visible – the church. I turned my back on it to check out the room. There were two chaises-longues, a coffee table and a small bookcase – all of them on casters. ‘I like the mobile furniture,’ I said.
‘Oh, so do I. That was my idea. It means you can enjoy any view and move in or out of the sun as you wish. Piers – God rest his soul – was livid when he saw what I’d done, moaning on about these being antique French…what the hell? We’re not selling them, so why worry about the value?’ She leaned over and tapped some ash from her cigarette into an ashtray. ‘So, do you think this would work?’
‘We can try.’
‘Lovely. I’ll pop down and smarten up. Why don’t you get your camera and try a few angles?’ She squinted against the smoke as she took another drag. ‘Is that the right term?’
‘Absolutely.’ I began circling the room, trying to establish the best view. In half an hour, the sun’s position would change and very quickly, the light would fail. I put my drink next to the ashtray and moved a chaise-longue towards a window, stepping back to gauge the effect.
‘I’ll leave you to it, back in a mo,’ she said, before disappearing out of the room.
Downstairs, I could hear a dog yapping, followed by her yelling, ‘Do shut up, Sausage!’
If I was going to make a good job of this, I needed to take a few practice shots before Vonnie returned, or I’d end up wasting time and light.
I belted down both flights of stairs and back to the kitchen…well, I thought it was the kitchen but the first door I opened led into the dining room. The table was draped with a blood red cloth, two empty candelabra were in the centre and along the heavy, mahogany sideboard on the far wall, stood a group of framed photographs. I don’t like to think I’m a nosy person, but since I could see from where I was standing that some of the pictures were of Arabella, it seemed reasonable that the others might be of her brother, so I walked round to get a better look. In the centre of the group was a pair of identical frames, each with a portrait in: Arabella in one and a man in the other. If Arabella had been carved from alabaster, he had been hewn from granite. He had dark hair and slightly wicked eyes. I picked him up to take a better look. Yes, you could tell he was Arabella’s brother but I didn’t imagine he’d have the same gentle nature; there was a reckless, roguish look to him, quite sexy, actually.
A floorboard creaked and I swung round to see one of the labs padding in. It was the one that had goosed me earlier, and he was no l
ess enthusiastic now. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing a collar so fending him off was a challenge. ‘Leave!’ I tried to emulate Arabella’s earlier command, but he was having none of it. ‘Get off me you randy old dog.’ I bonked him gently on the top of the head with the photo frame, which promptly fell apart.
‘Oh shit!’ Two sides of the frame had parted company with the other two, so picture and glass were heading for the floor. I grabbed at the falling elements, just as Fido biffed me in the backside, jolting me forwards until my hand bashed against the wall. There was a searing pain as one edge of the glass bit into my palm. ‘Yee-ouch!’
How was I going to explain this – bleeding all over the photograph? And what on earth was I doing in here?
‘What on earth are you doing?’
My head shot up at the sound of a deep, very masculine voice behind me. Oh-oh.
I stood up straight and turned to see the subject of the photograph, standing tall, broad and frowning in the doorway. Alexander. He was wearing a dark green and white striped shirt, cream linen jacket and navy jeans.
‘Hi,’ I said, feeble with guilt. ‘Ooff!’ Another snout attack to the groin.
‘Max! Leave!’ The dog instantly retreated and padded back round the table to his master, who was now flanked by the other two large dogs, while the dachshund yelped accusingly at his feet.
I was cornered.
‘Should I know you?’ he asked, with that smooth, authoritative tone characteristic of an expensive education.
I ought to have held my head high, marched over with my hand outstretched and said, ‘I’m Millie Carmichael. Your mother invited me for dinner.’ Instead, I was clutching at the photo frame, nauseous with pain and conscious of a warm stickiness as the blood oozed slowly from my veins. I looked down at my hand; the glistening red mirroring the table cloth. ‘I’m…erm. Your mother…’ I began.
‘I doubt it.’
My legs turned to sponge. My head swam and I keeled over. The next thing I knew, fingers were combing my fringe and there was the most stimulating spicy fragrance of patchouli…or cinnamon…or was it leather?
