‘I do hope I’m not intruding,’ says a deep, slightly husky voice behind them, with a regretful cough. Both women turn, squinting up through the sunlight at the figure looming over them. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear . . .’ The man realises their disadvantage and moves around the table to face them. Tallish, thin, slightly stooping. A good head of grey hair, perhaps a little long on the collar, brushed back vigorously from a broad forehead. Startling blue eyes, reassuringly crinkled, presumably from much smiling. And he is smiling now, extending a hand first to Hester, then Harriet, as though instinctively aware of the pecking order. ‘Lionel Parchment,’ he says, ‘From Greenwich.’
‘An unusual name,’ says Harriet, introducing herself. ‘And this is my sister, Hester Greene.’
‘So I gathered,’ says Lionel warmly. ‘I believe we are to be fellow students, Mrs Greene.’
‘Hester, please.’
‘Hester. Both worshipping at the Riccardi shrine. Isn’t it too wonderful for words? I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to study the programme yet—’
‘No, not really,’ says Hester. ‘I’ve only just—’
‘—but one of the things he’ll be doing is abbacchio alla cacciatora. Apologies for my pronunciation.’ He laughs self-deprecatingly. In truth, his accent is pretty good. ‘Well, his version. You know, with the balsamico bianco? I mean, that’s inspired, don’t you think?’ He sounds boyishly excited. His hand flies to his forehead. ‘Oh, I am so sorry—I really must learn to curb my enthusiasm. Forgive me.’ He holds both hands up in apology and backs away.
‘Not at all,’ says Harriet, sensitive to the fact that his remarks were directed primarily at Hester, who seems disinclined to respond. ‘It’s refreshing to find someone so passionate about something.’
Lionel laughs again, now patently embarrassed. ‘You are too kind, Harriet. Sorry, may I call you that?’ Harriet nods her permission. ‘These days, I find myself ridiculously excited by the least thing.’
Hester reaches for her glass. An uncomfortable hiatus, through which Harriet grins maniacally.
‘Well . . . I will retire and leave you to your wine.’ He inclines his head. ‘I shall see you both later, no doubt.’
‘We look forward to it,’ says Harriet, ignoring her sister’s averted head. Lionel retreats to his table. Hester raises an eyebrow at her sister that needs no interpretation; given the delicate state of relations, Harriet decides not to address Hester’s rudeness right now. As they finish their drinks, they somewhat self-consciously discuss a recent U3A lecture they had attended on therapeutic eurythmy, which Hester had considered a load of codswallop and Harriet had been persuaded might have its merits. It is with some relief that, ten minutes or so later, they hear Lionel tramp across the gravel back towards the hotel. Hester rolls her eyes.
‘Do you think he’s going to behave like Tigger for the entire five days?’
‘I thought he was rather . . .’ Harriet is about to say charming, then instantly thinks better of it. Teddy Wilson had been charming, and look where that got them. ‘Friendly,’ she finishes lamely. ‘Lovely voice.’ She’s a sucker for rich, round voices with a hint of gravel.
‘Friendly!’ sniffs Hester, well aware of the adjective her sister had rejected and bridling at her misplaced sensitivity. Ever since the calamitous events culminating in Teddy’s arrest, she has berated herself daily for her naivety and and her susceptibility to his legendary charisma, a charisma that she is chagrined to admit never impressed Harriet. Anyone with the faintest hint of charm is now anathema to her, provoking the most violent antipathy. Her reaction affords her blameless sister frequent mortification.
‘He may just be very shy,’ says Harriet. ‘You know how people overcompensate.’
‘Or he may just be a crashing bore who latches on to people.’
‘Well, I think he’s highly unlikely to try latching on to you,’ says Harriet tartly. Honestly, sometimes Hester is the absolute limit!
Hester ignores the barb and gets to her feet. ‘I think I’ll just take a shower before dinner. Do you suppose it’s posh?’
Posh to Hester means pretentious. It means sparkly tops, heels and costume jewellery.
‘According to the brochure the ambience is relaxed,’ says Harriet, adding quickly, ‘Your black skirt and top will be fine.’ She’s praying Hetty hadn’t jettisoned those two ancient but serviceable standbys in favour of a couple more paperbacks. She cringes at the thought of her sister sitting down in the restaurant in her customary holiday garb—indeed, the outfit she is currently sporting is a prime example: a pair of elderly polyester slacks rather short in the leg (bought in the era when such garments were still called slacks) and a shapeless T-shirt purchased a decade or so ago from a market stall. All she can hope is that Hester has packed at least a couple of her hand-knitted tops, which, in contrast to most of the rest of her wardrobe (her old work suits and winter cashmere excepted), both fit her well and are beautifully made.
‘Okey-dokey,’ says Hester, making for the steps. ‘I’ll knock for you about seven thirty, shall I?’
‘Perfect,’ says Harriet, rejoicing that she’ll have plenty of time for a long soak in the bath and a snooze on her very comfortable-looking bed, not necessarily in that order. ‘I’ll just enjoy the sun for another few minutes. It’s such a novelty.’
Hester hurries down the corridor to her room, ferreting in her bag for her phone to check for messages. Nothing. Shoving it back into the depths of her handbag, her hand encounters the creased envelope whose contents have preoccupied her for weeks. She unlocks the door and shuts it thankfully behind her.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 6
‘Mind the paintwork!’
‘Fucking hell!’
Jez has dropped his end of the sofa, leaving Ben trapped between the doorway and the hall stairs, the weight of the furniture borne mainly by his left knee. It is not a light sofa. He grapples to keep hold of the frame as it starts to slide to the floor. Unable to take the burden any longer, he too lets go and it thumps down with an alarming crack.
‘Now look what you done! Only gone and broken the friggin’ thing!’ Ben drops to his knees to peer underneath. He reaches through the skein of cobwebs clinging to the base to run his hand over the stubby wooden legs, finding an ominous split running up from one of the tiny brass castors. ‘I think it’s cracked. You twat!’
Jez moodily punches the sofa with the back of his hand. A puff of dust dances in the sunlight. ‘Get out of my face, will you! Weighs a fucking ton. Pile of old crap. Was probably already fucked.’
‘No it wasn’t!’ shouts Ben. ‘It was perfectly okay.’
Perfectly okay is perhaps a bit of a stretch. The shabby Victorian drop-arm Chesterfield is badly in need not only of reupholstering (particularly in the middle, which canny guests avoid in view of its protuberant springs) but also of what Ben knows his mother would refer to as a ‘damn good clean’. The legs, however, as far as Ben knows, had until today been sound.
Their morning of preparation, a full five days in advance due to Jez’s inescapable commitments to his father over the four days running up to the party, has swiftly degenerated into rancour. Partly on account of some of the people Jez has invited (many of whom Ben loathes or who loathe him) and partly because neither of them is accustomed to such hard physical work, not having properly assessed the amount of stuff in the cottage. Any piece of furniture that might conceivably house papers or books is full to overflowing, drawers and cupboards spilling their contents at the slightest provocation; every surface is piled high with old magazines, more books, holiday brochures (when would the aunts ever go on a Mediterranean cruise or trek through Vietnam?), printouts from websites (surely neither Hester nor Harriet would ever purchase a firepit? Or laser-guided scissors?) and numerous catalogues of assorted vintages from The Wine Society and other vintners. Ben has taken the wise precaution of photographing each room they are clearing from every angle so that after the party they can repla
ce everything in exactly the right position.
‘That’s well sensible,’ Jez grudgingly acknowledges.
‘Website,’ mutters Ben. ‘Secretparty dot com or something.’ The meticulous planning required is making the whole escapade seem even more treacherous.
‘Yeah?’ Jez pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
‘You can’t smoke in here!’ cries Ben.
‘Dickhead, you’re having, like, a party,’ says Jez, lighting up. ‘What you gonna do? Make everyone go outside? Like that’s gonna happen.’
Ben’s blood, already running cold, now turns to ice. This is insanity. The aunts can smell smoke a mile away and Aunt Hester is notorious for commenting loudly and critically on any pedestrians puffing away in her vicinity; she would be incandescent if anyone actually dared to smoke in her home. An incandescent Aunt Hester. Suddenly, even the wrath of a thwarted Louisa seems insignificant by comparison.
‘Forget it,’ says Ben. ‘I’m cancelling.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard. It’s off. You better help me put everything back.’
Jez stares at Ben in disbelief for several seconds and then he cackles. ‘You can’t cancel! It’s too late, you loser. It’s out there. Everyone knows. You call it off, they’ll just break in.’
‘Break in?’ Ben snorts incredulously. ‘What, our mates?’
‘They’re not all our mates, though, are they?’ says Jez slyly.
‘What?’
‘I mean, we don’t know everyone that’s accepted, do we? Or the maybes.’
‘Yeah, we—’ Ben stops, as realisation strikes. Jez smirks. ‘You bastard! You’ve been going behind my back, haven’t you?’
Jez’s face tightens; he refuses to look his friend in the eye, instead cagily drawing on his cigarette. ‘What’s a few more matter?’
‘I told you. I told you!’ Ben waves the smoke away. ‘Twenty-five, thirty max. We agreed. What, so every time I’ve said no to extras, they’ve gone back to you and you’ve said yes?’ Ben’s been fending off numerous messages from their invitees ‘just checking’ it’s okay to bring some mates; every time, he’s firmly refused permission. From the shifty look on Jez’s face, their subsequent appeals to him have met with success. ‘How many?’ he says, cold with dread.
Jez hesitates.
‘How many?’
‘’Bout forty.’ Jez’s voice sounds slightly strangled; he’s lying. Ben skewers him with a malevolent glare and he crumbles. ‘Forty-four. So far.’
For a few seconds, Ben is unable to find the words. He conjures a room full of loud, drunk idiots, spilling drinks, stubbing out fags . . . His heart is leapfrogging around his chest.
‘Right. Get onto Facebook or whatever and send out a cancellation. Now!’
Jez grimaces. ‘No point. They’ll come anyway.’
‘I’ll call the police!’ says Ben desperately.
‘Oh yeah? How you gonna explain that to your rellies? “Oooh, Auntie, I don’t know how these naughty people got in or why all your furniture is piled up in the shed.” Yeah, that’ll work.’
Ben, despairing, collapses onto the arm of the wedged sofa. It groans. He leaps up. ‘God, Jez, you gotta stop this. We gotta call it off. Please. I’m begging you.’ He thinks he might be about to cry.
Jez shrugs. ‘Ben, mate, I would if I could, but I’m telling you, you got totally no idea how these things take off. ’Specially once people start tweeting and that . . .’
‘It’s on Twitter?’ The blood drains from Ben’s face, leaving only pinpricks of red as his pimples flare. ‘You put it on Twitter?’
‘Not me. Lou-Lou tweeted straight after she spoke to you and—’
Ben’s legs give way. This time he ignores the sofa’s complaints. ‘I’m dead. I might as well kill myself now.’
‘Who’s killing themselves?’ Louisa Jellinek, as if conjured, appears in the doorway. She peers into the hall. ‘Oh, how cute is this? A real live cottage, like, buried in the woods. This is so cool!’ And she totters over the threshold in ridiculously high heels and a skirt surely fashioned from a scarf—an extremely narrow scarf at that—displaying in all its glory a delicate rose tattoo, complete with thorns, on her right thigh. Her ensemble is topped with a tight, tight T-shirt in shocking pink. She trails a flirty finger down Ben’s face as she blows a kiss across the sofa at Jez.
Oh my God, thinks Ben, almost swooning, she touched me!
‘How did you . . .?’ he stammers.
‘What? Know you were here? Jez texted me.’
Did he? Oh yes, of course he did!
‘And look how hard you’re both working! Wow! Why’d you say you were doing all this today?’
Jez explains with a mulish expression about his tyrannical father while Ben gazes transfixed at the vision before him. He is so lost in his worship that he fails to spot the ambush. ‘Bastard’d skin me alive if he knew about all this,’ whines Jez, then adds treacherously, ‘Thing is, though, Lou, Ben’s getting cold feet.’
‘Cold feet?’ purrs Louisa, turning her smoky eyes on Ben.
‘Yeah,’ the viper continues. ‘Like, he’s chickening out.’
Louisa pouts, her bottom lip protruding deliciously. ‘No way! What’s up, Ben babes?’
He tries to marshal his arguments, pleading the decrepitude of his aunts, the (wholly fictitious) parlous state of their finances should anything get damaged, to no avail.
Louisa hears him out, then leans towards him. For one blissful minute, he thinks she is about to kiss him. She smells of flowers, of Juicy Fruit, and faintly, and surprisingly erotically, of sweat. ‘Babes,’ she breathes, ‘it’s going to be fine. I’ve had, like, loads of parties at mine and, trust me, the duffers never knew a thing about any of them. You seriously think I’d let anyone do anything out of order?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Do you?’ she presses, seemingly genuinely astonished that anyone, least of all someone like Ben, would entertain any doubts as to her authority.
‘No . . .’ exhales Ben, lost. Of course she wouldn’t! Who on earth would have the balls to argue with Louisa Jellinek? If she says it’s going to be fine, then fine it’s going to be. His legs turn once more to jelly, only this time from relief. ‘It’s just . . . please don’t invite anyone else, will you?’
‘Babes, we got anyone who’s anyone. Who else am I gonna ask?’
‘Good. Great. That’s . . . thanks,’ says Ben faintly.
Louisa smiles triumphantly; behind her, unseen by Ben, Jez pumps his fist.
‘C’mon, fellas,’ says Louisa, whipping off her pelmet to reveal even tinier shorts underneath, ‘let’s get this place ready to party!’ She kicks off her shoes and, with a strength that belies her willowy physique, seizes the end of the sofa, upends it with one astonishing upward thrust and tugs it through the doorway and into the hall, sandwiching Ben momentarily between her heavenly haunches and the stairs. Had his number been called at that precise juncture, he would have died a very happy boy.
Three hours later the two downstairs rooms in the cottage are empty; pictures removed from the walls (‘Can’t be too careful,’ says Louisa); the carpets rolled against one wall, enveloped in bin bags (‘Best way, trust me,’ says Louisa); an ancient key has been discovered in the dresser drawer and the larder (that also houses the wine fridge) locked (‘Don’t want anyone getting the munchies,’ says Louisa); further keys have been identified that fit all the bedrooms and have been put to their intended use (‘You don’t want people shagging in your beds,’ says Louisa); and all shelves have been cleared and their contents packed away. Louisa has taken the preparations out of Ben’s hands in light of her vast experience, directing her far less able lieutenants and even, after close inspection, getting Ben to patch a hole in the roof of one of the sheds to prevent the ingress of water in the event of rain.
Ben and Jez are shattered; never mind partying, all they want to do is collapse into bed and sleep for a fortnight. Louisa, however, who has done as
much if not more lifting and shifting than either boy, looks as fresh as when she arrived, but for her hair, which has got steadily more bedraggled but also inexplicably more sexy, the wispy tendrils floating around her face.
‘Doesn’t it look great!’ she exclaims, surveying the denuded rooms. ‘All this space! It’s like a fairy story: rinky-dinky cottage buried in the trees. I love all this shit getting ready for a party. Use iPods for music, yeah? I just got some fab travel speakers; I’ll bring them. Oooh, Jez, nice iPhone, you poser.’ Ben’s hand, fingering his old Nokia, stays firmly in his pocket. ‘Wanna Facebook everyone who’s coming about music?’
‘No,’ says Ben quickly. ‘We choose the music.’ There’s already far too much noise on Facebook as it is.
‘Cool. We doing food or what?’
Food? He hasn’t given it the slightest thought. Suddenly a chance to assert himself. ‘No sweat. Leave that to me.’
‘Serious?’ She frowns prettily, then her brow clears. ‘Oh, ’course! You the man! Love the blog, babes. Get rattlin’ those pans! I can’t wait!’ She grabs both Ben’s hands to steady herself as she climbs back into her shoes while Jez looks on jealously. ‘You know what? You are pretty fucking badass, Ben babes. Awesome!’
And as she presses her luscious lips to his, the little porcelain shepherdess forgotten at the back of the top shelf in the sitting room simpers down on them.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 7
Hester is having a wonderful time. She is enjoying herself far more than she would ever have dreamt possible, particularly in light of the strain she has been living under recently. The cooking course is run from a huge converted barn from whose weathered beams hang bunches of drying herbs and a plethora of sausages and hams. The kitchens are a cook’s dream, all stainless steel, with razor-sharp knives (she thought she knew how to sharpen knives until shown how to do it properly by her terrifying teacher), huge gas ranges (‘Induction hobs, pah!’ Franco had spat in response to a timid enquiry from Melanie, one of the other students, a nervous slip of a girl in her twenties who had won the week’s course in a competition), and the most beautiful copper saucepans Hester has ever seen. It is her not-so-secret secret that she adores cookware and is physically incapable of walking past an unfamiliar kitchenware shop. She rarely parts with any cash; what delights her is the opportunity to weigh a saucepan or utensil in her hand and fantasise about the uses she might put it to. So this kitchen, with its superb equipment, is like a dream made flesh—especially as, at the end of each long but glorious day, unseen hands work overnight washing everything up and returning all the surfaces to a pristine shine.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 4
