He picked up Honor’s glass to go and get her a refill. He didn’t trust himself not to go and say too much. He was amazed at the strength of feeling that rushed through him, and how protective he felt. He hadn’t met this Johnny yet, but he didn’t like him already.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Bill Weeks slunk back behind the wheel of his Ford Focus, grinning gleefully to himself.
He’d come straight down to Eversleigh that morning after his conversation with Rozzi, to recce the manor house, get the lie of the land and perhaps do a little bit of digging in the village while he built up a profile of Guy Portias. What he hadn’t imagined, in his wildest dreams, was Guy emerging from the manor with a tall, leggy brunette on his arm, entirely oblivious that Bill was in the bushes running off a few establishing shots of the old ancestral pile, including a close-up of the family crest and motto over the front door.
He’d disguised himself as a walker. You could get away with anything in sturdy socks and boots and an ordnance survey map round your neck. You just looked confused and said you’d got lost if you were caught somewhere you shouldn’t be. He didn’t even need to hide his equipment, for as well as a walker he was a keen birdwatcher and amateur photographer. Bill was a practised liar.
He’d strolled into the pub ten minutes after Guy and his companion. He loved that word: companion. It said so little and yet so much. He took up a vantage point on a stool at the bar, ordered a pint and a ploughman’s, and spent the next hour pretending to read the local paper while watching the pair of them engrossed in deep soul-searching conversation.
She was a pretty girl. Bill ran through some adjectives in his head. Gamine, he decided upon. It had a Hepburn-esque ring to it, and it wasn’t too hackneyed. Even if he did churn out scurrilous stories for the gutter press, Bill still had some pride in his work.
Now they were getting up to leave. Bill waited until the wooden door had shut behind them with the click of a latch.
‘Blimey, isn’t that a red kite?’ he’d asked the startled barman, and bounded over to the window to run off half a roll of film of them leaving the car park. ‘You wouldn’t think you’d get them round here, would you?’
21
Honor went back to work that afternoon with a slightly heavy head from three Bloody Marys, but much lighter of heart. It had been wonderful to have an objective opinion about her situation. She’d nearly driven herself mad the night before, going round and round the alternatives in her head. Now she was happy she had the right to stand her ground, to insist that Johnny should stay at arm’s length for a little while longer. She spent the rest of the afternoon showing Marilyn how to pipe choux pastry on to baking sheets for savoury éclairs, which she would then fill with a delicious creamy smoked haddock mixture. Marilyn was proving a quick learner.
‘I quite like this cooking lark,’ she admitted. ‘All I ever do for Malachi is stodge – he needs it with all the physical work he does. But I could get into this.’
‘Maybe I could train you up?’ suggested Honor. ‘There’s going to be times when I won’t be here. If I’m ill or something.’
‘That’s a very good idea,’ said Madeleine, coming in on the end of the conversation. ‘Marilyn could take the pressure off if you show her how to do the simpler stuff. I’ve got a feeling things are really going to take off here and you can’t bear the whole burden. We are officially fully booked between now and New Year, and I can’t expect you not to have some time off.’
Marilyn seemed thoroughly delighted with this new plan, and Honor was pleased. She and Malachi were a bit of an eccentric pair, but they were hardworking, and Marilyn was definitely wasted polishing the silver and changing bedlinen. Honor was also impressed with how eager Madeleine was to give them opportunities. They weren’t, after all, to everyone’s taste, but Madeleine seemed able to see beyond that. Honor knew for a fact that no one had wanted to employ Malachi when he’d come out of prison, because Marilyn had told her. But Madeleine had given him a chance. There was definitely more to her than met the eye, decided Honor. She might come across as the lady from the big house, but she had hidden depths.
At five, Guy and Malachi came in from building a huge bonfire of burnable rubbish they’d removed from the old garages: Madeleine was toying with the idea of converting them into further accommodation, but there were several generations of clutter to get rid of first. The six of them – including Ted, who’d been dropped off by one of the mothers from school – sat round the kitchen table devouring thickly buttered malt loaf and Jaffa Cakes.
‘We better go in a minute, Maz,’ said Malachi. ‘Big night tonight.’
‘It’s fifties night at the Malmsley Working Men’s Club,’ explained Marilyn. ‘There’s a prize for the best-dressed couple. And the best dancers.’
‘That sounds like fun.’ Honor buttered more malt loaf for Ted, who was starving. Marilyn leaned forward and helped herself to a slice.
‘Why don’t you come?’ suggested Marilyn. ‘And you, Guy’
She shot her boss a sly glance from under her long eyelashes. Guy looked at her askance.
‘Fifties night? I haven’t got anything to wear.’
‘You don’t have to be authentic; just look as if you’ve made a bit of an effort.’ Marilyn waved her malt loaf excitedly. ‘Go on, it would be a laugh. Anyway, we deserve an office outing. We’ve all worked hard this past couple of weeks.’
She sat back, satisfied that this last shot would provide the final turn of the screw. Honor and Guy were looking at each other, both obviously quite liking the idea.
‘What about Ted?’ Honor asked.
‘I’ll babysit,’ offered Madeleine quickly. ‘You wouldn’t mind me coming to look after you, would you, Ted?’
‘No – that would be cool.’
Honor hesitated.
‘Honestly, I don’t mind,’ Madeleine assured her. ‘You’ve worked your socks off for us. One night of fun is the least I can do to repay you.’
Ten minutes later, as Honor hurried Ted back up the street to get ready for her impromptu evening out, she reflected that there had been a definite sense of conspiracy in the kitchen.
At seven o’clock, there was a knock on the door. Honor answered it to Madeleine and, standing behind her, a self-conscious Guy in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, a packet of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, even more so than usual.
‘I can’t do the quiff thing like Malachi,’ he complained. ‘I’ve put half a ton of gel in it and it won’t do a thing.’
‘Just grease it back,’ giggled Honor, pushing his hair back with her fingers. ‘That looks great. James Dean, eat your heart out.’
‘Hardly,’ grinned Guy. ‘But it’s sweet of you to say so. You look fantastic, by the way. Like a fifties movie star about to jump on a Vespa.’
She was wearing three-quarter-length jeans, a red cardigan and matching sneakers, a red silk flower on a velvet ribbon tied at her throat. Swiftly, she showed Madeleine the kettle, the remote, the corkscrew, the telephone, the fridge –
‘Just go and enjoy yourselves,’ interrupted Madeleine, amused, as the bugling fanfare of Malachi’s horn sounded outside.
‘Eight o’clock bed for Ted, and don’t let him tell you otherwise,’ called Honor over her shoulder as Madeleine shooed them out of the door.
Pulled up at the kerb outside was a car as long as Honor’s house was wide – an authentic Ford Zodiac, gleaming in the lamplight from its chrome grille to its fins at the back. The CD player – not original, but necessary, and cleverly disguised – was blaring out Eddie and the Hot Rods. The roof was down, as it was a mild evening, and in the front sat Marilyn in a vintage prom dress and Malachi in a Hawaiian shirt, their hair bouffant and quiffed respectively.
‘This is like a movie set,’ breathed Honor. ‘How cool is this car?’
With a whoop of excitement, she jumped in the back behind Marilyn. Guy followed suit, springing lithely into the back seat without openin
g the door.
‘Y’ all ready?’ drawled Malachi in his best Elvis, and the car accelerated away down the high street with a squeal of rubber.
Malmsley Working Men’s Club was packed to the gunnels. Everyone from the village from eighteen to eighty was there. Quiffs, ponytails and sideburns abounded; there were drainpipes, brothel-creepers, winkle-pickers, drape coats, bootlace ties, bobby sox, saddle shoes, petticoats, baseball jackets, pedal-pushers – everyone had plundered their wardrobes, charity shops and jumble sales to make the effort. And the atmosphere was infectious: with a few well-chosen accessories, the room had been made to feel like a high school prom.
Halfway through the evening, Guy realized he hadn’t called Richenda to see how her day had gone. He hadn’t even read the revelations in the newspaper. He hadn’t had the stomach for it. But he knew he should phone to see how she was, so he nipped outside and called her on his mobile.
‘I’ve taken the staff out for the evening,’ he said. ‘Fifties night at the local working men’s club. Mum wanted me to rally the troops. I think it’s called incentivizing.’
He tried his best to sound like a patronizing, long-suffering boss who couldn’t wait to dump his workforce and get back to his own bed. He certainly couldn’t admit that he was having the best fun he’d had since a mojito-fuelled salsa session in downtown Havana. They’d eaten hot dogs and knickerbocker glories, and now Marilyn and Malachi, bless them, were doing their best to teach them the rudiments of rock and roll. Guy knew from the salsa experience that what he lacked in skill he could only make up for in enthusiasm, but Honor was very quick to pick up the steps. She and Malachi were twirling expertly on the dance floor; Guy had begged a moment’s respite from Marilyn, who was quite happy to sit out and sip Coke through a straw in a glass bottle, her stiletto-clad feet jiggling in time with the slap of the double bass.
‘Mum and I went out for a quiet dinner,’ Richenda was saying. She sounded quite relaxed. ‘There weren’t any cameras, thank God.’
‘Well, you’ve got nothing else to hide, have you?’ answered Guy, hoping the remark didn’t sound too loaded. ‘I better go and buy another round of drinks for the workers,’ he added quickly, seeing Marilyn come outside and look round for him. She waved enthusiastically as he hung up.
‘There’s a bloke from the local paper. He wants to take our photo.’
‘Bloody paparazzi,’ grinned Guy amiably as he wandered back in. Malachi, Honor and Marilyn were lined up in front of the stage, arm in arm, grinning. He slipped in between the two girls, curling an arm round each of their waists.
‘That’s perfect,’ said the photographer, fiddling with his zoom. ‘Perfect. Just hold it there while I do another, in case that one doesn’t come out properly.’
Later, as they drove back home, the roof now up to protect against the drop in temperature, Honor fell asleep on Guy’s shoulder holding the trophy she and Malachi had won for Best Dancers. Marilyn bore Guy no grudge for scuppering their chances, as she clutched to her ample bosom the much-coveted Best Dressed Couple trophy she and Malachi had retained for the third year running.
It was totally bizarre, Guy reflected, as Malachi drove the Zodiac smoothly through the country lanes that led from Malmsley back to Eversleigh. Last night he had gone to a glittering social gathering stuffed with famous names and faces that most people could only ever dream of attending. The evening had left him cold. Whereas tonight, in a dingy working men’s club in a shabby village on the outskirts of Evesham, in the company of his cook, his cleaner and his gardener, he had had the time of his life. And he thought he knew the reason why. He looked down at Honor, her mascara slightly smudged, her lipstick worn away, and he felt his heart skip a momentary beat.
Honor had bared her soul to him in the pub earlier that day, and spared him little detail – though he’d been grateful that she hadn’t elaborated on her skirmish with Johnny the night before. He could only imagine what had gone on, and every time he thought of her in the hands of the monster he had created in his head, he gritted his teeth. He told himself not to be so reactionary. Johnny was probably a perfectly reasonable bloke. Women always painted a black picture of people they didn’t want you to like, especially when they were asking you for advice – to make sure you gave them the advice they wanted to hear. Besides, it was none of his business and he’d do best to keep out of it. It was a complicated enough situation and he was, he reminded himself, engaged to be married.
To Richenda. Richenda, who had kept her murky secrets close to her until the very last – and who, he still felt strongly, would not have confided in him even now if her hand hadn’t been forced. Richenda: calculated, rehearsed, word-perfect, in full costume and make-up for the performance that was her everyday life. Was that really how he saw her, he wondered? Had the scales fallen away from his eyes that quickly, because of one betrayal? What about the woman he’d fallen in love with? Had she gone for good?
To be replaced by another, perhaps?
Guy knew he was being ridiculous. Immature and over-emotional, losing his heart and his temper too quickly. Grow up, Portias, he told himself, then thought ruefully that perhaps there was something to be said for eternal bachelordom. At least that way you didn’t get yourself into scrapes, even if people did talk and make ghastly suppositions about your sexuality.
As they pulled up outside Honor’s house, Guy shook her gently awake. She looked at him, confused for a moment, then smiled with sheepish embarrassment.
‘Oh God – I didn’t fall asleep on you, did I? I hope I wasn’t dribbling.’
‘Of course not.’
Guy got out to escort Honor to the door. Inside the house, Madeleine was ready with her coat, alerted no doubt by the powerful roar of the Zodiac engine driving off at full throttle.
‘He’s fast asleep. I’ve just checked him,’ she whispered at the bottom of the stairs, waving goodbye and slipping out of the house to spare Honor the awkwardness of offering to pay for her services.
Mother and son stepped along the street, breathing in the cold night air.
‘How was your evening?’
‘Great fun,’ said Guy heartily, to avoid further questions and cover up the fact that, like Honor’s organic chocolate earlier, his heart was slowly melting.
22
At three o’clock on Friday afternoon, Honor was fighting with a saucepan full of sugar syrup that didn’t want to caramelize. It had been a bad morning; everyone was tired from the night before, and time was running out. Gone was the soft and vulnerable creature of the day before, Guy observed, as Honor whipped them all into line. Marilyn had let a batch of shortbread stars burn to a crisp in the Aga and found herself torn off a strip. That prompted Madeleine to remember that one of the party had a wheat intolerance – a vital piece of information she’d forgotten to pass on to Honor. The resulting atmosphere was therefore a little tense as Honor re-jigged all the menus.
‘Shit!’ she swore. ‘I’ve got to go and pick up Ted. I’m never going to get everything done in time.’
‘I’ll go and get him,’ offered Guy. ‘I’ve done my jobs. The guests aren’t arriving till seven. He can come and help me in the garden for an hour while you finish off.’
‘You’re a star,’ said Honor. ‘Whose idea was it to do spun sugar baskets?’
‘Yours, I think,’ grinned Guy cheerfully. ‘See you later.’
As he left the house and made his way down the high street, he realized he felt back on track today. His disillusionment had abated somewhat, and anyway, with the imminent arrival of another batch of guests, he didn’t have time to dwell on matters of the heart. He’d get the weekend out of the way, then he could focus on his private life. Richenda had phoned to confirm that she and her mother Sally were coming down for Sunday lunch. Guy had resisted the temptation to ask whether there was going to be a photocall capturing the happy moment for posterity. Sarcasm wasn’t going to get them anywhere.
He took Ted back up to the garden, where they
spent a good half hour scratting around for conkers until Ted’s pockets were full to bursting. Guy smiled as he pictured himself doing the same thing nearly thirty years ago; the garden had barely changed. It was a paradise for children, with its secret paths and dens and hiding places. Then he remembered something.
‘Hey,’ he said to Ted. ‘Follow me. I’ve got a surprise.’
Charles got his usual early train home on Friday after-noon. He leaned back in the comfort of his first-class seat, his eyes closed, not intending to sleep but just wanting to enjoy planning the weekend ahead in his mind. It seemed the perfect antidote to the utter hideousness of the past few days.
He couldn’t even bring himself to think about Wednesday. He’d gone to bed that evening blind drunk, and all he could hear was the sound of Henty and Travis talking and laughing in the kitchen as he lay in his bed trying to stop it spinning. The day after had been horrendous. He’d had the most monumental hangover: champagne always gave him a blinder, and he hadn’t been able to focus on anything. By the time he’d got home in the evening, children’s activities took over and he hadn’t actually clapped eyes on Henty until half nine, by which time he was ready for bed. The relief of waking up on Friday with a clear head had been marvellous. He’d spent a useful morning at the office, and now felt filled with resolve on the journey home.
They were going to have a good old-fashioned family weekend. Who needed thrills and excitement? The price was too high. He felt a desperate need for some stability after the recent turmoil. Perhaps they could make some plans for the house together. Henty was longing for a new kitchen, and the boys’ bedrooms could do with revamping. He’d held off for a long time because of the expense, but a couple of his authors’ royalty cheques had come in that week. Bugger it, he thought. He’d go off and get paint samples, pick up some kitchen brochures, get Robin and Walter the study bunks they’d been going on about…
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