by Fiona Neill
“Actually, it was Disraeli,” Ali called out from the table by the bookshelf at the other end of the room.
“Are you developing an eating disorder, Dad?” Izzy asked Nick. “Because I can recommend some more subtle ways of avoiding food.”
Nick managed to muster a smile.
“I don’t want to offend Malea,” he whispered.
“Give it to Leicester,” suggested Izzy, patting him on the arm. “That’s what I used to do.”
“Anyway, these changes at the top might be good for you,” said Bryony. “Haven’t they promoted people who share your view?”
“They’ve got rid of a couple of the lunatics who’ve been running the asylum, but it’s too little too late,” said Nick, as he carefully filled another bunker with beef. “It’s like the bit on the Titanic where you can see the iceberg but it’s too late to brake.”
They began halfheartedly to debate whether to cancel Foy’s party, dispassionately batting opinions backward and forward across the table as if playing a lazy game of tennis that no one really wanted to win. It was too hot for dissent, thought Ali. The temperature had crept up to almost twenty-eight degrees earlier in the week, and the under-floor heating still came on in the evenings so that Leicester wouldn’t get cold at night.
Bryony held the invitation in her hand and occasionally used it to fan her face. The party planner had cleverly suggested a hologram. When she tilted it forward Ali could see a photo of Foy and Tita on their wedding day, and when she moved it backward it revealed a close-up of the photo of them dressed up as Greek peasants.
Since Nick had resisted the whole idea of throwing a party for Foy, Ali was bemused that he didn’t take advantage of this latest catastrophe and at least argue in favor of postponement. Bryony reminded Nick that there had been four hundred guests at the wedding of a Lehman’s colleague in New York a couple of weeks earlier and no mention in gossip columns the following day.
“They kept it deliberately low-key,” said Nick.
“She didn’t even wear a full-length dress,” agreed Bryony. “Just knee-length Missoni.”
“And they canceled Neil Diamond and got a tribute band instead,” said Nick.
“Maybe we should ditch the fire-eaters, the belly dancers, and the stilt walkers, and just stick with the jazz band?” Bryony suggested. She paused for a moment. “What about the camels?”
“I hope you’re taking the piss,” said Nick.
“It’s part of the Eastern Promise theme,” said Bryony nervously.
“If I see a camel I’ll shoot it,” said Nick venomously.
“I promised my friends there would be camel rides,” Izzy protested.
“Izzy, you sound like the spoiled daughter of a rich investment banker,” said Nick. He turned to Bryony. “Why do you have to be so bloody excessive?”
“It was the party planner’s idea,” said Bryony defensively. “To create authenticity.”
“You didn’t have to say yes. If she had proposed bringing over a bunch of Tuareg nomads from the Sahara, would you have agreed? In case you haven’t noticed, I am almost exactly half as wealthy as I was this time last year, because my shares in the bank have lost so much value.” Nick’s anxiety was so close to the surface that Ali thought it might bubble through his pores.
“I’ll cancel the camels,” said Bryony, in the even tone she had adopted with Nick of late, “even though they’re already in the field outside the house.”
“Just leave them there, then.”
“I’ll look after them,” offered Izzy agreeably. “They’ll eat anything. They’re a cheap date.”
“It doesn’t look good to party while Rome burns,” said Nick. “It’s the sort of thing the tabloids could exploit . . . There’s a never-ending appetite for stories about City extravagance at the moment.”
“Still, we’d draw more attention by canceling . . .” said Bryony.
“And I suppose it’s such a remote location it’s unlikely they’d bother to send anyone . . .” mused Nick. “Everyone knows it’s Foy’s party, not ours . . .”
“Although they know you’re paying for it . . .”
“Also, your father would never agree to abort at this late stage. He’s been preparing his speech for months . . . You need to make sure that Felix is on message,” said Nick finally. “I’ll hold him directly responsible for any diary pieces.”
They fell silent for a moment, as if surprised that they had found so much common ground.
“This probably isn’t the moment to ask, but could you give me some money to go out tonight?” Izzy interrupted. “I’m going to see Sex and the City with a friend.” Ali waited for them to ask her about the identity of the friend, but they failed to pick up the hint.
“Haven’t you got exams?” Nick asked as he pulled out his wallet and peeled out £50 for his daughter.
“Only French oral left,” said Izzy. “Ali’s arranged for someone to spend all morning speaking French with me on Monday. She’s getting together all the questions I might be asked right now.”
Nick looked over to the table, where Ali was diligently typing questions in French onto Izzy’s laptop and then drawing up model answers.
“Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so worried about gossip when all everyone will be talking about is Sophia Wilbraham,” said Izzy, who had been biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to drop her bombshell.
“What do you mean?” asked Bryony.
“She won’t be coming now, will she?” Izzy asked. “Not after what has happened. Nor will Ned.”
Ali stopped typing but didn’t turn round.
“What’s happened?” asked Bryony, narrowing her eyes, trying to gauge whether it was good or bad news, and how it could possibly impact on tomorrow evening. Izzy paused for dramatic effect and leaned conspiratorially toward her parents.
“Sophia was meant to go and visit her mother in Edinburgh yesterday morning. She took Thomas and Leo to school and then went to Euston station,” Izzy began. “Just as she was about to get on the train, she realized that Katya had bought her the wrong ticket. It was for the same time the previous day.” The last sentence was said portentously, as though everyone should immediately absorb its significance. Only Ali understood: Katya wanted Sophia to miss the train so that she would unexpectedly come home.
“Can you get to the point, please, Izzy?” Bryony asked. She had opened up her party file on the page marked “Seating Plan.” Now that Nick’s boss and his wife had backed out, she needed to find two other people who would complement the other guests at the head table. This was one job she couldn’t delegate.
“She tried to change the ticket, but they insisted she had to buy a new one, so she decided to cancel the journey until the following day. When she got home she heard noises coming from the top floor. Apparently it sounded like builders.”
“Please, Izzy,” pleaded Bryony, sketching a couple of revised seating plans on a piece of paper.
“She went up to their bedroom on the top floor and found Ned and Katya in bed together.”
“In bed together?” Nick echoed.
“Actually, on the bed rather than in bed,” Izzy corrected herself.
“What were they doing?” Bryony asked in astonishment.
“That is an intriguing question, Mum,” said Izzy, who had taken to emphasizing adjectives whenever she spoke so that sometimes she sounded like an advert. “Because Ned tried to convince Sophia that they were rolling around to try and get rid of air bubbles in the waterbed. Apparently, if you leave the valve open, put down a towel, and gently roll across the mattress you can release even the most stubborn air pockets.”
“Air pockets?” repeated Nick.
“Sophia and Ned have a waterbed that they brought back with them from New York,” explained Izzy. “
Apparently they’re very good for bad backs. There’s even a TV that springs up from the base.”
“I can’t believe they’ve got a waterbed,” said Nick.
“And what did Sophia say?” asked Bryony. Malea came to the table. Nick wordlessly pushed his half-eaten plate of food toward her.
“She asked them why they needed to take off all their clothes to do this,” said Izzy breathlessly.
“They were naked?” Bryony asked disbelievingly.
“Katya was wearing a skirt but nothing else,” said Izzy. “Ned was wearing a pair of socks. He said they had taken their clothes off because the heat made the bubbles burst faster.”
“Sounds a convincing defense,” said Nick.
“He had a huge erection, Dad,” said Izzy.
“Isabella!” said Bryony firmly. “You can’t speak like that in front of your parents.”
“I’m not the one in the dock here,” said Izzy.
For a moment Nick and Bryony stared at her in silence, clearly torn between the urge to question her further and the feeling it was somehow inappropriate.
“And what did Sophia say?” asked Bryony, unable to resist.
“She said that once they had finished popping air bubbles, she would be very grateful if Katya would go to her room, pack her bags, and leave immediately. She told her not to bother asking for a reference for the seven years she had worked for them as a nanny and said that if she ever came to the house again she would call the police. She told Ned that he should put on his clothes and go downstairs to the sitting room, where he should start researching marriage guidance counselors or divorce lawyers, depending on which route he wanted to take.” All this was said in her uncannily accurate rendition of Sophia’s voice.
“Poor bastard,” said Nick, shaking his head.
“I don’t know why you feel sorry for him,” said Izzy, outraged. “He deserves to have his bollocks cut off.”
“Izzy!” said Bryony.
“It’s a bad situation for everyone,” said Nick, trying to backtrack. “Not something you want a lot of people to know about. And everyone obviously does. How did they find out all the gory details?”
“Martha hasn’t set the personal setting on her Facebook page,” Izzy explained.
“Then what happened?” asked Bryony. They both turned toward their daughter, totally focused on what she might say next.
“Katya told Sophia that Ned wanted to leave her and they were planning to move in together. She said they were in love and they’d been having an affair for more than a year. Ned denied all of this, apart from the length of time they’d been seeing each other, and said straightaway that he had no intention of separating from Sophia.”
“I can’t believe any man would seriously contemplate divorcing his wife to marry the nanny,” said Bryony.
“Easier than introducing a stranger into the family,” observed Nick. “The children love her, and Ned says she’s a great cook.”
“When did he tell you that?” Bryony asked.
“We’re getting off message,” said Izzy, using one of her mother’s favorite phrases.
“Poor Katya,” muttered Ali unthinkingly. She checked her phone to see if there were any messages from her. Bryony and Nick turned round. They had evidently forgotten that Ali was in the room with them.
“Did you know anything about this, Ali?” Bryony asked in an interested rather than accusatory tone.
Ali stared at the computer screen for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “She’s had a difficult life,” she stammered, and her face reddened.
“It’s no excuse,” said Bryony, clearly uninterested in Katya’s background. “I’ll give Sophia a call right away and see if there’s anything we can do to help. And I don’t want Katya in this house again. Please, Ali.”
“In case she’s contagious?” interrupted Izzy. “Why are you all blaming her?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Nick, shaking his head.
“Which bit?” asked Bryony.
“I can’t believe she’d sleep with an ugly bastard like him,” he said, and laughed.
Bryony glanced down at the guest list for Foy’s party and struck off the Wilbrahams with a flourish of black pen.
“Makes rejigging the seating plan easier, anyway,” observed Nick.
“Have you got something to wear for tomorrow night, Ali?” Bryony asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Because there’s a dress that doesn’t fit me that I think will really suit you. It’s Marc Jacobs.”
“Thanks, Bryony,” said Ali, who had the distinct feeling that she was being bought off but was unsure of the exact nature of the deal. Was Bryony trying to reassure her, to underline that she didn’t think Ali would do anything like that with her husband? Or was it an attempt to buy her loyalty because she thought she might?
“I’m not for sale,” Ali wanted to tell her.
• • •
Thornberry Manor did not improve on acquaintance, but Ali suspected it was the style of architecture rather than the atmosphere inside the Jacobean house. The paneling and mullioned windows made the interior gloomy, and the endless carvings and cornicing made Ali feel queasy, as though she had eaten too much Christmas cake.
It was, however, a great venue for a party. It stood on a hill in twenty acres of gardens and woodlands. From the first floor there were wide views across the undulating Cotswold countryside. There were several rooms big enough to hold hundreds of guests, and even though the building work wasn’t yet completed, it was far from the disaster anticipated by Bryony four weeks earlier.
A series of painted murals of sibyls and prophets in the great chamber on the first floor hadn’t yet been restored, but a clever interior decorator had covered the peeling paintwork with a couple of Barcheston tapestries decorated with flowers and mythological motifs. The library was completely untouched but wouldn’t be needed. And work had only just begun on the ribbons-and-roses plaster in the Long Room, where later there would be a disco with a DJ chosen by Jake. As Bryony explained, during a tour of the house for her family and Ali, these were minor details, because most of the party would take place in the tent erected on the front lawn.
The house reminded Ali of Foy. The outside was a strange combination of bluster and conservative restraint. It was built in a rigid, symmetrical E shape. But the five tall gables and eleven heavily ornamented bay windows across the front immediately contradicted this rigor. Inside were ornately carved wall panels. Then, suddenly, there were touches of wild excess: pendants that dripped from ceilings like icing, bacchanalian friezes painted on the walls, and fireplaces carved with swords and shields. The roof was a garbled complex of shaped gables and domes that could be reached from the long hall that stretched across the whole of the third floor. The house demanded attention.
“She’s got a very big house, a very big house in the country,” Izzy sang to the tune of a Blur song as she tried to keep up with her mother, who was leading them through the arched doorway at the front of the house and into the garden.
“I can’t see,” said Alfie, blinking away tears from his eyes as he walked from the dark oak-paneled hall into the glare of the June sunshine.
“I don’t like it here,” declared Hector. “I want to go home.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job, darling,” said Tita. “I can’t imagine where you find the time.”
“Everyone needs an Ali.” Bryony smiled warmly as she explained that Ali had worked almost every weekend for the past couple of months to allow her to visit the house to monitor progress. Ali would have described it differently. It was Bryony’s sheer force of will that had driven the project. The architect was terrified of the way her cajoling, friendly tone could so quickly turn threatening. He had once confided in Ali that he felt as though he was involved in an abusive relationship.
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Bryony continued the tour. She explained that the Sundial Garden adjacent to the lawn where the tent was pitched had box-edged beds filled with the heady scent of Hidcote lavender, roses, clematis, and salvias, planted by the previous owners of the house. And since it looked as though the weather was going to hold, not many of the elderly guests would even need to go into the house, except to use the bathrooms on the ground floor, where their attention would be taken up by the restless trails of vines and flowers, ribs and pendants on the ceiling of the main entrance hall, and a montage of photos of Tita and Foy taken over the years.
“The able-bodied should go up to the long gallery on the first floor and take a look at the view across the Cotswolds before it gets dark,” suggested Bryony.
“Great excuse to escape from a drudge,” Foy boomed. “Don’t want to get cornered by Eleanor Peterson.”
“You’re meant to be sitting next to her at dinner,” Bryony warned him.
“Can’t I have a young filly instead?” whined Foy. “How am I meant to make a speech about seventy being the new fifty when I’m sitting next to someone who makes me feel as though I’m the old eighty?”
“Like who?” asked Bryony, aware she needed to both humor her father and keep him in line. Not for the first time, she wondered how her mother had managed to walk this tightrope for the past fifty years.
“How about Sonia Gonzalez?” suggested Tita. “She’s a psychologist. Very interesting—”
“I don’t want interesting, I want entertaining,” interrupted Foy.
“Sarah Kempe?” said Bryony.
“Too home counties and she falls asleep when she’s drunk.”
“Caroline Peploe?”
“Doesn’t let me get a word in edgeways.”
“Who do you propose, then?” said Bryony.
“Ali?” said Foy hopefully.
Everyone turned to stare at Ali, who felt herself blushing as pink as the roses in the flower bed behind her. She stared fixedly at the sundial, wondering whether the arrows were set correctly, or if the builders had inadvertently turned them the wrong way. If they asked her to sit next to Foy she would have to invent an illness or throw herself out of a window on the first floor, like the lady of the house in the sixteenth century who discovered her husband had fathered a child with a chambermaid. Foy was impossible when he was drunk.
