by Anna Premoli
Ian's trying not to laugh, but he can’t hold back a smirk.
“Laugh away, please. I just love providing cheap entertainment,” I say, as I angrily snap a breadstick in two and ram half of it into my mouth. To hell with the diet – there's no chance of me losing a single pound at the moment, so I might as well just eat whatever takes my fancy.
“I've only got one question: why lie?” he asks, as he makes himself comfortable in his chair.
“Because I can’t stand it when she starts going on about how I work too much,” I say vaguely.
“You should have said you were with me – mothers adore me,” he says smugly, giving one of his famous smiles as he does.
I give him a serious look. “Mine wouldn’t.”
“Trust me, they all do. I've got thirty-one years of experience,” he insists snottily.
“Believe me, my mother would not like you,” I reply in the same tone.
The idea of a challenge makes those blue eyes of his sparkle. “You want to bet?” he proposes.
Oh yes, of course – as if there weren’t enough disasters in my life already.
“Not interested, thanks”. Does he really think I’m going to let myself be the next sacrifice on the altar of his arrogance?
“I don't give up easily,” he says confidently, as though I didn't know.
“Trust me, I'm saying it for your own good,” I warn him, feeling philanthropic.
And that's where I make my mistake, since this is clearly turning into a challenge for him. I can tell by the stubborn expression that's forming on his face. I've learned to recognise it at my expense.
“Come on, let's bet on it,” he says, leaning dangerously close.
God, you are my witness in this: I did everything I could to avoid something like this happening.
You know what, Ian St John? I just might take you up on it. I find the idea so funny that I can’t stop a grin spreading across my face.
“Ok, then,” I say, giving in. “One of the coming weekends you can casually show up at my parents’ farm, on a Saturday, after lunch.”
“I could even show up during lunch. Old ladies love the old school manners.”
That's right, come on down, let my family cut you down to size.
The idea is so satisfying that I seize a second breadstick. To celebrate, I tell myself.
“Ok, if it means that much to you.” I try to keep a straight face and not let on about the nightmare he's just landed himself in. And it was all his idea.
“Perfect.”
And as he says it, he proffers his hand to seal our agreement. I grab hold of it and enjoy the sensation of warmth and strength. I feel slightly guilty, but I immediately push that aside: this man deserves everything my lovably anti-monarchic family can offer him.
Chapter 7
The flight from London to Edinburgh goes fairly smoothly. Ian and I spend most of it studying the paperwork, so there's not much talking and even less chitchat. Exactly the way it should be.
The journey by car is more problematic, as we argue over who's going to drive (I win after exhausting negotiations), who should read the map (he wins that one), and whose fault it is that we get lost. Is that the driver’s or the navigator’s responsibility?
About two hours later, we are driving up towards Beverly’s property – a large, slightly tasteless villa.
Despite being the son of a marquis and the daughter of a duke, neither of the Beverlys seems to have inherited any stately old piles, just modern fakes like this one.
The garden is huge and extremely well kept, with a lake in front of it that looks like something out of the BBC's latest version of Pride and Prejudice. But the villa is really quite tacky, to put it mildly.
Ian gets out of the car and shakes his head.
“Hmm—” I say, sceptically.
“I know,” he mumbles, perplexed. But we have no time to say anything else, because at least five of the staff appear out of nowhere to give us a warm greeting. Or, at least, to give one of us a warm greeting. Of course, there’s a butler, as the best British tradition demands. The best nineteenth-century British tradition, that is. Somebody should point that out to Beverly. If my mother was here, she'd be having a heart attack.
“Lord Langley,” they all greet Ian with great reverence. I’m surprised they don't lay down a red carpet to protect his delicate Italian moccasins from the harsh Scottish dust.
“Miss Percy,” they say to me, with much less emphasis.
The butler even gives me sniffy look. Alright, so I’m not an aristocrat – what exactly is the problem?
A few moments later, a majestic Beverly appears by the entrance, the same old smug expression plastered over his face. It’s nice not to have any surprises: my client is behaving exactly the way I would have expected.
“Ian, my dear! Did you have a pleasant journey?” he asks sweetly, while shaking my colleague’s hand and totally ignoring yours truly.
“Very pleasant, thank you, Lord Beverly.”
“Well, since you will be officially taking care of the management of my properties and companies, you’d better start calling me Charles,” he says in a friendly tone. Oh, come off it! Who does he think is going to buy all this bonhomie?
I can't help thinking that the fact he shares a name with my ex speaks volumes, and a quick, derisive smile appears on my face.
Beverly quickly orders his personnel to take our luggage from the car, while Ian moves over to me.
“Something funny?” he asks quietly, so no one else can hear him, and I give him an eloquent look.
“I mean, something apart from the house, the staff and the atmosphere?” he asks sarcastically. Ian is unbearable, yes, but if I had to choose a positive side of his personality, it would be his sarcasm. He has a direct, cutting way of making fun of things, and I must admit it’s usually about things that deserve it.
“He’s got the same name as my ex,” I whisper. “Don’t you think there are too many 'Charles's in the world?” I ask innocently.
Ian makes a sly face, and is about to say something, but refrains when he sees Beverly walking back towards us.
“Please, follow me. My governess, Miss Shrop, will show you to your rooms.”
And so we enter the house, which I can only describe as a sort of bizarre cathedral. There’s a schizophrenic mixture of styles and periods, and whoever the architect was who designed it ought to be struck off, or whatever the architectural equivalent is, for having built such a monstrosity.
The entrance hall is not just impressive, I think – it’s deliberately crazy. There are two huge, neo-classical staircases which meet on the first floor, just in front of a statue, which, being a well mannered person, I would limit myself to calling 'interesting'.
The 'governess', a lady of about sixty years of age with grey hair and a very mean look, stops and points to the sculpture.
“This is a recent addition. It shows Miss Elizabeth, Lord Beverly’s daughter,” she says proudly. Ok, now I get it.
I turn to look at Ian and see that he looks perplexed, to say the least. He actually seems speechless, which is highly usual.
“Miss Elizabeth must be a real beauty,” I comment, not knowing what else to say. I am clearly lying through my teeth, but it’s what these people are expecting from me.
“Oh, more than you can imagine. But you will meet her tonight for dinner, so you can judge for yourselves. She’s a rare beauty,” says Miss Shrop, her eyes becoming dreamy.
Ian and I shoot each other a worried look.
Miss Shrop leads us along a semi-hidden corridor behind the stairs, only to stop after a few metres in front of a door, saying, “Miss Percy, this will be your room.” She then turns to look at Ian. “Lord Langley, we have prepared a room for you on the first floor. Please come with me.”
And she heads off back towards the stairs, leaving me standing in front of the door without any further instructions.
For a moment Ian looks as astonished as
I am, and doesn’t seem to know if he should leave me in that dark corridor and follow the governess or wait to make sure my room is not some sort of Bluebeard-style trap.
“Go,” I say, resignedly, “if you lose her, you’re in trouble.”
“Looks like I'll have to,” he answers, sounding worried.
“See you later.” I wave goodbye and turn the door handle.
“Ok, see you later,” he says, having apparently decided that it's safe to let me enter my room.
The first thing I think upon entering is that Beverly put me in here deliberately. He's probably still punishing me for keeping him waiting for an hour the other week.
I can’t, in fairness, say the room is in any way ugly, but it is as spartan and aseptic as a hospital. And grey. Very, very grey.
The scene brings a smile to my face, though. I'm a born fighter. Beverly obviously hasn't yet realised who he’s dealing with.
*
A few hours later I’m sitting on a majestic copy of a Louis XVIII sofa sipping a glass of Pimms and waiting for the arrival of Beverly's much sighed over daughter. And she is scandalously late. Too late even for such a rare beauty.
I’m onto my third glass and if I keep knocking it back like this on an empty stomach, I’m afraid I won’t be sober for much longer.
Ian must be of the same opinion, since he keeps shooting me nervous glances from his perch on the other equally horrendous sofa.
I lift one eyebrow to try and tell him that he doesn't need to worry about me, but get the feeling the message doesn’t really get across.
Beverly, meanwhile, is delighting us with a monologue about his hunting exploits. Since I’m totally opposed to hunting, I try to concentrate my attention on Ian so I can avoid listening to all the bloody details. I am the daughter of two greener than green pacifists, after all!
Ian notices my alarmed expression and is looking at me worriedly. I'm glad I'm not in his shoes, stuck between Beverly and the hated Miss Percy. I’m sure he's had better weekends.
Our host has announced that he doesn’t want to talk shop ‘on an empty stomach,’ and the star of the evening, Miss Elizabeth Beverly, finally makes her appearance just when we have totally run out of things to talk about.
One look at her is enough to understand why Beverly insisted on having Ian as a consultant.
It's nothing to do with Beverly not trusting me or my skills. Deep down, he knows very well that I’m good at my job.
He asked for Ian because what he really wants is a duke for a son-in-law.
For the first time in many days, I smile a proper, honest, real smile.
Ladies and gentlemen, things are about to get entertaining.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth is a rather showy beauty. Ok – she's very showy. She has masses of voluminous, bright red (dyed) hair, blue eyes and so much mascara that it must take her a couple of hours each day to remove it. If she actually can. The rest of her make-up is laid on just as thickly – it would be over the top for a smart dinner party, and I get the feeling that's not what this is going to be…
The most astonishing thing, though, is what she's wearing: a skin tight leopard print dress which doesn’t cover much of her well toned, bronzed legs. She’s half naked and is wearing an impressive pair of high heeled sandals, despite the fact that it’s not summer.
Not exactly the ideal outfit for this bloody Scottish mausoleum: the temperature in here must be about eighteen degrees, and outside it’s maybe five degrees, tops. For the record, I’m wearing trousers, a blouse and a large, warm black pullover.
Ian goes white immediately. Serves him right.
“Elizabeth, darling, let me introduce you to our guests. This is Count Langley,” says her father, and finally I understand who calls the shots in this family. The beloved daughter, of course – who else?
Elizabeth walks over to Ian, who gets up from the sofa, and shakes his hand like a proper diva. Pretty limp handshake, I think spitefully, as I observe the scene.
“It’s an honour, Lord Langley. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says with fake shyness. What, you actually think someone who dresses like that is shy? Come off it.
“Yes, he's right there in all the gossip magazines,” I comment, as I hold out my hand. “Jennifer Percy,” I say assuredly, as I shake her hand perhaps a little too firmly.
“I'm sorry?” she asks, looking aghast, I’m not sure if she’s referring to what I said or to my handshake.
From beside me, Ian sighs in irritation. “Jenny likes her little jokes,” he says through gritted teeth, then glances at me. Is it my fault that he gets photographed with those freaks?
“It must be nice to have such a friendly, frank relationship with your colleagues,” she says.
“Yes, Jenny's a very frank person,” Ian confirms, with a hint of sarcasm.
“As is Ian,” I say.
“Oh, you don’t even use his title!” says Elizabeth in amazement, thinking out loud.
“No,” I confirm. Does she actually think I should call him 'Milord’ and curtsey every time he walks past?
“I never use my title,” Ian re-assures her. And the way he says it makes it sound like it's his concession, rather than my decision.
“Yes, but I wouldn't even if you did,” I point out.
“Jenny is… how can I put it—” says our little Lord Fauntleroy, unable to finish his sentence.
“Is—?” I ask, archly.
“A little irreverent,” he concludes, giving his audience a fake smile.
“That, and much, much more,” I add, while Elizabeth looks at us with suspicion.
Beverly doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “Shall we move to the table?” he suggests.
“Of course,” I answer quickly. Finally there'll be something as well as alcohol.
Beverly offers me his arm, and Ian offers his to Elizabeth, and in this regal way we make our way to the dining room, where we sit down at a table loaded with silverware and antique plates shining in the light of a majestic chandelier. I hope Beverly had the roof re-inforced before hanging up a thing like that, it must weigh over a ton. I don't want to be squashed by all that opulence, not yet – there are still so many things I want to do.
“So, Ian, how’s your grandfather?” asks Beverly.
“Quite well, thanks. He's getting on, so all the usual aches and pains, but he’s still as intimidating as ever.”
“Well of course he is – he’s a duke,” Elizabeth points out with a snigger.
I don’t really see what's so funny.
“Exactly,” I reply, “he’s a duke – not a pharaoh.”
For a moment, everyone looks at me in astonishment. Good.
“No, grandfather certainly wouldn’t appreciate being called a mummy,” Ian confirms, laughing at my words, and his reaction makes the others relax visibly.
During the meal, we are served many courses, one after the other, and I try, not without difficulty, to find something suitable for a vegetarian like me.
Elizabeth quickly notices my hesitation. “Is everything ok, Miss Percy?” she asks, the perfect hostess.
“Fine, thanks, I’m just not very hungry,” I re-assure her. It's a huge lie – I’m absolutely starving, I just don’t think it’s appropriate to tell your hosts that you can't eat any of the things they're serving. “And please, call me Jenny, everybody does,” I say with a smile, to change the subject.
“Oh thanks, Jenny – I will,” she says, genuinely pleased.
I can’t believe it. This gaudy girl is in fact an insecure and ordinary creature. No wisecracks, no cutting wit. Worse yet, I can’t detect any irony at all. Is she really sure she wants to be with someone as cynical and cruel as Ian?
“What do you do?” I ask, in an attempt to start a conversation.
“I’m in PR!” she says, proudly.
“Are you?” I say, giving Ian a knowing look. “And what part of PR, exactly?”
“I organize events and parties, you kn
ow, that kind of thing,” she explains hastily, as if she wasn’t quite sure herself.
So you don’t actually do anything, I think maliciously. Of course you don't, just as I imagined.
“And does your job leave you enough free time?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah! I have loads of free time to go shopping, luckily,” she confirms delightedly.
God, this is no fun at all – she’s making it too easy for me.
“Anyway, I'm not planning on working all my life. Once I get married, I’ll give it up,” she explains, and as she does she turns to Ian and gives him a pointed look.
“Of course. How old are you?” I ask, feigning interest as I reach over for some bread. Finally something with no meat in it.
“I’m twenty-four. And I’ve already been working for nine months!” she sighs, as though already tired of it.
For a moment, Ian remains immobile, his fork in mid air and his blue eyes looking quite upset.
“And what about you, Jenny, how long have you been dealing with tax stuff?” she asks, trying to make conversation although obviously not out of any actual interest.
“Nine years,” I answer angelically.
“Wow! Nine years is a long time! Can I ask how old you are?” she asks, worried that she might somehow hurt my feelings.
“Of course – I’m thirty-three,” I answer. Revealing my age isn’t really a problem for me.
“And have you ever been married?” she asks, sounding slightly concerned.
Upon hearing this question, Ian burst out with a laugh, but manages to turn it into a cough, and I give him a look as he dries his eyes which are wet from the effort.
“No, I’ve never been married,” I confirm.
“I really hope I'll be married at your age. Or that I'll have been married,” she says.
“I’ve never wanted to get married,” I state quite calmly.
Elizabeth is so visibly shocked by my words that her father steps in immediately to re-assure her.
“Of course you'll get married, my dear,” he says, but not even his words manage to put the empty smile back on her face.
Getting to meet a career woman of thirty-three years old who’s never been married must have shaken her up, poor thing.
