Wickham Hall, Part 1

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ she said, pulling a tissue out of her cardigan sleeve and wiping the bottom of the mug.

  ‘Go on,’ I said shakily.

  ‘Pippa will be taking the rest of the month off.’ She sipped at her tea, wincing slightly and peering at me over the rim.

  ‘The month!’ I gasped, calculating rapidly how many events that would mean running on my own. ‘I see.’

  There seemed to be some sort of event at Wickham Hall every day, from coach parties to school trips or garden tours. This morning I’d even had an enquiry about Christmas at Wickham Hall. And of course, there was Zara’s wedding in a couple of weeks! Eek! Now it seemed I’d be tackling the paparazzi by myself too.

  I took a deep breath. I was fine. I was coping; as Mrs Beckwith had pointed out, I’d finally got the office under control and I was even beginning to feel like I knew what I was doing. And at least I didn’t have a philandering husband and four small children to contend with.

  ‘How is Pippa?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, apparently the au pair has gone back home to Germany. Alone. And Pippa has asked for some more time off while she and her husband sort out their differences.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially and sniffed. ‘Lord and Lady Fortescue have agreed. They are very good to their staff, you know. Not many employers would be so generous. But they believe very strongly that family comes first.’

  ‘Well, please reassure them that I’ll hold the fort until Pippa returns,’ I said firmly, mentally deleting the document I’d just typed entitled ‘Things to Check with Pippa’.

  ‘Thank you, dear. I’ve already told them as much,’ she said, sliding her mug back onto the desk. ‘And Lady Fortescue is delighted with the way next year’s calendar is coming on.’

  ‘Is she?’ I felt my face glow with pride.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She nodded. ‘And I must say I was thrilled to be asked for my input.’

  The Wickham Hall calendar was progressing extremely well. Everyone had risen to the challenge and I’d enlisted the help of as many people as I could to pinpoint their favourite hidden treasure at Wickham Hall, including not only Mrs Beckwith but also Marjorie, the tour guide, Pam, the housekeeper and Jim, the security man. Even Andy had put aside his gripe with me to create a wonderful treasure-themed display in the shop for the calendar too.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mrs Beckwith,’ I said. ‘I think the seventeenth-century Dutch plates you suggested will look lovely on the March page.’

  ‘Oh, do call me Sheila,’ she said, beaming.

  ‘Thank you . . . Sheila,’ I said, trying to keep the elation out of my voice. Yes! First-name terms – I must be doing something right.

  ‘Now, I’d better get on. Miss Zara is coming home this weekend and—’

  Before she could finish, Jenny’s head appeared round the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ladies!’ she said. ‘I won’t keep you, but I wondered if you were free on Saturday night to help waitress at Zara’s hen party, Holly?’

  ‘As in tomorrow?’ I said, pulling a face. Tomorrow was Esme’s birthday. I’d tried without success to persuade her to go Salsa dancing with me, but she still seemed a bit down at the moment and I didn’t like to push her. In the end we’d agreed on a pizza and movie night at her flat.

  ‘Oh, it will be a lovely evening,’ Sheila exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘Zara’s having a twelve-course French tasting menu.’

  ‘The waiting staff will be in and out of the kitchen like yo-yos. I need someone organized. Like you,’ Jenny added. ‘Please, chick?’

  ‘I would’ve loved to,’ I replied, genuinely flattered. ‘But I’ve got a long-standing engagement and I couldn’t possibly back out of it.’

  ‘There’ll be VIP guests; sure I can’t tempt you?’ Jenny’s eyebrows virtually disappeared under her hair-net at this.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’ve got my own VIP to look after tomorrow.’

  Sheila got to her feet, chuckling. ‘You’re in great demand these days, Holly. I can see you’re fitting in beautifully.’

  The two of them left and I smiled happily to myself as I finished up for the afternoon. What a perfect note on which to start the weekend.

  On Saturday evening I packed two bottles of fizz, my overnight things and Esme’s presents (a book on Vintage Couture and two tickets to London’s V & A museum for the Chanel exhibition) and popped my head into Mum’s bedroom to say goodbye.

  ‘Bye, Mum, see you tomorrow . . . Oh, do you need a hand?’

  She was wrestling with the door of the huge oak wardrobe that used to belong to her parents.

  ‘Damn thing won’t shut,’ she huffed. ‘Hinges have given up on me, I think, need a bit of oil.’

  ‘Let me try.’

  Her bedroom floor was covered with black bin bags and I felt my skin tingle as I stepped over them to get to the wardrobe. No wonder she’d had to take Granddad’s suitcase out of the way; I was surprised there was even room to sleep in here. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to. I’d have had nightmares about being suffocated in the night.

  She stood aside as I opened the door and half a ton of knitwear sprang out from the top shelf above the hanging rail.

  ‘Mum . . .!’ I rolled my eyes at her. ‘This wardrobe reached its capacity a long time ago; the hinges have got nothing to do with it. You can’t keep stuffing more and more in!’

  She picked a glass of wine up from amongst the heap of toiletries on her dressing table.

  ‘Oh, don’t start, love. I’m uptight enough as it is,’ she said. She sank down on her bed and swallowed a large gulp of wine. ‘It’s Graham’s retirement do tonight and partners are invited. Which means yours truly will be paired up with the only other single person going from work – Keith. He can talk for England about his signed football collection. I mean, why? Just why?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have plenty to talk about then, won’t you?’ I said, shooting her a look. ‘You can tell him about your unfathomable attachment to old tat.’

  I regretted my words instantly as Mum jumped to her feet and started dragging a hairbrush roughly through her wavy hair.

  ‘I won’t keep you; you get off to Esme’s,’ she sniffed, not meeting my eye.

  I suppressed a sigh and made my way through the clutter to reach her.

  ‘Mum,’ I said gently, placing my hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. It just upsets me to see you like this.’

  She drained her glass and settled it back down next to her mother’s old jewellery box. I had never known my grandmother – she’d died when Mum was small and Mum had been brought up by my Granddad. Mum opened the box and took out her pearl bracelet. It was her favourite piece of jewellery and she’d had it for years: it had a diamond clasp in the shape of the letter S and three rows of pearls.

  Her shoulders sagged. ‘I know, love. You’re a good girl. Most daughters wouldn’t hang around . . .’

  I turned Mum’s shoulders and forced her to face me.

  ‘Well, I’m hanging around,’ I said with a bright smile. ‘You’ll have to kick me out. Here, let me help you with that.’

  She held her wrist out while I fastened the bracelet for her, clipping the diamond sections together firmly. It sparkled in the light and I twisted it round on her arm.

  ‘I love this bracelet, Mum. Was it Grandma’s?’

  ‘No, love. It was a present to me just before I had you.’ She turned away and picked up her hairbrush. ‘By the way, what’s going on up at Wickham Hall? Two helicopters flew overhead while you were in the shower.’

  ‘Probably something to do with Zara Fortescue.’ I shrugged, glad we’d negotiated our tense conversation. ‘She’s having a hen party tonight.’

  ‘Arriving by helicopter?’ Mum frowned. ‘She must have some very special hens.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Hmm. There was some talk of VIPs.’

  Come to think of it, Jim had been with some burly men in dark suits and equally d
ark shades when I’d left last night. Perhaps extra security had been drafted in for the weekend? I felt a brief pang of regret for not being there to help Jenny out.

  ‘Oh well,’ I said, brushing my lips against Mum’s cheek, ‘must be off, my quiet night on the sofa awaits! Have fun with Keith!’

  Ten minutes later I pulled up outside Esme’s flat. She waved at me from her second-floor window and was waiting at her front door when I got to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ I grinned, dropping my bags so I could hug her tightly. ‘How does it feel to be thirty?’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me,’ she groaned. ‘Thirty is so ancient. Honestly, Holster, I swear a massive wrinkle has appeared from one side of my forehead to the other overnight.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ I laughed. ‘You have the loveliest skin in the world.’

  Esme’s dad was from Trinidad and she had inherited his colouring and curls and her Mum’s complexion and heart-shaped face. I know I was biased but she was gorgeous.

  ‘Thanks.’ She grinned. ‘Doesn’t stop me from feeling old, though. Anyway, how are you, stranger? I’ve barely seen you since you started mixing with royalty. Too posh for me now, are you?’

  ‘Hardly royalty, Es,’ I scoffed. Although Lord Fortescue was something like eighty-fifth in line to the throne. ‘Anyway, you’re birthday royalty today. I’ve got you some lovely pressies.’

  We went through to her kitchen and she oohed and ahhed over her birthday presents while I eased the cork out of our first bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘Here’s to you,’ I said, handing her a glass. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said, giggling as the bubbles went up her nose. ‘Here’s to a night in with Patrick Dempsey, pepperoni pizza and plenty of Prosecco.’

  We despatched the first bottle while we watched Enchanted and were about to start on Made of Honour when our pizza arrived.

  ‘How’s everything at Joop?’ I asked, clearing a space on the coffee table while Esme fetched the plates and napkins.

  She opened the pizza box, flopped a large slice of steaming pizza on a plate and handed it to me.

  ‘We went to see the bank and it was all margins, projections, profit and loss,’ she groaned. ‘What do I care about all that? I love fashion, not all that financial stuff.’

  ‘No wonder Joop’s got an overdraft,’ I chastised, biting into the pointy end of the slice. ‘Running the business is as important as selling clothes, you know. More so, in fact.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Lord Sugar.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The main issue is cash flow. Our stuff is quite pricey because we sell lots of occasion wear. We get sixty days’ credit from our suppliers. So we have to pay for stock after two months whether we’ve sold it or not. So it’s a massive risk. Anyway, it’s my birthday, let’s not talk shop.’

  She reached for the DVD remote, but before she pressed play I got to my feet.

  ‘More bubbles?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, why not?’

  I fetched the second bottle from the fridge and popped the cork. ‘And how’s your mum? Any better?’

  She sighed as she held up her empty glass. ‘She hasn’t even been to see the doctor yet.’

  I gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘And does your dad know?’

  Esme’s dad did something in IT that involved being abroad for long stretches of time. He’d left the UK at the end of May for an eight-month contract in Dubai, which made it very easy for Bryony to keep things from him.

  She shook her head. ‘No, she doesn’t want to worry him. She’s so stubborn.’

  I slid another slice of pizza onto our plates. ‘Tell me about it. My mum is as bad. Sometimes I get so tired of being strong, of being the parent in our relationship, and all I really want to do is shout that no actually I’m not fine. This is not fine. And I wonder where it will end and how it will end and sometimes even if it will ever end at all.’

  I felt my throat tighten and tears prick at my eyes. ‘Oh God, Es, I’m so sorry,’ I laughed shakily. ‘I don’t know where that came from. And on your birthday. Come on, let’s watch that film.’

  Esme put her plate down and pulled me into a hug.

  ‘You are amazing. Never forget that. You are the best friend and the best daughter anyone could have and if it helps to cry about it, just bloody do it. And it will end. It will. We just have to find a way.’

  My mobile rang from my bag in the hallway and I pushed myself up to get it. Mum’s mobile number flashed up on the screen.

  ‘Mum?’ I answered. ‘Is everything all right?’

  My stomach churned as I exchanged glances with Esme. It was eleven o’clock – Mum never phoned this late.

  ‘Yes, apart from having to listen to Keith’s story about how he nearly won a football signed by David Beckham on eBay but lost out at the last second because his broadband died.’

  I exhaled with relief. ‘Good, I thought there must be a problem.’

  ‘Problem? Oh no, darling, I just thought you’d like to hear the gossip.’

  ‘Go on.’ I sat back down on the sofa, grinning at Esme and put the phone on hands-free so we could both hear. Mum’s stories about her work colleagues were legendary.

  ‘Well, you know you said there was a big party on at Wickham Hall?’

  Esme nudged me in the ribs. ‘You never told me about that, Holster?’

  ‘They asked me to waitress, but I turned them down. It’s no big deal,’ I said.

  ‘It was a big deal,’ Mum squeaked down the phone. ‘The Duchess of Cambridge was there. Everyone in Henley is talking about it. Apparently, she’s just left by helicopter.’

  ‘Kate?’ Esme and I shrieked.

  ‘Kate Middleton, wife of our future king?’ I gasped.

  ‘Holly, why didn’t you say?’ Esme looked completely dazed.

  ‘I didn’t know she’d be there.’ I shrugged. ‘Jenny just said VIPs.’

  ‘Anyway, I thought you’d like to know,’ said Mum. ‘I must go, they’ve persuaded me to go Salsa dancing in Stratford. Bye!’

  Esme and I stared at each other in disbelief. Both of us had been glued to the Royal Wedding a few years ago and had followed Kate’s meteoric rise to global fashion icon ever since. Esme had even filled an entire sketch book of dresses inspired by her wedding gown.

  ‘Kate Middleton at Wickham Hall.’ I sighed, feeling a bit sick that I’d missed all the excitement.

  ‘I wonder what she was wearing,’ Esme breathed. ‘Such a shame you weren’t—’

  She stopped and turned to me abruptly. ‘You turned down tonight because of my birthday, didn’t you? I can read you like a book.’

  I nodded and looked down at the phone still in my hands.

  ‘Your birthday was in the diary first, I didn’t want to let you down, I’d planned to be with you.’

  Esme shook her head. ‘Holly Swift. I would have understood. And all I really wanted was a night on the sofa with Patrick Dempsey,’ she chided gently. ‘And I can do that any night.’

  We looked at each other and began to laugh.

  ‘Well, in DVD form anyway,’ she added. She reached for the bottle and topped up our glasses.

  ‘Next time you get that sort of opportunity, promise me you’ll take it, grab it with both hands. Even if there is something else in the diary.’

  ‘But—’ I began to protest but she silenced me with a stern look.

  ‘I know you love to plan, it makes you feel grounded and secure. But once in a while, let it go, live for the moment.’ She raised her glass. ‘Because sometimes magical things happen when you least expect it.’

  ‘OK. Here’s to magical moments.’ I smiled, chinking my glass against hers.

  Was she right? I wondered. Would something magical happen when I least expected it? If it was going to happen anywhere, I thought, rearranging myself on the cushions as Esme cleared away the empty pizza box, I felt sure it would happen at Wickham Hall; it was just that sort of place.

  ‘Now shall we watc
h this film and finish that Prosecco?’ said Esme, reaching for the remote.

  ‘Whatever you say, birthday girl.’

  Chapter 7

  The sun was already beating down on Wickham Hall when I parked my car in the staff car park the following Monday morning. I’d had to drop some artwork off at the printers before work and by the time I arrived, there were visitors already in the grounds. I breathed in lungfuls of fragrant summer air as I crossed the courtyard towards the east wing and sighed happily about my good fortune. The situation at home might not be ideal, but having Wickham Hall to escape to suddenly made life a lot more bearable.

  After two hectic weeks, I felt as though I was finally getting on top of things in the office; I was more relaxed about the smaller everyday events and could turn my attention to the three-day Summer Festival. This was Wickham Hall’s showcase event and their biggest money spinner, and my heart raced at the thought that it was a mere six weeks away.

  I was no stranger to the event; I’d been coming all my life. In fact, when I was small, Mum was so in love with it that we used to have tickets for every single day. She had eased up now, thankfully, but I still spent at least one day here with her every year. This year’s festival would be very different for me, of course; I’d be one of the ones with a clipboard, two-way radio and furrowed brow, darting from one corner of the five-acre site to the other . . .

  Anyway, one day at a time; my diary was bulging with jobs to do and I smiled to myself at the prospect of crossing several of them off this morning.

  ‘Morning, Jim!’ I called out as I approached Wickham Hall’s elderly security man basking in the early morning sun with a mug of tea in the doorway. ‘Lovely day.’

  I had a soft spot for Jim; he must have been in his seventies but he seemed to bristle with energy. This morning he was wearing baggy green shorts, a fleece body warmer and an NYC baseball cap.

  ‘Morning, young Holly.’ He got to his feet and doffed his cap. ‘Got a minute for a quick detour before you head inside?’

  I resisted looking at my watch and nodded. ‘Sure.’