Up To No Good

by Victoria Corby

  As she picked up the coffee pot to offer me a refill, something about the angle of her head rang a bell in my memory. ‘Oh, I know where I’ve seen you before! You used to write a column in the Gazette, didn’t you? Janey O’Donnell. Your picture was at the top.’

  ‘That was ages ago. Fancy you remembering that,’ she said, looking pleased.

  ‘I loved it, it was one of the best things about the paper,’ I said truthfully. ‘I was really sorry when you gave it up. Was that after you got married and moved out here? Oscar said something about you meeting Tom when you did a feature on him for the column.’ I propped my elbows on the table in a way that my mother would have disapproved of and saw with faint dismay that while we’d been talking, most of the plate of brioche had disappeared. I couldn’t remember Janey eating more than one piece either. ‘It sounds frightfully romantic - lovely journalist meets dashing château-owner and, pow! Just the sort of thing you read in soppy novels.’

  ‘Mm, and everyone lives happily ever after,’ she said with a faint edge to her voice.

  To cover a nasty little silence I said quickly, ‘Do you still write any articles?’

  She shrugged. ‘I do the odd one to keep my hand in and my contacts up for if I ever need them, but being a mother of young children and living in rural France doesn’t really mix with high-profile journalism. Especially as I used to specialise in interviews and you’ve got to do that face to face; I’d need my head examined if I went away on a regular basis and left Tom alone with Delphine! My mother thinks I must be crazy anyway. She’s always telling me to get an older nanny. I think what she means is fat and ugly,’ she added and cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Though I’d be much safer leaving Tom with Delphine than with an older woman, unless she was utterly hideous. Going after eighteen-year-olds has never been one of Tom’s vices; like his wines, he prefers his women mature.’

  She turned her head towards the door at a noise and smiled. ‘Though frankly, I don’t think I’ve got much to worry about. Even if the charms of the local Adonis with the large motorbike begin to pall and Delphine starts thinking longingly about Tom, one glimpse of him looking like this and his chastity would be assured,’ she said as her husband, wearing a cotton dressing gown, hair standing on end, unshaven, squinting against the light and generally looking like someone who feels that they haven’t spent nearly long enough in bed, shuffled in blearily.

  He smiled vaguely at me as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was, he probably couldn’t focus properly, and headed for the coffee machine like a guided missile, pouring himself a mug and breathing in the fumes as they were the elixir of life. Half a mugful of coffee and a glass of orange juice later he was awake enough to say, ‘Morning... um... Nella. Nice to see you, sorry I can’t stay to talk but I have to rush. I’m running late.’

  Rush wasn’t the word I’d have used to describe his gait but at least it wasn’t sleepwalking any longer. ‘He’s not good in the mornings,’ Janey said unnecessarily. ‘He’s not normally quite as bad as this, but he was up with Rob for hours last night - finishing the bottle, or more than one bottle, if trying to brush his teeth with my eyebrow brush is anything to go by,’ she added with wifely disapproval. ‘Though I suppose I should be grateful that Tom is prepared to sit up carousing with Rob, even if they aren’t a good influence on each other.’ Somewhat of an understatement, judging by Tom’s state this morning. ‘Tom’s normal reaction to Venetia’s boyfriends is to sit in silence glower­ing at them. He disapproves on principle of any man who gets within touching distance of his daughter.’

  ‘Doesn’t that sort of attitude come with the paternal territory?’ I said, thinking of the way my own parent had been (over)reacting ever since my elder sister was thirteen.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she admitted, ‘but it doesn’t make for relaxed mealtimes.’ I could see that. I’ve sat through more than a few of those myself, particularly when I was going out with Gavin with all the tattoos. ‘So I shouldn’t complain, even if I do have to go out and buy a new eyebrow brush. It’s such a relief not to have Tom going around behaving like a bear with indigestion.’ She grinned. ‘At least they didn’t sing. And Rob thinks he knows a couple of people who might be interested in investing in a wine business, which definitely makes me forgive him the odd riotous evening with my husband.’

  ‘Is that what he does now? Work with investments?’ It didn’t seem very Robert somehow.

  ‘No, he’s got a part share in an art gallery, and these people are regular clients of his, City whizz-kids who have enormous bonuses they’re not sure what to do with. He thinks they might want the fun of being involved with a wine business without actually having to get their hands dirty, which would be ideal for us.’ She sighed again. ‘We’ve had a couple of sticky years, you see. A cash injection would be really welcome.’

  I’m afraid to say I was barely concentrating on what she was saying. ‘A gallery?’ I repeated. ‘When did he start doing that?’

  ‘Goodness, you two are out of touch, aren’t you?’ I could almost see a fishing rod hanging over the table as Janey added, ‘And I had the impression that you knew each other... quite well.’

  I suddenly found the top of the table very interesting. ‘Um, we did once, but I haven’t actually spoken to him since the middle of the summer term, nine years ago.’ She looked at me with an uncomfortable acuity. I suspected she gathered I could have given her the date and actual time, let alone place, of when I’d last spoken to Robert. ‘And the gallery surprised me because when I... knew him, Robert was all set to become a barrister.’

  ‘A barrister?’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t imagine him in a wig and robes.’ Neither could I, to tell the truth; I never had been able to. ‘It’d be a bit like setting up a poacher as a gamekeeper,’ she went on, ‘not that I mean he’s dishonest, but somehow you get the feeling he looks on rules as something to be bent when necessary. Not a particularly helpful attitude for a member of the legal profession. Why on earth did he think he wanted to be a barrister?’

  ‘I don’t think he ever did, not really. There’s always been a Winwood making waves with the law, or has been for ages, and Robert’s uncle was supposed to be the one who took on the mantle and then he was killed in a car accident. Since Robert is the only boy of his generation it was just assumed that’s what he’d do.’

  Janey raised her eyebrows. ‘Didn’t the senior Winwoods realise there have been women at the Bar for some time now?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re very strong on feminism,’ I giggled. ‘Mr Winwood was very upset when his new bank manager turned out to be female. Said it was a well-known fact that women couldn’t cope with money.’

  ‘If it was Venetia in charge of his finances he’d have a point, but she’s hardly typical of our sex. So why did Rob change his mind about doing law?’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  Janey linked her fingers under her chin and waited for me to amplify this somewhat terse statement. ‘I trust you aren’t intending to leave me in suspense about what happened?’ she said mildly.

  I was beginning to see why she had been such a good journalist. In fact, she ought to be on loan to MI6 for interrogation services; there was something about the way she led you on until you’d gone so far there was no pulling back. Oh well, there wasn’t really any reason why she shouldn’t know; it might even be quite useful to have one person up here who knew why Robert and I were in no hurry to get reacquainted, I thought as I began a somewhat edited story of what had happened. I traced a finger slowly around the top of my mug as I came to the end and said, ‘So there you have it. That’s why Robert isn’t a barrister. Because of me.’

  ‘It wasn’t all your fault,’ she said reasonably.

  ‘No, but I was the one who started it by throwing his keys at him.’

  ‘You might as well say the blame starts with your sports mistress for not teaching you to throw straight when you were playing rounders.’ That was a good point. I’d never liked the sports
mistress either - now I knew why. ‘And Rob could have kept his hands off your friend as well,’ she added firmly, ‘though granted, most men don’t expect that a bit of playing away from home is going to lead to being branded a pervert and being thrown in jail. Was last night really the first time you’d seen him since you chucked his keys over the hedge?’

  I shook my head. ‘I bumped into him as I was leaving the police station.’

  Perhaps it had occurred to the police that if they weren’t careful they’d find themselves the object of a suit for wrongful arrest - from a law student. By the time I’d finished reading my statement, signed it and been allowed to go, Robert was already standing by the front desk where the tea-drinking Sergeant had emptied the contents of a brown paper bag onto the counter, and was checking them off one by one before handing them back to him. The Sergeant raised his eyes, saw me, nodded politely and said, ‘Goodbye, miss,’ then went back to his task. Robert swung around, eyes blazing in his pale face, unshaven, looking tired and strained. And angry. Very, very angry. I was tempted to bolt out of there without another word, but something, my guilty conscience probably, made me approach him. I was so nervous I had to make several attempts before any sound would come out of my mouth. ‘So they’re letting you go,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply, just looked at me in a way I didn’t ever want to remember. I stepped back a pace instinctively and, if possible, his rage seemed to blaze even higher. ‘I’m sorry,’ I began falteringly. ‘I shouldn’t have...’

  ‘Nella,’ he interrupted in a voice of ice, ‘I don’t want any apologies from you.’ I’ve never heard a simple pronoun loaded with such withering contempt. ‘It’s a damn sight too late to say sorry and just hope that makes everything better so we can forget it ever happened.’

  The Sergeant made a protesting, ‘Calm down, sonny,’ sort of noise, and Robert said without turning his head, ‘Don’t worry, officer. I won’t give into the temptation to kill her - not in a police station. I’ve spent enough time enjoying your hospitality already. But I’d advise you to get out of my sight, Nella, or I might forget where we are.’

  That really was the last time I’d laid eyes on him. And unfortunately that old adage about time being a great healer seemed to have got it all wrong. Certainly as far as Robert’s feelings about me were concerned.

  There was a long silence after I’d finished, broken only by splashing sounds coming from the tub on the terrace. ‘Wow!’ breathed Janey, finally putting down her mug, which she’d been holding forgotten in mid-air, back on the table.

  She looked at me thoughtfully and said finally, ‘I think it might be wiser if you didn't come for supper tonight...’

  CHAPTER 5

  I’d fondly imagined that when I got back to the cottage I’d be met by a group filled with gratitude for my kind gesture in fetching them breakfast. Instead I found just about as stroppy a collec­tion of holidaymakers as you could expect to find. Oscar had been woken by an unwarrantedly noisy bird warbling away outside his window and on his sleepy way to the kitchen for tea he’d glanced out at the little parking area and seen a space where his beloved car should have been. General panic ensued. Everyone had been roused from their beds to have frantic consulta­tions on how you were supposed to report a car theft when the police don’t even speak your language, and where the hell was the nearest police station anyway?

  They’d just about come to the sensible conclusion that the answer was to ask Janey and Tom, when someone thought to enquire if I really was still peacefully sleeping through all this noise. I was interested to note, when being told this later, that the common opinion about my general usefulness must be so low that no one had even thought to wake me to hear my valuable contribution on how this crisis might be solved. Once my bed was discovered to be empty, this group of Sherlock Holmeses came to the logical conclusion that, as no one would bother to abduct me, it must be me who’d irresponsibly taken the car without asking. And even after my note was found on the floor by Oscar’s bed where he’d knocked it off the bedside table, I was still held to be at fault for not having weighted it down properly in some more visible space.

  I could have said a lot in reply, would have in fact if I hadn’t been aware that if I hadn’t sat around gossiping with Janey for over an hour, I’d have been back long before Oscar woke up and caused all the rumpus. Though my offering of croissants and bread wouldn’t have soothed many troubled breasts even if it had been on time. Sally, it turned out, didn’t like croissants, Phil preferred chocolatines, Maggie never ate white bread, even in baguette form, and I hadn’t bought any milk. Jed didn’t make any comment - probably because he was in the shower. Oscar, at least, had been happy with his croissants until he glanced in the car and discovered the crumbs all over the seat. And the dog hair. I also got landed with the washing up which was a bit rich since as well as actually providing the food, the only thing I’d dirtied was one mug, but the others started muttering about how I hadn’t done anything last night and then just left me to it. Given the general mood, I thought it wiser to leave breaking the news until later that Janey hadn’t felt it was a good idea to have Robert, a steak-knife and me in close proximity to each other and our dinner had been cancelled - or rather put off until after he had left. No doubt I’d get blamed for that too. It didn’t improve my mood to know that for once they’d be right.

  Maggie and Sally had gone off with Oscar to the nearest town to stock up on essential provisions and I was about to slink away with my book and a bottle of Factor 15 to the far side of the pool in search of peace, quiet and no domestic duties, when I saw both Charlie and Phil lift their heads and look into the distance like dogs who have just sighted a pheasant. Venetia was jogging down the track through the vines, dressed in a very small pair of running shorts and a shirt tied under­neath her bust, showing off her enviably flat stomach, with her thick hair tied back in a high pony tail. Seeing us out in the garden, she waved vigorously and jogged over to join us.

  ‘Goodness, when did the passion for running start?’ I called, surprised to see that she was on her feet at this hour. Slowly leafing through the latest copy of Vogue while lying on a lounger on the terrace seemed more Venetia’s sort of thing. ‘When you were living in the flat you refused to walk anywhere. You even used to take the car to the corner shop.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with that?’ she asked, looking surprised. ‘Who in their right mind would walk up a London street in Maud Frizon shoes? They might get wet - or worse. And anyway, I don’t go walking, I run,’ she said seriously. ‘Power walking is so undignified. All that swinging your arms around makes you look like a chicken.’ Phil leaned back to give himself the best possible view of happened to her running shorts as she flopped down to touch her toes, still continuing to talk even though she was upside down. ‘Annouska, my boss, has a personal trainer who comes in each morning before the shop opens to take all the staff through a quick workout.’ she said from between her legs.

  Not content with putting the palms of her hands on the ground, Venetia was now resting her head there as well; just watching her was making me feel dizzy. ‘I feel so much better now I’m starting to repair the damage I was doing to my body by not exercising properly,’ she went on, straightening up at last. I’m sure it was just guilty conscience that made me imagine she flicked a look in my direction, for though she had many faults, Venetia had never, unlike many other startlingly good-looking women, taken pleasure in denigrating other less perfect members of her own sex. She stretched upwards to the evident appreciation of the masculine contingent and announced proudly that she worked out nearly every day in London, though when she was here she had to add an extra fifteen minutes to her run due to the lack of gyms with state-of-the-art equipment in this area.

  She pouted. ‘Daddy won’t even get a rowing machine. He says he keeps quite fit enough with all the outdoor work he does, and he’s not spending thousands of francs for a piece of equipment when a walk would do just as well. And Robbie’s j
ust as bad. He won’t come out with me either, says he prefers to get his exercise lying flat.’ Charlie smothered a laugh. Venetia went on unheedingly, ‘So I thought I'd come and see how you were settling in, Nella. I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you last night.’ Well, I hadn’t really been talking to anyone, too apprehensive that something highly embarrassing would come spilling out, and she’d been too busy fluttering her eyelashes at Phil, who’d been doing the masculine equivalent back, to even glance at the other women around the table.

  When I came back with her cup of herbal tea - the real thing had been shudderingly refused with a ‘Don’t you know what caffeine does to you?’ - she was examining my bottle of sun tan cream with a disapproving air. ‘You should use stronger sun protection, Nella.’ She evidently didn’t rate an own label brand, whatever its SPF factor, too highly. ‘You must have heard all about sun damage on your face, so there’s no excuse,’ she scolded, insisting that I drag my chair to the shade of the large umbrella by the sitting-room windows. I could see it wasn’t worth trying to plead my case that I’d only been planning ten minutes in the sun in a preliminary effort to get my face to change from its current pastry colour to the weak-tea-with-plenty-of-added-milk shade which is the nearest I ever get to a tan. Besides, it made a refreshing change to listen to someone comment on my appearance and not imply I was already way past the point of any possible repair, so I didn’t mind humouring her. She arranged her own chair carefully so that none of the deadly rays fell on her pale face. Given her red hair I couldn’t help wondering if she was actually more worried about the possibility of freckles than skin cancer and wrinkles, and suspected that the delicate hen’s egg brown on her arms and legs came out of a bottle. If I was really nice to her, she might lend me some. I’d be prepared to bet it wasn’t the sort that leaves bright orange streaks running down your legs.