Relieved of our burdens, we were wandering along peering in shop windows when Janey stopped outside a small hairdresser’s saying she needed some more of her shampoo.
‘Do you get your hair cut here?’ I asked in surprise. I would have imagined that her glossy bob came from somewhere very haute coiffure, not a backstreet salon.
‘Marie-Hélène was chief stylist at one of the top salons in Paris before she got married,’ said Janey with that smug air of someone who knows that they have made a real and unexpected discovery. ‘Even Venetia comes here sometimes.’
‘Goodness!’ I said, impressed. ‘Do you think she could do something about mine sometime?’ I’d just caught sight of my reflection in the glass and it hadn’t been a happy experience. The new hat might have been sublime but its very glamour just highlighted the Worzel Gummidge effect of my hair. A girl with straight hair so glossy it looked as if it had been French polished opened the door of the salon and went in. If she thought she needed anything doing to her hair, what hope did I have? I thought and wondered how much it would cost to buy a decent wig.
‘Let’s go and ask,’ said Janey practically before I could start wallowing in a really bad hair day.
It turned out that Marie-Hélène could indeed do something about it, and right now too. Her eleven-thirty client had booked in for a major restyle and then had a major attack of nerves and settled for having her fringe trimmed. With the best will in the world, Marie-Hélène hadn’t been able to spin it out for longer than five minutes. She was a tiny, round woman, with hair dyed an eyeball-searing scarlet and pulled back in an untidy ponytail on the top of her head. She fizzed with energy as she danced around me, picking up tendrils of hair and clicking her tongue disapprovingly. It seemed that, ‘Who was the butcher with the blunt scissors who did this? You must have been out of your mind to let them anywhere near you,’ or some similar sentiment is universal in every culture. At least she was decent enough to admit that my hair was in adequate condition, though she recommended something to brighten up the colour. I didn’t need the agonised shaking of Janey’s head to suss out that subtle colouration wasn’t Marie-Hélène’s strong point and hastily declined.
The hairdresser was a wizard with the scissors though. She snipped here and there, not appearing to take off very much, but when she’d finished I’d been transformed from scarecrow lookalike to someone who could have modelled hats. That was a bit of an exaggeration maybe, but that wasn’t her fault, it was the raw material. At least I no longer positively shamed my new hat. I could even see properly as she’d done something magic to the heavy hank of hair that used to fall like net curtains across my face every time I moved my head so that it now stayed obediently to one side.
‘That looks fantastic,’ said Janey approvingly as I was paying the eye-wateringly enormous bill. Marie-Hélène had taken advantage of my starstruck admiration of my new improved reflection in the mirror to sell me several products which she said contained the rarest and most marvellous ingredients and were absolutely essential to keep my hair looking its very best. Judging by the prices they must contain powdered pearls, I thought handing over a wad of francs and wondering if the sign that you’ve finally grown up is when you start paying as much for your shampoo as you used to spend on a pair of shoes.
‘You might have warned me that the Parisian stylist charges Parisian prices,’ I said, half grumbling.
‘Worth every centime,’ Janey said airily.
Everyone back at the cottage seemed to agree with her, which was nice. I was even told how pretty my new hairdo made me look. Though I had the feeling that some of the flattery was prompted by the goodies I’d brought back from the market and a fear that if I started to feel unattractive, I might refuse to hand them around. A move was made to bring lunch forward and Maggie had a hard time restoring order, saying that according to the rota she’d drawn up, it was her turn to do lunch and she’d decide what time we’d have it. On the other hand, she did need some help with laying the table and washing the salads...
Like magic the starving hordes remembered urgent things to do and slipped away like smoke.
CHAPTER 9
I hadn’t needed to hint to Maggie that for once her hostess would welcome it if she were to vamp her host this evening. Maggie had been well on the case from the moment I mentioned that another local château-owner was going to be there too, and she disappeared into her bedroom halfway through the afternoon to start lengthy beautifying preparations - during which she used all the hot water, as Sally and I discovered later.
Phil looked singularly unworried about the way his girlfriend was dolling herself up for another man and I wondered if, contrary to all appearances, he allowed his women the same degree of licentiousness that he appeared to think was acceptable in himself. Except that it seemed unlikely that a man who disappeared to have a bath every time there was some domestic duty like laying the table to do would have cutting-edge beliefs about sexual equality. He didn’t.
When Charlie made a remark about his tolerance, he smiled complacently and said, ‘She’s only drumming up new business for this agency of hers.’ Sally made some protesting noise and he waved his cigarette at her. ‘Come on, everybody knows by now that Maggie’s going it alone, don’t they?’ I hadn’t, but then I wasn’t surprised at not being taken into her confidence. ‘She reckons that the English-owned châteaux around here should do a joint promotion and that if she plays her cards right and wears something from Agent Provocateur, Tom and his mate’ll be so busy staring down her cleavage that they won’t even notice that they’ve signed on the dotted until it’s too late!’
No wonder Maggie had been so keen to butter up Janey, and therefore Tom, by offering to have Jed to stay, I thought as Sally said loyally, but not very convincingly, that Maggie never tried to use cheap tricks like that to get what she wanted.
‘Are you going in with Maggie too, Sally?’ I asked, thinking of how she’d been talking to Robert and rather admiring the way both of them were prepared to seize any business opportunity that crossed their paths. The fact that I don’t is no doubt one of the reasons I tend to have unpleasant conversations with my bank manager. ‘I hope you’ll think of me when you need some brochures written,’ I said half seriously.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so!’ said Sally with unflattering speed, then to do her credit she blushed furiously. ‘I mean, we’ll have our own in-house copywriter, we won’t need to use freelances,’ she stammered.
‘If you ever do, Nella’s very good,’ said Oscar, who also has an eye for the main chance, though in his case it isn’t always for himself. Then, when Sally didn’t look particularly convinced: ‘She got shortlisted for an Advertising News award last year.’
‘Did you really?’ Sally looked ludicrously surprised. I decided not to tell her that my contribution had been a single strapline to a stunning visual done by my partner, and that we’d been up for a prize for artistic excellence.
It seemed that Janey’s plans had gone slightly awry, for when we arrived in the garden later that evening, all done up in our glad rags, it was Jed who was bent industriously over the barbecue basting away while Tom was on the terrace chatting to a vision wrapped in a slim column of peacock-blue silk. At least Janey had armed Tom with a bottle so the opportunities for a tête-à-tête were going to be limited by the siren calls of glasses waiting to be refilled, though judging by the way Solange had a hand placed on his wrist she was happy to see everyone else go thirsty for a while. Delphine, wearing a sundress apparently made from three handkerchiefs and a small scarf, was handing around a plate of little bits and pieces, while her two small charges were also doing their bit. This consisted of carrying around bowls of crisps which they thrust imperiously at guests and whisked away before any could be taken, then helping themselves to a handful as a reward for their labours. Lily, still a bit dot and carry, was following one of the twins around, hoovering up the inevitable spills almost before they hit the ground. Solomon, the old Labr
ador, was doing the same with the other. All four of them were getting under everybody’s feet on a regular basis.
Lacking a staircase to come down, Maggie stopped about ten feet away from the party, and resting one hand on the edge of the balustrade, delicately wriggled her feet into a pair of vertigo-inducing mules she’d had to carry on the walk here. Then, just to ensure that the maximum number of eyes were upon her, she straightened her devastatingly simple little floral dress, which had probably cost a bomb and which did absolutely nothing to hide her good figure. Or to hide the fact that her underwear was minimal. Sadly for her, Tom had his back turned so he missed her grand entrance, though she still had the satisfaction of seeing the man who was talking to Venetia do a double-take. Janey was right, his curly hair and long face really did give him a distinct resemblance to a sheep, I thought in amusement. Then all desire to laugh fled as I realised I knew that sheep. It was Hugh Cavendish. And if Hugh was here... I looked grimly down the terrace, ignoring Janey’s wave, my forebodings spot on. There was Robert, leaning on a stick, talking to a fair-haired man with a large nose.
Where was Oscar? I was going to kill him. Alerted by some sixth sense, Oscar stopped nattering to Sally and looked around, his face falling with almost comical dismay as he too saw Robert’s companion. He glanced sideways at me, then ever so casually started to put a safe distance between us. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ I hissed in my best pantomime whisper as I grabbed his arm and made it quite clear that I was prepared to hang on for dear life no matter what, so there was no point in struggling.
He looked at me in a hunted fashion, then decided to tough it out. ‘What’s the matter, Nella? You seem a little - upset - about something.’
‘A little upset?’ I echoed. ‘Oh no, Oscar, I’m not a little upset, I’m incandescent. And you, you snake in the grass, you lying toad, you know perfectly well what I’m upset about!’
‘Hey, come on, Nella, whatever it is can’t be that bad,’ protested Phil, hovering with an interested air and eyeing my clenched fist uneasily. I daresay he thought it was shortly about to connect with Oscar’s nose. Judging by his expression, so did Oscar.
I smiled as nastily as I could. ‘It’s going to get a whole lot worse - for Oscar.’ At this Oscar froze like a rabbit in headlights. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Phil, so if you don’t want to get hurt I suggest you leave us alone,’ I added, still glaring at my prey. I was just getting nicely into my stride.
Phil hesitated, obviously torn between a desire to get away from an enraged female and sheer nosiness. The fear factor beat curiosity and male solidarity hands down. Muttering that I should remember that I’d got witnesses, he hightailed it off down the terrace.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down a little, and looked Oscar straight in the eye. ‘Just what is George doing here?’
Oscar widened his eyes. ‘I haven’t the faintest clue. I had no idea he was going to be here, I promise you,’ he said with an irreproachable air of innocence.
I regarded him in silence for a moment. ‘All right, I’ll give you that,’ I said grudgingly. ‘If you’d known George was coming tonight you’d have spent most of the afternoon either trying to persuade me that I didn’t want to come or telling me what a nice bloke he is. But you do remember our conversation when you suggested that I come here to France?’
‘Of course. I said you needed to get away for a really good rest and I was right. You look a million times better already.’
‘Don’t try to get around me by flattery,’ I said severely.
‘It’s not flattery, it’s the truth.’
‘Shut up, Oscar, and listen. What you also said was that George would definitely not be joining us - remember? I do, for I had a feeling your devious little mind might come up with a trick like this one. You absolutely swore this was going to be a George-free zone, Oscar, George-free, not maybe-a-little-bit-of-George-from-time-to-time, but no George at all. Does that ring any bells? You made a solemn promise about it, on your grandmother’s grave too,’ I added bitterly. ‘Which grandmother was that? The one who goes line dancing every week?’
‘No, the one buried in Great Eastby churchyard,’ he said promptly. ‘And I promised that I wouldn’t introduce George into the cottage by some ruse. You should know I wouldn’t play a trick like that on you.’ He took note of my silence and moved hastily on. ‘But I couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t happen to be in the area - how could I? I’m not his keeper. How was I supposed to know that his friend’s brother just happens to live near Tom and Janey?’ He might just have convinced someone who didn’t know him better.
‘So it’s just some coincidence, is it?’ I asked with deep sarcasm. ‘Of course it is. Even though the two of you work in the same building—’
‘For different companies,’ Oscar interrupted.
‘You still meet in the lift and have a drink together at least once a fortnight,’ I snapped. ‘And you really expect me to believe that you were both too busy discussing cricket to even think of mentioning where you were going on holiday? Pull the other one, Oscar!’ Then I thought of something else. ‘And just how do you happen to know that it’s Hugh’s brother George is staying with?’
Oscar was caught between a rock and an exceptionally hard place. He began to stammer out some excuse but I snarled over it: ‘Of all the conniving, deceitful, unscrupulous bastards!’ I was strongly tempted to take him by the throat and shake him, hard, never mind if it had terminal results or not, but that wouldn’t be fair on Janey. A minor row provides a party with a useful talking point for those sticky moments when conversation is flagging, but a row that involves the police being called is another matter.
But I could always get my own back in some other way, couldn’t I? For instance, back home there was Felicity from the flat upstairs who had developed a most improbable tendre for Oscar and was always asking me when she could meet him again. Never mind that she was a lady wrestler and scared him witless, it was my turn to do a little matchmaking... I’d have them both around for a candlelit dinner as soon as I got back.
I began to feel much better, thoughts of revenge are so restoring, and decided to try one last time to get Oscar to see sense. ‘George and I are over, finished, kaput, wound up, finito. In other words, Oscar, can’t you get it into your thick head that we aren’t ever going to get back together again?’
He relaxed slightly as he realised that retribution wasn’t imminent. Didn’t he know the old adage about revenge being a dish best eaten cold?
‘I know George probably said some hurtful things to you, but you should give him a second chance, Nella,’ he said persuasively. He glanced at my grim expression but still went on gallantly. ‘Come on, you’ve got to admit that as far as your last few boyfriends went, George was quite the pick of the bunch.’
This was true, but considering that his predecessors had been a New Wave performance poet who considered that his art freed him from mundane matters such as baths, and a stockbroker who had unaccountably forgotten to mention that he had a wife, this didn’t cut much ice. Encouraged by my reluctant nod, Oscar went on eagerly, ‘He’s a decent sort, reliable, earns lots of money, has got a nice house—’
‘From the way you bang on about him I’ll start to think you’re in love with him yourself,’ I said snidely.
‘No, he’s not my type,’ he said seriously. ‘But he is yours.’ I opened my mouth to deny this heresy but he forestalled me. ‘I distinctly remember you telling me that you liked tall men who had plenty to say for themselves.’
‘I also like being allowed to participate in the conversation myself, from time to time.’ Before Oscar could point out the undeniable truth that at least George was tall, I said, ‘You’re forgetting one thing; irrespective of what I feel, George dumped me.’
‘He regrets that. Really he does.’
Oh yes? This was bound to be another case of Oscar deciding that he knew what someone was thinking better than they did themselves. ‘Eve
n if he does, I don’t regret our breaking up.’
Oscar ignored this trifling hindrance to his grand scheme of reuniting two distinctly un-star-crossed lovers. ‘You were so good together, it was such fun having supper with the pair of you.’ He waved away my protest that the evenings usually involved at least one argument because George’s nanny never ‘mucked up’ food like I did. ‘OK, I know he can be a little overbearing at times, and occasionally he can be a trifle stuffy, but both of you need to learn to be a bit more tolerant of each other’s foibles.’
‘I don’t have any foibles,’ I said loftily and untruthfully. ‘And as for George’s - do you expect your lovers to do your washing for you, Oscar?’
looked astonished. ‘Of course not. I do it for both of us.’
I gave up. Oscar was going to go on believing George and I were a match made in heaven until one or other of us shacked up with someone else. I just hoped George would do it soon. Nor was there any point in my trying to extract a promise that there wouldn’t be any more ‘accidental’ meetings between George and myself. As had already been amply proved this evening, when Oscar thinks he’s doing something for someone’s good he doesn’t allow little things like promises, or even the spirit of promises, to stand in his way.
I let Oscar go and noted with grim amusement that he virtually did 100 metres in under ten seconds in his desire to put as large a distance as possible between us. Tom had been prised away from Solange for long enough to start wandering around offering refills, though I couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to have come to a halt at Maggie’s cleavage. I looked around for a glass. I needed a drink after that little session - besides, I was going to have to talk to George some time. Indeed, I was even prepared to go and be all things civilised with my ex - providing I’d got a good slug of alcohol inside me first. Perhaps all things civilised was a bit much, but I’d be civil at least.
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