by Gil McNeil
“Perhaps just for a moment. We’ve landed a big project, so I’ve brought the team out to say thank you. But coffee would be lovely.”
Roger starts clicking his fingers and summoning more coffee and another chair as Stephen chats with Dad and Mr. and Mrs. Vice Captain. The raffle is being drawn, so Dean and the Martins are taking a five-minute break, and the waiters bring little plates of chocolates round. Ted Fordwich is head-waitering tonight, and gives me an encouraging wink, which reminds me just how much I’d rather be handing round plates than sitting here like a lemon, but Roger is in full genial-host mode ordering brandies and liqueurs.
“Molly, you should talk to Stephen about your plans for the Hall. Such an important house needs expert handling.” He turns to Mr. Vice Captain. “Been in the family for generations, Harrington Hall, you may know it?”
Mr. Vice Captain looks suitably impressed.
Oh God, please let me get out of here without saying anything I’ll regret.
“I’m not really planning anything major, not straightaway.”
Roger gives me an irritated look and pretends to laugh.
“There speaks a woman who has never overseen a major refurbishment.”
“I did up our last house all by myself. I spent hours up a ladder scraping off wallpaper and painting, so I do have some sense of how much work it’s going to take—thanks Roger. Bertie’s got some ideas too, and Dennis and Ivy, so I won’t be on my own.”
Actually the only idea Bertie is likely to come up with will probably involve buying bigger artillery, but never mind.
“Don’t be so modest Molly. You’re doing up the gatehouse too, and there’s potential in the stables, huge potential. Stephen, tell her. She’s got old Stebbings doing the gatehouse, and we know how long he takes to get anything done.”
“I like him.”
Stephen picks up his wineglass and smiles.
“Oh yes, he’s decent enough, just a bit old-fashioned and slow. But look, there’ll be more possibilities than you think, there always are, why don’t I pop round and take a look. I’m fairly busy at the moment, but I’m sure I can make time for an old friend.”
Damn. I can’t help feeling I’ve been set up here somehow. I’m not quite sure how, but Roger looks very pleased and that’s never a good sign.
“Thanks Stephen, but only if it’s no trouble, I’m really not making any big decisions just yet.”
“Oh look, the band’s back. Shouldn’t we all be dancing? Roger, surely you’re going to ask your glamorous wife to dance? Molly, care to join me?”
He stands up, and holds out his hand.
Bugger.
“I’m not sure I know how to dance to ‘You Make Me Feel So Young.’ ”
“Me neither but let’s see how we go shall we?”
He walks towards the dance floor, where a variety of couples in evening dress are twirling round, including one couple who appear to be doing a tango.
“Do you tango?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. Do you?”
He grins.
“Not really, no. What about another cup of coffee on the terrace? It’s not too windy tonight and the heaters work pretty well. How does that sound, unless you’d rather dance?”
“Coffee would be lovely.”
We’re both smiling now.
“Tell me about the house, but only if you’d like to. I’d hate you to think I was touting for business, despite your brother’s best efforts—you know how determined he can be, it took me weeks to divert him from some of his, well, shall we say less-original ideas for the new apartments in the hotel.”
“Oh, did you do those, I didn’t know, they’re lovely.”
They are too—all pale wood and new windows and beautiful bathrooms, a bit too modern and shiny for me, but a huge improvement on the tragic old plastic and hideous carpets.
“We did, I’d have liked to demolish them and start again, but I think we managed to make a few improvements.”
“Definitely.”
“So are you enjoying being back home?”
“Yes, very much, it’s a new start, for all of us.”
“I was sorry to hear about your divorce. Been through the same thing myself—hideous, isn’t it? Portia and I split up three years ago—entirely mutual decision, but still tough. Finn seems okay about it though, and that’s the main thing. You’ve got boys too, haven’t you?”
“Yes, three.”
“I can barely keep up with Finn—I’d have no chance with three. He’s at King’s Park with your son Dan I think? He’s been telling me something about a cannon?”
“That’s Uncle Bertie.”
“Oh right, of course. He’s still as lively as ever is he?”
“Yes, but I’m trying to play down the cannon thing, or we’ll have hordes of kids round every day demanding a show, and trust me, he’d oblige.”
A young man approaches us, looking tentative, and Stephen gives him an irritated look.
“Sorry, it’s just that we were thinking of making a move soon, if that’s okay with you?”
“Just give me a minute. Sorry Molly, but look, I’ll call you, and fix up a time to see the Hall properly?”
“Sure.”
He hands me his mobile.
“Put your number in here—that way I won’t lose it.”
I key in my number, and give him his phone back.
“Lovely to see you again, Molly.”
He winks as he turns to go back towards his table.
Bloody hell. Perhaps I’m not such a disaster after all, particularly when I make an effort and dress up in a Lola-approved outfit. I’m feeling rather flustered as I walk back into the lounge. Stephen Jackson, all grown up and winking at me, even if there is something a bit too slick and polished about him. Crikey. Roger and Georgina are still dancing, thank God, so if I’m quick, I can have five minutes with Mum and Dad and then leave. And that way I won’t have to dance to Dean and the Martins at all. It’ll be win-win, and you don’t often get to say that at one of Roger’s social occasions, not unless you can rent a helicopter.
“There you are dear. Your father has been waiting to dance with you.”
Great.
Sally’s heard all about my encounter with Stephen from the hotel grapevine, and rings for details the next morning.
“He’s divorced you know.”
“Yes, he did mention it.”
“Did he? He must be keen then. He’s got a bit of a reputation locally you know. He’s always got a glamorous woman on his arm.”
“That counts me out then.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re quite a catch. He’ll have heard about you getting the Hall—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You always were a catch, and you still are.”
“Don’t worry, Sal, I know what you mean, and he was pretty keen to come round and give me top-architect tips, that’s for sure. But that might have been down to Roger—you know what he’s like.”
“As long as that’s all he gives you. Oh God, that came out wrong too.”
We’re both giggling now.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”
“How he dumped you for Susan Prentice? Yes, but that was years ago. And she did have the biggest chest in the school. Nobody could compete with that.”
“True.”
“He did have a ponytail a while back, but he’s got over that now.”
“Not entirely. There was something a bit ponytail about him last night, if I’m honest. Something a bit too ‘Look at me.’ ”
“Well at least he’s worth looking at—not like some of them with their sports jackets and slacks.”
“Like Roger?”
“No comment. So when he rings, what will you do?”
“I think it’s the house he wants to see, so he can come round for a cup of tea, and we’ll see how Betty gets on with him. Anyway I haven’t got time to worry about that, I’ve got Alfie’s party to sort for next weekend. I know it made se
nse to invite everyone in his class since we’re new here and everything, but that’s twenty-five kids Sal, and all the little sods are coming.”
“I did warn you. I could try to swap my shifts round if you like.”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll be fine, Mum’s coming, and Ivy. Bertie’s threatened to come too, but I’m trying to avoid that.”
“He might have some good ideas—Stephen, I mean—for the house. He did those new flats by the seawall. Me and Patrick went to have a look, just to be nosy—we could never have afforded the prices they wanted.”
“What were they like?”
“Very glamorous. Lights in the floors and glass staircases.”
“Not really what I’m after.”
“No, but they were impressive. Look, I better go. Tom and Patrick are making breakfast, so the smoke alarm will go off any minute. But good luck with the party. Let me know if you change your mind, and I’ll come and help.”
“Thanks Sal.”
It’s Saturday morning and Alfie’s party day, and I’m seriously wishing I’d fobbed him off with large amounts of cash and a family tea. After days of stripping wallpaper and sanding floorboards in the guest bedrooms I feel like I’m permanently covered in dust with bits of wallpaper stuck to the soles of my feet. Mr. Stebbings has started to make real progress on the gatehouse, which is a bit terrifying because I haven’t even started to think about what it should look like inside. So I’m looking at design magazines and trying not to think about how on earth I can get it all done. And Stephen rang the day after the dinner and is coming round to see the house when he’s back from a conference in Madrid, and I’m trying not to think about that as well.
Mum and Ivy have launched another round of competitive baking, and are both busy cooking for Alfie’s party, which is great, but I can’t help wishing I could find a pause button somewhere. If I could just have a few hours to catch up, I’m sure I’d feel less like I’ve somehow wandered into one of those Benny Hill sketches where the music speeds up and everyone runs round and round waving mops and dusters—or wooden spoons in Mum’s case, since she’s making the birthday cake. She keeps ringing me with cake updates, so James Bond theme tunes keep ringing out at unexpected moments, along with Yoda telling me “Answer the telephone you must” whenever Pete calls. But at least he’s getting better at calling the boys every few days, and he even remembered to ring this morning to talk to Alfie about his party, so that was nice, even if I’m pretty sure it was down to Janice. I know Alfie was pleased, and that’s all that really matters. And Lola called yesterday from Italy, where she’s sorting out some film crisis with one of her director clients whilst simultaneously having treatments in a spa hotel. Nice work if you can get it. The closest I’m likely to come to anything spa-like is the exfoliating effect produced by scrubbing off all that bloody plaster dust.
“Diamonds Are Forever” starts ringing out the minute I step into the bath. If it were anyone but Lola I’d leave it to ring.
“Hello darling. All set?”
“I think so. Hang on a minute, I was just getting into the bath.”
“Getting ready for the party?”
“More like getting the paint out of my hair. I’ve been painting ceilings this morning, trying to keep out of Ivy’s way.”
“When’s the architect due?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sunday afternoon? Couldn’t you have picked a more useful time?”
“Useful for what?”
“You never know. A quick spot of rekindling might be fun.”
“He’s off to Dubai on Monday Lola, and he’s coming to see the house, not to rekindle anything.”
“Try not to be covered in paint when he arrives. Wear your new skirt.”
“I’m wearing it today, I want to put in a good appearance for all the parents, although I’m still not sure about the wisdom of wearing a dry-clean-only velvet skirt to a children’s tea party. But Ivy and Mum have appointed themselves in charge of the catering, so I’m in with a chance.”
“You could always wear the green one tomorrow, with woolly tights and boots.”
“I’m not sure showing him round the house dressed as Robin Hood is such a great idea. I thought jeans and a clean shirt. This isn’t a date Lola.”
“No, and it’s not likely to be if you dress like a builder.”
“Lola.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
“Charming. I’m giving you expert tips here.”
“Sorry.”
“Promise me you’ll wear a skirt.”
“Christ, you sound just like Dad.”
“Promise.”
“Okay, I promise.”
I’m crossing my fingers, so it doesn’t count.
“And you can uncross your fingers. You promised, and it does count. And I’ll ring Alfie to check.”
“You will not.”
“I bloody will. Have a lovely party darling, and call me tomorrow, when you’ve de-skirted. Unless you de-skirt with the architect, in which case call me much later. By the way, has Quentin arrived?”
“Yes, he’s at the village hall, and thanks for arranging it, you really didn’t need to you know.”
“Since I can’t be there myself I wanted a big surprise for my gorgeous boy.”
I’m still not sure how thrilled Alfie is going to be with a surprise puppet show, particularly with a puppeteer called Quentin. But Lola swears he’s brilliant, and I can only hope she’s right, or I’m likely to have twenty-five mutinous six- and seven-year-olds on my hands, armed with cake and jelly.
“He’s still insisting Bertie comes, with that stupid parrot. So I think we can pretty much guarantee they’ll all be going home with some choice new phrases along with their party bags.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Lola is right, as usual. We played Pin the Tail on the Parrot, which was Dan’s idea in the hopes that someone would get confused and try it with the real thing, and Pass the Parcel, and Musical Statues, which I know from past experience is much better than Musical Chairs, since nobody gets shoved off their chair when the music stops. But the real triumph was the puppet show, which turned out to be a wonderful mix of magicians and dragons, like a postmodern Punch and Judy without the rather dodgy domestic-violence subplot. Lots of bashing monsters and audience participation, and a finale involving mini explosions and indoor fireworks with copious amounts of red and purple smoke, and loud music, and then a bubble machine, which gets them all leaping up to pop the magic bubbles, because, according to Quentin, the more bubbles you pop, the more the magic rubs off on you. They’re all leaping about to “Puff the Magic Dragon” as the parents start to arrive, and some of the hipster parents are humming along and looking amused as they try to round up their kids. Betty has retreated up into the rafters, and is telling everyone to bugger off, but it doesn’t seem to be working, so in the end I have to ask Quentin to turn the music off or we’ll never get them to leave. Dan and Ben are handing out the party bags, and everyone seems delighted.
Bertie is enchanted.
“Excellent show. Kept the ankle biters completely gripped, didn’t he? Clever chap. Like to have a word with him, just what we need, a show like that, liven up our dinners at the club.”
Dennis doesn’t look keen.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Some of them are on their last legs as it is.”
“Just what they need to wake them up, go down a storm.”
“Yes, or they’ll keel over completely and then we’ll have to have the ambulance back. Like we did the time you made those cocktails and told them they were fruit punch, and old Bob went all peculiar. And most of the rest of them could hardly walk, let alone drive themselves home. I was backwards and forwards in that car half the night.”
“Lucky you were there Dennis. Good chap in a crisis, always said that. Don’t know how we’d manage without you. Do we my dear?”
“No Uncle Bertie.”
&
nbsp; Surrounded by indoor fireworks and completely plastered is my guess, but I think I’ll leave this one to Dennis.
“Thanks Dan.”
“What for?”
“For helping and making his party so nice for him. What were you saying to that boy?”
“Jake? I just told him I know where he lives and if he upsets my baby brother one more time I’ll upset him right back, only bigger.”
“Oh Dan, he’s only little.”
“He’s a year older than Alfie, and yes, I know, kids who bully other kids are sad and unhappy and they can’t help it and violence is never the answer and blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before, but he’s not having a go at my brother and getting away with it. Me and Ben talked about it, and he can’t do it because he’s at the same school and they’re not meant to put the frighteners on the little ones. So it was down to me.”
“I thought Alfie didn’t mind. It was only a bit of name-calling, wasn’t it, nothing more than that?”
Oh God, I’m panicking now that I’ve managed to miss the fact that some serious bullying was going on. I’m halfway into a Motherhood Red Alert before Dan manages to convince me that Alfie’s fine.
“But with kids like Jake, if they don’t get a reaction, they just get worse. It’ll be fine now I’ve had a word. Calm down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. He’s had a go at Tom and Arthur too—it’s all three of them, not just Alfie. So you’re alright with it then?”
“As long as it’s just talking Dan.”
He grins.
“I know that Mum, but he doesn’t.”
Alfie spends ages making Dan a medal when we get home, which I notice he’s pinned up on his noticeboard in his room when I go in to say good night.
“That’s nice love.”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to wear it?”
“And look like a total knob?”
“Dan.”
“A total idiot. No thanks.”
“Sweet of him though.”
“He’s alright. Sometimes.”
That’s about as good as it gets from Dan.
