Flappy Entertains

by Santa Montefiore

Kenneth didn’t recall anyone by that name. ‘Well, what about her?’

  ‘She and her husband Charles have bought the Micklethwaites’ house and are moving in today.’

  There was a long pause. Then Kenneth appeared in her doorway, buttoning up his shirt. ‘What’s happened to the Micklethwaites?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve gone to live in Spain.’ Flappy shook her head and frowned. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought I’d mentioned it. Lady Micklethwaite told me herself some months ago. It must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘Who did you say this woman was?’

  ‘No one important.’

  ‘Does she have a husband?’

  ‘Apparently, he’s called Charles.’

  Kenneth nodded. ‘I wonder if he plays golf.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t until six o’clock that evening that Hedda Harvey-Smith called Flappy back. After the usual eight rings, Flappy picked up the phone. ‘Darnley Manor, Flappy Scott-Booth speaking.’

  ‘Ah, Flapsy. Hedda here,’ said Hedda in a loud voice.

  Flappy wasn’t sure whether she’d misheard the pronunciation of her name. She assumed she must have, for everyone knew she was called Flappy, and carried on. ‘Oh, Hedda,’ she gushed, her voice saccharine. ‘How good of you to call me back.’

  ‘Been jolly busy with the move.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Flappy certainly wasn’t going to let on that she’d only just found out. ‘Welcome to Badley Compton.’

  ‘Thank you, Flapsy. Delightful here. Charles and I couldn’t be happier. Though it’ll take more than a few days to get everything shipshape.’

  Flappy was almost certain that Hedda had called her Flapsy again, but not certain enough to pick her up on it. However, the uncertainty unbalanced her. ‘I know the Micklethwaites’ house well,’ she rallied. ‘I can imagine just how much work you’re having to do. Phyllida, Lady Micklethwaite, is a dear friend of mine, you know.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Flapsy?’

  ‘It’s Flappy,’ said Flappy firmly, now one hundred per cent certain she had heard correctly.

  ‘What can I do for you, Flappy?’ Hedda repeated, without missing a beat, or apologizing for getting it wrong.

  Flappy took a deep breath, straining to find the charm and generosity of spirit for which she was so well known. ‘I would like to welcome you and Charles with a little cocktail party here at Darnley,’ she said, forcing her way through her irritation with a tight smile. ‘It would be so nice to introduce you to the community. We in Badley Compton like to make newcomers feel at home.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Flappy,’ said Hedda, not sounding nearly as grateful as Flappy hoped. ‘But Charles and I are going to throw a little party of our own. You should receive your invitation tomorrow.’

  Flappy didn’t know what to say. She searched frantically for some way of restoring her position on the high ground, but could only come up with, ‘How lovely, Hedda. So sweet of you. The community will be thrilled. They do love a good party.’

  ‘I hope you can come,’ said Hedda.

  ‘I’ll have a look in my diary. You know, one is so busy.’

  ‘I do hope you can squeeze us in, Flappy,’ Hedda replied. ‘From what I hear a party wouldn’t be complete without you.’

  Flappy laughed, finding her place once more on the high ground and feeling secure again. ‘Kenneth and I would love to come, I’m sure.’

  Chapter 2

  Flappy was an early riser. Kenneth was not. On top of that he snored, which was a consequence of drinking indecent amounts of red wine every evening, so Flappy had banished him to his bed in his dressing room, where he could grunt to his heart’s content like a happy pig and lie in until nine. This banishment had started as a temporary measure so that Flappy could get her beauty sleep and dress in the morning without having to mind that she was disturbing her snoring husband. But the routine had set, as routines so quickly do, and it had now been eight years since Kenneth had slept in the marital bed. As for sex, Flappy considered it ‘bestial’ and was only too happy when, on turning fifty, she put an end to it once and for all. She announced to her husband that she would no longer be available for that kind of activity and he’d be well advised to put any excess energy into golf. This he did, with a great deal more passion than he had ever put into his wife.

  By nine o’clock, when Persephone waited in the hall as requested, in a black pencil skirt that fell just below the knee, a crisp blue shirt, shiny brown hair tied into a ponytail and a notebook and pen at the ready, Flappy had already done an hour of yoga in the gym (which was located next to the indoor swimming pool), spoken to her daughter Mathilda, who lived with her husband and children in Sydney, and read the Daily Mail before anyone arrived to see that that was her newspaper of choice. She breezed into the hall in a pair of khaki cotton trousers, a tailored white shirt (inspired by Meryl Streep’s Karen Blixen), elegant gold jewellery and smelling of Jo Malone’s tuberose, and greeted her new PA with a smile. ‘Ready for a very busy day?’ she asked.

  Persephone nodded. ‘Absolutely, Mrs Scott-Booth.’

  ‘Wonderful. Follow me.’

  Flappy had set up a desk for Persephone in the library, a room which Kenneth never entered and Flappy only occasionally, to look something up or to show off to a visitor she wanted to impress, for impressive it was, the library at Darnley. Kenneth made no secret of the fact that he didn’t read books, but he did manage to keep the secret that the rows and rows of beautifully glossy tomes had been bought en masse from a company that specialized in rich people’s collections. Flappy, though never having opened a single one, claimed to be the intellectual in the family. ‘If I don’t have at least three books on the go, I feel bereft,’ she would claim, before listing those she knew would impress.

  Persephone placed her laptop on the desk, which was positioned in front of a wide window with a pretty view of a little garden enclosed by tall yew hedges (the Yew Garden), and waited for Flappy to give her her orders.

  ‘Your first job is to make a list of five books I can recommend at tonight’s book club meeting,’ said Flappy.

  ‘What genre of books, Mrs Scott-Booth? Biography, history, fiction? Light, heavy?’ Persephone’s pen was poised above her notebook and she had a very keen and expectant look on her face.

  Flappy gave a supercilious sniff. ‘Personally, I enjoy books by writers other people find a little heavy, like V.S. Naipaul and Salman Rushdie, two of my absolute favourites. But the ladies in the club prefer something a teeny bit lighter. It’s meant to be fun and not too challenging. Although, personally, I believe it’s imperative to challenge oneself, don’t you, Persephone?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Persephone agreed. ‘Would you like the list to be made up of contemporary authors or older ones?’

  ‘Contemporary. I believe it’s important to keep ahead of the curve, don’t you?’

  ‘I have some ideas already.’

  ‘You do?’ Flappy was pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Yes, I’m a prolific reader like you, Mrs Scott-Booth. Although, I confess that, while I enjoyed The Enchantress of Florence, I find V.S. Naipaul too slow-paced for my taste.’

  Flappy put her head on one side and gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, he’s not for everyone.’

  * * *

  Kenneth appeared in the doorway, dressed in a green golfing ensemble. ‘You must be Flappy’s new PA,’ he said, running his small eyes over her and grinning appreciatively. He liked girls in pencil skirts. It was a shame Flappy abhorred high heels.

  Persephone put out her hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Scott-Booth.’

  He shook it and glanced at his wife. ‘Don’t wear her out on her first morning, will you, eh?’

  Flappy laughed. ‘She might as well begin as she means to go on.’

  She left Persephone in the library and followed her husband through the house and into the kitchen where The Times newspaper was waiting for him on the dining table. ‘It’s all
yours, darling. I’ve read it,’ she said breezily. ‘The leader page is of particular interest.’ He sat down and waited for Flappy to bring him his cup of coffee, which she did every morning, with her own cup of Earl Grey tea which she took with a slice of lemon (it was very common to drink it with milk). Then the two of them sat opposite each other to discuss the day’s plans, as was their custom.

  Just as Kenneth was glancing at his Rolex to see if it was time to leave for his game of golf, Persephone knocked tentatively on the kitchen door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Scott-Booth, but would you like me to open the post for you?’ she asked, holding a pile of letters in her hand.

  ‘That would be very kind, thank you.’ Flappy’s eyes dropped to the letters and narrowed. ‘Is there a stiffy in there?’

  ‘An invitation?’ Persephone flicked through them and pulled out a big white envelope with ‘Mrs Kenneth Scott-Booth’ written in black calligraphy on the front.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. I’ll open it myself,’ she said. Persephone handed it to her and left the room.

  Flappy looked at it closely. The calligraphy irritated her at once. It was very classy. And the invitation itself was thick and stiff as tasteful invitations should be, which was also irritating. Even the wording was correct, not even a whiff of tackiness. Flappy gave a sniff and lifted her chin. ‘It’s from Hedda,’ she told Kenneth. When he frowned, she elaborated. ‘You know, the woman I was telling you about yesterday.’

  ‘With the loud voice?’

  ‘Yes, with the loud voice.’ She sighed as if the very thought of Hedda’s event was extremely tedious. ‘She and Charles are throwing a cocktail party to introduce themselves to Badley Compton.’

  Kenneth was thrilled. He loved a party. ‘Good. When?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks’ time. At Compton Court.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I wonder who else they’ve invited.’

  ‘Everyone,’ said Kenneth.

  ‘Well, not everyone, surely,’ said Flappy disdainfully.

  Kenneth got up and smiled down at his wife. ‘Of course not everyone, darling. Only PLUs.’ Yes, people like us, Flappy thought to herself with satisfaction. Anyone who took such trouble with their invitations would, of course, have been very selective.

  * * *

  Flappy longed for the telephone to ring so that Persephone could answer it, but she didn’t have the time to wait around. So, she gave the girl a long list of things to do with regard to the jumble sale she was hosting in September and then left in her shiny grey Range Rover. As she drove into town in a pair of oversized sunglasses and trilby, she pondered the pros and cons of accepting Hedda’s invitation. Were she to decline, she would have the satisfaction of being one up, for everyone would assume that she’d received a better invitation (and talk of nothing else but who that invitation could be from), but then she would have to hear the details of Hedda’s party from Mabel, which would be very annoying. Besides, she was more than a little curious to see what Hedda’s house looked like. If the truth be told, she had never set foot in the Micklethwaites’ house.

  * * *

  Badley Compton was a pretty town of white houses with grey slate roofs built in the wide embrace of a cove. Behind it green hills undulated gently, cows grazed and sheep gambolled, and beneath it, in the calm water of the bay, fishing boats floated like ducks. Today, with the clouds resembling cotton-wool balls and the sun shining merrily in a bright blue sky, Badley Compton looked as charming as a postcard. Flappy parked her car outside Big Mary’s Café Délice, which was the pulse of the town, and climbed out. She could see through the window of the café that it was busy.

  She pushed open the door and was immediately accosted by the sweet smell of cakes. Big Mary Timpson was celebrated for her baking, but Flappy rarely allowed something so naughty to pass her lips. She didn’t keep her elegantly slim figure by gorging on carbohydrates and sugar. ‘Good morning,’ she trilled, sweeping her eyes over the familiar faces in the café who all turned to look at her as she breezed in. Big Mary was in her usual place behind the counter, a red-and-white-striped apron stretched over her large bosom, her platinum-blonde hair falling in tight curls over her shoulders.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Scott-Booth,’ she replied in a broad West Country brogue. ‘What can I get you this morning?’ Big Mary knew the answer even before Flappy had opened her mouth.

  ‘Actually, I’m not here to make a purchase,’ Flappy answered, glancing at the sticky buns and feeling sorry for all those weak-willed people who were unable to resist them. She approached the counter and lowered her voice. ‘I’m here to talk about your…’ She hesitated. What exactly was Hedda to Big Mary? Then she remembered, for Flappy’s internal filing system was unfailing. ‘Your aunt, Hedda Harvey-Smith.’

  Yes indeed, Hedda was the aunt who had appeared out of the blue. When loner Harry Pratt, who had lived a modest life in Badley Compton for sixty years, had died in April he revealed, in his will, that Big Mary Timpson was his illegitimate daughter (quite a surprise for Big Mary) and bequeathed her a great deal of money that no one knew he had. Then, to add to the shock, his sister, Hedda Harvey-Smith, who no one had ever heard of, turned up at his funeral and explained that money had meant nothing to Harry, who had sought a simple life living off memories of flying over the white cliffs of Dover in his Spitfire. Who’d have thought that Harry Pratt was such a man of mystery? Flappy considered it ‘admirable’ that Big Mary continued to run her café as before, even though she apparently had enough money to retire on.

  ‘Yes, she’s just moved to Badley Compton,’ said Big Mary.

  ‘Indeed, and into such a beautiful house,’ Flappy added. ‘Phyllida, Lady Micklethwaite, was a dear friend of mine. Such a shame they decided to move to Spain.’ She sighed with regret. ‘Still, lovely for them to know that their beloved home will be inhabited by good people.’

  ‘Nice for me too to have a relation just down the road,’ said Big Mary. ‘I thought I had no one and now I have Hedda and Charles. I consider myself very lucky.’

  Flappy glanced around her to make sure she wasn’t going to be overheard. ‘I received my invitation today to their party,’ she said in a voice so low that Big Mary had trouble hearing her.

  ‘Good,’ exclaimed Big Mary. ‘It’s going to be a great party.’

  Flappy wished she’d keep her voice down; after all, it really wasn’t kind to speak about it in front of people who weren’t lucky enough to receive an invitation. ‘I was going to throw a party myself, at Darnley, to welcome them into the community, but they got there first. Still, I’m sure Hedda was given good advice on whom to invite, and whom not to invite,’ she added with a chuckle. ‘One doesn’t want to open one’s door to any old nobody.’

  Big Mary gave Flappy one of her most cheerful smiles. ‘I gave her the list,’ she said.

  ‘You did?’ Flappy replied, hiding her surprise, for Flappy was a master at dissembling.

  ‘Yes, Hedda didn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Oh, how appropriate.’

  ‘That’s what she thought. After all, I know the people who loved Harry, and the nicest people from Badley Compton come into my café.’

  ‘Quite,’ Flappy agreed.

  ‘So you don’t need to whisper, because everyone in here has been sent an invitation.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Flappy again, feeling a little tight about the throat. ‘How lovely. It really is a community affair then?’

  ‘That’s what Hedda wants.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ Flappy asked, struggling to reassert herself. ‘I have the most wonderful PA I could lend her.’

  ‘Thank you very much for offering, Mrs Scott-Booth, but I think Hedda has everything under control.’

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ said Flappy. Her eyes strayed to the enticing display of cakes beneath the glass. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll buy a cake for Persephone, my PA.’

  ‘That’s a nice idea,’ said Big Mary, taking down a pastel-pink box. ‘Which one would you like
?’

  Flappy’s mouth watered. ‘The one with icing on it.’

  ‘They’re my favourites. I call them Devil’s Desire.’ Using a pair of tongs, Big Mary picked up the cake and placed it carefully in the box. ‘I’ll tell Hedda you popped in,’ she said, handing Flappy the bag.

  ‘Do,’ said Flappy. ‘And send her my best regards. I very much look forward to seeing her.’

  * * *

  Flappy climbed into the car and started the engine. So, Hedda had indeed invited everyone, she thought crossly. Had she asked Flappy, instead of Big Mary, she would have been given a far classier list of people to invite. Well, Hedda wasn’t to know, of course, Flappy thought generously, because Flappy was, deep down, a very generous woman. But she would, in time. Flappy would make sure of it.

  She lifted the pastel-pink box off the passenger seat and put it on her lap. Then she delved inside and took out the cake. A couple of minutes later it was gone.

  * * *

  That evening Flappy sat on the terrace in a floral sundress that reached her slim ankles, with a pale cashmere shawl thrown about her shoulders. She looked elegant and serene as she watched the shadows lengthen over the immaculately mown lawn and the birds flying into the trees to roost. When the doorbell went, she didn’t get up as she normally would. She didn’t have to. She’d asked Persephone to answer it for her and to show the ladies of the Badley Compton book club to the terrace, where Flappy was waiting for them with crystal flutes and an expensive bottle of prosecco on ice.

  The first to arrive was Mabel Hitchens. She always made sure she was the first by turning up five minutes early. No one else would dare show themselves at Darnley Manor a moment prior to Flappy’s invitation, but Mabel considered herself to be Flappy’s closest friend, which gave her special status. The relationship, however, was not an equal one. Mabel admired Flappy and copied her style, although with her thin brown hair and ordinary looks such flair was beyond her capability. Flappy did not admire Mabel and thought she had no style at all, but she was quite fond of her. After all, a queen must always be surrounded by ladies who are both lesser and deferential. It does not do to be challenged.