Well Groomed

by Fiona Walker

  ‘She totally adores your mother,’ Tash pointed out. ‘She’s just a one dog woman. Wally’s pretty friendly.’

  ‘If you bribe him,’ India sighed. ‘You even have to offer him a choc drop to goose you these days, he’s so spoilt for choice with all the eventers who troop through our kitchen. What’s this?’ She picked up a fat, dog-eared script from the sofa arm. ‘One of Niall’s?’

  ‘Yup.’ Tash squinted at it. She’d been so bored and lonely over the last few evenings that she’d been reduced to reading some of the scripts Niall had been sent. ‘Actually that one’s wonderful – so romantic.’

  India scrutinised it with the critical eyes of an academic snob whose only recent reading had been the GCSE English syllabus – Jane Austen, Emily Brontë and Chaucer.

  ‘Looks a bit schmaltzy – Four Poster Bed. Does he have to get his kit off?’

  ‘Mmm – a bit, but it’s far more of a witty English romance. Very sharp. I loved it.’

  ‘Is he going to do it then?’ India cast it to one side in favour of cuddling Beetroot some more.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Tash confessed. ‘I’ve not spoken to him about it.’ She didn’t add that she’d not in fact spoken to Niall at all for several days. He was never available, never in his hotel and never seemed to get her messages. When he did call her, she was invariably out working or fast asleep. They were currently communicating by answer machine alone, which was hugely frustrating, although it did give one the time to think up those witty little one-liners normally only mulled over long after the conversation has ended.

  ‘You’re so lucky having Niall,’ sighed India. ‘He’s absolutely wicked to show off about.’

  ‘And he’s a lovely man,’ Tash pointed out wryly.

  ‘Yes, that too. He’s an ace bloke. God, my friends at school are so jealous that I actually know him. They were sick as spun-dried cats when I told them you guys were getting hitched.’

  Tash sucked her thumb uncomfortably. India, as long and leggy as an evening shadow, was looking doe-eyed with enthusiasm.

  ‘I can’t wait for the wedding,’ she sighed happily. ‘Mum’s gone all dreamy about it too, you know.’

  ‘I thought she didn’t altogether approve.’ Tash gave a ghost of a grin as she headed back into the kitchen to see what she could find in the absence of hot chocolate.

  ‘I think she needs a man of her own.’

  Tash, who had been in the midst of offering India a Diet Coke, swallowed the rest of her sentence and looked up from the fridge in shock.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘We-eell,’ India looked shifty, ‘it’s just that she hasn’t had a boyfriend for simply ages. And I was thinking . . .’

  ‘She went out with Gus’s friend Frank last year.’

  ‘. . . of setting her up.’

  ‘Who with?’ Tash kneaded her spare tyre thoughtfully, wondering if it had gone down yet.

  ‘Someone local actually.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Tash grinned. ‘Like who? There’s not exactly a plethora of available men in the village. Godfrey Pelham, I suppose, but he’s a bit old and fusty—’

  ‘He’s gay, Tash!’

  ‘Oh, yes; I suppose now you mention it he is a bit camp.’

  ‘I was thinking of Hugo.’

  ‘Hugo!’ Tash’s chin slammed back into her neck. ‘Are you serious?’

  India looked mildly insulted. ‘Of course. I mean he’s quite a bit younger than Mummy, but he’s just her type and incredibly sexy, you have to admit.’

  ‘Christ!’ Tash was having trouble getting to grips with this. She badly needed some chocolate. ‘Would you really fancy him as a step-father? I mean, it’s not so long ago that you fancied him, full stop.’

  ‘A silly teenage crush.’ India dismissed it, sounding more forty than fourteen. ‘Even you fancied him once. And anyway, he likes older women.’

  ‘Sure – like Kirsty?’

  ‘She’s only three years younger than Mummy.’

  ‘What?’ Tash’s chin hit her neck again.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No – I mean I never asked.’

  ‘She’s thirty-seven.’ India nodded. ‘Gus says the only reason she wants to marry thick Richie is because she’s desperate to have kids before she’s forty.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Tash giggled delightedly. She’d always imagined that Kirsty was the same age as herself, she certainly looked no older. Although, she reasoned rather gloomily, it could just be that she herself looked no younger than thirty-seven.

  ‘And Hugo’s last long-term girlfriend was older, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Amanda?’ Tash shuddered at the memory. She had been terrified of the diminutive, sharp-tongued Amanda who had a sub-zero manner with other women – particularly tall ones. ‘She was a bit older, I think – not much.’

  ‘There you go!’ India seemed to think that this proved he and Zoe were positively star-destined in the lover stakes.

  Tash busied herself looking for the desired gouache.

  ‘I hardly think,’ she ventured gently as she dug through her paint tin, ‘that the fact Hugo has dated a couple of attractive older women makes him and your mother compatible. I don’t even think she likes him very much – he can be pretty insufferable. And he’d make a lousy step-father.’

  ‘I disagree.’ India was marking Tash with her eyes. ‘He’d pretty much let us get on with it, I should imagine. Anyway, I’m off to Art School as soon as I get my “A” levels, and Rufus and he get on brilliantly – they can talk about cricket and horses for simply hours.’

  ‘And what if he wants kids?’ Tash was trying to make sense of what appeared to be a ludicrous suggestion. She was amazed that India appeared to be taking it so seriously.

  ‘Oh, Mummy’d probably go along with that too. She’s always said she’d like a couple more once Rufe and I are old enough to help her out. She and Hugo would have beautiful babies.’

  Tash wrinkled her nose. If their babies turned out anything like Hugo, they’d need to be thrust into the arms of a karate-trained nanny pretty smartly. She couldn’t imagine anything more potentially brattish than a seven-pound replica of Hugo.

  ‘So will you help me?’ India was looking at her eagerly.

  Tash gaped at her. It was at times like this that she wondered whether India came from another planet. She appeared so calm and serene for her age, so eminently capable of doing anything she put her mind to, so unrealistically mature and sane. Not only that but she was blessed with looks that Tash would have considered a miracle in her own youth. She was the most stunning-looking girl Tash had ever encountered, more flawless than one hundred faces staring out of the glossy magazines which mocked the overweight in dentists’ waiting rooms and on newsagents’ shelves. Yet for all these apparent gifts from God, she was as daft as a hairdresser’sworth of brushes.

  ‘You want me to help you set your mother up with Hugo?’ She clarified the situation in a croaking voice.

  ‘Yup.’ India smiled expectantly.

  ‘Christ.’ Tash looked down to see that she had dropped a large quantity of gouache on the floor and now appeared to be treading most of it in as she wandered around in a state of disbelief.

  ‘Please, Tash. I really need your help – I mean, you know him far better than me, and I know he’s best friends with your brother-in-law, so that could be useful.’

  ‘No way!’ She started shaking her head and walking towards the kitchen for some much-needed calories.

  ‘Please?’ India looked imploring.

  ‘Why don’t you put it to Penny and Gus and see how they react?’

  ‘No, Mummy won’t let me do that.’

  ‘You mean your mother knows about this?’

  ‘Of course.’ India stood up, tipping Beetroot on to a cushion. ‘I mean, she didn’t suggest it or anything, but I think we can say she’s given her tacit approval. If we do it this way we can palm it off as a silly schoolgirl thing if he shows no interest.’


  Tash was completely speechless now. She knew that Zoe had seen a couple of men over the years she had lived with Gus and Penny, but she had always maintained that after her first marriage she had no intention of getting seriously involved again. She’d obviously been very badly hurt, although it was a topic she never offered much information about and Tash respected her too much to probe. She wasn’t immune to men’s charms, and she certainly had plenty of admirers – there were many of Gus’s friends who had tried to become more to her than a coffee-in-the-kitchen chum and occasional dinner date. But they were all gently sent away by Zoe’s polite, friendly indifference. The thought that she might be harbouring a private desire to hook Hugo – Mr Eligible Local Hell-raiser – was beyond belief.

  ‘What exactly did you have in mind for me to do on her behalf?’ Tash asked humouringly. ‘Deliver a mot d’amour by horseback to his box at a competition? Slip a love-drug into his coffee next time he’s at the farm trying to buy a cheap horse?’

  ‘You’ll do it then?’ India looked ecstatic. ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘Well, I’m not . . .’

  ‘I thought a Valentine’s card to start off with. That’s next week, isn’t it? You can make one.’

  ‘Me?’ Tash laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous – I’ve painted some of his horses for him; he knows my style. He’ll just think it’s from me.’

  ‘Well, if I do it it’ll look like it came from a GCSE art student – which I am. I mean, I know I’m good, but I’m not as good as you.’

  ‘Can’t you just buy one?’ Tash was beginning to think this wasn’t just a daft schoolgirl idea. It was a very dangerous bad one.

  ‘No, we can’t.’ India started to gather up squashed tubes of paint. ‘You’re going to do it because then you can say an anonymous local glamourpuss commissioned it from you if Hugo asks. I mean he’ll know you didn’t send it personally, won’t he? You loathe him. And you’re marrying Niall.’

  ‘But I haven’t time. I have to make Niall a card.’

  India handed her a tube of leaking crimson. ‘Better get started then.’

  ‘You’ve been a long time.’ Zoe greeted her daughter at the door and waited patiently for her to remove her shapeless man’s overcoat, two cardigans, lambswool scarf and the thickest of her three jumpers before kicking off her wellies and wandering through to the sitting room to seek a place by the fire.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Tash.’ She looked victorious, gathering up a half-eaten Galaxy bar from Gus’s littered desk. ‘I think I might have done something rather brilliant.’

  ‘What? Tidied up the forge?’ Spurred by the thought, Zoe started gathering up mugs – of which there appeared to be several on every surface; Gus and Penny never took them back through to the kitchen. Two had been used as ashtrays.

  ‘Nope.’ India grinned over her shoulder as she plumped down by Wally, who thumped his tail and wriggled across the hearthrug on his belly to sniff interesting Beetroot smells lingering on her jeans. ‘I’ve persuaded her to send Hugo Beauchamp a Valentine’s card.’

  ‘You what?’ Zoe froze in horror. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, you were talking to Penny last night about thinking that Tash still fancies him rotten . . .’

  ‘You were never supposed to hear that conversation!’ Zoe’s face flushed. ‘It was just idle gossip over a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I was next door, I couldn’t help hearing it,’ she pointed out. ‘And I also heard you saying that you thought that Hugo was secretly wild about her too.’

  ‘India, that gossip was so, so idle it was almost asleep. We were a bit tight and being very silly. It’s all absolute rubbish.’

  ‘I think you were right.’ India played with Wally’s ears, turning them inside out to expose their guava-pink centres. ‘I think she really does have a thing about Hugo.’

  ‘Oh, poor Tash,’ Zoe sighed, shaking her head as she wandered out.

  ‘Poor Niall.’ India stared into the flickering fire, watching it spit tongues of sparks up into the sooty flue.

  She didn’t care what her mother said, she was certain that she’d done the right thing. And what’s more, she was going to make sure Tash carried on believing that she was playing Cupid. Having just read Cyrano de Bergerac, India thought the whole idea of Cupid being shot by his own arrow impossibly romantic and sexy. At school, Valentine’s Day was wildly influential, making or breaking relationships; she was certain the same was true throughout life, however sceptical her cynic of a mother was.

  Eight

  * * *

  AS EVER THE QUEUE of traffic turning into Marylebone High Street from Regent’s Park was banked up and beeping, as angry as a swarm of wasps trying to get at a maggot hole in a plum.

  Lisette Norton wasn’t unduly bothered. For once she didn’t cut up a fellow driver or lean on her horn. She had just driven through a beautifully frosted park and had a wonderful conversation on the car phone with her production manager, Flavia Watson. It was the best possible news. Flavia had rung from Ireland where she was on location with the hottest director of the moment, David Wheaton. Lisette had been chasing Wheaton for weeks in the hope that he would come on board to direct Four Poster Bed but he had continually eluded her. He loved the script, adored Lisette’s ideas and the suggestions for art director and DoP; he was also in total agreement as to who should be offered first refusal on the lead roles. But he wouldn’t agree to go ahead with contracts until they had at least one of those lead players confirmed. And that elusive lead player refused to confirm until David had. That player was Niall O’Shaughnessy, and Lisette knew him well enough not to push him; he was extremely wary of making a film with her in the first place, despite the over-inflated fee she was offering him – three times that of the other actors and far more than she could really afford. She had only been able to offer so much by arranging a last-minute tie-in deal with a leading gossip glossy – an idea that she’d thought up during her recent dinner with Sally. If she put him under any pressure to commit, she suspected he would blow up in her face and defect back to the States, where he was being offered ten times as much for a third of the commitment. As such David Wheaton was her trump card and she had fought capped-tooth and acrylic nail to secure him.

  Just as she had begun to despair of moving the stalemate situation on to fresh ground, Flavia had confessed an absolute dream of a secret. Three vast glasses of wine in Soho House and Lisette’s rather uppity, super-efficient West Indian manager had carelessly let out a Freudian slip of the tongue of glorious dimensions. Safe, reliable ‘I’m-not-a-fornicating-luvvie’ Wheaton, who lived in a baby-infested house in Highgate and had a well-publicised marriage to a children’s television supremo, had once been her lover and they remained on very friendly terms. Lisette had seized on the news with delight – dispatching Flavia to Ireland where Wheaton was shooting the last few location shots of a big-budget American nostalgia movie. Flavia had been very reluctant to pull strings, but as Lisette had pointed out, she either pulled them or pulled the plug on her job. Flavia had clearly pulled herself together into the bargain and, with Wheaton confirmed as on board, Lisette knew the project was now on full throttle.

  She dialled through to Bob Hudson’s office as she finally turned into Marylebone High Street, catching the eyes of a few good-looking men outside the street’s bohemian cafes and wishing she had the time to fall in love these days.

  ‘Bob – it’s me. The Cheers! magazine deal has now been accepted as we discussed and – wait for it – Wheaton’s a definite, so I’d like to confirm Niall for Daniel as soon as possible. Will you get the okay from him and ring me back today so that I can get the contracts out to you? Thanks.’

  Ringing off, she turned her red Alfa into the small mews where her office was based and smoked a stealthy cigarette before scaling the external stairs to the glossy, first-floor rooms which housed Sleeping Partners Productions.

  The team’s production secretary, Lucy, was waiting eagerly for her at the doorr />
  ‘Bob Hudson’s just called. We’ve definitely got Niall so long as he gets the publicity tie-in confirmed in the contract.’

  ‘Niall wants that?’ Lisette was momentarily surprised.

  ‘Bob wants that.’ Lucy checked her note-pad. ‘He says he wants a copy of the Cheers! magazine offer before he gets Niall to sign.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Lisette smiled smoothly and headed into her office where she closed the door behind her and shuddered with happiness. Drawing a bottle of Bushmills out of her filing cabinet, she poured herself three fingers and downed it in one with another shudder of pleasure. The taste brought back such vivid sensory memories that it was like drinking a distilled essence of Niall.

  She had often wondered how she would react to the news that he was to remarry. She had anticipated a mule-kick of jealousy in her belly, a stab of rejection in her temples. Not once had she imagined feeling quite so delighted at the prospect.

  The timing of Niall’s marriage, she reflected, was of supreme convenience to her marketing campaign.

  When Tash finally heard Niall’s voice, she almost broke down with happiness. He was calling from Glasgow where they were rehearsing for the swash-buckling swords-and-sporrans epic Celt, which was due to start shooting the following week.

  ‘I’ve missed you so much!’ she wailed.

  ‘Shh, angel – I know, and I’m bloody sorry I’ve made such a cock-up of getting hold of you. Christ, but it’s been hectic up here.’

  ‘I can imagine – I got your fax. It was lovely. I’ve been writing back but you know how lousy I am at finishing anything.’

  ‘Oh, so the fax is back together again then, is it?’ Niall cackled. ‘I wasn’t sure if it had got to you.’

  ‘I’ve borrowed Gus’s – he says he doesn’t know how to work it anyway. Oh, it’s so lovely to hear your voice.’

  ‘Yours too, angel, yours too. Listen, I can’t talk long as I’ve a line rehearsal with Minty in a minute.’