Gifted and Talented

by Holden, Wendy

  All this seemed amazing to Diana. Her previous experience of neighbours had been the Oopvards in London: Sara Oopvard, with her aquarium cleaner, Christmas-tree themer and Olympic-level social ambitions. She had wanted not so much to keep up with the Joneses as to annihilate them. But on the Campion Estate, the Joneses actually got helped.

  Debs had offered, from the start, not only friendship and company, but help of the most generous and practical kind. If Diana was delayed at work, or in traffic, Debs would happily take Rosie home from school with Shanna-Mae. While the good words that Debs put in for her with other mothers on the Campion Estate smoothed Diana’s path from the start in the school playground. She had never stood there as an awkward new mother, just as Rosie had never felt like an awkward new girl.

  Diana was deeply grateful. It seemed to her that, to far greater positive effect, Debs was a social force to rival her ghastly former London neighbour, Sara Oopvard.

  She did what she could in return. Mostly this was – with Rosie’s help – work in Debs’ garden. But, even as she dug, she was aware that there was something else Debs wanted.

  While obviously curious about Diana’s past, Debs’ innate good manners prevented her from prying. Diana had told her little more than the fact of being divorced but, just as Debs obviously secretly longed to know all the details, Diana secretly longed to give her them, to unburden herself more fully, preferably over a glass of wine or three. Perhaps she even ought to. Only after admitting what had happened, and to someone she trusted, could she really come to terms with it and move on.

  Once or twice she had been on the brink of disclosure. But then her natural caution stepped in and warned that the financial details of her divorce were too sensational not to weigh down the fragile foundations of such a short friendship.

  ‘Wine?’ Debs asked, pressing a plump finger on the tap of the wine box in the kitchen. Diana nodded gratefully. In the sitting room, Rosie and Shanna-Mae frowned over their exercise books.

  ‘How’s the love life going?’ Debs wanted to know. ‘Not got yourself a nice new man yet?’

  Diana had not been intending to tell Debs about Richard. It was not long, after all, since she had sat in this very kitchen and excoriated him. But now she felt herself blush. And she could not, after all, keep everything secret.

  Debs stared at her for a moment, then punched the air with her powerful arm. ‘You’ve got a date? You go, girl! Who’s the bloke?’

  ‘He’s called Richard,’ Diana said carefully.

  Debs peered at her again. ‘Not him from the college!’ she cackled. ‘The one you said you hated?’

  Diana dipped her head and stared at the floor. It did all sound rather unlikely. Ridiculous, even. Perhaps there was no point. She had nothing to talk to him about; she knew nothing about neuroscience.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Debs said comfortably. ‘He might know all about brains but you know all about gardening. Ask you a question about plants and you can go on for hours.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m boring?’

  She noticed that Debs sidestepped the question. ‘Just because he’s a top scientist doesn’t mean he’s got common sense,’ her neighbour sagely added. ‘Knowing your arse from your elbow, that’s what matters in the end.’

  ‘He’s only asking me out because he feels guilty,’ Diana fretted.

  ‘Well, what if he is?’ Debs chuckled. ‘Dinner out in a fancy restaurant’s my sort of guilt.’

  ‘He didn’t say it would be a fancy restaurant,’ Diana pointed out.

  ‘Bound to be,’ Debs returned cheerfully. ‘Master of the college. Hardly going to take you to McDonald’s, is he? Probably take you somewhere new and posh.’

  ‘Lecturer,’ Diana said, having read an advertorial about it in a freesheet only that morning. It was the latest luxury boutique hotel.

  Debs looked amazed. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘That he was a lecherer. He sounded like a nice bloke.’

  Later, when Rosie was in bed – newly decorated nails spread carefully out over the top of her duvet – Diana was jerked from dozing over her gardening magazine by her mobile ringing. Who could possibly be calling at this hour?

  ‘Hello? Diana?’ The voice was a woman’s. Crisp, entitled and obviously used to getting its way. Diana struggled to place it.

  ‘Sara Upward, darling.’ There was an impatient note in the voice now.

  Upward? Oh, Oopvard. Of course. Pronounced Upward, not inaptly. Diana narrowed her eyes. Why was she calling? Sara had cast Diana into the outer darkness, had she not?

  ‘Hello Sara,’ she said evenly, unable to resist adding, ‘Long time no hear.’

  ‘Sweet one, I’ve been longing to get in touch but I lost your number,’ Sara cooed, not particularly convincingly. ‘But let me get to the point— Oh, that’s the doorbell . . . Give me two secs, will you, darling, while I find someone to open it . . .’

  Diana imagined her former neighbour clacking about her gracious home in her high heels, checking her extensively remodelled face in any one of many large mirrors as she sought one of her numerous domestic helpers.

  Sara’s voice – high-pitched and breathy but with unmistakeable steel beneath – came back to the phone.

  ‘So, Diana, darling. Congratulate me. I’m a free woman.’

  Diana considered this. It was not entirely clear what was meant. Free, certainly, is not how Henrik would describe his very expensive wife. Then, a shaft of insight. Surely not, though? ‘You’re leaving Henrik?’

  The golden goose? Henrik looked like a goose, now Diana came to think of it – pale, and with a long neck. For Sara to leave him was unexpected, even so.

  ‘No, Henrik’s leaving me, which is much better.’ The voice on the other end was loudly exultant.

  ‘But why?’

  Sara sniffed. ‘Turned out he was putting rather more than messages into the inbox of a certain female colleague. But who cares? It’s all worked out wonderfully. My lawyer’s squeezed poor old Henny till the pips squeak. I’ve got the house and everything. Oh, and Milo,’ she added, the joy draining suddenly from her tone.

  ‘How is Milo?’ It seemed unlikely that time and circumstance had improved him.

  ‘He’s nine now,’ Sara said briskly, ‘and I want him to focus on where he’s going in life.’

  Does anyone, at the age of nine, know where they’re going in life? Diana was about to say. The idea seemed preposterous. But then she stopped herself and asked, instead, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, obviously, after Smart’s he’ll be going to St Paul’s. Or Westminster,’ Sara announced confidently. ‘And one of our ancient universities after that. So I just wanted to show him one, you know. Focus him a bit. So that’s why I thought we might come and see you. Stay for a few days. Have a look round.’

  Diana’s heart sank. She had better things to do than waste her time being Sara Oopvard’s tour guide. She determined to brush off the responsibility. This woman had done nothing to help her, after all. ‘You want me to recommend some hotels?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Sara trilled. ‘We want to come and stay with you. Catch up! It’s been ages! Milo’s missed Rosie so much!’

  Diana blinked. Sara Oopvard, chatelaine of one of the finest houses in one of West London’s most expensive areas, wanted to come to her council estate? Surely not. The idea was ludicrous. Perhaps she had the address and thought she lived on another sort of estate: one with a long, tree-lined driveway and stables.

  Then Diana remembered how mean Sara was. Gnats’ arses had nothing on the grasp she had on the Oopvard finances. Diana almost felt sorry for Henrik. Experienced on the international money markets he may be, but there would only be one winner on the domestic front.

  ‘So, if you cou
ld put us up for a bit, that would be great,’ Sara pressed.

  Diana struggled for the words. ‘Look, Sara, honestly, I don’t have the room . . .’

  ‘We’ll squash in with you! We love to be cosy!’

  ‘A hotel would be better,’ Diana insisted. ‘There’s a new one just opened, a boutique one, called Lecturer . . .’ She enunciated the name carefully. It really wasn’t a brilliant one for a restaurant, even one in a university town.

  ‘Boutique hotels are out,’ Sara cut in. ‘I’m a divorcée now, after all. Have to watch the pennies. You know all about that, of course . . .’

  Diana let this pass. ‘When are you coming?’ she sighed. She was tired; she accepted the inevitable. She knew Sara Oopvard of old. Even if she, Diana, refused, Sara would still turn up. The brass areas of Sara’s anatomy were not confined to the neck. She had a brass everything.

  The Hagworthingham Chronicle had been a disappointment. Yet another waste of time, Olly felt. He had been told by the interviewing panel – specifically, a pompous, brassy blonde in a too-tight dress – that a great many well-qualified people had also applied for the position and that it was therefore unlikely he would get through to the next stage. Should that be the case, he would be contacted by letter. He was already sure, as he left, that he would not be.

  It was hard not to feel bitter. Especially as the newspapers he had read on the way to the interview seemed full of the by-lines of former student contemporaries. And most papers that morning had run in their diary column the fact that Jasper De Borchy – despite the fact he was supposed to be studying at a university some hundred miles to the north – had been voted, at a recent gathering of great social minds, London’s most eligible male. He had, naturally, been accompanied on this auspicious occasion by Amber Piggott.

  Olly had glared at the accompanying photograph of the handsome, self-satisfied face. ‘Currently setting all undergraduette hearts aflame,’ read the sidebar. ‘And setting other things aflame as well, if the club of which Jasper is a member – the university’s exclusive Bullinger Club – is living up to its notoriously destructive reputation.’

  Olly soothed his ragged nerves by thinking about Isabel. Jasper De Borchy might have looks, money and influence. But he didn’t know Isabel. She was, Olly felt, and despite the Hagworthingham setback, his guiding star, so cheerful a prospect it was impossible to feel depressed. He had texted her a few times, hoping to meet up when he got back, but she had not yet replied. Possibly her mobile had run out of juice. Or she had lost it. He would go up to Branston tomorrow, Olly decided happily. Cut out the middleman. Much better to see her in the flesh, anyway – and what flesh it was!

  In the meantime, tonight, he would make good use of his time. Get on the internet. Start looking again for a job.

  It was raining and Olly’s suit was wrinkled and soaking by the time he got home. He winced at the thought of dry-cleaning costs. Not that he was likely to be recalled to the presence of the pompous, brassy blonde.

  The house, when he let himself in, seemed oddly silent. He had the distinct feeling there had just been a row; there was a still-ringing quality to the quiet, as if the shouting had only just stopped. Even Hero’s music was not thumping as usual. He crept upstairs, not wanting to disturb the peace he imagined had only just fallen. Although now, as he approached his room, he could hear a noise: behind Dotty’s music-room door, a softly keening violin was winding up into the cold air of the staircase. It sounded sad; he wanted to burst in, share with Dotty some of his own good cheer. But perhaps he should leave her to herself; besides, he was soaked through.

  He shrugged off his wet clothes, unable quite to rid himself of the sense that someone had been in his room in his absence. Yes. His laptop was missing. Suspecting Hero, Olly immediately went down and banged on her door.

  She was on Twitter, as usual, sitting cross-legged on her black-covered bed, tapping the keys with long black nails. The light from the screen glowed blue on her dead-white face.

  ‘Who are you following?’ He could not help but be interested. She looked so intent.

  ‘I told you. Amber Piggott. And her friends.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Olly told her. ‘On my bloody laptop, as well. Where’s yours, anyway?’ Hers was much better, after all.

  The panda eyes narrowed and the black-painted mouth twisted. ‘She –’ Olly knew this meant Dotty – ‘threw it out of the window.’

  ‘That window?’ he glanced at the window of Hero’s bedroom, or the eternally drawn, black curtains, which covered where the window must be. He had never actually seen it. But it was there; he could hear the rain hurling itself against the glass like a handful of pebbles.

  ‘No, the kitchen one,’ Hero said sullenly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Said I shouldn’t tweet at the table. Just eat.’

  ‘Well, good for her,’ Olly said, taking his laptop and turning to leave for the fresher air of the landing.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ Hero shouted furiously after him as he closed the door.

  Olly was nonplussed. He did not recall ever telling Hero she could use his laptop. He carried on downstairs. He was hungry; he had a packet of noodles somewhere and a couple of cans of lager that had been on special offer at the corner shop. A modest feast indeed, but the thought was unexpectedly cheering. He felt, at the moment, that nothing could depress his spirits.

  A noise in the hall made him glance down. His eyes met the top of Dotty’s magenta beret and a shabby black and white tweed coat with big black plastic buttons down the front and on the epaulettes. David, opening the front door, looked strained and dishevelled in a creased navy cagoule.

  ‘You going out?’ Olly asked. ‘In this weather?’

  Dotty tipped her face upwards and gave him a smile that barely struggled past her nostrils. ‘Parents’ evening at the school,’ she said, with a little twitching movement of her lips.

  Olly now realised what the feeling of dreadful doom was all about. And the rows. Perhaps they’d decided to have them in advance, get them over with. Or they might have been a warm-up.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, sincerely. ‘Still being a commando parent, Dotty?’

  She raised doleful eyebrows. ‘I’m leaning towards being a cheerleader one now,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s all about praising your child’s achievements.’

  ‘What achievements?’ David groaned from the doorway.

  Dotty turned on him furiously. ‘Your negative mindset hardly helps, David.’

  He held up both palms in a gesture of defeat. ‘Look, can we just go and get it over with?’

  Like condemned men, they went out into the rain.

  Olly ate, drank and went back upstairs. He looked for jobs on various websites. One site, SkintStudent.com, offered to match the person to the job and Olly typed in his details, citing ‘Desperately’ and ‘Anything’ in the fields for how much you wanted work and what you were prepared to do. The match it made for Olly was with something called Petting Zoo. It supplied animals to children’s parties and required handlers. No experience was necessary, as full training would be given. Due to what was described as a temporary technical hitch, there were no pictures and Olly, typing in his details in the ‘Fancy A Job With Us?’ bit, imagined rabbits and white mice.

  This done, he went down for another beer and was rootling in the alien glow of the open fridge when, from the distance of the hall, the outside door banged.

  This was followed by the bang of the sitting-room door as Hero, who, in the absence of a laptop, had made a rare trip downstairs to watch the telly and had been immersed in some gloomy Scandinavian murder mystery all evening, shot back up to her room.

  David, his face ashen, stomped into the kitchen.

  ‘How did parents’ evening go?’ Olly inquired as he peeled the tab off a lager can.
A surge of foam shot out and ran coldly over his fingers.

  In reply, David just stared at him with haunted eyes. Olly raised the can. ‘Want one of these?’

  With a sort of strangled growl, David shook his head and lunged for the cereal cupboard, at the back of which, Olly knew, reposed the whisky bottle.

  Dotty came into the kitchen now, looking distraught. She said nothing to Olly, just dragged out a chair with a screech of legs on floor, sat down hard and covered her face with her hands. Olly diplomatically left the kitchen. He did not want to intrude on private grief.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Amber had said, as Jasper, with one last look at Isabel, had drifted out. ‘Let’s get the wretched thing over with.’

  This was the introduction to hours of work on Amber’s column. The first item was the award for London’s most eligible singletons, which Jasper had won.

  ‘I’m sure that won’t surprise you,’ Amber had said, glancing slyly at Isabel from the bed where she lay dictating.

  Isabel said nothing. She wondered why Jasper wasted his time in this way; on the other hand, Amber could be difficult to resist and perhaps they were a couple, they certainly looked right together, although the situation was otherwise hard to read. But the real surprise, Isabel felt, was the amazing extent of Amber’s extracurricular activities. She hardly ever seemed to be in college. University was, of course, designed so people could run their own lives: enormous freedom combined with relatively few formal obligations. But even so, Amber seemed to be pushing it.

  In the past seven days she had topless-modelled jewels for an in-flight magazine and been to Paris and Venice. She seemed to use private jets like other people used buses. ‘You bet!’ Amber crowed when she mentioned this. ‘The first time we flew scheduled, I turned to my mother and asked her who all the other people on the plane were.’ Hysterical laughter followed this witticism.