Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘FUCK!’ he whispered.

  How the Hell had Gunston managed to work so fast?

  ‘FUCK!’ he said again, and backed silently away.

  About five hours later, at eleven o’clock, Charlie woke Jo with a cup of coffee (decaffeinated). He pulled open the curtains at the two long windows opposite their bed, and paused briefly to revel, once again, in the beauty of his park, which looked more beautiful to him every day and which, this morning, was bathed in the softest of autumn sunlight.

  When she first came to Fiddleford, before the money ran out, Jo had wanted to transform their bedroom into an oasis of urban good taste, something to retreat to when her new life became too unbearably rural. She’d covered the 1970s floral wallpaper with white paint, and had a sisal carpet laid beneath the rugs. Above the marble mantelpiece she’d hung a very fine and very large, simple, modern oil of something green and yellow. Whatever it was it looked magnificent.

  But by the time her pièce de résistance – an ankle-height rubber and worsted-steel bed – finally arrived from its showroom in Westbourne Grove, the old-world charm of Fiddleford had seduced her. She sent it back. And replaced it with a brass bed she’d discovered in one of the junk-filled corners of the old stables. The result, a mild-mannered mixture of old and new, was a lovely, welcoming room: a room which lightened her spirit every time she walked into it.

  ‘I left you sleeping,’ Charlie said, collecting pillows from around the bed and propping them up behind her so she and her belly could sit up. ‘I know you’ve got lots to do. But after what happened last night—’

  ‘It wasn’t anything,’ she said. ‘Honestly. My knees just went a bit funny.’

  ‘Messy says she fainted when she was pregnant with Chloe a couple of times. She says you probably ought to stay in bed, at least for a bit. They made her stay in bed for a fortnight.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jo, her hackles rising immediately, ‘she’s hardly a doctor, is she?’

  ‘Mm? No, she’s only—’

  ‘So I presume she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’

  ‘Of course not. She was just being friendly, I think.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’

  ‘Well – yes,’ he said, looking at her cautiously.

  ‘Anyway, Charlie, I’d prefer it if you didn’t discuss my medical situation with our guests. It is private.’

  ‘Private?’ he laughed. ‘Jo, you’ve discussed your “medical situation” with anyone who’ll listen every day for the last eight months. And you passed out in front of her! What was she supposed to do? Pretend not to notice?’

  ‘And in case you were wondering,’ she said, ignoring his question and, feeling unjustly wrong-footed, beginning to shout, ‘in case you were wondering, the last thing I want to do is spend the next sodding fortnight in bed!’

  There was a moment’s silence as her words reverberated. She caught his eye and chuckled sheepishly.

  ‘Slept well then?’ said Charlie.

  She shook her head, took a gulp of coffee and he watched her, a faint, distracted smile on his face. ‘OK,’ he said carefully, ‘I’m going to mention a person’s name to you. That’s all. But please, promise me, before I give you the name, promise me you’ll stay calm…’

  She stared at him. ‘…Anatollatia! Jesus Christ!’ She tried to climb out of bed, immediately lost her balance and fell back onto the pillows again, spilling coffee over her chest as she did so.

  ‘No, it’s OK. Everything’s fine. She’s downstairs at the moment, and she’s very happy. She’s spent the last two hours scouring the papers like a bloody drug addict, looking for stories about herself. And as you know there are an awful lot of them. So she’s having a wonderful time. She got here last night. And though she says it wasn’t her, it obviously was. At any rate somebody’s tipped off the press. We’ve got reporters crawling all over the village, apparently. In fact they’ve been so annoying I’ve had to disconnect the intercom.’

  Jo groaned.

  ‘But she’s actually quite sweet. Thick as pig shit, poor little thing. And hideous—’

  ‘Looks-not-relevant, Charlie,’ she said automatically. ‘Please. Don’t be sexist.’

  He ignored her. Possibly didn’t even hear her. Jo’s endlessly appropriate interjections had long ago lost their power to impinge on his consciousness. ‘But sweet,’ he continued blithely. ‘Quite boring. But definitely sweet.’

  Jo sighed. ‘Sweet or not, she knows perfectly well not to talk to the press. Who let her in anyway?’

  ‘Grey and Messy from what I can work out. Though I must say they’re both being bloody obtuse about it. And then Grey told her it was too late to ask us where she was sleeping.’ His face cracked into a grin. ‘So she slept on one of the sofas in the drawing room.’

  ‘No!’ Jo hauled herself out of bed faster than she had managed in weeks, spilling coffee everywhere again and hardly even noticing it. ‘Please,’ she said, reaching for the first piece of clothing she could find – last night’s black woollen maternity trousers, with a blob of chocolate on the belly – ‘tell me you’re joking! Tell me it’s not true!’

  ‘But the thing is, Jo…Listen. I’ve shown her the bedroom now. She’s had a bath and all that. She’s actually – to be fair to her, she’s actually taken it incredibly well. She’s made a lot of feeble jokes about sofas and sofabeds, but honestly, I think she thinks it’s all a tremendous adventure. I keep telling you, she’s having the time of her life.’

  Back in his bedroom, having been careful to retrieve the effusive letter plus cheque on his way through the kitchen, Maurice Morrison put a call through to his PA. Twenty minutes later she called back to reassure him that, so far as she knew, nobody in the media had any idea where he was hiding, and that the reporters at Fiddleford Manor were in pursuit of a girl called Princess Anatollatia von Schlossenerg. If her tone suggested she would have liked to know more, Maurice didn’t choose to pick up on it.

  Instead, mightily relieved but still angry, he snapped shut his mobile phone, swallowed a handful of vitamin pills, and changed into his jogging pants. Apart from yelling at his staff, which he couldn’t do here in case the others heard him, Morrison’s favourite way to work off any frustration was by sprinting very fast around Regent’s Park. On this occasion the park at Fiddleford would obviously have to do.

  It had the desired effect. By the time he finally came down to the kitchen, where the rest of the household was still lingering over breakfast, he had run, stretched, showered for a second time, and made at least a dozen more calls. He was one hundred per cent his ebullient and charming self once again.

  The Albanian, he’d been informed, had not died overnight. But TB’s people had suggested he wait a couple more days before putting in an appearance at the bedside. In the meantime Maurice could manage most of his affairs from here. And then of course there was Messy to be thought about. And various schemes. Various things to organise. He had already spoken with Gunston. After an interminable eleven-minute conversation, during which she had proposed several changes to the current degradable refuse legislation, he judged his secret, after all, was safe with her, at least for a while yet.

  He found Messy and Grey sitting silently side by side at the kitchen table, staring at their newspapers. He noticed they didn’t look up when he came in. He also noticed that Grey was examining share prices, which was intriguing. He found the General putting down his magazine and rising from his leather armchair beside the Aga to welcome the Minister in. And the Sleazy Stripper, in tight white jeans and cream-coloured cashmere turtleneck, discussing shoes with his hostess, Joanna. Who looked a mess, he noticed: red eyes, dirty hair and last night’s trousers.

  ‘See the problem with tan, I think,’ Anatollatia was saying, ‘especially with the teeny-tiny heels, is you’re always running the risk of looking a bit Susie. Do you know? Do you know what I mean?’

  Jo nodded enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely,’ she lied. ‘Anatollatia, I am so sorry about last
night.’

  ‘Oh forget about that,’ said Anatollatia impatiently.

  ‘Also, perhaps after you’ve finished breakfast I think we need to have a quick natter about the ground rules here. OK? Because it is essential, for everyone’s security, that while you’re at Fiddleford you really don’t talk to the press. At all. Except through me. Are you clear on that?’

  ‘Totally! But, Jo, I really swear—’ Like a child she gazed across at Jo, an expression of entirely unconvincing innocence in her wide blue eyes. ‘I mean, I know you think I rang that particular journalist – or whatever. Whichever one it was. But I absolutely swear I didn’t. Honestly. I swear! Cross my heart!’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ said Jo soothingly. ‘Just for future reference, yes? No more chats with anyone in the media. While you’re here, Anatollatia, the aim is not for you to get yourself any more bad publicity. It’s for me to try and turn the bad publicity around.’

  Anatollatia gave her a double thumbs up and grinned. ‘You got it, dude!’ she said. ‘But seriously though, Jo. I really think if you’re going for teeny-tiny, plus, you know, with the tan, you’ve just got to be subtle. That’s all. That’s actually all I’m saying. Or you’re going to end up looking like a slut. Frankly. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Maurice, holding out a hand to the new guest. ‘How d’you do. You must be Anatollatia von Schlossenerg. Maurice Morrison. So sorry to have missed you last night.’ He turned to Jo. ‘May I impertinently inquire what all the apologies are in aid of?’

  ‘Oh God, Maurice! Our hero! The man who saved us from Sue-Marie Gunston!’ Jo stood up to hug him, found her belly in the way, and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder instead. ‘How can we ever repay you?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Maurice. ‘It was nothing! Nothing! As a matter of fact I rather got the impression the poor lady was new to the job, didn’t you? Probably told her at college, go in with a firm hand. All that nonsense. I think she was actually desperate for a little guidance.’

  ‘Well, Messy and Grey have very kindly volunteered to go to Lamsbury this morning and fetch a lot of easi-clean paint and things. So at least when she comes back it’ll look like we’re making an effort.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Maurice automatically. Sue-Marie Gunston would not be fooled. But that was hardly his problem. Quite the contrary in fact.

  ‘Good morning to you, Maurice,’ said Grey pleasantly. ‘And thank you kindly for savin’ our bacon last night. Can I get you a cup o’ coffee?’

  ‘Goodness! And good morning to you, too, Mr McShane. And good morning to you, Messy.’ He beamed at her. ‘…Oh, by the way, I’ve got some—I hope you don’t mind. I was so touched by your enthusiasm last night, Messy, I rather took it into my head—’ He paused, delved into the inside pocket of his lightweight Donna Karan leather driving coat, and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘Here we are—I put in a couple of calls, because of course there’s a large school just down the road in Lamsbury. I spoke to the head and he’s longing for you to drop in for one of those little chats—’

  She looked blank.

  ‘Which we were talking about,’ he prompted. ‘To the sixth formers.’

  ‘Oh. Of course!’

  ‘Any day next week, he says. You can have the whole sixth-form for an hour. So I should take a few signed copies of the book, don’t you think? Anyway it’s all written down here.’ With one of his most charming and self-effacing grins, he slid the scrap of paper across the table.

  ‘That’s—Maurice, that’s amazing,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, please. It’s just a little something. Just to get you going. Until you’re ready to start the next book.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Think of it, if you bother to think of it at all, as a wholly inadequate attempt at recompense for my dreadful behaviour on Question Time.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your behaviour that was dreadful!’

  He held up a hand. ‘For which,’ he continued, ‘I really am truly sorry. Especially, if I may say so, now that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you better.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Grey, without looking up from his newspaper. ‘Any more of this an’ I’m gonna vomit.’

  ‘Shh. Shut up, Grey,’ she said mildly. ‘And, Maurice, thank you. Really…So thoughtful.’ The idea of discussing body image with the adolescents of Lamsbury – petrol bombers all of them, no doubt – was not entirely uplifting. But it was clear he had gone to some trouble. And she couldn’t help it, she was flattered.

  ‘Well! I should probably apologise to you, Messy,’ said Jo irritably, ‘for not having thought of something like this myself.’

  Messy laughed. ‘I should think you’ve got enough on your plate. How are you this morning by the way? Shouldn’t you be in bed? I remember when I was having Chloe—’

  ‘Yes, Charlie told me. I’m fine, Messy, thank you,’ Jo said sharply, and tried to sweeten it with the flash of a professional smile. ‘I think this could be an excellent rehabilitation vehicle for you. I suggest we hand-pick a couple of journalists to come down and cover it. What do you say?’

  ‘Oh.’ Messy sounded apologetic. ‘I’d much prefer not…I mean unless you’re thinking about the…money—’

  ‘No!’ said Jo. ‘No, of course not.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve more than paid your way. I’m just thinking about your image.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’d definitely prefer to keep it private.’

  ‘There you go again,’ exclaimed Maurice. ‘Hiding your light under a bushel! But you need to get out there, Messy. Brave the world again! Show ’em what a star you really are!’

  ‘No. Not at all. I was just saying—’

  ‘Me and my kids used to adore you on Top of the Pops,’ lied Maurice, who, between his other adventures that morning, had ordered Messy’s biog to be e-mailed to him, and had spent several minutes examining it. ‘We used to watch you religiously. Every Friday night. It was the highlight of our week. My son absolutely worshipped you…and so, I might add…’ he said, setting his head to one wry side and pausing, so she could interrupt—

  ‘Oh hogwash!’ she cried, flushing with pleasure. ‘Honestly, Maurice, for such an incredibly successful man you do talk rubbish!’

  ‘Right.’ Grey closed his paper and stood up. ‘I’m off to Lamsbury. I’ll see you all later.’

  ‘Oh! No! Grey! Wait for me!’ As she jumped up she knocked the scrap of paper Maurice had given her to the floor. He strode forward to help her retrieve it, and in doing so managed with perfect daintiness to obstruct her path to the door. She thanked him profusely as he handed it back to her; she tried as politely as she could to dodge around him. But she moved too slowly. Or the men moved too fast. By the time she was free Grey was already gone, and, for once in his life, he’d closed the door behind him.

  An awkward pause followed while Messy, looking crestfallen, quietly sat down again.

  ‘Bloody Hell!’ yelled Anatollatia. ‘Hope he buys an extra bedroom while he’s out! ’Cos I wouldn’t mind actually sleeping in a bed tonight! D’you know what I mean?’ She threw back her long thin head and howled.

  ‘Oh do shut up,’ said the General.

  ‘Sorry. By the way has anyone got a copy of the Daily Star?’

  ‘We don’t tend to get the Star,’ said Jo. ‘But I can certainly order it for you, if you’d like.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t bother. I just thought there might be something in it, you know, about me. Incidentally, when’s that dishy tennis player turning up? Is he dishy in fact? Does anyone actually know?’ She sighed. ‘I bloody hope so. Here I am, stuck in the dreaded country with two bloody gorgeous blokes in the house, and they’re both taken! Just my luck, hey? Oh. And you, Maurice. Sorry.’

  ‘And the General!’ said Jo quickly, smiling at him. But he was embarrassed. He pretended not to hear.

  ‘Well!’ sighed Maurice, stung, but manag
ing to rise above it with his usual grace. ‘Messy! I must say I find myself at something of a loose end this morning. I don’t suppose you could use any help in your marvellous garden?’

  Just then Grey poked his head round the kitchen door. He winked at Messy. ‘Are you comin’ then?’ he said.

  ‘What? Yes, of course I am!’ She stood up to follow him, and then remembered Maurice’s question. ‘Oh goodness, sorry, Maurice! And thank you! What a generous offer. You’ll find a fork in the greenhouse, if you feel like doing any digging. So thank you…And thanks for the er – you know. The speechy thing.’ And once again, Grey closed the door behind them.

  Nigel wasn’t dishy, as it turned out. At least not in any obvious way. He arrived alone, silent and humourless and utterly innocuous, the only obvious proof of his presence at Fiddleford the vast amount of food he put away. He was beefy, pale and, like a lot of professional sportsmen, catatonically incurious. Nigel’s world ranking had been slipping every year for the last six, and since then, what with the injuries, the work-outs, the interminable conversations with advisors (all of them, thanks to the cheating scandal, now leaping at the opportunity to dump him), he had lost the habit of wondering about anything except his failing career. He’d been staying at Fiddleford for three long days before Colin Fairwell happened to tell him what all his fellow guests were in for.