‘ “Hey Lucy, he’s so right for you! Go for it.” ’ That’s what you said. Well, that’s what I’m doing.’
Lucy took another swig of her drink.
‘But that doesn’t mean you have to take some crummy job,’ Emma pleaded.
‘It’s not crummy. I want to work with kids, and this is a great opportunity. Anyway, being with Adam is what counts. I thought you’d be pleased for me. You said that you wanted me to be with the right guy and now I am.’
It occurred to Emma that Lucy would never have been so assertive in the old days. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’m being selfish.’
‘Look, I’ll get us another drink!’ Before Emma could speak, Lucy had jumped up and was heading towards the bar, clearly anxious to take advantage of Emma’s apology to cool things a bit.
Emma sighed. She felt gutted; if there was one thing to which she was not accustomed, it was having her schemes scuppered before they had even got off the ground. For the past ten years, it had always been Emma who had taken the lead and set the rules and Lucy who had been willing to fit in with whatever scheme or dream she had cooked up. They hung out together at weekends; they decided which boys were fit and which definitely weren’t; and every summer Lucy spent at least a month at Emma’s house while Mrs Taylor, a high-flying art historian, hurtled round the world talking about Botticelli and Bruegel. And now here was Lucy leaning on the bar and joking with a couple of guys from the art college. She’d never have had the nerve to do that in the past, but, ever since she’d got it together with Adam back at Easter, she had been a different girl. She dressed more sassily and was positively brimming with newfound confidence.
What’s more, she was making her own decisions and that was something that Emma found very inconvenient.
‘Hey, Emma, what do you say you and I go down to Mango Monkey’s right now and get hammered?’
Emma’s musings were interrupted by Simon Wittering, who was digging her in the ribs, splashing her ankles with lager and leering at her.
‘Get a life!’ When dealing with idiots, Emma believed in cutting to the chase.
‘That’s just what I intend to do.’ Simon laughed. ‘Just think – a whole summer of boozing and bonk—’
‘You,’ declared Emma, standing up and giving him a withering look, ‘are so sad it’s unreal. But then again, the absence of that other “b” must be a real problem for you.’
‘Er – what?’
‘Brain, Simon, brain. Not having one must be such a handicap.’
‘Hell, Emma, you can be so up yourself at times,’ Simon snapped, taking another swig of lager. ‘I don’t know why I bother wasting my time talking to you.’
‘Me neither,’ Emma replied sweetly. ‘So may I suggest you give us both a break and simply shut up?’
Simon was hardly out of earshot before Lucy was at Emma’s elbow. ‘So come on, what did he say? Did he ask you out again? Did you say yes?’
‘Oh puh-leese!’ Emma exclaimed, sticking two fingers into her mouth and making gagging noises. ‘Funnily enough, I prefer not to go out with adolescent schoolboys. If you ask me the only things testosterone seems to hand out are spots and sweaty armpits.’
Lucy burst out laughing. ‘Clearly this is your PMT week, right?’
‘Could be,’ Emma admitted, trying to laugh it off despite the knot in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t hormones that were making her edgy – it was the sudden realisation that everything was changing and there was nothing she could do about it. At school she had been the trendsetter since Year Seven, and everyone aspired to be in her set. But she had enough common sense to realise that it wasn’t always going to be like that. Once she was at uni, she wouldn’t be the centre of anyone’s universe. And after the life she had led, that would take some getting used to.
She had only been a baby when her mother died, and too small to be affected by the scandal surrounding her death (Rock star’s wife found dead in swimming pool during drug-fuelled rave at Florida mansion), but the impact on her father had been cataclysmic. Convinced that it was all his fault – an opinion encouraged by the press of the day, who painted him as irresponsible and reckless, he vowed to change everything about his life and start again. Within a year he had sold his houses in America and London, ditched the fast cars, abandoned the club scene and moved himself and his adored daughters to Sussex. He vowed there and then to devote himself to making amends for his previous hedonistic lifestyle by doing good works and nurturing the planet.
Sixteen years on, Tarquin was still totally committed to all things green, to the point, Emma sometimes thought, of neurosis. When he held dinner parties at Hartfield, he served only locally grown organic food, and English wine that was made from grapes that had been consulted as to their feelings during planting. He was so fussy about meat that he refused to eat it unless he knew not only the farm that it came from but the name and family history of the particular cow or sheep he was consuming. His house was fitted with solar panels in the roof, painted with non-toxic paints and insulated with recycled newspaper and, in an attempt to be carbon neutral, he had bought a hybrid car, a lawnmower that ran on some disgusting concoction that smelled like rotting fish and was now talking about installing composting toilets. At this, Emma had firmly drawn the line and threatened to leave home.
‘You’re not really miffed with me, are you?’ Lucy nudged her out of her daydream and shoved a J20 in front of her. ‘I can’t bear us to fall out.’
‘No – I guess I did push you into it a bit,’ Emma replied with a sigh.
‘And the rest,’ Lucy added with a hint of a smile.
‘It was for your own good and besides, I’ll – well, I’ll miss you . . .’
‘Don’t be silly, I’ll only be in the next village!’ Lucy insisted. ‘And I’ll have loads of free time – we can hang out like we always do. You can come over to my chalet—’ Lucy broke off as her mobile blared out her latest ringtone.
Emma shuddered inwardly. How could Lucy even think of spending the summer in some grotty camp chalet and bobbing about in tepid water with a crowd of snotty kids when she could be at Donwell? It didn’t make sense.
‘It’s Adam,’ Lucy said, waving her mobile in Emma’s face. ‘He’s over at Mango’s. Are you coming?’
‘I guess.’ Emma drained her drink and picked up her bag. ‘Oh, and while you’ve got the phone, you’d better call George and let him know you’re dropping him in it.’
She knew the remark was a bit below the belt but the way she was feeling, she was beyond caring.
‘You tell him,’ Lucy replied calmly. ‘After all, you set it up and besides, like you said, you know him better.’
This calls for crisis management, thought Emma, as they dodged the traffic in the Old Steyne and headed for the club. She knew that, if she wasn’t very careful, her father would insist that she took on Lucy’s job, and she’d always been so careful to steer clear of anything that involved washing up or bed-making.
Only half listening to Lucy’s chatter about Adam’s gorgeous body, Emma cast her mind back to the previous Tuesday morning when George, who was twenty-two and usually very laid back, had turned up at Hartfield in a state of high agitation.
‘You won’t believe what’s happened,’ he had gabbled, sinking down on to one of the ancient kitchen chairs that her father had rescued from Remainders Recycled, and running his hand distractedly through his unruly dark-brown hair. ‘Mum’s just phoned. You know they’re in Cape Town for their silver wedding anniversary?’
‘Sadly, yes.’ Tarquin had sighed. ‘All those air miles. I did suggest the Shetland Isles but they weren’t keen. I just hope they’re off-setting . . .’
‘So what’s the matter?’ Emma had cut in, seeing the anxiety in George’s eyes.
‘Mum got mugged . . .’
‘No!’ Tarquin had gasped.
‘And Dad, idiot that he is, went to chase after the thugs that did it. They hit him over the head and stuck a kni
fe in his chest.’
George had swallowed hard and gazed out of the window.
‘Oh my God, is he . . .?’ Emma had cried.
‘He’s concussed and got stitches and stuff, but the doctors say he should be OK. The thing is their passports were in Mum’s bag and now the authorities won’t let them go till they’ve got new ones.’
He had paused and bit into a slice of carrot cake that Emma had thoughtfully placed in front of him. (‘No additives, GM free,’ Tarquin had assured him as if George cared).
‘It could take another week,’ he had continued. ‘At least. And they’ve got to wait till Dad is let out of hospital.’
‘Well, not to worry,’ Tarquin had begun. ‘The main thing is that your father’s in one piece.’
‘Not to worry!’ George had exploded, spitting cake crumbs over a wide area. ‘You don’t get it. Honestly, I knew Mum and Dad – well, they weren’t exactly operating Donwell on a commercially viable basis, but it’s chaos! The builders haven’t finished decorating the new bedrooms over the stables . . .’
‘I told your father they were cowboys,’ Tarquin had muttered, ‘but would he listen?’
‘. . . And the Health and Safety people want handrails and loads of stupid signs saying, Caution – Water outside by the pool before we can open it again. So I phone Mum, and what does she say? Tells me to keep things afloat until they get back. Like I’m supposed to know what to do!’
‘Well, you are doing an MBA,’ Tarquin had pointed out calmly. ‘And it will be good practice for you – most upcoming entrepreneurs would give their eye-teeth for hands-on experience like this!’
‘That’s the whole point,’ George had insisted impatiently. ‘Without Mum and Dad here, we don’t have enough hands. You remember we lost our chef to Seafood ‘n’ Swallow last month? Well, yesterday the two girls who do waitressing for us at weekends announced that they are going too. Said the pay was better.’
‘Tricky – but at least you’ve got Mrs P,’ Tarquin had reasoned. Mrs Palmer, a huge woman with a heart of gold and very firm ideas about traditional cooking, had been with the family as a cook and housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember and had been seriously put out when the new chef was installed in her kitchen; she called him ‘a foreigner fiddler with food’.
‘Well, yes, obviously,’ George had replied, ‘but treacle pudding and fruit scones are hardly cutting-edge cuisine for the new millennium, are they? The agency sent a substitute chef for the upmarket stuff, but that still leaves us without a waitress or anyone to do the bar or help out in the kitchen when Mrs P’s off.’
‘So can’t the agency find waitresses?’ Tarquin had asked.
‘Most of them are Eastern Europeans and Dad’s adamant that we keep the thing traditionally English,’ George answered. ‘God knows what he’ll say about this Luigi guy.’ He sighed. ‘Besides, they charge a bomb in commission and you can’t have them on a casual basis – they all want contracts and everything. Which would be fine if my sainted parents had managed the place properly. But no – their advertising is crap . . .’
‘George!’
‘Sorry, but it is, and so what happens? We get a weekend with a full house then two weekends with only a smattering. He paused before continuing. ‘I’ve been looking at the figures and between you and me, this season is crucial for us. Dad seriously overspent on the spa last year – he really is Mismanagement Incorporated. The bank is moaning and now Dad’s losing interest and saying that, if we don’t start making decent profits, he’s going to sell up. Shepherd Hotels are already interested in turning the whole place into a conference centre.’
‘Some profit-making, commercial cowboys as my next-door neighbours? No way!’ Tarquin had looked shocked. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make certain this summer is a roaring success, won’t we?’
‘Sure,’ George had replied sarcastically. ‘For success you need to set the right tone and, whatever the parents don’t do right, they are pretty good hosts. Mum does all the meet and greet and charming the socks off people and running around arranging days out, and Dad does the bar and chats up the brides-to-be and that is so not my scene . . .’
At which point, Emma had assured him that he need worry no more. She pointed out that someone like her, who had been accepted to study psychology and human behavioural sciences at uni could only be an asset; and, of course, her interpersonal skills were second to none. (She knew this because her father told everyone whenever he got the chance.)
‘And don’t forget, I was a real hit last year when I did the serving wench thing at the medieval banquet,’ she had reminded him.
‘But this would be real work, Emma – not prancing around in a plunge neckline pouring glasses of mead,’ George had retorted. ‘What if you break a fingernail?’
‘Better than you bursting a blood vessel every five seconds,’ she had snapped back. ‘Besides, I’m not offering to waitress. As if. Lucy can do that. She’ll be thrilled.’
She smiled at George. ‘I’ll do all the meet and greet bit,’ she had announced. ‘Just till your parents are home again. Only not Tuesday mornings because that’s massage and hair, and then next Saturday there’s a gig on – oh, and Lucy’s birthday is . . .’
‘Real help you’ll be then!’ George had snapped. ‘I’ll just tell the guests that they mustn’t need anything until they’ve checked your diary!’
‘Forget it,’ Emma had said. ‘Either you want my skills or you don’t, and frankly —’
‘Skills? Airs and graces more like!’ George had countered. ‘You’ve always been the same —’
‘Oh great – so who put sandpaper on your loo seat, then?’ Emma had barked back.
‘Will you two stop it right now!’ Tarquin had ordered. ‘Honestly, anyone would think you were still children arguing over who should go up the ladder to the tree house first!’
George had looked at Emma, and she had stared back. Then they had both burst out laughing. Admittedly, George’s laughter had only lasted a millisecond, but it was long enough, to Emma’s intense relief, for her father to step in and agree that it did make sense to employ Emma and Lucy (both such lovely girls) rather than pay exorbitant agency fees.
‘And what’s more, I’ll help when I can,’ Tarquin had said magnanimously. ‘After all, you are my favourite godson and, besides, I’ve always wanted to do a feasibility study on solar lighting for the tennis court. Lovely people your parents, but when it comes to protecting the environment . . .’
‘OK, Blob, you’re on,’ George had cut in hastily, and Emma had managed not to yell at him for using her childhood nickname. ‘And you’re sure Lucy will be up for it?’
‘Trust me, she’ll be over the moon,’ Emma had assured him. ‘She needs the money and being with me will be the icing on the cake!’
How on earth am I going to magic a replacement? thought Emma now, as she and Lucy crossed Pool Valley to the lime-green and orange façade of Mango Monkey’s. Because no way am I going to be up at seven every morning serving porridge to a load of pretentious old fogies.
Little did she know that, at that very moment, the answer to her prayers was sitting in a corner of the club, crying quietly into her strawberry and banana fizz.
CHAPTER 2
Daring dream:
Rags to riches, courtesy of Emma W
MOST OF THE GANG WERE ALREADY SITTING AT THE BAR or strutting their stuff on the neon-lit dance floor by the time Emma and Lucy arrived. And within seconds, Lucy was draped all over Adam and indulging in some interesting lip aerobics. Emma, while being as open-minded as the next person, had no real desire to be an up-close spectator, and certainly was not going to succumb to the banal come-ons of Simon and his drooling mates. She glanced around the dimly-lit club in the hopes of spotting someone she knew with whom she could have an intelligent conversation.
‘Isn’t that Harriet?’ she murmured, nudging Serena who was queuing with Tabitha at the bar. ‘Over there in the corner?’
&nb
sp; Serena peered across the room. ‘What on earth is she doing here?’ she muttered. ‘Pretend you haven’t see her – she’s probably with the rest of the saddos from Mouldy Hill.’
Emma glared at her. When Mole Hill Secondary, the worst sink school in town, had been the target of an arson attack, Deepdale Hall had offered to take Harriet and the few other sixth formers so that they could finish their A-level studies. As Mrs Goddard, the elegant and charismatic principal, explained to her privileged pupils, it behoved them all to share their good fortune with those to whom life had dealt a raw deal. (She failed to mention that since the Government had only recently declared that all independent schools should use their expertise to assist failing secondary schools, she was certain of highly favourable headlines in an assortment of national newspapers as well as a very useful financial reward.)
The Mole Hillers had stood out like sore thumbs among the self-confident, affluent students of Deepdale Hall and most of Emma’s friends had pointedly ignored their existence. Even Emma, who prided herself on her ability to talk to anyone, realised on reflection that she could have been a bit more welcoming. So when she had overheard Mrs Goddard mentioning to the head of Sixth Form that Harriet Smith had been through ‘a particularly trying time in the last few years’ and muttering something about ‘if you read it in a book, you would be hard pressed to believe it,’ her curiosity had been aroused and she had decided that the poor girl needed befriending.
In the short time she had known her, she had discovered that Harriet, who was extremely pretty in a chubby, Rubens-maiden kind of way, was really very sweet. She was softly spoken, with the faintest Welsh lilt to her voice, and she had neither nose ring nor tattoo; and her gorgeous chestnut hair did not come out of a bottle. Sadly, she had no self-confidence and wore clothes that were so last season. To her credit, she was hugely grateful to Emma for taking notice of her and was perfectly happy to answer all her questions. Within half an hour of their first meeting, she had discovered that Harriet had once been a pupil at Oak Lodge private school but, following family problems, she had left and gone to Mole Hill three years before.
Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams Page 2
