Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams

by Rosie Rushton

Emma was so gob-smacked that a guy would notice such a thing that she completely failed to reply with a witty riposte. She’d known Theo, who was studying medicine at Cambridge, for years; he had grown up in the neighbouring village of Fyfield. His father was chaplain of Fyfield College, which was only half a notch lower than Eton and Harrow in the swank ratings and the Knightley boys had been at school with him. Theo had always seemed a bit of an oddball; an only child whose idea of fun was playing in chess tournaments and keeping geckos. But now, as she eyed his tanned legs in frayed denim shorts and noted the way his slate-grey eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, she realised that he’d turned into someone almost worthy of a place on her reserve list for parties.

  ‘Look, I know you’ve only just got here,’ Theo ventured. ‘But you couldn’t help me set up the croquet on the lawn, could you? A couple of the guests want to play and they are most definitely not the type to be kept waiting.’

  ‘Well, not really because I need to see George about something vital,’ Emma began.

  He sighed. ‘Don’t talk to me about George! He gets me over here to revamp the hotel website and what do I end up doing? Acting as some kind of unpaid groundsman!’ He looked at the clutter of croquet equipment in disgust.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Harriet offered eagerly. ‘Not that I have a clue what to do.’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Theo assured her. ‘You’re a star – thanks a lot.’ He gathered up the kit and headed towards the manicured upper lawn. ‘Follow me!’

  Emma watched them as they began hammering hoops into the lawn, Theo’s muscular arms swinging in even strokes while Harriet wielded the mallet as if it might explode in her hands at any minute. She smiled to herself as Theo marched purposefully behind Harriet, and put his hands over hers, demonstrating just how it should be done. And, as Harriet turned and smiled up into Theo’s face, the seed of an idea began sprouting in Emma’s fertile imagination.

  George’s father had been adamant that his home should look like a home and not be, in his words, ‘tarted up and commercialised’. As a result, there were none of the trappings of the usual bland hotel. The ten guest bedrooms had names instead of numbers, the sitting rooms were often frequented by the family dogs, Breeze, Brenna and Brodie, and the games room still housed the table tennis table and Subbuteo that Emma and George had fought over as children, along with piles of board games and an ancient Bagatelle. The reception desk just inside the front door was an old pine table, and behind it was a tiny office – once a walk-in closet – from where Emma could hear the odd ‘Damn!’ and ‘Oh, sugar!’ being muttered. She punched the bell, winced slightly at the ‘Now what?’ grunted from behind the half-open office door, and then grinned as George burst out, looking anything but the welcoming host.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Am I glad to see you!’ He gave Emma a quick hug and glanced around the hall, its walls festooned with portraits of somewhat severe Knightleys of old. ‘Where’s this Harriet person? Don’t tell me she’s dropped out as well,’ he groaned.

  ‘She’s in the garden helping Theo with the croquet stuff,’ Emma said.

  ‘Already? Good on her.’ He nodded approvingly.

  ‘You didn’t tell me he’d be here.’

  George shrugged. ‘To be honest, it was a spur of the moment kind of thing after we’d had a few beers at the cricket club last Wednesday. I was saying what a mess the website was in – as if I didn’t have enough problems – and I asked if he felt like helping me out, seeing as how he’s so into all that technical stuff.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t exactly smitten with the idea at first, but I said you and Lucy would be here, and there’d be the chance to play golf and use the health club.’

  ‘Bribery!’

  ‘I just thought it might cheer him up. Verity Price chucked him last month and he’s taken it really badly.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know, she was his first ever girlfriend? Can you believe that? What’s he been doing all this time?’

  Seeing the look of disbelief on her friend’s face, Emma wondered fleetingly how many girlfriends George had had. With his olive skin and eyes the colour of overcooked gingerbread, he wasn’t bad looking, and, when he was in the right mood, he could charm the birds off the trees. He had been at uni for three years, and most of his holidays had been spent on work experience projects in America and France; she’d hardly seen anything of him until this summer. He could have been doing anything.

  ‘So he’s unattached? Available?’ Emma asked eagerly.

  ‘Oh, come off it – he is so not your type,’ George responded at once. ‘He has a brilliant brain but . . .’

  ‘Oh? And I don’t?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way – he uses his for things other than shopping, reading fashion magazines and interfering in people’s lives.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that my interfering, as you so inappropriately call it, has made a lot of people very happy. And as for me being interested in Theo – get real! I’ve better things to do with my time.’

  ‘Good! And the first thing can be making up beds. Or doing the flower arrangements for the dining room. Which do you want?’

  ‘Hang on, I’m doing the hostess bit,’ she reminded him. ‘No way am I changing other people’s sheets.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Emma!’ George snapped back. ‘Can we get one thing straight, OK? My back’s really to the wall here and if you’re not going to pitch in and get on with things, you might as well go home now.’

  ‘Speak to me like that and I just might,’ Emma retorted. ‘We’re not kids any more –you can’t just boss me about.’

  ‘Actually, that is exactly what I can do,’ George assured her. ‘Till Mum and Dad get back, they’ve put me in charge, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Well, I don’t —’

  ‘And neither do I as it happens. I didn’t ask to spend my time dealing with a load of guests who all expect to be treated like VIPs and worrying myself sick about my parents and their total ineptitude.’

  Emma felt rather small and very guilty. Suddenly it was as if there was more than four and half years separating them, as if George had turned all responsible and mature while he’d been away and she was doing what she’d always done as a kid – sulking until she got her own way.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching George’s arm lightly. ‘I’m useless at flowers so I guess if I have to do beds . . . ’ She shuddered at the mere thought.

  ‘Thanks.’ George ran a hand through his dishevelled curls and Emma smiled at the memory of George, aged fourteen, trying desperately to flatten them with half a pot of hair gel. ‘I didn’t mean to go off on one – it’s just that I’ve had Mum on the phone howling her eyes out . . .’

  ‘Your dad’s not worse?’ Emma gasped.

  ‘No, actually he’s fully conscious now, and sitting up demanding a Scotch.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured George, ‘except that, while he was concussed, he kept calling Mum Polly and saying she was a hot little sexpot. The doctors say it’s quite usual to get confused after a bash on the head, but Mum is seriously not amused.’ He grinned at her, and she saw a glimpse of the old, flippant George. ‘What’s more,’ he said smiling, ‘she’s spoken to your father and now she seems to think that having you around will be an asset to this place. Must be her brain that’s affected, not Dad’s!’ Come on, I’ll get you a uniform.’

  ‘Uni—’ Emma was about to stipulate quite emphatically that no way was she about to cover up her Armani jeans with some tacky two-piece but remembered that she had more important things to discuss.

  ‘George,’ she said sweetly. ‘Hang on a minute. How would you like to make some serious money for your parents and get this establishment on to the Top Ten Must Visit list?’

  ‘Oh yeah? And what Fairy Godmother is going to make that happen?’ George replied sarcastically.

  ‘Me,’ smiled Emma. ‘Now, just listen . . .’

  I
t took a full ten minutes, but somehow Emma managed to move George on from, ‘Freddie Churchill? As in the Chocolates people? Don’t be ridiculous!’ through, ‘But Emma we can’t do it – it’s way out of our league’ to a much more satisfying, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to find out what he wants.’

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ Emma said decisively. ‘Just think of the publicity. And I’ll do all the planning and Harriet and Lily . . .’

  ‘Can do all the hard graft,’ muttered George. ‘Typical you.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Emma protested. ‘You’ve got two weeks with only a few bookings, I’ve just found you a real gold mine – that lot will spend zillions on booze and stuff and you’ve got the marquee you use for weddings – and now you’re slagging me off.’

  George’s face broke into a grin. ‘OK, point taken,’ he conceded. ‘And I doubt very much that Freddie will want to come here anyway – he’s more an Arundel Castle or Royal Pavilion type.’ He chewed his lip. ‘But, I’d better clear it with the parents, just in case. I may be the only one with any vision in this family, but they do own the place. What time is it in Cape Town?’

  Emma was about to follow him into the office, in case the Knightleys needed any added encouragement, when Theo burst into the hall. ‘Croquet up and running and the Frobishers are all set to whack the hell out of one another,’ he announced with a laugh.

  ‘Where’s Harriet?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Making a phone call,’ he replied. ‘She said she couldn’t get a mobile signal inside the house and there was someone she was desperate to contact.’

  ‘I can guess who.’ Emma sighed. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Problem? She did seem a bit anxious.’

  Theo was looking intently at her. Thanks to what she had just learned from George, the idea that had flashed through Emma’s mind earlier took on a whole new dimension.

  ‘Harriet has had such tragedy in her life,’ she began. ‘And I’m really worried about her.’ She paused, gratified to see that she had Theo’s complete attention. ‘I can’t say any more because it’s all too awful. It was so good of you to let her help because . . .’ She dropped her voice conspiratorially. ‘. . . She really needs to learn to trust guys again.’ She clamped a hand to her mouth theatrically. ‘I’ve said too much – I just guess all we can do is be really kind to her and make sure she doesn’t get into the wrong sort of set – she’s been mixing with some really odd types, which is so sad because she’s a lovely person but ever so vulnerable psychologically, if you know what I mean?’ she concluded, reciting verbatim lines from My Shadow Self starring Kim Clayson.

  Theo nodded earnestly. Emma reckoned that anyone planning to be a doctor had to be hugely compassionate and understanding and, with a bit of luck, she could milk that attribute to Harriet’s advantage.

  ‘So what exactly happened to her?’ Theo asked, edging closer to Emma and putting a hand on her arm. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I can’t break a confidence but, well, just make her feel one of us, I guess. It would really take a weight off my mind to know that someone else was looking out for her apart from me. Perhaps you could, like, chat to her . . . see if she’ll open up. And don’t let on I said anything. Promise?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Theo nodded, speaking more softly, as George reappeared. ‘You can rely on me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So,’ he said, turning to George, ‘I’ll see you later – I’m just going to nip into town.’

  ‘You can’t,’ George cried. ‘Not till you’ve sorted that bloody computer – it’s eaten all the menu plans for Sunday.’

  Theo raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Computers don’t eat stuff,’ he replied, flexing his shoulders and brushing a hand across his perspiring forehead. ‘Honestly George, for someone doing an MBA you are a total dinosaur when it comes to technology.’

  Emma smiled to herself. It was true; George was old-fashioned, but in a nice way. He could be pompous (he’d once laid into Emma for getting caught on camera at Jasper Greenhill’s eighteenth with her knickers showing – as if she’d known that Sussex Scene would print it with the caption Tee’s Teasing Teenager) and he certainly had bizarre interests (fly-fishing in icy cold water and drag hunting in the pouring rain for starters), but he didn’t follow the herd – he was his own man and he always said what he thought. She liked that in a guy.

  ‘Well anyway, if we’re going to host this party . . .’

  ‘Party?’ Theo raised an eyebrow and listened with increasing amusement as George told him about Freddie and confirmed that Mrs Knightley thought it was a wonderful idea and she’d been nagging Max to bring in the young set for ages.

  ‘Which is fine, except that she’s not here and if the whole thing goes pear-shaped and we’re blacklisted by the cognoscenti . . .’

  ‘Don’t you mean glitterati?’ Emma interjected.

  ‘Whatever,’ George snapped. ‘Still, Freddie might not want to come, of course.’

  ‘It sounds great,’ Theo said. ‘Not that I’ll get invited. I don’t even know the guy, although I know someone who does . . .’

  ‘’Course you’ll come,’ Emma cut in swiftly, before he had the chance to get all maudlin about Verity. ‘I’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘Cool.’ Theo grinned. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ll find these lost menus.’

  ‘And after you’ve sorted all that, I don’t suppose you fancy a bit of flower arranging?’ George teased as Theo headed for the office.

  ‘Too right I don’t,’ Theo replied, holding up his hands and backing off. ‘I’m out of here before you get any more dumb ideas!’

  ‘Did you say flower arranging?’ Harriet, flushed and smiling from ear to ear, came running into the hall. ‘I’ll do it – I love that kind of stuff.’

  ‘You do? Sorry – you must be Harriet – I’m George.’

  Harriet smiled nervously at George, and twiddled a strand of her curly chestnut hair round her finger.

  ‘Thank you so much for giving me this job,’ she enthused. ‘I’m so excited I could burst. So where do I go?’

  ‘I’ll show you round the place and then take you to the flower room,’ George said. ‘Em, you know where to get the clean bedding, yeah? In the linen cupboard on the landing, right?’

  This, thought Emma as she stomped upstairs, is so not the way it should be. Harriet ought to be stripping beds and I should be doing the upfront stuff, interacting with guests, gliding round the sitting room with a silver tray of canapés . . .

  ‘Ah, at last! I’ve been ringing Reception for ten minutes – it simply isn’t good enough!’ A broad-shouldered, bald-headed man was standing on the landing, hands on hips. ‘I ordered afternoon tea half an hour ago – where the hell is it?’

  Like I should know, Emma thought. ‘I am so sorry,’ she replied, flashing him what she hoped was an understanding, slightly sexy, yet totally deferential, smile. ‘We have had a few staff problems, which is why I’ve been called in to sort things out. Now, if you could just tell me your exact order, I’ll see to it that it is dealt with immediately.’

  ‘Hmm, well, that sounds more promising,’ he grunted, kicking open the door to his room and gesturing to Emma to come in. ‘Check with my wife what it was she ordered – damned woman changes her mind like the wind.’

  Five minutes later, having complimented Mrs Dalrymple on her delightful cashmere cardigan and agreed that there was nothing to beat a cup of Earl Grey and a lightly buttered scone in the afternoon, and yes, she was a cut above your usual young person, Emma knew she had found her niche in the hospitality business.

  ‘Delightful girl,’ murmured Colonel Dalrymple as she was leaving the room. ‘What is your name, dear?’

  ‘Emma Woodhouse, Guest Relations Manager,’ she said. ‘Anything you need during your stay, just come to me.’

  By nine-thirty that evening, Emma had begun to realise that, rather than working her socks off for an advertising agency in London, her true vocati
on was to be a party planner to the stars. Or maybe a life coach to the upper classes. Or both. Solving other people’s problems was so hugely satisfying.

  In the space of three hours, she had introduced the Mulligans, who were desperate to learn croquet, to the Frobishers who spent the entire evening meal expounding the finer points of the game in ringing tones to anyone who would listen; told George that he must start serving high teas to the under-eights in order to avoid a repetition of little Phoebe Pilkington crawling under tables and throwing up over Colonel Dalrymple’s Crockett and Jones brogues, and given the teenage Mapperley twins not only a list of the best clubs in Brighton but phoned the taxi company for them and spent five minutes assuring their over-anxious mother that Brighton was not a den of vice and iniquity and that Fiona and Hamish would be quite safe.

  ‘You’re good at this ego-massaging bit, aren’t you?’ Theo commented, overhearing this last exchange as he emerged from the kitchen having scrounged some leftover pavlova. ‘And you know, that idea of stuff for teens – I ought to put info like that on the website. You wouldn’t believe how dull it is at the moment – all tariffs, menus and a boring bit about the Knightley history. Hardly likely to attract anyone under the age of fifty.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Emma encouraged, clearing coffee cups on to the trolley. ‘Drag the place into the twenty-first century.’

  ‘We have to do something,’ he said with a laugh. ‘If Freddie’s guests check out this place on the web, they’ll decide they’d rather watch paint dry than party here!’

  Emma frowned. ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘Something vibrant and upbeat. We can’t put photos of real guests on the website – data protection and all that – but I was thinking we could use us lot instead. You’d be up for it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Emma said. ‘Provided I get to be the one who sips the champagne!’

  ‘We’ll get George, of course, and Lily . . .’ He began scribbling on a notepad. ‘And I thought you and me could hit the clubs in town, take some pictures and show what’s on offer.’