Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  CHAPTER 9

  “What are you doing?” said Fergus.

  Zoe looked up from a pile of papers. “Sums,” she said succinctly, returning to the pile.

  “Overdrawn again?”

  “Not at all,” said Zoe with dignity. “I’m twenty-three pounds in credit.”

  “And only three weeks until you get paid.”

  “I shall economize.”

  “Starve, more like.”

  Zoe pushed her chair back from the kitchen table and ran her fingers through her hair. “Hell,” she said, without rancour.

  “Why hell at this particular moment?” said Fergus, picking up another kitchen chair and planting himself down on it. “What’s different from last month, or any other month? You usually manage.”

  “I don’t want to manage,” said Zoe crossly. “I want to go on holiday. In fact,” she said, her eyes narrowing in concentrated thought, “I want to give up my job.”

  “Ah,” said Fergus.

  “Ah, nothing. I hate my job, I find it utterly boring and unrewarding. And I don’t want to do it any more.”

  “Then a holiday is a necessity,” said Fergus calmly. “Two or three weeks on the Mediterranean or the hills of Italy, and everything will look quite different when you come back.”

  “Yes, worse.”

  “You’ll feel refreshed, and the job will seem much more tolerable.”

  “Not unless there’s a coup in my absence, and all the people working there change, and the work transforms itself into something entirely different.”

  “Have you spoken to your boss about how you feel?”

  “Does one converse with a python?”

  “Zoe,” said Fergus, laughing at her tragic expression. “Come on, it isn’t that bad. Do you want to earn more money, is that it?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course I want to earn more money. Who doesn’t? And, all right, you don’t need to say it, it’s folly to even think of throwing up a job when all around are people who’ve been made redundant and can’t get another job, or people who’ve never even got to first base jobwise.”

  “It wouldn’t be very sensible. Have a holiday, get into a better frame of mind, stick with your present job for the time being and look around for something else meanwhile.”

  Zoe rounded on Fergus. “Easy for you to be sensible and practical! You’ve never had a job; oh, I know you’ve worked in the morgue in your vacs and all the usual things, but not a day-in, day-out office job. With a pension. You just go on being a student, you have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us.”

  Fergus had to admit that Zoe was right. “This is a treat in store for me. But honestly, Zoe, you can’t afford to give up your job. Twenty-three pounds isn’t going to last you long.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Zoe. “Make some coffee, Fergus, out of kindness; I must clear my fuddled head.”

  Fergus busied himself with beans; he loved using the grinder.

  “You haven’t heard from Gina, have you?” he said casually, tipping the ground coffee into the glass jug.

  “Heard from Gina?” said Zoe, her mind moving reluctantly into gear. Sharpen your wits, she told herself. “No, why should I?”

  “She hasn’t phoned or anything?”

  “I would have told you if there’d been a call from America.”

  “I just hope she found somewhere to stay. I’m worried about her.”

  “Don’t be; I’m quite sure she’s got somewhere to stay. Somewhere really nice.”

  “Look, I just think she might have had problems finding a place, if her father wasn’t there when she got to New York. You don’t seem very concerned,” he added crossly.

  “Problems?” said Zoe. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Not in New York.”

  Fergus wondered at Zoe’s slightly disconnected answers. “You sound as though you need that coffee. Here you are.” He put her coffee down in front of her. “Black, to wake you up. I’m surprised that Gina hasn’t been in touch, that’s all. She could have written to you, and you’d forgotten to mention it.”

  “If she’d written, I would have told you,” said Zoe, picking her words carefully.

  “Lord,” said Fergus. “Talking of letters, I nearly forgot. There’s one for you; it came this morning after you’d left. Looks like a bill.”

  Zoe took it, made a face, and put it on the table unopened.

  “Open it up,” said Fergus. “That twenty-three pounds may not be enough.”

  “You open it if you’re so keen,” said Zoe, wandering over to the sink to rinse out some mugs. “And when you’ve read it, you can put it in the bin. That’s where all my post goes these days; it’s far too depressing to keep.”

  “Wow,” said Fergus, investigating the contents of the envelope. “I’ll put it in the bin if you like, Zoe, but it seems a shame.”

  “How much?” said Zoe in gloomy tones.

  “Two and a half thou,” said Fergus.

  Zoe shrieked and dropped a mug, which broke neatly in half as it hit the floor.

  “That’s my Spot mug,” said Fergus in aggrieved tones.

  Zoe snatched the paper from Fergus. “Oh, my God, you’re right. How can I owe that much, what’s it for?”

  “Zoe,” said Fergus patiently, “calm down. You don’t owe them, they’re paying you. There’s a cheque in the envelope, look.”

  Zoe stood in utter disbelief, gazing at the cheque.

  Fergus bent down to pick up the broken pieces of mug. “What are you going to spend it on, apart from a new mug for me, of course?”

  “Where did it come from?” said Zoe, still bemused.

  “The letter tells you,” said Fergus. “It’s a prize draw. Did you go in for a prize draw?”

  “I must have done,” said Zoe doubtfully. T can’t say I remember entering anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Fergus. “Let me see the letter again. Look, you must have bought a ticket at that show we went to in the spring.”

  Zoe was sitting at the table again, scuffling through her bills, making a kind of chanting noise. A thought struck her. “Fergus, do I have to pay tax on this?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Fergus. “If I were you, I’d put half of it in the bank, and blow the other half on a holiday.”

  “Don’t be so depressing,” said Zoe. “First, I’m going to take you out for dinner. Then I’m going to give in my notice and go on a shopping spree for some new clothes, what bliss. And then I’m going to take a cottage in a particularly pleasant part of the countryside for at least four weeks.”

  “Most unwise,” said Fergus, shaking his head.

  “I’ve got the rest of my life to be wise,” said Zoe.

  Gina found Nicky installed in the Little Library, a perfect oval room which was lined with curved bookshelves. Nicky was sitting at a table in the centre of the room, stacked trays of papers neatly in front of her and a telephone at her side.

  “Hi,” said Gina. “Can I help?”

  Nicky looked at her doubtfully. “Help?”

  “With the arrangements for the ball. Harry said you might like some help.”

  “Harry said? When did any Cordovan think about helping anyone but themselves? And you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “Not exactly, no,” said Gina, perching on the table. “Is there a lot to do?”

  “Yes,” said Nicky with no very great enthusiasm. “It’s my job, so I can’t complain.”

  “It’s interesting, though, isn’t it? Organizing parties and so on for other people.”

  “I don’t mind the food,” said Nicky. “The rest of it is fairly tedious. Everyone wants a new theme, each one has to be smarter and bolder than the neighbours’. By the end of the season you’re racking your brains to come up with anything different.”

  “Does Aimee want something different?”

  “Oh, the Cordovans don’t give a bugger what their neighbours have had, they couldn’t care less about being smarter or grander. T
hey just take it for granted that what they want is automatically fine. Don’t you loathe them?”

  “Urn,” said Gina. “I don’t know them very well. I can’t say I do loathe them, no.”

  “Harry’s probably the best of them, he seems to be taking good care of you. He’ll have an ulterior purpose, though, don’t let your guard down for a moment.”

  Gina was intrigued by Nicky’s dark comments. “I met a woman who lives in Heartwell House,” she said. “She doesn’t like the family much, either.”

  “Her,” said Nicky, dismissively. “Her! She’s just beside herself because the Cordovans aren’t remotely interested in being what she would call good neighbours, meaning asking her and her ghastly husband to dinner, helping with the fete and generally joining with her in patronizing everyone in sight.”

  “I thought you said the Cordovans were patronizing.”

  Nicky stared at her. “I said no such thing. The Cordovans are arrogant, ruthless, oblivious of anybody else’s well-being and generally all-round wicked, but patronizing, no. It wouldn’t even occur to them. The world divides itself into people they know and like and the rest, who have no existence as far as they are concerned. Victor met that woman in a memorable encounter over his prize cattle, and knew at once that she wasn’t going on his list of people he knows and likes. She made no effort to attract him, so he’s unlikely to want to take her to bed; they haven’t a hope of getting in here, however hard they try.”

  “Perhaps Lori isn’t Victor’s type.”

  Nicky gave her a penetrating look. “He hasn’t got a type,” she said directly. “And I hope you haven’t succumbed to Victor’s charms, because although he’s rarely averse to a quick swive while Julia’s attention is elsewhere, he’s at the moment in hot pursuit of a Swiss girl. She’s got amazing tits; he loves big breasts.”

  “Where does she live?” said Gina, intrigued.

  “Where do you think? Switzerland, of course.”

  “Then he doesn’t see much of her.”

  “Nonsense, he flies over every week. He’s there today, as a matter of fact. Didn’t you notice he wasn’t there at breakfast?”

  “I was a bit late down,” admitted Gina.

  Nicky turned her attention back to the list in her hand. “If you really want to help, you can find me a pavilion.”

  “Pavilion?”

  “Yes, you know, the kind of tent affair they had at mediaeval jousts - or so Hollywood would have us believe. Swagged and colourful.”

  “Is there a firm which does such things?”

  “Yes, but there are none available for that date. We should have booked months ago. You see, the message was, no marquees. They all hate marquees here; quite right, too. And they don’t need a marquee, not with the Great Hall and all the other good-sized rooms.”

  “So why the pavilion?”

  “A last-minute whim of Aimee’s. For the disco. On the lawn beyond the terrace. Pretty idea, and quite feasible, but it has to be this particular kind of pavilion. Done up inside in an oriental style to boot; I think she’s been watching old Rudolf Valentino films. That’s my big headache of the moment, so if you can solve that, I’ll be your best friend. I suppose you don’t actually work for a living, do you? Aren’t you porky treats?”

  “I’m also an historian,” said Gina, forgetting herself for a moment.

  “Well, tracking down a mediaeval pavilion should be right up your street,” said Nicky, not sounding very hopeful.

  “Give me the number of the people who do these tents, and tell me where there’s a phone I can use, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I told you, sweetie, booked solid, nothing to be got out of them,” said Nicky, handing her a card.

  “No, but they may give me a lead,” said Gina.

  Nicky shrugged. “I shan’t blame you if you don’t get anywhere, I’ll just shout and curse in my normal way. Phone and a table through there, in the library proper, be my guest.”

  Byron was feeling extremely hungry. He had breakfasted on a bar of chocolate, having been ejected from their diminutive temporary kitchen by Nadia in one of her most forceful moods.

  “I have no time for you at all today, no, and probably not tomorrow either. You’ll have to feed yourself, eat dandelions, I don’t care; just leave me to get on with this.”

  “I’ll get myself a sandwich for lunch.”

  “Do that.”

  He looked at the wrapped pies and pasties in the village shop and sighed. He didn’t feel quite so hungry any more. He bought a paper, murmured his thanks, and wandered out of the shop. The Bunch of Grapes beckoned invitingly from the other side of the little square. ‘Beer Garden,’ the sign read. ‘Freshly made sandwiches and bar food.’

  I can’t afford pub lunches, Byron told himself sternly. Poof, said his unruly self. Drop in the ocean; what difference will a sandwich and a pint of beer make? Think of the size of your overdraft and the fact that after the end of this month you won’t have a penny coming in.

  “Good afternoon,” said a friendly voice behind him. “Coming for a jar?”

  It was Don Cordovan.

  “Hello,” said Byron.

  Good. It would be bad manners not to accompany him.

  “I often pop in here for a quick lunch,” said Don, greeting the bosomy blonde woman behind the bar with a cheerful wave as he headed for what was clearly his usual table. “I like it here,” he told Byron. “Fresh air from the garden, but not too many buzzing things flopping into one’s beer. I find the outdoor life greatly overrated, especially during a hot English summer. And then, indoors, you get Madge’s astonishing bosom to gaze upon.”

  “There is that,” said Byron.

  “Look, but don’t touch,” said Don. “Madge’s husband is a big man with a quick temper.”

  “You must spend a lot of time out of doors,” said Byron, looking at Don’s smooth tan.

  “Ah, work, that’s different. Now, what will you have? Here’s the delectable Madge come to take our order. If that’s fish pie I can smell, Madge, I’ll have some. I can recommend it, Byron, they make it with swordfish and mussels and prawns and plenty of cream.”

  “I was going to have a sandwich,” said Byron doubtfully.

  “Fish pie for two,” said Don. “And I’m buying the drinks, this is my home ground.”

  Byron took several grateful gulps of the cold beer.

  “How’s Oracle Cottage?” asked Don.

  “Not too good,” said Byron. “Worse than I’d expected. It’s going to take a lot of time.”

  “Get a firm in,” advised Don.

  “Can’t afford it,” said Byron. “Not until I can find some work.”

  “Lot of old houses around here.”

  “Yes, but probably not needing my services. Or able to afford them. Householders aren’t exactly splashing out these days.”

  “A lot of you architects in the same boat, I understand,” said Don with sympathy.

  “Yes, too many of us around.”

  Madge brought two plates of fragrant fish pie. Byron’s hunger had returned with force; I hate sandwiches, he reminded himself as he plunged his fork in.

  Don applied himself to a mussel. “What’s your wife up to?”

  “Nadia? God knows. I expect you’ll find out in due course.”

  “Good cook, is she?”

  “Very, when she wants to be. She doesn’t often cook for me, unfortunately, but I know when we’ve had friends and so on she produces the goods.”

  “What is she, Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Met her over there, did you?”

  The fish pie didn’t taste quite so delicious any more.

  “Yes,” said Byron.

  “Fell in love, got married, new freedoms with the fall of the Berlin Wall?”

  “No, it was ten years ago,” said Byron. “And yes, I fell in love with her, and married her.”

  “Ten years. No children?”

  “Nadia doesn’t want
children,” said Byron shortly. “She wanted, and got, a British passport, life in the West, a professional husband. Not, I fear, as successful a husband as she would have liked, but there you are.”

  “She’s still with you after ten years,” pointed out Don.

  “Yes, and I often wonder why,” said Byron. “Perhaps after a week or two in Oracle Cottage, she won’t still be with me. We’ve had the odd sticky patch, but nothing like this before.”

  “Women are very surprising,” said Don.

  “Are you married?” asked Byron.

  “No, no,” said Don.

  “A particular friend?”

  “Oh, several.”

  Byron sighed. He wasn’t envious of Don, he was just thinking how appalling it would be to have not one Nadia to cope with, but a clutch of them.

  “Hard work,” he said. “Several, I mean.”

  “But rewarding,” said Don, wiping his mouth with the napkin.

  It was fish on the menu elsewhere that lunchtime. Guy was loud in his praise of Maria’s paella as he deftly heaped it on to a huge oval dish. “Not that it isn’t always good, but this is perfect.”

  “A pity then that people are late for lunch!”

  Gina had been very apologetic when Guy had finally tracked her down to the library.

  “I ring a bell,” he said.

  “I was on the phone,” said Gina.

  Guy’s expression clearly said that good guests were not on the phone at lunchtime.

  “Phoning Uish?” said Harry slyly.

  “Actually,” said Gina, sliding into her seat, “I was ringing up about a pavilion for Aimee’s ball.”

  Aimee pushed her glossy dark hair back from her face and gave Gina a ravishing smile. “Nicky says you’ve found just what we need,” she said. “From a film company.”

  “Neat work, that,” said Harry. “Julia, we ought to buy one of those pavilion things, I was looking at the pic. Just right for the garden here. Rig it up as an outside dining-room.”

  Julia looked disapproving. “Very uncomfortable, when we have a perfectly good dining-room in the house.”

  “Where’s the romance in that?” said Harry. “Think of it. Long summer evenings, late sunlight dappling the canvas, little pennants fluttering in the breeze.”