Authors: Gil McNeil
I smile, and manage to resist the temptation to say I already knew about her mum making her clothes, because it was in an interview she did. I know about her dad disappearing when she was little, too, and then resurfacing when she got famous, and how they had some sort of reconciliation before he died. Her mum died a few years after that, and the press were at the funeral when she got so upset she had to be practically carried back to the car. They ran it on the news. God, it must be awful: people you’ve never even met thinking they know all about you; and not being able to bury your mother without the press camping at the graveside. It must be so hard to feel safe, anywhere.
The door opens and Maxine ushers in a tall man with dark hair, in jeans and a leather jacket.
‘Daniel, darling, why are you so fucking early? I haven’t even had time to get dressed.’
‘You look dressed to me, angel.’
They hug, like long-lost friends.
‘I had a meeting in town but I couldn’t be arsed, so I thought I’d just come straight down to see my favourite girl.’
‘Well, I’m thrilled to see you, darling, you know I am. Have you brought your people with you?’
‘I don’t have people, angel, just Tony, and he’s gone on to the hotel to check in all the gear.’
‘Drink first? Or would you like the grand tour?’
‘Tour, please. Nice little place from the outside. Bit small for you, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s a fucking struggle, but we’re coping. This is Jo, by the way, she’s my knitting coach. Come on then, let’s start upstairs. I’m getting quite good at this now.’
Knitting coach. Bloody hell. I’m having visions of whistles and stopwatches as we go upstairs, and somehow I don’t think I’d be getting the tour if it weren’t for Mr Fitzgerald, but it’s all completely fascinating. We troop round with Grace acting as our guide, and Maxine supplying background details on panelling and provenance, and even though we only go into about half of the rooms you just know the whole place has been done up to the same ultra-high standards and there’s no spare room with a clothes drier up in the corner and hideous wallpaper. Everything matches, in a non-matching kind of way, with lots of florals, sort of William-Morris-meets-minimalism, with wonderful stark colours in amongst all the faded pastels.
The views from the windows upstairs are stunning; I’m thinking one lawnmower wouldn’t be nearly enough, as we go up and down landings and staircases, and into a warren of guest rooms with en-suite bathrooms bigger than my bedroom. There’s a kind of faded-grey and pale-blue colour scheme going on, with lots of old floorboards and rugs, and fabulous silk quilts on the beds. God, imagine living somewhere this beautiful.
I’m so dazzled by the time we’re trotting round outside that I nearly fall into the swimming pool, which is lined with slate and has glass walls that slide back so it becomes open-air at the touch of a button, with a view over the fields and steam gently rising from the water. The boys would love it here. If there is a knitting emergency, and I have to race round here, maybe I
could bring them with me, although on second thoughts I’d probably never get them to leave, so perhaps not.
‘Does anyone fancy some lunch?’
‘Great. I’m starving.’
‘You don’t count, Ed, you’re always starving. What about you, Jo?’
‘I’d love some.’
I get a frosty look from Maxine.
‘So what should I be knitting tomorrow, Jo?’
‘What about a baby blanket?’
She smiles. ‘That sounds perfect.’
I get another cold look from Maxine as we walk back to the house and into the kitchen. Maybe she hasn’t made enough sandwiches or something.
Christ, if I ever win the lottery I’m going to have a kitchen just like this one, except maybe on a smaller scale. There’s lots of granite and brushed steel, but without it feeling too clinical, and the biggest refectory table I’ve ever seen, and comfortable wooden chairs with cushions instead of those trendy Perspex ones that make your bottom go numb. The leather sofa in the bay window looks like six people could sit on it and still have room to move their arms, and there’s a sort of fireplace halfway up the wall, which might be one of those special pizza ovens, only with a massive Aga and an industrial-sized stainless-steel hob I can’t see why you’d need to stick your pizzas in the wall. A young man called Sam is making salads and fruit smoothies, and humming to himself, looking like Jamie Oliver only not quite so pleased with himself. I’m half expecting to see a camera crew lurking somewhere, filming him slicing up pears. He’s talking to a man called Bruno, who’s probably the Bruno from the shop. He must be Security because he’s got rippling muscles and is eating a giant sandwich.
Maxine starts putting out plates and glasses.
‘Can I help?’
She gives me a surprised look, and a small smile. ‘No, it’s fine. But thanks for asking.’
The food’s delicious, with great bread warm from the oven, and a choice of salads which all taste different, unlike the mishmash of lettuce and tomatoes that I manage to produce. Maxine and Sam disappear, and Ed keeps darting off to take phone calls, while Daniel and Grace talk about the plans for tomorrow. Apparently, the magazine people will arrive early in the morning with a stylist called Gwen, and a make-up woman called Tess, who Grace likes, and a hairdresser called Sven, who she doesn’t, and he’s been told he can’t bring his yappy dog with him, which has really upset him. Daniel’s talking about photographing Grace by the lake. I hope it doesn’t rain, because there’s often sea mist mixed in with a light drizzle here in the mornings, and somehow I can’t see either of them being very good with drizzle.
‘I could be knitting by the lake. What do you think?’
Daniel looks rather surprised. ‘Sure, that works for me, if that’s what you want. We could try you in a boat if you’re up for it – the water would be great if the light’s right. Have you got a boat, preferably something old and wooden, nothing too flash?’
‘Maxine!’
Actually I can see how that could get quite annoying after a while.
Maxine appears in the doorway, with a glass of water in her hand.
‘Have we got a boat?’
‘Yes, but it’s pretty shabby. Shall I get it painted?’
God knows how she thinks she’ll manage to get a boat painted overnight round here: even buying a loaf of bread can take you twenty minutes if Mrs Baintree’s behind the counter at the baker’s.
‘No, it sounds perfect, as long as it still floats.’
Grace smiles.
‘If I end up falling into my lake you’ll never hear the end of it, you know, will you, Daniel?’
‘I’ll dive in to rescue you, angel, I promise.’
Bloody hell. I’m really hoping I won’t have to do the knitting coach thing in a boat, because I’m not very good in small boats – or big ones, come to that.
They move on to gossiping about people I think I’ve heard of, but since they only use first names I’m not sure. But it’s still quite exciting hearing about who is back in rehab and who has completely lost the plot. Then Sam reappears to make coffee, and a herbal tea for Grace which smells revolting, so I’m very pleased I went for English Breakfast earlier. I tell Grace I need to pick up the boys soon, but I’ll bring the wool and a selection of patterns over tomorrow morning.
‘Perfect. But nothing too complicated.’
‘Of course.’
Daniel looks surprised. ‘Are you a local then?’
‘Yes.’
He smiles and Maxine comes back in, and pours herself a cup of coffee as Grace starts peeling an orange.
‘Give Jo the times for tomorrow, will you, Max? She’s got to go and get her boys from school.’
‘Sure.’
I walk back to the car half thrilled and half terrified. I’m sure I’m not the right person to be teaching filmstars to knit, but still, I’d better sort some wool out for her; if I’m quick I can nip into the shop before I collect the boys, and then we can go straight home ready for Ellen. I’ll have to ask her if she can collect them tomorrow, just in case I can’t get away in time, and then there’s the Stitch and Bitch group tomorrow night, so it’s going to be a busy day. I’m at the top of the hill when Ellen rings to say she’s already at the house, because she got away early, so I end up going straight back to tell her all my snippets.
She’s very impressed.
‘This could be the start of a whole new life for you, knitting guru to the stars – you’ll be off to LA before you know it. You’ll have to get into organic wool, and knit mufflers.’
‘Aren’t they car exhausts?’
‘Jo in
Little Women
was always knitting mufflers. Or was that Mary, the wet one who dies?’
‘That was Beth. Mary was the one who went blind in
Little House on the Prairie.’
‘Oh yes. God, I adored that when it was on telly; perfect for Sunday-morning hangovers.’
‘I read all the books, over and over. I really loved them, especially the mother, who was like the perfect antidote to mine, always making buttermilk pancakes and doing things with molasses, instead of making sculptures likes willies and telling you off for being Suburban.’
Ellen laughs. ‘I haven’t had pancakes for ages. Let’s make some.’
‘Can we do it later? Only we’ve got to get the boys soon, and if I’m going to be filling the kitchen with smoke I think I’d rather wait until they’re home. They love making pancakes.’
‘Sure. Do you do the setting fire to the brandy thing?’
‘No. But I set fire to the tea towel last time. Will that do?’
My celebrity status in the playground gets another massive hike when practically everyone recognises Ellen as we arrive and walk over to Connie. We’re attracting lots of covert glances, and Annabel Morgan stomps past looking positively furious, writing things on her clipboard as the kids start coming out. Archie shows Ellen his painting of a boat, while Marco and Jack tell us they’ve both been moved up to the top table for maths; technically none of them are supposed to know which groups they’re in, but they all do and the bottom group does lots of colouring in, which is always a bit of a give-away. We start walking home and Nelly shows us how high she can jump, unfortunately sparking off a jumping contest which culminates
in Archie trying to leap over a litter bin and rather spectacularly winding himself. He lies on the pavement panting for maximum attention, but miraculously rallies when I suggest buying a drink.
‘Can it be Ribena?’
‘Yes, if you’re careful with it.’
He grins.
‘Come on, she says we can have Ribena.’
They race to the sweet shop, where Nelly starts a campaign for sweets as well as juice, which ends up with her kicking Marco, so Connie marches her home in disgrace, with Marco adopting a tragic limp.
Archie’s outraged.
‘Poor Nelly. She only wanted a little sweet.’
‘No, she didn’t, she wanted a whole big packet.’ Jack’s clearly on the side of big brothers who get kicked in the shins.
‘Come on, I need to go to the shop before we go home. Jack, try to walk a bit more quickly, love, or we’ll never get there.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘It’ll only be for a minute. I just need to get something, and then we’ll go straight home.’
He sighs.
‘Aunty Ellen might have a present for you when we get home, if you’re both sensible.’
They perk up instantly and start speed-walking to the shop.
Elsie takes them both upstairs with her when we arrive, so they can have their drinks and talk to Martin, who’s sanding things because he’s got the afternoon off work. They’re whispering about biscuits as they go up the stairs, while I start sorting out a basket of wool for tomorrow, and Ellen looks at patterns for jumpers and makes disparaging comments about the models.
‘Look at this one, he looks like a total psycho – I bet he’s called Malcolm. And look at this one, he looks like a mugger.’
‘Everyone looks like a mugger when they’re wearing a balaclava, Ellen.’
I’m sorting through my spare knitting needles when the door opens and a man comes in.
‘I thought this must be your shop. Great window.’
Bloody hell, it’s Daniel Fitzgerald.
He smiles.
‘Did you knit those fish in the window?’
‘Yes, she did.’
Ellen’s looking interested.
‘Ellen, this is Daniel Fitzgerald. Daniel, this is Ellen Malone.’
He does a slight double-take.
‘From the news, right?’
Ellen gives him one of her best smiles.
‘Yes, and it’s lovely to meet you. I’m a great fan of your work.’
She’s flirting with him. Oh, God, this could take hours and hours and the boys will be wanting their tea soon.
‘So what brings you to sunny Broadgate, Daniel?’
‘I’m escaping from the hotel. I’ve got a four-poster bed with bloody curtains, and everything’s got a different pattern on it. I’m not kidding. It was so bad I had to close my eyes and feel my way to the door.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘It’s a great deal worse than Oh dear, trust me.’
‘It sounds a bit like Eastgate Manor.’
‘That’s it.’
‘It’s very popular for weddings, I think. I’ve never been there, but some people seem to like it.’
‘Well some people should be fired out of cannons, then.’
Ellen laughs. ‘Have they got cannons?’
‘Oh yes, in the baronial dining hall; with suits of armour, and great big metal things up on the walls with spikes. Actually, it’s
the perfect place for an S&M weekend, never mind a wedding.’
Ellen smiles.
‘It sounds like most of the weddings I go to, there’s always a hint of S&M about them, don’t you think? All that promising to honour and obey.’
He laughs. ‘I’d never thought of it like that.’
I’m putting the needles in the basket for tomorrow, and since he’s here I think I’ll ask him if he likes the colours I’ve chosen. I’ve gone for coffees and creams, and caramel and buttermilk, with a lovely pistachio green, as well as some navy in case she wants something stronger.
‘This is the wool for tomorrow. Are the colours all right, do you think?’
‘They look great to me. Apart from this.’ He picks up the navy.
‘What’s the matter with it?’