Cindy, his child bride, in a pink fascinator and a dress of insufficient pink chiffon, tossed her blonde hair and giggled incessantly. Major Cunliffe’s eyes were out on telegraph poles devouring her bouncing boobs and the rest of her tattooed and perma-tanned body.
‘Isn’t there any bubbly, Alban? I’d like some bubbly.’ She was pouting up at her host as her eight-inch heels sabotaged his ancient oak floor.
‘Aren’t they gross?’ a passing Dora hissed. ‘Lester needs a mounting block to get into his Chelsea tractor, and he’s bunged the planners so much, probably in porn films, Primrose Mansions is going to have more extensions than Cindy’s hair. I won’t offer you any lentil bake, it’s vile.’
Cindy Bolton was now telling Alban and his nephew Toby, who were swaying over her like poplars, about the calendar she was making: ‘I get to take my kit off in every picture but it’s tasteful.’
‘Is that one of those holiday lets?’ demanded Old Mrs Malmesbury, who as well as keeping geese and walking hound puppies, always got the wrong end of the stick.
‘No, Shagger’s staying at Lark Cottage this weekend,’ Alan reassured her, then lowering his voice to Etta, ‘Desperate to sniff
out the whisky,’ as a big man with a huge nose and lank straight hair emerged from the kitchen, looking frustrated.
‘That’s Michael Simmons, known as Shagger,’ explained Alan. ‘Took over Lark Cottage from Rogue Rogers last year, but mostly lets it and leaves poor Tilda Flood, who’s unaccountably crazy about him, to look after the place.’
Etta recognized Tilda Flood, who had sticking-out teeth on which you could land a helicopter and who taught at Greycoats, but whom Etta had never spoken to because she took a higher class than Drummond’s.
Etta was amazed therefore when Tilda came over and introduced herself, saying how much she was looking forward to teaching Drummond in a year or two’s time.
‘I gather he’s a very bright little boy,’ she added. ‘His behaviour has been so much less challenging this term, it must be your influence.’
Etta wanted to hug her.
Tilda had the blonde, cropped, easy-to-wash hair and flat sing-song accustomed-to-being-listened-to voice of a female cabinet minister. If only she had those teeth fixed, thought Etta, one could appreciate her lovely figure and pretty hazel eyes, which constantly flickered in the direction of Shagger Simmons. He was now greeting Toby Weatherall, Ione’s chinless nephew, with a flurry of ‘Who won the three thirty at Newton Abbot?’, ‘What odds did you get?’, ‘What’s happened to Dominic?’ and ‘What’s Jasper up to?’
‘Things any better at work?’ asked Shagger finally.
Toby shook his head. ‘Bloody tough. Hardly been shooting this year. Bloody boss expects one to work weekends.’
‘Toby, you must meet Etta,’ interrupted an embarrassed Tilda.
Toby looked blank. Shagger, to save his friend, thrust out a big red hand and squeezed Etta’s, which was harbouring pieces of lentil bake and butternut squash tart, which went squish. An appalled Shagger shot off to wash his hands. Tilda handed Etta a paper napkin.
To prevent further indiscretion, Etta said, ‘I think you work for my daughter Carrie.’
The penny and Toby’s jaw dropped and his delicate pink and white face was suffused with red. ‘Good heavens, yes, quite forgot. She’s great to work for, inspirational, press always ringing up for interviews, brilliant woman, brilliant.’
‘I still don’t understand hedge funds,’ confessed Etta.
‘Not sure I do,’ Toby giggled nervously. ‘Shagger and I used to
share an office, got so bored we’d telephone each other all afternoon. Bit different now, feel you’re at the hub of things.’
‘Your wife and your cottage are both so enchantingly pretty,’ said Etta.
‘Christ, Ione’s got a can of worms in the bog,’ grumbled a returning Shagger, who had a loud, ugly carrying voice. ‘What’s this about Bolton buying a chunk of wood from H-H? He’ll need cover, better have a word.’
Turning, he went slap into Direct Debbie.
‘Hello, Shagger.’ She spoke without affection. Shagger’s holiday lets, often binge-drinking hen parties, kept her and the Major awake. ‘Hello, Tilda,’ she added. ‘You and Shagger engaged yet? Never know the score with you. Ought to buck up or you’ll miss the boat.’
Noticing Tilda’s stricken face, Etta squeezed her hand and said, ‘Fiancée’s such a dreadful word.’
‘Better than spinster,’ said Tilda bitterly.
‘Better go and chat up Bolton.’ Shagger sidled off.
‘Aren’t Mrs Travis-Lock’s gardenias amazing?’ cried Etta, desperate to change the subject.
‘Ione’s an old hypocrite.’ Debbie hardly lowered her voice. ‘Must have her greenhouse blazing all year round to produce blooms like that, and she ticks Normie off for washing the car every day and using a patio heater.’
Lester Bolton was finally managing to have a word with his hostess.
‘I am a big art person, Ione,’ he was telling her, ‘but I prefer a contemporary look. That piece out there is more to my taste.’ He was peering out of the window across the lawn.
‘That’s a cider press,’ said Ione briskly, ‘responsible for your drink tonight – although we added ale from a local brewery. I hope you’re using local suppliers?’
The rooms were so full, it was easy to miss people. Martin Bancroft, who had grown a beard to give himself a more caring aspect, was on the rampage, pressing the flesh. He had no time to waste on his mother, who was showing too much bosom. He was now doing a number on his hostess.
‘I am determined to get Valent, Bonny, Corinna and Seth’ (none of whom he knew) ‘on side, Ione, love your hairdo. Hope I can drop in one evening for a chat about the Sampson Bancroft Memorial Fund.’
‘How pretty your mother is,’ said Ione, who’d been un-impressed by Sampson’s huge carbon footprint, and whose ability
to cut across others wouldn’t have disgraced the champion jockey Rogue Rogers. ‘I must go and talk to her.
‘You must come to tea one afternoon,’ she told Etta. ‘It’s a friendly village. Pity so many of the big houses are empty, so much building going on. I’ve written to Valent Edwards several times about solar panelling and insulation, so much cheaper if you install them at this stage.
‘Joining things is the best way to meet people,’ she went on. ‘The Theatre Club’s excellent and the Willowwood Players put on super things at Christmas. I cannot get Corinna and Seth involved, though you’d think being actors …’
Etta, at least three glasses of cider up, found herself liking Ione, who resembled the school lacrosse captain you’d had a crush on. She remembered Dora’s description of ‘Dowagers with Roman noses …’
Britannia, eco-warrior, tall and commanding, Ione had a strong face not enhanced by anything except conviction. Her greying, raven-black hair was drawn back into a bun, and her eyebrows bristled above fine dark eyes that must have enchanted Alban some forty years ago.
‘Such a lovely party,’ sighed Etta.
‘Joyce Painswick tells me you’re a keen gardener and might help out with the church flowers.’
Ione was fed up with Debbie’s splash of colour and last week had been forced to yank out several catsick-yellow chrysanthemums.
‘Oh lovely,’ her voice softened, ‘Olivia’s come after all. Have you met Craig Green, Etta?’ she added. ‘He’s so knowledgeable about compost. Do introduce yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ hissed Dora, filling up Etta’s drink. ‘He’s got avocado dip all over his beard. And gets up to the allotments before anyone else and pinches all the water. Pocock hates him.’ As Ione swept off to greet Olivia, she was waylaid by Romy, radiant in red velvet.
‘So good of you to take time to talk to Mother, Ione. She’s going to help me and Martin with fundraising and in the summer she’ll be doing cricket teas.’
The eyes of a hovering Major gleamed. Perhaps he and Etta could address Tory party envelopes together?
‘Frankly, Ione,’ Romy drew closer, ‘Mother is used to a life of dedication looking after Martin’s father. She needs to be kept busy.’
‘I would have thought she was kept quite busy enough looking after your children,’ said Ione sharply.
‘Oh, Mother’s so enjoying Poppy and Drummond. I hope you’re settling back into Willowwood life, Ione. If you need any help with finding plumbers or builders …’ Then, unaware that Joey was in the kitchen, ‘Do you know Joey East, a mine of information?’
‘Joey’s family have been working for us for generations,’ said Ione icily.
‘And if Alban’s ever at a loose end,’ steamrollered Romy, ‘Martin says the Cricket Club’s always needing umpires.’
‘Darling child!’ Escaping, Ione kissed Olivia on both cheeks. ‘How charming you look.’
Olivia did. She wore a shirt of stiff white satin, open at the neck to show off the smooth tan of outdoor life and stopping short above a floating pair of black silk trousers which emphasized her slenderness. A diamond butterfly nestled in her newly washed russet curls.
Hoping at last to meet Marius, Etta was disappointed when Olivia said, ‘Marius is still at the races. I’ve brought Shade Murchieson, one of our owners. He’s just parking his juggernaut. I hope that’s OK? Shade needs cheering up. One of his horses was killed at Worcester this afternoon. Marius is so gutted, he couldn’t face a party. Awesome Wells, who was riding her, is distraught.’
‘Not Ilkley Hall?’ asked Ione in horror.
As Olivia shook her head, wafting Eau d’Issey, the butterfly glittered. ‘No, a lovely, really progressive five-year-old mare called Snowball’s Chance, who came from Rupert Campbell-Black. So Marius was desperate for her to run well. She was in the lead then had a massive haemorrhage in the air.’
‘I’m so sorry, you need a drink.’
‘Bloody bad luck,’ agreed a small man with curiously dead snake-like eyes in a ratty little face, prematurely wrinkled from so much wasting. Etta immediately recognized him as Ralph Harvey-Holden. Having followed Olivia into the room, he reached up to kiss Ione on the cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Ralph had a maddeningly good afternoon,’ said Olivia. ‘He’s been getting drunk with ecstatic victorious owners ever since.’
As Harvey-Holden laughed, the snake-like eyes shifted round the room to check if anyone was rich enough to buy horses. He’d hoped to do a number on Valent. But if Lester Bolton could afford to buy twenty acres of his wood, he might be up for some horses. Harvey-Holden crossed the room.
As Shade Murchieson, who hadn’t bothered to wear a tie, waited in the doorway for admiring recognition, Cindy Bolton
looked wildly excited, further messed up her blonde hair and jacked up her breasts.
‘Phwoar, he’s well fit.’
‘Aren’t you cold? I’ve brought you a cardigan,’ said Ione, waving a dishcloth-grey relic.
‘I’m fine.’ Cindy had no wish to hide any lights under bushels. ‘This is the kit I wore to the Grand National, which was even colder than your home, Ione. Lester and I love horseracing.’
Shade Murchieson had an even vaster carbon footprint than Valent Edwards. Having made a fortune selling weapons that had bombed the hell out of Iraq, he’d just secured a massive contract to take part in the rebuilding of that country. Here was an opportunity for conversion and donation.
‘Welcome to Willowwood, Mr Murchieson,’ said Ione warmly. ‘We must talk later. Get him a drink please, Dora.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Shade, as he took a slug a minute later. ‘Yak’s piss?’
Mop Idol, next in the queue, rushed up and offered Shade some parsnip chips.
‘He keeps those on his shoulder,’ said Alan waspishly. ‘The big creep.’
Martin rushed up next.
‘Shade, Shade.’ He pumped Shade’s huge ringed hand with both of his. ‘So grateful you came to Dad’s funeral. Sampson Bancroft,’ he added when Shade looked blank.
‘Oh, Sampson.’ Shade nodded. ‘Clever guy, tried to persuade him to have a horse in training.’
‘Bit chancy for Dad.’ Martin laughed heartily. ‘If you’ve got a mo, I’d love to discuss his fund, such a heartbreaking illness,’ but Shade had murmured excuses and set off in pursuit of Olivia, who was talking to Etta.
‘You must come over and see the horses again. India loved Poppy.’
‘When’s Preston running again?’ asked Etta.
‘In about ten days’ time, come and watch him. Dora,’ hissed Olivia, ‘can you find Shade something slightly less repulsive to drink?’
‘Leave it to me.’ Dora glided off.
Olivia introduced Etta to Shade, who said he’d heard she’d moved to Willowwood and in a rich, deep, very put-on voice asked her how she was getting on.
‘OK? Good.’ Then turning back to Olivia, who was refusing a slice of lentil bake: ‘You ought to eat, darling, you haven’t had anything since breakfast.’
‘Except you,’ murmured Olivia.
Goodness, thought Etta, that’s why Shade’s horses had all gone to Marius. She said how sorry she was about Snowball’s Chance.
‘Horrible.’ Olivia bit her lip. ‘I try not to love them, but you can’t not with horses. I’d only known her a few days, but enough to adore her. One moment the world was at her feet, the next she’s a lump of dead meat.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.’ Shade put an arm round her shoulders.
‘Can’t you smell the testosterone? Must come from handling two billion.’