'God, that seems a bit harsh.'
'I thought so, but you know Simon.'
'Don't I just?'
'Gave you a hard time when we were kids, didn't he?' He glances over at me.
I shrug to try and look as though I can scarcely remember. 'I suppose.'
We turn right along the tarmac road, then take a left and pull up in front of another wooden gate. I leap enthusiastically out of the car to open the gate, eager to show that a city girl can easily make her way in the country, but am so busy trying to impress that I don't focus on the ground and land smack in a cowpat.
'Oooh, yuck! Cow poo on my wellies!' I wail.
Will leans over and grins at me. 'Sorry Izzy! They bring the cows through here! Forgot to tell you! But don't worry, everyone smells of shit in the country!'
The smell of cow shit fights for supremacy with my sophisticated city perfume and after a small tussle wins easily. I frown to myself. Why does the country have to smell so much?
I struggle with the gate for a while – you need at least a degree in astrophysics to figure out its intricate Krypton Factor-style catches. Will eventually comes to help me and opens the gate with a simple flick of his wrist. We continue on our way.
'What's happened to all the horses? My mother used to keep hers here,' I ask, mindful of the empty stable block.
'Yeah, I remember. We had to get rid of them. Too expensive. Simon is tight with money and he controls the purse strings now.' But not tight enough to deny himself the large BMW parked quietly in the courtyard that no one seems to drive despite the household's first-come first-served approach to cars. Amazing how the people with the most money always turn out to be the meanest.
'What a shame.'
'I miss them. This is the part of the land we let out, all the way down to that field.' He points some way across the horizon.
'So, did Simon start here straight after school?'
'No, he went to university.'
'Which one?'
'Cambridge. He dropped out in his second year.'
'Why?'
'That's when Mum died. Dad just signed the entire estate over to Simon, felt he couldn't handle it any more without Mum's support. He wanted Simon to finish his degree first but Simon decided not to wait. Just calmly packed up and came home. I guess he was keen to get started but soon after he went into business. Pantiles bores him now.'
I look around at the beautiful countryside surrounding me, the little village up ahead, the subtle greens of the forest bathed in the warmth of the setting sun, and wonder how on earth anyone could become bored of it.
'After I got back from travelling, Simon decided he did need an estate manager after all, so I took the job. I'd like to have my own farm some day though.'
'Couldn't you have the estate farm?'
'To let, maybe.' He sighs. 'They would never split Pantiles up. It's not fair but quite sensible. You need to keep the estate whole for it to maintain its value.'
'That's very pragmatic of you.'
'Second sons have to be.'
We reach the village and Will pulls over and jumps out. I follow suit. We wander over the green and Will waves to a couple of people while I subtly try to wipe the cow poo off my wellies.
'Is there a great sense of community in the village?' I ask Will.
'Not really. They try hard but the estate used to employ them and now it doesn't. People have had to move away to find more work and so it's getting more difficult for Pantiles.'
We sit on the seat beneath the blossoming cherry tree. 'We should do this again, Iz,' Will says thoughtfully.
'Yeah, it's been lovely,' I say truthfully. 'Most relaxing.'
'I do an estate tour most evenings. Visit the villagers, that sort of thing.'
'Shouldn't Simon do that?'
'I'm the estate manager so it's my job really. Mum used to do it when she was alive though I think she saw it as more of a chore than I do. Look Izzy!' Will exclaims before I get a chance to respond, 'we're sitting under the bridal tree! You're going to have to marry me now!'
When we return to the house, it is with some relief that I find Aunt Winnie hasn't arrived yet. I think it might be a little mean to leave her to the mercy of the Monkwell family when she doesn't really know them that well and I also don't want her drawing any premature conclusions regarding my outing with Will. Although I have a feeling that as soon as she claps eyes on his handsome self they might become unavoidable.
Monty and Flo are digging exuberantly into the gin and tonics, peeling vegetables and chattering madly. I presume Harry has been sent up to bed. They both look up as we come in.
'Good outing?' Aunt Flo asks.
'Lovely!' I say.
'Help yourself to a drink, Izzy me dear! There's wine in the fridge or gin in the cupboard.'
I extract myself from my wellies and quickly wash my hands. Then I pour Will and me a large glass of wine each and locate two coasters from the drawer, earning myself a semi-approving look from Mrs Delaney. A forceful rapping at the back door announces the arrival of Aunt Winnie, who enters the kitchen without pausing and fills the room with her larger-than-life presence. Even Mrs Delaney looks impressed and I nearly go and stand next to my dearest relative with a yes-isn't-she-scary smirk on my face. Instead, I kiss Aunt Winnie on the cheek and make some hurried introductions. She gives Monty a big hug and hands over a bottle of wine (not home-made, I notice with relief) and some berries from the garden. She shakes everyone else's hand. Aunt Flo and Aunt Winnie look hilarious stood next to each other. Aunt Winnie is dressed in a cotton blouse, tweed skirt with thick, pale green tights and sensible solid shoes. Aunt Flo is dressed in a ruffled paisley chiffon dress with beaded flip-flops and bare legs. While they greet each other, Monty leans over to me and murmurs, 'Do you think I ought to tell Flo she's still wearing her dressing gown?'
I laugh at Monty's description of the ultra-trendy long woollen cardigan Flo has on over her dress. 'I think it's a cardigan, Monty,' I whisper back.
'A cardigan? Are you sure? How 'straordinary.' He goes to get Aunt Winnie a glass of wine, still murmuring 'a cardigan' to himself in a surprised way.
Despite the initial striking differences between their style of dress, Aunt Flo and Aunt Winnie get along like a proverbial house on fire. They bowl the evening along between them (it turns out they have a shared admiration of beetles), aided by a fabulous fish pie from Mrs Delaney and some poached fruit for pudding. Since Monty told me about the shortage of funds on the housekeeping front I have started to notice things. The fridge is indeed starting to fall apart, not to mention the kettle. To my absolute horror I also notice that there isn't a dishwasher. I was so tired last night that I left them all at the table when I went to bed. It didn't even occur to me that someone might have to wash up, which isn't going to improve my relationship with Mrs Delaney. I also note that the vegetables and the poached fruit are from the garden.
Halfway through the evening, on my way back from the loo, I bump into Aunt Winnie in the corridor. 'Do you know where the bathroom is?' I call to her.
'Er, yes.' She waits until I reach her and then whispers, 'Izzy, have you told your parents about coming back to Pantiles?'
'Not yet,' I say, surprised at the seriousness of her tone. 'Why?'
'I just think you should, that's all.'
'Why, Aunt Winnie?'
'Just tell them, Isabel,' she says in an uncharacteristically sharp manner and walks away, leaving me staring after her.
C h a p t e r 10
T
he next day, after our meeting with the marquee company which involves frantic running around with tape measures, Monty runs me to the station. He kisses me on the cheek and tells me that he'll pick me up next Tuesday night so I'll be in time for my meeting with Rose and Mary on Wednesday. I will have to stay for a few days to try to get through all the other interviews for entertainers and musicians so we have arranged for Dom to join me as well.
Once safely aboard a London-bound train, my laptop and notes spread out on the table before me, I call the office.
'Table Manners?' Stephanie impatiently answers, no doubt disturbed from a riveting article about Tara Fart-Whortle's, or whatever her name is, handbag collection.
'Stephanie, it's me.'
'Oh.' Attention obviously returned to article.
'Er, how's everything?' I ask, my shoulders hunched apprehensively. I always like to test the water first with Stephanie, which prevents any nasty surprises. It's amazing how much trouble you can get into without even being there.
'S'okay.' Phew. I breathe a sigh of relief and settle back down in my seat. 'But he's cross with you.'
Resume hunched position over table. 'Why?'
'Says he's never heard of such a crappy idea.'
'Which one?'
'They couldn't catch one of your doves at the Polynesian banquet and it crapped in the host's drink.'
'Oh God, did it?' I resist the urge to laugh because I know it would just get back to Gerald. 'Were they cross?'
'A bit, but not as cross as Gerald.'
I'd better speak to him.'
'I'll put you through.'
I wait and eventually Gerald picks up the phone. The first thing he says is, 'Ahhhh, I see the fuck-up fairy has visited us again.'
I grin; he's not as cross as Stephanie made out. 'Come on, Gerald, you can't blame me for a dove's bowel movements.'
'A good party planner is always in charge of everyone's bowel movements.'
'That's quite a responsibility.'
'Are you on your way in?'
'Yeah, just left.'
'Good. I'm expecting a full report.'
Back at the headquarters of Table Manners, a familiar atmosphere pervades. Chaos is threatening to spill out of every corner. Even Stephanie is busier than usual. She has two magazines open in front of her while she sups on a mocha frappé through a straw. She grunts at me and begrudgingly removes the straw from her mouth. 'They're all going mad,' she says and her attention returns to
Hello
!.
'Messages?' I ask hopefully.
She jerks her head in the general direction of my desk, which doesn't instill me with much hope, and adds, 'Lady Boswell called. I told her you were working up at Simon Monkwell's estate. I then had the old bat waffling on for about half an hour about how she has met Simon Monkwell once, how bloody wonderful he is and how much she would like him to come to her Ice Feast.'
'God, I can't think of a more perfect fate for him,' I mutter.
I walk into the main office where people are indeed going mad. Aidan is standing on a desk in the corner staring thoughtfully at a piece of flex in his hands and looking as though he's thinking of hanging himself with it. For some reason, Yogi the stuffed bear is sitting on the desk beside him. I make my way through the maze of desks and people towards him, ignoring my colleagues who are variously interviewing people dressed up as animals, crawling under desks or wedging flower arrangements with a triumphant, 'That'll hold it!'.
'Hi!' I greet Aidan.
'What's up, Boo-boo?' he says in his best Yogi-bear impression.
'Thinking of ending it all?'
'Christ, I wish someone would end it! Gerald is in a foul mood – did you hear about your dove? Is it true he actually drank the cocktail it pooped in?'
'I don't think so.' I look doubtful.
'Damn, that's what I've been telling everyone.' He leaps down from the desk to join me on the floor. 'So have you got anything on this week apart from the Pantiles thing?'
I shake my head. 'Just some Nordic Ice Feast arrangements, thank God. I've got enough on my hands with this ball.'
'So tell me all! How is the estate? How's the ball coming on? How are you getting on with big bad Simon Monkwell?'
'He hasn't come home yet.'
'But you will meet him?' he demands.
'Yeah, soon.'
Aidan sits down opposite me and looks thoughtful. 'And what about the rest of the family, how are they?'
A wide smile spreads across my face. 'Oh, they're great! I'll tell you more about it later.'
I dump my laptop and bag down by my desk and get back to work on my brief.
Gerald is indeed in a bad mood and roars about for most of the afternoon. A junior party planner tries to get a menu for a teddy bears' picnic approved and he shouts him out of his office with, 'There is nothing amusé about your bouches! Come back when you have something people might like to eat!'
He immediately yells at me to come into his office. By the time I have followed him in and shut the door behind me, he is already slumped at his desk.
'God, it's all so bloody relentless, isn't it?'
'What is?'
'This having a good time malarkey. Goes on and on. How's the Monkwell project? Anything to report?'