Most likely for her Chamber of Torture Club. They probably meet Fridays in the town hall.
'I. Have. To. Shop,' she says emphatically and glares at me again.
Breakfast is a hit-and-miss affair in the Monkwell household. It very much depends on the mood of the cook and this morning I'm guessing at 'not good' from all the packets of cereal on the table. I help myself to a bowl and munch away, trying desperately to wake up.
'Morning Izzy! Morning Mrs D! How are we all?' Dominic dances in looking horribly fresh and awake. 'Beautiful day, isn't it?'
'Did you sleep well, Dominic?' asks Mrs Delaney.
'Mrs D, I had no idea that the countryside was so noisy. I seemed to have half a zoo underneath my window. And then this awful screaming started in the middle of the night. Izzy, I thought you were being raped and murdered! I was about to rush into your room, brandishing my wash bag, when I realised it was coming from outside.'
'What if I had been outside being raped and murdered?'
'Oh. I didn't think of that. Well, you obviously weren't, were you? Because here you are looking bright and breezy – well, maybe not bright. Or breezy. You're just sort of here, aren't you?' He's always deliberately provocative in the mornings because he knows I haven't the energy to punch him.
'It was probably a vixen,' says Mrs Delaney.
'Oh, so it
was
you after all, Izzy!' Dominic says this with his ha-ha! face. I do not ha-ha! back. Mrs Delaney already seems to think I am a bit of a harlot. She's been eyeing Will and me suspiciously these last couple of days.
'What do you need me to do today, Izz?' asks Dom.
'Oh, just odd jobs. I need the electricity sorted, so you'll have to call all the suppliers and find out their requirements. I also need a plan of the inside of the marquee drawn up. Actually, I've written you a list.' I extract the list from my clipboard and give it to him.
Harry comes in while I am saying all of this, sits down at the table and helps himself to some cereal.
'Can you give me a hand today, Harry?' asks Dominic. 'In return for some money for the bob-a-job fund?'
'Oooh, yes please!'
'We need to dib-dib-dob along then!'
My meeting with Rose and Mary takes all morning. They leave at about one o'clock and after I have replied to a dozen e-mails regarding the Nordic Ice Feast I go through to the kitchen in search of some lunch. No one is around so I make myself a ham sandwich and sit down at the table to eat it. On second thoughts, I pick it up and take it outside. I haven't seen our old house since I returned to Pantiles and I have a sudden yen to do so. I set off up the hill towards it, munching as I go.
At the brow of the hill, after five minutes of steady going, our old house comes into view and I pause for breath. The house itself is made of black and white timber and is nestled into the side of the woods, which always made Sophie's and my bedroom at the back of the house extremely gloomy due to lack of light. We used to tell each other spooky tales under the covers by torchlight and then be petrified for the rest of the night and insist that Hector the cat slept with us (although with hindsight I'm not altogether sure he would have been very useful had we been faced with a werewolf, apart from being an appetiser before the main course).
In the summer Simon used to throw stones at the window in the middle of the night and I would dress hurriedly in clothes I had already laid out, drop out of the window on to the garage roof and together we would go fishing by moonlight. I think he knew I was scared of the woods when he wasn't around because he always used to watch and wait for me to climb back into my bedroom window and never left until I was safely inside and had waved at him.
I walk up to the front door of the house, reminiscing some more, and try to peer through one of the front windows without giving the tenants inside a heart attack. To my surprise, the place is deserted. I press my face up against a dirty window and take in the dusty, empty rooms occasionally littered with the old box or newspaper. There's an air of sadness about it, and I shiver and turn to leave.
Will is in a filthy mood when I get back to the house because Simon has imperiously ordered him to make tea. He slams teapots and cups around furiously. Rationing is obviously still in effect at Pantiles because after my first cup I am firmly told by Mrs Delaney that that is my lot.
So when Dominic decides he is in dire need of a cigarette, I accompany him gratefully. We slip out into the balmy late afternoon air and wander lazily into the walled garden. The walled garden was one of my favourite places as a child, only rediscovered a few days ago when I was marking out the pitch for the marquee. It seems nature has been left to her own devices for some time. Somebody has recently mowed the lawn but apart from that mayhem rules supreme in the flowerbeds. All sort of surprises are to be found; a lost lavender plant here and a rebelling fig tree there. It is beautiful. If I had the time I would take a certain pleasure in uncovering the treasures the garden has to offer. I remember that Elizabeth Monkwell used to spend hours out here.
Dominic lights up, drawing the smoke right down into his boots. 'God, that's better! I've only had three since I got here!'
'So have you decided whether to quit your job yet?'
'Well, I've taken these few days as holiday. I might quit next week, before I have to come back here to help you.'
'Won't you have to work your notice?'
'Normally they send us straight home, but I've got two weeks' holiday due anyhow if they don't.' He takes in another deep lungful of smoke. 'God knows how I'm going to manage the week before the ball with these few cigarettes!'
'Might be a good chance to give up,' I say, idly fingering a leaf. Dom is always going on about how much he would like to quit.
'But then I'll put on weight! I'll just eat crisps all day.'
'A few pounds might be worth it in the long term.'
'Oh give over, Izzy. And it's all right for you, you're not seeing any—' He stops abruptly.
'Anyone? And you are?' I ask innocently.
He opens his mouth hesitantly. 'Actually, Izzy, there's something, or rather someone, that I want to talk to you about …'
But he doesn't get any further than that because we suddenly hear the sound of voices getting closer.
'Cigarette,' I hiss at Dominic.
What Dominic should have done at this point is throw the cigarette into the flowerbed and hope it doesn't start a fire. But that of course would be the sensible and mature thing to do. Instead, Dominic panics and hands it over to me (I think we will be bringing up this moot point several times in his lifetime) and I'm stupid enough to take it. We have all had dire warnings from Gerald about smoking in the vicinity of clients. P45s are threatened. He thinks smoking is the most abhorrent thing an employee of a catering company can do. Dominic knows he wouldn't remain an employee for much longer if Gerald found out he'd been smoking in front of clients.
At that moment Simon and an earnest-looking young man wearing glasses round the corner into the walled garden. They survey the little scene before them. I quickly stomp the cigarette into the ground, but then on second thoughts, in case the Lord of the Manor becomes a little pissy about it, pick up the butt.
Isabel. Dominic,' says Simon smoothly.
'Hi!' I say awkwardly, standing on one foot and then the other as though I am twelve and have just been caught behind the bike sheds.
'I didn't know you smoked, Isabel.'
'Er … er … er …' All three of them are staring at me now, hanging on my every 'er'. It's at times like this that I wish I was French; a bit of shoulder-shrugging, hand-tilting and face-making without actually having to explain anything would work a treat.
Dominic obviously teels he should help out and so he puts in, 'Like a chimney!' and beams.
That does it. I refuse to be friends with Dominic any longer.
Simon stares at me for a second, as though trying to fit this piece of information into what he knows of me, but then turns to the young man next to him. 'I'm sorry, I haven't introduced you. Sam, this is Isabel and Dominic. They're here to help with the charity ball. Isabel used to live on the estate when we were kids. This is Sam, he works at my company.'
Sam smiles and extends a hearty hand to each of us in turn. 'I used to smoke myself. About two packs a day,' he remarks. My initial impression of Sam being quite a nice man instantly changes to him being a rather interfering, shit-stirring sort of individual.
'Oh really?' I ask politely, resisting the urge to give him a boot on the shin.
'I've never seen you smoke, Isabel,' says Simon. Are we still on this?
'I'm trying to give up!' I improvise quickly.
Simon raises his eyebrows. 'That's good,' he says encouragingly.
'Yes. Isn't it?' Why aren't we moving on to something else?
'I'm so glad you're trying to kick it.' Sam puts a hand on my arm and looks sympathetically into my eyes. That's not all I would like to kick.
'So, Isabel, you're going back to London tonight?' asks Simon.
'Em, yes,' I say, still seething. 'We both are, but we'll be back next week for a couple of days and then for the entire week before the ball.'
'Well, if I don't see you later, have a good journey.'
'Thanks,' I mutter.
They walk off together and I listen as their voices drift away,'… well, if the Americans are good on their promise to …'
'You complete and utter git,' I spit the instant they have disappeared and round on Dom who is silently laughing into his jacket.
'Come on, Izzy! It was quite funny!'
'Dom! You are completely irresponsible!' I say crossly.
'Me? Irresponsible? What nonsense! Why, I thrive on responsibility. I was the milk monitor at school. Besides, better you than me. I would be more expendable than you to Gerald.'
'He thinks I'm troublesome as it is. I am trying to look—'
'What?'
'I don't know. Composed? Sophisticated?'
'But you're not.' Dominic looks confused.
'I know that,' I hiss between gritted teeth, 'but he doesn't. And if he says anything about the smoking to Gerald, I'll be lynched.'
Dom puts his hand on my arm, looks deep into my eyes and says in a pained voice, 'I'm so glad you're trying to kick it.'
I suddenly giggle. We walk out of the garden together and I completely forget to ask Dominic what he was going to tell me.
Dominic disappears for most of the weekend and I have to perform at Lady Boswell's Nordic Ice Feast which goes surprisingly well. Sean and Oliver turn up and immediately have a row which turns out to be a blessing in disguise as they then ignore each other for the rest of the evening. The ice bar and vodka luges are a huge success and the only blight on the whole evening is when Lady Boswell manages to get her arm stuck to an ice sculpture. If she will waft bare flesh about when we warned everyone of the dangers then she can't hold us responsible.
The start of the week passes in a blur of Aidan, ribbons, flowers and coffee. Since I have an awful lot of running around to do over the next couple of weeks, I persuade Gerald to hire me a car.
I am due back at Pantiles on Thursday. On Wednesday night I pack my bags and make my way out of London in my new Smart car to stay with Aunt Winnie before continuing my journey to Pantiles the following day. Aunt Winnie is hosting a whist drive at her house so I help make sandwiches for them all, because apparently they couldn't possibly stop to eat properly, and spend the rest of the evening banished to my room with Jameson and a pile of
Good Housekeeping
magazines.
The next morning, I wrap myself in an old Paisley dressing gown and, once downstairs, find that Aunt Winnie and Jameson have already gone to the village to buy a paper and some bread. I make myself a cup of tea and wander out to the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my neck. A loud bark alerts me to the fact that Jameson has returned, which doesn't always mean that Aunt Winnie has too, and I spin round to find him bounding down the drive towards me, shortly followed by a panting Aunt Winnie. She waves at me. I wave back. She waves again. I frown; it's a bit early for this sort of malarkey, isn't it? I wave again once more in a yes-I-have-seen-you kind of way and she waves furiously back. It takes me this long to realise that she's doing more than passing the time of day.
'Aunt Winnie?' I call. 'Are you all right?'
She seems incapable of speech but then the hill out of the village is quite steep and she's hardly in peak physical condition. She's still waving the newspaper around in a maniacal sort of fashion. She eventually reaches me and, amid much huffing and puffing, hands the paper over. The
Telegraph
. I look at the headline: TUBE STRIKE BRINGS CITY TO STANDSTILL.
'Em, I can catch the bus to work, Aunt Winnie. It's not a problem.'
She grinds her teeth and impatiently shakes her head. She bends over and puts one hand on her thigh, still trying to catch her breath, and holds the other hand up to indicate the number two. At least I think that's what she means – she could just be being rude.
I turn to page two. A headline about halfway down the page screams: MONKWELLS HOSTILE BID FOR MANUFACTURER IN TATTERS.