‘She’s got a nice technique,’ said Patrick. ‘We could all learn from her.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Georgina? She should watch a bit of this.’
‘Christ knows,’ said Caroline. ‘She said she’d be ballgirl. That didn’t last long.’
* * *
‘The play’s The Three Little Pigs,’ said Georgina firmly. ‘The reason is, we all know the story, and the little ones can be the pigs.’ She looked at the twins. ‘Can you be pigs?’
‘The pigs are the most important people,’ objected Nicola.
‘No they’re not,’ said Georgina. ‘The wolf is more important than the pigs.’
‘Who’s the wolf?’
‘I am.’
Nicola felt a familiar crushing sense of disappointment come over her. It was to be the same here as it was everywhere. She looked down, nursing her bad hand, and remembered countless nativity plays, school concerts, speech days; endless conversations held over her head by people who thought she couldn’t understand: ‘That little Fairweather girl—we’re going to have to put her at the back’; ‘Poor little thing, we’ll have to take her out of the dancing’; ‘She really can’t manage—can we find her something else to do?’
‘But the most important of all,’ continued Georgina, ‘is the man who sells the straw and the twigs and the bricks to the three little pigs.’
‘What?’ Nicola was confused. She didn’t even remember that there was a man. ‘Is he in the Ladybird book?’
‘I can’t remember,’ admitted Georgina. ‘But he must have been there. They didn’t just find the straw and things on the road, did they? And if they hadn’t bought such stupid stuff to build their houses with, the wolf wouldn’t have got them. Would he?’ She looked impressively at Nicola.
‘Except the bricks,’ said Nicola, who had a logical mind.
‘Except the bricks,’ agreed Georgina.
Nicola was beginning to feel a faint ray of hope. But such rays were deceptive, she knew from experience. She put her head down again.
‘Aren’t you going to ask who’s the man who sells the straw and twigs to the little pigs?’ demanded Georgina.
‘Who’s the man who sells the straw?’ mumbled Nicola. There was a silence, and she cautiously looked up. Georgina was grinning at her.
‘You, stupid! It’s you, of course!’ Nicola started to smile, and instead broke into laughter; loud laughter, that emptied her lungs of breath and filled her face with colour. Instinctively, Georgina leaned over and gave her a hug. Martina, who had sat silently watching all of this, suddenly appeared overcome by emotion and looked away.
‘Look at her,’ said Georgina. ‘She’s crying. Soppy.’ She began to giggle, and Nicola, strung up, began to join in almost hysterically. Toby, who had wandered off, came back and started laughing companionably with them, whereupon Martina harumphed crossly and got up.
‘You can’t go!’ said Georgina. ‘You’ve got to look after the twins.’
‘Perhaps she should be in the play,’ said Nicola reasonably. ‘She could be mother pig.’
‘All right,’ said Georgina. ‘Martina!’ she called. ‘Will you be a mother pig?’
Martina glared at Georgina, muttered something in German, picked up the twins and stalked off towards the house.
‘I don’t think she understood,’ said Georgina, beginning to laugh. ‘I think she thought I was calling her a mother pig.’ The three children fell on their backs in the sun in fits of giggles.
‘Mother pig!’ gasped Nicola, fuelling fresh paroxysms of mirth.
When she couldn’t laugh any more, she lay still, giving the odd gurgle, staring up at the sky and smelling the mixture of grass, earth, and the scent of Arabia on her clothes.
‘I’m really glad we’re staying the night,’ she said lazily. ‘I wish we lived here all the time.’ Then she wished she hadn’t said it. Georgina would think she was soppy. She stole a look at her. Georgina was lying flat on her back, staring straight up at the sky. Slowly she turned and looked at Nicola with fierce blue eyes.
‘So do I,’ she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lunch was served on the terrace. Mrs Finch, Caroline’s daily, had appeared towards the end of the match and called uncompromisingly from the top of the path, ‘Mrs Chance, I’m here.’
‘Oh hello, Mrs Finch,’ shouted Caroline, turning towards her and causing Cressida to lose concentration and hit her first serve in the net. ‘Can you dole out the lunch? You know where it all is. And then perhaps tidy up a bit.’ Cressida was waiting patiently to serve. ‘Sorry about this,’ called Caroline cheerfully. ‘All right, Mrs Finch?’
‘Yes, Mrs Chance.’
So this was Mrs Finch, thought Annie, glancing up from the court. Not the apple-cheeked retainer that Annie had imagined whenever Caroline had referred to her, but a thin, determined-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with dyed-red, curly hair. She had the local accent, but her voice was sharp and strident; she and Caroline had obviously failed to get a cosy employer-employee relationship going.
Annie watched Mrs Finch survey with disapproval the dishevelled scene of tennis racquets, bottles, ashtrays and glasses, then pick up her shopping bag and disappear up the path. Perhaps her family once owned the village, thought Annie romantically. Perhaps she can’t bear to come back and clean the house where her grandfather was once lord. Then it occurred to her that The White House was only about ten years old. But maybe this had been the site of the manor.
‘Annie!’ Annie started as the ball went whizzing past her.
‘Gosh, sorry,’ she said, and giggled guiltily. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’
‘Game, set and match,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh no! Did I just lose us the match? How awful.’
‘Six-one,’ said Charles, approaching the net, hand outstretched. ‘Thanks very much. Good game.’
‘You are kind, Charles,’ said Annie. ‘I should think you were bored rigid.’
As she came off court, her mind returned to Mrs Finch.
‘Valerie,’ she said. ‘Is there a manor house in the village? Or was there ever?’
‘Ooh!’ said Valerie. ‘Didn’t you know? Dad bought the old manor house. He’s going to turn it into a hotel. It’s ever so pretty.’
‘Oh,’ said Annie, disappointed.
‘Are we changing for lunch?’ asked Cressida.
‘Christ, no,’ said Caroline. ‘Unless it’s into a bikini. I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of sunbathing.’
The players collapsed on the grass and Patrick began dispensing the drinks.
‘I might have a go at the Pimm’s,’ said Valerie. ‘This fruit cocktail’s really delicious,’ she added to Caroline. ‘I can’t think what you put in it.’
‘Most refreshing,’ agreed Don, who was reclining on the grass. ‘And a very interesting flavour to it.’ He smiled beatifically. Annie gave Valerie another glance. Her cheeks were pink and she seemed in very good spirits.
‘Let me try it,’ she said casually, taking a sip from Valerie’s glass. ‘Ahh, I see what you mean,’ she said, catching Caroline’s eye. Caroline snorted into her glass of Pimm’s. ‘Maybe you should stay with it if you’re going to play again later.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Don jovially. ‘This is a party, is it not? I always say, it’s a mistake to take the sporting side of these events too seriously.’
‘I hear you’re going to open a hotel,’ said Stephen conversationally to Don.
‘That’s right! I’ve found a super location here in Bindon. The old manor house, no less. Bound to be a winner. Although it still needs a lot of work done to it.’ His face clouded over slightly. ‘It’s been an expensive business.’
‘Were you in the hotel trade before?’
‘Me? No! I trained as an accountant. Worked in the City for twenty years, then thought, Sod this, I’m going to do something I enjoy. Fine wines, good food, company all the year round—and a beautiful house. What could be better?’
‘It soun
ds wonderful,’ said Annie. ‘When do you open?’ Don drew in breath sharply.
‘We were scheduled to open this autumn,’ he said. ‘Now it looks as though it’ll be Christmas. There’s still some building and decorating work to be done, and getting the brochures ready. Valerie’s going to take care of that. Then all I need to do is find a good cook and a housekeeper—someone with a bit of class. You know what I mean.’ He looked at Annie thoughtfully. ‘In fact, if you hear of anyone—or any kind of hotel staff, come to that—I’d be grateful if you’d send ’em my way. Can’t run the place all on my own!’ Annie looked surprised, and glanced at Don’s wedding-ringed hand.
‘So Valerie’s mother…’
‘Passed away three years ago,’ said Don abruptly. ‘Breast cancer. Fifty-three, she was. She went to the doctor as soon as she found the lump, but it was already too late.’
‘How terrible,’ said Annie. ‘I’m truly sorry.’
Don looked sharply at her. ‘I hope you go for your scan every year, do you?’
‘Well,’ said Annie hesitantly.
‘Could have saved Irene, a scan could. If she’d only gone for a check-up.’
‘I’m not sure I qualify yet,’ said Annie soothingly. ‘But I will find out.’
‘Pay for one if you have to,’ insisted Don. ‘That’s what I say to all the ladies I meet now. Get yourself scanned. You never know. I pay for Valerie to be scanned every year. I see it as a tribute, almost, to Irene.’
‘How lovely,’ said Annie awkwardly—then, aware that this didn’t sound quite right, added, ‘I mean, what a thoughtful gesture.’
They were interrupted by Caroline.
‘Lunch is ready,’ she said. ‘And before you start saying how wonderful it is,’ she added to Annie, ‘I didn’t cook it. The caterers did.’
Annie struggled to her feet, feeling the effect of a morning’s drinking. The backs of her legs were covered in grass stains and the apricot tennis ensemble was looking rather rumpled. But I won’t have to wash it, Mrs Finch will, she thought, and was amazed to discover how elated that made her feel.
The children were already on the terrace, piling their plates high with potato salad and crisps.
‘What about some of this lovely vegetable terrine?’ said Annie to Toby encouragingly. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘Or some mushroom quiche?’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Stephen idly. ‘Let him eat what he wants. Potato salad and potato crisps. Obvious, really.’
Valerie was first to start filling her plate. She approached each dish with an exclamation of delight, and then loudly wondered what it was.
‘Ooh! This looks like a swiss roll! But it must be savoury. How imaginative. I wonder what’s in it. Is the green spinach?’
‘Full of iron, spinach is,’ observed Don. ‘Ah, spring onions in the salad, I see. You know, they apparently reduce cholesterol. Worth knowing, that is. Worth repeating, too.’ He chortled merrily. ‘Get it? Worth repeating. Spring onions.’
Valerie suddenly hooted with laughter. ‘Ooh Dad, really!’ She glanced at Cressida, standing at the other side of the terrace. ‘What will people think?’
Cressida was not thinking of Don and his joke. She was wondering how early they could leave the next day without appearing rude. They would, presumably, attend church in the morning—and no doubt a large Sunday lunch would have been planned—but she didn’t see why they shouldn’t leave as soon as that was over. She would, however, have to broach the subject delicately with Charles. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, heaping food onto his plate in indiscriminate piles, and cheerily waving his glass in the air as he chatted to Caroline. She rarely saw him so abandoned. It was as if he was on holiday. But did that mean that everyday life with her was the equivalent of work? For a moment her mind teetered uneasily on the edge of the question, subconsciously aware that to answer it might be to come to some alarming, unwelcome conclusion. But even as she began to feel disturbed, her mind fluttered and lost grip of the problem, and her thoughts slid easily onto the more mundane reflection that Charles really should put a hat on in this sun.
Valerie came up to her, munching in an unattractive manner.
‘You should have some lunch,’ she said, ‘it’s delicious.’
‘I will in a minute.’
‘I suppose you’re used to lovely food like this all the time,’ continued Valerie. She gazed at Cressida admiringly. ‘But you’ve got such a good figure. I expect you always just eat a little of everything, to be polite.’ There was a pause, while Cressida tried to work out what this woman was talking about.
‘I attend a lot of charity events,’ she said eventually.
‘Yes, you must do,’ said Valerie. ‘I suppose you’ve got loads of lovely ballgowns?’ Cressida looked around for escape.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and get myself some lunch,’ she said, giving Valerie a taut smile.
‘That’s all right,’ said Valerie brightly. ‘I could do with some seconds myself.’
After lunch, no one seemed inclined to move. Everyone lolled on chairs or on the grass, except for Cressida, who was sitting bolt upright, unable to escape Valerie’s fawning commentary. Patrick looked around. Now may be the moment. He sauntered casually across to Charles, who was lying back with his eyes closed.
‘Remember that collection of prints I started,’ he remarked. ‘Well, I’ve been adding to it.’ Charles opened one eye.
‘Really? What have you bought?’ Patrick laughed.
‘Now you’ve caught me. I can’t even remember who they’re by. They’re both modern, though. Cost me a fair bit, too.’
‘Where did you get them?’ Charles’ attention was now fully engaged. ‘You could have come to us.’
‘I know,’ said Patrick. ‘But these were impulse buys. In London.’ Charles scowled.
‘I expect you were robbed.’
‘Probably. In fact, I was hoping you’d come and give them a look. Tell me just how much I was ripped off.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not? While everyone’s asleep.’ He surveyed the dozy scene. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to get anyone back on the tennis court this afternoon.’
Charles reluctantly got to his feet.
‘OK, let’s come and see the damage. Although I really wish you’d contain your impulses until you’re in the Print Centre. Then you can be as impulsive as you like.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Patrick, ‘next time I’m feeling in the mood.’
Patrick’s study was cool and tranquil, and for a few minutes the men blinked, trying to focus in the dim light. Charles sank into a leather sofa.
‘This is a nice room,’ he said. He looked around. ‘I bet you haven’t read all those books.’
‘No, but I’m intending to,’ said Patrick. ‘Actually, Caroline bought a lot of these. Because they look nice, I think.’ Charles shrugged.
‘And why not? The book as a visual art form. I think it has potential. Why should we bother to read what’s inside?’ He reclined further into the squashy leather. ‘So, show me these prints.’
‘Here you are.’ Patrick placed two small, unframed prints on his lap. Charles sat up and, with a practised eye, looked carefully at each, turning them over, scrutinizing the signature, examining the texture of the paper.
‘Actually,’ he said eventually, ‘I think these are rather nice. Where did you get them?’
‘Mocasins. Bond Street.’ Charles sighed.
‘Of course. My word, Patrick, you must be doing all right for yourself if you can afford to impulse buy there.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s the right time to be investing. I realize it, my clients realize it. I mean, if I’m doing well, you should see how they’re doing. If I had the money to invest properly in some of the ventures I know about … Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be buying little prints; I’d be onto the big stuff by now.’
Charles was still examining the prints, and Patric
k judged it best not to interrupt him.
‘One of my clients,’ he said, ‘invested ten thousand pounds five years ago. Emerging markets, he went into. Now he’s sitting on a hundred thousand.’
‘Really?’ murmured Charles absently.
‘He said to me, “If I’d known that would happen, I would have invested ten times as much. I’d be a millionaire!”’ Patrick laughed reminiscently. ‘I said to him, “How do you think I feel? I did know that would happen—but I hadn’t got anything to invest!”’ He paused. ‘And it’s true. Those of us who know what’s a sure winner can’t take advantage of it—meanwhile, all the people who could afford to put their money in don’t know about it!’ He laughed gently. ‘It’s a crazy world.’ Charles raised an eyebrow.
‘Come on, Patrick, you must have a few thou lying around to invest.’
‘I wish,’ said Patrick. ‘Look around. House, cars, pony. None of it comes cheap. But I can tell you, if I had the cash, I know exactly where I’d put it.’ He stopped. ‘Cigar?’
‘Thanks.’
Patrick took his time snipping the cigars, picking up the onyx lighter, taking a few puffs, before continuing.
‘There’s an investment fund,’ he said confidingly, ‘which is going to blow all the others out of the water. No one knows about it yet. I’m not even telling all my clients. We’ve had a policy decision only to tell a few. Our most loyal customers. We’re telling them now, while they can get in at a low price. It’s a bit like a reward for staying with us over the years. And I can tell you, every single person we’ve told has snapped it up. We’re almost oversubscribed.’ Again he laughed gently. ‘One man took all his money out of every single investment he held with us and put it all straight into the new fund. It caused a real headache, I can tell you! The administration was a nightmare.’ He took a puff on his cigar. ‘Not bad, these, are they?’ Charles eyed him thoughtfully.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that you’re going to tell me why this fund is so marvellous. It would seem a bit cruel to lead me on so far, and then shut the door in my face.’
‘Well,’ Patrick seemed doubtful, ‘I’m not really supposed to be telling anybody except our existing clients. But, since you were so good as to tell me I wasn’t ripped off with those prints,’ he laughed, ‘I owe you one.’ He took a breath. ‘Where do I start? I suppose you’re familiar with the idea of investing in international equities?’