Richenda woke at about nine on Sunday morning. Even though they hadn’t got to bed until three, her body was still locked into the routine of waking early and going to have her hair and make-up done in the trailer while she learned her lines for the day. She lay still for a few minutes, listening to the sound of Guy’s gentle breathing beside her, revelling in the knowledge that for the next few weeks it wouldn’t matter what time she got up. She wasn’t the type to lie in till lunchtime, but it was nice to know that if she wanted to she could.
She slid out from underneath the duvet and went to examine her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not too bad, considering their late night. Her skin was gradually recovering from having heavy foundation slathered on it every day. She applied her cleansing grains with the special linen mitt, did her lymphatic drainage exercises with her fingertips, then dolloped on generous amounts of moisturizer.
Guy was still out for the count. She hovered over him, debating waking him with a kiss, but then she relented and decided to let him sleep. She’d make him a proper Sunday breakfast instead. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, tied her hair up in a ponytail, then crept along the corridor, down the sweeping stairs and along to the kitchen. By the stable door that led out into the
rear courtyard were hung a selection of jackets. She shrugged on a Barbour, and wrinkled her nose. It was stiff and smelly. She considered going to the cupboard off the hallway where her ankle-length sheepskin was hung, but decided against it. She didn’t want to thrust her glamour down the locals’ throats: that was not the way to win their affection. She wanted them to realize that she was fresh, natural and down to earth; a country girl at heart.
Outside it was a glorious autumn day. The air smelt delicious; of sharp, fresh air, dead leaves that weren’t quite rotted and the mingled woodsmoke from various chimneys. The glare from the sun made her squint and she wished she’d brought her sunglasses, then remembered she was trying to fit in. She wandered out of the gates and on to the high street. She hadn’t taken much notice of Eversleigh while they were filming; it was hard to when the street was filled with film crew and cameras and trucks and lorries. Now the circus had departed, she could appreciate its charms.
She walked along the rank of oak trees that screened the manor, then past the squat, square Norman church whose stained-glass windows reflected the glory of Portias ancestors who’d given their lives in the First World War. On the opposite side of the street was a row of workers’ cottages, some larger and grander houses, as well as a few modern additions which were fortunately in keeping. At the very end of the street was the Fleece, an ancient pub that was rumoured to be haunted, and opposite that the village shop. The road out of the village boasted several cul-de-sacs containing developments of
executive homes that ranged from the modest to the elaborate but which shared over-inflated prices, courtesy of the sparkling Ofsted report enjoyed by the village school. People fell over themselves to send their children there, and the high property prices were more than made up for by what one saved in prep school fees, especially when there was more than one child to consider.
Richenda stepped into the village shop. It smelt of sugary sweets and the spilt box of washing powder that had been trodden into the black and white lino floor tiles. The shelves had a dearth of named brands, preferring the Happy Shopper label – you couldn’t even get Heinz baked beans. Richenda wondered how on earth people put up with it. The shop down the road from her flat in Knightsbridge was like a mini Fortnum’s. Rather reluctantly, she bought a packet of bacon and a packet of sausages, half a dozen eggs and a sliced white loaf. She decided against the mushrooms, which had almost shrivelled beyond recognition. There were piles of Sunday papers dumped on the floor by the counter. She thought about buying one, but then decided that she would only be tempted to scan the pages for gossip and speculation about her own engagement. She deserved a day off.
She joined the queue. In front of her was a man with rumpled dark red hair, stuffing his purchases into a too-thin carrier bag. Cheekily, he inspected her basket.
‘Hangover fodder?’ he grinned. He held up a carton of orange juice. ‘don’t forget the OJ. It’s vital to replenish your vitamin C.’
The Irish accent, the dissolute air and the dark rings under his extraordinary eyes – a clear golden brown, like
Jameson’s whiskey – made a pretty devastating combination. He’d obviously spent the night up to no good at all, decided Richenda. She couldn’t help but smile back.
Back in the kitchen, Richenda did battle with the uncooperative cellophane wrappers round the sausages and the bacon and spread her purchases out on the table. Then she turned to face the Aga. It sat there, smug and defiant, refusing to give any hint as to how she should proceed. There wasn’t an explanatory knob in sight.
Sausages in a tray in one of the ovens, she decided. Then bacon and eggs in a frying pan on one of the hot plates. They terrified her – somehow she imagined the heavy lids crashing down on her hands, trapping them on the searing heat below, scarring her for life. Gingerly, she lifted one of them up by the handle. How did you control the heat, she wondered? She held her palm over the surface to gauge the temperature; it felt pretty warm. She decided to go for it.
By the time Madeleine came into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, the bacon was fried to a crisp, the eggs were hard as rubber, the sausages were still raw and Richenda was searching frantically for a toaster.
‘This is what you need.’ Madeleine produced something that looked like a medieval instrument of torture crossed with a fly swat. The bread was supposed to go between the two racks, and was then placed on a hotplate with the lid down. ‘And you’ve put the sausages in the warming oven. Not the hot oven. They’ll never cook in there.’
Swiftly, Madeleine rearranged everything. The bacon and eggs were binned.
‘Never mind. I’ve got some more in my flat.’
Moments later she’d returned with a packet of organic bacon wrapped in greaseproof paper, a basket of free-range eggs and a paper bag full of field mushrooms the size of plates.
‘We don’t touch anything from the village shop,’ she explained. ‘Except in dire emergencies. Papers, milk and sugar are fine. Avoid anything else like the plague.’
Richenda nodded, hovering with the kettle. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to put it. She’d have to wait until the toast was done before she made tea.
‘An Aga is a whole new way of life,’ explained Madeleine. ‘Once you’ve got used to it, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.’
No, I bloody won’t, thought Richenda crossly, longing for her own kitchen, with its integral wok and a pizza stone. Not that she’d ever used either of them, but they were there if she wanted them.
Moments later she turned round to see black smoke billowing out. She threw up the lid to reveal two charred and blackened slices of bread.
‘You do need to keep a close eye,’ said Madeleine. ‘You’ve got to catch it at just the right moment.’
Richenda bit her tongue and dropped the ruined toast into the bin on top of the bacon and eggs, deciding that the first thing she was going to put on her wedding list was a four-slice Dualit toaster.
Fifteen minutes later, when Guy came in stretching and yawning in his boxers, Madeleine served up a perfectly timed and perfectly cooked breakfast – sausages sizzling
in their skin, crispy bacon and golden eggs that slid obligingly from the pan on to a plate that had been warmed in the very oven Richenda had been trying to cook the sausages in. Accompanied by a mound of buttery mushroom slices. Richenda was hot and flustered, and not a little crestfallen. This wasn’t quite how she’d imagined it.
‘Fantastic, Mum. You’re a mind-reader.’
Guy tucked in appreciatively. Madeleine was having a poached egg on a piece of unbuttered toast. Richenda couldn’t face any of it, but her fantasy had been to share Sunday breakfast with her husband-to-be, so she helped herself to some bacon and mushrooms.
‘Right,’ said Madeleine, leaving half her toast and the whites of her egg. ‘We need to get cracking. I don’t know if I need to remind you, but we’ve got eight guests arriving at four o’clock on Friday for the weekend of a lifetime. I’ve drawn up a list of what needs to be done and put the appropriate initials next to the task.’
She handed out three pieces of paper.
‘Efficient as ever,’ noted Guy, wiping his egg up with the last corner of toast and surveying his list with amusement.
‘Question of having to be, after years of living with your father,’ said Madeleine drily.
Richenda picked up the list and her heart sank.
‘I’ve got to go to London tomorrow,’ she said slowly. ‘For some voice-over work. I’ll do what I can, of course I will, but I won’t be here for most of this week…’
‘Oh,’ said Madeleine, clearly put out. ‘I thought you’d finished filming.’
‘Filming,’ said Richenda. ‘But there’s more to it than that.’
‘Right,’ said Madeleine. ‘Then we’re going to have to think again. There’s absolutely no way you and I can do all this between us, Guy’
Guy was looking at the list, frowning.
‘Bloody hell – this is all a bit random, isn’t it? Insurance, flowerbeds, wine cellar, transportation… music? What does that mean? I gave up the violin when I was nine.’
‘I need a selection of CDs. For the dining room and the library. I haven’t a clue what people want to listen to.’
‘Norah Jones, Jamie Cullum, Dido and the Red Hot Chili Peppers,’ said Guy decisively. ‘That’ll cover most people’s tastes. Order it from Amazon. That’s one job off the list’.
‘I had you down for bedding, towels, napkins, books and magazines and bath things…’ Madeleine pointed what Richenda felt was an accusing finger at her as she ran down the list, then gave a heavy sigh. ‘I was supposed to be in charge of food – which, let’s face it, is by far the biggest headache. But if you’re not going to be available…’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were going to be relying on me.’ Richenda squirmed with discomfort.
‘Come on, Mum. Richenda’s got her own stuff to worry about. You can’t expect her to make beds…’
‘I wasn’t expecting her to make beds,’ replied Madeleine. ‘Marilyn’s in charge of housekeeping.’
‘Marilyn’s Malachi the gardener’s girlfriend,’ Guy explained to Richenda. ‘They look after the house and grounds. They’re a bit eccentric. Mad on the fifties. But they’re not afraid of hard work.’
Richenda was about to protest that she wasn’t either, when Madeleine cut in.
‘There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to get someone in to help with the catering.’ She picked up a pencil and began crossing things off on her list. ‘I was going to give us the day off and start with a vengeance tomorrow, but it looks as if things have changed. Guy – I need you to bring up all the furniture we put in the cellar during filming, and all the spare glasses and crockery. While you’re doing that, Richenda and I can whip down to Cribbs Causeway for the bedding and other linen. I’ll have to ask Marilyn to come in and do more hours. It’s going to be an added expense, of course…’
Madeleine managed not to shoot an accusing stare at Richenda, who felt racked with guilt nevertheless, and only just stopped herself offering to pay Marilyn’s wages to make up for the fact that she wasn’t going to be there.
Behind Madeleine, Guy mouthed ‘sorry’ at her with a grimace. Richenda gave a weak smile. She’d imagined a long bracing walk through the fields and woods, her fingers locked in Guy’s, then lunch in a pub somewhere next to a roaring fire. Not a route march to John Lewis.
‘So who are you going to get to do the grub?’ asked Guy.
‘Never mind about that. I’ve got an idea.’
Richenda started to gather up the breakfast plates.
‘Where’s the dishwasher?’ she asked, and was rewarded with two blank stares.
‘I suppose,’ said Madeleine, ‘that’s something else we should look into. There’s going to be an awful lot of washing up.’
Guy smirked.
‘Something tells me Marilyn’s going to be opening an offshore account before the year is out.’
Half an hour later, Richenda had changed into something suitable for her shopping trip with Madeleine while Guy put on yesterday’s jeans. She swallowed as she looked over at him pulling a grey T-shirt on over his head, the fabric sliding over his muscles. For a moment she wished they were miles away in her apartment, feasting on out-of-season strawberries and warm brioches with apricot jam. They could have done something corny and touristy – an open-topped bus tour or the London Eye – before oysters and champagne at Bibendum, her favourite lunch spot. Somehow, the allure of Eversleigh Manor was already losing its lustrous appeal. Richenda couldn’t see the point of being a slave to its walls. It was a bit like hiring a hat. She’d never seen the point of parading round in something that wasn’t really yours. And she wasn’t convinced that Guy was happy with the arrangements either. It was Madeleine who had hit upon the idea. She was the driving force; the one bossing everyone else around. Richenda suspected that Madeleine had been rather used to her husband and son doing what she wanted all of her life. Well, there was someone else in the frame now. And if it wasn’t what Guy wanted…
‘You know,’ she said softly, sliding a finger between Guy’s waistband and his brown skin, ‘you don’t have to do this if you wasn’t want to.’
He started, whether from the cold of her fingers or her statement, she couldn’t be sure.
‘What?’ he asked warily.
‘All this… house party nonsense. It seems like an awful lot of hard work. And really, there’s no need.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘What do you mean, no need?’
She gave a little shrug, accompanied by a nervous laugh.
‘If this is going to be our house… our marital home…’
‘What?’ His voice was stony.
‘Well…’
‘Go on. Say it.’
‘I’ve got enough money…’ Richenda faltered for a moment, then regained her courage. ‘
Lady Jane’s
about to transmit in the States. There’s bound to be another series, and they’re talking about a feature film. There’s no need to put Eversleigh through this.’