An Affair to Remember (6 page)

Chapter 3

Tensed up, peering through the spectacles she needs for driving, Beatrice in her Mini follows what she hopes is the right road out of the town of Belchester, Mr Woodhead’s thoughtful map on the passenger seat beside her. “Five miles beyond Belchester, my dear,” he’d told her, “turn right at the sign for Kimbleford. After that just follow the road. A mile or so on you’ll come to the village, proceed straight through it, over the river, up the hill and down the other side and there’s Brown End. You can’t miss it, there’s nowhere else for miles.”

Be that as it may, she’d already got caught up in the one-way system in Belchester, and annoyingly found herself back on the London road, and is by no means sure even now she’s taken the right road out of town: as always when you want them, there seems a complete dearth of signs. Hoping for the best, she drives steadily on through the lush summer countryside, out of Essex into Suffolk – she sees a sign to tell her so – and at last, just as she’s become absolutely certain she is on the wrong road, a signpost comes up on her right and, wonder of wonders, it’s pointing to Kimbleford, two miles. Thank God for that!

Only four weeks since the night of her disastrous meeting with Wain Steerforth and finding the ad in
The Lady
, and here she is already starting a new life. How’s that for a bit of get up and go. And it wasn’t only the mysterious voice in her head that had done it, although that had certainly acted as some sort of catalyst – strangely enough ever since she’d decided to take the job with Selwyn Woodhead, it had left her alone – she’d known for months now, but refused to face up to it, she needed to do something new with her life; escape the stupid, aimless cage she had somehow managed to make for herself over the last few years; that she was thirty-two years old and if she didn’t act soon she probably never would.

Syl had helped compose the letter to the unknown advertiser that very night, and after several glasses of gin and water, when completed their joint effort had appeared sparkling, even witty; her CV both concise and positive, her previous experience impressive. However, reading the thing through the following morning with a blinding headache, what had seemed so sparklingly witty last night, this morning seemed not only facetious but boastful and conceited to boot. She’d posted the letter nevertheless; what had she got to lose after all, they, whoever they were, probably wouldn’t have replied whatever she’d written. “For goodness sake don’t be so negative,” Syl had said, “if you spend your life predicting the worst you’ll never get anywhere. Anyway as far as I can see you’re exactly the sort of person this guy (I’m assuming it’s a guy) needs.” And, to the surprise of them both, she’d been proved right.

Three days later, back from work and washing her hair, the phone rang. “Yes?” she’d said crossly, a towel wrapped round her head, water dripping.

“Miss Travers? I’m ringing about your delightful letter. Selwyn Woodhead here.” The voice was soft, mellifluous; the hint of a drawl, hadn’t she heard that name before somewhere? A spasm of excitement shot through her; she’d made it, who’d have thought, it shows what drink can do for you.

“Speaking.”

“Splendid. Firstly, Beatrice – you don’t mind me calling you Beatrice, do you, surnames are such a bore, don’t you agree? I liked your letter so much, and as I’m sure you’ll appreciate I’ve received quite a number. Secondly, I haven’t a great deal of time as I’m only in the Great Wen on a flying visit, which means we need to meet as soon as possible. Can you make seven o’clock in the bar of the Royal Garden? I’ll wear a pink carnation in my buttonhole just in case you’ve been lucky enough not to have encountered my ugly mug on the box.” Light dawned,
that
Selwyn Woodhead.

“That would be great Mr Woodhead, I’ll look forward to it. When exactly –?”

“Tonight, my dear, tonight. Sorry to rush you, but as I said, I’m on a flying visit and need to get things settled before I leave town.” Oh God, she’d never make it, it was after six already. But she must. This was fate with a vengeance, she had no option.

“Tonight would be fine, Mr Woodhead, only I may be a little late. I’ve only just got back from work, you see, and it’s already…” But with a confidence no doubt born of long experience, Mr Woodhead had known what her answer would be, and already hung up.

An hour later, hair all over the place, no time to organise it properly after the shampoo, blouse minus a button (not discovered until she was halfway to the Royal Garden) and a skirt she’d had for yonks, she just managed to make it on time, to find Mr Woodhead, unmistakable even without the pink carnation, already waiting for her at the bar.

“My dear, how clever of you to have made it on time and at such short notice.” Elegantly uncoiling from his stool, he rose to greet her. “I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”

“Er, hi.” Beatrice found herself smiling fatuously, proffered her hand (Mother always said, when in doubt, shake hands). Mr Woodhead took it in his, looked into her eyes, smiled.

“Now my dear, I’ve a dinner engagement at eight with my agent, a necessary chore I’m afraid, a poor hack’s work is never done, so we’d better put our skates on and get down to business.” He was quite tall, and despite his age had kept his figure, she noticed as he led her to a reasonably quiet table near the door, raising a sort of valedictory hand as he passed by tables of people who obviously either knew him, or had seen him on TV. Once there, without consulting Beatrice, he ordered two dry martinis from a respectfully hovering waiter.

And despite her initial nervousness, she had to admit it had all turned out to be rather fun. He might have been a bit pretentious, and obviously very conscious of his celebrity, but he was entertaining and kind and what he had to offer sounded intriguing, not to mention the salary, which was, considering she would be living in, enormous.

“I write, for my sins,” he told her as she sipped her ice cold and extremely powerful martini, “and from time to time make the odd appearance on the box; not acting of course, but as a sort of peripatetic presenter. Someone needed to host a team game in the Outer Hebrides, judge a beauty contest in Skegness, host a supper for old folk in Penzance, send for good old Selwyn – that sort of thing. Currently, however, as I don’t happen to have any TV commitments,” (when he said this Beatrice noticed his voice took on a certain waspishness hitherto missing), “my publishers have commissioned me to write what they describe as a popular history of sex life in Britain; possible serial rights in the
Daily Mail
, that sort of thing. ‘Start as far back as you like,’ they said, ‘cave men, whatever, but make it easy to understand and just a little naughty.’ The whole to be completed in three months.”

“Goodness, that’s a tall order, isn’t it?”

“It is, my dear, it is, but with your help not, I hope, impossible.”

“You’re offering me the job, then – just like that?” The drink was making her bold. “You don’t want references? I mean I could be anyone…”

“You could indeed.” He was smiling at her now; his shrewd intelligent eyes appraising. “But I like what I see and that’s what’s important. You’re a beautiful, I think rather lost, young woman. I’m sure you’re efficient, you wouldn’t have applied for the job if you weren’t. And if you’re worried about sex rearing its ugly head between us, don’t be. I have a beautiful wife to whom I am devoted, I lead a busy life, have a great many interests, not to mention irons in the fire, and no time nor indeed inclination for extra-marital affairs. Does that satisfy you?”

Feeling a conceited idiot, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry. It’s just it sounds such a great job I can’t believe you’re offering it to someone like me.”

“Well I am, dear, and a formal letter saying so should arrive on your door mat in a day or so, or at least when I can get some kind soul to type one for me. Meanwhile here’s the deal…”

And this was the deal. He and his wife had recently purchased a country retreat in Suffolk, an old farmhouse with bags of history, into which they were moving shortly. TV work was tending to dry up at least for the time being – he wasn’t sorry the whole absurd business was beginning to pall anyway – and he wanted to concentrate on his writing. Beatrice’s job would be to act as all round live-in secretary, and would include the usual technical skills, an ability to transcribe his atrocious handwriting, and the opportunity to help him with his research. When not needed by him, his wife Clarrie would be grateful for any assistance she could give in overseeing the extensive building work necessary to bring Brown End (that was the name of the farmhouse) up to her own, exacting standards. A great deal had of course been done already, the place was virtually uninhabitable when they purchased it, but they were far from being out of the woods yet, especially as the young designer Clarrie used initially had not proved to be entirely satisfactory. In return Beatrice would receive a generous salary, a charmingly furnished bedsitter complete with en suite bathroom, and plenty of time off. There would be no set routine, he tended to be an erratic worker: for example, might even require her services late at night if the muse took him, but she would of course have time off in lieu, and he was sure they could come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Part of her duties would be to socialise with any guests they might have. He and Clarrie liked the simple life, a touch of whitewash here and there, the odd rush mat, basic but nutritious food, lots of exercise, that sort of thing (looking at him, Beatrice had found this somewhat difficult to believe) but they had many friends in show business and the arts, and he could assure her there would be plenty of interesting company.

An incident occurred just as they were about to leave which did make her wonder if her future boss was quite as happy about the drying up of his TV work as he claimed. He had just paid their bill and she was hunting for her handbag under her chair – for a moment she thought it had been stolen, it didn’t seem to be anywhere – when this tall, fantastically good looking young man, his face vaguely familiar although she couldn’t put a name to it, paused at their table on his way out, his rather wicked eyes very obviously taking in her presence: “Sel, darling, how are you, man? We were beginning to think you’d died, it’s been so long. I see however we couldn’t have been more mistaken, do introduce me to your charming companion,” he purred, squeezing Mr Woodhead’s shoulder and winking at Beatrice. Mr Woodhead – she must learn to call him Sel; he insisted – flinched; rather over dramatically, she thought, but supposed that was what you’d expect with theatre people, she’d never met any before.

“Not dead, Foster, simply having a well-earned rest,” he said, his voice acid, his smile full of ice. “And how are things at the Beeb these days? The bongo drums were tapping out that replacements, even cabinet reshuffles are in the air, but of course I never listen to rumours, let alone bongo drums.”

“Quite right, dear boy, quite right, you never know what you might hear, do you? As a matter of fact I was over at Granada the other day and asked after you; they said they hadn’t seen you in months, but the rumour was you’d gone to ground in the wilds of Suffolk, opted to lead the simple life and write. But of course I never listen to rumours either. And how is the gorgeous Clarrie? I haven’t seen her for yonks, not since we both got pissed at that frightful Frost party and –”

“Look, Foster, heavenly as it always is to see you, I happen to be in the throes of interviewing a new secretary and am running late as it is, so if you don’t mind –”

“Of course, man, of course,” Foster took the hint, he didn’t have much option really, although he didn’t look too pleased. “I’m late for a meeting myself, a few chums kicking ideas around really – there’s a plan afoot for something on the Indian Mutiny, prestige stuff, you know the sort of crap, but seeing dear old Sel after so long, felt I simply had to stop and say hi.”

“Most kind.” The acid was still there, if anything more so. “I’d buy you a drink, but as I’ve said… Incidentally, hasn’t the Indian historical seam been well and truly mined by now? Don’t tell me the dear old Beeb are running short of ideas.”

“You could be right, dear boy, you could be right, but you know our masters, they travel hopefully, even if sometimes they fail to arrive… Look, I simply must dash, or I’ll be the one out on my ear.” He paused, waiting perhaps for their incredulous laughter; not getting it, he winked once more at Beatrice and with one last, graceful wave was gone.

Sel looked after him, a rather pensive expression on his face; turned to Beatrice, “Foster Chapman, dear, I expect you’ve seen him on the box. Not one of my absolutely favourite people, I’m afraid, but as they say, it takes all sorts. Welcome to the world of showbiz.”

So it had all been arranged. She’d given in her notice at work, delighted to see the last of Mr Taylor, who had actually taken her for a farewell drink. It occurred to her as they sipped their gin and tonics in the pub next door trying to think of something to say to each other, he was as happy as she was at her departure.

Her family’s response to the news she was heading for the hills to work for a TV star was much as she’d expected. Her mother, uninterested; slightly disapproving. “Darling, isn’t it time you settled down and found yourself a really decent job? After all you are thirty-two years old, and skivvying for some frightful man – and if he is the man I think he is who hosts those ghastly team games on TV he really is frightful – in the wilds of Suffolk doesn’t sound a step up the career ladder to me. The trouble is you don’t make the best of yourself. Johnny,” (husband number three) “always said you hid your light under a bushel and thick as two planks he may have been, but he was right about that. So odd really, with a father like Marcus – he is your father by the way, despite what people say – being one of the biggest exhibitionists in the business bar none, you’d have thought… but I suppose you can never bank on heredity. And all your school friends have done so well too. Look at Mary Barker, not half as bright as you and no better looking , top of the tree at whatever it is she does and according to her mama, who I agree is not the most reliable of sources, earning thousands.” Her mother had continued like this for some time, but Beatrice, as was her practice, ceased to listen. Her mother was a selfish, self-centred bitch, she told herself, but as always there was a small amount of truth in what she said, and her spirits, so buoyant since the interview with Sel, plunged back to their customary, abysmal level.