Dirty Minds (14 page)

‘Wow. So then Sunday morning will be spent apportioning writing tasks. Then after lunch they all go home, fired with enthusiasm.’

‘Sounds great. Now tell me, have you got your costume sorted out for Saturday night? It was your idea, after all. You have to be seen to be entering into the spirit of the thing.’

‘Ah, I hadn’t got round to that. Any ideas?’

‘Well, yes I have. Would you mind standing up please?’

He did as requested, while she reached into a drawer. Her hands came out with a tape measure.

‘Right, let’s have your waist first.’ She knelt down in front of him and put her hands around his back. He gulped. ‘34 inches in old money. Now your inside leg.’ He stood dead still, while she fiddled around. ‘We’ll call that 34 inches as well.’

‘I think that’s what it says on the back of my jeans, now I come to think of it.’ His voice was strained.

She looked up with a mischievous smile.

‘You’re right, but it wouldn’t have been half so much fun.’ She stood up. ‘And last, but not least, your chest.’ She had to press close up against him to get her arms around with the tape measure. Her breasts pushed against his chest. Her perfume filled his nostrils. For a moment, he genuinely thought he was going to faint. His head was spinning, his heart hiccupping. Finally satisfied with her measurements, she stood back. He did his best to regain his equilibrium.

‘Don’t tell me you are going to run me up a faithful copy of a 1920s toff’s outfit on your trusty sewing machine?’

She gave him a broad smile. ‘As some famous racing driver once said, “I just drive them, I have no idea how to mend them”. But I do know a splendid place in London where you can get just about any costume. If you trust me, I’ll get something for you while I look for something for myself’

‘Ros, I trust you more than I trust Noah to clean his plate.’

The Melcombe House Hotel lay a few miles from Piddletrenthide, and the countryside was pure Dorset, where rolling hills give way to wooded valleys, in any one of which you are likely to find the remains of a Roman villa. The hotel itself was once the home of a minor aristocrat who had the good sense to stop trading in slaves and start importing fertilizer. If proof were needed that where there’s muck, there’s money, this place was it.

‘Wow, Ros, what a place. Noah would have loved that lake down there.’ Regretfully he had had to leave the Labrador in Devon. The local farmer was only too happy to take him for the weekend.

‘Well, he’s got the pond at the farm to splash about in, if he wants.’

‘I know. But he’s sharing it with a couple of dozen ducks. He hasn’t caught one yet, but it’s not for want of trying.’

He decided against parking alongside the yellow Ferrari. Instead he sought refuge around the side of the house. His car fitted in much better among the staff’s cars. He collected his bag and one of hers from the boot. She was reaching for the remaining two bags when a liveried servant appeared and took over the task.

‘Oh, thank you.’ Tom felt the luggage whisked from his hands. A deferential finger indicated the front door. It would have been unmistakable, even without the porter’s indication. A forest of Doric columns stood at the top of stone steps. Framed in the midst of the columns, was a familiar figure.

‘Rosalind, Tommaso, how good to see you.’ Alfonso advanced towards them and bestowed kisses upon them both. ‘And you managed to bring us a sunny day as well.’

The sun was indeed shining. The view down across the park to the lake was breathtaking: rural England at its very best.

‘Are those deer I can see under the trees?’

‘
Si, carissima
. The hotel seeks to procure as much produce locally as it can.’ He threw his left arm around her shoulders, his right around Tom’s.

‘Poor little deer.’ She sounded like a child.

‘But they taste so good. Come, let me show you around.’

The house was built of wonderful honey-coloured stone. Rows of stone-framed windows ran from end to end, those on the second floor smaller and less showy. No doubt this is where the servants would once have lived. A lead-topped clock tower finished it off. The overall appearance was of unashamed opulence. They followed Alfonso inside.

‘Here is the dining room and, through here, one of the many lounges. You English have managed to invent so many different names for what is, in effect, the same room. Here at Melcombe House we have a sitting room, a lounge, a morning room, a garden room, a breakfast room and a study. The study is larger than the cabinet office in Downing Street, and certainly larger than most lounges.’

The room referred to as the lounge was elaborate, ornate and enormous. The walls were a fine grey-green colour, highlighted with gold. Intricate plasterwork on the ceiling led to a line of flamboyant ceiling roses, from which satin-clad chains supported magnificent chandeliers.

‘Oh, Fonsie, what a perfectly wonderful place. How clever of you to find it.’

‘I cannot take the credit for that. It was one of my staff in London who saw it on a commercial property website. By the next time you come to visit, it will have undergone a complete transformation. I will, of course, keep all the original features but the infrastructure of plumbing and electrics is in need of complete replacement. We will create a new kitchen, a bar in the old stables and two tennis courts outside: floodlit, of course. Then there is the matter of upgrading the fire precautions and so on. But it will be worth it.’

‘What a magnificent fireplace.’ Tom was very impressed. The fireplace was carved out of the purest white marble into a complex mixture of columns, bows, fruit and flowers.

‘Ah, Tommaso, let me tell you exactly what that is. You have before you a pedimented, cartouched and swagged chimneypiece.’ He gave them both a broad smile. ‘I must admit I find it a bit over the top. The very nice lady from English Heritage gave me the full description. You must remember it for your book. Now, let me lead you upstairs.’

The staircase itself was a masterpiece of the woodcarver’s art. Gold balls topped the newel posts and all the treads had been polished to a deep chocolate brown. A slightly worn red and gold carpet ran up the middle, held in place with gold rods. They walked up to the first floor.

‘Here is the main accommodation floor. There will obviously be an elevator installed. We currently have twenty-four bedrooms. I intend to reduce that number to twenty, by creating two new suites.’ He glanced tenderly at Ros. ‘Next time you come here, my dear, you will be able to choose between the Royal and the Republican suites.’

‘I wouldn’t know which to choose.’

‘You see, we are even-handed here. We cater for republicans as well as monarchists. But you can leave the decision to your fiancé. Which would you pick, Tom?’

Tom did his best to avoid Ros’s eyes. ‘I suppose I am a republican with a small “r”. But what happens if you are entertaining somebody like Bill Clinton? You can hardly put him in a Republican Suite, but, at the same time, he’s hardly a monarchist. The Yanks got that out of their systems centuries ago.’

Alfonso stopped in his tracks. ‘Rosalind, I can see why you have fallen for this man. He has a brain in that head of his. We had not considered that. Of course, we cannot use the word “republican”. It would be too embarrassing. After all, when Hilary retires, Bill promised me they would come to see me.’

Tom goggled. Alfonso was on first-name terms with the former president? And, even more important, he spoke of Ros having fallen for him. Her fiancé?

‘Why not call them Dorchester and Winchester, or something local?’

‘Of course, after your meeting this weekend, maybe we should name them the Sadist’s and the Masochist’s suites.’

‘Fonsie, behave yourself. I don’t want you accusing any of our co-writers of being in any way kinky.’

‘Although we have a pretty good idea that at least one of them is a bit weird.’ Tom looked at his watch. It was almost half past one. In less than four hours time, the other writers would be arriving. He was beginning to feel nervous.

‘We are looking forward to seeing what they all look like. We have built up a mental picture of them, but who knows?’ Ros looked down the corridor. ‘So which are our rooms? I think I’d like to freshen up before lunch.’

‘Over here, look, his and hers.’ Alfonso pointed to two doors set side by side. The numbers 16 and 18 were discreetly visible, painted in yet more gold. He flung the two doors open. Tom waited until she had chosen one. Then he walked into his. He was unsurprised to find a four-poster bed, complete with gold hangings. He heard a squeal of glee from next door.

‘I will leave you young people to sample the delights of 1920s plumbing. Lunch will be served in the breakfast room. It is more intimate.’

Tom remembered the breakfast room as being slightly larger than the whole floor area of his own house. That was intimate? He went into the bathroom and used the facilities. There may have been hundred-year-old plumbing but it didn’t show. This was true opulence. He found himself thinking about the book. This was going to make a remarkable setting.

He washed his hands and returned to his bedroom. It boasted two huge sash windows. The view was every bit as stunning as Ros and he had been led to believe. Meticulously maintained parkland stretched away to the distant lake. Vast oak trees, their trunks protected by wooden enclosures, dotted the grass. This was a scene that would have to be in the book. He searched for a suitable adjective: bucolic, maybe? Or was that just reserved for cows? He resolved to check that and then use it, along with the description of the fireplace downstairs. The sunshine was the icing on the cake. It was an idyllic place.

His musings were interrupted by a tapping noise. Fearing the worst from the plumbing, he tried to trace the origin of it. It seemed to be coming from an ornate panel, set in the wall by the door. There was a silver bolt set in it. He slid the bolt open. Her face appeared in the opening.

‘Surprise! Bet you didn’t know we’d got one of these.’

‘A secret door, no less. Is yours camouflaged as well?’

‘Come and look.’

He squeezed through the tight opening. Her room had a pair of king size beds. He couldn’t help that same old feeling of sexual arousal. She must have noticed. As he made his way over to the window, she followed him. He was very aware of her behind his back, as he looked out onto the glorious scene.

‘It’s the most wonderful place.’ He was trying to sound normal but his voice had dropped to a raucous growl. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and his voice disintegrated into a croak. ‘Really lovely.’

‘You know something, Tom?’ Her chin was resting alongside her hand on his shoulder now. ‘All those years when I was away, travelling all over the world, I used to dream of places like this. LA’s great fun, Sydney, Rome, Paris, all so impressive, but good old rural England is what it’s all about for me.’ She turned her face towards him. ‘That’s why I bought the cottage. I’ve always loved Devon.’

‘We were just the same.’ As soon as he said it, he regretted using the word ‘we’. But there was no reaction from her. ‘When I got the job at Exeter, it seemed just so right to look for a house in the country.’ He drew in his breath. ‘It’s lucky we did. Otherwise I might never have met you.’

To his dismay, she relinquished her hold of his shoulder and moved away. Then, apparently oblivious to his presence, she shook her hair and stretched her shoulders back. Her breasts pushed out as she did so. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She glanced across at him. She smiled.

‘Well, come on. Our host awaits. We’d better go down to lunch.’

‘Couldn’t we just stay here for ever?’

‘What, no food? You need to get your priorities right.’

‘I thought I had.’ But he turned round, as commanded. He came very, very close to taking her in his arms. His hands actually moved a few inches from his sides, before natural caution took over.

She eyed him tenderly. She could almost see the tortuous workings of his mind. She knew she would stick to her decision not to rush him. It wasn’t easy. From the very first, muddy day she had met him and Noah, she had known there was something very special about him. ‘Now come on. Never keep an Italian from his food.’

As they went down the stairs, he had an idea. ‘Somehow I think the secret door will be useful in the book.’

‘Not just in the book, if I have anything to do with it.’ She whispered it to herself, so he couldn’t hear.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the maître d’hôtel was waiting for them.

‘Good afternoon, Professor Marshall, Miss Waters. This way please.’ He ushered them into the breakfast room. Tom’s memory was right. Fifty people could have breakfast in here in comfort.

Alfonso was intent on reading Tom’s welcome pack for the participants. He was clearly well into one of the specimen pieces of writing. He leapt to his feet, embraced Ros, held her chair for her, and saw her comfortably seated. He then scuttled back to his seat and resumed reading. The maître d’hôtel did the same for Tom, but less flamboyantly. Alfonso looked up briefly.

‘I won’t be a moment. I am just curious to find out what happens to the Marquise.’

‘She learns her lesson, Fonsie. The hard way.’

A waiter appeared from nowhere. He lifted their napkins one by one from the table, shook them out and placed them on their laps. He then disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Alfonso finished the story and dropped the folder.

‘
Bellissimo
. The stable lad will be lord of the manor within weeks.’

‘Oh, and the poor maid? What about her?’ Ros clearly liked an underdog. Alfonso had thought of that.

‘If it were my book, there would be another character. A butler, maybe. He would enter the maid’s life, and they would set up home together.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of the first course. Three plates appeared before them, covered with silver domes. Two waiters lifted the domes off simultaneously. The maître d’hôtel intoned, ‘Lobster and salmon ravioli. Wild truffle sauce.’

The food looked and tasted spectacular. After a few forkfuls, Alfonso whispered, making sure none of the staff could hear, ‘This is very good. I told the chef I wanted some pasta. It doesn’t get much better than this.’

‘Up to your mum’s standard?’

Alfonso crossed himself. ‘
Buonanima
, I loved her dearly, but she was a terrible cook. Now my father, he could cook like a God. He would have approved of this. This is very, very good.’

Tom found himself wondering about the house party in the book. ‘What do you two
bon viveurs
think? Would our aristos in the 1920s have had such wonderful food?’

‘Without question.’ Alfonso finished his last mouthful and took a piece of bread. He mopped the plate with enthusiasm and popped the bread in his mouth. ‘Fine dining is not a modern affair. All right, some of the ingredients are more readily available now, but I’m sure the 1920s or, indeed, the 1820s would have had excellent cuisine.’

The plates were spirited away. Three silver domes were placed before them once more. This time, as they were raised, the maître d’hôtel announced, ‘Pan fried fillet of bream, pancetta and oyster mushrooms.’

They chatted throughout the excellent meal. By the time they reached the coffee, it was three o’clock. Tom realised he had better get to work. Now that the time to meet the co-authors was fast approaching, he found himself feeling quite apprehensive. Ros looked across at him, and gave him an encouraging smile.

‘It’s all going to be fine, Tom. Just you wait and see.’

‘Alfonso, many thanks for that superb meal.’ He meant it. ‘Now, could you get someone to show me the meeting rooms please? I need to set up some equipment.’

The maître d’hôtel was summoned.

‘Could somebody show Thomas the meeting rooms, and could I speak to the chef please?’

Two young men arrived very shortly after. One bowed to Tom and indicated the way to the rooms. As he left, Tom heard Alfonso’s voice, addressing the nervous chef: ‘
Complimenti, complimenti
. A magnificent meal. Very, very impressive.’