Simply Divine (14 page)

'Cheer up,' said Josh. 'Why not do some work to take your mind off things?' He flung a handful of A4 sheets across the room. 'There's a piece here to edit. Needs a bit of restructuring, I think.'

Shocked out of a delicious daydream in which Tom appeared in the office with a pair of first-class Eurostar tickets to Paris, Jane came abruptly down to earth. Or, even more depressingly, to sticky, stained carpet as she scrabbled to detach the pages from the floor. She scanned the opening paragraph. The appalling grammar, dreadful spelling and sentences looser than seventies Monsoon smocks made any kind of argument impossible to decipher. 'Restructuring?' snarled Jane. 'It needs scaffolding. It needs

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a whole team of builders with their burns sticking out.'

Oh sod it, she thought, half an hour later, looking at her watch. I'm going to lunch. Even the prospect of a lettuce roll in the local sandwich bar wasn't as depressing as staying in the office under Josh's baleful eye and the increasingly powerful aroma of rotting Thai prawn ready meal samples wafting over from the food editor's desk.

As it was early, Jane managed to grab a table. She bit into her roll, which tasted, as usual, of cotton wool, and allowed herself to daydream about Tom again. They were aboard the Eurostar now, stretching out in First, and she was just taking a crisp, chilled sip of a particularly rich and golden vintage champagne.

'Hi, there,' chirped a cheery, familiar voice. 'All alone, are you?' Jane did not look up. She didn't want to be disturbed. At least, she didn't want to be disturbed by fat Ann from
Blissful,
now bearing down on her with a plate full of pasta, a full-fat Coke and a bright chatty smile. Oh no, thought Jane in alarm, clutching her roll in panic. I don't want to spend all lunchtime hearing about her sick pussy.

Actually, I'm glad you're on your own,' said Ann, plonking a pile of tomato goo that smelt strongly of sick on the table. That makes one of us, then, thought Jane. 'I've been meaning to have a chat with you for
ages?
Ann continued. 'You see,' she stretched out an arm and placed it on Jane's, the thick hairs on her upper lip quivering, 'Valentine told me you split up with your boyfriend. And I wanted to say I was sorry.'

Thanks, Valentine, thought Jane. Then, as Ann did not immediately remove her clammy hand from her arm, the panicked thought that Ann might actually be trying her luck seized her. 'Thanks, Ann,' she said uncertainly.

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'Welcome to the club!' said Ann, raising her Coke to the level of her thick, shiny nose.

Jane felt a rush of panic. 'What club?' she asked quaver-ingly. Could Ann see something she, Jane, had never been aware of? Maybe this was why she had never managed to make relationships with men work. 'The singles club,' beamed Ann, loading a forkful of goo into her mouth.

'Oh, I'm okay,' Jane said unsteadily. 'I'll put a Lonely Hearts ad in
Time Out
or something.'

'I'd be careful where you put your ads,' Ann said, with her mouth full. 'Personally, I've had very little luck with
Time Out!

'Really?' whispered Jane, wishing she hadn't bolted her sandwich so quickly. She could feel it lying like a slug at -the bottom of her stomach. Her digestive system was in far too much of a tiz to let it progress any further. It lurked there, unmoving and uncomfortable.

'Yes, first there was the man who had inherited land.' Ann cocked her head to one side and frowned at the ceiling. 'But it turned out to be his grandfather's allotment in East Ham, which wasn't quite what I had in mind . . .

'Then there was the man obsessed with his mother. Then the man obsessed with his ex-girlfriend who picked his spots all the time.' Ann ran a ruminative buttery finger over her own far from flawless complexion as she spoke. 'Then I decided I'd have more luck going for the older man market, you know, the more mature, sophisticated sort.'

Jane nodded, fascinated, unable to speak.

'Which was when,' Ann finished, shoving the rest of her tomato mush in her mouth, 'I found myself having a night out with a retired brigadier from Basingstoke. Who didn't show the slightest interest in my pussy.'

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Say what you like about Champagne, Jane thought a few days later. You couldn't deny she had the gift of the grab.

'It's
too
marvellous,' Champagne yelled excitedly with the eardrum-shattering tones she seemed to reserve exclusively for Jane. 'Everyone's being just
too
generous. Alexander McQueen's already offered to do my wedding dress and darling Sam McKnight's doing my hair as a favour. Plus the sweet Sandy Lane and the angel Hotel du Cap are fighting over giving me a free honeymoon!'

Hope it's the Sandy Lane, thought Jane bitterly. But only if Michael Winner's there.

'And,' Champagne added with what was meant to be a happy sigh but which sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger giving artificial respiration, 'Mario Testino's agreed to do the wedding photographs! Such a darling. Just beyond
heaven,
don't you think?'

Champagne's neck wasn't merely brass, thought Jane. It was solid platinum. 'So where are you actually getting married?' she asked.

'Can't believe you're asking me that. It's so
obvious!
Champagne bawled. 'Where on earth do you think?'

Jane's mind raced. Westminster Abbey? St Paul's? A beach in Bermuda? Underwater? The moon? San Lorenzo? Prada on Sloane Street? 'Er, no idea,' she admitted.

'St Bride's, Fleet Street, the journalists' church, of course,' barked Champagne. 'After all, it's my trade!'

Jane leant back on her chair and gritted her teeth. 'What will the dress be like?' she forced herself to ask.

'Oh,' trilled Champagne with what was meant to be a light tinkle of laughter but sounded like someone smashing up several industrial-sized conservatories. 'I can't remember anything apart from something about an

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eighteenth-century fantasia, inspired by Madame de Pompadour. Darling Alexander is stretching his ingenuity to the limit.' Not to mention his stitches, thought Jane. There was only one definite thing about what Champagne would be wearing. It would be tight.

'What about music?' asked Jane.

A musical friend of Conal's is going to arrange some Action Liposomes hits, including "Hot To Trot", so everyone can sing them as hymns. And I've also asked the choir of St Bride's to sing "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" by Wham, which is one of my favourite songs ever.'

And where will you live?' Jane asked, wondering what Madame de Pompadour would have made of it all. Not much, was her guess.

'Well, a socking great mansion in the country, of course,' honked Champagne. 'Where the hell else cjpes any self-respecting rock star live? I'm going to be lady of the manor. Opening fetes, local hunt, that sort of stuff.'

'I thought you said you weren't the hunting type,' said Jane.

'Yah. Loathe it,' bawled Champagne. All that effort to look like a place mat. But they look rather sweet milling about the lawn. We're going to see a place tomorrow, s'matter of fact.'

'Where?' asked Jane, scribbling away. This was perfect column fodder. 'I mean, what county is it in?'

'Dunno. England, I think. Place has a very odd name. Called Millions. Very appropriate for Conal, I must say. Haw haw haw.'

Jane put down the telephone, feeling numb. So Conal O'Shaughnessy was the rock star Tally had been talking about. Poor old thing. She had no idea what was about to hit her.

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Chapter
9

Tally sloshed the whisky into her mug. She felt in dire need of a stiff drink. 'I know it's not six o'clock yet,' she said to herself. 'But it must be six o'clock somewhere in the world.'

It was, in fact, just before twelve. Conal O'Shaughnessy and Champagne D'Vyne were coming to view the house at noon. Pacing backwards and forwards over the black and white squares of the Marble Hall, Tally's mind dwelled on every ghastly detail Jane had told her about Champagne. She could hardly believe such a person existed. Yet, sighed Tally, if her mother was forcing her to sell her home there was no use crying over spilt ilk. Money talked, although she wasn't entirely sure she liked what it said. Breeding, these days, was something Japanese people did when they cut themselves.

Tally took another sip. The whisky helped calm her jangling nerves. She gazed at the mug as she raised it to her lips. It depicted a strange-looking creature with what looked like an upside-down coathanger protruding from its head and bore the legend Tinky Winky. The mug had been a present from Piers and Tally had never understood what it represented.

There was a lot Tally had never understood about her

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brother. Least of all why he seemed to think some rotten old scrubland outside an airport was more worth preserving than four centuries of family history. But to be fair, Tally thought, gasping as the iodine taste of the whisky blazed a trail down her throat, it was entirely possible that Piers, uncontactable and out of reach, didn't have the faintest idea what was happening at Mullions. She sniffed at the remaining alcohol in the bottom of the mug. Was it peaty island malt or TCP? It wasn't the first time she had suspected Mrs Ormondroyd of adulterating the bottles.

Tally gazed despairingly out through the vast and dusty floor-length windows of the Marble Hall. It was raining, as it had been ever since Julia and Big Horn had performed their rain dance for the benefit of Mr Peters' roses. That had been over a week ago. Big Horn and Julia had now jetted off in search of their inner selves, leaving behind them a swamp that was once a rose garden and a soggy hole where the ceiling of the Chinese Bedroom used to be. Tally had spent the morning trying to clear up the mess.

She sighed. Never had getting Mullions back on its feet seemed such an utterly hopeless prospect. She was getting tired of the struggle, not to mention cold and wet of it. Jane, on the other hand, had been firing on all cylinders when she called her about Amanda's dinner party, which she seemed convinced would provide the answer to all Mullions' problems. Jane had even urged her to get a facial. 'Oh, and go and buy something new to wear,' she had instructed. 'Something sexy.' Tally sighed again. Jane had to be joking. Shopping, in Lower Bulge, was Shangri-la if your idea of sartorial heaven was American Tan tights. And she couldn't even afford those. Still, there seemed no reason not to go to the dinner. It meant an evening away

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from Mrs Ormondroyd s cooking at least.

Spring had yet to make an impact on the naked trees in Mullions' park, which looked miserably bronchial, their bunched, vein-like branches black and lumpy against the sky. The mangy grass looked even patchier when wet and Tally could see that the bulrushes in the oxbow lake were getting out of hand again. Why didn't Mr Peters do something about it? she fretted. Well, he never had before, so he was unlikely to start now, especially after Julia's parting request was to ask him to make her a didgeridoo out of one of the Elizabethan bedposts. Unlike Tally, who had been beside herself at the casual vandalism of the idea, Mr Peters' objections sprang from his misapprehension that a didgeridoo was a sex aid. He had stormed off in high dudgeon and had not been seen since.

Suddenly, a long, white limo with blacked out windows glided into view and proceeded swiftly up the drive towards her. Tally knocked back the rest of whatever brew was in her mug and realised, panicking, that it was now too late to change clothes. The combination of her father's hunting pink, one of her mother's old tweed skirts and a pair of Wellingtons would just have to do. She ran a hand hastily through her hair, hoping it was still reasonably presentable. She had brushed it yesterday, after all.

Giving herself a hurried spit wash, Tally rounded the corner of the house from the kitchen door, rubbing her forehead furiously. She was just in time to see a spoilt-looking blonde struggling out of the back of the car, her progress impeded by a tiny green miniskirt and perilously high heels. Tally gasped. Jane had warned her that Champagne was a beast but not that she was a beauty. The girl now swaying slightly on stilettos on the gravel had the rippling blonde mane, large eyes and full lips of a

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Botticelli angel. Tally blushed for her own red-tipped nose and scraped-back hair.

Champagne's tiny skirt stopped at a point obviously designed to make her beautiful, tanned, finely-muscled legs look longest. Her minuscule blouse was made from a matt material Tally had never seen before, with a rippling, liquid, milky texture that clung to Champagne's bronzed and rounded breasts, exposing a wealth of golden if goosepimpled flesh. She certainly wasn't dressed for looking round a cold and draughty country house. Tally, who was, shifted uncomfortably in her ancient and mud-stained Wellingtons. She felt like a cross between the town crier and the village idiot. And, from the way Champagne was staring rudely at her, she obviously looked that way too.