Simply Divine (34 page)

If only it was just the chapel that had collapsed, Tally thought. The rest of the house seemed poised to come crashing down at any moment as well. Tally fretted about the fretwork every night as she went to sleep, and she felt guilty about the fading and black-flecked gilt everywhere,

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so desperately in need of renewal. The cracked console tables were no consolation whatsoever and the bas-reliefs were a source of deep anxiety. There was also nothing remotely amusing about the ha-ha. The only comfort for Tally was that she no longer had to face the increasingly baleful-looking Ancestors. A furious and shaken Saul had removed them from the walls of the staircase some weeks earlier after another leap for freedom by the Third Earl had narrowly avoided crushing him to death. 'Bunch of miserable old bastards anyway,' Saul had said, watching the then-still-employed Mr Peters heave the Ancestors' reproachful and indignant countenances into a storeroom.

Tally sighed. Where was Saul? she wondered, letting her sewing fall into her lap. He had dashed off a good half hour ago saying that he thought he had heard something suspicious downstairs. Something suspiciously like Champagne D'Vyne, she imagined jealously. She may have spent the last few days in thimble-wielding purdah, but Tally knew perfectly well Saul's old girlfriend was on the set. No one within a four-mile radius of that unmistakable voice could possibly be innocent of the fact.

Saul was definitely up to something, Tally was sure. He was practically nowhere to be seen these days. Once or twice she had rounded corners to find him muttering into his mobile phone and, despite his protestations that he was talking business, she had not quite believed him. Business with Champagne, maybe, she thought crossly.

It's just pre-wedding nerves, Tally told herself briskly, dismissing her demons. She knew from the ancient and dog-eared copy of
Brides and Setting Up Home
she had bought from the newsagents in Lower Bulge that engaged couples were often beset with doubts and fears about each other before getting married. The best cure for cold feet,

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she decided, was a brisk trot along the chilly corridors to the kitchen, where a ready-meal lasagne had been heating in the Aga for what seemed like hours.

The kitchen seemed impossibly huge, dark and empty without Mrs Ormondroyd. Her sheer bulk had somehow made it look smaller. The lasagne, meanwhile, was dried out and dead. Tally was prising it sadly from its foil coffin when Saul walked in.

'What's
that?
he said, throwing a disgusted glance at the lasagne. 'Something Mrs Ormondroyd's left behind in the bottom of the oven?

'You're not in the Fulham Road now, you know,' said Tally furiously. 'You're not with Sha-Sha-Champagne D'Vyne now either,' she added, her scant bosom heaving. 'Though you ob-ob-ob-viously wish you were.' She dissolved into tears

The look of absolute horror on Saul's face was some comfort, at least. 'I can assure you I don't,' he said, with feeling. Understanding dawned in his face. 'Is
that
what's making you so baity?' he breathed, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that Tally wasn't, as he had feared, pregnant. 'Let me tell you,' he said, taking his flanceVs heaving form in his arms, 'that woman was the worst mistake of my life. She practically bankrupted me. I've been avoiding the film set like the plague rather than risk running into her. Oh, Tally,' he said, kissing the top of her head and trying not to mind she had not brushed her hair for what looked like a week at least. 'You mustn't. It'll all be fine, you'll see. You have to admit the film idea was a huge success.'

Tally sniffed and nodded, not quite daring to remind Saul that a condition of the film crew's coming had been that no shooting was to take place inside the house. To

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date at least one love scene had been filmed on the Elizabethan bed and a riotous party scene in the Blue Drawing Room had caused the room's great treasure, the precious Eagle chandelier with its delicate arms fantastically wrought with birds of prey, to rock wildly. A network of terrifying-looking cracks had since spread across the ceiling surrounding it.

Tally was about to tell Saul a few stately home truths when, somewhere beyond the hall, the shattering sound of glass crashing on the floor stopped her. She sighed. The Eagle, it seemed, had landed.

Rather surprisingly considering the number of people on the film set, the Gloom and Sobbing turned out to have plenty of room to spare. Jane was as relieved to get a bed for the night as she was disappointed to find the promising-looking cameraman called Chris was nowhere to be seen. It dawned on her, as she sat in the deserted bar with a book and a half-pint of Old Knickersplitter, that he was perhaps staying in another pub altogether. On reflection, it seemed more than likely that everyone else on the film had chosen the more cheerful if more distant Barley Mow in Upper Bulge to the lugubrious Gloom.

The Gloom s lumpy bed and scratchy sheets not being conducive to a lie-in, still less a good night's sleep, Jane was up and about on the film set by ten. Breakfast was being served and she headed gratefully for a plate of creamy yellow scrambled eggs and a mug of steaming tea.

'Looking for Champagne?' called the redheaded clapperboard girl who, despite her tiny size, was tucking into an enormous plateful of fried bread, tomatoes, sausages and bacon. Jane, who had in fact been hoping for a

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morning encounter with Chris, nodded anyway. 'Try her trailer,' said the redhead.

Jane looked around for a Demi Moore-style gleaming silver pantechnicon. 'Where
is
her trailer?' she asked.

'Over there,' said the girl, pointing in the direction of a tiny, battered, domestic caravan. 'We borrowed it for her from the continuity girl's parents. They live near here, thank goodness. They're invited to the world premiere of the film to make up for not being able to go to Skegness all summer.' She finished her sausages and gathered up her clapperboard. 'Tell Champagne she's on soon,' she called. 'There's a crowd scene coming up where she has to smile at the camera. If she gets on set now we might get it right by midnight.'

Jane knocked on the caravan door. A flurry of hysterical barks announced Gucci was within, but the expected accompanying growls from his mistress did not materialise. 'Champagne?' Jane called, rapping again. The top half of the door creaked reluctantly open to reveal the head of a tousled-looking Champagne who, maddeningly, looked more glamorous than ever with wild hair and sleepy eyei.

'You!' she said disgustedly. 'Why the hell did you have to come now? I'm busy, um, perfecting my technique.'

'Well, apparently they want you on set in a minute,' Jane said, 'I'm here to collect you.'

'Well, I can't come just like that, you know,' snapped Champagne. Was she hearing things, thought Jane, or was there a stifled guffaw from within? Her suspicions were confirmed when Gucci, scenting escape, threw himself against the lower door which swung open to reveal Chris the dark-haired gaffer lying on the floor, naked and in a state of supreme excitement. Completely unabashed, he grinned winningly at the astonished Jane.

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'What's the matter?' he asked. 'Never heard of making love to the camera?'

Til, um, see you on set,' muttered Jane, backing away in embarrassment tinged with disappointment. So this was what Champagne had meant by having some Scottish in her. No wonder she hadn't seen Chris in the Gloom and Sobbing.

Jane walked away, trying to concentrate on the scenery rather than what she had just seen. It really was a beautiful morning. A powerful sun was burning the last mist off the lake to reveal a dazzling silver mirror beneath. Brilliant green grass swayed ecstatically in the rosemary-scented wind like a music and movement class, each blade shining as if Nature had not only washed it, but given it a squirt of hi-gloss conditioner as well. The leaves on the thick-trunked trees dotted here and there across the undulating parkland tossed and shimmered like a row of chorus girls' feathers.

Et in Arcadia ego,
thought Jane as her feet swished through the grass. Well, she could vouch for the ego bit, certainly. She looked up to find herself approaching the tiny ornamental rotunda that stood on a gentle slope on the other side of the lake. She had walked further than she thought.

As she approached the little building, Jane realised she was not the only one pacing about the park that morning. Propped up against one of the encircling pillars was an ashen-looking Brad, smoking furiously. He was evidently a man with a lot on his mind. Probably recharging his spiritual batteries for the day's filming, Jane thought, skirting gingerly past him so as not to disturb the creative process. She gasped as a cold and bony hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.

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'I've just seen the rushes,' Brad blurted out. 'Couldn't face seeing them last night. And in every shot from yesterday morning that stupid tart's wandering around in the background flashing her tits and her knickers. The christening scenes look like they've been filmed at Raymonds Revue Bar/

Jane looked at him, not knowing what to say. Much as she agreed with Brad, she had her professional responsibilities to consider. After all, if Brad threw Champagne off the set,
Fabulotis
would be left without a cover and the deadline was looming. Once again, Champagne had her by the short and curlies. 'Her acting method is very, er, avant garde, isn't it?' she murmured.

Brad turned glittering and feverish eyes upon her. 'I think it's more avant a clue,' he hissed.

Deciding he was better left to himself, Jane continued on her way and walked up the slope behind the lake to the estate road and the old gateway. As the estate entrance came into view, Jane noticed a flash of silver turn off the main road beyond and come flying through the ancient archway like a Cruise missile. As it bounced over the potholes Jane stumbled out of the way on to the verge, expecting the car to plunge past her towards the house. It didn't. There was a mighty screech of brakes as the wheels locked and what looked like a hundred thousand pounds' worth of prime babe magnet shuddered to a halt a foot or so in front of her. Jane looked up at the windscreen. Sitting behind it, to her astonishment, was Mark Stackable.

The tinted driver's window glided electronically down to reveal Mark's stern, unsmiling profile. Jane stared at him, embarrassed, wondering what on earth he was doing here. Had he come to try and persuade her to give him another chance? If so, he looked very surprised to see her.

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'You really didn't need to come all the way up here,' she stammered. 'We could have met in town.'

Mark stared at her in astonishment. 'Met
you?
he repeated in tones that implied he would have crossed continents to avoid her. 'I'm afraid I'm up here on business. Nothing to do with you, I'm afraid. At all,' he added emphatically. It was the first time Jane had ever heard him not end a speech with a question.

Of course, thought Jane. Business must mean the film. The success of
Four Weddings and a Funeral meant
that no City investor worth his salt could afford to ignore the potential of a follow-up made in the same style.
Three Christenings and a Hen Party
was worth a punt of anyone's money.

'You know what I think,' she said to Mark eagerly,,and wanting to make amends for her behaviour at his flat. 'You should have some male strippers from Sheffield as well.'

'Excuse me?' asked Mark, astonished. His fingers stopped their impatient tapping on the steering wheel. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Yes,' enthused Jane, swept away by the brilliance of her idea. 'You can't afford to ignore the success of
The Full Monty.
If you have a gang of unemployed Yorkshiremen getting their kit off at the posh hen party, you'll have both the top British hits of recent years in one. And,' she added, inspired, 'you shouldn't call it
Three Christenings and a Hen Party
either. You should call it
The Full Fontyl'

'I haven't the faintest idea what you mean?' Mark said wearily, his fingers now drumming a tattoo.

'The film, of course,' said Jane. 'The film that's being made over there.' She gestured in the direction of the now-buzzing set from where the occasional loud bray could

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be heard. Champagne was obviously now up and about and ready for her close-up.

'I've got no interest in
that
whatsoever,' said Mark, casting a contemptuous glance at the straggling conglomerate of caravans and lighting rigs. 'That's small fry. I'm here to have a meeting about the house.'

'Oh, so you've come to see
Mullions?
Now that made even more sense. What else, thought Jane, would a rich young banker about town be doing on a Saturday apart from buying himself a mansion in the country? It was odd, admittedly, that Mark's choice should have fallen on Mullions, but the house, as Champagne and the film set demonstrated, was proving to be the sort of place that attracted unlikely coincidences.

She wasn't sure, however, that Mark buying Mullions was altogether ideal. Jane shuddered at the thought of him making the ramshackle old house the same sterile temple to contemporary interior design as his Clerkenwell flat. Visions of Mark using the suits of armour as novelty linen baskets in his surgically precise bathroom and replacing the Elizabethan four-poster with a circular waterbed flashed before her. The only remotely appropriate thing she could imagine him doing was returning the ancient dungeons below the house to their original use as torture chambers and making them into a gym.

'Are you sure you're interested in Mullions?' Jane asked, alarmed. 'The place is collapsing, you know. Rotting on its feet. Practically rubble.'

'Yes, I know,' said Mark. 'That's precisely why I
am
interested. It's got
megazoid
potential?'

Jane blinked. He thought Mullions had potential? This was not what she had expected to hear. Perhaps she had got him wrong. 'Why don't you leave the car here and

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walk over to the house with me?' she suggested enthusiastically. 'That way you get the best view of it. Over the lake.' Mark looked at her doubtfully, then nodded and opened the door which ran the entire length of his gleaming vehicle. His jeans, Jane couldn't help noticing as his legs swung out on to the path, had creases so sharp they looked dangerous. He was obviously not a man who was used to casual dressing. 'Nice car,' she remarked, privately considering it flasher than a warehouseful of kitchen cleaner. 'New?'

'All my cars are new,' said Mark crushingly, grabbing a large black folder out of the passenger seat and pointing the car alarm key at the lock. There was a swishing, clunking sound as his security system came on stream. 'I change them every six months, or sooner, if the ashtray gets full?' He gave her a wintry smile. Jane was not entirely sure he was joking. But she was relieved he had de-iced a bit. As with the vomit episode, he seemed to be erasing her rejection of his advances from his memory. Part of the reason, she was touched to see, seemed to be his enthusiasm for Mullions.

'The place has had a bad time lately,' Jane began as they set off across the greensward in the direction of the house. She grinned. 'You can practically smell the dry rot from here.'

'Yes,' said Mark, clutching his folder to his chest. 'Wonderful, isn't it?'

Jane gave him a quizzical look. What was so wonderful about it? Still, perhaps he meant that the opportunities for sympathetic refurbishment were endless. Jane hoped fervently that Tally was somewhere in the house to show him round. Mark had arrived in the nick of time. He was just what she was looking for.

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Chapter 21

Tally gazed forlornly round the rose garden. What once had been a civilised area for after-dinner strolling was now, with its rampant thorns, something that the Prince in Sleeping Beauty might recognise. The roses were not so much rambling as rioting.

Trowel in hand, Tally peered through the bushes at the park beyond. She could just about see the film set and the people moving about on it. Relief flooded her when she recognised the strutting figure with white-blonde hair, who, from the sound as well as the look of her, was enjoying a full and frank exchange of views with a tall man with a megaphone. Champagne D'Vyne was safely on set. So, wherever Saul had disappeared to again, it wasn't to be with her.

Really, I'm getting paranoid, Tally thought to herself as she poked half-heartedly with her trowel at the long-untended earth. Saul was doubtless making some arrangement or other for the wedding. Or the honeymoon, which she imagined must be a surprise, as Saul hadn't uttered a word about it. But try as she might, she couldn't quite quash a feeling of misgiving. 'Something's rotten round here,' she thought, feeling like a prophet as a bush bitten to death by blackfly collapsed into her lap.

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As usual when she was not quite certain about anything, Tally decided to blame herself. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I'm not good enough for him, she told herself. That I'm not pretty or stylish enough. This mornings events alone were enough to support this theory — Saul had been unimpressed when she had appeared at breakfast in her father's old shooting suit.

'You'll be wearing the suits of armour next,' he had snapped.

'But I've nothing else left,' said Tally, thinking that the suits of armour idea was not such a bad one. Once you got them warmed up, they would be very hard-wearing and perfect for walking, although fiddly tasks like washing up or gardening might be tricky.

She was also slightly worried about Saul's attitude to Mullions these days. His former awed respect seemed to have been replaced by something bordering on the cavalier. And not the Charles I variety at that. When, for example, she had shown him Mullions' other single remaining treasure beside the Elizabethan bed, a tiny sketch of the infant Edward VI thought to be by Holbein, Saul had observed breezily that he thought Holbein was a stop on the Central Line.

Perhaps, Tally reasoned with herself, sitting back on her heels and letting the trowel slide from her lap, she felt uneasy because she was getting married without a single member of her family present; an unprecedented step for a Venery. Yet Julia and Big Horn were still away at their ashram with no definite date for their return. 'We'll come back when the time is right,' Julia had breathed enigmatically as she and Big Horn piled into the astounded minicab driver's back seat on their way to the airport. Piers, of course, had not been seen for months. Still saving the

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earth two hundred feet under some runway, Tally supposed wearily, wondering if she would ever see her only sibling again.

If only she could talk to Jane about it all. She had suggested to Saul that her best friend be witness at the wedding, but Saul had been so appalled at the idea she had dropped it without further ado. The very mention of Jane's name got him in a rage for some reason. It had seemed better, more loyal to him at any rate, not to get in touch with Jane at all for the time being. Passions were running too high. Plenty of time for everyone to make friends after the wedding. Nonetheless, Tally missed her. Jane was so straightforward. Her opinions came directly from her heart, and her advice was always sensible, except, of course, when it came to addressing her own love life. Tally wondered what Jane's romantic status was at the moment. Chaotic as usual, she imagined.

Or perhaps not. Tally, getting to her feet and stretching her back, stared in astonishment as she saw someone who looked rather like Jane walking rapidly down through the rose garden towards her, accompanied by someone, a man, whom Tally didn't recognise. She squinted at the couple. The man looked astonishingly handsome. With extraordinarily clean jeans.

'Tally!' called Jane, breaking into a run. She dashed up and caught Tally in a bear hug. 'Haven't seen you for ages,' she muttered into Tally's scratchy and rather smelly tweed shoulder. 'God, I've missed you!' She held her friend at arm's length and stared into Tally's hesitant grey eyes. She looks thinner, thought Jane. Strained, even.