Torn (30 page)

‘If that's the milieu you work in, it has to be important,' she said, coolly. ‘But since having Rory, and now living here, my life has changed a lot. Obviously I still care about my appearance, but all that seems far less important than it used to. And in the future, if I go into teaching, there's going to be little opportunity for dressing up in the latest high fashion.'

‘Teaching!' Imogen pulled a face. ‘Why? No fucking money, no fucking respect!'

‘I used to be an investment banker.' Perversely, Jess had expected to pile fuel on Imogen's contempt. But the other woman's eyes sparked with sudden interest. ‘Wow! The crash must have been such an intense experience! The whole world slagging you off, but you with your pockets stuffed full and laughing all the way to the … Why give it up? And why do you want to teach, of all things? Couldn't you sit back, put your feet up?' She laughed, apparently not expecting an answer, and turned to her immediate neighbour. ‘So, Daniel, what are you planning to do with the rest of your life?'

Over the evening Danny's voice had grown increasingly hoarse; from time to time he coughed. Now, as he looked at Imogen, his smile was shaded by bemusement.

‘Carry on doing what I'm doing. Farming, rearing animals.'

‘Animals! Ah … bless!' she cooed. ‘Aren't you interested in money?'

He cleared his throat for the umpteenth time. ‘Wouldn't mind a bit more, if that's what you mean?'

‘I think you could make a fucking packet. What do you think, Piers?' She pinched Danny's chin and turned his face towards his brother. ‘Bit of a babe, yeah? Face of the moment? Can you sing, Daniel?'

‘Sing!' Danny jerked his face away, but Imogen was too enthused to notice.

‘Yeah. Look at the bone structure. The colouring. The skin. It can be so gorgeous at this age.' She stroked the back of his narrow hand and exposed wrist. ‘I'm thinking boy band here.
X Factor
. But if you can't sing …'

Danny withdrew his hands from the table and the pucker between his brows deepened.

‘Come on, Imo!' Piers objected. ‘Who needs Pavarotti in boy band?'

‘The ability to keep in tune must help. But eye candy is what's needed most. And you could always mime, Danny. But OK, if you're not impressed by that idea, you'd still make a model … even catwalk. You've the height, the build … a bit skinny at the moment, but you've not been well. You'd need to work out, get some bulk and definition in your muscles … and you're not cocky enough. You need a bit of swagger, a bit more attitude.'

Was she the only one present, Jess wondered, to have noticed the tilt up of his head, the hardening of his mouth, and the droop of his eyelids as he gave Imogen a cool, appraising sideways glance, which seemed to question ‘lack of attitude'?

‘But that kind of confidence will probably come with the attention,' Imogen continued, blithely. ‘So? What d'ya think?'

‘I think you're mad,' he said with a half laugh, which turned into another cough.

‘Imo is always on the lookout for a new face,' Piers said, with the long-suffering air of one who had been through this many times. ‘Can't judge. My bro'. Obviously fucking ugly little squirt!'

‘What about everybody else? Gilda? James? Jessica, surely you can see it?'

Jessica felt slightly sick and a blush suffused her cheeks. She was rescued from having to answer by James.

‘Don't sign anything, Sideshow, not till I've had it looked over! That woman is a shark. Started off as a model … what was it, Imo? Ten … no, more like fifteen years ago? Within minutes, it seemed, she was running the show. She must be ripping someone off to be making the kind of money she's making!'

Danny was obviously finding all the attention disconcerting; he looked towards Jessica in mute appeal. The cough started again.

‘Anyone with an interest in Danny will have to negotiate through me.' Having recovered her poise, Jess spoke in the same mock serious tone in which the rest of the conversation had been conducted. ‘I've appointed myself his manager. OK?'

Recovered from his coughing fit Danny nodded and smiled at her for the first time.

Piers clapped delightedly. ‘Ho! Got some competition now, my treasure. Another hard-nosed businesswoman here!' He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Imogen pursed her lips and turned her attention to James. ‘So, Jay, how's the book going?'

He sighed deeply. ‘Oh, you know. More of the same. Can't even get a literary agent, though that's the way I've been advised to approach it.'

‘The buggers won't even read the whole manuscript,' Gilda said with passion. ‘They judge it on the synopsis and first three chapters. It's entirely unfair.'

‘But you can write. Some of the rubbish that gets published … Beyond me. Incomprehensible. Who's for one of these cancerous vessels?' said Piers, offering the cigarettes.

‘Quality of writing has little to do with it. Seems you've either got to catch the mood of the moment, which is pure luck, or you've got to be easy to pigeon-hole.'

‘Or already be fucking famous for something else,' Imogen said. ‘If only you were an actor.'

‘Or performed some newsworthy feat of derring do?' Piers contributed. Having had no takers, he lit his own cigarette.

‘Or a member of a boy band?' Jessica threw in.

James laughed at her contribution. Imogen ignored it.

‘Hey, tell you what, Jay, next time you send your stuff to an agent, include a photo. Come up to London one day soon, I'll get a photographer organised.'

‘Wouldn't a happy snap from the family album be sufficient?'

‘How quaint! You keep your pics in albums?'

‘Only the wedding … and honeymoon.'

‘Not good enough. You're a fucking good-looking bastard, but a pic by a professional will give you that sultry edge. Writing is just another business. Agents and publishers are looking for someone promotable.'

‘I may have to practise sultry.'

‘Fuck!' Imogen shrilled suddenly. ‘I've got it. Grainy outside shot, black and white. Silhouette of a few leafless trees in distance. Right? You looking moody … collar up … something tweedy. Gun, rifle, shotgun … whatever you use to blast birds … over your shoulder. A real Mellors image.'

‘Sounds more like catalogue man from Austin Reed. And don't talk about shooting in front of Dan, you'll cause a riot!'

The man referred to looked a million miles from rioting. He attempted to clear his throat but sounded hoarser than ever.

‘Don't let me stop you. I'm going to excuse myself. You'll enjoy the rest of the evening better without a chorus of coughing.'

They could hear him begin to cough again as he ascended the stairs. James sighed and shook his head.

‘Just lately he's been f … bloody useless to me. Been like living with La Dame aux bloody Camelias. First he gets himself duffed-up –'

‘Be fair, James!' Jessica objected. ‘It wasn't his fault he was singled out by a psychotic in the middle of his own meltdown crisis!'

‘Not saying it's his fault, but he's cost me money! Was back to work for no more than a few days after the punch up, then smitten with bloody consumption! Had to hire in extra help.'

‘It's not surprising he was vulnerable to infection directly after lambing. He was up all hours of the day and night.'

‘Of course you'd know!'

Suddenly aware their spat was the centre of attention, Jessica made no reply.

‘You shoot, Jessica?' Piers asked. ‘Can raise dread subject now Planks out the way! Jay's promised me a blast.' He mimicked a gun over his shoulder pot-shotting towards the balloons.

‘I'm afraid I'm with your brother on the subject of decimating the wildlife.'

‘Decimating? Is that what you really mean?' James queried, with raised brows. ‘One in ten?'

A testy note returned to Jessica's voice. ‘You'd prefer to argue semantics?'

Piers added, ‘Jay always was a pedant.'

‘But you can't agree with the hunting ban,' Imogen interrupted, an argument on the correct use of English passing her by. ‘It's a personal liberties thing, isn't it? I mean, I don't hunt, but I know plenty of people who do, and who get such a lot of fun out of it. And foxes are fucking vermin, aren't they?'

‘Personal liberty was the argument used to defend slavery. Look,' Jessica glanced back towards James. ‘I understand the farmer's need to control pests. I know foxes take lambs and chickens. And magpies, jackdaws … whatever else … take crops. I can also understand bagging a couple of pheasants for the pot. But hunting for sport …!' She shook her head.

‘So you admit that it's the fun you object to. Hunt if you must but don't get any fun out of it.'

‘Precisely. I find it morally repugnant that people should get pleasure out of torturing and killing defenceless animals.' The two women stared at one another.

‘Well … that's telling me, isn't it?' Imogen remarked.

‘Jessica doesn't believe in mincing her words,' James said. ‘If she gives it to you, she gives it to you straight … between the eyes.'

‘Even if I mince the English language?' Jessica asked.

‘I apologise unreservedly. I knew perfectly well what you meant. I was being bloody-minded.'

‘Yes, you were.'

Gilda stood up purposefully. ‘Enough bickering! This is a happy occasion. Subjects which cannot be agreed upon, like religion, politics, and hunting, are banned. I am now going to organise the coffee in the small sitting room, but then I shall retire.' She left the table and Jessica followed her into the kitchen. ‘You young things are better off without me cramping your style,' she said, as she switched on the coffee maker.

‘It's been a lovely evening, Gilda. The food was wonderful, everything was splendid. I'm sorry I've not been a more agreeable guest. What can I do to help?'

‘Don't be concerned. James needs people around who will stand up to him. He likes a challenge. Would you just ask them what they want? Espresso, cappuccino, whatever? I'll take the cheese and petit-fours through.'

Jessica was kneeling by the fire, lifting and turning the logs with the poker, when Imogen walked in. She watched for a few moments in silence. Jess hoped she wasn't about to resurrect the previous debate.

‘Are you and James an item?'

Surprised, Jessica sat back on her heels. The idea was laughable. ‘No! I can't think of a subject we agree on! I'm more a friend of Gilda's. We met through the kids' nursery school. I honestly think I was invited tonight just to make up the numbers.'

‘She's not matchmaking, is she?'

Jessica shrugged. ‘That's a question only she can answer.'

‘I was a bit surprised when I first saw you, though Piers took it for granted you two were fucking. But even discounting your opposed views on life, you're not at all his style. Serena was –'

‘A beauty of the luminous blonde variety, I've heard.'

‘But quite conventional, you know. Bit of a Sloane.'

As Imogen was herself, Jess thought, plus the accent to go with the image.

‘There's no question he's attractive. And fucking good in bed. We tried each other out, years ago, before Serena and he … Very inventive, if he puts his mind to it. After she died I might have made a play myself, but he's not rich enough.'

Not rich enough? Jess wondered. He seemed plenty rich to her. Imogen continued.

‘Of course you're a bit … freaky for Jay. No offence.'

‘None taken.'

‘And I don't think he's over Serena, not enough to start anything new, yet. Of course, I'd known them both for years. She and I were friends, started in modelling together. It was a fucking tragedy what happened, just as she was going back to work, too. It was the first big job offer after having Sash. Happened on her way to London for a screen test.'

‘I understood she'd given up work. Wanted to make a go of the farm.'

‘That was the original idea … after the shock of her parents' death, and then discovering she was pregnant. At first I think she had this romanticised view of staying at home, living in the country and being a mum. But by the time Sash was a year old she was chewing the carpet. She's suddenly talking about independence and self-fulfilment. It wasn't what Jay expected. He'd given up a lot … great job, sold a totally fucking gorgeous flat in St Katherine's Dock, in order to come here. Then …'

‘If she wanted to carry on working I see no problem with that.'

‘I could have got her enough mother and child work, kept her ticking over till Sash started school. But that wasn't good enough. She suddenly develops these grandiose ideas about a high-profile career.'

‘As long as the childcare aspect was properly sorted out, what was the problem?'

‘Well it wasn't, was it, not that day? She just bunged Sash in the car.'

‘It is one of the few advantages when they're still little.'

‘And the screen test was for a movie. It was as if she could suddenly see her name in lights. She began talking about moving back to London. I don't blame her for that. I couldn't hack living in the fucking country. I'll come here for the odd weekend, but that's because this is a beautiful house and we get the master bedroom, with the en-suite. Fucking tragic really. Jay moved out when Serena died. Loads of her clothes are still in the wardrobe. But the reality of living here! The countryside is too wet, too muddy, too many fucking pongs! I've never been down to Piers' parents' place … sounds a bit grim. Until today, I'd never met any of his family. I'd heard all about them. The scandal, the mad woman in the attic, suicidal father, boring sister, retarded brother! Talk about
Cold Comfort Farm
!'