Wicked! (61 page)

Paris went up to his room and slammed the door so hard all the china and glass crowded on the shelves below rattled and clinked. Ian shut himself away in the drawing room with his confounded computer.

Later, tipped off no doubt by Alex, Nadine the social worker popped in. ‘Gather you’re having a problem with Paris, Patience.’

‘I’m afraid my husband’s working and Paris has just gone out. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you. You must open up.’

‘We’re fine, we love Paris.’

‘Don’t expect him to love you. When you foster a teenager at best you can expect to be a mentor or an authority figure.’

Did Nadine ever wear anything else but that funereal black, wondered Patience as she switched on the kettle. Getting a packet of chocolate biscuits out of the cupboard, she noticed mice had eaten a hole in one end, and hastily decanted the biscuits on to a plate.

‘I know you want to rescue a young life and Paris longs for a family,’ bleated Nadine. ‘But your expectations are unrealistic. At an age when most adolescents are trying to escape from their parents and forge their own identity, you’re going against the grain and trying to form ties. It’s not easy.’

Then, seeing the tears spilling down Patience’s tired red face: ‘He’s going to need a lot of counselling.’

It was nearly midnight. Paris still hadn’t come home.

‘Thank God he’s boarding and’ll be out of our hair by tomorrow,’ exploded Ian. ‘How dare he tell Alex Bruce to fuck off.’

Patience felt ashamed that momentarily she agreed with her husband. She felt bitterly let down that neither Hengist nor Janna had yet made contact. She turned out the horses and collapsed into bed.

It was a very warm, muggy night. Moths flying in through the window kept torching themselves on Ian’s halogen lamp. Ian winced but there was no time to rescue them. It was after eleven and he was still wrestling with his infernal computer to provide Alex tomorrow with a list of parents who still hadn’t paid up. As the whisky bottle emptied, he grew more clumsy. Scrumpled-up paper shared the threadbare Persian carpet with a snoring Northcliffe.

Ian glanced up at the photograph of himself in the Combined Services rugger team, strong muscular arms folded, hair and moustache still black and glossy, eyes clear and confident. He hadn’t met Patience then. She was a good old girl, but she no longer stirred his loins, and tomorrow there would be no sweet Jenny Winters to sort out every problem and flash delightful pink flesh and thong as she bent over to pull out a file. On Radio 3, Rupert’s older son, Marcus Campbell-Black, was playing a Mozart piano concerto so exquisitely it brought tears to Ian’s eyes – a piece Mozart had evidently knocked off to pay bills. Would he had such talent.

Ian hadn’t slept properly for weeks. How could he hold down the job of bursar if he wasn’t on the ball? He was sixty-one, not twenty-six. He hadn’t touched the pile of messages. Boudicca’s Tampax machine was still jammed. But at least he’d reached the end of the list of the defaulting parents and tapped in Commander Wilkins, Spotty’s father, who’d paid last year with a hogshead of brandy.

Lord Waterlane, Jack’s father, had in the past filled up the school deep freezes with venison and grouse, which made marvellous shepherd’s pie. Anatole paid his own fees with roubles, Lubemir’s father with a Pissarro which turned out to be a fake.

Having been destitute himself recently, Ian felt so sorry for the parents who worked all hours, forgoing cars and holidays and luxuries, to scrape the fees together, and for the grandparents who often paid them and who’d been equally strapped by pension scandals and the collapse of the stock market.

But he didn’t feel sorry for Cosmo’s mother, the great diva Dame Hermione, who, in lieu of a year’s fees, had offered to give a recital to the school with Cosmo accompanying her.

‘Normally, Ian, I never charge less than a hundred thousand pounds for a gig, so Bagley’s getting a real bargain.’

Lando’s parents seemed to be always broke too. Daisy, his mother, had offered to paint Sally Brett-Taylor for free last year. Nor did Amber and Junior’s parents, both on high salaries, ever seem to have any money.

Anthea Belvedon, the prettiest little thing, played every trick in the book to avoid forking out since she was widowed two years ago. He’d have to summon her next week. He had a special Paisley emerald-green silk handkerchief, faintly flavoured with lavender, to mop up pretty mothers’ tears. What a shame Mrs Walton had shacked up with Randal Stancombe, who’d paid Milly’s fees this term. Comforting Mrs Walton had been an even more exquisite pleasure than glimpsing Jenny Winters’s thong.

Bagley, overall, was in great financial shape. Since the geography field trip, the waiting list had doubled, as eager offspring pestered their parents to send them to such a fun palace. Hengist, routing the Education Secretary on
Question Time
last week, had brought another flood of applications. The school was booked solid till 2012. If only Hengist were as good at picking staff. How dare Alex Bruce steal Jenny Winters?

Thank God for that. Ian switched off the computer. But as he emptied the last drop of whisky into a mug entitled Master of the House, he noticed an envelope on the floor. Inside was a cheque signed by Boffin Brooks’s frightful father Gordon for five thousand pounds. (Two thousand less than normal because of Boffin’s scholarship.) Gordon always paid at the last moment to avoid both a two per cent penalty and losing interest.

Like most first-generation public-school parents, Sir Gordon Brooks clamoured for his kilo of flesh and would have gone berserk and straight to his good friend Alex Bruce if he’d been chased for non-payment, or if Ian had forgotten to put CBE (for services to export) on the receipt. Why didn’t someone export Gordon?

Ian mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve in relief. But when he switched on the computer to delete Gordon’s name, he couldn’t find the file.

Drenched in sweat, heart pounding, blood swept into his brain in a tidal wave, trying to force its way out. Lightning jagged before his eyes. He was going to have a stroke. Nothing. He’d deleted the fucking thing – two whole days’ work with his slow typing. He was far too drunk to type it out again.

‘I can’t go on.’ Ian’s head crashed into his sweating hands. He’d get fired; they’d be destitute again. Snoring Northcliffe and Patience’s horses would have to go.

He jumped, hearing a crash and rattle downstairs, and shoved the empty whisky bottle under the half-completed
Times
crossword. Hearing a step and a thump of a tail, he swung round. Paris trying to creep in had sent a walking stick flying.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

The boy looked whiter than ever – a ghost postillion struck by lightning, haunting the Old Coach House.

‘For a walk.’

‘Too bloody late.’

Seeing despair rather than rage in Ian’s bloodshot eyes, however, Paris asked if he were OK.

‘No, I’m not, just wiped a bloody file,’ mumbled Ian. ‘Need it for Alex Bruce first thing.’

He banged his fist on the table. Everything jumped: the mug tipping over, spilling the last of the whisky on his written notes;
Times
crossword page fluttering down to reveal the empty bottle.

‘I can’t go on.’ Picking up the keyboard, Ian was about to smash it.

Paris, rather encouraged by such loss of control, leapt forward. ‘Cool it, for fuck’s sake. Get up.’ He tugged the keyboard from Ian. ‘Lemme have a go.’

Sliding into Ian’s seat, he went into MS-DOS and typed in the command to bring up the list of files.

‘What’s the name of the one you lost?’

‘“Unpaid fees 2002 autumn”.’ Ian slumped against the wall. He didn’t dare to hope. Oh, please God.

A blond moth fluttered on a suicide mission towards the lamp. Cupping his hands, Paris caught it. He got up and shoved it into the honeysuckle outside, before shutting the window. Returning to Ian’s chair, he scrolled down.

‘Reports, expulsions, health, recreations, staff performance, that looks in-eresting – or, as you would say, “intr’sting”.’ His eyes slid towards Ian. ‘“Unpaid fees 2002 autumn.” Got it.’

Ian gave a gasp of relief:

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite,’ said Paris, reinstating the file back on the computer in its original format. ‘Do you need to change anything?’ Then, scrolling down the list: ‘There’s that bitch Anthea Belvedon, Campbell-Black, Harefield, Lloyd-Foxe, Waterlane, always the rich buggers that don’t pay up.’

‘You shouldn’t be reading that, it’s confidential.’

‘I have the shortest memory.’

‘Can you delete Gordon Brooks, Boffin’s father? He’s paid.’

As Paris found the name, highlighted it and hit the delete button, his fingers made an even more exquisite sound than Marcus Campbell-Black.

‘Let’s print it out,’ suggested Ian. ‘I can add latecomers in biro. Thank God, Paris, you’ve saved my life, probably my job.’

Slumped on a moth-eaten sofa covered in a tartan rug, Ian looked utterly exhausted, his eyes red hollows, his cheeks and nose a maze of purple veins, the lines round his mouth like cracks in dry paths.

‘Would you like a nightcap?’ he asked, desperate for one himself.

Paris grinned. How could a face so shuttered and cold one moment be so enchantingly warm, almost loving, the next?

‘Thought caps weren’t allowed to be worn indoors at Bagley.’

Getting the joke, Ian laughed.

‘All those rules must seem a bit alarming. Have to have that jewellery off, I’m afraid. Wear it when you come back here for leave-outs.’

Ian rose unsteadily and wandered to the much depleted drinks cupboard, pouring a brandy and ginger for Paris and the rest of the brandy for himself, taking a great gulp.

‘Thank you, Paris, so much.’ Then, seeing the boy’s eyes straying towards the crossword: ‘Finish it if you like. Got stuck on a Tennyson quote. “Heavily hangs the broad . . .”, nine letters, “over its grave in’ the earth so chilly.”’

‘Sunflower,’ murmured Paris.

‘Of course, well done. “Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.” Beautiful poem.’

Paris smirked. ‘Any time, Ian. And if you have trouble with that computer, ring me or text me on my mobile and I’ll whiz out of chemistry and sort it.’

‘I suppose those wretched mobiles have their uses,’ conceded Ian. ‘Sorry, the last few weeks have been rough. All a bit nervous. Promise to telephone or pop into my office if there’re any problems.’

‘Thank you,’ said Paris, feeling much happier.

When Ian looked at his computer next morning, Paris had written, with some scarlet nail polish which Emerald had left in the bathroom, on the frame of the computer screen: ‘To remind you to save it.’

60

Paris’s first weeks at Bagley were hell. At Larks he’d bunked off any lesson he disliked and been free after three-thirty. Now he was flat out from the moment the bell fractured his skull at six-forty-five until lights out at ten, kept endlessly busy racing from chapel to lessons to games to prep and losing his way despite Dora’s map. Used to being easily the cleverest pupil at Larks, he found himself woefully behind in most subjects and, with smaller classes, there was nowhere to hide. Nor had he dreamt rugby would be so brutal, but with Anatole and Lubemir in the scrum, he couldn’t expect much else.

His rarity appeal had also gone. An arctic fox occasionally peeping out of the frozen tundra loses his mystery when he’s caged in the zoo. Stripped of his lucky jewellery, disfigured by a savaging from the school barber and by his first spots ever (from existing on chocolate, rather than Patience’s cooking), he had never felt less attractive. Ian’s assault on his pronunciation and table manners had made him miserably self-conscious both in class and at mealtimes.

His first evening was a nightmare, with so many pupils rolling up in flash cars or helicopters with their glamorous parents yelling about mooring the yacht off Sardinia, or stalking in Scotland, or villas in Dubai where the jet-skiing had been out of this world.

Paris nearly died of embarrassment when Patience insisted on humping his stuff across the school into Theo’s house, putting Thomas the Tank Engine on his duvet and braying ‘hello’ to all the other pupils.

‘Theo’s terrified of parents,’ she whispered. ‘Probably won’t appear for hours. Now let’s put up your posters.’

‘I’m fine,’ hissed Paris.

‘Just want to settle you in. Where shall I put this fruit cake?’

‘I’ll sort it,’ Paris almost shrieked. ‘I’m OK, just go.’

The moment she left, he was frantically stripping off the duvet cover when his next-door neighbour, Smart, who already had a ginger moustache above his broad grin, wandered in, shouting, ‘I’m Smart. Thomas the Tank Engine, fantastic, wish I’d thought of that. Where’s the Fat Controller?’

So Paris left it on, and put up a poster of Tennyson between Michael Owen and Emile Heskey.

‘Coming to supper?’ asked Smart.

Paris wasn’t hungry, but he needed an ally. In the dining room, the din was hideous, as they all yakked in their Sloaney way about polo in Sotogrande and the sailing lessons Daddy’d organized in Rock, or chatted to new conquests on their mobiles, or flagged up photographs of them. Paris noticed Xav, sitting alone, sullen and miserable, and felt a louse for avoiding his eye. He also realized he’d made enemies on the field trip. He’d never texted Jade or Amber after shagging them – not having a mobile at the time was no excuse. Boffin, twitchy at the prospect of being usurped by a cleverer boy, was reading the
New Scientist
. Cosmo was smiling his evil smile.