Last of the Summer Moët Page 8

  Kiki gasped. The two were famously rivals, but had there actually been a fight?

  ‘All the names they’d dropped,’ Peter explained dryly, crinkling his eyes again.

  After Kiki had stopped laughing, they discussed the quiz. Peter, very sportingly, had offered to act as questionmaster and quiz compiler. Kiki, he insisted, would be doing him a favour. He could put any quiet moments in his shop to good use, and there were volumes all around to consult on the various categories. These would reflect the areas of expertise represented by the residents of Great Hording. Politics, Theatre, Film, Literature, History and Art.

  Talk turned to the various teams. Neither of them could imagine who or what sort of a team Zeb Spaw the famous conceptual artist had assembled. ‘My guess is a dog, a can of beans and a urinal,’ said Peter.

  Kiki’s face fell. ‘Do you think so? I was rather hoping for Tracey Emin.’

  ‘I wonder who the Threadneedles will bring.’ Peter nodded down the street to where the elegantly etiolated form of Kate Threadneedle had hovered into view. ‘I know Mark Carney’s stayed recently, and Warren Buffett’s a good friend.’

  Excitement filled Kiki at the prospect of such financial big beasts. Then she remembered the phone call from Lorna Drake several days ago. She had not yet checked out her claim to know the residents of Addings.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Peter, and dashed off.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Kiki bounced in her trainers over the spotless cobbles and came to a halt in front of her quarry.

  Kate paused in her Heel de France ballet flats, tanned hands shoved into the pockets of her skinny jeans. She looked the other woman up and down. Along with many local wives, Kate suspected the pub manager was after her husband. Along with many local wives, Kate was not wrong.

  Kiki, undaunted, fixed her with a wide white beam. ‘Someone called Lorna Drake’s coming to stay at the Goose this weekend. Says she knows you.’

  The banker’s wife wrinkled her forehead as best she could. ‘Lorna Drake?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Kiki watched the tight, tanned face expectantly.

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  Kiki paled. Had she been fooled by a nobody?

  ‘Is it possible she is a friend of Wyatt’s?’

  Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Are you joking? Wyatt doesn’t have any friends. Not round here, anyway.’

  Kiki was surprised at what almost amounted to a confidence. Perhaps the rumours about Kate’s secret daytime drinking were true.

  ‘Apart from that blasted boy in Little Hording,’ Wyatt’s mother went on, her plumped lips pressing together hard.

  Kiki looked down to hide the interest dancing in her eyes. She had heard about this too. They made an unlikely Juliet and Romeo, the plump, blue-haired Wyatt and skinny Kearn from Little Hording. But what they shared with the teenagers from Verona was strong parental disapproval.

  Kate had gone into the deli now, and Kiki’s amusement was succeeded by fury. Damn Lorna Drake! That most dreaded of all Great Hording eventualities had almost happened. Their social Garden of Eden, their enchanted isle of the elite, had nearly been infiltrated by a civilian.

  Kiki strode back towards the Golden Goose, sheer indignation powering her pace. There were a million and one things to do concerning the quiz but top of the list was a phone call to Lorna Drake. She would now not be coming to Great Hording after all.

  Placing her smartphone to her ear, Kiki cursed as she narrowly avoided a large Bentley coming rapidly up the village street. It was like that damn Ocado van all over again.

  Chapter Nine

  It was Saturday morning and, after considerable delays in Lulu’s wardrobe, they were finally on their way to Great Hording. The result of Lulu’s sartorial deliberations was an outfit she felt suitable for the country. Which it may well be, Laura thought; which country was the question. And in what era.

  Loosely speaking, the style was twenties aristocrat on acid; a pair of beige jodhpurs teamed with a yellow checked waistcoat and a neon green tweed jacket shot through with hot pink. They were combined with a Hermès scarf and a pair of riding boots so tight and shiny it made Laura wince to look at them. A small black bowler with a veil, under which her blonde locks were neatly tucked, completed the ensemble.

  Lulu’s excitement knew no bounds; ever since leaving Kensington she had been sharing her plans for her new rural existence. ‘I can be NFI!’

  ‘NFI?’ Laura was puzzled. People at Society were always talking about people who were Not Fucking Invited. ‘NFI to what?’

  ‘Hunt.’

  Light dawned. ‘You mean MFH? Master of Foxhounds?’ Laura suppressed a groan. Lulu on horseback slashing at sabs with her whip? Galloping over hedges with her teeth bared?

  Lulu’s interest seemed mainly sartorial, however. ‘Hunt clothes so pretty. Pink my favourite colour.’

  ‘Hunting pink is actually red,’ Laura pointed out.

  ‘So why is called pink then?’ The gilding on Lulu’s black sunglasses flashed challengingly.

  ‘Just fashion, I guess.’ Laura remembered a row when Carinthia had exploded over a clothes shoot. ‘It’s too black! I hate black!’

  Raisy had been impressively unfazed. ‘But black’s the new blue,’ she had soothingly pointed out. ‘So it’s blue really.’

  They had turned off the motorway and were now on a country road lined with green hedges and overhung with shaggy trees. The rounded flanks of hills rose at either side to a horizon of cloudless blue. It had been ages since she had been in the country, Laura thought. She had quite forgotten how beautiful it was.

  ‘We at willage yet? Big Horing?’

  ‘Great Hording. No, not yet.’

  Lulu rapped on the glass dividing the chauffeur from the chauffeured. ‘Drive faster, Vlad!’

  Laura shared her impatience. She too was desperate to check in at the Golden Goose and relax. The end of the working week had been dispiriting.

  To be called up to the sixth floor on Friday afternoon had not alarmed her initially. As editor of the British Magazine Company’s flagship title, Laura now reported directly to the all-powerful managing director, Christopher Stone. It was normal that he would want to see her occasionally.

  Nonetheless, trepidation had seized her as she took the lift up.

  The memory of the red-haired woman she had seen entering the building earlier this week had flashed in Laura’s mind. Clemency? No, someone else. Had to be. Or a figment of the imagination, a drifting ghost from the ghastly past.

  The silent sixth floor was decorated like a gentleman’s club. Walls were dark-wood-panelled and hung with gold-framed portraits. The rich, thick blue carpet down which Laura hurried seemed to gobble up the soles of her Chelsea boots. Rounding the corner, she almost collided with someone coming the other way. ‘Sorry!’ she began, before gasping and recoiling with shock. The someone was her oldest enemy. A woman who, from school onwards, had contrived on every occasion to bring Laura down. ‘You!’

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ said Clemency sweetly. Along with a leather biker jacket she was wearing a pair of tweed shorts, black tights and thigh boots with stiletto heels. A powerful scent of perfume swirled about her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Laura did not beat about the bush. Clemency Makepeace had been sacked from Society and the British Magazine Company. She was supposed to have left the country.

  Clemency laughed. She tossed a long ginger tress over her black leather shoulder and eyed Laura through layers of smoky shadow. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Ace Reporter?’ She swept off, trailing a musky slipstream behind her.

  Laura’s knees, annoyingly, were shaking and her mood, already nervous, now verged on hysteria. Had Clemency been to see Christopher?

  Outside the CEO’s office, his secretary Honor was studying the Standard over half-moon spectacles. The colour of her petrol-blue polo neck was echoed in her crisply pleated tartan skirt. In the light from her pleated silk desk lamp, her low-heeled black pat
ent buckled shoes gleamed. There was nothing retro-geek about Honor though; she had been wearing all this first time round.

  She was in her late sixties, sharp as a tack and a genius at etiquette, having, it was rumoured, been the mistress of two dukes along life’s way. This was important to Christopher, who was a galloping snob, but what mattered to Christopher’s wife was that Honor was old enough to be his mother. Christopher’s wife had been his assistant herself, back in the day.

  Laura tried to get a grip on herself. ‘Hi, Honor,’ she said warmly. The warmth was unforced. She loved Honor; everyone did. For all her racy past, she combined efficiency with kind concern and considered cheerfulness a moral obligation.

  Honor glanced up over her specs and her elegant, high-boned face flooded with genuine delight. ‘Hello, Laura dear. Go right in. He’s expecting you.’

  Inside his office, Christopher Stone, hands in pockets, stood facing a window which took up one entire wall and overlooked the roofs of Mayfair. As ever, he was shoeless. He thought better in his socks, he had told the Financial Times in the recent interview of which all the staff had received bound copies.

  ‘Laura, so nice to see you.’ Christopher turned, beamed and stuck out a pressed white cuff with a tanned hand at the end of it. There was a house in the south of France, Laura remembered from the FT. Ménerbes.

  Christopher’s smartwatch sent her thoughts flying to Caspar. A posh kettle, he would say. Long ago, he had given her a lesson in rhyming slang. Kettle and hob, fob. Of course Caspar, now a fully fledged film star, would have any number of posh kettles.

  Christopher Stone’s posh kettle now flashed at her in a seigneurial wave. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Laura sat at the large, polished burr-walnut desk, the historic ship’s bridge from behind which successive CEOs had steered the British Magazine Company. Fred Astaire had tap-danced on it. Elinor Glyn had sprawled on it. Mrs Simpson had mixed Manhattans on it; according to the FT interview her monogrammed cocktail shaker was still in the bottom drawer. Norman Parkinson had signed contracts on it (and served up some of his famous sausages). Twiggy had posed on it. And now Laura Lake sat at it.

  ‘Thanks for coming up,’ the managing director said, as if it had been a matter of choice. He had swung his feet up on the desk and was giving her an easy smile. Something about the easy smile made Laura even more uneasy.

  Should she get a question about Clemency in first? But what if Christopher hadn’t seen her after all? Laura’s oldest and bitterest enemy might merely have been dropping a CV off to Personnel, which was also on this floor. She could be traipsing around every magazine house in London doing the same. Laura felt her spirits rise. Better not to mention her in that case. Let sleeping dogs – or cats in Clemency’s case – lie.

  Instead, she stared at the pink silk soles of the managing director’s long, elegant feet. He had told the FT that he bought his distinctive hosiery in bulk from a small store in Rome that sold socks to Vatican cardinals.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ Christopher went on, addressing his well-kept fingernails. According to the article, his manicurist had waiting lists for his waiting list.

  Laura waited. Christopher allowed a thick silence to gather before looking suddenly up through the big, round toffee-coloured spectacles from Manhattan’s leading bespoke optometrist. ‘I’ve just been talking to someone very interesting,’ he said brightly.

  Alarm charged through Laura. This had to be Clemency. She forced herself to smile, however, and sound bright right back. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. A writer with some great ideas and very good contacts. Excellent celebrity access.’

  Laura was unable to keep up the pretence. ‘You can’t mean Clemency Makepeace?’

  Christopher’s steely beam continued unwavering. ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘But she was sacked last year,’ a dismayed Laura pointed out. ‘In the wake of a criminal trial.’

  ‘But she wasn’t actually guilty of anything,’ Christopher smoothly countered.

  ‘Not proved guilty, no.’

  A faint furrow rippled the smoothness of the managing directing brow. ‘Here at the British Magazine Company we pride ourselves on attracting the best talent. And if occasionally that talent falls in with dubious company in the course of its investigations, perhaps that is only to be expected. Occupational hazard,’ he added, his eyes behind the horn-rims still locked on Laura’s.

  ‘Dubious company’ obviously meant the jewel gang ringleader with whom Clemency had been sleeping.

  ‘Is that what Clemency told you?’ Laura struggled to sound calm.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Christopher, showing his even white Harley Street teeth. ‘And it seems she has been using her time well since leaving us. She has been in America making some very useful friends. She’s in a position to offer us interviews with a number of major celebrities, all of whom she is close to, any one of whom would make an excellent front cover.’

  Laura felt her mouth fall open. ‘For Society, you mean?’

  Christopher bestowed upon her his brightest beam. ‘Of course. Why else would I be talking to you about it? You’re the acting editor of Society, are you not?’

  Laura agreed that she was.

  ‘Quite.’ Christopher leant eagerly forward, his eyes bright beneath neatly trimmed Jermyn Street brows. ‘But you need support. Talented as you are, you lack the experience.’

  ‘I’ve run the magazine for nearly two months,’ Laura reasoned. The managing director ignored this.

  ‘Carinthia has been in touch with me,’ he went on, unpromisingly.

  ‘She’s been in touch with me too. Most days.’

  Stone ignored this too. ‘Carinthia thinks, and I tend to agree with her, that a co-editor would be just the thing until she comes back. At which point we can see what happens.’

  Laura blinked. This was like a bad dream. ‘Clemency, you mean?’

  Christopher nodded. ‘Carinthia recommended that I see her. She’s been quite the frequent visitor at the, um, spa. Or so I understand.’

  Laura’s fingers clutched at the chair arms. She remembered the clank of vodka bottles down the phone line. The nurse asking where the contraband supplies had come from. So it was a conspiracy. Carinthia, jealous, was plotting with Clemency to oust her.

  ‘You’re proposing that Clemency comes and works as joint editor of Society?’ It was so loathsome a prospect it was hard to get the words out.

  ‘Exactly!’

  Laura remained in her seat. The temptation to rise, tell Christopher to stuff his editorship down his boxer shorts (Charvet, like his shirts) and storm out never to return was almost overwhelming.

  But it would be a rash thing to do. She was brilliant at her job, she loved it and she wanted to keep it.

  As Christopher blithely allowed another of his ghastly silences to gather, Laura prayed silently to the ghost of her foreign correspondent father. He had faced many a challenging situation. How would he get out of this one?

  The answer came immediately. Just go along with it. Fight it from the inside. Both Clemency and Carinthia fought dirty, but she would have no chance from the outside.

  Laura smiled at Christopher. ‘Fine.’

  *

  ‘Big Horing!’ Lulu’s excited voice broke into her thoughts. The Bentley had reached the outskirts of somewhere clearly very smart. There were gold flashes of weathervane and the tops of mature trees showing behind high garden walls. Glossy horses grazed in fields of glossy grass edged by glossy hedges. A beautifully painted sign, ‘Great Hording’, beneath a colourful coat of arms announced that they were at their destination.

  With an effort, Laura pushed aside the miserable events of the previous afternoon. The story she was going to write about this place would see off all her rivals and defeat all her enemies. The Secret Village of the Super-Rich! The Hidden Hamlet of the HNIs!

  Lulu’s sunglasses were twisting from left to right. ‘Is great shopping!’

  The sm
all town centre was prettily Georgian, with higgledy-piggledy shops in sugar almond shades. The carefully preserved old façades were all bow windows, fanlights and bullseye glass. Hand-lettered signs protruded at right angles and hung like a row of flags. Stone steps led up to pillared doorways and occasional gaps between buildings gave sparkling glimpses of a cobalt sea fringed with lacy waves and edged by golden sands. White seagulls circled overhead in an azure sky. No wonder, Laura thought, that anyone who was anyone wanted to come here.

  ‘Look! Is James Bond!’ exclaimed Lulu, making Laura’s heart jerk within her chest. Caspar was here?

  She was both surprised and disturbed by the excitement she felt. But Lulu was not pointing at her former lover. She was indicating a shop called Taking the Biscuit. There was a grey-icinged version of the iconic Aston Martin and biscuit villains of the past including Blofeld and Dr No and the spy himself in icing black tie. They were dotted about a biscuit landscape including biscuit explosions, biscuit helicopters and biscuit versions of Moneypenny and Prudence Handjob, the Bond girl played by Merlot D’Vyne.

  Laura raised her phone to take a picture for Caspar. Then she lowered it again. What was the point? He wouldn’t reply. She hadn’t heard from him for ages. Perhaps she never would again.

  ‘Fast! Fast!’ Lulu urged. ‘Want get to hotel!’

  Vlad obediently put her foot down and the car shot past a well-preserved blonde in dazzling leggings, smartphone clamped to her ear.

  The Golden Goose was at the end of the street. Laura stared at it, amazed.

  The rough pub of the Farmer’s Arms website had been utterly transformed. What stood before them was a graceful inn with an air of mellow, well-cared-for age. The pebbledash had been removed to expose the original brickwork, which had been painted white and superimposed with the establishment’s name in swirling sage script. On the smart sage sign was a painted gold goose.

  Laura could not remember the previous roof but it certainly hadn’t been thatched. Also brand new were the ancient diamond pane windows snuggling under the straw and the venerable studded oak front door with the large pink roses round it. Outside the front, by the blackboard chalked with ‘Champagne Bar’ and ‘Fresh Langoustines’, were round wooden tables shaded by white parasols. To the side was a parking area with gravel so thick as to be halfway up the tyres of the row of gleaming performance cars.