Wives Like Us, page 23
“The children here work off their debits,” Pitman explained.
“Huh?”
“She can sharpen colouring pencils in the art department after school. Once she’s done a hundred, the debit’s gone. Now, Mr. Hawkins, Mrs. Hawkins, please excuse me. I’m due to teach a Greek lesson. Oh, and, Mrs. Hawkins,” he added, as he picked up his books, “thank you for the Kitchen Supper. Thoroughly enjoyed it.”
At this, Bryan’s complexion, usually on the red side, turned almost purple. “Huh,” he grunted, and rose abruptly to leave.
* * *
“You’ve completely corrupted Minty already, Bryan, and she’s only eight,” said Tata furiously as they left the headmaster’s office and walked out into the school courtyard.
“What do you mean?” asked Bryan.
“Setting up a business in the playground? It’s so tacky.”
“Well, she’s not going to make her fortune playing tag, is she? I’m really impressed with her.”
“That’s not the point. I just don’t want her turning into a money-grabbing nouveau riche when she grows up.”
“Would you rather she ends up as an entitled aristo like those Duffield kids? One of them’s so useless he just got kicked out of Eton.”
“I just want Minty to be a nice girl, Bryan,” said Tata, her voice rising. What she secretly meant was, she wanted her to grow up posh and marry Prince George, and Prince George was not going to marry a brash nouveau riche.
“Oh, Tata,” said Bryan, finally exasperated. “You need a reality check.”
With that, to Tata’s amazement, her husband walked off without another word and left her standing alone outside the school. How on earth, she wondered to herself, could things have come to this?
30
Like his peers, Josh was the sort of twenty-something who communicated almost exclusively by text. As the week had drifted by, he had stayed away from the house and stuck to the stable yard as requested, but this had not stopped him from bombarding Selby with a stream of flirty messages which consisted mostly of corny emojis, the most recent of which was a GIF of two pink unicorns, dancing nose to nose, with purple hearts exploding between them. Selby didn’t know whether to be flattered, giggle, or weep—but she became more and more determined that she had to be frank with him.
And so it was that on the aforementioned Saturday night, Selby was almost ready to go and meet Josh at the pub to deliver the bad news when Doug tapped on her bedroom door.
“Come in,” she said, as she squirted a splash of scent on her wrists.
Doug popped his head in, seeming to be in a hurry. “I’m heading out. See you in the morning?”
“What?” said Selby.
“I’m going out.”
“But you’re staying with the girls.”
“Why?” Doug asked.
“Because I’m going out.”
“You never told me that.”
“Didn’t think I needed to.”
“You need to tell me if you want me to stay here and take care of the girls, Selby. It’s common courtesy.”
“They’re your kids too,” Selby said. “And I’ve been with them every night for months now. It’s definitely your turn. Anyway, you don’t know anyone here. How can you be going out?”
“I’ve made a friend.”
“Already?”
“Is it that hard to imagine?”
“Who is this friend?”
“You know him. Ian.”
“Ian Ian? The Colin Firth lookalike who works for Tata?”
“Exactly.”
“But you’ve got Kirk back in New York.”
Doug blushed. “It’s not like that.”
Selby raised her eyebrows. “Why have you turned the colour of a tomato, then?”
“We’re just friends. Ian’s very inspiring. Style-wise. Shoe-wise. Have you seen how elegant his footwear is?”
“It hadn’t escaped my notice.”
“Look, I’m sorry but I’m going to be late. I’ll have to go. I thought you’d watch the girls.”
Why was Doug assuming that she was always the fallback? No one ever changes, Selby fumed internally, and they get even worse after a divorce.
“Well, I was assuming you would.” Selby’s voice was rising.
“Stop getting resentful.”
“I wouldn’t be resentful if you weren’t so selfish.”
“I wouldn’t be being selfish if you’d asked me in advance.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“You haven’t changed.”
There was a bitter pause, during which Selby somehow regained her emotional equilibrium. “There is only one solution,” she declared.
“What?”
“Flip a coin.”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
With that, Selby tossed a pound coin in the air and caught it on the back of her left hand, covering it with her right.
“Your call,” she told him gallantly.
“Heads.”
Selby removed her right hand and looked: it was heads. She showed Doug and before she could say anything, he was gone.
Selby sat down at her dressing table, took out her phone, and texted Josh to cancel. She had to smile when a cartoon heart pouring with tears appeared moments later, with the words, Gutted. Next Saturday instead? X J.
He was sweet. Selby sent back a thumbs-up. She’d have to wait until then to tell Josh that the fling was over.
* * *
The Great Bottom Arms was a picture-postcard version of an old-fashioned English pub. Located at the edge of the village, the historic coaching inn had been in situ since the late sixteenth century. It was built of local stone, had low, beamed windows, and an old panelled front door, above which a portrait of the sixth Earl of Bottom hung in an iron frame. A sprawling yellow rose had taken over the front of the building, and a group of lead planters brimming with irises were arranged by the entrance.
Thank goodness, Ian thought, as he pulled up outside the pub in his convertible Mini, for Tuggy Drummond, the posh new landlord who’d made the place over. Until Tuggy, who also owned a glamorous caviar bar in Mayfair, had acquired it, the Great Bottom Arms hadn’t been exactly Ian’s thing. In its prior incarnation, it had been a pongy dive that offered football on a dodgy flat-screen TV, warm beer and crisps, both of which were consumed from sticky tables set upon a swirly red carpet—hardly the sort of place that Ian would suggest to someone as sophisticated as Douglas Fairfax for a drink.
“Ian, old boy!” Tuggy called out from behind the bar as soon as he walked through the door. The thirty-five-year-old landlord, nicknamed at birth for his similarity to a tugboat at that young age, rather enjoyed bartending on the odd Saturday night. “Your usual, sir?”
“Sounds good.” Ian perched on one of the bar stools, which had been painted yellow and had just the right amount of colour sanded off for a vintage effect, and leaned an elbow on the marble-topped counter while Tuggy put together his “usual” in an old-school highball glass. This consisted of a Franklin & Sons rosemary tonic water, a splash of Ceder’s Classic juniper, coriander and rose-geranium botanical spirit, a stem of fresh mint, and a generous heap of ice.
“A gin and tonic minus the gin, darling,” said Tuggy, putting the appetising creation in front of Ian, then offering him a blue-and-white Wedgwood dish piled with nuts. “Try these. Salted almonds from the Newt in Somerset. Wildly overpriced, wildly moreish.”
“Delicious,” said Ian, nibbling one. “Thank you.”
“Looking very dapper tonight,” Tuggy teased.
Ian blushed a little. Was it so obvious he’d made an extra effort? Alas. Maybe the lilac trousers were a bit dressy? And the cream shirt—was it a little too formal?
“The renovation looks fabulous,” he said, swiftly changing the subject. Tuggy had class—the whitewashed walls and pale furniture were the perfect foil for a staggering collection of oils that he had borrowed from the Drummond family vaults.
“Praying Granny’s forgotten about the paintings,” Tuggy said with a chuckle. “Want to see the bar menu while you wait?”
“Sure,” said Ian.
He hadn’t got more than a few lines in when he heard his name being called from behind him and turned to see Doug walking across the room, with the dogs on leads. He was dressed in chinos, a blue shirt, pale grey linen jacket, and the neon sneakers. He was well put together, Ian thought to himself. It was just the footwear that Ian couldn’t quite get past.
“Hey! Hello!” said Doug.
“Wonderful to see you,” said Ian, getting up from his stool and putting his hand out, but Doug went straight in for a kiss on both cheeks. Sensing Ian’s discomfort, Doug apologised. “Oops. Being all New York. Sorry. Keep forgetting England’s different.”
“No, no, not at all. Hello, doggies,” Ian went on, giving them both a pat. “Now, what would you like to drink?”
“Nice cold lager?” said Doug.
“Coming up,” said Tuggy. “Snack at all?”
Doug looked at the menu. “Caviar? Lobster rolls? Feel like I’m at the Palm in East Hampton.”
“I take that as a compliment,” said Tuggy as he poured the lager into a tall frosted glass and handed it to Doug.
“I’ll get a lobster roll. Anything for you, Ian?”
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
“You know,” went on Doug, taking in the scene, the gorgeous clientele drifting in and out, “I could really get to like it here. Not that my ex-wife would like it if I got to like it here.”
“How are the loafers coming along?” asked Ian, not too keen to get involved in a conversation about the Fairfaxes’ relationship woes.
“Let me show you.” Doug took a small sketchbook from his inside jacket pocket and started showing Ian various drawings of shoes, heels, soles, and so on.
“Those are nice,” said Ian, stopping him on a sketch of a loafer with a crêpe sole. “Very summery. But . . . maybe . . .” He held up the drawing and examined it more closely. “Maybe a little shorter on the toe? Squarer on the heel?”
Doug handed Ian a mechanical pencil. “Have a go,” he said, as Tuggy set down a lobster roll in front of him, which he tucked into with gusto. “God, this is delicious.”
“The lobster’s from the coldest waters off the Cornwall coast,” said Tuggy, looking pleased.
While Doug was finishing his food, Ian drew a line here and there, shaded, doodled, adjusted.
“I always have this ridiculous dream,” said Ian while he drew, “where my Prince Charming comes and puts a sparkly loafer on my foot.”
Doug burst out laughing.
“And we live happily ever after in a fairy-tale castle,” said Ian as he handed the sketchbook back.
Doug examined Ian’s adjustments to his design with great concentration. Eventually he looked up and said, “That’s it, Ian. That’s the look for LoafersDirect. It’s a winner. Seriously.”
“It’s nothing. Happy to help,” Ian said modestly.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a great eye for proportion?” said Doug.
Ian blushed a little. “Not in so many words.”
“Well, you do. What is a gorgeous, talented guy like you doing being a butler, anyway?”
Ian coloured a little. It was nice to receive compliments but the staff–client boundary was there for a reason, and he wasn’t sure if he was very keen on Doug’s dismissive attitude to butlering anyway.
Sensing that it was time to extricate himself, Ian looked at his watch, feigning concern. “Oh goodness, look at the hour. I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Mrs. Hawkins will be needing her bedtime hot chocolate and sleeping pill soon.”
“Oh. Okay,” said Doug. “Sounds like she’s Liz Taylor or something.”
“You’re not wrong there,” quipped Ian, getting up from the stool. “Goodnight.”
31
Sophie Thompson had not had a moment to herself over the weekend. She’d spent both days ferrying Eddie between sports matches and playdates, cooking family meals, and endlessly clearing up after Hugh and the dogs. By Monday morning she was shattered, and wished that, like some of her friends, she could take the day off as they did, to “recover” from the physical and emotional labour weekends entailed. But this was impossible if she was to keep what was left of her career going, and she had vowed that, however exhausted she felt, she would devote Monday morning to the hideously dull chore of updating her company database. Still, by the time she’d seen Hugh off to London in that flashy new car, dropped Eddie at school, done the grocery shopping, got back home, and made herself some breakfast, Sophie’s mind had drifted from work: creating a menu and tablescape for the luncheon she’d be hosting after the hack she’d arranged for Selby suddenly seemed far more pressing than going over the dreaded company database. After all, she only had a few days to get everything organised, and she was determined to make a success of this event.
And so it was that at mid-morning on Monday Sophie was to be found perched at a garden table which was situated in a shady corner of the lawn at the Rectory, joyfully scribbling in her treasured leather-bound Smythson “hostess” book. From where she was sitting, she had a beautiful view of the apple orchard at the far end of the garden which was bursting with white blossoms; there was a grassy glade between the trees which could be mown and would make an idyllic spot for a summer luncheon if the weather held up; the long garden table would seat everyone comfortably, and she’d dress it with that frilled, pink-and-white striped seersucker tablecloth that she’d got on sale at Cutter Brooks last year. With the coordinating frilled napkins, green hessian place mats, that trendy pearl-handled cutlery she’d found on Etsy, pretty vases and jugs full of cornflowers and bluebells, terracotta bowls brimming with those Sicilian lemons with the huge waxy leaves, and vintage crystal glasses, the tableau would be the most charming Selby Fairfax had ever encountered. And the food would match. Sophie jotted down a menu—they’d have goat’s cheese soufflés, followed by Devon crab with a pomegranate salad, and pudding would be an apple and blackberry sorbet.
She happily sipped a coffee while imagining the day: she would plan a scenic route for the ride, include a pit-stop for a drink on the way, and on arrival back at the Rectory afterwards, she’d swiftly change from her horsey clothes into a vintage Chanel dress embroidered with daisies that she’d just paid a fortune for on The RealReal. The lunch would be spent sucking up round after round of compliments about Sophie’s “incredible talent” for table decoration and gardening. There would be endless praise expressed for her organisational and equine skills, followed by congratulations on the lightness of the soufflés and the surprising Asian notes in the salad dressing, then screams of delight at the “insane” home-made sorbet. Sophie would repeatedly be told how “clever” she was for transforming the traditional concept of a leaden apple and blackberry crumble into something as light and clean as an ice. There would be polite enquiries about who had done the cooking and when Sophie revealed that she had a “new person,” a local girl who was “very good value” (really cheap) because she’d only just graduated from the two-week course at the Orchards Cookery School, the other women would say, “But you’re so brilliant at finding people,” and then quickly demand the new person’s contact details, block-booking her so that she was never, ever available again to cook for the Thompsons. (A less happy part of the fantasy.)
Sophie’s bubble was burst by her phone ringing, Tata’s name on the screen.
“Sophie, sweet pea. It’s Tats. Where are you?”
“At home. I’m, um . . . working.” She wasn’t keen to let on to Tata how much energy she was putting into the ride and lunch for Selby.
“God, you’re so good, keeping your career going. Look, Soph, I’m feeling really anxious.”
“Can I help?”
“Mr. Pitman called Bryan and me into school on Friday, and he gave poor Minty a debit—”
“But she’s always so well behaved.”
“Lettice Duffield got her into trouble.”
“No surprises there.”
“That’s exactly what Ian said. The worst thing is, Bryan and I ended up having a fight outside the school.”
“Oh dear.”
“And as if that isn’t awful enough, Fernanda’s tried to steal Ian.”
“All your friends have tried to steal Ian,” Sophie reminded Tata.
“But Fernanda’s in the inner circle.”
“True.”
“People don’t understand. I rely on Ian.” Tata sounded hurt. “It’s the way she tried to do it that I’m more upset about than anything.”
“What did she do?”
“She got Luca to write a letter asking him to come and work with them.”
Sophie thought this sounded unlike their friend. “Are you sure Fernanda was behind it?”
“This sad little letter offered Ian a giant raise.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sophie. “That’s so unfair on Luca.”
“Fernanda thinks she can buy whatever she wants. Well, it turns out she can’t buy an Ian. I would never have got Ian if that crypto guy he was working for in Patmos hadn’t gone broke. Ians are not available willy-nilly: Ians are rarer than golden pheasants. They are precious things that have to be nurtured. As a result of Fernanda’s scheme, I gave my Ian an enormous pay increase.”
“Very sensible.”
“Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because I need a favour from Fernanda, but things feel too weird right now for me to ask her myself.”
“What can I do?”
“Can you ask her to invite Antoni to the trunk show she’s doing on Friday?”
Sophie was surprised. “Isn’t it all ladies’ pyjamas?”
“Yes, but the thing is, I think a romance is blossoming between Selby and Antoni,” Tata said. “The problem is that Ian says her ex-husband is still staying at Great Bottom Park, so we can’t get Antoni to her place. Selby’s doing the flowers for the trunk show, so she’ll be there all day and we just need to get him to come by.”
“Won’t Fernanda think it’s odd if I ask her? Men never go to those things.”
