Kissing Toads (20 page)

I said stupidly, ‘Whose dad?'

‘Ours, of course.' He'd left when she was a baby. She had no recollection of him at all. No childhood loss, no fantasies unfulfilled. Pan was far too pragmatic to waste affection on someone who wasn't there. ‘He turned up here in Paris.'

‘Why?'

‘To see me. Or so he said.'

The twinge of jealousy I experienced was automatic. Pointless.

‘He's fallen out with his other daughter – what was her name?'

‘Natalie.'

‘That's right. Anyway, she seems to have got sick of playing his adoring baby girl and buggered off with some bloke he doesn't approve of – too poor, too rich, too good-looking, whatever. Apparently, she'd been lying to him – Dad – for ages, saying she'd given the guy up when she hadn't, sneaking off to see him on the quiet. Dad went on and on about her duplicity, and how she'd betrayed his trust—'

‘Good,' I said. His turn.

‘Too right. So he shows up here, out of the blue, starts coming the loving dad with me, wanting to take me out, buy me pretty clothes, all that shit. I told him, I don't do pretty clothes. I dress how I like and that's that. He's going on about how beautiful I am, and how he wants to make it up to me, take me to live with him on the Côte d'Azur. I say no thanks. I mean, I'm twenty-five. Much too old to be Daddy's girl – even if I'd ever had a proper daddy. Are you still there?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then he says, do I have a boyfriend? I say no, I just shag around. He didn't like that at all –
Merci, Luc, c'est parfait
– really fucked up my chances.'

‘Did he ask about me? Or . . . or Mummy?'

‘Nope. I said, he must want to know Mum's okay, send his love, but he said not really, his first marriage was long over, there was nothing left to send love to. Then he said I could send his love if it made me happy. Too generous. He's a total prat. If I've got any of his genes I'm going to have them surgically removed.'

‘Did you say so?' I said, knowing Pan.

‘Later.'

‘What about . . . me? Did he—'

‘I said if he wanted a beautiful daughter he should try you. I said you'd remember him, and you're much prettier than me, and successful and everything, but he wasn't interested. He said you're too old, you didn't need a daddy any more. I told him you were getting married, you might want him to give you away – well, you might have – but he just brushed it aside. He wants a doll, not a daughter. A doll who never grows up. So I threw my drink over him – it was champagne, we were in La Coupole – and he was shocked, because it was so expensive.
Quel connard. Then
I said about having his genes removed.'

‘What happened next?' I was having trouble keeping my voice normal.

‘I walked out. No – I forgot. He said I couldn't be
his
daughter after all. I was such a monster, Mummy must have shagged someone else. I said I wished it was true, I
really
wished it was true, but she wouldn't have, because she was decent and honourable and other things he wouldn't understand. The waiter arrived with the main course, some sort of tournedos in sauce, and I emptied that over him too. Then I walked out.'

If there's one talent Pan and I have in common, it's our ability to make a scene. I knew I'd appreciate it later, but I still had that awful draining sensation inside.

‘Did you tell Mummy all this?' I asked.

‘I toned it down a bit. I didn't want to hurt her. After all, she was married to the prick, even if it was years ago.' Pan hadn't had the same scruples about me. But then, she probably didn't think it would affect me, and I was damned if I was going to give myself away. ‘The thing is, she said I should tell you, in case he got in touch. I don't think he will, after what he said, but you never know. And you're pretty easy to find. Mum says there's been things in the papers about the new series you're doing. Are you really staying in a castle with Hot God? What's he like? Has he got fat?'

‘Thin.' I would've enthused about him, but I couldn't find the words. My brain had got stuck.

‘I met one of his daughters a couple of years ago,' Pan volunteered. ‘Dilly – Dilly Stardust. I think that really
was
her name. She was coked out of her mind, except she didn't have much of a mind to be coked out of. I bet Hot God's a shit father too, but he can't be as bad as ours. He's the arse to end all arses. Thank God he buggered off.'

‘Yeah . . . Look, thanks for filling me in. I must go now – work. If Dad turns up, I'll . . . set the minders on him. Don't suppose he will, though.'

‘You'd better hope not.'

‘Don't forget the wedding, okay?'

‘'Kay.'

I rang off. Winkworth emerged from the shadows to take the phone from me. Actually there weren't many shadows – the front door was open and it was still daylight – but he emerged anyway, and I realised he must have been there all the time.

‘Were you listening?' I demanded. ‘Were you listening to my private conversation?'

‘Yes,' he said with disconcerting bluntness. ‘I could deny it, but I won't. Not that it told me much. You look upset, though. Can I get you a drink, or some tranks, or a spliff, or whatever you take when your universe doesn't go according to plan?'

‘I'd like a
cup of tea
!' I stormed, relieved to find a visible target for pent-up emotion. ‘And I'd like it still better if you started behaving like a real butler, and not eavesdropping, or being impertinent, or poking your nose in things which are none of your business, or—'

‘Why shouldn't I eavesdrop?' he retorted. ‘I might be one of those sinister butlers like in period whodunnits, learning everyone's secrets and blackmailing them. They were real butlers too. Remember,
the butler did it
.'

‘I'll
bet
you did it,' I said, ‘whatever it was. Only you're not sinister – you're not that good. You're just a creep. If I thought HG would sack you I'd tell him—'

‘He won't. Not on your say-so. Sorry.' Infuriatingly he was grinning again.

‘I wouldn't want to inconvenience him!' I said haughtily. ‘Unlike you, I'm much too considerate!'

‘About that tea, where would you like it? Downstairs, or in your room?'

‘In my room! Immediately!'

I swept up the stairs, tripping over my skirt on the bottom steps. I would have fallen if Winkworth hadn't caught my arm.

‘Piss off!' I said by way of thanks, kilted up my dress about a yard, and ran up the staircase towards sanctuary.

By the time Winkworth tapped on my door with the tea tray, I was out of my costume, wrapped in a bathrobe and feeling slightly better. I wasn't sure why.

‘Feeling any better?' he asked.

‘Mind your own business.' I had dropped any pretence at politeness.

‘Obviously you are. That was almost a normal tone of voice. Rude – but that's normal too.'

‘I'm only rude when offered provocation,' I said with what I hoped was quiet dignity. I kept trying to do quiet dignity with Winkworth, but it didn't work the way it should.

‘It's my job to offer provocation,' he said. ‘I try to be a perfect butler and provide whatever's required. You evidently needed a good yell, so I gave you an excuse. Now you've got it out of your system. You should thank me.'

‘
Thank
you?'

‘Well done. Keep practising, and you might actually achieve good manners.'

‘I have
extremely
good manners—'

‘I know. You're just selective about applying them. Let's change the subject. When's the wedding?'

‘Summer,' I said. ‘July the sixteenth. Not that it's anything to do with you.' Why the hell was I even discussing it?

‘No, but I can't help wondering why you're marrying that useless twerp. You're arrogant and ill-mannered, but you're a smart girl in your way – not exactly intellectual, but quite bright – and I'm sure there are sterling qualities in there somewhere. You could do a lot better for yourself than a spoiled little rich boy with no talent, no brains, and probably no balls to boot.'

‘How DARE you?'

‘You need a man with balls. But I don't suppose you've ever had the nerve to go for one. You feel safer with the wimpy types whom you can boss around.'

‘Alex isn't a wimp,' I raged, ‘and I DON'T boss him around, and if you ever speak to me again except to say “
Yes, ma'am
” and “
No, ma'am
” you won't have any balls either, because I'll cut them off and fry them on a spit! Clear?'

‘You don't fry things on a spit, you roast them—'

‘I can fry things on a spit if I want to, and believe me, when it's your balls on the fire you won't be in a position to quibble! Now get out, and don't . . . and don't . . .'

‘Don't ever darken your door again?'

‘Exactly!'

He went, leaving me burning all over, ablaze with outrage, fury, embarrassment . . . with I didn't know what. No one had spoken to me like that in years, if ever. Not even Ben Garvin, who was definitely a man's idea of someone with balls, who was offhand when I got angry, and stayed cool when I was hot. He'd dumped me, coolly, offhandly – I didn't want to think about it – saying we were too young, and he had his life to get on with. My first and last mistake. Alex was sweet and loving and sensitive (after a fashion); he couldn't help it if he was spoilt. A bit moody at times, a bit difficult – but who wanted an easy guy? And he
did
have balls; I knew that personally. He just wasn't the kind of macho yob whom someone like Winkworth would consider worthy of respect.

And Winkworth was the bloody
butler
, for heaven's sake. What did his opinions matter?

This was ridiculous.

‘I don't believe he's a butler at all,' I said to Roo later. I'd told her about my telephone conversation with Pan and Winkworth being a pain, but I hadn't gone into details. It was too shaming, having a run-in with a servant. ‘I think he's up to something.'

‘Like what?' said Roo.

‘He might be a tabloid hack working undercover to get the lowdown on HG. Or on us.' The crew had come back from the Dirk and Sporran with a rumour of journos in the village sniffing around for a story. ‘How long has he been here?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I bet it isn't long,' I said confidently. ‘He's got an agenda, I'm sure of it. We should check him out.'

‘I'm sure HG checked before he employed him,' Roo said. ‘He wouldn't take a butler without masses of references.'

‘Well, even if he
is
genuine, he's still up to no good,' I averred. ‘He's probably collecting material for a book. All these butlers and nannies and people sell their stories in the end.'

Roo considered the suggestion seriously for a minute. ‘It won't be much of a book, then,' she said eventually. ‘HG seems to lead a pretty quiet life now. All the fun and games are in his past.'

She had a point, but I wasn't prepared to concede. ‘Winkworth wouldn't have known that till he got here,' I reasoned. ‘And he could still dish the dirt on
me
.'

Roo giggled. ‘Then you'd better behave perfectly, hadn't you? Big Butler Is Watching You.'

‘Not funny,' I said.

I thought I might feel uncomfortable at dinner when Winkworth came round to pour the wine, but when our eyes met he winked at me and indignation eclipsed any awkwardness.

‘Remember,' I whispered in passing as I left the dining room, ‘your balls – spit-fried.'

‘You've got to get your hands on them first,' he responded,
sotto voce
.

I blushed – I couldn't help it. I hadn't blushed in a decade, but I could
feel
the blush, a hot red tide, flowing over my cheeks, right up to my forehead. I grabbed Alex's arm and walked out with my face turned affectionately into his shoulder, hoping no one had noticed.

One day, I was going to get Winkworth fired. Preferably out of a cannon.

  

I thought the likelihood of Harry being an undercover hack remote in the extreme, but since Delphi seemed to have a bee in her bonnet about him – and vice versa, come to think of it – I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask a few innocent questions. Delphi was exuding stress at the moment: anything to put her mind at rest.

I got lucky, catching HG having a pre-dinner drink with Nigel before anyone else arrived. Nigel wouldn't cramp my style: he's one of those people who's so focused on his own interests that extraneous conversation flows over him. HG looked quite pleased to see me, which was flattering, and since Harry wasn't around he got me a G and T himself.

‘Thanks,' I said, and, seizing the opportunity, ‘Where's Harry?'

‘Somewhere. I don't like the staff under my feet all the time, so I can't complain if they don't hang about. You seem to get on with them all – even Cedric, I hear.'

‘They're great,' I said. ‘Harry's a bit unconventional for a butler, though.' As if I would have known, my previous experience of butlers being nil. ‘Has he been with you long?'

‘About six or eight months. He's got attitude, but I like that. He came to me with glowing references – five years with the Earl of Grantchester, two with Sir Gordon Chisholm, owner of the Manson Trust. I must admit, I expected him to be more Old School – but I like him better the way he is. I want good service, but this isn't a ducal residence. Don't need to surround myself with stuffed shirts saying
yessir, nossir, three bags full sir
all the time.'