Staging Death (10 page)

‘Have you seen the size of the figures, which are not, of course, representational? Whoppers, absolute whoppers. Imagine Henry Moore, only bigger.’ He gestured hugely, nearly knocking a lad’s pint out of his hand. ‘So sorry, darling. Only I’ve just landed this wonderful job and fizz makes one so expansive, doesn’t it?’

The youngster, who had been prepared to bridle when first addressed, nodded kindly, and looked at me over Chris’s head, as if to check that Chris was OK.

‘A celebration,’ I explained, in case he wasn’t sure old folk had such things.

‘Let me buy you another,’ Chris insisted, struggling to his feet. ‘A pint of the best. By way of apology.’

The lad looked at the glass, which had only shed a couple of drops, and at me, and at Chris, and did the maths. Then, hardly surprisingly, opportunism won. ‘That guest beer’s very tasty.’

So it might be, but it was ages before it got anywhere near his palate. Chris had installed himself by the bar, and was clearly boring the socks off the barman. At last he returned, with the pint glass, several packets of crisps and another bottle of fizz tucked under his arm. If he
was going to spread the good news to every new acquaintance, this was going to be a very long evening indeed.

Fortunately for his licence, I had persuaded Chris to leave his car outside my house. By now the barman, the barmaid and half the folk waiting to get served knew about his good fortune. Unfortunately his credit card company didn’t share the general, if bemused joy, and I had to bail him out with mine, which must have been pretty well near its limit now. I eventually eased him out of the door, where the cool spring air slapped us kindly across our faces. With the amount of alcohol I’d managed to get hold of, I didn’t need much sobering, but the sudden chill gave Chris the twirlies, and he desperately grabbed my arm to stop falling over. At least he refrained from singing, or my reputation would have been shattered indeed.

I pulled out the bed-settee in the living room – he’d hardly have appreciated being in mine, would he? – and reminded him where the loo was. I also slipped the key to my drinks cupboard somewhere he wouldn’t think of looking for it. No point in making several problems worse. And then I made my chaste and solitary way to bed.

To my amazement, he was up and about and in apparently sparkling form by the time I emerged
from the shower. He’d even been out to the corner shop to buy bacon and eggs, assuring me that they were the best ever cure for a hangover. It seemed, however, that cooking them wasn’t part of his cure; he retired to the living room ostensibly to collapse the bed but in fact to switch on the TV news. I was a
Today
woman myself (I confess to carrying a torch for John Humphrys), because of the depth and range of coverage, invaluable for competing from my couch in
Mastermind
and
University Challenge.

I was dragged from my task by Chris’s explosive comments on the state of the human race. I could understand the reason for his anger. It was time for the local news, which regaled us with several things guaranteed to make even the brightest day gloomy and which one would certainly not wish to think about over a cooked breakfast – raids on Birmingham brothels and the discovery of young women the reporter probably correctly called sex slaves; a hospital unit with several addicts fighting for their lives after using drugs stronger than they expected; a Solihull crematorium robbed of all the commemorative bronze plaques mourners have had erected for their loved ones.

The bacon, locally cured, was crisp, the sausages from the same farm were succulent and the eggs so fresh a hen might have laid them on
the shop doorstep. But nothing could console me for the last piece of news – overnight thieves had stripped lead from the roofs of several village churches, and poor St Jude’s was top of their list.

‘You’ll think of something to help the repair fund,’ Chris assured me as he kissed me goodbye. ‘I know it would be easier if you were still a household name, but at least you know some famous people. Toby, for instance – I’m sure he’ll chip in. And didn’t he say Andy Rivers was coming back? He always had nice deep pockets. And there’s always your brother, of course.’

I was just waving Chris off, hoping that the alcohol levels in his blood were now low enough for him to drive, when I heard my phone ring.

I sprinted with more haste than dignity back into the house.
Caddie! Let it be Caddie, please!
For the sake of St Jude’s roof, let alone for my own, I needed a job. Let it be something, even a naff advert for naff beds. Naff anything! Chris never meant to be unkind, but he always managed to say precisely the wrong thing.

Or perhaps it was the right thing.

I forced my face into a welcoming smile; that’s the way to make your voice sound pleased.

The phone was silent. There was someone there, all right, but they weren’t speaking. So I put the handset down very quietly, put my index fingers in my mouth, and whistled as loudly as I could at the waiting ear. The call was cut very quickly.

And then the phone rang again. It might be the same little sod as before, or it might be Caddie. I’d better assume it was Caddie. Be positive.

The voice that responded to my most cheery and upbeat greeting was not Caddie’s, however, but Greg’s.

There were more punters for Knottsall Lodge.

‘Two more from Russia or thereabouts,’ he said blithely – so despite all my warnings he was still slipshod when it came to nationality. ‘And don’t worry, Vee, they’re the real deal. They’re staying at a top London hotel – and before you ask, I’ve phoned the hotel to confirm they are who they say they are. How soon can you come over and pick up the keys? They’d like a morning viewing if possible, as they’re hoping to get back to London this evening – the hotel’s keeping their suite.’ He leant on the last words slightly.

‘I need to change and put on some slap. I’ll be with you in – say – half an hour. Then I can get to Knottsall Lodge by eleven, easy-peasy.’

The viewing suit, as I was coming to think of it, was certainly coming into its own. And maybe some of the rosy blusher that had come as a freebie with my cosmetics would help a rather tired-looking face. I’d done enough quick changes to make sure that everything looked its best in the minimum time. What did hold me up,
however, was something the best-trained dresser could never have anticipated. Someone had left, of all things, a bunch of daffodils on the Ka’s driving seat. No longer fluttering and dancing, but definitely golden. They were still cool and fresh. What a sweetie Chris could be when he tried. I only hoped he hadn’t pinched them from the garden of one of my immediate neighbours.

But how had he managed to get it into my car? Surely I hadn’t left it unlocked? I never left it unlocked, ever, not even when I was parked in a house at the back of beyond. Actually, especially not then.

I checked: the parking meter money I kept in the little plastic drawer was still there. So, in the glovebox, were my AA card and a couple of CDs. What I couldn’t see was the accent CDs. Hell, he’d only have had to ask and I’d have lent them to him. But nicking them… I hadn’t time to phone him to remonstrate now – or to thank him for the flowers, of course – but I’d wring his neck when I next saw him. And ask him, of course, how he’d got into the car in the first place.

I’d only been waiting at Knottsall Lodge about three minutes when a top-of-the-range BMW appeared, decanting a couple in their later thirties.

I hadn’t reached the age Toby knew I was
without recognising a Mulberry bag when I saw one. Mrs Turovsky might not have been sporting a brand new Mulberry bag, one of the huge ones, but at several thousand pounds a shot I’d have had a go at making mine last more than one season, too. Particularly if I had lashed out on a pair of platform boots I was fairly sure were Miu Miu. Maybe on what was turning out to be a gorgeous warm day, I wouldn’t have dressed for Siberia in a snowstorm, but then I wasn’t six foot tall with the sort of circumference measurements that poor Allyn was dying to achieve.

Not that I could have remonstrated anyway. Mrs Turovsky didn’t appear to have any English at all. So I couldn’t even have told her that, as far as she was concerned, Knottsall Lodge was a dead duck. With or without heels she was about to endure the same problems as those that had afflicted her ursine predecessor, Mr Brosnic. As to weaponry, she could pretty well have carried a Bren gun in that bag of hers, and I’d have been none the wiser.

In contrast, Mr Turovsky, who spoke slightly old-fashioned English with what sounded like an authentic Russian accent, was about the same height and build as the Russian leader, Mr Putin, his fair hair cut close to his head, his eyes a piercing blue. He radiated an aura that wasn’t quite charm, but was certainly charisma. He
bowed and smiled, and spread his hands in an international gesture of delighted approval when I opened Knottsall Lodge’s front door.

This time I went through my preamble as soon as we were all inside: this was someone’s home and it was important that they stayed with me. Both nodded amiably enough, though I thought I might have had the same response had I read the shipping forecast in my clearly enunciated and well-modulated tones. As a threesome, we explored slowly, Mrs Turovsky clapping her hands – she’d gone so far as to remove her calfskin gloves by now – with pleasure at each new vista. I was beginning to warm to them.

They both loved the view from the roof – and they’d have had to have hearts of stone not to; they both loved the graffiti in the room below; they positively adored the leaded-light windows, which absolutely could not be double-glazed and were a pig to clean.

‘And imagine,’ I said, leaning on the balustrade and looking down into the hall, ‘that Shakespeare himself might once have done this.’

Obediently, they leant too. ‘Too small to enact
Hamlet
,’ he declared with an ironic smile, muttering something to his wife, who smiled appreciatively.

By this time I could almost imagine their marching into Greg’s office and flourishing a
cheque there and then. We descended slowly and stood in the hall, basking in the ambience and the fact we were sharing it together. Then Mrs Turovsky tugged her husband’s sleeve, like a schoolgirl, and whispered in his ear.

Indulgently, he patted her hand. He turned to me, but his smile was apologetic, not that of a man about to commit to a purchase. ‘My wife has left her gloves somewhere. May she fetch them while we proceed to the most beautiful grounds? She will not be long, I assure you.’

I hoped my smile conveyed reproachful disapproval, but I had, of course, to agree.

Indeed, Mrs Turovsky, despite the handicap of her height and her heels, took very little time, and produced a most charming heavily accented apology as she joined her husband and me by the daffodils. I was worried about the effect of the wet grass on her expensive boots, but if you could afford to put so many pounds’ worth of leather on your feet perhaps you didn’t have to worry about replacing them.

The visit ended with friendly smiles and handshakes all round. I waved them off with mixed feelings. They’d have had enough money to give the place the TLC it needed, but would she have consented to wear carpet slippers all the time? It wasn’t my job to speculate. Just for the hell of it I let myself in and walked round
savouring the atmosphere. It would have been nice if Shakespeare had indeed visited the place. It would be nicer still if Caddie phoned to say that someone had offered me a part in one of his plays – Juliet’s Nurse, even, if the anti-ageing stuff didn’t work.

I had just locked up and given the front door one last push to check, when my mobile rang. Yes!

No. Not Caddie. Greg.

‘And who is the most charming lady who made the Turovskys so very welcome?’ he asked, a grin very evident in his voice.

‘Greg! They never!’

‘I think they may. The only problem seemed to be the ceilings, right?’

‘Right.’

‘But they want to see a couple of other properties and said you had been so helpful, so very gracious, indeed, that they would like you to escort them. They’re so keen for your company, Vee, that they’re prepared to hang on till tomorrow if you can’t make it today.’

‘What’s the weather forecast?’

‘Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. A place would almost sell itself on a day like this. Just checking on the computer now. Hmm. Low cloud and occasional rain. If you can free up this afternoon it might be better.’

So far as I knew there was nothing in my diary for the rest of the week, but I didn’t want to sound too keen. I stretched the pause almost long enough for him to ask if I was still there. ‘Yes, I think I can do it, if I can just rearrange…’ I said, as if I had the prospect of completely rejigging my week’s appointments, just to suit him. ‘OK, let’s go for it. I’ve got an extra reason to sell, after all.’ I explained about St Jude’s roof. ‘Can I put you down for a couple of grand for the appeal fund anyway, Greg? It’d look really good if you could sponsor something very specific – good PR, you know. And you know you made a lot when you sold the rectory there.’ The suggestion didn’t have the benefit of logic, but perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

I welcomed the Turovskys to Langley Park with genuine pleasure, which they appeared to reciprocate. As far as Mrs Turovsky was concerned, it was a much more user-friendly home, with its lovely eighteenth-century proportions giving her plenty of headroom. She had shed her coat in response to the warm sun, displaying what might have been a MaxMara suit; he had acquired a man bag of considerable elegance if, as far as I was concerned, unknown provenance. They were happy to stick with me, until his mobile rang. Shrugging his shoulders
apologetically, he looked around for somewhere private to take the call, eventually cutting, with an embarrassed laugh, into the en suite bathroom of the bedchamber we were admiring. Bedchamber, indeed. But such a term seemed appropriate in this timelessly chic room. He cut the call very quickly. We heard him flush the loo. And he was back with us, shaking his hands dry.

‘Make hay while the sun is shining,’ he quipped.

That being my principle when it came to loos, I could not argue; as for his wife, I didn’t think she could understand.

The visit to Oxfield Place was much the briskest. He’d relinquished his man bag, so presumably intended to take no more calls. She clutched his arm affectionately, and the three of us were inseparable as triplets, until she looked first concerned, then anxious and finally desperate. Touching her husband’s immaculately suited arm, she whispered urgently.

‘I am so sorry. My wife is in urgent need of the bathroom. Would you excuse her? And I would like to ask you about the possibility of letting some of this farmland. There are far too many fields for the two of us. Sheep? Horses? What would be your advice?’

I knew next to nothing about such matters, of course, but that had never yet stopped me
offering my opinion. I was scraping the barrel by the time Mrs Turovsky returned, however.

She blushingly apologised, but said something to her husband, who laughed affectionately. ‘She says she wishes she could have an excuse to revisit all the bathrooms, they are so charming. But I fear we are taking much of your valuable time, Miss Burford – and we should be returning to London tonight if we can. But we are so pleased to have seen all these lovely English homes. It has given us much to think about. Do you have a card, Miss Burford, so that we may contact you when we have had a long, long discussion?’ With that, he kissed my hand and went round to hand his wife into the Beamer.

I waved them goodbye with a sincere smile and something very like optimism. And I beat both teams on
University Challenge
that evening.

At last, later that week, James, my carpet specialist contact, and the Frenshams had their meeting, and a carpet was selected. Indeed, despite its thirty thousand pounds price label, it chose itself, as I’d known it would. We all celebrated with vintage champagne and canapés impeccably prepared and served by Greta, the Valkyrie. While the rest of us did justice to the culinary delights (I would have stowed platefuls for my supper had I had a bag the size of Mrs
Turovsky’s – but there again, I might not have needed to), poor Allyn permitted herself only the smallest nibble of one. She concealed the remains in her napkin.

When all hands had been shaken and smiles exchanged, James and I prepared to bid our farewells. The enormous 4x4 lording it over my company Ka suggested I needn’t have worried about his cash flow, but he didn’t match Toby’s gesture to him by flourishing a cheque in my direction. Would it be vulgar to ask?

It might. But it was necessary.

However gracefully and delicately one might lead conversation towards such a request, it still felt, if you were as hard up as I was, like begging. I wiped away a sudden intrusive vision of myself as a
Big Issue
seller outside the post office.

‘Do you need me to send you an account?’ I asked with a smile, as if such formality was obviously unnecessary between friends.

‘Yes, please. The usual address.’ He zapped his monster mobile and got in, with scarcely more than a nod. Then he opened his window. ‘Sorry, Vee – I’ve got to make sure this cheque doesn’t bounce. But I’ll get your commission in the post as soon as I get your invoice. OK?’

He must have assumed it would be, because the window inexorably shut, and the vehicle pulled away.

The Ka and I exchanged a fatalistic shrug.

But the evening wasn’t over. I heard voices coming my way.

‘I was hoping we’d catch you,’ Toby said. ‘Why don’t you join us for supper?’

‘I couldn’t stand that snooty guy,’ Allyn confided. ‘He’d have put me off my food.’

Since actors eat late even when they’re not working, the children didn’t join us, but it struck me that they’d make the safest topic of conversation while we ate.

‘Toby’s got them playing cricket now,’ Allyn announced over the soup, a vegetable consommé. It sounded as if his next move might be to induct them into the arcane rituals of Druids.

He smiled. ‘The only thing I was ever good at was cricket. Really. But I got glandular fever the summer I should have had my county trial. So I’m only fulfilling my ambitions second hand. And what a coup if a USA-born lad ever plays at Lord’s!’