Staging Death (8 page)

‘Not that I know of. Oh, Vena, it’s this size zero thing. I daren’t put on any more weight. Daren’t!’ She sounded absolutely serious.

Fortunately I managed to suppress the first thought that leapt to my lips. Although Allyn
and I were getting along well, I didn’t want to push my luck by screaming,
Size zero at your age, darling!
So I asked, very seriously, indeed, enviously, ‘Is it some part you’re cast for?’

‘Part? Why do you ask?’

Even the Botox couldn’t stop my face falling into despairing lines. ‘Oh, because I’m bloody resting, darling. And have been for ever, it seems. So I thought—’

‘Toby and I agreed I should put my career on hold for a while. After all, till the boys get accustomed to England, they need their mom.’ She said it so completely without irony I had to think very hard about rice cakes.

‘Of course. So why—?’

‘The media. They printed pictures of me looking like an elephant! Called me the Hippo.’

‘You know what, darling. I’d bin the red tops and stick to the
Guardian
.’

As I left I caught sight of Ted Ashcroft, the guy supposedly in charge of Aldred House’s security. Cutting the engine, I got out and walked across to him, even though I supposed it was technically free time for him, too.

He pulled himself to his most military posture and gave a half-salute. ‘Evening, Miss Burford. Turned out quite nice for a change, didn’t it?’ His accent was pure Gloucestershire, his voice warm
as sunlit Cotswold stone. He was probably about my age, but his weather-beaten face made him look about seventy. He might have been typecast as a trusty gamekeeper.

‘Absolutely.’ I fired off my most winning smile. ‘But I heard something that rather took the shine from the sun. I heard someone might be after Toby.’

‘What’s that?’ There was nothing warm and cosy about him now. ‘He’s told you about that prowler, has he?’

‘What prowler?’ I found myself shivering, despite the balminess of the evening.

‘One of my lads swears he saw some guy on a motorbike pulling out of the gates. Or what would be gates if we had any, if you take my meaning.’

‘I do indeed. And I can’t think of anything better, can you? A great hefty wrought iron pair, with a good old-fashioned gatekeeper in the lodge.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart, Miss Burford. Only I’d have one of those keypad controls. Even a nice automatic infrared control so the Family could open the gates without even getting out of their cars.’

I loved the way he said
the Family
as if he were a nineteenth-century butler.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘And maybe a couple
more staff, eh, Ted? I know Toby would
pooh-pooh
the idea—’

‘That’s the trouble, see. He thinks that their guy was just a fan, or something. But there’s fans and fans.’

‘Exactly. Remind him about John Lennon.’

Ted looked shifty. ‘Tell you what, Miss Burford, you wouldn’t like to have a word, like, would you?’

‘You’re the expert. Why don’t you get a fistful of leaflets with all the bumf about the latest gizmos and wave them under his nose when he’s busy? Ten to one he’ll just tell you to get on with it.’

‘I might just do that, Miss Burford. And if you don’t mind my saying so, that car of yours is a bit of a liability, isn’t it? A job like yours, with you working alone?’

I frowned. ‘Any particular reason for saying that, Ted?’

‘Come and look at my CCTV,’ he said. He nodded in the direction of his office, next to the old stables. I followed, not feeling like making quips about etchings.

One side of his domain was filled by a bank of screens. I might have thought that there was no one around earlier, but there’d been plenty of hidden eyes, all peeled. They’d no doubt focused on the weeping Allyn; had they seen Toby
fingering my hair? It was like being watched by a strictly secular God – but one far less forgiving and more judgemental than the one I talked to in St Jude’s every Sunday. I tried not to shudder.

‘There you are.’ He jabbed a finger at one of the screens. ‘There’s your Ka, and here – see – there’s a car that slows right down as you turn into the grounds. Right down.’ He focused on a black Audi. ‘And then it accelerates off, like a bat out of hell. Any idea what they might have been after? You weren’t still carrying keys to the houses you’d been showing folk round? You were, weren’t you?’ he demanded, outraged.

I managed to stop my teeth chattering. ‘Not by then. I’d handed them over to my brother. Because I’d thought I might be being followed. But not by that car – by quite another one. A silver Peugeot.’

He looked at me with something between sympathy and sternness. ‘In that case you should talk to the police, maybe. And drop that car. I’d go for a nice little anonymous one. A Fiesta, something like that.’

I nodded, as if I could act on his advice. One day, maybe, if my budget ever balanced.

Call me old-fashioned, but I find few better ways to start the week than going to church, even though getting to eight o’clock Communion is a bit of an effort.

I didn’t go to the church where Shakespeare himself once worshipped, Holy Trinity, in the heart of Stratford, but to a far less fashionable place. Years ago, in my sherry days, I’d more or less taken refuge in an equally old church in one of the outlying villages. I’d become fond of the then rector, now long since dead, and his church, St Jude’s. The current rector, Ginnie Lench, no longer lived in the spectacular Georgian rectory – Greg had sold it for something over two million pounds a year or so ago – but in a small modern rectory with her physics teacher husband, commuting between St Jude’s and four other churches in the benefice.

The eight o’clock service used the old Prayer Book words, the cadences so reassuringly timeless it was easier to believe the words of the Absolution, and to resolve not to let lecherous thoughts about Toby ever cross my mind again. Would it be wrong to ask God to find me a role one day? Not to mention a lovely man – I almost said for my old age! And I certainly couldn’t ask for the bonus to come through quickly – that was definitely a Mammon area.

Because so few of us attended this particular service – there were only ten today, including her husband – the rector always kept her sermon short. Today’s was about loving one’s neighbour as oneself. Ginnie knew each of us by name, and bade us goodbye with a smile and warm handshake. I reminded her that she and Mike were due for supper as soon as she could squeeze an evening into her schedule. And yes, I felt better for the whole experience.

Amazingly, I was home soon after nine, a time when most people are barely stirring. I treated myself to an
Observer
from the corner shop, made a pot of proper coffee and settled down for a quiet day. Very well, quiet and lonely.

I was only halfway into the Review section when the phone rang. My landline didn’t have half the technology of my mobile, so I’d no idea who might be calling.

‘Vee?’ Greg’s Black Country accent was so pronounced he was almost singing, the single syllable spread across so many diphthongs.

‘Morning, Greg – and what can I do for you?’

‘It’s what I can do for you, Vee – Little Cuffley’s sold!’

‘Say that again – very slowly.’

‘I went to talk to the colonel and his wife yesterday afternoon, and pointed out the advantages of the offer.’

The
colonel
– what a snob poor Greg was. The obstinate old dimwit rated much higher in Greg’s book than a fully paid-up Nobel Prizewinner would have done.

‘I also pointed out they hadn’t had so much as a sniff all the time we’d been handling the sale, nor when it had been on the market with Whatsit’s. And – tame as a lamb – he agreed. Job done.’

And it had taken Greg well over twelve hours to let me know. And he’d dispute the matter of my bonus because it was he, not I, who had talked the vendors into the deal.

I took a deep breath. ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Any idea of the timescale?’

‘Not as short as the Rivers’ purchase, that’s for sure. The Sedgwicks haven’t even started to look for anywhere else yet, as you know. And
the Wimpoles are so pleased they say they can be flexible.’

‘Oh, Greg – you know I wanted to be the one to give them the good news.’

‘There are some jobs better suited to the CEO of the business,’ he said loftily. ‘Actually, I’d forgotten you’d got on so well with them. Sorry, Vee. Tell you what,’ he added, sounding genuinely contrite, ‘I’ll forget about my part in the deal – you can have the full bonus.’

I sat down, very hard. ‘That’s very kind of you, Greg. Very kind. Thank you.’ I meant it. Then something I hadn’t intended to say popped out. ‘Tell you what, though – Claire hasn’t had a rise since the credit crunch started. Why don’t you give her what would have been your share?’

‘Come on, wench, she only answers the phone! And greets people when they come in,’ he conceded.

‘Exactly. And buys flowers and makes tea and does all the other things that oil your wheels, Greg. Go on, ring her up and tell her. She’ll just be opening up now.’

How stupid was that? I didn’t even like the woman overmuch. And Greg certainly wouldn’t tell her whose idea it was, would he? It was hardly something I could quietly drop out, either. Never mind – a quick scribble in the newspaper margin told me I could afford to be generous. Don’t get
me wrong. My bonus would be a spit in the ocean as far as someone like Toby was concerned. But to me it represented the small second-hand car Ted had recommended. It might even stretch to another visit to the dress exchange. But I mustn’t get above myself. The money, like that from Aldred House, was only hanging tantalisingly in the future; it wasn’t in my account ready to pay off my credit card bill.

There was only one thing to do – spend the day in the garden.

More than half of the vegetable patch was now beautifully dug and raked. I was balancing my need for a cup of tea with the need to take off my boots and scrub my hands – earth had inexplicably found its way through my gardening gloves – before I even put the kettle on. I was taking a breath, arms akimbo, when a robin descended onto the fork handle and regarded me impatiently. It was clear he didn’t think I needed a break, while he quite desperately needed anything I might turn up. Since the imploring gaze of a less assertive blackbird was also on me, I carried on. The wormeries were as full of weeds as I could get them.

How were other people spending their Sunday afternoons? I should imagine that Claire was being extra enthusiastic should anyone phone the
office. Greg would be on the golf course, escaping his kids, who were probably glad to see the back of him. Mo, my sister-in-law, would be watching TV, bewailing, but doing nothing about, her thickening figure.

And what about the family I saw in action yesterday? Allyn, for instance, who had so many problems I would never, ever allude to her as the Size Zero again. Had she ever had the simple pleasure of being nagged by a robin? Implored by a blackbird? Even the miserable Gunter woman had smiled at a woodpecker. Poor Allyn’s existence was altogether too hothouse. What she really needed was some real occupation and, moreover, a friend. Would she take it as lese-majesty if I suggested we hit a ball about on her newly resurfaced court? Somehow that seemed less presumptuous than mentioning the swimming pool.

‘There,’ I said aloud. ‘That’s the whole patch done and dusted. Over to you, birdies. And mind you get pests as well as juicy worms.’ As for me, it wasn’t just a cup of tea I needed – it was a very long, very hot bath.

Hoping to put in train my plan of befriending Allyn, I phoned Aldred House the next morning and asked to speak to her. Personally. Poor Ms Fairford was outraged. This was her hour for her personal trainer.

‘Very well. Would you be kind enough to ask her to call me back when she has a moment?’ No more of that third-person nonsense we’d exchanged on Friday. ‘And would you check her diary? I need to get our carpet supplier up here as soon as possible so that Toby and Allyn can see the rugs in the rooms they’re meant for.’

‘Let me check what slots she has available now.’ There was a slight pause – I could imagine the mouse searching for the appropriate file and clicking on it. ‘I can see nothing till the end of next week.’

‘Ms Fairford, we must find a slot before then. These carpets are collector’s items – silk, woven in parts of the former USSR I’ve hardly heard of, let alone am able to spell. There’s a silk Turkestani carpet, antique gold in colour, which I happen to know at least two other would-be purchasers covet – and it’s been put on one side as a personal favour to me. How can I ask my associate to wait another ten days for a decision?’

It would have been vulgar to point out that James might even have a cash flow problem if he had many clients shilly-shallying as the Frenshams were. On the other hand, try as I might I couldn’t imagine anyone dealing in such goods being short of the odd thousand or two. Or even the odd hundred thousand or two. I looked at my carpet, where the stain left by an overenthusiastic
lover’s glass of red wine had never quite faded, though the memory of his passion assuredly had. When would I ever be able to buy something half as beautiful and a tenth of the size of the one I was brokering for James?

‘I will speak to Mrs Frensham and get back to you.’

‘Thank you. And, don’t forget, I would like to speak to her personally when she’s free.’

The high point on my daily agenda was always the arrival of the postman, John, a man of many years and few teeth. He would always greet me with information about what my mail contained – ‘A couple of bills, I’m afraid,’ or occasionally, ‘One of your fans writing from the States, Miss Burford!’ – though today he was disappointed on my behalf. ‘Junk mail day,’ he declared, handing over a garish fistful.

He was more or less right, except for one envelope. I was going to shove it in the recycling bin without opening it, as I’m afraid I did with the other stuff, but it was stamped addressed to me personally, complete with postcode. The only thing it didn’t have was anything inside it. No, the cupboard was bare. Tearing the stamp off – I sent batches to Save the Children from time to time – I felt a mixture of irritation and disappointment. How could someone who had gone to the trouble of finding every last detail
of my address be so damned careless and forget to insert the contents? And then I reminded myself of the number of times I’d meant to email attachments, only to have a plaintive message from the other end telling me that attachment was there none.

The next part of my routine was the vital call to Caddie. In the old days she always called me, of course, but things had changed, and I felt I had to remind her of my existence now she had so many up-and-coming actors on her books. And – it happened all too often these days – I was switched straight to her voicemail.

So how should I fill my day?

Sticking my tongue out at the Ka, its colour pulsing in the gorgeous sun, I popped round to the shed for my bike. Recently serviced, it seemed welcoming. I gave my helmet a polish with my sleeve and set out for my favourite nursery – not a big garden centre, but a family-run place. I didn’t want garden furniture, scented candles or fish food, just a selection of seeds. The old guy on the cash desk smiled in welcome. It was he who’d put me on to vegetables just after my Dale – my ex – period. He’d said, pointing with a surprisingly slender finger, that if you put something in the soil you might just as well live to see what came up. Now we discussed new varieties, though he always held that the old ones were best. 

He nodded at my selection: Kelvedon Wonder early peas, Scarlet Emperor runner beans, Webb’s Wonder lettuce. ‘Very good. But,’ he added, pointing with a finger, the joints of which were now thickening alarmingly, ‘they do say that those new dwarf bush tomatoes are well worth a try. See – on that stand there. Mind you come back and let me know, eh?’

I returned his smile. ‘I shall be back before then for some aubergine plants. And I might try some chillies.’

‘Not before we’ve seen the last of the frosts. You’ll need a good English summer too – plenty of warm sun and blue skies.’

‘That’s what we all need.’

I bowled back towards the town feeling for all the world like a Barbara Pym character. To be sure, the headgear was wrong, but who cared? I’d had a nasty incident just along this road a year or so back, when some idiot in a giant 4x4 had pulled out in front of me and I’d landed on his bonnet, denting it with my helmet. There were few things more pleasant than feeling the wind in your hair, but one of them was having a head on which to grow your hair, so whatever the circumstances I wore protection.

The memory of the crash never really left me, and though I was happy enough to use the route, I always slowed as I approached this particular
stretch. There was a car at the junction. The driver must be looking right and left and right again very meticulously because, although he could have pulled out without bothering me too much, he stayed put.

Déjà vu! He was only pulling out now, right in front of me!

I yanked the bike to the left. There was just room between his wing and the central Keep Left bollard. So I was pointing the wrong way to get the bastard’s number. And not, to be fair, in any state to worry about numbers at all. Witnesses? Never a one. I didn’t think I’d even scratched his expensive paintwork as a souvenir. I hurled a good deal of Shakespearean abuse – they cursed remarkably vividly in those days – at the empty road and gathered myself together.

Well, I was all right. My bike was all right. My helmet hadn’t been tested and neither had my skin. Had my memory? In that split second before he moved, had I recognised the driver? Could it have been one of Greg’s clients? One I’d shown round – no, I was being fanciful. Time to head home.

I found I was still shaking; I must pull myself together. And what better way to do it than by humming to myself? Or even singing aloud – it would certainly beat using accent CDs. Perhaps I should try singing with an accent? ‘I Could Have
Danced All Night’ with a Cuban twang? Or a Polish ‘Summertime’? How would my old friends the Brosnics have sung ‘I Feel Pretty’?

And then something dawned on me.

Fortunately Greg didn’t have a client with him when I burst into his office. ‘Greg,’ I announced. ‘Those Russians were Albanians.’

They might have been little green men from outer space for all the interest Greg showed. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting aside not quite quickly enough a glossy brochure. BMWs, eh? Was this instead of or in addition to his Mercedes? I wouldn’t pander to his vanity by asking. ‘They’ve gone now – forget about them.’

‘But don’t you see – they weren’t what they said they were. They weren’t interested in the houses or any of the gardens. What were they doing?’

‘I told you, they’re long gone. OK, I wasn’t as careful as I might have been when it came to checking their credentials, but business is business, Vee. It doesn’t do to put your client’s back up. You’d be singing a different song if they’d put in an offer, wouldn’t you?’