The Party Season (27 page)

'Staying at the pub overnight.'

'Why don't you go to bed? You look done in.' Simon pats her knee and then gets up and stretches his arms over his head. 'I quite fancy a walk down to the lake. Clear the head.'

He wanders over to the door. Monty takes his place on the sofa next to Mrs Delaney and starts talking to her in a low, comforting voice.

'Do you fancy a walk, Izzy?' Simon says casually, barely turning his head. Do I fancy a walk? Rather surprisingly, I think I do. I put down my glass and get to my feet.

'Em, yes,' I say casually. 'That would be nice.'

We wander down the passageway and into the kitchen. We put on a fleece each in the cloakroom and liberate Meg and the other dogs from the utility room where they have been locked up for the evening. Taking Meg with us, Simon picks up a torch and we slip out into the night.

Once outside, I breathe in the cool night air and look up at the stars. The moon shines brightly, bathing everything in an eerie half-light. There is a light breeze which gently kisses my face. Meg scampers along confidently ahead of us as we make our way towards the lake.

After a few minutes, the silence starts to become a little painful and I search about for something to say. I clear my throat. 'It's been a strange few days, hasn't it?'

'Terribly.'

'Are you worried about the takeover?'

'Yes, although I'm rapidly getting to the point where I'm so knackered that I cease to care. She seems to have adopted you,' he says and points ahead to Meg, who is happily darting about in the moonlight, poking her head down rabbit holes, appreciatively sniffing bushes and looking back at us from time to time to check that we are still there.

'Yes. I'll be sorry to leave her.'

'Tell me what you did after you left Pantiles,' Simon says.

Oh God, he wants me to go through the whole Rob Gillingham disaster story in minute detail. 'Well, I got back to London at about—'

'Er, no. I meant fifteen years ago.'

'Oh.' This takes me by surprise and for a second I can't sodding well remember what I've been doing for the last fifteen years. 'Well, Sophie and I went to live with Aunt Winnie when Mum and Dad went to Italy.'

'I like Aunt Winnie. And, er, did you go to university then?' he prompts.

'Yes, I went to Nottingham. I studied geography.' I'm reluctant to say any more as I can't remember what Dominic and I put on my CV. I think it best to change the subject. 'Did you just study economics at university?' I hear myself say and inwardly groan. It's the sort of thing you talk about during university holidays when you've been paired off with the only male in your age group for fifty miles at your parents' drinks party.

'Yep, just economics.'

'How, er, er …' I'm about to say interesting but he might think I'm blatantly taking the piss.'… useful.'

'What does Sophie do now?'

'She works in the city. Very successful.'

'Is she seeing anyone?'

'Not that I know of; I think she's far too busy with her career!'

'And how did you get into the party business?' he asks gently.

I gabble on for a couple of minutes about my job in the city and how much I disliked it. In the meantime we reach the top of the hill and stand for a second to catch our breath. 'We used to toboggan down this hill,' Simon remarks. 'Do you remember?'

'You and me against Sophie and Will. Used to thrash them.'

'Well, we did wax our toboggan and we were heavier than them.'

'Not that much heavier,' I say indignantly.

'Obviously that would have been all me.'

'Something to do with the ton of potatoes you used to knock back.' Whenever the boys came for supper with us, in the early days when Simon and I liked each other, my mother used to hopelessly overcompensate on the potato front. The amount of potatoes each sex ate was her definition of the difference between little boys (of which she had none) and little girls (of which she had two rather strapping examples).

'Your mother used to think boys needed a small lorry-load of potatoes with every meal in order to survive.' He grins at me. A warm, wide smile that lights up his whole face and makes him look quite gorgeous. I smile back and suddenly the conversation is easy as we remember and laugh. We studiously avoid the more difficult times that we know come later. How different he is now from the last memory I have of him in my head. I look more closely as he talks about the fishing trips we used to take when they all made bets as to how long it would take me to fall into the water. I think that if we had just met for the first time I might quite like this man.

We continue talking about university. 'So have you kept in touch with anyone from Cambridge?' I ask.

He shrugs. 'I did at first. Friends used to visit but after a while we started having less and less in common. They were still drinking and womanising – things I used to do exceptionally well, I might add – but I had suddenly sprouted a family and an enormous estate to look after. It tends to put a strain on things!' He smiles at me once more and I suddenly realise the full extent of his sacrifice. He gave it all up, those irresponsible, halcyon days at university where life-long friendships were made and hearts were broken. He gave it all up but for what? For all this to be taken away from him?

We reach the lake and walk around to the pontoon in silence. Simon sits cross-legged on the edge. 'Come and sit.' He pats the wooden slats by the side of him. 'Talk to me some more. Tell me about your work.'

I try to arrange myself elegantly in my dress. 'My work?'

'Yeah, what do you normally do? What were you doing before this event?'

'That would be Lady Boswell's Nordic Ice Feast.'

'God, that sounds horrific! Actually, Lady Boswell you say? I think I've met her. Very thin. Dreadful woman.'

'Awful.' I go on to tell him about Sean and Oliver and our dreadful rehearsals. We laugh together and Meg comes and lies down next to me.

'How's the ball coming on? Lot to do?' Simon asks.

'An awful lot. The marquee arrives early next week. What have you got on for the rest of the week?' I inwardly cringe; what a crass thing to say. Ohhh, not much, Izzy. Just a hostile takeover and the family home to save. 'I mean, are you around much?'

'Back and forth. The Americans probably won't make a decision until the end of the week. We'll be right up against the deadline.'

'Deadline?'

'A week on Monday. Midday. All offers for Wings expire then. Unless the Americans agree to our offer, everything has to start over again. But with our money situation we can't afford to restart the negotiations and so the whole thing will bomb. A week on Monday it will all be over, one way or another.'

'God. What do you think will happen?'

'Hard to tell. Are you here all week?'

'I've got to pop back to London tomorrow to pick up some more clothes but then I'll be here until the ball on Saturday.'

'Is it next Saturday?' he asks in surprise.

I nod and bite my lip. And then I'll be leaving Pantiles for good.

We start walking back to the house, talking softly. Simon laughs at how I kept sneaking looks at the top of Mr Berryman's head this evening, thinking I was being oh-so-subtle about it. We reach the back door and, with his hand on the latch, Simon turns and looks at me.

'We're back,' he says softly. 'I really enjoyed this.'

I'm surprised at just how strongly I agree with him.

'This is where we part company,' he says. He smiles at me and my heart suddenly goes into overtime, hammering madly against my ribcage. I truly hope he can't hear it.

He leans slowly towards me, eyes on mine, and I hold my breath. Is he going to kiss me? He pecks me on the forehead, ruffles my hair and says, 'G'night, Izz.'

I watch him walk away. Why am I disappointed?

C h a p t e r  21

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'
S
o where did you get to last night, hmmm?' This is accompanied by a good poke in the ribs.

I open one eye sleepily, squint at the perpetrator and roll over. 'Go away.'

'Not until you tell me what happened.' Dom appears on the other side of the bed.

'What time is it?. Ooh, tea!'

Dominic holds the mug away from my outstretched hand. 'Not until you spill your guts.'

'Dom, it's too early. Let me drink first and then I'll tell you.'

He looks at me for a few seconds, weighing it up, and eventually hands over the mug. I lean against the headboard and sip appreciatively at the tea. Dom lets me have exactly three sips.

'So?' he demands. 'Where did you and Simon pop off to? All the family raised their eyebrows when you left; I thought Flo had a twitch she was winking at Aunt Winnie so hard.'

'Nothing to report,' I reply. 'We walked down to the lake, chatted about things, walked back and then he kissed me on the forehead and ruffled my hair.'

'Probably checking it wasn't a toupee. So no smoochy looks? No holding hands?'

'Nothing!'

'I take it you wouldn't be adverse to any smoochy looks or hand-holding should the opportunity arise?'

I knead the bedcovers with one hand. 'It's not that. After all, this is Simon we are talking about. Our history is complicated.'

Dominic leaps to his feet in excitement. 'I knew it! Harry owes me five pounds from his bob-a-job fund!'

I look at him in horror. 'You can't take money off Harry! What was it for?'

'The family had a small wager that you and he were … you know.' He gives me another poke in the ribs. 'But I knew you didn't fancy him.'

'Me and Simon? What on earth were they basing that on?'

'Just the fact that you two were so close in childhood. My insider information turned out to be extremely profitable and with my smooth city ways to the fore I took full advantage of it. Anyway, explain to me why I can't take money off Harry.'

'Dom!'

'Oh, all right, I'll let him off. But only because we're in the country.' He sinks down on to the bed. 'What sort of lesson are we teaching him if we let him off his debts though?'

I ignore this thinly disguised attempt at morality. 'What are you doing making bets with Harry? Does the whole family think I fancy Simon? Aunt Flo?' I ask, thinking of the clothes and jewellery she's lent me. 'God, you would think they'd have more important things on their minds what with the takeover!'

'Oh come on, Izz! This is much more entertaining!' Dom bounces on the bed.

'Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but he doesn't fancy me. Dom, he kissed my forehead. He ruffled my hair. Is this the behaviour of a man who fancies me rotten?'

'Er, possibly not. But, as you say, he does have a lot on his plate at the moment. Maybe after the takeover he'll see you in a whole new light!'

'Unlikely,' I mumble and sip determinedly at my tea. While Dominic goes off about his business I muse about last night and how well Simon and I were getting on. It makes me feel a little odd and, unwilling to think about it any longer, I get up and take a shower. I drag on a pair of tailored trousers and a black top and go down to breakfast.

Most of the family are sitting at the kitchen table. Over the last couple of days we have all been getting up extra early to help Mrs Delaney with the visitors' breakfast. Simon is presumably already hard at work; it's the only opportunity he has before his visitors rise. 'There you are, Izzy! We were just about to start!' exclaims Aunt Winnie.

To make life easier for Mrs Delaney, and as a sort of test run, we've been having exactly the same as the visitors for breakfast. I have to say she is a simply marvellous cook when stretched like this. This morning she looks tired around the eyes after yesterday's little debacle.

'What's this?' I ask, sitting down next to Harry and surveying the concoction in front of me.

'Fresh figs, honey and ricotta!' Mrs Delaney replies brightly, as though she eats this every day of the week. Harry looks aghast.

'Mum?' he questions. Harry's idea of breakfast is a Ready Brek brûlée.

'They have it in London, dear.'

'Oh, well, that explains it,' says Dominic. 'Honestly, what will these Londoners come up with next? At least it's vegetarian.'

The whole table fixes him with a look. 'Dom, you ate sausages yesterday,' proffers Monty.

'Yes. Vegetarian sausages.'

'How do you figure that?' I ask. 'Because the pigs they came from ate vegetables?'

'Izzy, you have a tone.'

'I don't have a tone.'

'I can hear it.'

'Maybe you're tone deaf.'

'I think you need another nicotine patch. You've been wonderfully liberal since you've been on those patches.'

'I'm not sure it's the patches,' I murmur, trying to ignore Dom. 'It's really very nice, Harry. Just try it.'