the row from Seth and Bonny and in front of Phoebe and Debbie.
‘That’s so sweet, Lester’s “Dearest Dad” pendant and ring,’ cooed Phoebe.
‘He bought them hisself,’ whispered Cindy. ‘Hasn’t seen his kids in years. I’m his precious little girl. His kids regard me as a fret.’
‘That’s rather sad,’ said Bonny.
‘How d’you get on with Valent’s kids then?’ demanded Cindy.
‘I haven’t met the boys yet,’ replied Bonny coolly. ‘We’re taking things very slowly. After all, their mother passed away in a train crash. They need to achieve closure. I don’t want to threaten them.’
‘They couldn’t not find you attractive, Bonny,’ said Phoebe, ‘which might make things hard for Valent.’
‘I’ve seen piccies of Ryan. He’s drop-dead gorgeous,’ said Cindy.
‘Phèdre again,’ sighed Seth. ‘A woman fatally drawn to her stepson.’
They’d reached the outskirts of Cheltenham, in whose greenhouse atmosphere everything was much further on. The crocuses were over but the white cherry blossom breathtaking against pink-petalled magnolia. Daffodils danced across the parks.
‘Books are my life. So many authors have passed through Cheltenham,’ Bonny was now saying to Seth.
‘I don’t read, me,’ piped up Cindy.
‘I can read you,’ said Alan, bending over to admire the tattoo on her shoulder. ‘“I love Lester”, that’s nice. What happens if you split up?’
‘I get a kitten called Lester,’ giggled Cindy. ‘I don’t read books, but I’m writing one.’
‘You what?’ asked Bonny incredulously. ‘What on earth about?’
‘About me, a hautobiography, a voyage of erotic discovery and how I found fulfilment wiv my gentle little Lester. I’ve made over forty movies.’
‘You must have some terrific stories, do tell us more,’ begged Alan, topping up her glass.
Clearly disapproving, Debbie got up and retreated down the bus. The Major moved closer.
‘What’s next?’ he asked, rheumy eyes gleaming.
‘Well, Lester is planning to shoot me as Lady Godiva in the Harboretum, riding Furious.’
‘Furious might need a stand-in,’ suggested Alan.
‘And then he wants me to play Gwendolyn.’
‘Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolyn?’ cried a horrified Bonny.
‘Dunno how wild she was,’ giggled Cindy, ‘but she was pashnit about Sir Francis Framlingham, such a romantic story, and we want Mrs Wilkinson, who’s grey, to play Beau Regard. If you shot carefully, you wouldn’t know she hadn’t gotta winkle. Perhaps you could play Sir Francis, Seth – I can just see you in a Cavalier ’at with a fevver or perhaps Marius, he’s well fit, phwoar!’ Cindy at last lowered her voice. ‘Lester’s a bit jelly of Marius.’
The stunned silence, no one daring to meet anyone’s eyes, was broken by an outraged Phoebe.
‘My husband Toby would have inherited the title if Aunt Ione’s sister had been a boy. If anyone should play Sir Francis, it should be him. But I know Aunt Ione would fight tooth and nail to stop the Willowwood Legend being made into a porn film.’
‘I’m sure it’s out of copyright,’ grinned Alan. ‘The Willywood Legover. Let me play Sir Francis, Cindy.’
‘The porn is green,’ said Seth. ‘The best person to play Sir Francis,’ he grinned, ‘is Alban, our driver. You wouldn’t mind getting your kit off, would you, Alban?’
Alban brayed with laughter and nearly ran into a lamp post.
Cindy shrieked as well.
‘You’d ’ave to be an ’orseback rider, Allbare. I like that title, Alan, The Willywood Legover.’
‘It’s a travesty,’ hissed Phoebe.
‘I agree,’ said Bonny.
‘Not if it were done tasteful,’ insisted Cindy. ‘Have you ever taken your kit off in a film, Bonny? You’d enjoy it, it’s very liberating. You’d need a boob enhancement first, but Valent would pick up the tab, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind in such a good cause.’
For once Bonny was silenced.
Etta gazed at the racing page of the Mail, willing herself not to laugh.
‘I suppose it turns you on to – er – make this kind of film,’ said Phoebe scornfully.
‘Naah, you do it over and over and over, tike after tike. Lester’s always present, he spanks my botty afterwards if I’ve underperformed. Makes me go all warm underneaf.’
More stunned silence was interrupted by a cough from Debbie. She was progressing down the bus with a large hatbox, wearing the serene smile of a head waiter bringing in a surprise birthday cake. She nearly knocked off Pocock’s flat cap on the way.
‘This is a gift from Normie and me, Etta. Enjoy.’
Inside, rising like a vast raspberry summer pudding, was a huge bright magenta stovepipe, the most awful hat Etta had ever seen.
‘Gosh,’ she squeaked.
‘For you.’
‘How terribly kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept it. It’s far too grand for