ill-lit family portraits which looked down on lots of Middle Eastern memorabilia – sculptures of Anubis, Isis and Osiris and a bronze of Gordon of Khartoum – picked up during Alban’s Foreign Office days.
Anxious to see the garden, Etta could only make out lichened sculptures and sweeping lawns frilled with white cyclamen. Inside, spectacular orchids, jasmine, stephanotis and gardenia wafted their sweet seductive scents, but the ceilings were so low the men had to bend over and fall down cleavages to hear anything, and the rooms were too dimly lit to allow much lip-reading.
Having just washed her hair and filled her ears with water, Etta was depressed she really was going deaf, but thrilled when she suddenly noticed a portrait of the eighth Sir Francis Framlingham astride a prancing, even more curly-maned and knowing Beau Regard; and there was a lovely oil of golden-haired Gwendolyn.
Turning, she found Alban Travis-Lock looking at her in admiration.
‘No wonder Sir Francis Framlingham planted so many willows in Gwendolyn’s memory,’ said Etta.
Leading her into a library, which contained every book in the world on willows, Alban pointed to a picture of Beau Regard appearing ghostly and bloodstained through the trees.
‘Oh,’ gasped Etta, ‘have you ever seen his ghost?’
‘Only on his way home from the Fox,’ quipped Alan, popping his head round the door. ‘Sorry we’re late, Carrie’s on her way. Is it true Bonny and Valent are coming? I hear he’s bought a yacht bigger than the QE2. He’s not? Probably terrified Ione’s going to lecture him on his carbon footprint. Hello, darling,’ he kissed Etta, ‘you look gorgeous …’
‘Doesn’t she,’ brayed Alban.
Alan was wearing a red silk tie covered with stalking green panthers – the sort of Tie Rack tie that women give their lovers as goodbye presents on Paddington station.
Oh goodness, I hope he’s not going to leave Carrie, thought Etta, I’d miss him so much.
‘I need a huge drink,’ said Alan.
As they went back into the drawing room, Etta was taken aside by Major Cunliffe, who was wearing a maroon bow tie to match his complexion. He apologized for grassing her up after their session at the Fox.
‘Most enjoyable occasion, let me replenish your glass. I probably reported back a little too enthusiastically to my better half on a lovely new neighbour. She gets a tad jealous. Hope you didn’t get into trouble.’
‘Oh no, no,’ lied Etta.
The Major went on to say how fulfilled he was by the retirement he had ‘taken early’ because the personal touch had gone out of banking. He was just waxing lyrical about his rain gauge and how many millimetres of water there had been that month, when his wife Debbie, like a bull mastiff in drag, bore down on them.
‘Sorry Ay haven’t called you. You must come and have a noggin at Christmas when we’ve got Norman’s mother staying.’
‘Cow,’ hissed Dora, ‘Debbie’s about half a minute younger than you.’
‘I hear Lester Bolton’s bought half of North Wood from Harvey-Holden, Daddy,’ Debbie told the Major.
‘Harvey-Holden’s short of money,’ he replied, ‘and disappointed all Shade’s horses have gone to Marius, not to him.’
20
Lester Bolton, porn billionaire and master of the newly titled Primrose Mansions and now twenty acres of North Wood, was not enjoying himself. No one had greeted him. Small, plump, predatory, he had a dyed red comb-over, and the pushiness and puffed-out cheeks of a squirrel. He was incensed that so much village riff-raff, with most of whom he had rowed, had been invited. His goal for the evening had been to compare trophy partners and accumulated fortunes with Valent Edwards.
Cindy, his child bride, in a pink fascinator and a dress of insufficient pink chiffon, tossed her blonde hair and giggled incessantly. Major Cunliffe’s eyes were out on telegraph poles devouring her bouncing boobs and the rest of her tattooed and perma-tanned body.
‘Isn’t there any bubbly, Alban? I’d like some bubbly.’ She was pouting up at her host as her eight-inch heels sabotaged his ancient oak floor.
‘Aren’t they gross?’ a passing Dora hissed. ‘Lester needs a mounting block to get into his Chelsea tractor, and he’s bunged the planners so much, probably in porn films, Primrose Mansions is going to have more extensions than Cindy’s hair. I won’t offer you any lentil bake, it’s vile.’
Cindy Bolton was now telling Alban and his nephew Toby, who were swaying over her like poplars, about the calendar she was making: ‘I get to take my kit off in every picture but it’s tasteful.’