This is Ricki, the gardener, Gaunt introduced them.
Hi. She offered a firm handshake. So, you want to get rid of this fountain, is that right?
Yes, it makes the most irritating dribbling sound.
Humm. Its easily done. Have you thought about what sound you want it to make?
You mean I can choose?
Yeah, water makes different sounds depending on the material the features made of, how high the drop is, the depth of pool underneathits up to you. Personally, Id move it out of the corner, get something a bit more dramatic going, right here, she indicated the centre of the lawn, right down the middle. Do you have any kids?
No, Olivia replied sharply. Why?
Nothing. Only kids and water dont mix; its dangerous.
Oh. Yes. Of course.
But since thats not a problem, Ricki continued, we could do something fantastic. An aluminium gulley maybe, running the full length of the lawn. She strode into the centre. Water can be fed in from a tall black slate waterfall here at the back, against this wall. See, the aluminium catches the light, contrasts with the density of the slate. Really stunning! And in the summer when the grass is bright green, its like a silver blade, cutting the lawn in two. Placed high enough it makes the most wonderful, rolling sound, you know, no burbling or babbling brook bullshit, but something strong, soothingWhat do you think?
The vision of a blade of water slicing across the lawn intrigued Olivia. And Rickis enthusiasm was compelling. Oh, yes! That sounds beautiful! Theres only one thing: my husband will hate it.
Ricki laughed, shrugged her shoulders. So what?
You dont know my husband, Olivia smiled wryly. Its safer if we go for something a little more traditional.
Let me guess, a seashell bird bath with a peeing cherub on top?
Yes, that sounds more like what he was expecting, she admitted.
Ricki shook her head, looking at her hard with those large black eyes. Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is play it safe. We could do something really interesting heresomething bold.
To her surprise Olivia blushed. Well, yes, but
Pardon me, madam.
It was Gaunt again.
Simon Grey from the Mount Street Gallery is waiting in the drawing room. He doesnt have an appointment but he says its a matter of some urgency.
Of course. She turned back to Ricki. Im sorry, I must go.
So, its peeing cherubs all round?
Yes. Yes, Im afraid so. Lovely to meet you.
Ricki tilted her head. And lovely to meet you.
Heading back into the house, Olivia felt perplexed. Simon, here, at this hour? How strange.
Simon Grey was the curator of the Mount Street Gallery, which she generously helped fund for the promotion of young artists. At his urging, shed recently become chairman. They were opening their biggest show ever in two weeks time: The Next Generation, featuring the work of a controversial new performance artist named Roddy Prowl.
Art was one thing that ignited Olivias whole being. She often regretted she had no ability herself. Not that shed ever dared to take a drawing course. But when she first expressed a desire to paint at the age of nine, her parents steered her firmly towards the old masters.
This is painting, her mother explained, removing a bit of lint gingerly from her daughters otherwise immaculate school uniform. So dont even try.
When a Van der Lyden attempts, a Van der Lyden succeeds! her father boomed in his gin-soaked voice.
They suggested art history instead. So much more useful and infinitely less messy than dabbling with paint.
Perhaps this is what inspired Olivias appetite for the postmodern.
She pushed open the drawing-door door. Simon. Oh, dear! Simon?
Normally fastidious and fearsomely arranged in the manner of only the truly visually gifted, Simons state of disarray was shocking. His sleek dark hair was all on end, his trademark Paul Smith scarf askew; he paced the floor like a caged animal. In an instant, she knew something was terribly wrong.
Whats happened?
Olivia, its nothing short of a disaster! Roddy Prowls checked himself into rehab! He refuses to come back! Tears filled his prodigiously lashed brown eyes; his long aquiline nose flared red at the end. We have no enfant terrible, Olivia! The entire show is ruined!
Free Lunch or a Shag
Come and have your evil way with me.
When Hughie got the text message from Leticia, he was busy rifling through his sister Claras things, looking for a stamp and already bordering on late for meeting his mother for lunch. He wanted to post his response to the ad in the Stage that morning, and luncheon was a standing date he and his mother had for the first Wednesday of every month at a small hotel in Victoria called the Goring. There the staff remembered Rowena Venables-Smythe and treated her like a society widow. Together they would feast on the enormous roasts, argue and gossip; his mother would try to force him into some sort of employment; Hughie would charm her and leave with whatever spare cash she had in her wallet. The meal itself was one of the highlights of Hughies month; he rarely slept the night before for excitementScottish roast beef, fluffy Yorkshire pudding, piles of crispy potatoes drenched in gravy, all washed down with something Mum had chosen to impress the wine waiter. (Lunch with Mum was early enough in the day to be manageable. By supper, she was often a bit liquid for Hughies taste.)
But now there was a rival invitation from Leticia. Visions of her long naked limbs, creamy white against the black velvet chaise longue, stretched out for his personal use made him swoon with lust.
Hughie found himself facing one of the most difficult dilemmas of a young mans life: free lunch or a shag?
He tipped out one of Claras handbags, found a book of stamps at the bottom and took one. Then he pulled a jumper over his head and bounded out the doorignoring Claras Post-it about not forgetting his keys.
Of course, it might just be possible to have the best of both these offers. Leticias shop was only a few blocks from the Goring. An enterprising young man like Hughie might find himself fucked, fed and funded by tea time.
All it would take was a bit of finessing.
Hughie shoved his letter into a postbox and flagged down a passing cab. Hey I say, you dont take Amex, do you?
Fuck off, suggested the cabby, driving away.
Hughie ran to catch the bus, dodging traffic to cross the road in time.
Single to Victoria, he panted to the driver.
Two pounds.
Oh. Hughie pulled out a few loose coins from his pockets. As much as that?
An old man pushed past him and a woman with a pram.
Whats that? Seventy? Seventy-three, seventy-four
The driver glared at him. Have you got it or havent you?
Ill spot you.
Hughie turned. It was Malcolm, Claras fiancé.
An old man pushed past him and a woman with a pram.
Whats that? Seventy? Seventy-three, seventy-four
The driver glared at him. Have you got it or havent you?
Ill spot you.
Hughie turned. It was Malcolm, Claras fiancé.
Thats very good of you, Malc.
Think nothing of it! Glad to help!
Hughie climbed to the top deck and Malcolm struggled up the steps after him.
Malcolm was pretty much the same height and build as Hughie only his centre of gravity resided in his bottom, pulling at him like an undertow. (In prep school he was known as Girlie-Arse Gritton.) As for his features, everything was just a bit too much; his lips were too thick and red, his nose too long, his eyes bugged out and were framed by strawberry-blond lashes, matching the pinky blond mane on his head. Then, too, he smelt disturbingly of violets.
He threw himself down next to Hughie, or rather almost on top of him, the seat being too snug for grown men.
Thanks for paying my fare.
Think nothing of it! What are friends for, right? We are friends, you and I? Malcolm looked at him eagerly, blinking his bug eyes.
Hughie hesitated. This wasnt entirely accurate. If he hadnt been engaged to his sister, Hughie wouldve preferred to avoid Malcolm. But a man down on his luck couldnt afford to be pedantic.
Sure, Hughie smiled.
Good stuff! Very good stuff. Oh, God, Hughie! I cant tell you how difficult things are for me at the moment!
Really? Hughie forced a window open. (The violet water was particularly strong today.)
Yes! I need a break. Maybe a drink with some friends. He stared at Hughie, who was busy eyeing up an Aston Martin that growled into view.
Good plan, Hughie agreed, wondering if the driver of the Aston was under or over thirty (these questions being of significance to young men who hadnt yet made their first million).
I was hoping youd say that!
I can always be counted on to endorse a drink.
So, what time would you like to meet?
For what?
Malcolm peered at him with an anxious smile. Drinks, silly! You said you were my friend.
Yes, yes. But thats different fromI mean, its not the same as having ones own friends.
Malcolm straightened. For Gods sake, Hughie, Im engaged to your sister!
Yes, I know. Shes a lovely girl, dont you think?
Malcolm winced, as if retreating from an unseen belt across the jaw. Yes, a lovely girl.
Hughie had an idea. Maybe shed like to come along?
Perhaps Malcolm agreed, slowly. Then again, theres also nothing to prevent us from having a quiet drink on our own.
I just dont think Ive got the time, Male Hughies phone rang. Excuse me, he said, grateful for the interruption.
It was his mother.
Hello, Mum.
Yes, a large gin and tonic, please, she was saying to the waiter. Oh. Hello, darling, Im here a little early. How long will you be?
Im on my way. What time is it, anyway?
Quarter to. How close are you? Shall I order you something to drink?
Im, uh, somewhere on the Edgware Road.
Thats miles away, Hughie! Were meant to be meeting at one!
Like I said, Mum, Im on my way. Traffics bad.
This is London, Hughie. Traffic is always bad. A little forward planning wouldnt go amiss! Really!
She rang off before he could reply.
(It was going to be a real trick getting any cash out of her today.)
Youre in a bit of a pickle, Malcolm observed.
Oh, you know what theyre like.
His phone rang again.
Where are you? Leticia purred.
Almost there, darling. Just coming up to Marble Arch.
Marble Arch! Are you in a cab?
No, Im on the bus, angel.
How quaint! she laughed. Is this your way of telling me you dont fancy me any more? Taking public transport?
No, no! I fancy you like mad!
Then show me. By the way, Im wearing nothing but double cream.
She made a low, thoroughly filthy growl before hanging up.
Now, theres a place I know of in Soho where we could meet. Malcolm was jotting down the address. Most amusing. Members only
To be honest, I dont think I can, Male
Oh. Really
Ive got a hell of a lot on
I see.
Tickets, please!
Swaying in front of them was a ticket inspector, pad at the ready.
Hughie prodded Malcolm. Youve got my ticket.
Have I? Malcolm raised an eyebrow. You know, Ive got a hell of a lot on, Hughie. Im not sure I can remember where I put it. Perhaps if I had something to look forward to, he sighed, a drinks engagement perhaps, I might be able to recall what I did with it.
Tickets please, gentlemen!
Malcolm produced his bus pass with a flourish. Heres mine! He smiled sweetly at Hughie. And you?
Hughie wished, not for the first time, that his sister would find herself a different beau.
You do have a ticket, young man? Theres a fine if you havent. The inspector tapped his pad. Quite a considerable fine.
Malcolm shrugged. Oh, dear!
Hughie was just about to give up when there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.
Excuse me.
He twisted round to find a dashing man in his fifties behind him. He wasnt the sort of man youd expect to find on the top deck of a bus. Exquisitely dressed in a tailored grey wool suit and gold silk tie, he radiated authority, ease and polish. His hair was impeccable, nails trimmed, his skin had the soft golden glow of tan. But it was his eyes that were so arresting. They were a rare intensity of blue, not unlike Hughies own.
I believe you dropped this, he smiled, holding out a ticket.
Hughie hesitated, then took it. Thank you.
The man stood up. My pleasure.
Then he clasped the hand of the ticket inspector and shook it warmly. I just want to say I think youre doing an excellent job. I work at Head Office and rarely have I seen a servant of the people as devoted and diligent as yourself. It makes me proud, my good man! Proud to be part of this great public transport system, and I must say, proud to be British! He looked to Hughie. Dont you agree?
Absolutely!
The ticket inspector blushed. I dont know what to say! Its so nice to be appreciated for a change. The number of people who abuse you, just for doing your job!
The man nodded and patted him on the shoulder. Youre a brave soldier.
You have to be!
Ill tell you what, said the man, taking out his mobile. Im putting in a call to Head Office right now and Id like to mention you by name.
Really? Do you mean it? Its Paul, sir. Paul Pullerton.
Mr Pullerton, youre a credit to your profession! Im dialling right now. Keep up the good work! he called as he headed down the steps and off the bus.
Now theres a gentleman! the inspector declared to anyone who would listen. Last of a dying breed!
He didnt have to show his ticket! Malcolm pointed out.