My boots crunched satisfyingly on the gravel as I marched across the car park towards the elegant doorway. At times like this I feel as though I ought to be going round to the servants’ entrance, but what the hell. The rich gits are long gone from this particular pile. It belongs to us now, via the National Trust.
Lisa clocked me first, and I gave her my best grin. I watched her eyes, and several expressions seemed to pass across her face. This is normal. Well, you know what women are like — they can feel eight things at once and communicate six entirely different ones at the same time. And God help you if you choose the wrong one, mate. I thought I detected pleasure in there, along with wariness, apprehension, and a touch of amusement. But did this mean she wanted to be rescued, or not? It was no use waiting to find out. It isn’t the way I operate anyway. And I must say the closer I got to the bloke in the suit, the less I liked the look of him. My antennae were picking up the sort of aura about him that told me I would either have to touch my forelock or drop him with a Mansfield kiss, depending on whether I needed his money. By the time I arrived on the steps, I’d decided to dispense with subtlety entirely.
“Fuck me, I’m sweating like a pig in a sauna. Me kecks are stuck so far up me arse it feels like I’m being buggered by a randy stair carpet. Talk about shagpile, eh, mate?”
I saw the suit stiffen like a sudden case of rigor mortis. And that was even before I nudged him amiably in the ribs. Lisa covered her face with a hand. Whether she was laughing or about to be sick I couldn’t tell, but it was too late now, whatever.
“I’ve got to have a slash soon an’ all, or I’ll be filling me pants legs. I’ve had ten pints of bleedin’ Mansfield Bitter and I’m not even near pissed. I don’t know how the bastards get away with it.”
I managed a nice loud, unrestrained belch just as the suit turned reluctantly to face me. His long nose wrinkled and his lip curled. His hands began to move nervously about the pockets of his jacket as if he was searching for a scented handkerchief to hold to his nostrils. I laid a hand on his sleeve, like a bloke who just couldn’t help being friendly.
“You met my kid sister then? Bit of all right, in’t she? What about them knockers, eh? Bloody hell, talk about selling ’em by the pound. You’ve got enough there to start a European tit mountain.”
The bloke seemed as though he’d been about to say something suitably condescending. Now he stopped and his face coloured. Obviously the tits had been exactly what he’d been thinking about.
His feet were moving on the gravel, and he might have backed away if I hadn’t got hold of his sleeve. All right, I’d wanted to get rid of him, but I was enjoying myself now. It’s a funny reaction. I suppose it’s a bit like a fox who wishes like hell that the idiots in the red coats would go away and take their horses and dogs with them, then when he gets round the next corner he finds a huntsman off his horse and having a slash against a tree. He wouldn’t be able to resist the sight of that solitary fat backside, right? The bloke saw this too. Contempt had been replaced by anxiety on his face. He wasn’t sure what I was going to do next, and this is the way I like it. Would I to try to borrow money off him, or might I vomit on his polished brogues? Or worse, was I intending to be his friend for life?
Lisa recovered first. Very cool, that one.
“This is Mr Michael Cavendish,” she told me. “He’s a regular visitor to Hardwick. In fact, he’s a descendant of the original family. About the ninth generation from the Countess, would it be, Mr Cavendish?”
“What? Oh yes.”
Cavendish sounded a bit croaky. Either he had a touch of laryngitis or he was scared shitless that I’d pollute his Hugo Boss suit with a steaming beer and carrot stew. But his colour was getting back to its normal aristocratic puce, and any minute now he might even think of something to say.
“I must be going,” he said. Brilliant. He’d got his line word perfect at the first attempt.
He had another go at tugging his sleeve out of my grasp. I hiccupped and gave him my best lopsided grin.
“Oh, but we were just discussing the fourth Earl, weren’t we?” said Lisa.
“No matter, no matter. Another time.”
While he was looking at Lisa, I took the opportunity to brush up close to the bloke and feel for his side pocket with my free hand. He looked as though he might have a useful cheque book or two about his person.
Cavendish lost patience then. He took hold of my fingers with his right hand and prised them from his sleeve. I was taken by surprise at the strength of his grip. My fingers felt bruised where he’d held them, as if I’d accidentally trapped them in a door.
“Goodbye then, Miss Prior,” he said.
We stared into each other’s eyes for one more moment. Then he turned on his heel and marched away towards a gold Range Rover without looking back.
“Stones,” said Lisa. I still couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Was I in deep shit for upsetting an important visitor? Had I just put the total kibosh on a really crappy day?
“Yes, love?”
“You’re such a pillock. Just get in the car.”
5
After we’d been in the house for an hour or two, Lisa had pretty much forgiven me for the incident at Hardwick Hall. At least, she’d quietened down a lot. In spite of the fact that I’d washed my hands, I could see there were slightly oily handprints on her bare back when she turned over onto her side. Also, I had to find a clean shirt, because the buttons had gone completely on the old one.
“Why were you so foul to Michael Cavendish?” she’d asked me at one stage, just before we came unglued.
“He asked for it,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“He was a stuck-up rich git.”
“But you’d never met him. You’d hardly set eyes on him.”
“So? I’m very perceptive like that. I can sense it. Rich gits make my ulcer hurt.”
“You haven’t got an ulcer.”
“I will have, if I meet that Cavendish bloke again.”
She seemed to think about it for a bit, clinging on to my arm when I tried to ease myself away.
“It wasn’t because you were jealous then, Stones?”
“Jealous? Give over. I could get a suit like that, if I really wanted to.”
“Mmm.”
I left Lisa dozing in the bedroom and went back downstairs. Despite the onion bhajis and other stuff from the deli earlier, I was feeling a bit peckish after my efforts. I felt my performance had been pretty good, but giving your all to your art fairly takes it out of you. I’m talking about my bit of acting at Hardwick, of course.
When the phone rang, I automatically picked it up. I could have let the answerphone deal with it, but you never know when it might be urgent business.
“Stones? It’s Nuala.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, cautious.
Nuala’s the new bird. She’s at that stage where she actually thinks I’m a non-stop sex machine, a hilarious stand-up comedian, and some soppy romantic Mills and Boon hero all rolled into one. Women like their delusions, don’t they?