Digging Deeper (5 page)

“Lady C’s providing it. It will complete the look beautifully, don’t you think?”

Flick wore the only black skirt in her wardrobe. Hardly her fault it was both too short and too tight. The same could be said for her white shirt, and her less-well-endowed sister’s pushup bra which left Flick’s cleavage straining the buttons of the shirt. She carried a pair of black high heels to put on when she got there, and had emblazoned her lips with bright red gloss. Though her streaked hair was neater, it was still wild and sexy. Flick looked as tarty as she could manage without painting her nails in the same shade of red she’d used for her lips.

In fact, one nail was painted red. A beautifully filed, perfect nail. The other nine were almost wider than they were long because of her razor-sharp occlusion. Flick thought it an impressive feat of willpower that enabled her to keep biting her nails year after year despite constant, wearing criticism. One of her few lasting achievements.

“You look gorgeous,” she told Kirsten. In a slinky black dress with simple silver necklace and stud earrings, Kirsten looked as sophisticated as Flick did cheap. “I take it back about the nail varnish.”

“I can’t believe I live with you,” Kirsten said.

“You lucky thing.”

Kirsten laughed. “You are going to be in so much trouble. Lady C will kill you, provided you don’t kill her husband first.”

———

Flick dropped Kirsten off at the front door of the Hall, drove round to the slaves’ entrance at the rear and pulled up next to the caterers’ white van.
Cuisine D’Or by Nik and Nita
was written on the side in flowery letters. Flick walked into the kitchen and sniffed, expecting to smell something delicious. Nothing was cooking. Correction, Nik was simmering. He and Nita stood either side of the wooden table glaring at each other. By the look on their faces, one of them was about to be inserted head first into the bright red oven.

“Er, hi,” Flick said. “What’s the problem?”

“He is.”

“She is.” They spluttered simultaneously.

“Have you forgotten something? Can I go and get it?” Flick asked.

“His brains.”

“Her brains.” More concurrent offerings.

“Bitch,” from him.

“Bastard,” from her.

“Bollocks.” Flick groaned.

Nik moved to pick up a knife and Nita grabbed a frying pan. Flick thought about stepping between them, but she wasn’t paid enough.

“Look, guys, this is a really special evening, so can’t whatever domestic you’re having wait until you get home? Please cook something.”

For a moment, nothing happened and then to Flick’s immense relief they sprang into action. She leaned against the fridge and watched. Shouting instructions at each other Gordon Ramsay style, they made cooking look easy as they chopped, sliced, stirred, fried and occasionally flung trays into the oven. Flick was mesmerized by the chopping. They might each have had four hands. How could they move a knife so fast?

The cooks continued to shoot hateful glances at each other through the steam and occasionally through the flames rising from the sizzling food. Heads of lettuce flew back and forth across the kitchen like basketballs. When Flick intercepted one heading for a pile of plates, Nik clapped.

As she left the kitchen in search of Lady C, Flick found her heading down the hallway.

“You’re late.”

“Good evening,” Flick said, at her most polite. “I was here on time. I’ve been supervising in the kitchen.”

Judging by the suspicious look on Celia’s face, Flick knew she didn’t believe her. Celia’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared as she took in her outfit.

“What on earth are you wearing? What did I tell you this afternoon?”

“Black skirt, white blouse.”

Celia clenched her teeth. “Didn’t you have anything longer?”

“Sorry, they shrank in the wash.” If the washing machine didn’t do it, then the tumble drier did. Not her fault. “Are you ready for me to serve drinks?”

Celia hadn’t finished. “I asked you to dress appropriately. I don’t call this appropriate—a skirt up to your bottom and a shirt three sizes too small. I shall be reviewing your wages.” She pushed a stiff white pinafore into Flick’s hand.

———

When Kirsten walked into the drawing room she looked around for Willow but her gaze fell on the man talking to Giles. He had to be Beck. Tall, dark and handsome like every guy Flick fell for. And probably a swine, like every guy Flick fell for. She’d not mentioned Marcus since he’d flown off to Oz, so Kirsten and Josh had decided something bad had happened.

Willow rushed up and hugged her.

“Come and meet Beck.” She led her across the room. “Beck, this is Kirsten, my best friend from school and my chief bridesmaid.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Beck said.

Kirsten shook his hand. “Hello. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“If you’ve been talking to Giles, everything is a lie. If you’ve been talking to my mother, everything is still a lie.”

Kirsten laughed. “Actually I’ve been talking to someone who described you as a born-again shepherd.”

Beck’s eyes widened. “You know Flick?”

“I live with her. A word of warning. She wasn’t impressed in the supermarket when your students came up the aisle baaing.”

Beck looked puzzled for a moment. “That had nothing to do with her. It was some weird beer they’d found. Sheep Dip or Black Sheep or something.”

“Oops. Flick thought you were laughing at her. She may be plotting something.”

Celia held the door for Flick who carried a tray loaded with champagne flutes. Flick was tempted to pretend to drop them but fearing she might actually drop them, changed her mind. She delayed heading in Beck’s direction until he and Kirsten were the only ones without drinks.

“Cider?” Flick asked with a bright smile.

“Celia will kill you,” Kirsten whispered. “It’s Veuve Clicquot.”

The moment Beck laughed, Flick rejected ideas about tipping up his drink or dropping food in his lap in favor of dropping herself there instead.

“Beck was just telling me about some beer in the supermarket called Sheep Dip.” Kirsten raised her eyebrows.

“Sounds delightful,” Flick said.

“They weren’t baaing at you,” she whispered.

“An attack by a malevolent sheep is no laughing matter,” Beck said. “I’d hate you to think I thought it funny.”

“I’ve got hoof prints to prove it wasn’t.”

Beck winced. “So tell me why you thought I was the police?”

Flick was struggling to come up with a good lie when Henry tapped his glass. Bless him.

“A toast, now we all have a drink,” Henry said. “To Giles and Willow, the future Mr. and Mrs. Giles Hartington. To their forthcoming wedding.”

“To their wedding,” everyone chorused.

Giles kissed Willow on the lips and she snuggled against him.

“Love you, sugarlips,” he mouthed.

“Love you back, fuzzycheeks,” she returned.

Beck and Flick both caught each other rolling their eyes and grinned.

Flick walked across the room to top up Henry’s champagne. If it hadn’t been for the fact Henry had insisted his wife give her a job, Flick knew she was the last person Lady C would employ. She thrust Flick’s complete unsuitability down her throat at every opportunity. She was clumsy, cheeky and always dressed in strange clothes and her attitude “inappropriate”. When Lady C sacked her, a weekly occurrence, Henry always smoothed things over.

Henry was the only person Flick had confided in about Grinstead’s. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had a tendency to stare at her in a very un-father-like way, she would have adopted him as her dad.

“You’re not doing me any good at all dressed in that outfit, Felicity,” Henry said.

“You know that’s not true. I give you a reason to get up in the morning, Melchi Dael,” she whispered.

“You give me a reason to get up at all times of the day,” he whispered back. “And the only woman I can’t procure for myself is you.”

Flick laughed. She’d just called Henry by the name of a demon who was the prince of pimps, able to provide a man with any woman of his choice. The first time they’d met, Henry had spent the whole time staring at her chest, clearly hoping her buttons would pop undone. She’d called him a randy devil. That marked the start of their game. He’d offered her fifty pounds if she could come up with the name of a devil he didn’t know. So far she’d failed.

When Flick went into the kitchen to get the canapés, the two chefs had stopped speaking though they were working—banging utensils in a aggressive manner, tuning up for an innovative percussion performance. Nik slammed the fridge door shut. Nita clattered a pan onto the table. Nik responded by kicking the oven, though he spent the next few minutes hopping around on one foot. Flick escaped with the canapés.

They looked so delicious she pushed two in her mouth on the way to the drawing room. She offered the tray to Kirsten first to make up for serving her the champagne last.

“You’ve got caviar on your mouth,” Kirsten whispered.

Flick ran her tongue over her lips and heard Henry utter a low groan. He slumped on the couch looking pale. Flick hoped she hadn’t overdone it, but if Celia did dock her wages, Henry would make them up again.

She offered the tray to Lady C who was talking to Willow’s mother about final arrangements for the wedding. Flick knew Celia had organized the whole thing. She was such an overwhelming wave of womanhood, she swept everything before her. Kirsten said Willow had attempted a few brief protests, but she’d given way under Celia’s erosive power. Celia had made a generous offer for Henry to pay for the lot. Barry insisted he paid and in the end Giles said the cost would be split three ways.

Flick hoped Stef married someone rich.

Willow chatted about her hens’ night. Flick knew Kirsten had struggled to think of something different they could do, an activity that didn’t involve men taking off their clothes. In a moment of inspiration, having forced Josh and Flick to brainstorm when they were both drunk, Josh had come up with skiing. There was a large indoor slope with artificial snow at Castleford. The rest of the hen party had approved, providing dancing with near naked men followed. Typical.

Flick carried the canapés to Beck and Giles.

“Do I look like a policeman?” Beck asked.

She should have known he was the persistent sort. Flick wobbled her lower lip. “I’m wanted for murder.”

“Have I missed something?” Giles looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

She held the tray with one hand and popped a large prawn between her lips with the other.

“Didn’t you have time to do your other nails?” asked Giles.

“Plenty of time but I reserve special treatment for this one. It suffered a serious trauma when I was five. Hammer blow. I’m still trying to get it to forgive me.” Flick spread out her hand, face down. “It has no competition. Look at the others. It’s a masterpiece.”

“You could stop biting the rest,” Beck said.

“But I don’t want them to feel neglected and anyway, they like the feel of my teeth.” She smiled when she saw his Adam’s apple move up and down.

“Felicity, I’m not paying you to talk,” Celia hissed in her ear.

Flick walked across to the bridesmaids, but didn’t miss the comment that followed her departure.

“Her legs,” Beck whispered. “I can almost see… Oh God.”

Flick did a complete circuit of the room with the canapés before Giles beckoned her back.

“Don’t neglect us, Miss Knyfe or I’ll have to report you to my mother.”

Flick offered him the tray.

“Knyfe?” Beck laughed. “Don’t tell me that’s your name? Flick Knyfe?”

“Felicity Xanthe Knyfe,” Flick said.

“I didn’t know you had a middle name. How do you spell it?” Giles asked.

“X-a-n-t-h-e. Why?”

Giles smiled. “Just curious. You’re the first person I’ve met with a name beginning with X.”

Flick glanced at Beck as he gave a curious groan.

“Xanthe was my Dad’s idea, though calling my sister Carving was a mistake.”

Giles chuckled. “I can see now why my father looks forward to you coming.”

Flick wasn’t sure if she really heard him add “and so would I.” She hoped not. She popped the last canapé into her mouth as Giles reached for it.

Flick leaned against the kitchen door not daring to ask again how long it would be before the meal was ready. Last time Nik had almost speared her with a cucumber. Lady C behaved as though the delay was her fault. Henry had told Flick to open another bottle of champagne, but only he, Giles and the bridesmaids seemed to be drinking. Beck had declined because he was driving. Every time Flick walked into the room, he oozed another pint of testosterone. She felt breathless with lust. Her heart rate jumped into overdrive with just a glimpse of him. She needed Kirsten to find out if he had a girlfriend.

“Five minutes,” Nik snapped. “Get their bums on the fucking chairs. They’re having soufflés so I want them all fucking sitting down waiting when they come out the oven.”

Flick rushed to usher everyone through to the dining room.

Somehow she managed to serve everyone miniature cheese soufflés accompanied by pear and hazelnut salad, before the soufflés collapsed. She even got out of the room without dropping a plate or planting a kiss on Beck’s lips. He had Kirsten sitting on one side of him, which was good, and the bridesmaid with the biggest breasts on the other, which was bad. Flick stomped off in a grump.

By the time she reached the kitchen the two chefs had returned to hurling insults at each other. Flick had no idea what catastrophe could have occurred in her absence but instructions had to be relayed through her. She took out the cursing to save time.

Her stomach rumbled as she served Beck a chicken breast, stuffed with wild mushrooms, wrapped in bacon. He looked up at her.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“No.” Her stomach rumbled in protest. Flick didn’t blame it. She was always hungry.

Celia’s mother, Gertrude, reached out and grabbed her arm as she passed. “Tell them the vegetables are undercooked.”

“Of course.”

One message she wouldn’t be passing on. The knives were far too sharp. When Flick pushed open the kitchen door, the mood had changed again. Nik and Nita appeared to be most of the way through one of Henry’s bottles of claret. They were attached to each other at various points along their length from the lips down. Flick beat a hasty retreat to the stairs, sat on the bottom step with her elbows on her knees and thought about the last time she’d been kissed. Months ago by Miserable Bastard. The night he’d dumped her. Marcus had been an energetic kisser, though sometimes overenthusiastic to the point of leaving her with bruised lips. Only so many times you could say you’d had an allergic reaction to lipstick, though she’d rather have that sort of kiss than none at all.