Paradise Fields (5 page)

Nel sighed. Actually they quite often did sit together on the sofa, and enjoy a companionable sort of cuddle, but it never went further than that. Simon wasn't very good at kissing, so she didn't encourage that, and he never put his hand on her breast. If he did put it on her knee, over her skirt and her tights, it never went further up her leg. Was there something wrong with him? Or was it her, giving out all the wrong signals? Perhaps she had ‘touch me not' invisibly tattooed on her
forehead, so that only men could read it. If so, the man buying mistletoe hadn't spotted it.

While Nel had dismissed the incident as Christmas spirit, she couldn't quite stop thinking about the perpetrator. It had been such a brief contact, just the gentle pressure of his lips against hers for a second. She was a romantic fool even to think about it, let alone mentally replace Simon on the sofa by the fireside with that unknown squash player. And yet, when she did that, she didn't feel there'd be any difficulty about turning a cuddle into something more passionate. It would be quite – very, even – easy to let her fingers explore between the buttons of his shirt, and eventually undo them.

Briskly, she returned her mind to her cooking, and it was only after she had made an extremely garlicky vinaigrette for the salad when she remembered her plans for the sofa. Then she had to explain to Simon why she had suddenly giggled.

THE FACT THAT
after what seemed to be about a million phone calls Nel had actually managed to get an appointment with the solicitors didn't make her one jot less irritated; in fact, rather the reverse. As usual, she had arrived ten minutes early. It was now fifteen minutes after the appointed time, and her anxiety and boredom levels had risen to dangerous heights.

She looked around her, plucking at the frayed arm of her chair, wondering how, when everyone knew solicitors earned a fortune, they could let their waiting room get into this condition.

The walls had probably been magnolia to begin with, but had darkened to a shade which, Nel decided, the National Trust would probably have called Under-housemaid's Garret Grey. The curtains could have been any colour, but when Nel got up to look between the folds, she discovered they had originally been pink. Definitely Antique Pot-pourri, she thought, liking this new game.

However, when she'd failed to find anything clever to describe the carpet, which was too faded actually to have a colour, she turned to the magazines for entertainment.

‘Well, at least they're seasonal,' she muttered. ‘After all, Christmas is pretty much the same, year after year,
even if it was over a week ago. The fact that they keep going on about how to celebrate the Millennium needn't really matter.' She reflected that Christmas had gone quite well, considering, in as much as no one had fallen out and the turkey was properly cooked, and then she picked up another magazine, grateful it was nearly a year before she needed to think about it again. When she'd read what films she'd missed during 1999 and had gone on to another magazine only to come across instructions on how to build a small gazebo in her back garden, she realised they weren't seasonal at all, they were simply old.

She had just got out a tissue and was dusting the artificial flowers (‘Graveyard Taupe') when a woman, who was faintly familiar, came in.

‘Mr Demerand will see you now,' she said.

Stuffing her dusty tissue back into her pocket, Nel got up, feeling caught out and more irritated than ever. ‘Mr Demerand' might at least have had the courtesy to be punctual.

The woman opened a door. ‘Mrs Innes,' she announced.

Nel walked in. There were three people there, two men and a woman, but the only one she saw to begin with was the man who had kissed her under the mistletoe.

This was a shock. In her imagination, the solicitor responsible for everyone's anxiety was ancient, and wore half-moon spectacles and rusty black clothes, like the wicked bankers in
Mary Poppins
or something out of Dickens. This solicitor, if not particularly young, was definitely what her daughter would call ‘fit'. And as she'd seen him playing squash, Nel knew that he was fit in the ordinary sense as well.

‘I must apologise for the office,' he said now. ‘We've only just moved in. It's partly so I can borrow some space when I'm not in London. It could do with a bit of refurbishment.'

He made no sign of recognising Nel, and although she was not surprised – was greatly relieved in fact – she also managed to feel insulted. She gave her surroundings a quick glance. The office was a great deal larger than the waiting room, and had roughly the same colour scheme. The furniture was large and chipped and would be much sought after in thirty years' time, but now it belonged in a recycling scheme.

‘So it's your office in the provinces, and it'll be empty most of the time?' Nel hadn't intended to speak until spoken to, but her mouth obviously hadn't consulted her brain, and the words came out unbidden.

One eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘It's not quite like that . . .' he began.

Nel turned her attention to the other people in the room. They were a little younger than Nel, the woman a lot younger, and extremely well dressed and assertive-looking. They also looked as if they could afford as much legal help as they needed to allow them to do whatever they wanted. They seemed to be a team, with the solicitor. She hated them on sight.

‘I'd be happy to help you out with the refurbishment,' said the young woman.

Hearing her speak, Nel realised that she not only looked like a star of a prime-time American television series, she sounded like one, too. She had a soft, caressing voice, with a hint of huskiness in it, the sort of woman that men would listen to simply for the pleasure of hearing her voice.

‘Kerry Anne's an interior designer,' explained the man, who was slightly familiar. ‘She's really good.'

Jake Demerand took control. ‘Mrs Innes, I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting.' He took her hand and crushed it briefly, but there was still no sign of recognition in his eyes. Mm, obviously a monster, she decided. The fact that he didn't look like a twenty-first-century Scrooge didn't mean he was less of a villain.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Hunstanton,' he went on. ‘Pierce and Kerry Anne. Mrs Innes?' He raised a dark eyebrow, demanding her first name.

She regarded him for a moment before saying, ‘Nel.'

‘We've met, I think,' said Pierce Hunstanton. ‘Years ago, when I was last in England? You worked for my father, didn't you?'

‘That's right,' said Nel. ‘I remember meeting you.' Pierce had been born when Sir Gerald was forty, long after he'd give up hope of having a son. She smiled at the memory of how happy Sir Gerald had been when Pierce had got married. The man she had met back then had seemed pleasant enough, if not as much of a character as his father. He had got older, of course, but he still seemed pleasant enough. If he hadn't been planning to cheat a children's hospice out of what it rightfully owned, Nel might have liked him.

His wife, on the other hand, was what Vivian would call a piece of work. Wearing an enchanting little suit, which looked dauntingly like Chanel, she was so immaculately made-up you could hardly see she was wearing make-up, she just looked fizzing with health and beauty. Her hair was a glossy cap that showed off her perfect cheekbones, and her perfect teeth were a
row of evenly sized pearls. Her whole persona declared that here was a woman who could move mountains without chipping her nail varnish. Nel's spirits, already subterranean, descended even further.

As they all sat down, having shaken hands, Nel wished she'd taken up Vivian's offer to come with her, but at the time it had seemed totally unnecessary. At the quick meeting the hospice committee had called before her visit, the members had unanimously elected her their spokesperson, mostly because she was the most passionate, and she hadn't anticipated feeling lonely. Their finance person was still in the Maldives, and was out of contact. The chairman was skiing. Still, Nel reassured herself, anger and passion could be very brave-making.

‘Now, Mrs Innes,' said Jake Demerand. ‘What is it you would like to say?'

Nel instantly felt patronised, although for no logical reason that she could see. ‘Nothing of any importance, only to point out that you – someone – seems to have applied for planning permission on land that is not yours.' She gave a smile she hoped was as patronising as Jake Demerand's had been.

‘What makes you think it isn't ours?' asked Pierce, genuinely surprised.

‘The fact that Sir Gerald gave it to the hospice years ago, long before I became involved in it. It's vital to us. We use it for recreation, for fundraising, for access to the river. There's a boat specially adapted for the children with disabilities.'

‘Surely the children could find somewhere else to play?' asked Kerry Anne, inspecting her surroundings, her mind apparently on colour schemes, false walls and glass bricks.

Her lack of interest added to Nel's increasing fury. ‘I dare say they could! But we couldn't have a steam yacht rally anywhere else! We raise thousands every year from that, and the year before last, we used the money to build a jetty and a road down to it. Apart from anything else, we have assets in that bit of property, and it's ours!' She was about to mention the rent paid by the market but thought better of it.

‘I'm sure the hospice finds the land very useful,' said Jake Demerand, ‘but that doesn't alter the fact that it doesn't own it.'

‘We need to build on the land to generate enough money to renovate the house. I'm afraid my father neglected it terribly,' said Pierce.

‘And I am so looking forward to getting started on it. We're going to keep the principal rooms in period, but the rest of it is going to be such fun.' Kerry Anne laughed and then glanced at Jake, as if checking his reaction.

Nel clenched her teeth very hard. The hospice's major source of fundraising, possibly its whole existence, were to be sacrificed, so Kerry Anne could have ‘fun' and Pierce could have a few repairs done. It was outrageous, but she mustn't cry or scream, or do anything to make her appear more hysterical than she appeared already.

‘But the hospice must own it!' she insisted as calmly as possible. ‘I know Sir Gerald thought they did. He told me he'd made arrangements for them, years before. What else would he have meant?'

‘I can't possibly speculate on what he meant,' said Jake, ‘I can only reiterate that they do not own those fields. Let me show you the deeds of Hunstanton Manor.' He produced a huge, folded sheet of paper.

‘I dare say it doesn't have it on some absolutely ancient deeds,' said Nel. ‘Have you looked at anything more recent than thirty years ago?'

‘I have, and they clearly show that the land belongs to the Hunstanton Estate, and always has done.' Jake Demerand said all this without any show of emotion, of regret, remorse or anything except cool disinterest.

‘I have such confidence in you, Jake,' said Kerry Anne, patting his hand. ‘I know you wouldn't have made a mistake.' She peeped up at him through her lashes. That was something Nel had once tried to do to her first boyfriend, and had given herself a violent headache in the process.

‘Well, someone must have!' insisted Nel, trying to ignore Kerry Anne's behaviour. ‘Some bloody solicitor or other! I know it was Sir Gerald's intention that the hospice should have that land.'

‘They had the use of it for a long time, out of the kindness of Sir Gerald's heart. Now they must find somewhere else for their fête,' said Jake Demerand.

Nel wanted to kick him. ‘It's not a fête! It's a – a – an extravaganza! People come to it from all over the country!'

He shrugged, as if she were quibbling over mere semantics.

‘Look,' Nel went on. ‘It's all right for you. You've got the Big House, you don't need to build on that land! Even if we don't own it, you could at least have the decency to let the hospice go on using it!'

‘The Big House is going to cost nearly a million pounds to restore,' said Pierce Hunstanton. ‘If we don't build on that land we can't afford to do it. It would be very sad if such a wonderful slice of history were to
disappear, just because it was allowed to fall down.'

‘Yeah, and I really want to spend time in an old mansion,' added Kerry Anne, spoiling the effect of her husband's little speech.

‘I don't want to see the house fall down, either,' said Nel. ‘But which is more important? Saving a stately home or a hospice?' She tried to set aside her personal gratitude for the London hospice which was so helpful in Mark's last weeks. ‘What about the hopes and dreams of children who have life-threatening illnesses? That means they are going to die,' she said unkindly, in the direction of Kerry Anne.

‘I think we all know what a hospice is,' said Jake Demerand. ‘And I'm sure we're all very sorry that they can no longer use the land. But the fact is, the land belongs to the Hunstanton Estate and they need to build on it.'

‘Doing up an old house can't cost that much,' persisted Nel, reluctant to leave until she'd tried everything. ‘Couldn't you raise a mortgage on it or something? What are you planning to do with it? Line it all in marble and gold leaf?'

‘Time-share,' said Kerry Anne, after a quick glance at her husband. ‘Very superior apartments for people who like a few days in the country every so often, perhaps to entertain friends, but who don't want to live there.' Her slight shudder revealed how she felt about actually living in the country herself. ‘We're going to turn the attics into a penthouse for ourselves. Although I doubt if we'll spend much time there.'

‘You're not even going to live there, and yet you're going to stop the market in the fields?' said Nel, forgetting she hadn't been going to mention the market.