Persuade Me (5 page)

Chapter Eight

At Uppercross, despite all Anna’s coaxing, Mona was still in bed.

‘I’m not going there for lunch,’ she said flatly. ‘Even if it is Roger’s birthday. Tell them I’m resting before the party.’

‘But you’ve only just woken up.’

‘They don’t know that.’ Mona examined her fingernails. ‘You can give me one of your special manicures when I’ve had a bath.’

‘I really think you should go,’ Anna said, with a frown. ‘We needn’t stay long.’

‘They never normally bother with
me
, it’s only because
you’re
here.’

‘“Never” seems a bit harsh, weren’t you there for lunch the other weekend?’

‘Don’t be so bloody pedantic.’ Mona paused. ‘Maybe I’ll see how I feel after my bath. Henrietta said I could borrow her red dress for tonight, which means I’ll have to go there to fetch it. She never calls here if she can help it.’

This time Anna refrained from questioning the ‘never’ word. ‘I’ll run your bath,’ she said, knowing that this would get Mona out of bed – if only to spend the next half-hour in the warm, fragrant water reading a celebrity magazine, envying other people’s lives. ‘And I’ll do a bit of tidying up while the boys aren’t here.’

‘Every room in the house looks like it’s been hit by a bomb. I keep telling Charles I need the cleaners here more often, but oh no, he won’t even talk about it. You’re so lucky to live by yourself, you don’t have any of the stresses I’ve got to put up with. Let me know when my bath’s ready.’

Anna watched in silence as her sister yawned and reached for a magazine from the pile on the bedside table. At times, especially in the dark maze of a sleepless night, she would have given a lot for Mona’s stresses: a husband who was basically kind and loving, when given the chance; two adorable children; no real financial worries; and the happy-go-lucky Musgrove family on her doorstep. But the grass was always greener on the other side of the street, wasn’t it?

An hour later, after much complaining, Mona accompanied Anna to lunch at the Great House. They didn’t take the short cut across the fields because of Mona’s new shoes, which meant a guided tour of some current bones of contention: the money her parents-in-law had spent on the new boundary fence, the cost of the recently resurfaced drive, and so on. As they neared the house, a jolly hand-painted sign propped against the porch informed them that ‘We’re in the garden’ and they walked round to a plain wooden door set in a high stone wall. Anna opened it and went in, while Mona hung back in a fit of pique at the lack of attention.

Anna closed her eyes for a moment and let the waves of sound wash over her. Children whooping, men shouting affably at each other, women shrieking with laughter. The Land of Musgrove, where everyone was welcome – whatever Mona might say – and life was lived at a glorious, noisy gallop.

Then she heard Ollie call her name and Harry squeal with delight; she opened her eyes just as they hurled themselves at her legs like boisterous puppies.

She laughed, picked Harry up and ruffled Ollie’s dark curls. ‘My favourite nephews.’

Ollie thought for a minute. ‘We’re your
only
nephews, Aunty Anna. You’ll have to do better than that.’

She laughed even more. ‘What are they teaching you at that school – philosophy?’

Mona joined them, giving Harry a sharp glance. ‘What’s that round your mouth? Has Grandma been stuffing you with chocolate again? God knows, I’ll be the one they blame when all your teeth fall out!’

Silence, then a heartfelt whimper from Harry as he took in the full horror of his mother’s words.

Anna rummaged in her bag. ‘Let’s see what I’ve got here – ah yes, red package for Ollie, blue for Harry.’

The distraction worked; Harry stopped crying and clambered down. In a few seconds the boys had opened their presents, yelled their thanks and rushed off to show Charles their toy dinosaurs.

‘Is Harry’s suitable for a two-year-old?’ Mona said, in a deceptively sugary tone. ‘The childless never think about things like that.’

Anna was saved from replying by Barbara Musgrove, a large, red-faced woman with cropped brown hair and, as Mona put it, the dress sense of one of her horses. Today she was resplendent in a tight orange skirt and a sparkly yellow vest top, revealing an alarming amount of flabby cleavage. She cornered the newcomers in a stable-scented embrace, then swept Anna off to the far end of the garden.

With Barbara’s disconcerting tendency to talk about two subjects at once, Anna had to focus all her attention on disentangling the daughter-in-law from the dahlias. ‘How did you manage it?’ Barbara gave her an admiring glance. ‘Charles was convinced Mona wouldn’t come, he thinks she’s keeping a tally of the number of times we invite her here … Here’s one you won’t have seen before – Charlie Dimmock, grown from a cutting my sister gave me … Ridiculous, isn’t it? As if she needs to wait for an invitation … and neither do you, we see far too little of you, Harry’s always asking where “Tee-Anna” is … That big pink one’s Sir Alf Ramsey … He can be a right little imp though, much worse than his brother, needs a firm hand. But, as I tell Charles, it’s not my place to discipline them, grandchildren are for spoiling. Maybe if Mona
did
more with them, they’d be less of a handful – don’t suppose you could drop a few hints? … Barbara’s Pastelle, a medium semi-cactus variety, Roger’s favourite because of the name. Not the Barbara bit, he says, more the suggestion of fruit pastilles. Cheeky old thing … And I often have to bribe them with biscuits, but at least they’re home made, none of that shop-bought rubbish Mona gives them. That reminds me, come into the kitchen and try one of my cheese straws, there’s something wrong with them but I can’t decide what.’

Roger came striding towards them. ‘An-na!’ A hug and a kiss – more of a brush with his beard – then a frown as she handed him a card and a present. ‘What’s this, what’s this? I gave strict orders, no presents.’ His face brightened as he undid the wrapping paper. ‘Marvellous! Where on earth did you find it? I’ve been looking for one of these.’ He turned the little horse brass over in his hands. ‘Two bells, not just one, you see?’ Another kiss, a furtive look round and a lowering of the voice. ‘By the way, will you have a word with Mona? They’re overdrawn again and Charles can’t seem to get through to her. Poor chap hates coming to us to bail them out, doesn’t he, Barb?’

But Barbara wasn’t listening; she was looking anxiously at Anna. ‘You need fattening up, my dear. Let’s go and see what Henrietta’s doing with the lunch.’

She hustled Anna back up the garden and into the kitchen, where both her daughters were giggling uncontrollably.

‘I – dare – you,’ Henrietta gasped, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘He might think – oh, Anna, great to see you. Lou’s just been practising her chat-up line for Rick Wentworth, it’s hysterical, she’s going to–’

‘I’ll be hysterical in a minute,’ Barbara put in. ‘For one thing, Rick Wentworth’s practically engaged and the only person who’s allowed to chat him up is a respectable married woman, like me. For another thing, where’s the lunch? If we want to eat all frisky, we’d better get a move on. Your father says it’s going to rain.’

This set Lou and Henrietta off again. ‘All – frisky!’ they spluttered.

Barbara turned to Anna and tried to sound cross. ‘They’re horrible, aren’t they? What’s wrong with all frisky? That’ll be Roger after a few drinks, I can tell you.’

Anna laughed, for the third time in little more than ten minutes; the Land of Musgrove was already working its magic. With her offers of help refused, and Barbara’s offer of a cheese straw reluctantly accepted, she leaned back against the dresser to survey the scene. It was utter chaos, but she saw only three women whose mutual bond of affection made everything else irrelevant. Lou – ‘
never
call me Louisa, it takes far too long to say’ – was big-boned like her mother but dark-haired and dark-eyed like her father, with an attractive vitality that Anna almost envied. Henrietta – ‘
always
call me Henrietta, I hate anything shorter’ – was small, brown-haired and, on the face of it, far quieter; but she was never content to be in her elder sister’s shadow. And Barbara was like an indulgent mother hen; she may have given up on Charles’s happiness, but she was still full of hope for her girls.

Barbara’s words had the desired effect and lunch was soon ready. In anticipation of rain, the food was set out indoors on the large kitchen table. Everyone came and helped themselves, then drifted outside again to eat ‘all frisky’ and enjoy the sunshine while it lasted. Everyone, that is, except Mona.

Anna noticed her slip out of the kitchen into the hall, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. She hastily piled some food on to an extra plate and followed her into the large square sitting room. In the soft light that filtered through its small mullioned windows, the horse brasses lining its walls winked at each other surreptitiously.

‘I brought you some lunch,’ Anna said, sitting down on the sofa next to her sister.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Come on, at least it’s not Barbara’s handiwork, I’ve spared you her cheese straws. And you’re better not drinking on an empty stomach.’

Mona gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Don’t you mean I’m better not drinking at all?’

‘Don’t you ever ask yourself that?’ Anna said quietly.

‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have a husband who hates you, or children who never do as they’re told, or in-laws who are spending your inheritance as if there’s no tomorrow.’ Mona’s large baby-blue eyes filled with tears. ‘And tonight with Rick Wentworth will be the ultimate humiliation!’

Anna looked at her in alarm. ‘Wh-what do you mean?’

But Mona could see no further than her own concerns. ‘The Musgroves will treat him as if he’s one of them – a huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ country yokel – and they’ll play those awful party games. What if the press turn up? Think of the embarrassment, it’ll be “Rick Wentworth caught in a compromising position with Mrs Barbara Musgrove and an orange” splashed all over the national papers, complete with photos. I’ve told Charles a million times, we should have had the party at Kellynch, done things with style and good taste.’

Anna looked down. There’d been precious little style or good taste the one time Walter and Rick had met. She’d seen her father in a temper before, of course; no surprises there.

Rick, however, was a different matter. She’d thought she knew him so well – but this man, with his reckless, almost uncontrollable anger, had been a complete stranger. The Rick she knew was persuasive, yes, and passionate; but gentle with it. And surprisingly romantic. The first time they’d made love, he’d–

Oh God, it was still so real, she could even smell the rose petals.

In the heavy silence Mona drank undisturbed, while Anna stared unseeingly at her lap and wondered if she could bear to meet the man she’d once loved.

Chapter Nine

Earlier that day, Sir Walter Elliot’s mind had been occupied by far more important reflections, as he reassured himself that – for a man in his position – mirrors were a necessity of life, whatever Minty might say.

He had just had an extra one installed in his dressing room, the free-standing cheval type, properly bevelled and oak-framed. He felt a huge sense of achievement now that he could view his appearance from 360 degrees. Lisa was enchanted and wanted the same arrangement in one of her dressing rooms; they’d decided it would be better in the second, more spacious one. Her original dressing room had proved too small when she returned after those traumatic few months in London, and moving her surplus clothes into the room next door had been the obvious solution. He vaguely remembered it being Anna’s bedroom – but she’d never live here again, so that was no longer a consideration.

His morning ritual completed, Walter adjusted the cuffs of his peach silk shirt and slipped on his taupe linen jacket, turning this way and that to admire the full effect. The expression ‘Clothes maketh the man’ was as true today as it had always been. How many men of fifty – he always rounded down, not up – looked this good?

He gave a little sigh. Inevitably, heads would turn at Luigi’s later, when he went to lunch with Lisa and Cleopatra after their gym class. ‘Isn’t that Sir Walter Elliot, 8th Baronet?’ ‘Can’t be, looks far too young.’ ‘The one on the right is his daughter, beautiful girl, still single, but of course there’s no man round here good enough for her.’ ‘Wasn’t there someone in London?’ ‘Yes, but she’s well rid of him. William Elliot-Dunne, a distant relative actually, even more distant since he ran off to America with a rich divorcee.’ ‘The other girl’s a stunner too, and French from the sound of it. Hangs on Sir Walter’s every word, can’t take her eyes off him. Not that I blame her.’

Yes, he’d been blessed with far more than his fair share of good looks and it was his duty to preserve them. Most men went to seed as soon as they turned thirty. Take Edward Croft; dressed like an old tramp, with soil and goodness knows what else under his fingernails, and had the skin of an alligator. As Lisa said, ‘What do you expect from a gardener? And remember, that’s the only way some people get a tan.’ He’d responded with ‘Thank God for tinted moisturiser!’ and they’d both laughed.

His thoughts returned to Cleopatra. How overwhelmed she’d been when he’d invited her to Bath as his guest – almost speechless, in fact. She managed to babble something about ‘an ’eart zrobbing wiz gratitude’; then, with typical Gallic exuberance, she placed his hand where he could feel the ‘zrobbing’ for himself … And Minty, too, when she heard that Cleo was going to Bath with him and Lisa tomorrow, was almost speechless – for quite a different reason. She couldn’t decide which was more outrageous: the expense of yet another person staying at The Royal Crescent Hotel, or the implied insult to her darling Anna. When Walter asked her what she could possibly mean, Minty replied that, if he wanted to splash his money around, Anna was a far more deserving cause. He’d taken great pleasure in pointing out that, by boosting Bath’s tourist economy, he was effectively subsidising its permanent residents – as someone with Minty’s knowledge of economics should have realised. That had taken the wind out of her sails, he recalled contentedly.

Still smiling, he went into his bedroom and paused beside the window to enjoy the view. His eyesight was less than perfect these days; but he had no intention of wearing those hideous spectacles Minty had ordered for him, terribly ageing, and he’d never got the hang of contact lenses. Anyway, being ever so slightly short-sighted was an advantage; he saw Kellynch as it used to be, before the last recession or whenever it was that his income had ceased to keep pace with his expenditure. The well-kept Kellynch that he remembered from his childhood, his youth and the halcyon years of his marriage – when rare and noble breeds of sheep had gambolled in its rolling fields, alongside the equally rare and noble breed who held court over garden parties and balls galore. Times of plenty; ah well, perhaps one day those times would return.

Then he noticed a figure in shorts and a T-shirt running towards the house from The Lodge – a young man, tanned and blond and pounding along the path like a god of vengeance. Walter thought the blurred face looked vaguely familiar; perhaps a model from the Sport section of the latest Ermenegildo Zegna catalogue? He couldn’t help admiring the broad shoulders and strong legs, and quite forgot to wonder what the man was doing on his property. He wondered instead if he should take another look at the catalogue, a deliciously expensive-looking hardback that had occupied many a happy interlude already. Dressed in some Zegna sportswear, he might even accompany Lisa and Cleopatra to the gym. Not actually
do
anything in the way of exercise, of course, but that was hardly the point.

As the man drew level with the house, he seemed to glance up at the window where Walter was standing and give a jaunty salute. Walter waved grandly back at him, one magnificent physical specimen acknowledging another, then watched him head down the drive, out of the gates and on to the Uppercross road.

Walter would not have been quite so complacent if he’d been wearing those hideous spectacles. Then he might have recognised the man as that young upstart from France and responded far less charitably to his V-sign.