The Queen's Margarine (8 page)

‘Good God, no! She must be nearly eighty.'

‘Actually, I met the present English mistress when I first arrived,' Virginia remarked. ‘And
she
looked about sixteen!'

More laughter. Once it had abated, Margery asked, with studied nonchalance, ‘I presume Clarissa's here?'

‘Yes, she's over there by the cedar tree,' Elizabeth replied, ‘with quite a few of the others from her form. It's priceless, isn't it, the way we've formed ourselves into little tribal groups, according to which year we were.'

‘It's not surprising, really, though,' Felicity put in. ‘I mean, the higher forms seemed so old and scary, and we're probably still reflecting that. I remember being quite in awe of Clarissa.'

With little cause, Margery thought, glancing at the woman's chic designer suit. As the daughter of a judge who drove a vintage Daimler, Felicity had been smugly safe from any bullying attacks.

‘Apparently, she's something of a star now,' Philippa observed, spreading caviar on
ciabatta
.

‘Yes, marrying Lord Pemberton is certainly a feather in her cap, not to mention her own CBE.'

‘And both her daughters are high fliers, don't forget. In fact, didn't Annabel get hitched to some famous film producer?'

Margery took refuge in her wine, beginning to feel distinctly out of her depth. She wasn't in the habit of hobnobbing with film producers, nor was she on first-name terms with any peer of the realm. In fact, she appeared to be reverting to her former lowly status, as she remembered, with a squirm of shame, how mortified she used to feel when her school-mates called her ‘Margarine'. Imaginative to a fault, she had pictured herself as a tub of cheap, disgusting stuff, maltreated by Clarissa, who would stick a dirty knife in her, tainting her with toast-crumbs and globules of boiled egg. Or she'd be snatched from the fridge and left out in the broiling sun, which reduced her to a rancid, oily mass. Or the queen would even spit into the carton, sweep it from the table with a derisive curl of the lip, then chuck it in the rubbish-bin.

Often, she'd felt close to panic, experiencing the actual sense of being coffined in a bin; fighting for each laboured breath as she was crushed against other dregs and dross: potato peelings, jagged cans, clammy tea leaves, chicken bones. And, cowering amidst that toxic waste, she'd imagined how repulsive she must smell – the sickening stench of failure.

Such bitter recollections made her even more determined to take a stand, for once; challenge her oppressor and settle these old scores. ‘I think I'll go and say hello to Clarissa,' she said, speaking with feigned casualness, as if she intended to indulge in a little idle chatter, rather than a tongue-lashing. ‘I remember her so well.'

‘But, Margery, you haven't eaten a thing.'

‘And barely touched your wine.'

‘Don't worry, I won't be long. Back here in a tick.'

Advancing towards the cedar tree, she was aware of her stomach turning nauseous somersaults, but she made herself walk on, resolving to pursue her quarry, whatever it might cost. However, she noticed with alarm that even pronouncing Clarissa's name caused her voice to gag and grate.

‘My … my friends said she was over here, but I … I can't see her anywhere.'

‘No, she's just gone inside to spend a penny,' some Sloaney type replied: ‘You've only missed her by a couple of minutes.

Disconcerted, she turned on her heel, only to realize this was a blessing in disguise. She could hardly shout abuse in public, whereas a private confrontation would leave her free to be as vicious and as vengeful as she chose.

Crossing the expanse of lawn, she headed for the house, making for the downstairs cloakroom she remembered from the sixties. The whole layout of the school might have changed since then, of course, but, no, the cloakroom was still there, although totally deserted. Clarissa must have nipped upstairs to the much grander bathrooms adjacent to the dormitories. Before going up to join her, she took a quick peek in the school-hall, concealing herself in the doorway. How free and relaxed the pupils seemed, compared with her own stiff and scared obedience. The intimidated child she'd been would never have dared to sprawl or slouch in such a slipshod fashion, let alone shriek with raucous laughter. (In fact, she couldn't remember laughing even once at school – not in thirteen years.) And the uniform was also much more casual – no longer a severe grey tunic, prim white blouse, and black, frumpy, lace-up shoes, but T-shirts, for heaven's sake, worn atop jaunty pleated skirts, and a wild assortment of free-and-easy footwear: trainers, sling-backs, ballet-pumps, in cheerful fruit-drop colours.

Mindful of her mission, she tore herself away and began climbing the flight of handsome wooden stairs, although assailed by painful memories even there. Clarissa had once ordered her to go upstairs on her hands and knees and lick each step in the process. She had slavishly obeyed, of course, tasting grime and dust on her tongue, but willing to be chastened because the Queen was taking notice of her.

Fired by new indignation, she tried the first large bathroom on the left, but found that empty, too. She stood a moment, however, marvelling at its sumptuousness. Claremont Grange was a listed building, so any modernization must be subject to strict rules, and certainly here, at least, there was no sign of even minor change: the same toilet ‘thrones', with their polished mahogany seats; the
same huge bath, with lions' paws as its feet, carved in elaborate detail; the same ornamental tiling, bright with birds and flowers.

Mechanically, she found herself walking further on, making for the dormitory she had slept in when she first arrived. In contrast to the bathroom, the place was completely transformed. Gone were the stark white counterpanes, the high, white-curtained beds, each a private ‘cell', cut off from the others, to discourage dangerous intimacy. The new divans were companionably close, topped with coloured duvets and strewn with cuddly toys. She recalled her sleepless nights here (all such toys forbidden); the longing for her mother so intense it was a pain; the yearning for a goodnight kiss or consoling bedtime story, instead of only silence and severity.

Drifting on to the infirmary, she remembered daily cod-liver-oil and occasional syrup-of-figs (one disgusting, one delicious), and her long spells in the sick-bay, with cystitis, tonsillitis, bronchitis, laryngitis. Whatever ‘itises' might be, she had hated them for confining her with Matron; keeping her a prisoner in that bleak and pallid room. Naturally, she had failed to understand back then that physical illness could be caused by mental pain.

‘For God's sake!' she muttered to herself. ‘Don't be such a misery.'

She should be counting her blessings, not indulging in self-pity. In point of fact, she'd been extremely fortunate to inhabit such magnificent surroundings, when she might have been at a
sink-school
, with no ornate ceilings, spacious rooms or acres of extensive grounds. And she could have landed up with rotten teachers, poorly trained and incapable of discipline, instead of the likes of Miss O'Sullivan, with her Double First from Cambridge. In any case, why linger in the past when she had now achieved success, with a satisfying job and good friends who shared her values? She felt not the slightest envy of her classmates' hedonistic lives; their snazzy cars, or social whirl of Henley, Ascot, Glyndebourne. Nor, strange as it might seem, was she jealous of their children. Kids-in-Crisis had become her cherished child; one she'd nurtured lovingly from its frail and feeble babyhood.

Indeed, she was beginning to see that the very idea of a showdown with Clarissa was both pointless and demeaning. They were
both grown women now, and what had happened in their schooldays was of very little consequence. She must return to the picnic and do her best to enjoy it; make the day a genuine celebration, not an exercise in reprisals and revenge. She could celebrate her own good luck in having soaked up poise and polish here, which had given her the confidence to mix with any level of society – a crucial aspect of her job when it came to raising funds. Besides, there was little point in searching any longer for Clarissa, when she must have long since left the house and be back outside, chatting with her friends.

As she ran downstairs and along the panelled corridor, she suddenly blundered to a halt; overcome with a heady mix of panic and sheer awe.
Could
that be Clarissa, standing by the window, or just a dream, a mirage?

No. The Queen was there – a real, concrete, breathing presence. And not fat or grey at all, but still divinely elegant; her gleaming golden hair now swept up in a chignon; the violet eyes as lustrous and long-lashed as ever. Her overwhelming instinct was to prostate herself and lick the woman's feet; beg to be allowed to do any menial service for her: carry bags, wash dirty clothes, clean mud-encrusted hockey boots.

Had she gone insane? She was no longer an inferior child, but an adult and an equal, and, if she had any sense at all, would enlist this wealthy woman's support for her ever-needy kids-
in-crisis
. Clarissa's glitzy circle might well donate substantial amounts, if she could only get her act together and explain the crying need.

Impossible. She was incapable of any rational action; incapable of thinking straight. She was in the grip of passion – a passion even more intense than it had been in her schooldays. It was not enough to kiss Clarissa's feet; she craved to kiss her on the lips; touch her breasts; slip a hand inside her blouse; feel the warmth and texture of her skin. Something must be
wrong
with her, she realized with a surge of guilt. Was that why she had never married – not because her mother's divorce had put her off the prospect, but because no man could ever rival her intense love for a female?

Her heart was pounding so wildly, with bewilderment and shock, she had to cling to the wall for support.

‘Hey, are you OK?' Clarissa asked, striding over with the same regal bearing she'd possessed as a young girl.

Margery nodded mutely. The woman's sheer physical proximity had left her dumb, and reeling.

‘My name's Clarissa Scott. I don't think I know you, do I?'

The lack of recognition was a slap across the face. Margery felt its force and fury spread throughout her body; scorching every limb and cell, leaving deep, red marks.

‘I helped to organize this jolly little junket, so I want to check who's actually turned up. Could you give me your name and—'

‘Actually, I thought you might remember me,' Margery suddenly blurted out, in a shrill, unsteady voice. ‘Margery Tomkins. We were … thrown together quite a lot at school.'

‘Oh,
Margarine
!' Clarissa cried. ‘Of course!'

The nickname felled her. Instantly. She was dwindling at a stroke; becoming synthetic and adulterated, common and inferior, with no breeding, no finesse. Dirty knives were being stuck in her, until she was disgustingly polluted with gritty little toast-crumbs and snail-trails of boiled egg. She was contaminated, tainted; a green fur of mould giving off a nauseating smell.

‘Fancy seeing dear old Margarine,' the queen continued, with a mocking laugh. ‘Well this
is
a surprise, I must say. So, are you coming outside, to join us; provide us with a spot of diversion? You were always rather priceless, I recall – I mean, the way you never seemed quite to get the point. And what happened to your peculiar little mother? Is she still—?'

Margery closed her ears, unable to endure another word. And, with one last look at her despised, desired tormentor, the mongrel and the upstart slunk away, making for the rubbish-bin, where trash like her belonged.

‘Look, buzz off! I'm in a rush.' Adam snapped his fingers at the small, white, curly creature that had been following him since he left the Rose and Crown, despite his constant attempts to shake it off. But the dog merely seemed to smile, as if enjoying a good joke.

‘Scat, I said! Go back where you belong.'

The owner would be distraught, no doubt, but he just didn't have the time to go wandering round the area with a bundle of damp fur in his arms, shouting ‘Have you lost a dog?' to everyone in sight. Besides, it was freezing cold: April on the calendar, but not in terms of temperature.

‘Listen, pooch,' he said, squatting down at pavement level to try to impress upon the animal that he wanted to be left in peace, ‘you've chosen the wrong chap. I'm not the sort who's into throwing balls or sticks, or going walkies in the park.'

Useless. The creature continued trotting at his heels, meticulously keeping pace with him; slowing when he slowed, and breaking into a bouncy sort of lollop if he strode ahead in an attempt to give it the slip. To tell the truth, he felt a tad ridiculous to be accompanied by such an effeminate breed. If he had to have canine company, then a boxer or Alsatian would definitely be preferable to this soppy ball of fluff. And its Hollywood-style collar was a further source of embarrassment: flamboyant scarlet leather, studded with rows of heart-shaped rhinestones, drawing glittery attention to themselves. He had assumed in his ignorance that the main point of a dog-collar was to identify its wearer's name and address, but this particular one was patently for show.

Once he reached his office block, he stood with his back to the
door, determined to leave his pursuer firmly on the other side. ‘This is the parting of the ways, my girl. Entry
verboten
, OK?'

But as he nipped inside, the dog somehow sidled in behind him, resisting his attempt to shut the door in its face. Then, having shadowed him up the stairs, it waited, expectant, outside Webster Web-Design, as if it had been accepted on to the payroll and was ready to start work.

‘Go
home
!' he ordered, adopting a much sterner tone and stampeding down the stairs again, in the natural expectation that the hanger-on would follow suit. Perversely, though, it refused to budge, and remained sitting on the landing, with what he could have sworn was a look of mocking triumph on its face.

‘OK,' he muttered, ‘you win.' And, stomping back upstairs, he opened the door to the office and the dog went bounding through – the keenest employee in the annals of the firm.

‘Where the hell did
you
come from?' Matthew asked, starting in surprise as the dog rushed over to lick his hand, as if greeting an old friend.

‘I can't get rid of the bloody thing. It followed me back from the pub.'

‘Well, shouldn't you return it? Someone there will be doing their nut.'

‘I tried to, for heaven's sake, but not a soul in either of the bars knew anything about it.'

‘That's an expensive piece of dog-flesh,' Phil observed, joining in the conversation now that he'd finished on the phone. ‘My Aunt Fran used to breed them.'

‘What is it, then? I know nothing about dogs. I can just about tell a poodle from a Rottweiler, but that's as far as it goes.'

‘A bichon frise.'

‘A what?'

‘Bichon frise.'

‘Never heard of it. Sounds like the French for beef and chips!'

‘Yeah,' jeered Matthew. ‘Why not skin it and serve it up for lunch! Or, better still—'

‘How d'you spell it?' Adam interrupted, keen to categorize the creature, which had now darted over from Matthew to Phil and was displaying ecstatic pleasure at having discovered yet another chum.

‘I'm not sure, to tell the truth. All I know is they can change hands for up to a grand.'

‘You're joking!'

‘No, I'm not. They're known as yuppie puppies – all the rage with celebrities and film stars and what-have-you. Lola Loveday used to own one, and, when she won her Oscar, the dog was all dolled up in some ritzy gown, the same style as hers, and made by the same designer.'

‘Yuk!' said Matthew, grimacing.

‘It's a friendly little bugger, though,' Adam mused, as he stroked the curly head.

‘Yeah, they're very sociable. Great with kids, so Aunt Fran used to say.'

‘Look,
we're
not kids,' Howard said, suddenly appearing from his private office. ‘Though it sounds as if it's playtime here. That's quite enough about dogs, OK? And, anyway, it can't stay here. We're busy – or we should be.'

As if to plead its case, the dog jumped up against Howard's leg, scrabbling its dusty paws against his dove-grey trousers, only to be instantly repulsed. ‘You'd better ring the police,' he said to Adam. ‘Report the dog as lost and let
them
sort it out.'

‘But suppose they make me go down to the station? It'll waste a hell of a lot of time, filling in those sodding forms. As if I didn't have enough to do.'

‘So why go out for lunch if you're so busy? Some of us make do with a sandwich at our desk.'

‘Hardly lunch,' Adam retorted. ‘A packet of crisps and a pint. Anyway, I needed a break.'

‘We
all
need a break.'

‘Look, returning to the dog,' said Matthew. ‘It better be gone by three. Frank Foster's coming then, and it's not exactly conducive to our image. I mean, it looks like a bloody powder-puff, and we're meant to be a young, thrusting business at the forefront of technology, not a beauty parlour.'

‘Well, what do you suggest? Chucking it out of the window? If it breaks its leg, the owner's bound to sue. Anyway, it's pissing down with rain.'

‘What, again?' asked Adam, peering disconsolately through the
smeary glass. It seemed to have been raining every day since he split up with Lynette. Not that he missed her – really. Well, apart from the sex, of course.

‘And suppose it starts peeing all over the place?' Matthew persisted. ‘Or crapping?'

‘It won't,' said Adam, with more conviction than he felt. ‘It's not a puppy, so presumably it's house-trained.'

‘Well, it's bound to yap, and we don't want a hell of a racket when we're trying to talk design.'

‘They don't yap, they bark,' Phil informed them, getting up a moment to fetch paper for his printer.

‘Worse still.'

‘We'll gag it.'

‘Throttle it, more like.'

‘Look, to be fair,' said Adam, downloading a client's website, yet aware that his attention was still focused on the dog. It had now returned to sit by his computer, and was wagging its plumed tail, as if acknowledging him as its official rescuer. To tell the truth, he liked the sense of being regarded with affection, not to mention trust – rare these days in his personal life. ‘It hasn't made the slightest sound so far. In fact, it appears to feel totally at home here.'

‘Yeah, that's the trouble. We'll probably be stuck with it for ever.'

‘'Course we won't! Some frantic owner will move heaven and earth to get it back.' Phil was still struggling with his printer, now sorting out a paper-jam. ‘And they're bound to offer a reward. What say we share it, Adam?'

‘Bloody cheek! It's me that found it, so it's me that gets the cash. Tell you what, though, I'll treat you all to a pint.'

‘Big deal!' said Matthew sardonically. ‘But listen, Adam, I've just thought of something else. It's obviously a woman's dog. No male would be seen dead with a poncy thing like that, let alone that
god-awful
collar – fake diamonds or whatever. Now, you're in need of a new girlfriend, since you gave Lynette the push, and if dogs are meant to resemble their owners, this particular owner's just got to be a bubbly little blonde. Imagine the scenario – gorgeous blonde is heartbroken at loss of precious dog. You return it safely, she becomes your willing slave and—'

‘Cut it out! Knowing my luck, the owner will be ancient, hideous and married.'

‘Well, grab the reward and run, then. Either way, you can't lose.'

‘
We're
losing, though,' Howard remarked, raising his voice in irritation, as he strode out again to intervene. ‘Time, as well as business. Let's forget about blondes and concentrate on deadlines, shall we? Adam, ring the police right now and get that thing ejected before it buggers up our deal with Frank.'

‘Will do,' Adam muttered, picking up the phone. Having wanted to be rid of the dog, he now felt a certain bond with it, if only because it riled his hated boss.

‘Well, I have to say, you're quite a girl.' Settling back in his armchair, Adam stroked the soft white bundle on his lap, and was immediately rewarded with a teasing little tongue-kiss on his nose.

Having never owned a dog, he'd been surprised, indeed relieved, at how docile this one was – no fuss, no wiles, no anguished yelps. It appeared to have accepted him as master, and clearly approved his stylish flat as a damned-near-perfect home. Nor had it complained about the menu, but devoured half a canful of Gourmet Game with gratifying relish. And now it seemed as riveted as
he
was by the European Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Chelsea; its dark eyes fixated on the screen with genuine curiosity. If Lynette had been as accommodating, they might never have had to part. But she hated sport – and football in particular – and, far from eating with zest, merely toyed with her food in a maddening sort of fashion (semi-anorexic, he suspected). Worst of all, she invariably messed the place up with her clutter, refusing categorically to put anything away. Nor was she blonde, petite and cute, but rather on the lanky side, with hair best described as beige.

‘So why did you live with her?' the dog appeared to ask, as if tuning in to his every thought.

‘Because she was bloody good in bed, mate! Which makes up for a hell of a lot. But if there's too much aggro
out
of bed, a bloke begins to wonder if it's worth it, in the end.'

As he spoke, the dog gazed at him with undisguised devotion:
exactly what he wanted from a woman – wanted, but never seemed to find, alas. He needed to be master, in any form of relationship, although you couldn't say so nowadays, of course. With Pooch, he called the tune and she obeyed. He had told her when and what to eat; made it clear that his bed was out of bounds, and that jumping up on his new black leather sofa was also overstepping the mark. And, far from making any protest, she had simply acquiesced in sweet submission. Not only that, he had company, at last, to compensate for the previous lonely weeks, yet was spared the irritation of mindless female chatter. Admittedly, the lack of sex was still a major problem, but he was coming round to Matthew's view that a romantic outcome might just be on the cards. If Matt was right about dogs resembling their owners, then there was a sporting chance he'd meet his ideal woman: combining the darkest possible eyes with the fairest possible hair, as well as being demure and dainty and, best of all, amenable. Only once in his life had he known one – when he was an acne-ridden stripling of fifteen. Charmayne had been a fellow pupil at Thames Valley Comprehensive, although completely unobtainable; not only two years older but so ravishingly beautiful and exceptionally
sweet-natured
, she would never have involved herself with a plain and spotty schoolboy, in trouble as a bully.

She had remained his model of feminine perfection throughout the years that followed, but never again had he encountered the reality, despite the fact he had changed from uncouth bully to
law-abiding
bloke. Blondes were two-a-penny, but they invariably had blue eyes and/or stubborn temperaments, always arguing the toss on matters big and small. Yet maybe his luck had changed, at last, and Pooch's owner would have bewitching jet-black eyes, a mass of ash-blonde curls and – almost unbelievable – would allow
him
to rule the roost.

The relief would be enormous. He was pissed off with Internet dating; had met more than enough ‘stunning', ‘caring' women, all with a ‘GSOH' – which, in fact, none of them possessed. And blind dates were equally hopeless. The last two in particular had put him off for life: one a dotty vegan into star signs; the other a
near-harridan
, who'd spent the evening putting him right when she wasn't putting him down. This time, he knew exactly what he
wanted: a submissive, docile meat-eater, who would look at him with total adoration, as Pooch was doing now. He stroked her in sheer gratitude – picturing her owner lying naked in his bed: begging for it, wild for it, agreeing with alacrity to anything he asked, however abandoned or way-out.

Once the match was over (a knuckle-clenching game, resulting in a draw), he gave a gigantic yawn, only now aware how long the day had been. First, the rigmarole with PC Pegg, who'd urged him to phone the RSPCA, as well as Battersea Dogs' Home, and also suggested taking the dog to a vet, in case it had been chipped. Up 'til then, the word ‘chip' had applied to paintwork, potatoes, casinos and golf, but not, repeat not, to dogs. However, ‘chipping' turned out to be an identification process, in which a microchip (the size of a grain of rice and containing a special code) was inserted under the skin, thus logging the dog into a central database. Apparently, vets and rescue centres could read the code with a scanner, and so reunite lost pets with their owners. He'd had to wait an age, though, surrounded by a whining, growling bestiary, only to be told that Pooch
hadn't
, in fact, been chipped.

‘Why not, my girl?' he asked her now, but her ardent reply – a whole series of fluttery kisses – failed to clarify the matter. Maybe the owner was so sensitive and kind, she couldn't bear her beloved pet to suffer even a second's pain from the needle inserting the chip. Or perhaps she'd assumed in her innocence that the pair of them would never lose each other. He could imagine her delight at being reunited with the dog – although it wouldn't end there, of course. The three of them would stay together; become an instant family. He had never wanted children (another bone of contention with Lynette). Kids were ruinously expensive, not to mention messy and disruptive. But two gorgeous, placid females, with him as C.E.O., would constitute the perfect threesome.