Unsuitable Men (6 page)

Auntie Lyd considered my question. ‘That’s up to you, darling,’ she said. The hint of a smile hovered on her lips. ‘Unsuitable men can be awfully good fun, I suppose. As
long as you don’t take it all too seriously. Why not?’ She shrugged and began ladling porridge into individual bowls.

I handed a bowlful each to Percy and Eleanor, whose argument had slowed not one bit. My own I ate slowly, thinking. It was a strange Venn diagram in which my aunt’s opinions corresponded
with those of the Honourable Ticky Lytton-Finch. First they had both correctly predicted the existence of Martin’s other woman, now they thought I should date unsuitable men: the oddness of
receiving the same advice from two such very different people made it harder to dismiss. But it was all far too early. I wasn’t ready to start dating anyone yet, let alone anyone
unsuitable.

The office was oddly quiet that afternoon. Amanda had been seen stalking to the ladies’ with Martha hot on her heels. This, we all knew, had nothing to do with
synchronized bladders and everything to do with the unspoken rule that the two of them retreated there when their arguments became too heated to be contained within the glass walls of
Amanda’s office. The ladies’ was set apart from the rest of the office and offered, if not complete isolation, at least less danger of being overheard by everyone. But it was a
pointless exercise, since it only drew more attention to their arguments.

Ever since Amanda had been appointed editor of
Country Hous
e, the magazine had been moving steadily away from its former incarnation as the home of detailed features on the architecture
and art treasures of the nation’s finest country houses (never stately homes – only tourists called them that) into a glossy sort of estate agents’ catalogue full of
well-appointed rural homes with paddocks, swimming pools, good transport links and invitations for offers above two million pounds. These days there were a full fifty pages of property
advertisements before you got to a single page of editorial; and when you did get to the meat of the magazine, it was more likely to feature a glittering society gathering than an article on the
history and provenance of Harris tweed. This change in focus, and accompanying change in fortunes, had thrilled the Betterton family, but was to Martha’s enormous – and vocal –
displeasure.

The staff were so accustomed to the rows that we all took note of how long each one would last. Over her tenure at the helm of
Country House
, Amanda had got her Martha-crushing down from
half an hour to an impressive personal best of just three minutes (from the precise second the loo door swung shut behind them to the second it opened again). Yes, of course we timed it; we even
bet on it – and you would have too if your usual day was spent working on a feature titled The Moor the Merrier, about whether Exmoor or Dartmoor was, well, merrier.

Bids were kept small, at only twenty pence, but a win could still earn you enough for an afternoon-easing piece of cake, not to mention the esteem of your peers. The excitement of these small
stakes was only increased by the fact that all betting in the office had been explicitly banned by the Betterton family after the Great Queen Mother Betting Scandal of 2002, shortly before I
arrived, in which Lysander Honeywell had been discovered to be running an office syndicate speculating when the aged royal would go to the great throne in the sky. Old Mr Betterton, who knew the
Queen Mother well enough to refer to her as ‘Cake’ (for even royalty is not immune from the ridiculous nicknamings of the upper classes), had led the office in a
more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger school-assembly sort of meeting in which everyone had to swear allegiance to the Crown, renounce the Devil and promise never to commit the sin of gambling while on
Country House
property.

So of course the second the door to the ladies’ closed, every single staffer set their watch and made their bet. Everyone kept their heads down, eyes flicking regularly between the ticking
clock and the bathroom door. Swearing was heard as the hushed minutes passed. Noonoo’s bet on ten minutes evaporated. My twelve minutes were over and still the door remained shut. Only
Lysander and Flickers were left in the game, having bet on twenty-two minutes and twenty-five, respectively. Lysander glided past the bathroom door after twenty minutes, holding a piece of paper to
try to look like he was engaged in work, but giving himself away by seeming to recall, unconvincingly, something that meant he had to double back on himself to pass back again twice more. I
didn’t know why he didn’t just press a glass to the door and openly listen in; it wouldn’t have been any less obvious.

Ticky finally broke the silence. ‘Holy macaroni, Roars,’ she hissed across our office. ‘I am, like, absolutely busting for a waz. What the faahrk do you think they’re
arguing about this time?’

‘Just the usual, I expect,’ I said. Noonoo frowned over from her desk with a finger to her lips; clearly she too was hoping to hear something from the direction of the
lavatories.

‘Saahriously, can’t they have their stupid rows somewhere else?’ whispered Ticky furiously. ‘I am, like, this close to actually buying a chamber pot for our office. And
don’t even think I am joking.’

‘You could always get a catheter,’ I suggested helpfully.

‘Yah, thanks, Roars, can we just, like, stop talking about wee, it’s making me more desperate.’

‘So I shouldn’t mention waterfalls or gushing taps or anything?’

‘Roars, you faahrking cow,’ said Ticky, wrapping one leg over the other and squeezing them together tightly.

At last, after twenty-six minutes, the door to the ladies’ swung open and Amanda emerged. She glared around the office as if challenging anyone else to dare argue with her, but no one
would meet her stare; all eyes were fixed with unlikely dedication upon computer screens. Flickers kept his face impassive, but marked his triumph with an under-the-table air-punch of victory.

‘Come oooon, Martha,’ hissed Ticky, bouncing up and down in her seat, legs still crossed. ‘Pull yourself together and get out of there or I’m going to have to go
in.’

The door opened again, more slowly this time, and Martha emerged, her downcast eyes and slumped shoulders telling us, as if we didn’t already know, that she had been defeated once
more.

Ticky leapt out of her seat and ran to the loo, closely followed by Noonoo, who had obviously also been holding on for too long. They sped past Martha without even looking at her. In fact, out
of a combination of sympathy and fear, no one ever properly looked at Martha when she emerged from one of her bathroom battles. She had been known to snap furiously at any attempt to speak to her
after one of Amanda’s dressing-downs.

So I was pretty surprised when she stopped in the doorway to my office, raising her red-rimmed eyes from the beige office carpet. I waited for her to speak first, in case this was a trick and
she was just looking to shout at the first person who made the mistake of attempting to open a conversation. Behind her back, Flickers held out a palm to his office-mates, demanding his
winnings.

‘Rory,’ Martha said finally.

‘Hi, Martha,’ I said.

‘Rory, it turns out that I can’t make it to Seaton Hall on Monday after all,’ Martha said, pressing her lips together and pausing for a moment. ‘Amanda – Amanda
suggested that someone else can be more easily spared from the office.’

‘Oh, Martha,’ I said. I knew she’d been working on this feature on the Duke of Delaval’s restoration project for months. Even without the leverage of an aristocratic
background, she had persuaded him to allow
Country House
an exclusive preview of Seaton Hall before the official press day, when the usual crowd of gravy-train-boarding journalists would
troop from room to room in a recalcitrant pack.

Martha looked up at the ceiling instead of at me. ‘I specifically asked that it should be you who replaced me.’

‘That’s really kind of you, Martha,’ I began. ‘Are you sure?’ Martha jealously guarded her country house visits, and having been forced to give it up, I feared she
would be more critical of me than ever.

Martha straightened up, shaking her head a little and smoothing her black skirt, its cheap fabric shiny with age. ‘It is enough that Amanda is sure,’ she said, suddenly brisk and
efficient. ‘It’s too late to change the schedule so you’ll have to stick to the one I’ve already set up. Train Monday morning at seven-thirty, meet the photographer there.
Staying overnight at the Delaval Arms on the estate, coming back Tuesday on the eleven-forty-five, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Who’s the photographer? Nicky Bentworth?’

‘No, the condition for exclusive access was that we had to use the duchess’s nephew as the photographer, Lance Garcia. You’ll meet him up at Seaton Hall.’

‘Lance Garcia?’ I asked, frowning in confusion. ‘I’ve never heard of him, have you?’
Country House
’s photographers were all from the same upper-class
tweedy stable, and practically interchangeable. They were Hugos and Olivers and Barnabys. Never Lances.

‘No. The duchess is an American,’ sniffed Martha, in much the same way that she might say, ‘The duchess has recently escaped from a psychiatric institution.’ ‘I
believe her nephew is from San Francisco. Quite what he will know about photographing historic houses, I do not know. The entire situation will require firm supervision. I hope you are up to
it.’

‘I’m sure I am,’ I said. Actually I was pretty unsure, but the opportunity to get far, far away from London and thoughts of Martin was too good to turn down. Not to mention
that I might actually be able to get a hot shower at the Delaval Arms.

‘Good. I’ll bring you my dossier on Seaton Hall later today,’ said Martha. She started to walk away and then turned back. Her face was calm, but her hands betrayed her, holding
on to the door frame with white knuckles as if she might rip it away from the wall, Incredible Hulk-style. ‘I am sure I can trust you to do me justice.’

I frowned at her departing back, unsure what she could have meant. Was she trying to appoint me as some kind of deputy in her battles against Amanda? A fellow class warrior against the rahs?
There was no way I was stepping into anything that might drag me into the bathroom wars. Or did she mean that Seaton Hall was too important to mess up? Like I didn’t know that – the
entire heritage industry had been itching to get a glimpse of the property for the five years that the duke and duchess had been restoring it. But the duchess had refused to allow anyone access
until completion; all anybody knew was that it had cost millions. It was a privilege to be invited to see it at all, let alone before everyone else.

‘Kerr-ist,’ said Ticky, swinging back into her seat and exhaling loudly. ‘What a relief. I peed like a fricking racehorse.’

‘Nice; thanks for sharing.’

‘Did I just see Martha leaving?’ she asked. ‘Tell me she didn’t come to share her thoughts on the bathroom argument?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s told me I have to take over her visit to Seaton Hall next week. The Duke of Delaval’s restoration feature.’

‘She gave up Seaton Hall!’ Ticky exclaimed, scenting drama. She leaned forward in her seat and propped her elbows on the desk in official listening stance. ‘No way! Goouurd,
that must have been what they were arguing about. She wouldn’t have let go of that without a fight. But why are they getting you to do it?’

‘I don’t know. Martha said something about me being her specific choice. And she wants me to keep an eye on the photographer – he’s not got much experience.’

‘Weird,’ mused Ticky, putting her feet on the desk and swinging from side to side on her wheeled chair as she stared at the ceiling. ‘I wonder if Maaahn let her choose her
replacement to soften the blow of not letting her go. Of course Marth would think you’re the easiest person to boss around – she can kind of do the feature by proxy through
you.’

‘Er, or she thought I’d do a good job, Ticky,’ I said.

‘Oh yah,’ she agreed. ‘Course you will, Roars, I’m not doubting that. But admit it – Martha’s got a much better chance of getting you to do her bidding than
she has, like, Noonoo or someone else who’d stick their own ideas all over it and insist on taking the glory.’

‘Whatever,’ I snapped. Ticky was so pushy and thick-skinned, she didn’t see the virtues of doing things my way – carefully, gently, behind the scenes, without causing
offence. Just because I didn’t get involved in stand-up rows, or insist on doing things my way, it didn’t mean I was a pushover.

‘Who’s the photographer?’ she asked, flicking her hair over to one side.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I asked.

‘Who. Is. It?’ said Ticky, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.

‘No one we know – some random relative of the duchess.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Male. What are you getting at?’

‘Name?’

‘Lance Garcia,’ I said.

‘Lance?’

‘He’s from San Francisco.’

Ticky smirked, and flicked her hair once more.

‘Roars, oh my Goouurd, unsuitable man alert!’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Lance Garcia? This isn’t a date, Ticky, it’s a Monday night in Derbyshire doing a feature.’

‘Umm, news flash, Roars. V Day?’

‘V Day?’ I echoed.

‘Yah, Monday’s Valentine’s Day, Roars, had you really not noticed?’ Ticky shrieked with laughter. ‘And you’re going to be stuck in a romantic country hotel
with a totally, brilliantly unsuitably gay man. It’s too good. I couldn’t make it up. Oh Goouurd, it’s priceless.’

‘Wait a second,’ I said. ‘How do you know he’s gay? Do you know him?’

‘I don’t
know
him, Roars,’ Ticky sniggered, ‘but he’s a photographer, he’s from San Francisco and his name is
Lance
. Sahhriously. Even
you
should have been able to work that one out.’

Should I? Why was it that, the moment I split up with Martin, it seemed like the world was operating in a way that everyone understood but me?

Although I supposedly now lived in one of London’s greener areas, it was never more obvious than on leaving the city for the real countryside that Clapham Common was
little more than a glorified urban roundabout. The Common’s muddy, trodden-down expanses of brown grass, dotted with dog mess and greasy fried-chicken containers, were still barren and
wintry, but the windows looking out of the train to Derbyshire showed the first signs of spring. A few stubborn streaks of snow were visible on the tops of the distant hills, but the fields on
either side of the track looked fresh and new in the weak morning sunlight. Tree branches, still bare against the sky, were softened and greened by the buds of new leaves; bright yellow daffodils
shone out from the hedgerows. As the train made its way north, early lambs could be seen in the fields, huddled next to their mothers. I spent far too long staring out of the window daydreaming,
and thinking about last spring when Martin and I had been preparing to move into our new home. It felt like it had been a long, long winter.