I approve of hunting.’
‘Doesn’t matter whether you do or you don’t. The hunt’s met here on Boxing Day since 1611.’ Madeleine had plucked this date out of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let the girl get any anti-hunting ideas. ‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve done the same thing for years. Vin chaud and devils-on-horseback. And for the past three years I’ve used styrofoam cups. Get one of the kennel lads to go round with a black bin bag afterwards. Saves on the washing-up and no one cares, as long as they go off nicely anaesthetized.’
‘Right,’ said Richenda, who had absolutely no idea how to make vin chaud or devils-on-horseback, or even what they were. Though she would rather die than admit it.
‘Then the school have a Teddy Bears’ Picnic in about June; we usually do a summer concert in the grounds in August – a sort of bring your own picnic, Glyndebourne on a smaller scale sort of thing; then I do mulled wine and mince pies after the crib service on Christmas Eve…’
Richenda was looking utterly appalled.
‘But I am going to be away a lot of the time. Filming.’
‘You’ll just have to work round it, I’m afraid. It is a big responsibility, you know, being a mistress of a house like this.’ Madeleine softened momentarily. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t throw you in at the deep end straight away. I’ll be here to help, for the first year at any rate. Though I have to admit I’m rather looking forward to stepping back. I’ve been doing it for nearly forty years. It’s definitely time for some fresh blood – I’m sure you’ll have all sorts of wonderful new ideas.’
She closed her notebook with a satisfied snap and picked up her glass.
‘Anyway, many, many congratulations. I’m utterly delighted. Here’s to the two of you.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Richenda, somewhat shell-shocked.
‘Fish pie, anyone?’ asked Guy hopefully from the doorway.
‘Lovely,’ said Madeleine.
‘Did Richenda tell you that we’ve settled on a date?’ asked Guy.
‘No,’ said Madeleine, looking from one to the other for enlightenment.
Richenda rose gracefully to her feet.
‘December twenty-third,’ she announced. ‘After all, why wait? What would we be waiting for?’
And she swept out of the room with a brilliant smile, leaving Madeleine uncharacteristically speechless on the sofa.
3
The woman’s breasts were spilling out over the top of her basque, her cherry-red nipples just visible. She was sporting a black G-string embroidered with rosebuds, and a matching suspender belt held up her fishnet stockings, revealing an expanse of smooth, creamy thigh.
Honor McLean picked up her icing nozzle and wrote ‘Happy Birthday Nigel’ carefully on the cake board underneath. The floozy cake was one of the most popular in her range: the freezer in her little outhouse was packed with sponge torsos awaiting decoration. They were fairly labour intensive – the criss-crossing on the fishnets took hours and a steady hand – but at sixty quid she didn’t mind. She needed all the cash she could get these days. Who would have thought a decent pair of Startrites would eat up more than half of that? Six-year-old boys were seriously high maintenance: Honor couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent that sort of money on herself. Not that she was going to start sawing away on a violin in self-pity. She’d learned to do without; weaned herself off the adrenalin rush that a new purchase used to bring. There was a time when she wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Major expenditure had been part of her raison d’être . Two hundred quid on a jumper; double that on a suit – she’d never thought twice about passing the plastic.
Now she didn’t even have a credit card. She didn’t allow herself one as she knew how easy it was to slide it across the counter, ignoring the fact that fifty-six days later would come the day of reckoning. She only spent cash, because that way she kept an
‘Doesn’t matter whether you do or you don’t. The hunt’s met here on Boxing Day since 1611.’ Madeleine had plucked this date out of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let the girl get any anti-hunting ideas. ‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve done the same thing for years. Vin chaud and devils-on-horseback. And for the past three years I’ve used styrofoam cups. Get one of the kennel lads to go round with a black bin bag afterwards. Saves on the washing-up and no one cares, as long as they go off nicely anaesthetized.’
‘Right,’ said Richenda, who had absolutely no idea how to make vin chaud or devils-on-horseback, or even what they were. Though she would rather die than admit it.
‘Then the school have a Teddy Bears’ Picnic in about June; we usually do a summer concert in the grounds in August – a sort of bring your own picnic, Glyndebourne on a smaller scale sort of thing; then I do mulled wine and mince pies after the crib service on Christmas Eve…’
Richenda was looking utterly appalled.
‘But I am going to be away a lot of the time. Filming.’
‘You’ll just have to work round it, I’m afraid. It is a big responsibility, you know, being a mistress of a house like this.’ Madeleine softened momentarily. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t throw you in at the deep end straight away. I’ll be here to help, for the first year at any rate. Though I have to admit I’m rather looking forward to stepping back. I’ve been doing it for nearly forty years. It’s definitely time for some fresh blood – I’m sure you’ll have all sorts of wonderful new ideas.’
She closed her notebook with a satisfied snap and picked up her glass.
‘Anyway, many, many congratulations. I’m utterly delighted. Here’s to the two of you.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Richenda, somewhat shell-shocked.
‘Fish pie, anyone?’ asked Guy hopefully from the doorway.
‘Lovely,’ said Madeleine.
‘Did Richenda tell you that we’ve settled on a date?’ asked Guy.
‘No,’ said Madeleine, looking from one to the other for enlightenment.
Richenda rose gracefully to her feet.
‘December twenty-third,’ she announced. ‘After all, why wait? What would we be waiting for?’
And she swept out of the room with a brilliant smile, leaving Madeleine uncharacteristically speechless on the sofa.
3
The woman’s breasts were spilling out over the top of her basque, her cherry-red nipples just visible. She was sporting a black G-string embroidered with rosebuds, and a matching suspender belt held up her fishnet stockings, revealing an expanse of smooth, creamy thigh.
Honor McLean picked up her icing nozzle and wrote ‘Happy Birthday Nigel’ carefully on the cake board underneath. The floozy cake was one of the most popular in her range: the freezer in her little outhouse was packed with sponge torsos awaiting decoration. They were fairly labour intensive – the criss-crossing on the fishnets took hours and a steady hand – but at sixty quid she didn’t mind. She needed all the cash she could get these days. Who would have thought a decent pair of Startrites would eat up more than half of that? Six-year-old boys were seriously high maintenance: Honor couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent that sort of money on herself. Not that she was going to start sawing away on a violin in self-pity. She’d learned to do without; weaned herself off the adrenalin rush that a new purchase used to bring. There was a time when she wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Major expenditure had been part of her raison d’être . Two hundred quid on a jumper; double that on a suit – she’d never thought twice about passing the plastic.
Now she didn’t even have a credit card. She didn’t allow herself one as she knew how easy it was to slide it across the counter, ignoring the fact that fifty-six days later would come the day of reckoning. She only spent cash, because that way she kept an
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