who Messy McShane is, of course, don’t you? Absolutely! Wife of. Quite right! The notorious Grey. He’s charming , actually. A sweetie. But for heaven’s sake don’t get me on to that. Where was I? Yes, Ollie and my little trips to the Garden – which allow him to play an active role in the choices about what he eats, and of course choice is what it’s all about, isn’t it, Richard? Messy talks Ollie through the vegetables that are in season, and then Ollie says, “Ooh, Mummy, I could murder a beetroot today,” and so off she trogs, and picks it! Or whatever…You know what I mean. Picks it up . Picks it… away from the beetroot’s…growing place. So to speak. Anyway, Messy’s happy. I’m happy. Ollie’s happy. And Ollie’s eating beetroot! Who ever heard of a ten-year-old boy eating beetroot in this day and age! Ha!…No. No, I can honestly say to you, Richard, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’
Clive and Geraldine used to be partners in a firm of City solicitors. They used to live in Hampstead. Between them they used to earn not far off £1 million a year, if you included bonuses. They used to work twelve hours a day and pay their Australian nanny £600 a week. They used to do all that, and then rush off to the gym, and then have dinner with clients, where they would talk coyly and knowingly about the son they so rarely had time to see – and in truth they used to enjoy it that way. The life suited them perfectly. It probably suited Oliver, too. Because the £600-a-week nanny was usually too busy reading Heat magazine to forcefeed him any disgusting vegetables and, except when she could actually hear Geraldine at the front door, would absolutely never have been so cruel as to stop him watching television.
But Clive and Geraldine couldn’t help worrying that they were somehow living life wrong. What with the return ofterrorist threats in London, and a smaller-than-expected annual bonus from the City solicitors, the very distracting articles about downsizers in the newspapers, and then Geraldine, at forty-two, suddenly wondering if she ought to be wanting another baby, there came a time when Mr and Mrs Adams decided they had no choice but to take stock.
Geraldine’s best friend, impoverished and non-productive ‘children’s author’ Kitty Mozely, had already moved from London with her daughter, Scarlett, to a pretty cottage on the outskirts of Fiddleford. As part of their stocktaking process Clive and Geraldine went to stay for a weekend with her and, as they told her at the time, they were very impressed. Not only was Fiddleford a beautifully quaint little village, it was also at the heart of a ‘fascinating’ social whirl.
Kitty had pulled out all the stops that weekend, of course, because she wanted her friends to come and live nearby. She roped in people for dinner and for drinks, and managed to get them all invited out to lunch, so that by the end of the weekend, Clive and Geraldine had almost certainly experienced the peak of Fiddleford’s sociability.
But it is true, too, that there is a generous sprinkling of ‘fascinating’ people in the neighbourhood. Apart from the McShanes and the Maxwell McDonalds, there is Daniel Frazer, the world-famous hat maker, who owns a cottage on the road to Lamsbury. He and his American boyfriend come down most weekends, and can often be spotted in the Fiddleford Arms, living it up with their fascinating friends. And then there’s Annie Millbank, who was the love interest in lots of seventies movies and now stars in a series of coffee ads. She lives on her own, mostly drunk, in the Mill House about a mile beyond the Retreat. There are the peoplefriendly former government minister Maurice Morrison and his curiously hideous wife, who are renting the manor in the next-door village, and he can often be seen, sniffing around,glad-handing the locals; Solomon Creasey the art dealer comes down with his numerous beautiful children and a
Clive and Geraldine used to be partners in a firm of City solicitors. They used to live in Hampstead. Between them they used to earn not far off £1 million a year, if you included bonuses. They used to work twelve hours a day and pay their Australian nanny £600 a week. They used to do all that, and then rush off to the gym, and then have dinner with clients, where they would talk coyly and knowingly about the son they so rarely had time to see – and in truth they used to enjoy it that way. The life suited them perfectly. It probably suited Oliver, too. Because the £600-a-week nanny was usually too busy reading Heat magazine to forcefeed him any disgusting vegetables and, except when she could actually hear Geraldine at the front door, would absolutely never have been so cruel as to stop him watching television.
But Clive and Geraldine couldn’t help worrying that they were somehow living life wrong. What with the return ofterrorist threats in London, and a smaller-than-expected annual bonus from the City solicitors, the very distracting articles about downsizers in the newspapers, and then Geraldine, at forty-two, suddenly wondering if she ought to be wanting another baby, there came a time when Mr and Mrs Adams decided they had no choice but to take stock.
Geraldine’s best friend, impoverished and non-productive ‘children’s author’ Kitty Mozely, had already moved from London with her daughter, Scarlett, to a pretty cottage on the outskirts of Fiddleford. As part of their stocktaking process Clive and Geraldine went to stay for a weekend with her and, as they told her at the time, they were very impressed. Not only was Fiddleford a beautifully quaint little village, it was also at the heart of a ‘fascinating’ social whirl.
Kitty had pulled out all the stops that weekend, of course, because she wanted her friends to come and live nearby. She roped in people for dinner and for drinks, and managed to get them all invited out to lunch, so that by the end of the weekend, Clive and Geraldine had almost certainly experienced the peak of Fiddleford’s sociability.
But it is true, too, that there is a generous sprinkling of ‘fascinating’ people in the neighbourhood. Apart from the McShanes and the Maxwell McDonalds, there is Daniel Frazer, the world-famous hat maker, who owns a cottage on the road to Lamsbury. He and his American boyfriend come down most weekends, and can often be spotted in the Fiddleford Arms, living it up with their fascinating friends. And then there’s Annie Millbank, who was the love interest in lots of seventies movies and now stars in a series of coffee ads. She lives on her own, mostly drunk, in the Mill House about a mile beyond the Retreat. There are the peoplefriendly former government minister Maurice Morrison and his curiously hideous wife, who are renting the manor in the next-door village, and he can often be seen, sniffing around,glad-handing the locals; Solomon Creasey the art dealer comes down with his numerous beautiful children and a
Similar Books
