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
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
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