insecurity. In order not to miss himself on television, he had even been known to take a portable television into a restaurant. A huge local celebrity, much of whose time was spent opening fêtes and PAs’ legs, he disliked going to London, or even worse abroad, because no one recognized him. When he’d worked in radio, he used to dread some crisis blowing up in Southern Europe or the Middle East in case he couldn’t pronounce it.
Aware that he was dismissed as a popinjay by the editors, journalists and researchers who got ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ on air, and who were jealous of his inflated salary and his celebrity status, he was given to little tantrums, yet couldn’t resist seeking constant reassurance. Cameron Cook had even suggested the parrot used in Corinium’s Christmas production of Treasure Island should be given a permanent squawk-on part, telling James he was wonderful after every programme. He kept his job because he was quite good at it and because he always won the fight for viewers from the BBC.
Back at James’s house, Birgitta, the children’s curvaceous nanny, had just lovingly finished ironing both James’s white and turquoise evening shirts, and was scenting herself and putting on make-up for James’s return.
I wish Birgitta would spend slightly more time putting the children to bed, thought James’s wife, Lizzie, as they swarmed into her study demanding attention. Lizzie had had two novels published and well reviewed. A third was on the way, but it was causing a great deal of morning sickness.
She and James had been married eight years, and Lizzie had supported James on her publishing salary in the early days when he was trying to break into television. Once very pretty (she had the bright eyes and long questing nose of a vole, and the shaggy light brown hair of a clematis montana clambering over an old apple tree in winter), she had recently put on too much weight.
The Verekers lived in a large messy house with a large messy garden two miles down the valley from Rupert Campbell-Black, where the Frogsmore stream hurtled into a large reed-fringed lake. They had bought Lake House, as it was called, five years ago, just after James had got the job at Corinium, when it had seemed ridiculously cheap. Viewing it in high summer, they had only seen its romantic aspect, not realizing that for at least five months of the year it was so low in the valley that it never saw the sun and would be quite inaccessible when the snows came in winter.
This mattered little to James because he spent so much time at Corinium. When the house got snowed up, he simply didn’t come home for several days. But it was not good for Lizzie, who wrote there all day, eating too many biscuits to keep out the cold, or for the children who caught one cold after another, or for the nannies who found it dank and depressing, except when James was at home.
For Lizzie life turned on the children not getting ill, and nannies not leaving so that she had time to write. Unfortunately James couldn’t resist pulling the prettier nannies, who invariably walked out, when he moved on to someone else. Lizzie always found out the score by reading the nannies’ diaries when they were shopping in Cotchester or nearby Stroud. Birgitta, the current nanny, wrote her diary in Swedish, which Lizzie couldn’t understand. But with the aid of a Swedish dictionary she was beginning to crack the code, and the word ‘James’ appeared rather too often. In fact you only had to see the way Birgitta perked up when James came through the door. Lizzie was used to his infidelity. She realized he needed little adventures to boost his ego, but they still upset her. She would have liked an admirer herself, but felt she was too fat to attract anyone.
Lizzie nearly had a fit when she heard James banging the front door. She’d stopped writing far too late, wrestling to get at least a draft of the first chapter down on paper. Still struggling mentally with her
Aware that he was dismissed as a popinjay by the editors, journalists and researchers who got ‘Cotswold Round-Up’ on air, and who were jealous of his inflated salary and his celebrity status, he was given to little tantrums, yet couldn’t resist seeking constant reassurance. Cameron Cook had even suggested the parrot used in Corinium’s Christmas production of Treasure Island should be given a permanent squawk-on part, telling James he was wonderful after every programme. He kept his job because he was quite good at it and because he always won the fight for viewers from the BBC.
Back at James’s house, Birgitta, the children’s curvaceous nanny, had just lovingly finished ironing both James’s white and turquoise evening shirts, and was scenting herself and putting on make-up for James’s return.
I wish Birgitta would spend slightly more time putting the children to bed, thought James’s wife, Lizzie, as they swarmed into her study demanding attention. Lizzie had had two novels published and well reviewed. A third was on the way, but it was causing a great deal of morning sickness.
She and James had been married eight years, and Lizzie had supported James on her publishing salary in the early days when he was trying to break into television. Once very pretty (she had the bright eyes and long questing nose of a vole, and the shaggy light brown hair of a clematis montana clambering over an old apple tree in winter), she had recently put on too much weight.
The Verekers lived in a large messy house with a large messy garden two miles down the valley from Rupert Campbell-Black, where the Frogsmore stream hurtled into a large reed-fringed lake. They had bought Lake House, as it was called, five years ago, just after James had got the job at Corinium, when it had seemed ridiculously cheap. Viewing it in high summer, they had only seen its romantic aspect, not realizing that for at least five months of the year it was so low in the valley that it never saw the sun and would be quite inaccessible when the snows came in winter.
This mattered little to James because he spent so much time at Corinium. When the house got snowed up, he simply didn’t come home for several days. But it was not good for Lizzie, who wrote there all day, eating too many biscuits to keep out the cold, or for the children who caught one cold after another, or for the nannies who found it dank and depressing, except when James was at home.
For Lizzie life turned on the children not getting ill, and nannies not leaving so that she had time to write. Unfortunately James couldn’t resist pulling the prettier nannies, who invariably walked out, when he moved on to someone else. Lizzie always found out the score by reading the nannies’ diaries when they were shopping in Cotchester or nearby Stroud. Birgitta, the current nanny, wrote her diary in Swedish, which Lizzie couldn’t understand. But with the aid of a Swedish dictionary she was beginning to crack the code, and the word ‘James’ appeared rather too often. In fact you only had to see the way Birgitta perked up when James came through the door. Lizzie was used to his infidelity. She realized he needed little adventures to boost his ego, but they still upset her. She would have liked an admirer herself, but felt she was too fat to attract anyone.
Lizzie nearly had a fit when she heard James banging the front door. She’d stopped writing far too late, wrestling to get at least a draft of the first chapter down on paper. Still struggling mentally with her
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