That Man Simon by Anne Weale

curtains, and deliberately come after her - Jenny said, ‘Have you known Fenella long?’
    She knew that he had not, and she was not in the least interested in how they had met, but it was the first remark that came into her head.
    ‘I met her a few days ago in the Post Office. She seemed to know who I was, and very kindly invited me here to meet some of the other residents,’ he explained.
    ‘Then shouldn’t you be circulating?’ Jenny suggested coolly.
    ‘I believe I’ve already met everyone.’ Then, a note of laughter in his voice, ‘Still up in arms, Jenny Firebrand?
    What a pity. I was about to compliment you on that charming dress you’re wearing.’
    His casual use of her first name - the diminutive form, moreover! - made Jenny furious. ‘You overwhelm me, Mr.
    Gilchrist,’ she said, with chilly emphasis.
    He laughed aloud at that. ‘Oh, come now, am I really such an ogre? Consider how much worse the situation could be.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘If the site had been bought by a firm of speculative builders, they would probably have razed the whole area and erected half a dozen of the worst type of boxy bungalow. Then you would have had cause for complaint.’
    ‘It would never have been allowed,’ she retorted with conviction.
    ‘On the contrary, I happen to know that such a project was actually mooted. It didn’t come to anything because of certain technical snags, but I can assure you it could have happened. So don’t you think it would be sensible to reconcile yourself to the much lesser evil of my advent?’
    ‘Does my adverse opinion upset you?’ she asked him sweetly.
    ‘Not unduly. In my profession, uninformed prejudice is an occupational hazard, although one doesn’t normally encounter extreme conservatism amongst the young. It’s usually older people who set their faces against anything unfamiliar.’
    Jenny said crisply, ‘It’s not a question of being conservative. I simply don’t think this village is a suitable place for an ultra-modern house. Old and new don’t mix.’
    ‘That’s a remarkably illogical argument. The whole village is an architectural hotchpotch. The church is sixteenth-century, the houses round the green are mainly Georgian, and the Rectory is typically Victorian. You seem to approve of the existing medley. Why exclude a twentieth-century element?’
    Before she could answer, the door opened again and Fenella appeared.
    ‘Oh, here you are, Simon. I couldn’t think where you’d got to.’ She did not add, ‘What on earth are you doing out here with Jenny?’ but it was what she was thinking, Jenny felt sure.
    Simon rose to his feet, but Fenella said, ‘Don’t get up. I’ll join you. I suppose I shouldn’t say so, but after living in London, I find Mummy’s parties rather trying. Everyone is so madly parochial here. They think Farthing Green is the centre of the universe. What have you two been talking about? Not selective weed killers, I trust?’
    ‘A local scandal,’ he told her.
    ‘How fascinating. Which one?’
    ‘The Gilchrists’ House one. Miss Shannon is convinced that I am perpetrating a blot on the landscape.’
    ‘Really? I think it sounds fabulous. I do hope I’m at home when you give your house-warming party. But my agent rang up this morning about a new TV series which is starting in the autumn. So I may be tied up in London.’
    Fenella leaned back in her chair, crystal ear-drops glinting against her throat, the silver suit accentuating the graceful slenderness of her figure. By moonlight she looked so glamorous that Jenny thought suddenly that they might have underestimated her. Perhaps she was destined for stardom.
    ‘When do you expect your house to be ready for occupation, Simon?’ asked Fenella.
    ‘Before the end of the summer. If it were a conventional structure, it would probably not be habitable until late October,’ he replied. ‘But the design, and the fact that I’m using direct labour, should speed matters up