‘Thank you, Sandra. So lots of effort from all of you, please. I want to be in a position of actually turning people away. Use any means at your disposal – not forgetting those feminine wiles.’
If something had been worth giggling at the first time, it proved worth giggling at again.
‘Another thing I wanted to mention was our auctioneer. Now we all remember that James Baxter did the job for us last year. And, though we’re very grateful for all the hard work he put into the job, the fact remains that he wasn’t really very good. It makes so much difference to these kinds of occasions if you can get an auctioneer with a bit of personality, a bit of charisma. A celebrity, of course, would be an enormous bonus. James has volunteered to do the job again this year and since I haven’t actually said no, we do have him there as a long stop – but, if we could get someone else . . . So, ladies, think of all the celebrity friends you have.’
There was a silence. The womenfolk didn’t seem to have many celebrity friends.
With a sigh at the poor quality of the people she had to work with, Brenda Chew continued. ‘Oh well, there we go. Now, can we move on to the promises themselves? I’ve made a superhuman effort of persuasion, and the list is beginning to look quite impressive, but we still need more. We’ve had some examples of magnificent generosity – like Bob and Sandra’s offer of a week in their villa near Malaga.’ She nodded graciously to the donor, before making an implied criticism, ‘All the successful bidders will have to pay for is the cost of the flights.
‘And Suzy Longthorne has been kind enough to offer a luxury weekend at Hopwicke House. Then we’ve got parachute jumps and days in speedboats and a hospitality box at Goodwood and lots of dinners for two. But we do need more – particularly in the services area. You know, last time the bidding went quite high for the complete bodyscrub, and the golf lesson with the Worthing professional, and the week’s loan of a cleaning lady. So that’s the kind of thing we want to be thinking of, ladies. Things that people will bid over the odds for.’
For a moment, Carole tried to work out the economics of the auction of promises. She had got the firm impression that there was a three-line whip for attendance among the Pillars of Sussex. If they all brought their womenfolk two-thirds of the seats in the hotel dining room would be filled, so the people who were doing the bidding would be the same people who had donated the promises. Being a Pillar of Sussex was evidently an expensive business.
She was dragged out of her sums by the realization that Brenda Chew was addressing her. ‘. . . and we were wondering whether you, Carole, as a newcomer to our little group might have any ideas?’
‘Ideas for promises?’
‘Yes. Particularly, as I say, for services. Any thoughts?’
Carole didn’t have any. Or, rather, the ones she had were so pathetic that she didn’t dare voice them. She was sure she could persuade Ted Crisp to donate a bar meal for two at the Crown and Anchor. She herself could offer to walk people’s dogs on Fethering beach. Maybe Jude would agree to do a couple of hour’s healing? None of them seemed to have quite the gloss the Pillars of Sussex womenfolk would require.
‘Sorry, I can’t think of any ideas off the top of my head. Give me a couple of days and maybe I’ll come up with something.’
Brenda Chew let out a long-suffering sigh, the schoolmistress whose charge had once again failed to produce her homework. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll think of something else. Not having children or grandchildren to distract me, of course I know I have lots more time on my hands than you other ladies.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And, as ever, if you want a job done – better to do it yourself.’
Carole suspected she had identified Brenda Chew’s type when they first spoke on the phone, but now she had no doubt about it. Her hostess was one of those women who went round in a perpetual aura of martyrdom, who never let anyone forget how hard she was working and how little she complained of the fact. From her experience in the Home Office, Carole knew exactly how impossible such people were to work with.
The meeting continued. Brenda Chew delegated various tasks to individual ladies, but with a kind of patient defeatism, as if she knew they’d get their commissions wrong and she’d have to end up doing everything herself. She asked Sandra Hartson to co-ordinate any new offers of promises, but again with the air of someone who knew she’d have to come in and pick up the pieces.
At twelve-thirty sharp Brenda signalled the end of the session, and the ladies dispersed variously to golf clubs, hairdressers or lunch parties. As she left the bungalow, Carole noticed its nameplate. ‘Innisfree’ had been pokered out of a plaster piece of driftwood, over which three brightly coloured pixies coyly peeped. No, there really was nothing round the Chews’ home that she would have given house room to.
She found herself beside Sandra Hartson as they walked to their cars, and saw an opportunity to maintain contact. Carole tried to think what Jude would have said in the circumstances. Jude never had any problem easing into a conversation; it was a skill Carole didn’t have, and envied.
‘I believe I’ve met your daughter,’ she announced, more brusquely than she’d intended.
Sandra Hartson stopped, slightly alarmed. ‘Kerry?’
‘Yes. I was looking round Hopwicke Country House Hotel and she was introduced to me. I gather she works up there.’
‘Work experience. She’s learning the rudiments of the hotel business. At least, she is for the time being.’
‘Thinking of moving on?’
Sandra Hartson looked rueful. ‘Kerry has ambitions to be a pop singer. Like every other girl her age.’
‘Do you think she has the talent to make it?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I’m not sure it’s a matter of talent these days. Not sure it ever has been. It’s promotion and packaging – and investment. Maybe Kerry’ll make it. She certainly will if her stepfather has anything to do with the matter.’
Carole was surprised at how much edge had been put into the last words. And also, was it usual for a wife to refer to her husband as her daughter’s stepfather? Carole wanted to talk more to Sandra Hartson.
But the woman had already clicked the remote to unlock her Mercedes. Now wasn’t the moment for further conversation. So, in an atypically effusive manner, Carole said, ‘It’s been such a pleasure to meet you, Sandra. Do hope we meet again. Let’s exchange addresses and phone numbers.’
Sandra Hartson looked slightly bewildered by this sudden chumminess, so Carole quickly pointed out that, according to Brenda Chew’s schedule, Sandra was meant to be the collection point for offers of new promises. With contacts duly scribbled down, they parted.
And Carole Seddon felt a little glow of achievement. Jude would be proud of her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rick Hendry had aged since Jude last saw him in the flesh, but he had aged sensibly. The long permed hair had been abandoned as soon as Zedrach-Kona split up in the early eighties, and he’d opted for a short crop, which had become more fashionable over the years and still looked smart now the blackness was dusted with grey. His wardrobe had changed as well. Gone were the romantic frilled shirts, the heavy brocades and velvets that would not have been out of place in an upholstery catalogue. In their place came a lot of grey: shirts in stone and slate, charcoal jackets and trousers. The only remaining concession to the dandy was his pair of trademark black cowboy boots.
Rick had dealt with advancing years more gracefully than many of his contemporaries; no straggly pony tails or white-flecked stubble for him. Whenever re-forming Zedrach-Kona for a final bank raid of a tour was mooted – as it frequently was – people asked Rick Hendry whether he would grow his hair long again to recapture the band’s former glamour. He never gave a straight answer to the question, though he had long ago decided he would have wigs made. Nor, in spite of pleas from other band members, would he commit himself to when the group would re-form. His former colleagues had been less shrewd with their money; for them a revival tour was a necessity; for Rick, with his canny investments and his reinvention as a television personality and producer, it was a pension, waiting to be taken when he decided that the time was right.