week.’
‘Worth it, though.’
‘Oh, yes. Well worth it. I thought I was King Kong.’
‘Whatever happened to Miranda?’
‘London. Minor modelling career. Lucky escape from drugs hell. Welsh landowner. Tow-headed children. Ponies. Roofing problems.’
‘The usual, then.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Guys,’ I say, ‘I’m delighted to hear these details, but I need some advice here. What should I know before I walk into this party? Who are these people? What do I talk to them about?’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ says Rufus unhelpfully. ‘I love you, so they’ll love you.’
‘Steady on,’ says Roly. ‘PDA, old chap.’
‘You are odd, Roly,’ says Rufus affectionately. He reaches over from the back of the seat and takes my hand. Instantly, I begin to feel better. Not that I’m some sort of little girl who needs Daddy to hold her hand or anything, but the solidarity’s good. ‘No-one’s going to expect you to sparkle, darl. Just be yourself.’
‘If I wanted advice from Cosmopolitan I’d have bought a copy. Be myself? Which self is that, then? Bookish self? Dancing on the tables self? Kitten-cuddling self? Trust-me-I’m-a-professional self? Weeping-over-tax-forms self? Which one would you like?’
‘Look: they’ll be curious. And they’ll probably suck up to you, at least for the time being.’
‘Which means?’
‘Uh?’
‘That they’ll stop, yes?’
‘Can’t expect people to suck up to you for ever,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Your mother’s managed it,’ Roly points out.
‘My mother is a very special person,’ says Rufus, and, thank God, I spot a note of irony in his voice.
‘That she is, old boy,’ says Roly. ‘That she is. Front or back, Roof?’
‘Back. Front’ll be crammed.’
Roly, who’s changed down to second, changes back up again and accelerates past a pair of monumental stone gateposts and another road sign that reads ‘Bourton Allhallows: House Only’. The verge has turned into a miracle of mown sward, the sort of grass that looks like it’s been woven rather than cultivated. It runs beneath a six-foot wall, which is, itself, topped by a magnificent topiary hedge in the shape of crenellated battlements, fortified, every fifty feet or so, by a circular turret. Oh my God. If this is what the hedge looks like, what the hell is behind it?
Actually, the hedge is, now I look more closely at it, a bit raggedy: the trees that constitute the topiary have got thinner with age and show skeletal branches through gaping holes. The wall, product of thousands of hours of high-level craftsmanship, bulges in places, and has even, at a couple of spots, fallen down altogether and been filled in with half-hearted concoctions of wooden stakes, chicken-wire and strands of barbed wire. Fair enough, I think, it’s a good few miles long, and keeping it up must be a similar task to painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
The wall curves off to the right and Roly changes down to take the corner. Another road sign flashes past: ‘Bourton Allhallows’, it says, ‘Please Drive Carefully’. And then, we’re in the village.
I get a shock. I am slap in the centre of a picture postcard again. The road we’re on cuts through the centre of a perfect triangular green, crosses a narrow little hump-backed bridge over one of those little duck-filled creeks you always fantasise you’re going to see your perfect children playing in one day. And surrounding the perfect green is a perfect village: all thatch and eaves and mullioned windows, tiny little front yards filled with cottage flowers. A fantasy pub, wooden benches and stone millwheels against the walls, to the right. The sort of village shop with the thirty-pane display window that Franklin Mint sell in miniature by the thousand every year, to the left. A squat, comely church, complete with bell tower, straight ahead. Clumps of bulrushes grow out of the stream, a majestic naked oak spreads anciently, a tumble of late roses spilling over a
‘Worth it, though.’
‘Oh, yes. Well worth it. I thought I was King Kong.’
‘Whatever happened to Miranda?’
‘London. Minor modelling career. Lucky escape from drugs hell. Welsh landowner. Tow-headed children. Ponies. Roofing problems.’
‘The usual, then.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Guys,’ I say, ‘I’m delighted to hear these details, but I need some advice here. What should I know before I walk into this party? Who are these people? What do I talk to them about?’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ says Rufus unhelpfully. ‘I love you, so they’ll love you.’
‘Steady on,’ says Roly. ‘PDA, old chap.’
‘You are odd, Roly,’ says Rufus affectionately. He reaches over from the back of the seat and takes my hand. Instantly, I begin to feel better. Not that I’m some sort of little girl who needs Daddy to hold her hand or anything, but the solidarity’s good. ‘No-one’s going to expect you to sparkle, darl. Just be yourself.’
‘If I wanted advice from Cosmopolitan I’d have bought a copy. Be myself? Which self is that, then? Bookish self? Dancing on the tables self? Kitten-cuddling self? Trust-me-I’m-a-professional self? Weeping-over-tax-forms self? Which one would you like?’
‘Look: they’ll be curious. And they’ll probably suck up to you, at least for the time being.’
‘Which means?’
‘Uh?’
‘That they’ll stop, yes?’
‘Can’t expect people to suck up to you for ever,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Your mother’s managed it,’ Roly points out.
‘My mother is a very special person,’ says Rufus, and, thank God, I spot a note of irony in his voice.
‘That she is, old boy,’ says Roly. ‘That she is. Front or back, Roof?’
‘Back. Front’ll be crammed.’
Roly, who’s changed down to second, changes back up again and accelerates past a pair of monumental stone gateposts and another road sign that reads ‘Bourton Allhallows: House Only’. The verge has turned into a miracle of mown sward, the sort of grass that looks like it’s been woven rather than cultivated. It runs beneath a six-foot wall, which is, itself, topped by a magnificent topiary hedge in the shape of crenellated battlements, fortified, every fifty feet or so, by a circular turret. Oh my God. If this is what the hedge looks like, what the hell is behind it?
Actually, the hedge is, now I look more closely at it, a bit raggedy: the trees that constitute the topiary have got thinner with age and show skeletal branches through gaping holes. The wall, product of thousands of hours of high-level craftsmanship, bulges in places, and has even, at a couple of spots, fallen down altogether and been filled in with half-hearted concoctions of wooden stakes, chicken-wire and strands of barbed wire. Fair enough, I think, it’s a good few miles long, and keeping it up must be a similar task to painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
The wall curves off to the right and Roly changes down to take the corner. Another road sign flashes past: ‘Bourton Allhallows’, it says, ‘Please Drive Carefully’. And then, we’re in the village.
I get a shock. I am slap in the centre of a picture postcard again. The road we’re on cuts through the centre of a perfect triangular green, crosses a narrow little hump-backed bridge over one of those little duck-filled creeks you always fantasise you’re going to see your perfect children playing in one day. And surrounding the perfect green is a perfect village: all thatch and eaves and mullioned windows, tiny little front yards filled with cottage flowers. A fantasy pub, wooden benches and stone millwheels against the walls, to the right. The sort of village shop with the thirty-pane display window that Franklin Mint sell in miniature by the thousand every year, to the left. A squat, comely church, complete with bell tower, straight ahead. Clumps of bulrushes grow out of the stream, a majestic naked oak spreads anciently, a tumble of late roses spilling over a
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