Shopaholic to the Stars

FIVE

How can Hollywood people all be so flaky? How?

As soon as I got back to the UK, I looked up all my old contacts and sent off a stack of emails. But I haven’t got anything out of it: not a lunch, not a meeting, not a phone number. Every single one of my former customers who worked in film seems to have moved jobs or had a nervous breakdown or something. The only one left was Genna Douglas, who was a customer of mine at Barneys and had the hugest collection of backless dresses. But after getting no reply, I Googled her, and it turns out she left her job at Universal a year ago to start a beauty salon. She’s invented some treatment involving electric currents and honey and has been sued twice by disgruntled patients but is ‘actively seeking investors’. Hmm. Don’t think I’ll be pursuing that one.

I’m so disappointed. I thought I’d be swimming in contacts. I thought I’d be fixing up lunches at Spago and meetings with producers, and saying to Luke casually, ‘Oh, are you going to be on the Paramount lot this afternoon? I’ll see you there.’

Anyway. On the plus side, I still have Sage. A genuine, copper-bottomed, A-list contact. And I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing. I’ve started working on some looks for her, and I really feel I’m tuning into her personality. Her world.

‘So, look.’ I spread a pale-blue brocade coat out on the bed for Suze to see. ‘Isn’t this fab?’

Suze is my oldest friend in the world, and we’re lolling on her bed in Hampshire with gossip magazines, just like we used to in the old days when we shared a flat in Fulham. Except that in those days, it meant lolling on an old Indian bedspread covered in cigarette burns and smelling of joss sticks. Whereas today we’re lolling on a massive, ancient four-poster bed, with silk drapes and tapestry and wooden panelling that apparently Charles I carved his name in once. Or do I mean Charles II? Some Charles or other, anyway.

Suze is eye-wateringly posh. She lives in a stately home and ever since her grandfather-in-law died she’s called Lady Cleath-Stuart, which sounds quite terrifyingly grown-up to me. Lady Cleath-Stuart sounds like a ninety-year-old battle-axe swishing at people with a riding crop and barking, ‘What? What?’ Not that I would ever tell Suze this. Anyway, she’s pretty much the opposite of that. She’s tall and leggy with long blonde hair, which she’s now chewing in an absent kind of way.

‘Lovely!’ she says, fingering the coat. ‘Really gorgeous.’

‘It’s a great lightweight coat that Sage can just shrug on over jeans or whatever. It’ll really suit the LA climate. And then she can wear flats or those boots I showed you before …’

‘Amazing collar.’ She touches the grey frayed velvet.

‘I know,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I found it in this tiny boutique. The label’s new. It’s Danish. Now, look at this skirt.’

I produce a minute denim skirt with ribbon edging, but Suze is still surveying the coat, her brow crumpled.

‘So you’ve bought this coat for Sage? And all these other things?’

‘Exactly! That’s the point of being a stylist. I found the skirt in a vintage shop in Santa Monica,’ I add. ‘The owner customizes all the clothes herself. Look at the buttons!’

Suze doesn’t even seem to see the buttons. She reaches for a T-shirt, which would be perfect for Sage to wear when she’s hanging out at a coffee shop with Jennifer Garner or somebody.

‘But, Bex, isn’t all this shopping costing you a lot of money?’

‘Shopping?’ I echo incredulously. ‘Suze, it’s not shopping. It’s investing in my job. And I usually get a discount. Sometimes I even get things for free. I just have to tell them that I’m shopping for Sage Seymour, and bingo!’

It’s amazing how excited shop owners get when you mention Sage Seymour. They practically throw clothes at you!

‘But you’re not shopping for Sage Seymour,’ says Suze flatly.

I stare at her, perplexed. Hasn’t she been following what I’m saying?

‘Yes I am! Of course I am! These things aren’t even my size!’

‘But she hasn’t asked you to. She doesn’t even know who you are.’

I feel a twinge of resentment. Suze doesn’t have to remind me. It’s not my fault I have the crappest husband in the world who refuses to introduce me to his celebrity clients.

‘She will know who I am, as soon as Luke introduces us,’ I explain patiently. ‘And then we’ll get chatting, and I’ll have all these looks ready for her and become her personal stylist. Suze, I’m building a whole new career!’ I can see Suze is about to raise another objection, so I carry on hurriedly. ‘And anyway, I’m going to get double the use out of these clothes, because you’re going to wear them and I’m going to take your picture and I’m going to build up a portfolio.’

‘Ooh.’ Suze perks up. ‘You want me to be your model?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Cool!’ Suze starts looking at the clothes with more interest and reaches for the coat again. ‘Let’s start with this.’ She puts on the coat and I start adjusting the collar. Suze is so beautiful and willowy, she looks great in anything, and I feel a fizz of excitement at the thought of building up a library of amazing pictures.

I’ve been totally inspired by reading about Nenita Dietz on the internet. When she moved to Hollywood twenty years ago, she didn’t know anyone. But she wangled her way on to the set of Love’s Breezing, and marched into the office of the Head of Wardrobe, and wouldn’t leave until he’d looked at her portfolio. He was so impressed, he employed her immediately. And then the star, Mary-Jane Cheney, hired her as a personal stylist, and it all snowballed from there.

Well, I can do that, too. I just need to put together a portfolio, and get on a film set somehow.

Suze is now wearing the brocade coat, a beret and a pair of sunglasses and posing in front of the mirror.

‘You look fab,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow I’ll do your hair and makeup and we’ll have a proper shoot.’

Suze comes back to the bed and starts rifling through a bag of skirts. ‘These are nice, too.’ She holds one up against herself and looks at the label. ‘Oh, they’re by Danny.’

‘I phoned his office and they sent a whole bunch over,’ I explain. ‘They’re from the new collection. You know, Sarah Jessica Parker’s assistant asked especially to see a sneak preview?’ I add. ‘Danny told me himself.’

‘Ooh, SJP!’ Suze’s head pops up. ‘Is she in LA? Have you met her?’

‘No,’ I say, and Suze sighs.

‘Haven’t you met anyone famous?’

This is what everyone has been asking me since I got back. Mum, Dad, our neighbours Janice and Martin, everyone. I’m tired of saying, ‘No, I haven’t met anyone famous.’ And the truth is, I did meet someone famous, didn’t I? I mean, I know I promised to keep it a secret. But Suze is my best friend. Telling a best friend doesn’t count.

‘Suze,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘If I tell you something, you can’t tell a soul. Not Tarkie, not anyone. I’m serious.’

‘I promise,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘What is it?’

‘I met Lois Kellerton.’

‘Lois Kellerton?’ She sits straight up. ‘Oh my God! You never told me that!’

‘I’m telling you now! But I didn’t just meet her …’

Suze is the best person to share stuff with. As I tell her about seeing Lois Kellerton shoplifting, and about chasing her down the street, she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth and says ‘No way’ several times.

‘… and I promised not to tell anyone,’ I conclude.

‘Well, I won’t blab,’ says Suze at once. ‘Anyway, who would I tell? The children? The sheep? Tarkie?’

We both start giggling. Tarkie probably has no idea who Lois Kellerton is, even.

‘But it’s so weird,’ Suze adds, her brow creased in thought. ‘I can’t believe it. Why would a big movie star like that steal socks?’

‘I haven’t told you everything yet,’ I say, and reach in my pocket. ‘Look what arrived at the hotel.’

I still can’t believe this happened. It was on the last day of our trip, when I was having a small private word with the front desk about the minibar bill. (I didn’t necessarily want Luke seeing how many Toblerones I’d eaten.) The concierge caught sight of me and said, ‘Ah, Mrs Brandon, this has just arrived for you.’

It was a smart white package, and inside was a small silver box engraved with three words: Thank you Becky. There was no note. But I instantly knew who it was from. She must have tracked me down. Or I guess her people did.

Now I hand it over to Suze, who turns it over in her fingers wonderingly.

‘Wow,’ she says at last. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I know.’

‘So this is, like, a bribe.’

Bribe?

‘It’s not a bribe!’ I say, stung.

‘No,’ Suze backtracks at once. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean “bribe”. I meant …’

‘It’s a thank-you,’ I say defensively. ‘Look. It says “Thank you”.’

‘Exactly! That’s what I meant. A thank-you.’ She nods several times, but now the word bribe is circling around my brain.

‘Anyway, what was she like?’ Suze demands. ‘What did she look like? What did she say?’

‘Just thin, really. Stressed-out-looking. I hardly spoke to her.’

‘She’s not in good shape, you know,’ Suze says. ‘Apparently her latest movie is beset with problems. It’s millions over budget and the buzz isn’t good. She’s taken on the role of producer for the first time, but she’s bitten off more than she can chew.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes.’ Suze nods knowledgeably. ‘Insiders on set claim the star’s high-handed approach has made her enemies among the crew. No wonder she’s stressed out.’

I stare at Suze in astonishment. Has she memorized every single gossip magazine?

‘Suze, how do you know all this stuff? Have you been watching Camberly on cable again?’ I say severely.

Camberly is the hottest show in the States right now. Everyone is saying Camberly is the new Oprah, and her interviews get huge press every week, and they show them on E4 in England. Suze twisted her ankle a couple of weeks ago and she got totally addicted, especially to the gossip segment.

‘Well, I’ve got to do something while my best friend is in LA!’ says Suze, suddenly sounding disconsolate. ‘If I can’t go there, at least I can watch interviews about it.’ She gives a sudden gusty sigh. ‘Oh Bex, I can’t believe you’re going to be in Hollywood and meet movie stars all the time and I’m stuck here. I’m so envious!’

‘Envious?’ I stare at her. ‘How can you be envious of me? You live in this place! It’s fantastic!’

Suze’s husband, Tarquin, is even grander than Suze, and when his grandfather died, they inherited this monster house, Letherby Hall. It’s seriously vast. They have guided tours and a ha-ha and everything. (To be honest, I’m still not sure which bit is the ha-ha. Maybe one of the twiddly bits on the roof?)

‘But it isn’t sunny,’ objects Suze. ‘And there aren’t any movie stars. And all we do is have endless meetings about repairing eighteenth-century mouldings. I want to go to Hollywood. You know, I always wanted to be an actress. I played Juliet at drama school.’ She sighs again. ‘I played Blanche Dubois. And now look at me.’

I’m always very tactful about Suze’s ‘drama school’. I mean, it wasn’t exactly RADA. It was the kind where your father pays huge fees and you spend the spring term at the school skiing chalet in Switzerland and no one actually goes into acting because they’ve got a family business to inherit or something. But still, I do feel for her. She is at a bit of a loose end, knocking around in this massive house.

‘Well, come out!’ I say excitedly. ‘Go on, Suze, come to LA! Have a little holiday. We’d have such a laugh.’

‘Oh …’ Her face is torn a million ways. I can see exactly what she’s thinking. (This is why she’d make a brilliant actress, in fact.)

‘Tarkie can come too,’ I say, to forestall her objections. ‘And the children.’

‘Maybe,’ she says hesitantly. ‘Except we’re supposed to be focusing on business expansion this year. You know we’re starting weddings? And Tarkie wants to create a maze, and we’re revamping the tea rooms …’

‘You can still have a holiday!’

‘I don’t know.’ She looks doubtful. ‘You know the pressure he feels.’

I nod sympathetically. I do actually feel for old Tarkie. It’s quite a burden, inheriting a stately home, with your whole family looking on beadily to see if you manage it properly. Apparently, every Lord Cleath-Stuart has added something special to Letherby Hall, through all the generations, like an east wing, or a chapel, or a topiary garden.

In fact, that’s why we’re all here today. Tarkie’s launching his first major addition to the house. It’s called ‘The Surge’ and it’s a fountain. It’s going to be the highest fountain in the whole county and will be a big tourist attraction. Apparently he had the idea when he was ten, and drew it in his Latin book, and kept it ever since. And now he’s built it!

Hundreds of people are coming to watch it being switched on and the local TV station has interviewed him, and everyone is saying this could be the making of Letherby Hall. Suze says she hasn’t seen Tarkie this nervous since he competed in the junior national dressage when they were both children. That time he mucked up his half-pass (which is apparently bad) and his father, who lives for horses, nearly disowned him as a result. So let’s hope things go better this time.

‘I’ll work on Tarkie.’ Suze swings her legs off the bed. ‘C’mon, Bex. We’d better go.’

The only disadvantage of living in a house like this is it takes you about six hours just to get from the bedroom to the garden. We walk through the Long Gallery (lots of ancient portraits) and the East Hall (lots of ancient suits of armour) and cut across the massive Great Hall. There we pause, and breathe in the musty, woody aroma. Suze can burn as many Diptyque candles as she likes, but this room will always smell of Old House.

‘It was amazing, wasn’t it?’ says Suze, reading my thoughts.

‘Spectacular.’ I sigh.

We’re talking about the birthday party that I threw for Luke, right here, what seems like no time ago. As if on cue, we both lift our eyes to the tiny first-floor balcony where Luke’s mother, Elinor, stood hidden, watching the proceedings. Luke never knew she was there, nor that she basically funded and helped to arrange the whole thing. She’s sworn me to secrecy, which makes me want to scream with frustration. If only he knew that she’d paid for his party. If only he knew how much she’d done for him.

To call Luke’s relationship with his mother ‘love–hate’ would be an understatement. It’s ‘adore–loathe’. It’s ‘worship–despise’. At the moment we’re on ‘despise’ and nothing I can say will shift his opinion. Whereas I’ve quite come round to her, even if she is the snootiest woman in the world.

‘Have you seen her?’ asks Suze.

I shake my head. ‘Not since then.’

Suze looks troubled as she gazes around the room. ‘What about if you just told him?’ she says suddenly.

I know Suze hates the secrecy as much as I do, because Luke has totally got the wrong end of the stick and thinks she and Tarkie paid for the party.

‘I can’t. I promised. She’s got this whole thing about not wanting to buy his love.’

‘Throwing someone a party isn’t buying their love,’ protests Suze. ‘I think she’s all wrong. I think he’d be touched. It’s so stupid!’ she says with sudden vehemence. ‘It’s such a waste! Think of all the time you could spend together, and with Minnie too …’

‘Minnie misses her,’ I admit. ‘She keeps saying, “Where Lady?” But if Luke even knew they’d been seeing each other, he’d flip out.’

‘Families.’ Suze shakes her head. ‘They’re just the end. Poor old Tarkie’s in a total tizz about the fountain, just because his father’s here. I said to him, “If your dad can’t say anything positive, he should have stayed in Scotland!”’ She sounds so fierce, I want to laugh. ‘We must hurry,’ she adds, glancing at her watch. ‘The countdown will have begun!’

Suze’s ‘garden’ is basically an enormous great park. There are huge lawns and acres of topiary and a famous rose garden and loads of special plants which I now can’t remember. (I’m definitely going on the proper tour one day.)

We head down from the big gravelled terrace to find that crowds are already gathering on the lawn and setting up deck chairs among the trees. Music is playing from loudspeakers, waitresses are circling with glasses of wine, and a massive electronic countdown board reads 16:43. There’s a rectangular lake, directly in front of the house, and that’s where The Surge is. I’ve only seen an artist’s impression of it, but it’s really pretty. It shoots straight up about a zillion feet and then falls down in a graceful arc. Then it swings backwards and forwards, and then at the end it shoots little droplets into the air. It’s so clever, and there are going to be coloured lights in the evenings.

As we get near, we find a cordoned-off area for VIP visitors, where my mum and dad have commandeered a prime position, along with our neighbours Janice and Martin.

‘Becky!’ exclaims Mum. ‘Just in time!’

‘Becky! We’ve missed you!’ Janice gives me a hug. ‘How was LA?’

‘Great, thanks!’

‘Really, love?’ Janice clicks her tongue disbelievingly, as though I’m putting a brave face on some personal tragedy. ‘But the people. All those plastic faces and whale pouts.’

‘Do you mean trout pouts?’

‘And drugs,’ puts in Martin ponderously.

‘Exactly!’

‘You need to be careful, Becky,’ he adds. ‘Don’t let them suck you into their way of thinking.’

‘Unhappiest city on the planet,’ agrees Janice. ‘It said so in the paper.’

They’re both staring at me mournfully, as though I’m about to be carted off to a penal colony on Mars.

‘It’s a brilliant city,’ I say defiantly. ‘And we can’t wait to get there.’

‘Well, maybe you’ll see Jess,’ says Janice, as though this is the only possible ray of light. ‘How far’s Chile from LA?’

‘It’s …’ I try to sound knowledgeable. ‘Not far. Same general area.’

My half-sister Jess is married to Janice and Martin’s son Tom, and they’re out in Chile, where they’re planning to adopt a little boy. Poor Janice is trying to wait patiently, but apparently it could be a year before they come back.

‘Don’t listen to them, love,’ Dad chimes in cheerfully. ‘LA is a fine city. I still remember the glint of the Cadillacs. The surf on the sand. And the ice-cream sundaes. Look out for those, Becky.’

‘Right.’ I nod patiently. ‘Ice-cream sundaes.’

Dad spent a summer driving around California before he got married, so his version of LA is basically from 1972. There’s no point saying, ‘No one eats ice-cream sundaes any more, it’s all about flavoured fro-yo.’

‘In fact, Becky,’ Dad adds, ‘I’ve got a couple of favours to ask you.’ He draws me to one side, away from the others, and I look up at him curiously.

Dad’s aged a bit recently. His face is craggier and there are little white hairs tufting out of his neck. Although he can still vault over a gate quite athletically. I know this because he was showing off to Minnie earlier today in one of Suze’s fields, while Mum cried out, ‘Graham, stop! You’ll do yourself an injury! You’ll break a metatarsal!’ (Mum has recently found a new daytime TV show, Doctor’s Surgery Live, which means that she now thinks she’s an expert on all things medical and keeps dropping words like ‘platelets’ and ‘lipoproteins’ into the conversation even when we’re just talking about what to have for supper.)

‘What is it, Dad?’

‘Well, the first thing is this.’ He takes from his breast pocket a small paper bag and pulls out an ancient autograph book with a picture of a Cadillac on the front and California in white swirly writing. ‘Remember this?’

‘Of course!’

Dad’s autograph book is a family tradition. It gets pulled out every Christmas and we all politely listen as he tells us about all the signatures. They’re mostly autographs of obscure TV stars from American shows that no one’s ever heard of, but Dad thinks they’re famous, so that’s all that matters.

‘Ronald “Rocky” Webster,’ he’s saying now, turning the pages fondly. ‘He was a big star then. And Maria Pojes. You should have heard her sing.’

‘Right.’ I nod politely, even though I’ve heard these names a million times and they still mean nothing to me.

‘It was my friend Corey who spotted Maria Pojes, drinking in a hotel bar,’ Dad’s saying. ‘Our first night in LA. He dragged me over, offered to buy her a drink …’ He laughs reminiscently. ‘She wouldn’t accept it, of course. But she was sweet to us. Signed our books.’

‘Wow.’ I nod again. ‘Fantastic.’

‘And so …’ To my surprise, Dad presses the open autograph book into my hand. ‘Over to you, Becky. Fill her up with some new blood.’

‘What?’ I stare at him. ‘Dad, I can’t take this!’

‘Half the book’s empty.’ He points at the blank pages. ‘You’re off to Hollywood. Finish the collection.’

I look at it nervously. ‘But what if I lose it or something?’

‘You won’t lose it. But you’ll have adventures.’ Dad’s face flickers oddly. ‘Oh, Becky, love, I am envious. I’ve never known anything like those adventures I had in California.’

‘Like the rodeo?’ I say. I’ve heard that story a zillion times.

‘That.’ He nods. ‘And … other things.’ He pats my hand, twinkling. ‘Get me John Travolta’s signature. I’d like that.’

‘What’s the other favour?’ I say, putting the autograph book carefully into my bag.

‘Just a small thing.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper. ‘Look up my old friend Brent. He always lived in Los Angeles. This is his old address. See if you can track him down. Say hello from me.’

‘OK.’ I look at the name: Brent Lewis. There’s an address in Sherman Oaks, and a phone number. ‘Why don’t you call him up?’ I suggest. ‘Or text him? Or Skype! It’s easy.’

As I say the word ‘Skype’ I can see Dad recoiling. We once tried to Skype Jess in Chile and it wasn’t exactly a resounding success. The picture kept freezing, so we gave up. But then the sound suddenly came back on and we could hear Jess and Tom having a row about Janice while they made their supper. It was all a bit embarrassing.

‘No, you go and say hello,’ says Dad. ‘If he wants to, we can take it from there. Like I say, it’s been a long time. He may not be interested.’

I really don’t get the older generation. They’re so reticent. If it were me getting in touch with my old friend from all those years ago, I’d be sending them a text instantly: Hi! Wow, it’s been decades! How did THAT happen? Or I’d track them down on Facebook. But Dad and Mum just aren’t into it.

‘Fine,’ I say, and put the piece of paper into my bag, too. ‘What about your other two friends?’

‘Corey and Raymond?’ He shakes his head. ‘They live too far away. Las Vegas, Corey is. I think Raymond’s in Arizona somewhere. I’ve stayed in touch with them … at least, I have in a way. But Brent just disappeared.’

‘Shame you didn’t have Facebook back then.’

‘Indeed.’ He nods.

‘Oh, thank you so much! They’re a new present from my husband.’ Mum’s voice rises above the hubbub and I turn to look. Some lady I don’t recognize is admiring her pearls, and Mum is preening in delight. ‘Yes, lovely, aren’t they?’

I grin at Dad, who winks back. Mum was so thrilled with her pearls. They’re antique, from 1895, with a ruby clasp set in diamonds. (I helped her go shopping for them, so I know all the details.) Dad’s BB was bigger than usual this year, so we all went a bit mad.

BB is our family shorthand for ‘Big Bonus’. Dad worked in insurance for years, and now he’s retired. But he still does consulting work, and it’s amazingly well paid. He goes off a few times a year in a suit, and then once a year he receives a bonus cheque and we always get a treat. This year it was particularly good, because Mum got her pearls, and he bought me an Alexis Bittar necklace and Minnie a new dolls’ house. Even Luke got a beautiful pair of cufflinks.

Luke always says to me that Dad must have some sort of niche, specialist knowledge that is really valuable, because he commands such high fees. But he’s so modest about it. You’d never know.

‘My clever husband.’ Mum kisses Dad fondly.

‘You look beautiful, my love!’ Dad beams back. Dad bought himself a new tweed jacket with his share of the BB, and he looks really good in it. ‘Now, where’s this famous fountain?’

A few feet away, Tarquin is being interviewed for the TV. Poor Tarkie. He’s not cut out to be a media star. He’s wearing a checked shirt that makes his neck look bonier than ever, and he keeps wringing his hands as he speaks.

‘Ahm,’ he keeps saying. ‘Ahm, we wanted to … ahm … enhance the house …’

‘Bloody stupid idea,’ comes a gruff voice behind me.

Oh God, it’s Tarkie’s dad, the Earl of Whatsit, stalking up. (I can never remember where he’s earl of. Somewhere Scottish, I think.) He’s tall and lanky with thin, greying hair and an Aran jersey, just like Tarkie wears. I’ve never spoken to him properly, but he’s always seemed pretty scary. Now he’s glowering at the lake and jabbing a weather-beaten finger at it. ‘I said to the boy, that view’s been unspoiled for three hundred years. Why on earth would you want to go messing with it?’

‘They’re going to do fireworks on the lake in winter,’ I say, wanting to stand up for Tarkie. ‘I think it will be beautiful!’

The earl gives me a withering look and turns his attention to a plate of canapés being offered to him. ‘What’s this?’

‘Sushi, sir,’ says the waitress.

‘Sushi?’ He peers at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘What?’

‘Rice and raw salmon, sir. Japanese.’

‘Bloody stupid idea.’

To my relief he stalks off again, and I’m about to take a piece of sushi myself, when I hear a familiar, ear-splitting noise.

‘Please! Pleeeease!’

Oh God. It’s Minnie.

For a long time, my daughter’s favourite word was ‘mine’. Now, after intensive training, we’ve got her on to the word ‘please’. Which you’d think would be an improvement.

I swivel around wildly, and finally spot Minnie. She’s balanced on a stone bench, tussling with Suze’s son Wilfrid over a red plastic truck.

‘Pleeease!’ she’s yelling crossly. ‘Pleeease!’ Now, to my horror, she starts hitting Wilfrid with the truck, yelling with each blow, ‘Please! Please! Please!’

The trouble is, Minnie hasn’t really absorbed the spirit of the word ‘please’.

‘Minnie!’ I exclaim in horror, and run towards her across the lawn. ‘Give the truck to Wilfie.’ Luke is coming towards her too, and we exchange wry looks.

‘Please truck! Pleeease!’ she cries, clutching it harder. A few people gathered around start to laugh, and Minnie beams at them. She is such a show-off, but she’s so adorable with it, it’s hard to stay cross.

‘Hey, Becky,’ says a cheerful voice behind me, and I turn to see Ellie, who is Suze’s nanny and absolutely brilliant. (There’s also Nanny, who looked after Tarkie when he was little and has never left. But she just potters around and tells people to wear vests.) ‘I’m taking the other children to watch from the steps over there.’ She points at a bank on the other side of the lake. ‘They’ll get a better view. Does Minnie want to come?’

‘Oh thanks,’ I say gratefully. ‘Minnie, if you want to go to the steps with the others, you have to give the truck to Wilfie.’

‘Steps?’ Minnie pauses at this new word.

‘Yes! Steps! Exciting steps.’ I grab the truck from her and give it back to Wilfie. ‘Go with Ellie, sweetheart. Hey, Tarquin!’ I call, as I see him hurrying by. ‘This all looks spectacular.’

‘Yes.’ Tarquin seems a bit desperate. ‘Well, I hope so. There’s a water-pressure problem. Whole area’s affected. Terrible timing for us.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Turn it up,’ Tarkie says feverishly into his walkie-talkie. ‘Whatever it takes! We don’t want a feeble little gush, we want a spectacle!’ He looks up at us and grimaces. ‘Fountains are trickier blighters than I realized.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be great,’ Luke says reassuringly. ‘It’s a marvellous idea.’

‘Well, I hope so.’ Tarkie wipes his face, then checks the countdown clock, which reads 4.58. ‘Crikey. I must go.’

The crowd is getting bigger and there are now two local TV-news crews, interviewing people. Luke takes a couple of glasses of wine and hands me one, and we clink glasses. As we near the cordoned-off VIP area, I can see Suze talking animatedly to Tarquin’s business manager, Angus.

‘Tarkie must surely have business interests in the States,’ she’s saying. ‘I’m certain he needs to do a trip out there. Don’t you agree?’

‘It’s really not necessary, Lady Cleath-Stuart,’ Angus says, looking surprised. ‘All the US investments are taken care of.’

‘Do we have any investments in California?’ persists Suze. ‘Like, an orange grove or something? Because I think we should visit them. I’ll go, if you like.’ She looks over at me and winks, and I beam back. Go Suze!

The earl and countess are making their way to the front of the crowd now, forging a path with their shooting sticks and staring critically at the lake.

‘If he wanted to build something,’ the earl is saying, ‘what’s wrong with a folly? Tuck it away somewhere. But a fountain? Bloody stupid idea.’

I stare at him angrily. How dare they come along and be so critical?

‘I disagree,’ I say coolly. ‘I believe this fountain will be a major landmark in the country for centuries to come.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ He fixes his baleful gaze on me and I lift my chin. I’m not afraid of some old earl.

‘Yes,’ I say defiantly. ‘Today will be unforgettable. You’ll see.’

‘Sixty! Fifty-nine!’ The loudspeaker guy starts chanting, and I feel a sudden rush of excitement. At last! Tarkie’s fountain! I clutch Suze’s hand and she beams back excitedly.

‘Twenty-three … twenty two …’ The whole crowd is chanting by now.

‘Where’s Tarkie?’ I say over the noise. ‘He should be here to enjoy it!’

Suze shrugs. ‘Must be with the technical guys.’

‘Five … four … three … two … one … Ladies and gentlemen … The Surge!’

A roar of cheers breaks out, as the fountain spurts up from the middle of the lake, and hits the height of …

Oh. OK. Well, it’s about five feet. It’s not that high for a fountain called The Surge. But maybe it’ll go higher?

Sure enough, it slowly rises up to about twelve feet, and there’s renewed cheering from the crowd. But as I look at Suze, she seems horrified.

‘Something’s gone wrong!’ she exclaims. ‘It should be about five times that height.’

The water falls back down; then, as though with a massive effort, pushes itself up to about fifteen feet. It drops a little, then rises again.

‘Is that it?’ the earl is saying contemptuously. ‘Could do better myself with a hose. What did I tell you, Marjorie?’

Now there’s as much laughing in the crowd as there is cheering. Every time the fountain lifts, there’s an outburst of cheering, and every time it drops down, everyone says, ‘Aaah!’

‘It’s the water pressure,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Tarkie said there was a problem.’

‘He’ll be devastated.’ Suze’s eyes are suddenly bright with tears. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, look at it. It’s pathetic!’

‘No it’s not!’ I say at once. ‘It’s brilliant. It’s … subtle.’

The truth is, it does look pathetic.

But then suddenly there’s an almightly Bang! and a stream of water surges right up into the air, what seems like a hundred feet.

‘There you are!’ I yell, and clutch Suze in excitement. ‘It’s working! It’s amazing! It’s fantastic! It’s … aah—’ I break off with a strangled yell.

Something’s gone wrong. I don’t know what. But this isn’t right.

A mass of water is falling at speed towards us, like a water cannon. We stare, transfixed – then it splats all over three people behind me, and they start screaming. A moment later, the fountain fires another waterbomb into the air, and we all start holding our hands above our heads. Another moment later and there’s another splat and two more people are drenched.

‘Minnie!’ I call anxiously, waving my arms. ‘Get away!’ But Ellie is already shepherding the children back up the steps.

‘Women and children to safety!’ the earl is thundering. ‘Abandon ship!’

It’s mayhem. People are running in all directions, trying to dodge the falling water. I manage to get up the slippery bank, then suddenly see Tarkie, standing apart from the crowd, his shirt soaked.

‘Off! Off!’ he’s shouting into his walkie-talkie. ‘Turn everything off!’

Poor Tarkie. He looks stricken. He looks like he might cry. I’m about to go and give him a hug, when Suze comes running up, her eyes glowing with sympathy.

‘Tarkie, never mind.’ She throws her arms around him. ‘All the best inventions have glitches at first.’

Tarkie doesn’t reply. He looks too devastated to speak.

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Suze tries again. ‘It’s just one fountain. And the idea is still brilliant.’

‘Brilliant? Catastrophe, more like.’ The earl is stepping forward over the puddles. ‘Waste of time and money. How much did this fiasco cost, Tarquin?’ He’s jabbing with his shooting stick as he talks. I feel like jabbing him. ‘Thought your fountain was supposed to entertain the troops, not drown them!’ He gives a short, sarcastic laugh, but no one else joins in. ‘And now that you’ve bankrupted the place and made us a laughing stock, maybe you’d like to take a few lessons in running a historic house properly? What?’

I glance at Tarquin and flinch. He’s turned puce with humiliation and his hands are nervously rubbing against each other. My chest starts heaving with indignation. His father is awful. He’s a bully. In fact, I’m drawing breath to tell him so, when a voice suddenly chimes in.

‘Now, now.’ My head jerks up in surprise: it’s Dad, pushing his way through the throng, wiping his dripping forehead. ‘Leave the boy alone. All great projects have stumbling blocks along the way. Bill Gates’s first company failed completely, and look where he is now!’ Dad has reached Tarquin now and pats him kindly on the arm. ‘You had a technical hitch. It’s not the end of the world. And I think we can all see, this is going to be a fine sight when the details are perfected. Well done to Tarquin and all the Surge team.’

With deliberate resolve, Dad starts to applaud, and after a few seconds, the crowd joins in. There are even a few ‘Whoo-hoos!’

Tarquin is gazing at Dad with something close to adoration. The earl has retreated, looking all cross and left out, which is no surprise, as everyone is totally ignoring him. On impulse I hurry forward and give Dad a hug, nearly spilling my wine as I do so.

‘Dad, you’re a star,’ I say. ‘And Tarkie, listen, the fountain’s going to be amazing. It’s just teething troubles!’

‘Exactly!’ echoes Suze. ‘It’s just teething troubles.’

‘You’re very kind.’ Tarquin gives a heavy sigh. He still looks fairly suicidal, and I exchange anxious looks with Suze. Poor Tarkie. He’s worked so hard, for months. He’s lived and breathed his precious fountain. And whatever Dad says, this is a huge humiliation. I can see both TV crews still filming and I just know this is going to be the comedy ‘And finally …’ piece on the news.

‘Darling, I think we need a break,’ Suze says at last. ‘Clear our minds and have a rest.’

‘A break?’ Tarquin looks uncertain. ‘What sort of break?’

‘A holiday! Some time away from Letherby Hall, the fountain, all the family pressure …’ Suze flashes a mutinous glare at the earl. ‘Angus says we need to make a trip to LA, to check on our investments. He recommends a trip to California as soon as we can. I think we should definitely go.’