Elizabeth is a rather showy beauty. Ok – she's very showy. She has masses of voluminous, bright red (dyed) hair, blue eyes and so much mascara that it must take her a couple of hours each day to remove it. If she actually can. The rest of her make-up is laid on just as thickly – it would be over the top for a smart dinner party, and I get the feeling that's not what this is going to be…
The most astonishing thing, though, is what she's wearing: a skin tight leopard print dress which doesn’t cover much of her well toned, bronzed legs. She’s half naked and is wearing an impressive pair of high heeled sandals, despite the fact that it’s not summer.
Not exactly the ideal outfit for this bloody Scottish mausoleum: the temperature in here must be about eighteen degrees, and outside it’s maybe five degrees, tops. For the record, I’m wearing trousers, a blouse and a large, warm black pullover.
Ian goes white immediately. Serves him right.
“Elizabeth, darling, let me introduce you to our guests. This is Count Langley,” says her father, and finally I understand who calls the shots in this family. The beloved daughter, of course – who else?
Elizabeth walks over to Ian, who gets up from the sofa, and shakes his hand like a proper diva. Pretty limp handshake, I think spitefully, as I observe the scene.
“It’s an honour, Lord Langley. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says with fake shyness. What, you actually think someone who dresses like that is shy? Come off it.
“Yes, he's right there in all the gossip magazines,” I comment, as I hold out my hand. “Jennifer Percy,” I say assuredly, as I shake her hand perhaps a little too firmly.
“I'm sorry?” she asks, looking aghast, I’m not sure if she’s referring to what I said or to my handshake.
From beside me, Ian sighs in irritation. “Jenny likes her little jokes,” he says through gritted teeth, then glances at me. Is it my fault that he gets photographed with those freaks?
“It must be nice to have such a friendly, frank relationship with your colleagues,” she says.
“Yes, Jenny's a very frank person,” Ian confirms, with a hint of sarcasm.
“As is Ian,” I say.
“Oh, you don’t even use his title!” says Elizabeth in amazement, thinking out loud.
“No,” I confirm. Does she actually think I should call him 'Milord’ and curtsey every time he walks past?
“I never use my title,” Ian re-assures her. And the way he says it makes it sound like it's his concession, rather than my decision.
“Yes, but I wouldn't even if you did,” I point out.
“Jenny is… how can I put it—” says our little Lord Fauntleroy, unable to finish his sentence.
“Is—?” I ask, archly.
“A little irreverent,” he concludes, giving his audience a fake smile.
“That, and much, much more,” I add, while Elizabeth looks at us with suspicion.
Beverly doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “Shall we move to the table?” he suggests.
“Of course,” I answer quickly. Finally there'll be something as well as alcohol.
Beverly offers me his arm, and Ian offers his to Elizabeth, and in this regal way we make our way to the dining room, where we sit down at a table loaded with silverware and antique plates shining in the light of a majestic chandelier. I hope Beverly had the roof re-inforced before hanging up a thing like that, it must weigh over a ton. I don't want to be squashed by all that opulence, not yet – there are still so many things I want to do.
“So, Ian, how’s your grandfather?” asks Beverly.
“Quite well, thanks. He's getting on, so all the usual aches and pains, but he’s still as intimidating as ever.”
“Well of course he is – he’s a duke,” Elizabeth points out with a snigger.
I don’t really see what's so funny.
“Exactly,” I reply, “he’s a duke – not a pharaoh.”
For a moment, everyone looks at me in astonishment. Good.
“No, grandfather certainly wouldn’t appreciate being called a mummy,” Ian confirms, laughing at my words, and his reaction makes the others relax visibly.
During the meal, we are served many courses, one after the other, and I try, not without difficulty, to find something suitable for a vegetarian like me.
Elizabeth quickly notices my hesitation. “Is everything ok, Miss Percy?” she asks, the perfect hostess.
“Fine, thanks, I’m just not very hungry,” I re-assure her. It's a huge lie – I’m absolutely starving, I just don’t think it’s appropriate to tell your hosts that you can't eat any of the things they're serving. “And please, call me Jenny, everybody does,” I say with a smile, to change the subject.
“Oh thanks, Jenny – I will,” she says, genuinely pleased.
I can’t believe it. This gaudy girl is in fact an insecure and ordinary creature. No wisecracks, no cutting wit. Worse yet, I can’t detect any irony at all. Is she really sure she wants to be with someone as cynical and cruel as Ian?
“What do you do?” I ask, in an attempt to start a conversation.
“I’m in PR!” she says, proudly.
“Are you?” I say, giving Ian a knowing look. “And what part of PR, exactly?”
“I organize events and parties, you know, that kind of thing,” she explains hastily, as if she wasn’t quite sure herself.
So you don’t actually do anything, I think maliciously. Of course you don't, just as I imagined.
“And does your job leave you enough free time?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah! I have loads of free time to go shopping, luckily,” she confirms delightedly.
God, this is no fun at all – she’s making it too easy for me.
“Anyway, I'm not planning on working all my life. Once I get married, I’ll give it up,” she explains, and as she does she turns to Ian and gives him a pointed look.
“Of course. How old are you?” I ask, feigning interest as I reach over for some bread. Finally something with no meat in it.
“I’m twenty-four. And I’ve already been working for nine months!” she sighs, as though already tired of it.
For a moment, Ian remains immobile, his fork in mid air and his blue eyes looking quite upset.
“And what about you, Jenny, how long have you been dealing with tax stuff?” she asks, trying to make conversation although obviously not out of any actual interest.
“Nine years,” I answer angelically.
“Wow! Nine years is a long time! Can I ask how old you are?” she asks, worried that she might somehow hurt my feelings.
“Of course – I’m thirty-three,” I answer. Revealing my age isn’t really a problem for me.
“And have you ever been married?” she asks, sounding slightly concerned.
Upon hearing this question, Ian burst out with a laugh, but manages to turn it into a cough, and I give him a look as he dries his eyes which are wet from the effort.
“No, I’ve never been married,” I confirm.
“I really hope I'll be married at your age. Or that I'll have been married,” she says.
“I’ve never wanted to get married,” I state quite calmly.
Elizabeth is so visibly shocked by my words that her father steps in immediately to re-assure her.
“Of course you'll get married, my dear,” he says, but not even his words manage to put the empty smile back on her face.
Getting to meet a career woman of thirty-three years old who’s never been married must have shaken her up, poor thing.
Anyway, she soon remembers her mission and starts looking seductively over at the count, the future marquis and one day duke. He’s her target, as is plain for all to see.
Ian tries to ignore her, but she is making it so obvious that there's no way he'll be able to pretend not to have noticed. The dinner goes on peacefully and without further difficulties, until there's nothing else for it but to start talking about business. Or, at least, we try to, but Beverly just doesn’t want to know.
“The entire point of this weekend is for us to have a chance to get to know one another,” he explains as we walk back into the living room. “We'll deal with business once we’re back in London”.
What? So what the hell did we have to come all the way to this cold, godforsaken part of Scotland for? I shoot Ian a worried look, and see that he's obviously feeling the same way.
“Anyway, I shall leave you young people to your own devices,” Beverly concludes, and before disappearing he gives me a look that very eloquently tells me he wants to leave the two lovebirds alone.
Ian too has understood Beverly’s intentions, because he grabs my hand and leans towards me on the sofa. “You leave me here and you'll pay for it,” he whispers threateningly, with panic in his eyes. I’m almost tempted to stay and help him for a moment, but not quite enough to actually do it, unfortunately for him. I pull my hand away from his, stand up determinedly and lean over, pretending to kiss his cheek and whispering, “Next time, I'd suggest not threatening me. Try begging – that might work.”
And I head off to my gloomy bedroom with a snigger.
*
I’m sitting on my own at the huge dining table, looking forward to my breakfast. The only things I can eat, though, are toast and butter. There’s also an omelette, which contains bacon, and some sausages and bacon. There are muffins too – savoury ones, with ham instead of the usual blueberries. What a shame, I could have murdered a boiled egg.
I’m so immersed in my thoughts that I don't hear Ian sneaking into the room. He touches my shoulder in greeting, and I jump in surprise.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, sitting next to me.
“I was miles away,” I say, noticing his tired face. “Didn’t you sleep well?” I ask him.
“You might say that—” he confirms while stretching.
“Strange, I thought you'd have had company,” I tease him.
“Oh, please. And for the record, that business last night is going to cost you,” he says, helping himself to some omelette.
I give him an innocent look. “What do you mean? I don’t understand—”
“Come off it, I only just managed to get rid of her. And I was terrified she was going to turn up in my bed. There's no lock on my door, obviously, so I had to spend all night with one eye open. It wasn’t very restful,” he complains, shivering at the idea of unwanted guests under the covers.
“Oh, come on – what’s a sleepless night for someone like you—”
He gives me an exasperated look, then glances over at my half-empty plate.
“Will you tell me why you haven't eaten anything since we arrived?” he asks seriously.
“Because I’m vegetarian, and all anyone talks about here is hunting, and all they eat is meat,” I answer in annoyance.
“Oh—” he says in surprise, “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault – perspicacity's not exactly a strongpoint with you males.”
We have our breakfast quietly and are chatting about how pleasant the Scottish countryside is when my phone suddenly rings.
I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Vera calling.
“Hello dear,” I greet her, “how’s it going in town?”
“Where did you say you were?” she asks, nervously.
“Somewhere in Scotland. Why?”
“I don't suppose you've seen today's Sun, then?” she asks.
“Errm, no, I haven’t. You know I never read the tabloids,” I remind her. I thought everyone knew I only read the FT.
“Then you’re lucky that we do,” says Vera.
Starting to get annoyed, I put down the piece of toast I’m eating. “Vera, I'd love to spend all day swapping chit-chat with you, but would you mind getting to the point—”.
“It's the gossip page! There are pictures! Of you!” she exclaims.
Yeah, right.
“Are you still tipsy from last night?” I ask, worriedly. Vera's usually back to herself by Sunday morning, but it looks like today might be an exception.
“I didn’t drink anything last night!” she exclaims, sounding offended. “I was home with tummy ache.”
Something very weird is going on.
“Well it can't be me. It must be someone who looks like me,” I say assuredly.
“Jennifer, trust me – it’s you. And you’re with Ian.”
At those words, I look over at him, and he looks back at me questioningly.
“Ok, I’ll pick up a copy and call you back,” I say, starting to feel my own fear rising.
Ian looks at me with concern. “Bad news?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. My friend says that we are in the gossip column of the Sun. But she must have got me mixed up with someone else.”
“Of course—” he says. But strangely enough, he doesn’t sound totally convinced of his own words.
I leave the table quickly and go off to find the governess. She’s in the lobby with Elizabeth. The poor girl looks quite upset, and is gripping a newspaper. Oh, God!
“Good morning,” I say chirpily to both of them.
The governess grunts some sort of answer, while Elizabeth gives me a confused look. “Good morning,” she answers, in a very faint voice.
“Are you having breakfast with us? I think Ian's waiting for you in the dining room.” But she doesn’t bite. It must be serious.
She walks down the stairs and gives the newspaper to the governess. Now I’ll have to get it off that old bulldog, who is already glaring at me as if she's all set to bite. I’m guessing it won’t be easy. Right at that moment, Ian appears at the door. “Oh, the paper! Just what I was looking for,” he says. Cunning thing!
The housekeeper can’t avoid giving it to him, but she’s annoyed and she does nothing to disguise the fact.
Ian grabs the Sun and starts climbing the stairs towards his room, me behind him, ignoring the withering looks from down in the hall.
I catch up with him quickly and snatch the newspaper from his hands. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look,” I say nervously.
“I do mind, actually, because I’d like to give it a look myself first,” he answers, snatching it back, and we bicker all the way to his room. Ian slips inside, and I follow him.
“I did think, at least, that I wouldn't have to defend myself from this type of thing with you, Miss Percy,” he says, sarcastically.
I rip the newspaper from his hands.
“Oh don't talk rubbish!”
Strangely, Ian is smiling as he tries to defend himself from me.
“Come on, let’s find these pictures,” he says as he sits down at a table. As I imagined, his room is basically a luxury apartment, and a very impressive one to boot. The table he’s sitting at is a Louis XVI – a real one, for a change.
“Where’s the gossip page?” he asks, as he starts leafing through it.
“How would I know?” I answer. I mean, come on – this isn't the type of thing I normally read!
Ian snorts. “You are a woman, at least in theory. What kind of woman are you if you never read the gossip columns?” he accuses me.
“I’m obviously a woman who doesn’t read gossip columns. There’re a few of us around, hadn't you heard?”
“How shocking,” he says.
“Yes, I can imagine it must be.”
After a moment we finally find the page we're looking for, and there we are. The picture is out of focus, but it's clearly us. The article’s headline is “New Flame for the Duke of Revington’s Heir” and it shows us outside the place we met the other night, as we were saying goodbye. I’m touching his arm and he’s holding my hand.
“God—” I say, taking a deep breath. Ian says nothing, so I start reading the article.
“'The mystery girl, who sources claim is not part of the count's usual circle of friends—’ Dear God, deliver me,” I comment, then go on reading. “'… unlike the count's usual conquests, his new flame is no extravagant beauty, but it’s clear that the hunky young aristocrat has deep feelings for her—’”
At these words, I burst out laughing. A loud, not very refined laugh.
“What?” asks Ian, sounding annoyed.
“They say you were looking at me with dreamy eyes—” and I start laughing out loud. I guess that girls don't usually behave so ungracefully around him. Ian carries on reading, trying not to let me distract him. “Well anyway, there’s nothing compromising in the article,” he says, once he's finished.
“Of course not – the only compromising thing they could have seen would have been an argument,” I remind him, trying to sound serious.
“I wouldn't have thought it, but luckily—” he agrees cryptically.
“I'd have preferred not to appear in the newspaper at all. You know, I've got my career and my credibility to think about, unlike the girls you usually date,” I say.
“I don’t date them,” Ian says back. “We go out to dinner every once in a while. Anyway, I’m single—”
I lift my hand to cut him off. “I don’t care who you go out with and what you do. That's your business. The only annoying thing is that even a bloody work meeting with you turns into news.”
“Do you see what I’m up against, now?” he asks.
I look at him seriously. “Don't you understand that it’s your own fault if you end up in situations like that? After crying wolf so many times, nobody believes you any more.”
“Oh, of course, Miss Perfect bloody Girlfriend, Miss bloody living-together,” he says angrily. I've obviously hit him where it hurts.
“I’ve never 'lived together' with anyone,” I retort.
“Exactly!” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest.
“Anyway, this time it was nothing serious. Just the Sunday papers,” I say out loud in an effort to convince myself.
“So the Sun is just the Sunday papers to you? That picture's in colour and they've splashed it over half a page, if you hadn't noticed,” he insists, showing it to me again. Hang on, whose side is he on?
“Close that bloody paper,” I exclaim, starting to lose my cool. “In fact, why don’t you throw it away?”
I rip it out of his hands, crumple it up into a ball and throw it into the bin by the door. Amazingly, I don't miss.
“Anyway, there's one good thing about all this,” he says seriously.
“Which is?”
“Elizabeth must have fallen for it, so she'll probably leave me in peace now.” The idea actually cheers him up, for God's sake.
“Great! Offending our client’s daughter – brilliant move… Wish I'd thought of it myself,” I say sarcastically. Elizabeth is a pain in the neck, but there's no need for Ian to know I agree with him.
“Yes, I definitely should have thought of it sooner!” the young lord exclaims, completely ignoring my wisecrack.
“Oh, please—” I say, trying to bring him back to reality. I stand up, about to leave the room.
“And now that that's sorted, I'd like to talk to Beverly about work. We’ve already wasted enough time,” I say solemnly.
Ian decides to follow me. “I never thought I’d say these words, but for once, you're right.”
And he opens the door.
*
A few hours later, Beverly is saying goodbye to us with satisfaction as we climb into the car, to head first to Edinburgh and then back to London. Surprisingly, we managed to get a good couple of hours' work in before Elizabeth somehow managed to manoeuvre us back into banal, shallow conversation.
Beverly was happy with our proposals and with a bit of luck we will be able to draw up a convincing action plan once we get back to the office.
I’m just about to get into the car when I hear Elizabeth say sadly to her father, “I just couldn’t believe it. Why, daddy? I mean – she’s so old!”
Err, who exactly are you calling ‘old’?