When the Daily Mail journalist and the world-weary photographer finally left, Izzie and Maddy slumped against the closed front door, wrung out and gasping for a glass of wine and a fag.
“Oh God!” Maddy groaned. “I’m never going to live this down!”
The phone rang again. It had been nonstop all morning. “Look, you get that.” Izzie heaved herself up. “I’ll get the essentials. Where’s the corkscrew?”
“Paysage Enchanté?” Maddy purred in her professional voice. “Yes, certainly. No, I’m sorry, we don’t take credit card orders. Yes, certainly.”
She gesticulated wildly at Izzie, miming her need for a pen to take down the details. Izzie hurled a crumpled envelope and an eyeliner pencil, scavenged from the depths of her crumb-strewn handbag, and Maddy wrote down a name and the size of the order, then hung up, rolling her eyes. “We’ve got to get a more efficient system going.” She sighed, adding the envelope to a pile of other scraps of paper. “This is pitiful!”
Izzie laughed ruefully as Maddy handed back her eyeliner, now blunted beyond use. “I reckon we’ve bottomed out. We couldn’t get any more inefficient.”
“Don’t you believe it! I’ve got an order here somewhere written in crayon on one of Pasco’s nappies! Clean, of course,” she added, seeing Izzie’s horrified expression as she poured out two generous glasses. “But I was upstairs at the time, and I didn’t have a notepad handy.”
Izzie looked around at Maddy’s once beautiful kitchen. She’d have given a kidney to have one like it, or at least the way it had been before they trashed it for the interview. “Do you think we got the subliminal message right for them?”
Maddy groaned theatrically. “Well, it must be right, ’cos it’s got everything in it now I hate.”
“Yeah, yeah! I know, but it won’t take long to restore to its former beauty, and if it works and the orders keep on coming in like this, we could be solvent again by, er . . . actually, I have no idea at all! And we can go back to being cashmere Maddy and—”
“Oxfam Izzie?” supplied Maddy helpfully, ducking the tea towel. “Okay, sorry. All right, even I can put up with it for one afternoon. You realize we’re going to need help with the money side.”
“God! Is there anything we can do?”
“Well, we know how to make the balm—and we are pretty talented at stage design. This house looks like a set for the West End.”
Izzie gazed around at their efforts. “Yeah, Les Misérables!” A delve through the cupboards earlier that morning had revealed a rich seam of props: a large pestle and mortar, a mezzaluna chopper and board, some large earthenware bowls—all unused.
Izzie had busied herself, steaming labels off bottles of Carluccio’s olive oil infused with herbs and put them out on display. A load of Robert Welch cast-iron ware was dusted off and arranged artlessly on the counters—what the hell was Maddy doing with a recipe book stand anyway?—copper-bottomed saucepans, salt pigs, wooden spoons. A lot of it Maddy seemed to have forgotten she ever had. Some items looked like wedding presents that had never even been opened—it was like the stock room at Divertimenti. By the end of the morning, virtually everything Maddy did use in her forays into the kitchen had been replaced by things she had never used.
The hallway had proved less of a challenge. By the judicious use of dried flower swags, bought at great cost—both in terms of money and personal credibility—from a boot-faced woman in Ringford, who took great exception to their giggling, they had camouflaged the ultramodern light fittings. By stacking up wellies and walking boots, and the unused croquet set along the wall, they had created a reasonably homespun rustic effect.
“I can tell we’ve got it right”—Izzie had laughed—“by the fact that you look like you’ve got a nasty smell under your nose when you stand back and look at it!”
Maddy had moaned in mock distress. “My house, my beautiful house! It looks like a commune. All stripped-pine, scatter cushions, macramé knickers, and knit-your-own yogurt.”
Preparing the house had been a picnic compared to transforming their own image. “You were right; you do look like a pig without your eye makeup!” Izzie had gasped as they stood back and gazed at themselves in the bathroom mirror.
The final look they’d achieved was somewhere between Doris Day and Looby-Loo—all scrubbed rosy cheeks and neutral lippy, and thanks in no small part to Izzie’s hoard of old maternity clothes.
Their enthusiasm was clearly not contagious, and the journalist and the photographer had looked afraid that they might catch something, accepting the offer of murky camomile tea without enthusiasm. The questions had been predictable, and within minutes Maddy and Izzie were working like a double act, expounding (and expanding) the virtues of Grandmère Luce as if they had known her personally.
“Yes, she was an inspiring lady, all right,” Maddy had heard herself gushing. “In some ways, I’d like to think I could bring some of her amazing spirit into my life today and perhaps to share it with other women. Finding her book was like a link going right back through the years!”
Izzie had winced at the mawkish claptrap and tried very hard not to catch Maddy’s eye. For some reason they had both adopted a gracious, oh-so-sincere manner not unlike that of Mrs. Thatcher in her more mellow moments. It was very hard to drop, once you’d started.
The only tricky moment was when the hack had tried to steer Maddy into talking about Simon. Izzie could see Maddy’s eyes narrowing—she’d murder Pru—and jumped in quickly. “Our children are everything to us. We feel it’s vital to create an atmosphere in our homes that will give them a solid basis in today’s hurried world.”
Maddy had calmed down now. “And the healing balm really works!” she chimed in. “That’s the thing to remember. By tapping into Luce’s wisdom and knowledge, we’re bringing women something they’ve lost over the years—and something they’ll recognize as being of value as soon as they see it.”
Izzie now took a large glug of wine. “Well, thank heavens that’s over. Never again!”
The morning’s post had brought another deluge of orders. After they’d snatched some lunch, Maddy set to again making up the recipe and Izzie, in a burst of efficiency, went through the pile of scribbled phone orders and prioritized them in date order. She’d finished punching out the figures on Will’s Fisher-Price calculator, and the final figure made her gasp.
“Are you sure these toy calculators work?” She turned to Maddy. “’Cos if they do, we’ve got about six hundred pots to make up this week.”
Maddy turned from the pan she was stirring on the Aga. “Well, this lot is only going to do about a hundred, and that’s it. We’re out of ingredients. We need more of everything.”
“Right then. Where’s the phone? I’m going to make some calls.”
Two hours later, she’d contacted every beekeeper in the county she could find in the phone book, but the lavender was proving a problem. She put the phone down despondently and turned to Maddy who was with Crispin, making him a cup of coffee and a hot cross bun. “Everybody is saying the same thing. If we buy it dried, even from the wholesaler, it’s going to cost the earth. And that will slash our profit margin.”
“Why don’t you ask those hairy women in Wales to sell you some of their essential oil?” he asked, spraying crumbs over the table. “They do all the extracting and everything in the summer, when the lavender is fresh, and the oil keeps almost indefinitely. It’s biothermodynamic or something. They kept banging on about it when they were giving me the massa . . .”
He trailed off sheepishly. But not soon enough. Maddy was on his case in a flash. “Crispin, were you about to say massage, by any chance?”
“Well, yeah. I had a bit of a headache, after the drive and everything, you know. So one of them did my aura, and then another did my meridians. I didn’t ask them or anything. And it’s not like I enjoyed it . . .”
Izzie laughed, shaking her head incredulously. “You really got your feet under the table there, didn’t you? I reckon this biodynamic thing could make a great story. Maddy, have you got Pru’s number to hand? If we can get hold of this lavender oil, we should tell her all about it.”
“Just as long as we don’t have any more journalists here, I’ll tell her anything you like!”
Over the next two days, Izzie had visited about half a dozen of the beekeepers. Although most of them had a standing arrangement with a company in a local town that supplied the cosmetics industry, they were more than happy to sell their excess to Izzie and Maddy, particularly as they offered to collect it by car.
It was Maddy’s job to lure Lillian away from her lucrative temping work in Oxford. It wasn’t as easy as they had hoped, and she’d had to dangle the offer of lunch as a last resort. She then put in a call to Jean Luc. Izzie listened as she gabbled down the phone at him in French, too fast for her to keep up with what she was saying, though she heard her name being mentioned a couple of times.
“Right,” Maddy said when she had finished and referred to the notes she had made. “He says he’s found a bulk supplier of organic olive oil in Provence, but it don’t come cheap. I’ll call them later, and he’s promised me a consignment of centpertuis by Tuesday. He’s over here anyway on some other business.” Izzie worked hard to quash her glee at the news. Maddy laughed. “He’s incredulous that he’s actually encouraging this stuff to grow.” She mimicked his accent: “‘I can’t believe what you’ve got me to do, Maaaddee. A weed I struggle with for years—suddenly I’m giving it the best soil!’”
Driving home later that morning, Izzie had time to think for the first time after all the frantic activity of the last few days. Reordering the materials they needed would make a heavy dent in the mail-order money they had already deposited into Maddy’s bank account. It was all getting very confusing. Just how much money did they have exactly? All the checks were for £27.99, which didn’t seem that much, but they must have banked four hundred checks already. She did a mental calculation.
“Fuck me sideways!” Maddy shouted when Izzie phoned her on the mobile. “Over eleven grand? Are you sure? We’re in the money, babe! If we ever manage to wash the smell of this stuff out of our hair, we should go out and treat ourselves—oh and the kids, natch!”
Half an hour later, with Pasco asleep in the buggy, they sauntered into the bank and Maddy withdrew four hundred pounds, then handed Izzie a wad of notes. “Here you are. All of Ringford at your feet. Where do we start?”
They stood outside the bank, gazing around hopefully. “This is scary—normally I can spend money for England, but looking round, I can scarcely contain my indifference!”
At a loss to find a single thing for themselves, they spent the next half hour in displacement activity, and indulged the kids at Woolies. “How come it doesn’t count if you spend money on your children?” asked Izzie, from behind an armful of Action Man and Animal Hospital boxes.
Maddy pulled down a huge pack of Stars Wars LEGO. “Same as when there’s no calories in their leftovers at tea.”
Armed with huge bagfuls hooked over the handles of the buggy, they made their way back to the car. “God!” Izzie stopped in her tracks. “I’ve forgotten Marcus.” Leaving Maddy with the car keys, she dashed back to the chemist and, in her haste, she grabbed the simple option—a gift pack of Clarins for Men, on special offer with a rather dinky little black toilet bag. He’d like that!
When she unloaded the spoils at home after school, the kids were delirious, and within minutes the boxes were ripped open and she was unwinding those maddening plastic-coated wires that were wrapped around Action Man’s unfeasibly meaty thighs. Marcus, when he got in, was soon caught up in the atmosphere. Whisking Izzie into a frenetic and totally inept tango round the kitchen, with the children whooping enthusiastically, he seemed genuinely pleased at her excitement and kissed her with unexpected ardor. Later she caught him poring over his new skin care, reading the instructions with the greatest attention. Maybe this was going to be the answer to everything!
Next morning, after very little sleep, Izzie was at Maddy’s bright and early to make up for bunking off the day before, unable to wipe the grin off her face. Maddy looked a little puffy eyed, and Izzie suspected that bringing home treats for the kids had reminded her of far happier times. She rubbed her friend on the shoulder. “Okay?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah—fine. Really. I had a bit of a bawl last night after the kids were asleep. I wanted to get something for Simon. Silly really—”
The phone rang. Damn, they hadn’t switched the answer phone on! But Maddy looked pleased. “Pru! Did you speak to those Mail people? What did they say?”
She listened quietly as Pru spoke, frowning slightly, then glanced up at Izzie, strapping on a clean apron in readiness for the day’s boiling and stirring. “Yes, of course. If you really think we need to. I mean, things are going fine here. We’re more or less managing to keep up . . . Well, of course. Will next week do? Oh all right then . . . Yes, we’ll come as soon as we can!”
“Now, as I understand it from what you’ve both said,” concluded Pru, looking down at the sheets of paper in front of her, “you want to keep a low profile and just tick along as you are.” She leaned back in her office chair and put her pen to her lips ponderingly.
Maddy looked at her and was nervous. This wasn’t a Pru she was used to. This was Professional Pru, and she didn’t like the look of her at all. Suddenly she realized that things had changed dramatically. Izzie and she had become a brand, a client, a brief.
“I think,” Pru said finally, leaning forward over the desk and twiddling her pen with both hands, “that you are wrong.”
Izzie glanced at Maddy, alarmed, but Maddy could only look quizzical.
“I believe,” Pru went on slowly, “that the press have focused in on this earth mother message. The cream itself works wonders, that we can’t deny, and the fact that it does is what will keep it selling. But it’s a tough market out there, and you are not the first to put together a natural cosmetic product. Let’s face it, the country is awash with natural products.” Maddy and Izzie sat like children listening to her, both with a sense of foreboding about what she was about to say. “But there’s another side to the story of Paysage Enchanté, and that’s you two and Old Granny Luce.”
Izzie and Maddy looked at each other again. “Go on,” said Maddy hesitantly.
“The Daily Mail reporter rang me back twice after interviewing you both, wanting to know more details and to check facts about Luce’s journal. And it got me thinking that our best hope of success—real success—is to major on you both and the earth mother element.” She took in their bemused faces, before carrying on. “You are both mothers living in the countryside. Maddy is coping on her own—big sympathy vote—”
“Now hang on a minute,” Maddy interrupted, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable indeed. “You’re not exploiting—”
Pru held her hand up to stop her. “Not exploiting, no. I just think we can get some mileage out of you both as women who run your own families and have good traditional values. If we put the right spin on it, we can turn you into the Luces of the twenty-first century, with your farmhouse kitchen, chickens, and hordes of children all with blooming health and rosy cheeks.”
Maddy wasn’t sure whether she liked the idea of Rhode Island reds running amok around her Mark Wilkinson cabinetry.
Izzie had, at last, seemed to find her voice. “Well, didn’t we talk to the Daily Mail about that already? Won’t that do the trick without . . . without . . . ?”
“Izzie, I don’t really think it’s enough.” Pru sounded quite gentle with her, and Maddy wasn’t sure whether this was out of sensitivity to Izzie’s natural shyness or, and she was ashamed for feeling so cynical, a deliberate ploy to make sure Izzie went along with what she had to say.
“I had a request this morning from Country Lifestyle. They want to do a profile of you both with lots of luscious vegetable garden shots, children playing in the orchard, dew on the grass—you know the sort of thing. And they want to do it soon to get it in the May issue. In fact—” she paused and referred to a sheet in front of her “—they are dropping a feature to put you in.” She looked up. “In PR terms, girls, that’s dynamite. But you are both going to have to play up the back-to-nature card. You know, dress down a bit, bake lots of cakes . . .”
Izzie glanced at Maddy and they both smiled. “Izzie’s your woman for that!” She laughed, lighting a cigarette.
“Izzie, those low-slung combats are too now. You’re going to have to wear skirts, be feminine, a bit vulnerable but basically strong and capable. Maddy, those highlights are going to have to go, and, this is the hard bit, so are the fags.”
Maddy blew out a plume of smoke. “Oh for goodness sake, Pru!”
“Exactly, goodness is what it’s all about. You have got to be wholesome, good, pure.” She warmed to her theme. “When Anita Roddick started the Body Shop, she lived and ate the environmental be-kind-to-animals message and that was half the secret of her success. When this Country Lifestyle journalist comes up—I’ve said Wednesday, if that’s okay—you two are going to have to be as handmade and wholesome as the healing balm. Those women who slap it on every night have to believe that it will magically make them finer people, that, thanks to you, they will be better mothers and wives, they’ll be superb cooks of organic wholesome foods to send their angelic children off and out, happy and fulfilled. They will have crisp, fresh linen dancing on the line, a permanent smile on their face, a basket full of flowers over their arm.”
“All right, all right, we get the message.” Maddy laughed, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Save your prose for the press release. Okay, let us know when this woman wants to come, but this had better be a one-off.”
Pru looked serious. “I don’t think it will be. I have to say that the press response to this product is unprecedented in my experience. You are getting little mentions all over the place, and where the papers lead others will follow.”
“Can I smoke in here?” Maddy leaned forward fifteen minutes later to address the cabdriver through the glass.
“Sure, love. Just don’t stub the butt out on the seat.”
“Maaaaddy,” said Izzie, reproachfully. “You heard what the guru said.”
“Oh sod it. No one’s going to see.”
The cab pulled away from the curb and joined the queue of traffic. “Now where did you young ladies say you wanted to go—Marylebone, was it? You know, you two look a bit familiar. Have I seen you on the telly? Or was it . . . ? I know, it was in the paper, wasn’t it?”
“Nooo,” said Izzie loudly, her face creasing into a huge smile as she looked at Maddy. “Think you must have muddled us up with someone else.”
“I’ve had an idea,” said Maddy suddenly, and she leaned forward again to talk to the cabdriver through the glass. “Can you take us to Sloane Street instead?” She sat back in her seat. “Let’s not go home straight away. Pasco’s with Janet and we’ve plenty of time before we need to get back. Let’s go and have some fun. We’ve still got most of that money we took out—and the rest is in my account—so lunch is on you via me! Here begins the missing link in your education. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the delights of the GTC café.”
Maddy dragged her through the door and made a beeline for the café at the back. Izzie looked around her at the exquisite bags, furniture, silk throws, and chinoiserie as if she had entered a different world. “My mum used to despise this place. Said it was the playground of the ladies who lunch, but I think secretly she desperately wanted to come here.”
“Oh, it’s still full of ladies who lunch. You’ll see.”
They were early enough to secure a table quickly and, like a child on a treat, Izzie gazed around at the faces of the women seated around them, all with Peter Jones bags tucked by their feet. She leaned forward to Maddy conspiratorially.
“How come they all look so bloody healthy?”
“Courcheval, darling, or perhaps Mauritius. Where else?”
“It’s all so . . . entitled,” marveled Izzie, “in a sort of understated way. I bet you had your wedding list here.”
“Only part of it, darling. Peter Jones for the essentials, of course, and Les Galeries Lafayette in Paris for the French rellies!”
It took some persuading to get Izzie to have the two-course lunch (“look at the price!”), but after a bowl of soup, mountains of sun-dried tomato bread, a dainty little salad, and a glass of wine each, they both felt more relaxed, and listened in intently to the conversations going on around them.
“So how are the Northops?” brayed the sleek, tanned brunette beside them.
“Oh, busy as ever,” replied her friend, trying to get a piece of recalcitrant rocket salad into her mouth without smearing the dressing down her chin and her cream polo neck. “Camilla’s going to Cheltenham, I hear.”
“Was she at Tarquin’s party? Victoria said Ben was so drunk he threw up all over the Crucial Trading seagrass carpet in the hall. Alco-pops I suppose. God, they’re only thirteen!”
“In our day it was straight vodka,” whispered Izzie. “Or Lambrusco ’cos you didn’t need a corkscrew!”
“Maddy? It is Maddy, isn’t it?” Maddy felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Daisy Smythe-Mayhew, prize-winning school bitch and wife of one of Simon’s old work mates. They air-kissed each other on each cheek. Mwah. Mwah. “I hardly recognized you, you look so much . . . darker. How’s everything in the shires?”
“Oh, muddling along thanks, Daisy. This is my friend Izzie, who’s from the shires too actually. We’ve just come up to town for a shufti.”
Daisy briefly looked Izzie over and dismissed her. “And how are you coping?” She lowered her voice. “So sorry to hear about Simon and everything. Charles said things had been going so well for him.” No he didn’t, thought Maddy, stiffening, I bet he hadn’t got a kind word to say, the pompous old bastard.
“It’s been difficult, but the children keep me sane. We’ve just set up a little business venture, Izzie and I.”
“Always a good idea to have a bit of pin money. Listen, I’ve got to dash—couple of things to do before I collect the sprogs—but do come and see us, won’t you? We’d love to hear your news.”
They air-kissed again, said their farewells, and they watched as Daisy left the café like a ship in full sail, bearing GTC and Trotters carrier bags fore and aft.
“Cor! Small world, hey?” said Izzie.
“No. As Giselle would say, ‘thin upper crust.’”
“I’ve never seen you in action like that before.” Izzie was wide-eyed with admiration. “Do you really want to go and see them?”
“No, I bloody don’t,” Maddy hissed through her teeth. “Nor does she want to see me. She’s not just a cow, she’s as thick as shit and the only person stupider is her husband! Simon loathed him. Now come on, my girl”—she tucked some cash in under the bill and picked up her bag—“lesson two in how the other half live, and this time it’s strictly for us.”
An hour later, and they were waiting for a Circle Line train at Sloane Square station, Izzie gripping on to her stiff White Company carrier, into which she had stuffed the new pillowcases in their Peter Jones plastic bag, too shamefaced to display the temporary deviation from her usual left-wing tendencies.
“You shouldn’t have taken me into Jo Malone,” she said, as though it had been all Maddy’s fault she’d parted with thirty-odd quid for some body cream. “That was deliberately cruel.”
“Think of it as research and put it on expenses,” laughed Maddy. “We have to see what we are up against. Did you notice how all the staff in these shops wear black suits with white T-shirts? It’s sort of gear de rigueur. I think, old girl, it should be our mission to make sprigged cotton the new black.”
“How many mail-order requests will there be when we get home, do you suppose?” Izzie said later when they finally found a seat and the train pulled out of Marylebone. “If yesterday’s post was anything to go by, we’re going to be inundated.”
“Have we bitten off more than we can chew?” Maddy gazed out of the window and into the back gardens of the houses beside the railway line. She felt light-headed after the wine at lunchtime and despondent as she always did when she had to leave London behind. Kilburn, Dollis Hill. Neasden. How weird to think that the people who lived here, with their busy individual lives, might actually have read about them in a paper too, written out a check, and put it in an envelope to send to her house. Okay, maybe not Neasden.
“Without a doubt,” replied Izzie, leaning back in her seat and sighing. “But in a way it’s fun. It’s actually the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
“Yes, but if we’re not careful it’s going to run away with us.” Maddy leaned forward in her seat. “We’ve never done this kind of thing before and we need to get ourselves sorted out. We’re going to need people to help to get the pots out.” She counted the list on her fingers. “Money to pay them, money to buy the raw materials, premises. And the children? Who’s going to look after them when we’re busy? I don’t think Pasco is quite up to sticking on labels yet.”
“When you put it like that, it’s a bit scary, isn’t it? I really think we ought to try and nab Lillian full-time. She’s fun, she’s efficient, and she hasn’t—yet—got a permanent job. Do you think she’d come and help?”
“It’s definitely worth a try. At least she knows how it all works. But we need to think about the business side of it.” She glanced out of the window again. “We need someone who could advise us—not a bank manager type. They’re too terrifying and we wouldn’t know which words to use.”
“Oh I don’t know. I’m quite good at ‘can I extend my overdraft?’”
“Do you know, Izzie”—Maddy looked down at her hands sheepishly—“until now, I’ve never, ever been short of money in my life.” She plucked up the courage to look up and check Izzie’s reaction. She was smiling in disbelief. “Until Simon died and left us with nothing, I had never been in a situation where I couldn’t really buy whatever I wanted. Not yachts and diamonds, but if I set my heart on something, I pretty much got it. The best furniture, designer fabrics, nice clothes.”
“I’d noticed!”
Maddy smiled. She wasn’t sure Izzie believed her, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit how much she’d had to sell. “But there’s probably only so many jumpers and scarves Lillian will accept, and I’m not sure Tods and clam diggers are quite Crispin’s scene. His diggers are more JCB . . . No, I don’t like not having cash in the bank. I’m a spoiled brat really, and this situation is just not me. I want to sort this whole business thing out so I never have a scare like that again. I want to know that we’re handling the money right and that we make what we should.”
“Okay, let’s get some help. Who do we know? My parents are even vaguer about bills than I am and Marcus is a ‘creative’ so we can forget him.”
They both looked idly at the fields and farms that now flew by past the window. It struck Maddy that Izzie never really discussed the balance of her marriage, and she wasn’t sure, despite how much she had revealed about herself, just what she knew about Izzie. Her response to Jean Luc had not been quite what you would expect from a married woman. The mere mention of his name made her behave like a teenager. I might think Marcus is a jerk, she thought, but if Izzie thinks he’s so great, there must be something about him to admire.
“Er, tell me,” she faltered, “what has Marcus said about all this press response. Is he excited?”
“Well . . .” There was a second’s hesitation. “Less than I’d hoped. I try not to talk about it too much, what with him not working. It doesn’t seem fair that everything’s going right for me at the moment, especially when he’s trying so hard. Men can be so proud. I consider anything I earn as being our money, but I think, deep down, he feels he ought to be the provider. Perhaps the extra pressure of having to step in to take care of the children has been difficult for him too, what with his photography project and all that.” Good old Izzie, loyal to the last. Maddy let the subject drop.
“How the hell are we going to fake this country thing?” said Izzie after a while. “My wardrobe is old business clothes, half of them still have shoulder pads, and the rest is jeans.”
“Don’t think I’m much better.” Maddy yawned. “I don’t think Prada would really work, do you?”
They both lapsed into silence again, and Maddy could feel her eyelids drooping.
“I’ve got it.” Izzie sat bolt upright and kicked Maddy’s foot as she did so. Maddy started awake. “Janet.” Izzie’s eyes sparkled. “Janet is the country icon—she’s to the country what Anna Wintour is to urban chic. Do you suppose she’d let us raid her wardrobe?”
Maddy snorted. “On yer bike, love. You’re not getting me into bloody sweaters and thong sandals. I’m not that desperate!”
“The whole prospect does sound pretty dire,” Izzie conceded and slumped back in her seat. “I was too late for the hippie era. We’re going to need a makeover to get the image right.”
“And if Pru gets her way, we’ll be making the Summer of Love look like the miners’ strike.”
Izzie’s prediction had been right. There was a massive pile of mail-order requests waiting for Maddy when she got home at three thirty. Janet, once again, had done her angel of mercy bit taking care of Pasco while they’d been in London. She was obviously out now collecting Will and Florence. Maddy smiled at the vision of her standing in the playground, among the appliquéd army.
She picked up the pile—there must have been a couple of hundred of them—and carried them into the study to join the others which were piled up on the desk and all over the floor. There were envelopes in all shapes and sizes, some typed, some handwritten in big scrawly writing, others in tiny anal script—all wanting one thing, a piece of a miracle. Again the enormity of responsibility washed over her. The Easter holidays were looming and what on earth was she going to do with the children when there were all these orders to get out?
By the time the aforementioned rushed in, Maddy had gulped down two mugs of tea, smoked several cigarettes, first checking that the Wholesome Police didn’t have their binoculars trained on her window, and was feeling more human. She made a fresh cup for Janet and persuaded her to have a biscuit and sit down at the table while she started making supper.
“How did it go in the Smoke?” Janet enquired, dunking her ginger biscuit in her tea.
Maddy laughed wryly. “Yes, smoke. That came up, among other things.” As she put a pan on to boil for pasta and chopped up bacon for carbonara, she told Janet all about Pru’s marketing plan. “It’s just not us, Janet,” she said. “I’m about as much earth mother as Joan Crawford.” She put down the knife and took a deep breath. Oh what the hell.
“Janet, you’re the right sort of person for this image. You’re such a good person and I’m just flighty—and obsessed with designer labels.”
“Oh no, Maddy, you’re so elegant. Everybody in the village thinks so.”
“Well, that’s sweet of you to say so. But Izzie and I just wondered whether, just for this Country Lifestyle interview, you would let us borrow some of your . . . er . . . lovely clothes,” she finished lamely.
“What a thrill!” gushed Janet. God, this woman was game for anything. “I’ve got a barn dance on Saturday to organize and Sunday, well, that’s a workday for us God botherers, as you know, but can you both come over on Monday and we’ll see what we can dig out. I’m not sure anything I have will be right, and of course it’ll all be far too big for you both, but with a couple of belts and a following wind . . .”
Right, thought Maddy the following morning, Thursday. One problem sorted and just the small issue of honoring hundreds of mail-order requests and a company to establish. After another long day at Izzie’s, straining more centpertuis into the giant vats Izzie had tracked down at a catering wholesaler, she collected Will from a superheroes party at Ringford Community Center and limped home aching with stiffness and exhaustion. The evening was a trying one. Will was too fractious to do his school reading, and Florence flatly refused to put on her nightie, opting instead to go to bed in her pink ballet tutu. Too weary to care about either issue, she gave in and by the time she had finally settled them down enough to sleep, it was well past eight o’clock.
She was drinking a glass of wine and pulling off bits of meat from a cold chicken in the fridge—too exhausted to bother cooking herself supper—when the phone rang.
“Maddy, darling, it’s Peter.”
“Oh hi,” said Maddy through a mouthful. “This is an unexpected pleasure—I didn’t knowMaman let you near the phone!”
He laughed his deep, aristocratic laugh. “She’s gone to a charity fashion show with Josephine in town, so I have a lovely evening of peace and the crossword. Now listen—just a thought but I’m playing in a seniors’ golf match over the weekend, and I’m driving down tomorrow. Can I drop in on my way and steal a cup of coffee from you?”
“Oh I’d love that. I might be up to my ears in beeswax, but so long as you don’t mind that. What time shall I expect you?”
Peter’s big Mercedes pulled into the drive on the dot of eleven, as he had predicted. He really was an enigma, thought Maddy, as she watched him get out of the car in his yellow Pringle V-neck and golfing trousers. He was one of those constants in her life. A man of few words, solid, distant. At first she’d resented him for not being her real father, but he had simply taken her teenage moodiness, and later the arrogance of her twenties, on the chin. Then suddenly he would surprise her. Her wedding, for example, which had been out of this world, the check pressed into her hand at Christmas, and then this, a visit out of the blue. She suddenly felt intrigued.
He gave her an awkward hug and pressed a huge bunch of yellow parrot tulips into her hands on the doorstep and, inviting him into the kitchen, she bustled about exclaiming how lovely they were and finding a suitable vase.
“There’s a very odd smell in this house,” he said, bending his tall frame into a kitchen chair and taking Pasco onto his knee.
“Oh that’s our secret ingredient! Not very appealing, is it? But the addition of a bit of lavender takes the edge off things.”
“How’s it going? I keep seeing bits and pieces about you everywhere, and Giselle has even taken to tearing bits out when she sees them and sticking them in a file.”
“It’s okay,” said Maddy hesitantly, putting a mug of coffee in front of him but out of Pasco’s reach. “The response has been really quite amazing, and Pru—you remember Pru Graves, the one who made a pass at Simon’s brother at our wedding?”
“Did she ever find the rest of her clothes at the end of the party?”
“Boy, she was drunk, wasn’t she? Well, she’s quite the businesswoman now, runs her own PR empire and is giving us her advice. She says that the response has been unprecedented and that we need to get ourselves sorted.” Maddy sat down opposite him with her coffee cradled in her hands. She was desperate for a fag, but had only allowed herself one so far this morning. “Honestly, Peter, you should see the response we’ve had. Come and look at this.” She extracted Pasco from his arms, before he smeared a jammy dodger into Peter’s pristine sweater, and led the way through to the study, throwing open the door dramatically.
Peter laughed deeply at the envelopes piled haphazardly everywhere. “It looks like Santa’s grotto in early December.” Pasco started whinging, desperate to wriggle out of her arms.
By the time she came downstairs after putting Pasco down for a nap, Peter was sitting at the table again and had commandeered a piece of scrap paper from the sideboard.
“This is what you need to do. You need an accountant.” He scribbled down the name Geoff Haynes on the paper. “Talk to this guy. I used to have dealings with him in the City, and he lives out this way now.” He put the number next to the name. “Next you want to open a business account, with a trading name. Geoff will tell you that you need to set up a limited company. He’ll also advise you on VAT, mail order, and so on. Next you need premises. There must be industrial units around Ringford. Call a commercial estate agent. Don’t Suggs and Travis have a branch here?” As he made each suggestion, he wrote it down.
The list seemed to go on and on. Lawyers, professional indemnity, health and safety, staffing. By the second cup of coffee, Maddy had given up and lit another fag.
“Oh I wish Simon was here. He’d have explained it all to me. He was so dynamic about this sort of thing.”
Peter looked at her, aware that he was bamboozling her with details. Suddenly he put his hand on hers. “The irony is, my darling, that if Simon were here none of this would have happened. And for the first time in ages there is an excitement in your eyes—in fact, it might almost be the first time I’ve ever seen it.” Maddy smiled a little uncertainly. This was rather too honest.
“You’ve been a lucky girl all your life. And for once you are doing something because you have to. Your husband was a wonderful man in many ways, but he was an idealist.” Maddy frowned. “Workflow Systems would never have been the hit he wanted, but still he went and sunk all his savings and everything you made on the house in London into it.”
“How do you know?” Maddy finally got out.
“Once a City man always a City man. I watched his progress with interest, though of course I wouldn’t have dreamed of wading in with advice. He was—” Peter struggled for a moment to find the most apt word “—impetuous, and I’m afraid to say it was a trait which never did much for his career.”
“Oh, Peter, do I really want to hear this?”
“No, maybe not. But I want you to realize that, in a way, he has given you a fantastic opportunity. The chance really to use that pretty sharp brain of yours, because I may be your old fool of a stepfather, but I have watched you grow up. I love you very much, and I know you better than you think.”
Half an hour later, he heaved himself out of the chair and said his good-byes. “Darling, just call me if you want any help.” He hugged her really warmly this time. “I’ll do anything I can. It keeps the old brain ticking over and keeps me out of your mother’s way.”
She watched him from the front door, as he got back into the car. What a surprise he was.
“Oh, by the way,” she shouted as he wound down the window to wave, “where is your golf match? Do you have much further to go now?”
He smiled, called, “Hertfordshire,” and pulled out of the gate.