Five miles out of town, at Wyveridge Hall, they rose later, having been up, some of them, till the sky had started to lighten and high above the silhouetted battlements the clouds were tinged with pink. The old mansion had about fifteen usable bedrooms and these were crammed with festival goers; in some, the youngest members of the house party, those fresh out of uni, lay ten to a floor in sleeping bags, all paying forty quid a night for the privilege. But Ranjit Richardson, their dreadlocked host, was an astute Master of Ceremonies. He liked to have a few luminaries around too, to spice things up and give his satellite scene some glamour. And they, the younger crowd joked accurately, got special treatment. If you were published, you would, for the same price, be in a room with just one other. If you were famous, you’d have private quarters.
Unusually, Ranjit was one of the first down to the kitchen this morning. It was a wonderful old room that had surely changed little since the days when the Delancey family had been waited on by a butler and a team of servants. An ancient range took up the best part of one wall. Under the mullioned window were three big stainless steel sinks. Huge saucepans, encrusted with years of black grease, hung from the ceiling. Off to one side was a pantry, with shelves of slate and a musty smell of old vegetables.
‘See what your rival’s come up with,’ Ranjit said, yawning as he passed the Sentinel Review section across to the travel writer Conal O’Hare, who sat the other side of the big, wooden-topped kitchen table, eating a bacon sandwich of his own design – four slices of well-crisped bacon, a slew of grainy French mustard, two hunks of wholemeal brown bread.
‘He’s not my feckin’ rival,’ Conal replied, tugging with his spare hand at one of the dark curls that straggled down below his left ear. None the less he took the paper. Still munching on his sarnie, he speed-read Bryce’s review.
‘Such a twat,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Dan Dickson’s not that bad. And what has Bryce-effing-Peabody ever written that’s worth reading?’
‘A lot of brilliant reviews,’ said Ranjit. ‘One has to say.’
‘Does one? “Have to say”?’ Conal put on the exaggerated posh English accent that he’d been using to tease his friend since the day they had first met, at Trinity College, Dublin, a decade and a half before. ‘And what else?’ he continued, back in his well-maintained brogue. ‘Nothing. Except a crappy little biog of some barely remembered critic of the last century.’
‘Is that fair? Did you actually read the Leavis book?’
‘I did, as it happens. I went to the launch party. You forget, we used to be friends before the bastard betrayed me. Insofar as that tosser has any real friends.’
‘Don’t get obsessed, mate. What happened wasn’t entirely his fault.’
‘That’s not what I heard,’ Conal replied. ‘Dinners, flowers, presents. When he knew she was involved with me. I mean, that’s the thing that gets me.’
‘All’s fair in love and war. You’d have done the same.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Ranjit. ‘Of course you would.’
‘He’s twenty years older than her. Why can’t he pick on someone his own age?’
‘He’s at the top of his game, he can have who he wants.’
‘He already has a wife. And a girlfriend. It’s just gross.’
‘He doesn’t have a wife, actually. Bryce and Scarlett were never married.’
‘Whatever. They’ve got kids. That’s as good as married.’
‘Not in the eyes of the law.’
‘Screw the eyes of the law. As far as I’m concerned he’s a professional c-u-next-Tuesday, and if I could cause him serious harm I would.’
Ranjit laughed. ‘Oh yes, whatever happened to your “public revenge”?’
Conal let out a bitter chuckle. This was an idea that had been cooked up one drunken evening at the Frontline Club in Paddington, just after he’d returned from his long research trip to Somalia and was still in the stunned mullet stage of rejection. A tableful of friends had offered him suggestions as to what he should do to Bryce to make his point. Pouring a glass of wine on his head at a launch party was one option, but somewhat clichéd; in any case, Scarlett had already done that. ‘Kick him really hard on the shin,’ someone had suggested, ‘that’ll hurt like buggery but it won’t do him any damage.’ ‘But I want to do him damage!’ Conal had cried. ‘Seriously, I’d like to strangle the bastard.’
‘It’s still pending,’ he said now. ‘Maybe I’ll break his nose at one of the festival parties.’
‘D’you know what, mate? Leave it. The very best form of revenge is to be happy with someone new. Cruise past the pair of them with some cutie-pie on your arm –’
‘In fairness,’ Conal cut in, ‘it’s as much to do with me as anything else. It was hard core in Africa and I was eejit enough to keep Priya in my head like some feckin’ talisman. Something certain in an evil world. And then to come back and find …’
‘Yes, well, these things happen,’ Ranjit replied with a yawn. ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea. What d’you make of the Grace/Fleur combo?’
‘Lovely.’
On Ranjit’s suggestion, Conal had given these two young women a lift from London the day before. By the time they had arrived in the long and beautiful valley that led down to Mold, the three of them had been laughing together like old friends. This was typical of Ranjit. He was forever trying to stir things up, get things going.
‘More than just lovely,’ Ranjit replied. ‘Has Fleur shown you any of her films?’
‘We talked about them. And Grace’s “novel-in-progress”.’ He made the quotes with his fingers.
‘Don’t be so patronising, you arsehole. The films are excellent. Quirky and funny.’
Conal shrugged. ‘Grace has a boyfriend.’
‘Who’s in New York and on the way out, by all accounts.’
‘So I’m supposed to do to him what Bryce did to me?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Conal! Grow up. If you like her, go for it. You may find you’ve got competition.’
‘You?’
‘Certainly not. I’m cool with Carly. No, strictly entre nous Rory McCarthy has the hots for her.’
‘Does he now? That’s OK, because strictly entre nous I prefer Fleur.’
‘What are you waiting for? Tasty as a very tasty thing and currently single. I can’t guarantee she’ll remain so all weekend.’
But Conal’s eyes remained moodily on the floor. ‘I still love Priya. That’s the trouble. Can’t get the stupid creature out of my system.’