Gifted and Talented (18 page)

Diana’s heart sank. She had better things to do than waste her time being Sara Oopvard’s tour guide. She determined to brush off the responsibility. This woman had done nothing to help her, after all. ‘You want me to recommend some hotels?’

‘Of course not!’ Sara trilled. ‘We want to come and stay with you. Catch up! It’s been ages! Milo’s missed Rosie so much!’

Diana blinked. Sara Oopvard, chatelaine of one of the finest houses in one of West London’s most expensive areas, wanted to come to her council estate? Surely not. The idea was ludicrous. Perhaps she had the address and thought she lived on another sort of estate: one with a long, tree-lined driveway and stables.

Then Diana remembered how mean Sara was. Gnats’ arses had nothing on the grasp she had on the Oopvard finances. Diana almost felt sorry for Henrik. Experienced on the international money markets he may be, but there would only be one winner on the domestic front.

‘So, if you could put us up for a bit, that would be great,’ Sara pressed.

Diana struggled for the words. ‘Look, Sara, honestly, I don’t have the room . . .’

‘We’ll squash in with you! We love to be cosy!’

‘A hotel would be better,’ Diana insisted. ‘There’s a new one just opened, a boutique one, called Lecturer . . .’ She enunciated the name carefully. It really wasn’t a brilliant one for a restaurant, even one in a university town.

‘Boutique hotels are out,’ Sara cut in. ‘I’m a divorcée now, after all. Have to watch the pennies.
You
know all about that, of course . . .’

Diana let this pass. ‘When are you coming?’ she sighed. She was tired; she accepted the inevitable. She knew Sara Oopvard of old. Even if she, Diana, refused, Sara would still turn up. The brass areas of Sara’s anatomy were not confined to the neck. She had a brass everything.

The Hagworthingham Chronicle
had been a disappointment. Yet another waste of time, Olly felt. He had been told by the interviewing panel – specifically, a pompous, brassy blonde in a too-tight dress – that a great many well-qualified people had also applied for the position and that it was therefore unlikely he would get through to the next stage. Should that be the case, he would be contacted by letter. He was already sure, as he left, that he would not be.

It was hard not to feel bitter. Especially as the newspapers he had read on the way to the interview seemed full of the by-lines of former student contemporaries. And most papers that morning had run in their diary column the fact that Jasper De Borchy – despite the fact he was supposed to be studying at a university some hundred miles to the north – had been voted, at a recent gathering of great social minds, London’s most eligible male. He had, naturally, been accompanied on this auspicious occasion by Amber Piggott.

Olly had glared at the accompanying photograph of the handsome, self-satisfied face. ‘Currently setting all undergraduette hearts aflame,’ read the sidebar. ‘And setting other things aflame as well, if the club of which Jasper is a member – the university’s exclusive Bullinger Club – is living up to its notoriously destructive reputation.’

Olly soothed his ragged nerves by thinking about Isabel. Jasper De Borchy might have looks, money and influence. But he didn’t know Isabel. She was, Olly felt, and despite the
Hagworthingham
setback, his guiding star, so cheerful a prospect it was impossible to feel depressed. He had texted her a few times, hoping to meet up when he got back, but she had not yet replied. Possibly her mobile had run out of juice. Or she had lost it. He would go up to Branston tomorrow, Olly decided happily. Cut out the middleman. Much better to see her in the flesh, anyway – and what flesh it was!

In the meantime, tonight, he would make good use of his time. Get on the internet. Start looking again for a job.

It was raining and Olly’s suit was wrinkled and soaking by the time he got home. He winced at the thought of dry-cleaning costs. Not that he was likely to be recalled to the presence of the pompous, brassy blonde.

The house, when he let himself in, seemed oddly silent. He had the distinct feeling there had just been a row; there was a still-ringing quality to the quiet, as if the shouting had only just stopped. Even Hero’s music was not thumping as usual. He crept upstairs, not wanting to disturb the peace he imagined had only just fallen. Although now, as he approached his room, he could hear a noise: behind Dotty’s music-room door, a softly keening violin was winding up into the cold air of the staircase. It sounded sad; he wanted to burst in, share with Dotty some of his own good cheer. But perhaps he should leave her to herself; besides, he was soaked through.

He shrugged off his wet clothes, unable quite to rid himself of the sense that someone had been in his room in his absence. Yes. His laptop was missing. Suspecting Hero, Olly immediately went down and banged on her door.

She was on Twitter, as usual, sitting cross-legged on her black-covered bed, tapping the keys with long black nails. The light from the screen glowed blue on her dead-white face.

‘Who are you following?’ He could not help but be interested. She looked so intent.

‘I told you. Amber Piggott. And her friends.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Olly told her. ‘On my bloody laptop, as well. Where’s yours, anyway?’ Hers was much better, after all.

The panda eyes narrowed and the black-painted mouth twisted. ‘She –’ Olly knew this meant Dotty – ‘threw it out of the window.’

‘That window?’ he glanced at the window of Hero’s bedroom, or the eternally drawn, black curtains, which covered where the window must be. He had never actually seen it. But it was there; he could hear the rain hurling itself against the glass like a handful of pebbles.

‘No, the kitchen one,’ Hero said sullenly.

‘Why?’

‘Said I shouldn’t tweet at the table. Just eat.’

‘Well, good for her,’ Olly said, taking his laptop and turning to leave for the fresher air of the landing.

‘Whose side are you on?’ Hero shouted furiously after him as he closed the door.

Olly was nonplussed. He did not recall ever telling Hero she could use his laptop. He carried on downstairs. He was hungry; he had a packet of noodles somewhere and a couple of cans of lager that had been on special offer at the corner shop. A modest feast indeed, but the thought was unexpectedly cheering. He felt, at the moment, that nothing could depress his spirits.

A noise in the hall made him glance down. His eyes met the top of Dotty’s magenta beret and a shabby black and white tweed coat with big black plastic buttons down the front and on the epaulettes. David, opening the front door, looked strained and dishevelled in a creased navy cagoule.

‘You going out?’ Olly asked. ‘In this weather?’

Dotty tipped her face upwards and gave him a smile that barely struggled past her nostrils. ‘Parents’ evening at the school,’ she said, with a little twitching movement of her lips.

Olly now realised what the feeling of dreadful doom was all about. And the rows. Perhaps they’d decided to have them in advance, get them over with. Or they might have been a warm-up.

‘Good luck,’ he said, sincerely. ‘Still being a commando parent, Dotty?’

She raised doleful eyebrows. ‘I’m leaning towards being a cheerleader one now,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s all about praising your child’s achievements.’

‘What achievements?’ David groaned from the doorway.

Dotty turned on him furiously. ‘Your negative mindset hardly helps, David.’

He held up both palms in a gesture of defeat. ‘Look, can we just go and get it over with?’

Like condemned men, they went out into the rain.

Olly ate, drank and went back upstairs. He looked for jobs on various websites. One site, SkintStudent.com, offered to match the person to the job and Olly typed in his details, citing ‘Desperately’ and ‘Anything’ in the fields for how much you wanted work and what you were prepared to do. The match it made for Olly was with something called Petting Zoo. It supplied animals to children’s parties and required handlers. No experience was necessary, as full training would be given. Due to what was described as a temporary technical hitch, there were no pictures and Olly, typing in his details in the ‘Fancy A Job With Us?’ bit, imagined rabbits and white mice.

This done, he went down for another beer and was rootling in the alien glow of the open fridge when, from the distance of the hall, the outside door banged.

This was followed by the bang of the sitting-room door as Hero, who, in the absence of a laptop, had made a rare trip downstairs to watch the telly and had been immersed in some gloomy Scandinavian murder mystery all evening, shot back up to her room.

David, his face ashen, stomped into the kitchen.

‘How did parents’ evening go?’ Olly inquired as he peeled the tab off a lager can. A surge of foam shot out and ran coldly over his fingers.

In reply, David just stared at him with haunted eyes. Olly raised the can. ‘Want one of these?’

With a sort of strangled growl, David shook his head and lunged for the cereal cupboard, at the back of which, Olly knew, reposed the whisky bottle.

Dotty came into the kitchen now, looking distraught. She said nothing to Olly, just dragged out a chair with a screech of legs on floor, sat down hard and covered her face with her hands. Olly diplomatically left the kitchen. He did not want to intrude on private grief.

‘No time like the present,’ Amber had said, as Jasper, with one last look at Isabel, had drifted out. ‘Let’s get the wretched thing over with.’

This was the introduction to hours of work on Amber’s column. The first item was the award for London’s most eligible singletons, which Jasper had won.

‘I’m sure that won’t surprise you,’ Amber had said, glancing slyly at Isabel from the bed where she lay dictating.

Isabel said nothing. She wondered why Jasper wasted his time in this way; on the other hand, Amber could be difficult to resist and perhaps they were a couple, they certainly looked right together, although the situation was otherwise hard to read. But the real surprise, Isabel felt, was the amazing extent of Amber’s extracurricular activities. She hardly ever seemed to be in college. University was, of course, designed so people could run their own lives: enormous freedom combined with relatively few formal obligations. But even so, Amber seemed to be pushing it.

In the past seven days she had topless-modelled jewels for an in-flight magazine and been to Paris and Venice. She seemed to use private jets like other people used buses. ‘You bet!’ Amber crowed when she mentioned this. ‘The first time we flew scheduled, I turned to my mother and asked her who all the other people on the plane were.’ Hysterical laughter followed this witticism.

‘Shouldn’t your PR be doing some of this?’ Isabel asked when, after the column had been sent to the appropriate newspaper supplement, Amber rounded off the session by demanding Isabel tweet for her.

‘Probably, but she’s sacked me,’ Amber said carelessly. She looked up and gave Isabel a bright smile. ‘But now I’ve got you!’

Isabel felt a sort of panic rising. ‘Look, Amber, I can’t do any more for you. I’ve got essays . . .’

‘Don’t tell me about it!’ Amber groaned. Her expression became speculative. ‘You couldn’t run up a couple for me while you’re doing yours, could you?’ She pushed out an entreating lower lip. ‘I’m getting some
vewy cwoss
letters from the English Faculty.’

Isabel felt something in her snap. She remembered Olly’s warning about not allowing Amber to exploit her. Olly. He had been sending texts like crazy. She must reply, see him again, although possibly she might not mention the afternoon’s activities. He was certain not to approve.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It’s out of the question, Amber. I simply don’t have the time.’

She had expected Amber’s face to change to thwarted fury, not the ecstatic delight she now saw registering on her adversary’s perfect features. But Amber’s eyes, Isabel realised, were focused elsewhere, on someone who was apparently behind Isabel in the doorway.

‘Jasper!’

He was back. Isabel could not look. The merest glance would betray her, she knew. He stepped into the room; his mere proximity made her stomach flip over.

‘Finished?’ he asked.

‘Not quite,’ Amber huffed. ‘Izzy doesn’t want to do any more. I asked her for just a tiny wee bit of help with some ickle essays but she says, “No, No, No . . .”’ She stuck out her lower lip, either in a parody of babyish behaviour or babyish behaviour in reality; it was not clear which.

Isabel looked at him, her gaze guilty yet pleading for understanding. He
couldn’t
want her to do all Amber’s work for her. He
must
be able to see how unfair it was. His answering gaze was level, however. Not quite critical, but not exonerating either.

‘Izzy!’ he said, softly chiding. ‘Surely you can help Amber a little bit? We don’t want her to be sent down now, do we?’

Isabel felt suddenly helpless. She wanted to please him more than anything else in the world. Olly and his warnings melted away, then dried up completely in the overwhelming blaze of heat and light that was Jasper.

She turned slowly to Amber. ‘OK. I can help you with the next couple. But no more.’

Jasper was beaming at her; she felt a powerful burst of happiness. She decided, all the same, to get out of the room before she agreed to anything else. She rose to her feet, stumbling slightly, and muttered her farewells. Amber merely tossed her hair; that she had already banked the favour was obvious.

Outside the door, fighting an overwhelming sense of being exploited, Isabel realised she was not alone. Jasper had followed her; he was standing close, looking down at her.

‘Are you free on Saturday night?’

She stared at him in spellbound surprise. Was he asking her out on a date? But . . . were not Jasper and Amber a couple?

There was an expression in Jasper’s lingering, golden-syrup eyes that suggested otherwise. Or at least that things were less cut and dried than might be supposed.

She looked away. Looking at him was like looking at the sun. It made her want to screw up her eyes. She found her voice at last. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll see you then,’ he smiled. ‘Meet you outside the main entrance, seven-ish.’

‘Branston?’ Isabel croaked.

‘Oh, sorry. My college, I meant. St Wino’s.’

Isabel felt a faint twist of disappointment. The delicious vision of both Kate and Ellie watching as she tripped off on the arm of the gorgeous Jasper had leapt to mind. But it was not to be. Then something else he had said filtered through.

‘St Wino’s?’ She frowned. ‘Is that what you call St Alwine’s?’

He grinned. ‘My dear innocent, it’s what everybody calls it. On account of the
outrageous
decadence of its inhabitants!’

She wasn’t sure whether he was joking, nor did she care. A slow smile was spreading along Jasper’s mouth like a spark along a fuse.