The Wonder Worker (12 page)

“I’ve done something I know I’m going to regret,” she confessed, sinking down into the nearest chair, Mortimer clasped to her bosom for comfort. “In fact I regret it already. We’re going to have an extra guest on Sunday.”

“Fine, no problem—”

“It’s the biggest problem imaginable—really, I can’t think how I could have been so stupid! There I was, sipping champagne with Walter in one of those rather frightful hospitality tents, when someone shrieked behind me: ‘Cynthia darling!’ and to my horror I found it was someone whom I’ve been trying to avoid because, to be absolutely frank, she’s become a bit much. We used to belong to the same set in the sixties and she was a great friend of my husband’s eldest brother, but she made a disastrous marriage and went to seed and—well anyway, when I’d recovered from the shock of seeing her I said: ‘Darling,
what
a surprise!’ and in fact it
was
surprising because she was almost presentable, only the tiniest bit tight, and when she said how splendidly original it was of Richard to have married a Scot I actually felt quite warm towards her because such a lot of people were stuffy about the wedding and made snide remarks about kilts. So on an impulse I said: ‘Darling, do drop in for a drink sometime!’ and she said: ‘Lovely—when?’ which really put me on the spot, but I thought she might be all right if she had to eat at the same time as she was drinking, so I invited her to lunch on Sunday. However, when she cried: ‘Whooppee!’ and drank a glass of champagne straight off, my heart sank to my boots. The other guests will think I’ve taken leave of my senses.”

“They know her?”

“All too well—with the exception of Walter, of course, who met her today for the first time. God, what
am
I going to do? Walter says don’t worry, he’ll take care of her, but he has no idea of the size of the problem. If she goes over the top she might well try to tear his clothes off.”

“Gosh!” Up till now I had only experienced dramas of this kind on television.

“I think my only hope,” said Lady Cynthia, too worried to be aware of my vicarious thrill, “is to invite yet another guest, someone who’ll be able to whisk her away if she soars beyond the pale … Nick Darrow would be ideal, but he’s never in town on weekends.”

Immediately, as if to distract myself from all thought of Nicholas, I suggested: “What about Mr. Hall?”

“Lewis—of course!” Lady Cynthia was so struck by this idea that she almost dropped Mortimer. But then she hesitated. “He may not want to come,” she said uncertainly at last. “We don’t usually socialise, but perhaps in this case he’d make an exception to our rule.” And seeing my baffled expression she added in an abrupt voice: “I have a special relationship with Lewis and go to St. Benet’s every month to talk to him. He’s my spiritual director.”

I didn’t like to say: “What’s that?” so instead I murmured encouragingly: “I’m sure he’d want to come to your rescue.” As I spoke I was realising I had finally uncovered Lady Cynthia’s principal connection with the Healing Centre.

“Well, he certainly knows all about trying to cope with a society woman who drinks too much,” said Lady Cynthia dryly. “He was married to one.”

“I didn’t realise he was a widower.”

“He’s not. He’s divorced. But that was all a long time ago and he’s never remarried. The great thing about Lewis,” said Lady Cynthia, relaxing at last as she warmed to her subject, “is that he’s thoroughly sophisticated so no decadent behaviour would surprise him, and he’s thoroughly
au fait
with this woman’s social background so he won’t be inhibited about muzzling her if she becomes impossible. His father was at Eton with my father,” she added casually, as if producing the trump card which proved Lewis could be trusted to triumph over anyone remotely louche, “and his mother’s family owned that wonderful house in Sussex called Hampton Darcy which now belongs to the National Trust.” And having delivered this little snippet from Debrett she dismissed me in order to make the crucial phone call. It was only
later that I had the opportunity to ask: “Lady Cynthia, what’s the name of this tricky old acquaintance of yours?”

“Venetia Hoffenberg. And may I just say, my dear, that I consider the word ‘tricky’ to be a masterpiece of English understatement.”

I thought: this is going to be a real fun-lunch.

It never occurred to me that the inevitable drama would pave the way for the third miracle.

I

I went to Harrods
for the beef and eel, Marks and Spencer for the vegetables and fruit and Sainsbury’s for the more mundane ingredients. This tour exercised the Polo and gave me some interesting experiences in parking.

Back at Eaton Terrace I planned the approaching meal as if I were a general plotting a military campaign. The golden rule of English cooking is: never overcook the vegetables. But this is a hard rule to keep when several vegetables are on the menu, and on Sunday morning I was so absorbed in the challenges the lunch presented that I almost forgot to set my video to record the men’s final from Wimbledon. (I had a mild crush on Edberg.) However, as things turned out I needn’t have bothered. The weather was so foul that the entire match was postponed, but in the kitchen I was certainly grateful for the cool temperature. By the time I’d finished nursing each item to the pinnacle of eatability I still looked as if I’d been roasting in the oven alongside the beef, but at least the sweat wasn’t actually sizzling on my forehead.

Since I’d set out the smoked eel terrine with the sweet red capsicum salad while everyone was drinking champagne in the drawing-room, I didn’t get the chance to inspect the guests until Lady Cynthia buzzed me to remove the plates some time later. Mr. Walter P. Wood-bridge III, I discovered, was tall and handsome with melancholy brown eyes which reminded me of Mortimer. Unlike Mortimer he had iron-grey hair, beautifully cut, and the usual American teeth, flawless and well flossed. When he smiled at me and said a courteous “thank you” as I presented him with the first platter of vegetables, I even decided he was good enough for Lady Cynthia—good enough, at least, to be her escort. Naturally I didn’t want him to marry her and leave me homeless, but as Lady Cynthia was so cautious about men I decided my future was probably secure.

One of the other male guests had been elected to carve the roast beef, as Lady Cynthia had been nervous of entrusting this supremely British task to Walter P.W.III. Mr. Robert Welbeck, an old friend of hers, was the son of a knight, not a baronet, a misfortune which meant he had no title. (Lady Cynthia was always keen to tell me these details to ensure I got the place-cards right at the first attempt.) The untitled Mr. Welbeck was bald and portly, probably in his fifties. Despite the fact that he was a churchwarden of St. Mary’s Mayfair and, presumably, a Christian, he didn’t treat me as if I had any value whatsoever, and neither did his wife, a pencil-thin teetotaller who refused the potatoes. (I hate people who are strong-minded enough to do this.)

The next two guests I assessed were Lord Todd-Marshall (Conservative life-peer, no inheritable title, born middle-class, profession “something in the City,” hobby sitting on quangos) and Lady Todd-Marshall (title acquired by marriage, also born middle-class, unpaid profession magistrate, hobby organising everything in sight). Lady T-M was better behaved than Mrs. Welbeck and gave a little grunt of acknowledgement when she had finished helping herself to all the vegetables including both varieties of potato. I decided she and her husband were standard Tory Party fodder, Lord T-M bulky in grey, Lady T-M stout in navy-blue, neither of them about to win a prize for unconventional behaviour.

Having passed judgement on the Todd-Marshalls I turned my critical gaze on the last two guests: Lewis Hall (no title but born upper-class, marital status divorced, profession clergyman, hobby directing spirits—or whatever it was he did with Lady Cynthia once a month)
and the Shady Lady (born the daughter of a baron, title The Honourable, marital status widow, profession unprintable, hobby creating havoc).

Lewis was austerely and traditionally dressed in one of his tailor-made clerical suits, but still created the impression of a demagogue who preached hellfire and damnation in the pulpit and flirted with both behind the scenes. By now I was sure that this impression was deeply misleading, but I remained intrigued by his indestructible air of raciness. Of course he behaved beautifully. When our glances met he exclaimed: “Hullo, Alice! What a magnificent banquet you’ve prepared for us!” and he smiled, treating me as a real person instead of a robotic slave, before I moved on towards the Shady Lady.

The Honourable Mrs. Venetia Hoffenberg was tall, with fantastic hair, dyed jet-black and arranged to soar skywards into a knobbly hump which was nailed eccentrically into position by a couple of diamond hatpins. She had green eyes, false eyelashes, scarlet lips and a husky voice made huskier by a smoker’s cough. She looked as if she could seduce six men before breakfast and still be capable of downing a bottle of champagne with a seventh. Appearing to be wearing pyjamas, she was also flaunting enough gold bangles to win instant admittance to Fort Knox.

“Oh God, what’s all this rubbish?” she demanded disdainfully as I offered her my magnificent platter of vegetables. “Take it away and get me a drink! Which claret are you serving with this hunk of dead cow, Cynthia darling?”

“St. Estèphe, darling. The ’eighty-five.”

“Damn it, I never drink claret less than ten years old—I’d rather have bloody Beaujolais!”

“Are you sure?” said Lewis, suddenly turning to her with his most charming smile. “Personally I can never resist a St. Estèphe of any age, although I admit I do have a soft spot for some of those sixties vintages. Have you tried the ’sixty-three lately?”

“Don’t talk to me of ’sixty-three!” cried Mrs. Hoffenberg dramatically. “That was the most ghastly year of my life when I was crucified by a bloody heartbreaker and wound up married to a bloody clergyman!” She looked him up and down as if assessing his capacity to be bloody. “You married?”

“Yes and no,” said Lewis cunningly, intriguing her so much that she allowed him to reminisce about how he had met his ex-wife in an air-raid shelter during the war.

Having finished serving the vegetables I began to circulate with the horseradish sauce while Walter P.W.III, appointed by Lady Cynthia to take charge of the wine, belatedly began to pour out the claret. I deduced he had been thinking so hard of Lady Cynthia that he had quite overlooked the decanters until Mrs. Hoffenberg’s demand for a drink had jogged his memory.

In the kitchen once more I covered the remaining vegetables with foil, returned them to the oven to keep warm and ate a cheese sandwich to stave off the hunger pangs. In no time at all—or so it seemed—the buzzer sounded again. Abandoning the extra slab of cheese I’d just carved for myself, I sped back with the vegetables and found to my delight that the men were all having second helpings of roast beef.

“I haven’t had such a magnificent Sunday lunch,” Lewis was declaring, “since I took my grandson to the Dorchester to celebrate his twelfth birthday.”

“The Dorchester? Oh, I can’t be bothered with any hotel nowadays except Claridge’s,” said Mrs. Hoffenberg, whose voice had become gravelly. She was smoking between courses like an American—although the one American present was doing no such thing. She also appeared to have purloined one of the claret decanters for her own personal use. It was standing an inch from her glass and she’d put one of her gold bangles around its neck. I was reminded of an explorer claiming land by planting a flag.

“I felt my grandson should see the Dorchester as part of his education,” Lewis was saying amazingly, “although I have to admit I’m never averse to a little escapade at Claridge’s.”

“Hell, darling, neither am I!” said Mrs. Hoffenberg, suddenly deciding to behave like Mae West in one of her celebrated roles. “Why don’t we have an escapade there together sometime? You may be well over sixty but I bet you’re not way over the hill!”

The other guests, who had been listening with expressions of polite disapproval, now stiffened in open-mouthed horror, like a gaggle of goldfish spotting a cat closing in on their fragile glass bowl. Lady Cynthia’s face was a lovely shade of pink; I had never seen anyone look so stunning while being devastated by embarrassment, and I was aware of her Walter shooting her a burning glance, the sort of glance a gentleman of the old school gives to his beloved when he yearns to protect her from something which might sully her purity. I was offering the vegetable dish to Mr. Welbeck but he was oblivious of it. The
sight of a Shady Lady vamping a clergyman was just too good to be missed—appalling behaviour, of course, and quite beyond the pale, but nonetheless utterly riveting. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his wife shift in her chair, and when he jumped violently a moment later I realised she’d managed to kick him. Hastily he began to scrabble for a potato.

“If you’re generous enough to pay me that sort of compliment, I’m sure you’ll be generous enough to share your claret with me!” said Lewis resourcefully, and removing the bangle he placed the decanter out of her reach on the other side of his plate.

“Spoilsport!” snapped Mrs. Hoffenberg. “Cynthia darling, wheel on another vat of St. Estèphe!”

“There’s none left, darling. Alice, could you fetch some more Malvern water, please?”

Somehow I tore myself away, shot to the kitchen, grabbed two bottles of Malvern (one sparkling, one still) and streaked back to the dining-room just in time to hear Mrs. Hoffenberg announce: “… and the trouble with clergymen is that they’re hung up on God and this makes them impotent.”

“Really?” said Lewis, quite unabashed and assuming an innocent expression. “And have you done a survey to confirm that most worrying thesis?”