Wickham Hall, Part 2 (7 page)

I'd just performed my daily circuit of the festival site and had been thrilled to see that most of the marquees were up, including the big demonstration theatre and the indoor arena. The geography of the festival was beginning to take shape. I'd also been quite distracted by the sight of tanned shirtless men in shorts spreading tarmac for the temporary road that would loop around the showground. Muscles on muscles, some of them. Maybe Mum had had her head turned by one of the construction team all those years ago . . .?

I snapped myself straight out of that thought. It wouldn't do to go down that road this morning; I had too much on my plate and needed to keep focused.

The courtyard was busy already and I had to dodge the tourists as I crossed it. The sunshine had brought visitors to Wickham Hall by the coach load, the café was doing a roaring trade in ice cream and Jenny's special raspberryade, and Andy had been boasting that sales of his Victorian-style parasols would take the gift shop profits to new heights.

Andy was on my to-do list today. Negotiating with him was always my least favourite task. I decided to get it over with straight away and made a beeline for the gift shop.

The little shop was still relatively quiet – most visitors tended to save their shopping until the end of the day – and Andy was constructing a teddy-bears'-picnic-themed window display.

‘Morning, Andy,' I said breezily. He threw me an icy smile and continued setting up a miniature picnic rug complete with three teddy bears in the window. ‘What a lovely display! We've got a large party of small children in today, they'll love it.'

‘I can't bear having loads of kids in here fiddling with things,' he muttered.

I was used to his less than welcoming charm where I was concerned and ploughed on regardless.

‘We've had some signed books delivered from Suzanna Merryweather's publisher. They've asked if we'll sell them in the shop. Can I get them dropped off here?'

Suzanna Merryweather was the presenter of the TV show
Green Fingers
. She was also our celebrity guest for the festival and would be doing gardening talks in our demo theatre. I wasn't a gardener myself but Mum loved her and even Nikki, who was a bit sniffy about TV gardeners, was keen to meet her.

‘No chance,' he said. ‘We're up to our eyeballs in summer stock. Books take up too much space and no one will buy them anyway.'

I held my breath and waited for a diplomatic response to occur to me. But before it did, Edith appeared from the stock room. She was wearing a knitted twinset and thick tights despite the July heat but she still looked as cool as a cucumber with her powdered nose and immaculate bun.

‘Did I hear you say Suzanna Merryweather?' she chirped. ‘I'll have a book. I love that programme.'

I looked at Andy and resisted sticking my tongue out. Seriously, what was his problem? I'd done nothing other than be chosen over him for this job.
And
I went out of my way to compliment his shop at every opportunity.

‘All right, well, I'll send over one for Edith and the rest can be arranged on a table in the demo theatre.'

‘Rest of what?' asked Jim, poking his head in through the shop door.

When I explained, Jim's eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘I'll definitely buy one, and I'm going to ask for her autograph when I see her.'

‘Two down, twenty-eight copies to go,' I said brightly. ‘Not too bad. Let's hope we find plenty more fans like you to buy the rest.'

‘Send the books over then,' grumbled Andy. ‘Or I'll never hear the last of it.'

‘Holly, just thought I'd let you know, I'm about to start,' said Jim with a wink.

‘Thank you, Andy,' I said, inclining my head graciously, and I followed Jim out of the shop before he changed his mind. Phew, another task ticked off the list.

Jim was looking extra dapper today. He had a Wickham Hall polo shirt on, a clean, non-baggy pair of trousers and,
I reckoned, he had even applied a good splash of aftershave.

‘Are you ready for this, then, Jim?' I asked, looping my arm through his as we made our way to the picnic area.

‘I'll be all right once I've got going,' he said, ‘although I'm not used to addressing a crowd.'

‘You'll be brilliant,' I said, squeezing his arm.

Today was Wickham Hall's first ever nature trail, led by the aptly named Jim Badger, naturally. And twelve parents with their preschool children had gathered in readiness.

I stood to one side as Jim introduced himself, gave everyone a sticky badge with their name on and then did that slidy-finger trick that old men do when they pretend they've cut their finger off.

The kids loved him and the mums were giggling too. Jim handed all the children a map and coloured pencils and geed them up ready to go exploring. I took a few pictures on my phone as the little ones crowded round him.

‘Right, follow me to the woods; we're going to see how many animals and insects we can find.'

Before they moved off a little girl with brown pigtails and a stripy dress put her hand up.

‘Yes, Phoebe?' said Jim, bending down to read her name.

‘If you got all the ants in all the world, would they fit under one chicken?' she asked.

Jim and I exchanged glances and I grinned, wondering how he'd answer this and possibly a lot more where this came from.

The mums giggled, especially the one with brown hair standing behind Phoebe.

Jim bent down and pretended to steal the little girl's nose. ‘Let's hope not, Phoebe, because I think it would be very uncomfortable for the poor chicken.'

And then he began dancing on the spot and smacking the back of his shorts as though he was being attacked by invisible ants. The children loved him. Just as I knew they would. Ever since he'd shown me the moorhen and her chicks I'd been trying to give him the chance to be a granddad, even if only for a few hours. He was in his element and I was pleased as punch for him. I ticked ‘check up on nature trail' off my list and headed towards the café.

I bought a pot of tea and a strawberry tart and chose a table outside, tucked into a shady corner. In theory my out-of-office jobs were done and I could go back inside, but as Ben had taken over the room with his easel this morning, I decided to work on the festival show guide in the courtyard instead.

I poured a cup of tea, spread out the paperwork and then sliced the strawberry tart into quarters. I blinked at it: I'd bought Esme's favourite cake without realizing, a sure sign that I was missing her already.

It was well over a week since Esme and I had had our falling-out. Technically I supposed we hadn't rowed, I'd been the one to blame, overreacting about the whole ‘who's the daddy' thing.

We rarely rowed and it had left both of us shaken but we had smoothed things out by the following weekend.

I'd apologized and she'd admitted that she'd got carried away with her Lord Fortescue theory, forgetting for a moment what the implications were for Mum and me. In the end we'd agreed that it was far more likely that Mum had simply had a fling with someone she'd rather not keep in touch with. I was glad we'd made up when we did because she and Bryony had made a snap decision to close Joop for a couple of weeks, regardless of the profit implications, and had flown off to Dubai to join Esme's dad. I was super pleased for them. Not least because the shop was normally open seven days a week and they were in dire need of a break. But also they could discuss as a family what to do with Joop in the light of Bryony's arthritis.

I was completely used to my friend jetting off to spend time with her little family unit of three, but this year I was particularly aware of the dad-shaped hole in my own life.

I sipped at my tea and mentally brushed away that particular niggle.
No time for daydreaming, Holly Swift
, I told myself firmly: the copy for the festival guide was due at the printers that afternoon and I still had a few pages to check.

I immersed myself in the artwork, sorting any typesetting issues and spelling mistakes with a stroke of my red pen. I'd reached the itinerary page for the last day when a shadow fell across me and a slight breeze made my paperwork lift from the table.

It was Nikki wafting herself with her sun hat. ‘What are you doing out here, fallen out with Benedict?' she asked with a grin.

‘No, not at all,' I said smoothly, ‘the office just gets a bit heated at this time of day with the two of us in it.'

Nikki laughed and pulled out a chair to sit on. ‘I bet it does.'

I felt a flush rise to my face. ‘The way the sun comes round, I mean, at noon.'

‘Sure.' She winked.

I busied myself pouring out a second cup of tea while the colour on my cheeks subsided.

The truth was that I was finding it increasingly difficult to spend time alone with Ben in our office. It wasn't just that he insisted on having a radio on all the time, or that occasionally paint flicked from his brush onto my desk, or even that he was still, even now, with two weeks left until the festival, randomly bursting out with ‘hey, what about . . .?' and then embarking on an enthusiastic explanation as to why we should incorporate his latest idea into the schedule.

No, I could just about cope with all of those things.

My issue was that whenever I looked into his dark eyes, framed by even darker lashes, my heart gave a little flutter and no matter how often I reminded myself that a) he was my boss and b) he didn't treat me any differently to anyone else, the fluttering was getting harder and harder to ignore.

‘. . . and on a day like today,' Nikki was saying. ‘I'm surprised he's even in the office. Benedict's like me: a free spirit and doesn't like to be hemmed in. Between you and me, I think he finds being at Wickham Hall too suffocating.'

I sometimes felt like that about Weaver's Cottage, but here? I glanced around me at the size of the buildings, the acres of wide-open space.

‘Hmm, I've noticed that too, although I can't understand why. I'm sure he loves Wickham Hall but there does seem to be something holding him back from committing to it long term. Do you know what it might be?'

Nikki shrugged. ‘No, but I guess it's something to do with his parents. I admire Lady Fortescue, but she does treat him like a child. Family life is rarely straightforward, is it?'

Understatement
of the century.

‘It certainly isn't,' I said, giving her a wry smile. ‘Anyway, how are your preparations for the festival going?'

‘The pearl garden is going to look fantastic,' she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the head of a white geranium. ‘Pretty, isn't it? Problem is that it's scorching out there and the flowers are all blooming like billy-o, I just hope I can extend their flowering until the end of the month. And the watering . . .' She paused to roll her eyes. ‘Gallons and gallons of the stuff. We're OK while the plants are in the nursery beds, but once we're down on the showground everything will have to be watered by hand. It's a full-time job just keeping them from drying out! Talking of which, I've earned myself a drink this morning, see you later.'

Nikki wandered inside and I was about to resume my proofreading when I noticed Ben and Lord Fortescue coming across each other at the far side of the courtyard.

Lord and Lady Fortescue had returned from the South of France looking healthily tanned. I was glad to have them back. The place seemed all the brighter for their presence, almost as though Wickham Hall stood to attention for them.

It was the first time I'd seen father and son talk to each other without anyone else around – Ben had arrived during a manic time on Zara's wedding day and the Fortescues had gone away straight after that – and I must admit, I was quite curious to see the two men together.

Even though I couldn't hear what they were saying I could read their body language. Lord Fortescue seemed perplexed: one hand smoothing his hair, the other on his hip. Ben didn't look very happy; he was staring at the ground, shaking his head, waving his arms around until finally folding them defensively. Lord Fortescue laid a hand on his son's shoulder and patted him gently but Ben turned his body away, catching my eye in the process.

I raised a hand and Ben made a beeline for me as Lord Fortescue carried on walking towards the private car park.

‘Hello, Mr Happy,' I said as he dropped into the chair Nikki had just vacated.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face roughly.

‘Parents,' he said gruffly. ‘Dad knows that I'm not really cut out for this role, but asks me loads of questions anyway, which I can't answer, and then he gives me his disappointed face as if I'm not doing a good enough job.'

He looked so dejected that it was all I could do not to pull him in for a hug.

I cleared my throat. ‘What sort of questions?'

Ben sighed. ‘How many tickets for the festival have we sold, for example? I mean, my grasp of numbers is weak at the best of times. In one ear and out the other. I should know, but I just forget.'

‘We've sold eighteen thousand,' I said. ‘With thirty per cent of those coming from online bookings. I'll drop him an email. What else?'

‘Oh, er . . .' He scrunched up his eyes. ‘Have we made sure there are disabled access ramps in the indoor arena?'

‘Yes, we have.' I looked back down at my paperwork to hide my smile. That would be the ‘Royal' we.

‘Oh good.' He nodded. ‘And he wanted to know whether the outdoor seating in the VIP area is shaded.'

‘It is,' I said. ‘Well, it is now. I've just been down this morning and asked them to put a canvas roof over it. It will be a bit like a sail. I didn't want your parents' guests keeling over with sunstroke.'

He stared at me and whistled. ‘How do you remember this stuff? I bet I could ask you a thousand questions and you'd be able to answer all of them.'