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“It’s actually only fifteen years old. There’s a bit of a story to it, although I don’t know if it’s true. Apparently, old man Beresford-Smith fell in love with the grounds, but he didn’t like the house that originally stood here. He applied for permission to demolish it and was refused because the house was listed. So, as a massive fuck you to the council, he used it to store animal feed. Very mysteriously, a few months later, a load of hay he was keeping in there caught fire and the whole place burned to the ground. Shortly after that, he got his planning permission and work on the new house began.”
“That doesn’t sound like very aristocratic behaviour!”
“Oh, there’s nothing aristocratic about them, don’t be fooled by the name. From what I understand his original name was just Smith. He made an absolute fortune in the dot com boom back in the nineties and changed his name by deed poll to celebrate his first hundred million. Apparently, he and his wife had elocution lessons at the same time, although I think she’s probably taken it a bit too far. Last time I came, the housekeeper told me that Sophie and Mrs. Beresford-Smith were waiting for me in ‘the withdrawing room’. How pretentious is that?”
Just before we reach the front of the house, Toby turns right onto another track, which is signposted ‘Tradespeople and deliveries’. It leads us to a large forecourt at the back of the house, where he neatly parks the car. We retrieve our rucksacks from the boot and he rings the bell by the door. It’s answered by a middle-aged woman in a pinafore, who I’m guessing must be the housekeeper.
“Mrs Beresford-Smith has instructed me to give you free rein to go wherever you please, but she asks that you do not enter either the master bedroom or Mr Beresford-Smith’s study. Miss Beresford-Smith and her entourage are using the east wing for their preparations. I imagine you’d like to start there?”
She leads us through to the main hallway, a breath-taking double height room with a magnificent curved staircase leading up to the first floor. We follow her along seemingly endless corridors, until the sound of female voices and laughter indicates that we’re nearly there. The housekeeper knocks on a door, waits to be invited in, and then announces us. I’m stunned to see that she curtseys before she speaks.
“Mr. Toby Roberts and his assistant for you, Miss Beresford-Smith.”
“Thank you, Margot,” a young woman wrapped in a white towelling dressing gown replies.
Although I have strong suspicions by this point that Mr. and Mrs. Beresford-Smith are probably awful people, Sophie proves impossible not to like. I was expecting a spoiled diva, but she’s kind, down to earth, and takes a genuine interest in everyone around her. I discover that we were actually at school together, although she was a couple of years below me and in a different house, so our paths never crossed. The Beresford-Smiths obviously have good genes because she is incredibly beautiful. Her face is almost doll-like, with wide blue eyes, a straight, well-proportioned nose and a rosebud mouth framed by shiny blonde hair. Her skin is flawless, and I suspect some very expensive dentistry has gone into her perfect teeth. I’m surprised I never noticed her when the whole school came together for chapel.
“I was a bit different at school,” she says, when I remark on it. “I was going through a gothic, rebellious phase so I dyed my hair black and wore a lot of Kohl eyeliner. Mum and Dad absolutely hated it, which only made me do it more. There was one time where I got a temporary tattoo on my arm. I thought Dad was going to have a coronary. Do you remember that, Maudie?” she asks one of the bridesmaids.
“How could I forget?” Maudie replies. “It was both terrifying and hysterically funny all at once. I’ve never seen your dad so angry, and you kept him going for ages before you admitted it was temporary.”
“Honestly, she was evil,” Maudie says to me. “She made up all this stuff about how she’d gone to some dodgy-looking tattoo place, and how she wasn’t sure how clean the needle was. I’m amazed he didn’t disown her then and there. He did see the funny side eventually, but it took him a while. To be fair, they were a lot more tolerant about the rest of your gothic phase after that, weren’t they Soph?”
The storytelling is interrupted by another knock on the door, and the housekeeper announces the hair stylist and make-up artist. Toby and I unpack and get to work as Sophie and the bridesmaids take turns being primped and polished. I get some nice detail shots of the dress, which is still on its hanger, and one that I’m really pleased with of Sophie’s shoes just peeking out of the box. When the time comes for her to get dressed, Toby is banished, but Sophie insists that I stay. It turns out that her ‘something blue’ is a garter that she pulls midway up her thigh, and I take a couple of (hopefully) tasteful pictures of it in situ.
“Are you going to get James to remove it with his teeth and throw it into the crowd?” another one of the bridesmaids asks. I think her name is Kate.
“I don’t know,” Sophie replies. “On the one hand it might be fun, but it might also set James’ rugby mates off and that would be bad. I might wait until we’re alone, that might be safest.”
“Spoilsport!” Kate replies. “Maybe I’ll get one of James’ rugby mates to help me with my underwear instead.”
Sophie rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Kate, I love you to bits, but try to control your raging libido, just for my wedding day, would you?” She turns to me with a smile. “She’s hopeless. At my twenty-first birthday party she disappeared with one of the boys for half an hour. She swore blind that nothing had happened, but the grass stains all down the back of her dress told a very different story. At our engagement party she hooked up with Robert, one of James’ rugby pals. I’m sure you can spot the theme.”
“I assume Robert is going to be at the wedding?” Kate asks, not making any effort to hide her eagerness.
“He is.” Sophie replies.
“Sorry darling. In that case I can’t promise anything,” Kate says, with a giggle.
Sophie sighs theatrically, but smiles indulgently at her.
Once the bride and bridesmaids are all decent, Toby is readmitted for a few final shots before they head downstairs to the cars. He pauses them at the staircase and takes a couple of them standing one behind the other, before we’re joined by Sophie’s parents. I almost do a double take when I meet them, because Sophie doesn’t look like either of them at first glance. Mr. Beresford-Smith is short and squat, with a squashed offset nose that looks like he’s been in a few fights, and a thin, mean-looking slit of a mouth. His wife, on the other hand, is waspishly thin, with a pointy nose and dark, glittering eyes. There’s something almost rat-like about her. I conclude that Sophie is either adopted, or their recessive genes really came to the fore when they made her.
Toby takes a couple of photos of Sophie with her parents, and then her mum heads off to the church. Three vintage Rolls-Royces stand outside the front door and, with a certain amount of pushing and shoving, everyone finds their place.
“Right,” Toby says to me. “They’re going to let us go first, so we get to the church before them. Have you got everything?”
“Yup, all set, boss,” I reply, as we hurry through the house to retrieve Toby’s car. “Bring on act two.”
