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‘The chefs have elevated it.’ Emily replies. ‘The custard is actually crème anglaise, and the spotted dicks will be constructed so that they look like slices of Swiss roll. We tried it, and it’s really good.’
‘Hm. Okay. And the cheeseboard?’
‘Your cheese will feature prominently as requested, alongside other British cheeses.’
‘Fine. And on Saturday?’
‘After a cooked breakfast, you and I will accompany the shooting party. The non-shooters will be offered a day trip to Exeter, which Sophie will be organising.’
Emily is sounding confident, but James doesn’t look too pleased.
‘I’m not sure about that one, Emily,’ he says. ‘It might be better to have Sophie accompany the guns, as she does at least have experience with shoots.’
I don’t think so.
It’s bad enough being stuck here, the last thing I want is to be dragged round muddy fields by my ex-husband and a load of boorish idiots. I’d much rather be window-shopping in Exeter, thank you very much.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ I tell him, quickly. ‘Emily is the lead organiser for this event and, as such, should be with the main party. Experience with shooting isn’t as important as experience with people. We need to ensure your guests’ every need is met, and Emily can only do that if she’s here.’
I see the flash of irritation pass across James’ face, but there’s no way I can put up with spending two whole days in his company with no means of escape. At least Emily doesn’t have any history with him. I feel a bit bad about exposing her to the cold, muddy reality of a shooting weekend, but it is her gig and I did help her choose suitable clothing. It would be a shame if she didn’t get the benefit of it, wouldn’t it?
‘Fine,’ James replies with a certain amount of bad grace. ‘We’re shooting pheasants tomorrow. We aren’t allowed to shoot game on Sundays, so I’ve organised clay pigeons and a competition. We’ll wrap up in time for tea, and then the guests will leave after that.’
‘Perfect,’ Emily replies. ‘And have you got everything organised for the drives?’
He’d better have. It’s the only area where we haven’t had any input. If the weekend flops because he can’t get his birds up or the beaters can’t find them, that’s on him, but I know our reputation will suffer by association. Emily is still looking unruffled, which is to her credit, given that she’s never done anything like this before and it was only last week that I was explaining to her that clay pigeons weren’t an item of crockery.
‘Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about that,’ he says with a wink. ‘It’s all under control. Just make sure your parts run like clockwork, okay?’
Patronising bastard. He never used to be like this, but I think it’s all part of the showing off that he can’t seem to help these days. I wonder how Becky puts up with it, if indeed she does.
Thinking of women associated with James reminds me of a question I’ve been meaning to ask.
‘Are we expecting to see your mother at any point over the weekend?’ I ask. ‘After all, we’ve taken over her house.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no. She moved out when the renovations started. She’s actually living in our old cottage. I did it up for her, and now she says she can’t understand why she didn’t move sooner.’
That’s only a partial relief, as it raises another question.
‘So where are you living, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Here. I was in the master bedroom, but obviously that’s been taken over for the weekend, so Becky and I are up in the staff quarters with you.’
Oh great. I know it shouldn’t matter that he’s still with Becky, and it doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean I want to pass them on their way to the only bathroom up there, or listen to whatever they might be getting up to.
* * *
By Friday evening, the car park is filled with the obligatory selection of luxury SUVs. The guests are exactly as I had predicted: loud, crude, and competitive. The women are a mix of long-suffering first wives, glamorous trophy wives, and a couple that I’m sure are probably mistresses. One of them looks young enough to be her partner’s daughter, but the way he’s pawing at her leaves the true nature of their relationship in no doubt. The women are also sizing each other up, albeit much more subtly than the men. The guns have all been taken down and locked in the gun safe and the wine is flowing freely enough that there are more than a few flushed cheeks in the room. James is actually doing a reasonable job as host and Becky is by his side, laughing dutifully at his jokes and looking much more glamorous than I’ve ever seen her in a black floor-length dress. She’s evidently unhappy about me being here, because her eyes narrow in displeasure every time she sees me. Tough luck, sweetheart, I think. You should have talked your boyfriend out of it before he hired me. I pretend to be checking something on my phone and take a candid photo of her, sending it to Elliott with the caption, ‘Introducing Becky…’ His reply makes me smile.
I love her already. After all, if it wasn’t for her, I’d never have met you xx
Emily was a bit wide-eyed when the guests first started to arrive – she’s never come across people like this before – but she seems to be settling back into her rhythm and is currently supervising the waiting staff to make sure that everyone’s drinks are kept topped up and the canapés keep circling. The chefs are getting ready to plate up, so we need to start ushering the guests into the dining room. I try to catch James’ attention to let him know that he needs to do his speech now, as dinner is practically ready. Emily and I are dressed the same as the waiting staff, in white blouses and black trousers. I don’t know whether it’s the lack of give in the material or the cut, but mine are quite tight across my thighs and bum, and they keep digging into my crotch. I’m just pulling the legs down my thighs for the umpteenth time to alleviate the discomfort when I finally catch James’ eye. He’s watching me adjust my trousers and grinning wolfishly.
I really, really don’t want to be here.
30
After breakfast the next morning, Emily and the shooters clamber into a trailer behind one of the farm tractors to be taken to the field for the first drive. I experience a momentary pang of guilt, as poor Emily is miles out of her comfort zone and looks it. Thankfully, I’m soon able to forget all about her as the ladies and I board the minibus to take us to Exeter. The atmosphere is less competitive today than it was last night; a pecking order appears to have been established and various little alliances have formed. The only person who doesn’t seem to have made any friends at all is the very young one, who I’ve learned is called Catriona. When the minibus deposits us in the centre of Exeter, all the ladies immediately bustle off in their groups, leaving her behind. I had hoped for a quiet day of pottering about, but she looks so forlorn that I take pity on her.
