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But for one life-changing telephone call, I would never have heard of Breewood Hall. I would not now, for example, be stepping back onto the still-dewy grass to let the Pastorale motorcade swish past and park just a few yards beyond me at the front entrance. I would not have abandoned my business interests, two intermittent girlfriends, home or tolerable existence in exchange for... for what?
Like a swan landing on still water, the limo's doors open in unison a fraction before stopping.
The Pastorale committee, all in black, step out into the early morning sun.
"Lady Beatrice..." wasting not a second of time, an all-American hand stabs toward Bee. Judd, motionless as architecture, I'm surprised he doesn't spring to her protection. Offering a hand to a lady... he does well to stand his ground and Frank, as ever to the rescue, absorbs the remainder of the hand-shaking as best he can.
They know each other well enough, surface-friendly, cluck, cluck clucking backward bobs of feigned submission, like hens in a yard.
Then they spot me.
"So, who's this...
"You didn't say...
"Great to..."
Nonexistent cover blown and smile at the ready, I step from the boundary into the fray.
#
Like my venerate notion of a pc hard drive, out of sight, clever, busy, Measel is their secretary. What a snake. Saying little, missing nothing, scavenging every snippet, I am suddenly conscious of everything I do and say. Skinny like her pen, secret like her notebook, tight-bummed and slithery, she unsettles me. Give me the big guys any day.
The biggest big guy, 'Call me Brett', is twenty stone of back-slapping affability. The sort of fellow who'd accompany you on a fishing trip in the States. One of those Americans endowed with the absolute certainty of spending their way through life, you just know he has a bigger everything than everybody else.
I like Brett, not his side-kick, though.
Contisha, that's her name, and no sooner have I memorised it than realise she's their bad guy. Confusingly, she's the most attractive big bad guy I've ever met or imagined - that's 'imagined' as I've never been in this situation before. Pound for pound and hiding not a squidge of Colonial voluptuousness, Contisha is all woman. Robust, dominant and perfectly formed, her clothes fit as though painted on, as though she's been melted and poured into them.
No wonder Frank took to her.
I keep thinking it's not a good idea to hold this meeting in the stripped-out library, arguably the most 'emotionally charged' of the hall's many rooms.
"We'll have coffee as soon as you're able," Bee suggests to Judd. No one gives him orders any more. Like he's a mechanical service dispenser, you just select one of his duties and leave him to it.
"Wise move to take out the fireplaces," Contisha peers at the lath and plaster scar, her stance prepared to leap backward should something nasty pop out, "...and put them safely into store."
What a bitch. Without looking her way, I try telepathy to send my sympathies to Bee.
"An Adam fireplace of that provenance has national significance," Bee replies, not yet lying about having sold it, "and deserves the appropriate protection." Brilliant, but something else to sort out later.
Brett, who I doubt could 'give a damn' about the fireplace, is eying up the chairs wondering, I suspect, which might take his weight. "Let's have you this end, Lady Bee - oh, you don't mind me calling you..." he has such a disarming smile. I feel culpable. I think he picked up the nickname from me.
"Not at all - for informal occasions," Bee interrupts, as we head toward Frank's seating arrangement, a couple of mis-matched tables end to end and today's selection of chairs. Dwarfed by the prestigious proportions of the room's past glory, it looks more liked beached flotsam or an entry for the Turner Prize than the setting for a meeting to decide the future of the whole estate. But then... maybe there's a note of fidelity there, a theatrical expose of the actual state of affairs.
"Sure, Lady Bee. Sure," says Brett, confused - I don't think she intended it to count as permission and, basically a nice bloke, I doubt if he did either, "...and I'll take this chair and sit at the other." He selects a hideously over-engineered Victorian carver and parks himself at the dominant end of the table. Brett, facing the windows, is in full Technicolor. His side-kick, secretary, cannon-fodder and I take our places in silhouette.
Brett is a clever man, both charming and, presumably, dangerous. He makes you want to please him and that's why I like him. I'd buy a used car from him. I'd know not to - but I would.
#
By lunchtime the tables are layered with folders, forecasts, proposals, plans and mock-ups, all of it more or less held in place by empty cups, elbows, gravity and biscuit crumbs. Occasionally, like frightened creatures, architects drawings might spring up in the midday sun, roll into spears, and hurl themselves at the floor. The atmosphere around the table is tense, stubborn and indecisive.
It must time for the crunch.
Handing over to Contisha, Brett levitates his twenty stone, excuses himself, and leaves the room. 'I will be back' he should have said, but didn't. Contisha signals Battle Orders to Measel who, statement at the ready, thins her lips and moves centre stage. Poised for climax, I feel her bum tighten to its very tightest. Mine too. There's such a lot riding on this.
"I have been instructed to inform this meeting," she begins, showing no emotion, "that, with regret, Pastorale has decided to withdraw," through the shocked silence Contisha nods support while Measel clears her throat for the death blow, "...and will take no further part in these negotiations."
Frank, saying nothing, bangs a fist down on the table. The puff-pastry of documents absorbs the shock, and cold tea spills over a sketch proposal for a swimming pool in the stable yard. Bee, who also says nothing, eyeballs Contisha with a piercing stare that, for one everlasting moment, locks the two women behemoths in outright confrontation.
Just then Judd appears at the open door. Directly in my line of sight I... but, surely not? I think, I'm certain, there's something fishy between him and Measel. I've never seen him smile before, but he's smiling now, they both are. And who's that standing behind him, closer than comfort and almost friendly-like? It's Brett.
To me, the unaccounted-for observer, there's more to this than a simple buy-out.
#
A leaden calm pervades the whole estate. Filling every void, blurring every aspect, it has altered my perception of what and where I am. Maybe Breewood Hall feels let down too - but that's nonsense.
Bee went off on her own when Pastorale left. After a lot of looking, it's a surprise to discover her in my flat. She's sitting at the window desk, writing. I'm not used to seeing her so depressed.
"Knew you'd come here eventually," she barely looks up at me, "...I'm just not ready to confront Frank, not yet."
"Confront?"
"Yes, about the Pastorale thing. I don't even want to think about it."
"Shan't say a word."
"Thanks, darling," and she holds out a hand, which I take.
Coming from a business background I'd bet that Pastorale - should they be no more than they claim to be - are playing a bargaining chip. Not Frank, though. He's not of the same opinion, and he's been to plenty of meetings with them just to reach this point. This impasse. Even so, I'm optimistic.
"What are you writing, Bee?"
"Just the next chapter."
"There's no need..." I move closer and perch on the edge of the desk, still holding her hand.
"It's OK, it's therapy. I'm happy doing it. Anyway," she brightens, "subject to my mood, it's done, I suppose. Finished."
"Sorry, love," it's obvious to what she refers. We stand up together and I make to embrace her, but she edges away.
"Here, you read it," she thrusts a sheaf of pages into my hand, the hand still moist from holding hers, "I'm going to find Frank."
Each day longer than the day before, shorter than the one ahead, Bee and I are near despair - though why it should concern me so much, I'm not clear. But it does. Frank's not been around for reasons I have my suspicions about and can't discuss with Bee. Still, it gives us plenty of time together. And, Judd... he seems more chummy since he's guessed I've sussed him - I haven't, of course, but he doesn't know that yet.
We had a whole week of this before the call came through. Bee and I were in the billiard room, a corner of which she uses as her office, when the phone rang...
"Measel, it's so good of you..." I wince at the effort she requires to flatline the enthusiasm from her voice, but her face lights up. Is that a tear of relief she's holding back? She signals me a big 'P' with one hand, replacing the handset and switching to 'speaker' with the other.
"The Company has been running a restructure on our UK policy," an American accent twangs around the room looking for a place to rest, "with a view to consolidating our interests in this area."
"I see," Bee sounds calmer now, but not yet up to strength. I wonder if 'this area' refers to our little backwater, or to England as a whole.
"Yes," says Measel, clearly atop the pecking order, "and Pastorale is considering a fresh approach to Breewood." Well surely, despite her irritating habit of referring to the estate as 'Breewood', surely that's good news?
"We must arrange a meeting to consider these new proposals," Bee takes up the reins, growing in confidence.
"But, not here," I interject realising, too late, the microphones are on. Thinking she was one-to-one with Bee, our speaker hesitates to register Measel's annoyance. Bum-tightening time again, I suppose. I raise my hands in apology.
"I'll get the details to you," Measel snaps, snatching back the initiative, "but, we're looking early next week latest." With no goodbye, her voice slithers back into the telephone system, leaving silence in its wake.
And that was that. Lifeline re-connected, prognosis re-aligned, hope restored.
#
"Are the vultures assembled?" I ask Judd as he opens the car door for his employer. We've driven to the venue, a soul-less brick box in a soul-less brick business park. Frank and Judd had gone on ahead, and I spotted Frank chatting to Contisha at the side door, but he's out of sight from where we're parked.
"The Pastorale committee is assembled in the board room, Sir," correction by repetition is something Judd's good at. I treat it as entertainment, like he has a sense of humour.
"Over the top again," says Bee. There's fear in her eyes, and I give her hand a 'chin-up' squeeze.
"Shall I blow the whistle," I smile, "or you?" She brightens and we step forward together into battle.
The meeting starts well enough. Brett, the perfect host, welcomes us as long lost friends. Like a warm-up man, he soothes our fears with congeniality in preparation, no doubt, for the disharmony to follow.
"Bee..." he's gone straight for the informal option and I don't blame him, fusty English titles sound ridiculous in an American tongue, "how've you been?" Fortunately, he doesn't wait for a reply. "Not quite up to Breewood Hall," he continues and, not quite touching her, he steers her to a seat not quite at the head of the table.
"Very well, thank you," is Bee's response.
I too am graciously seated, but by Contisha. "It's good to have you join us again," she is such a big woman, bigger even than a week ago. "A new face is always welcome."
"Fresh blood?"
No more than I deserve, she ignores my stab at humour. Instead, she asks, "Tell me, how are you settling down in this part of England?" Greedy for attention, her cleavage teases my forbidden gaze, daring me to ditch this harsh abrasive world and plunge those pools of mellow ecstasy.
"I'm originally from the 'State' of Norfolk," I reply, and she giggles, and her breasts giggle too, dancing one against the other like party balloons, and then Frank appears and spoils it all.
"Frank, honey - you're to sit next to me," and they walk away together extinguishing my fantasy.
Deeply-fissured facial flesh, corpse-grey skin like spat-out gum, mucus cough, rasping voice, a lighter jangled constantly in his trouser pocket... Henderson had made himself a sepulchre to tobacco products.
The confrontation took place in the entrance vestibule. Two men, two agendas, two exquisitely uncomfortable hall chairs. With Ginny in the house, Richard was determined to stand his ground - without, of course, allowing a fracas to develop. Henderson, the unwelcome guest, lit his next cigarette with the precision of a man who'd devoted his life to little else and lowered himself, uninvited, onto one of the chairs. The cheapness of his suit, his talon nails, stench of fags, ochre teeth, loathsome leer, and an attention-grabbing fly that had somehow penetrated the Meadow House defences, caused Richard to shiver in disgust.
A pair of nicotine-stained fingers gestured Richard to take the other chair. 'Sit down,' they told him.
Ashamed of his acquiescence, Richard did as he was bid, but sat bolt upright, head held high and silent. After months of bullying, he had little to say.
"Well?" Henderson demanded, causing the ash to fall from his cigarette.
"I'd prefer you not to smoke in here." Richard's eye followed the ash to the marble floor which it seemed to strike with the force of granite, breaking up in slowed down motion, heavy with jibe and intimidation.
"Don't get smart with me, Campbell," Henderson sneered. Tongues of smoke curled out from every syllable, caressing his lips as though condoning what he spoke. "You know what I'm referring to."
Yes, Richard knew. But, as much as Henderson had imposed himself in Richard's life, as trampled underfoot as he'd become, on this he knew he'd never back down. Throughout his oppression by this odious man Richard had been banking every morsel of his dignity, saving it for the end so he could win the final conflict whatever the consequences. That was what sustained him. Richard would never give Henderson what he really wanted.
The only diversion was the fly. Unable to escape, it landed on the glazed front door panel with the sole intent, to Richard's mind, of vomiting fly-spots onto the glass. He had an abhorrence of insects, flies in particular, and fly-spots were an obsession.
"Excuse me," Richard took down a hat from its peg and opened the door to swipe the creature from the house. "I think you'd better leave now," he said, turning to face Henderson. Sick from lack of confidence, it was the bravest challenge he'd ever made.
#
Ginny was first up, and had brought in tea and biscuits to have in bed.
"Thanks again for rescuing the situation last night, Ginny." The evening had been so bizarre and had culminated in such relief, they'd not discussed it much in detail, Richard preferring a very large drink instead. Some events, he thought, were so precariously constructed that thinking or talking about them later might have the effect of coursing back in time to cause their rearrangement. He couldn't risk that.
"I think you mean, 'thanks for my brilliantly conceived plan and self-less action to rid you of that dreadful man' don't you, darling?"
"Exactly." Richard had no idea how the confrontation with Henderson might have developed - but for Ginny's sudden appearance brandishing a shotgun.
"No probs. I was peeping at the door and saw you needed help." Then, putting hands on hips as though in disbelief, she asked, "but, how could you let him treat you like that, Richard?"
"Just as well I thought it wasn't loaded," he replied, shying her question.
"Oh, it was loaded alright," and she tutted at him, "that silly old gun above the study fireplace, and I've always known the cartridges were kept at the back of the bureau drawer. I hear them rolling about whenever I'm in there."
"Do you, indeed!" What Ginny was doing in his bureau was not important for the moment. "That old Purdy, Ginny - the barrels are so worn they'd probably have exploded." Not that there was much point in mentioning that, or that she'd had the safety catch off, or how sensitive the triggers were...
"Well, you shouldn't leave stuff like that lying about for people like me to have accidents with. I'm surprised the police don't put you under lock and key."
"Anyway, it did the trick. He left - so, thanks!"
"You're going to have to explain this Henderson to me, Richard." She pierced him with one of her looks. "Don't think you're off the hook about that."
"Yes, Ginny - but, not now."
"And why not?"
"Have to get up. We have guests arriving, remember?"
"Of course, dear. The next instalment of your little mystery."
"And you thought you knew everything about me."
"But there is a connection, isn't there?"
"With what?"
"Sam's story, your trunk, that terrible man..."
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