car park and one of those discount stores that sells value packs of pickled onion crisps and more plastic clothes pegs than anyone could reasonably need over the course of an average lifetime.)
With the monks out of the way, Serena and Ben were able to set to work on the interior. They did a lot of things involving faux-rococo marble fireplaces, built from monumental stone veined with grey like the bloodshot white of a wide-open eye. The chandelier in the main drawing room was imported from Italy – a splintering waterfall of glassy splendour, which, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be constructed entirely from upended wine glasses. It was, Serena and Ben thought, a humorous accent; a sign that although they recognised beautiful design, they were not ones to take themselves too seriously. But I knew that the chandelier had cost £250,000. More, if you count the packaging and transport costs. I couldn’t help but admire the grandiosity of it. The sheer, unthinking excess.
I hadn’t seen it since the renovations had been completed, over three weeks ago. In spite of myself, I was intrigued to look at what they’d done to the place. I wondered whether Serena’s somewhat déclassé penchant for white lilies and plush carpets and luxury hotel fixtures and fittings would have denuded the building of all its character.
As we approached Tipworth Priory that evening, the taxi indicating into the long sweep of driveway, the overall effect was impressive. Our route was lined with spherically trimmed box hedges, each one encircled by a purple halo of light. The Priory exterior was Grade-I listed so, much to my relief, Serena hadn’t been able to get her paws on it. The resplendent Cotswold stone was intact, emitting a warm buttery glow in the dusky sunshine. There was still stained glass in the windows. On the front lawn was a large marquee, bedecked with flowers in purple and white. A fountain featuring a stone boy with an urn tilted forwards on his shoulder had purple and white petals floating in the water. As the taxi came to a halt, we heard the electric whir of a generator and the facade of the house became sharply illuminated. I got out of the car and noticed that a giant ‘B’ and ‘S’ in the same shade of virulent purple were now being projected from some unseen source of light onto the wall. Typical Serena.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘They don’t like to do things by halves, do they?’
The taxi driver snorted.
‘You can say that again, love.’
I shot her a look. She started to pick at the tender flakes of skin edging her thumbnail. The fare was £6.60. I handed over a ten-pound note and waited for the precise change.
‘You should have given him a tip,’ Lucy said, as we walked up the steps and tugged on an ornate pulley system to ring the ancient bell.
‘At that price? Not likely.’
I could hear footsteps echoing on flagstones and then the door opened and Ben was there, arms flung wide, shirt untucked, bow-tie undone round his neck, hair a wild mess of curls, broad smile on his face.
‘Hello, my dears!’
He ushered us in, embracing Lucy and giving her a kiss on each cheek, then crushing me into a bear hug and slapping me on the back. ‘So pleased you could come early,’ he continued, leading us through a hallway strewn with Moroccan rugs which occasionally parted to reveal a series of gravestones. Lucy’s heels click-clacked against a ‘Dearly Departed’ and when I looked down, I realised I was standing on ‘Emily, beloved wife of …’ How strange, I thought, to end your life like this. Buried in a priory graveyard and now merely flooring for a rich man’s party.
‘Forgive the chaos,’ Ben said. ‘Pre-party madness, you know how it is.’
We passed a group of girls in black skirts and white shirts with their hair pulled back in ponytails of varying degrees of severity. One of them smiled as we went. Another one bobbed, almost a curtsey.
‘I’m just so glad I get to see you guys before it all kicks off,’ he was saying. ‘We both are. There’s never enough of a chance to chat at these things, is there? Not to the people you really want to talk to, anyway.’
He was breathless in his chatter. Charming, as ever, but underneath there was an accent of nervousness. It was unlike Ben to be nervous. Probably anxious about the guests arriving, I thought.
‘This place is spectacular, Ben,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Lucy added. ‘Really …’
Ben paused for a second and raised his head, as though sniffing the air.
‘It is, isn’t it? We got super lucky. It’s going to take months to do up properly though. Months. We haven’t even started on the chapel. I’ll show it to you, LS. I know you love your architectural history.’ He clutched Lucy’s arm conspiratorially. ‘Such an old fuddy-duddy, isn’t he, Luce? That’s why we love him.’
It was a source of amusement to Ben that whenever the two of us went anywhere together, I would seek out the local church and find a point of interest: an unexpected fresco of St Peter holding the keys to heaven; a war memorial erected to an only son called Arthur; and once a pew cushion embroidered with ‘This Too Shall Pass’.
We followed Ben to the end of a wide corridor, the walls adorned with black and white family photographs in uniform clear perspex frames. This led into the kitchen, where Serena stood, surrounded by half-unwrapped bouquets of flowers, the stems a tangle of bloom and pollen. Around her stood a group of waiters and one man wearing a floppy khaki hat and a safari jacket with countless pockets.
‘Serena,’ Ben purred. ‘LS and Lucy have arrived.’
She looked up, her face vague. It took a moment for her gaze to click into place.
‘Of course! Of course! Sorry, sweeties, totally slipped my mind. Hang on a sec.’
She turned to the man in the jacket. ‘Tom, these are great, thanks. Much better than the other flowers.’
‘We’ll have to re-plant,’ he said gruffly.
‘Mm-mm. I know, darling. We will.’
Tom exited the kitchen, his boots leaving a speckled trail of mud as he went.
All at once, Serena was a flurry of insincere compliments.
‘So gorgeous to see you! Martin’ – she had a way of saying my name which stretched all the vowels to the point of snapping – ‘you look very smart. Oh, and Lucy, what a … what a …’ She gave a tiny pause. ‘Pretty dress. Where’s it from? Is it Donna Karan?’
‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘Monsoon.’
‘So sorry we couldn’t have you to stay. Just. You know how it is. Family. Extended family. Friends flying in from abroad.’
‘Of course we do,’ I said. ‘It’s no problem. We’re just delighted to be here. And to see this, this …’ I made a great show of looking around in an awestruck manner, ‘palace. Truly, Serena, you do have the most impeccable taste.’
She didn’t reply but gave another dazzling smile. Serena hadn’t yet dressed for the party and still managed to look more glamorous than any of us. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a loose white blouse that somehow managed to be both shapeless and sexy. Around her neck, a silver chain, the heart pendant fitting snugly in the gap between her clavicles. Her hair was in rollers and her eye make-up heavily done – black-brown smudges the colour of
