little early to check the arrangements. No one around, so I toddled through here and . . . just d-dozed off.’
The slight hesitation suggested he had got himself in training for the evening’s dinner with a heavy lunch.
‘I think you’ll find everything is as we agreed, Mr Chew. The table isn’t fully set yet, but we’re just about to do it.’
‘Fine. I wasn’t really worried. Just felt I should check, you know . . . as outgoing president.’
‘Of course. Well, we’ll serve drinks to your members in here.’
A glint came into his eye. ‘Is the bar actually open now?’
‘The bar’s open to residents at all times,’ said Suzy, moving behind the counter. ‘Could I get you something?’
‘Large one of those wouldn’t hurt.’ He pointed to the bottle of Famous Grouse. ‘With the same amount of tap water.’ He guffawed meaninglessly. ‘Start as I mean to continue, eh?’
‘And then would you like to check into your room, Mr Chew?’ asked Suzy, as she handed his drink across.
‘No hurry. If you just let me have the key, I’ll find my own way.’
‘Of course.’ She went to fetch it from the set of pigeonholes on the wall behind the reception desk. In the brief ensuing silence, Donald Chew made no attempt to say anything to Jude.
Suzy returned and handed him a key with a heavy brass fob. ‘Would you excuse us, Mr Chew? I’ll just finish the table settings and when they’re done, I’ll call you and you can check everything’s all right.’
‘Fine.’ Slumping back into his armchair, he tapped his breast pocket. ‘Got the seating plan in here. Very important. Can’t have a New Pillar sitting nearer the president than an Ancient Pillar.’
Suzy Longthorne smiled acknowledgement of what a solecism that would be, and returned to the dining room, with Jude in tow. Donald Chew’s voice followed them, ‘And if I want another drink, I’ll just shout.’
‘Yes. Or ring the bell at reception.’
Once again Jude was struck by the dignity with which her friend fulfilled her menial role. Even in her most high-flying days, Suzy had maintained a core of pragmatism. Though many men had spoiled her, she had never let herself be spoilt. Suzy was well-enough grounded to bear stoically whatever fortune might throw at her.
She looked at the unfinished table setting without overt annoyance, and started to align knives and forks from the cutlery tray. ‘Could you ask Kerry to come and help?’
Jude nodded. ‘And should I be getting into my kit?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ Jude grinned. ‘I always wanted a part in Gosford Park.’
As she approached the kitchen door, she could hear Kerry talking about her favourite subject.
‘I mean my voice is definitely good enough, and I know I’m better-looking than most of the girl singers you see on Top of the Pops, but in television you’ve got to get that one lucky break.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Max was saying, as Jude entered the kitchen.
The relaxed way in which Kerry lolled at the table, chatting to the chef, confirmed what Jude had suspected, that the girl’s talk of a dead body in the bar had been a spur of the moment fabrication, a cover-up for her brandy-sipping. According to her boss, Kerry, in spite of her age, had a propensity for sampling the goods in the bar; she had been ticked off more than once about it.
‘Suzy wants some help in the dining room.’
Elaborately lethargic, the girl rose to her feet. She was wearing the uniform Jude was shortly to don, a long black dress with a white, lace-fringed apron. By the time the guests arrived, they would both be wearing white lacy mob-caps as well. Kerry’s confidence about her looks was justified. She was a little below average height, but generously rounded, with that glow young women exude when they’ve finally put the awkwardness of adolescence behind them. Her naturally beautiful skin and blonde hair were enhanced respectively by skilful make-up and expensive cutting. Her manner implied a precocious sexuality, though Jude had no idea whether the image was backed up by actual experience. In her Edwardian black, Kerry looked good and knew it, Lolita in fancy dress.
Jude herself wasn’t particularly keen on being kitted out like a refugee from Upstairs, Downstairs and a thousand other television series, but that was Suzy’s house style, so she went along with it. The only advantage she could see, with an evening of drunken Pillars of Sussex ahead, was that none of them could put a hand up her skirt.
‘All right. I’ll go,’ said Kerry, as if the most unreasonable request in the world had just been foisted on to her, and slouched out of the kitchen.
As the door swung back and forth in her wake, Jude caught the sardonic eye of Max Townley. ‘Attitude problem?’ she suggested.
‘Whatever it is, Suzy’s stuck with it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t you know who Kerry’s Dad is?’
Jude shook her head.
‘Well, stepfather, actually. Bob Hartson.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Big local property developer. Often seen buzzing around in a chauffeur-driven Jaguar. You’ll see him tonight. He’s one of the bloody Pillocks of Sussex. And he’s bailed Suzy out.’
‘What?’
‘She’s had a bit of a cash crisis in the last six months.’
‘I knew that, but I didn’t know how serious it was.’
‘Serious enough for her to look for an investor. Bob Hartson obliged. Which means that if he wants Suzy to teach his useless daughter the hotel trade – or if he wants her to do anything else for him – then that’s what Suzy has to do.’
While Jude was taking in the implications of this, the chef changed tack. ‘How long have you known Suzy?’
‘Goodness . . . Thirty years? Nearly forty now, I suppose.’
‘And did you know her through media connections?’
‘It’s so long ago that in those days the word “media” was hardly invented. But, yes, I suppose I met Suzy through the fashion world.’
‘Did you work in television too?’
‘A bit.’
‘And are you still in touch with people from those times?’
‘A few, yes. Friends like Suzy. Some others—’
‘Because what I really wanted to ask you, Jude, was—’
