Max threw his head back and laughed. ‘I’m gay, my darling. Can you not tell because I’m wearing such manly trousers?’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, blushing. ‘Although, you could still get married.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ he said, nodding.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’
‘No. Not terribly good with boyfriends.’
‘Max,’ said Barny, from my other side. ‘None of us want to hear about your love life over pudding.’
‘I wish there was one, Barny, old boy. But it’s been slow-going of late.’
‘You should meet my flatmate, Joe,’ I said to Max. ‘You’re just his type.’
‘Oh really? What’s his type?’
‘Well, actually, quite wide ranging, I’d say. But dark, handsome and funny. And you’re all of those.’
‘Right,’ bellowed the Duke from the other end of the room, slamming his fists down on the table. ‘Finish up your pudding and let’s get going.’
‘Come on then,’ Max said to me. Then he called down the table, ‘Jasper, I’m stealing Polly to stand with me this afternoon. Violet, why don’t you go with your brother? I need to talk to Polly about her flatmate.’
Jasper’s sister. I’d barely noticed the woman sitting three to my left. She seemed much quieter than her talkative brother.
‘Fine by me,’ said Violet, carefully putting her napkin back on the table. ‘If anyone wants to borrow another layer then shout, it looks like rain this afternoon.’
It started raining while I stood behind Max waiting for the shooting to start again. Having defrosted enough to handle a knife and fork over lunch, my hands were stiff with cold again. Max stood, gun slung over his arm, cigarette dangling from his lips.
‘You all right?’ He glanced back at me.
‘Yes, yes, fine. Who needs hands anyway?’
‘You going back to London after this?’
‘No, I’m staying tonight. I haven’t had my interview with Jasper yet.’
He exhaled smoke into the air. ‘That’s brave. Have you talked much to their Graces?’
‘Who?’
‘The Duke and Duchess.’
‘No, not really.’ I squinted in the distance to see the Duke standing at the other end of the field. The Duchess had announced after lunch that she wasn’t coming out that afternoon because she had work to do in her hen house.
‘They’re barking,’ said Max, grinding his cigarette out in the mud with his boot. ‘Truly barking.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘Which is why Jasper is a bit… complicated sometimes.’
‘You’ve known him for ever?’
He nodded again. ‘We were at prep school together. Then the same house at Eton, until he got kicked out. Then Edinburgh University.’ He paused. ‘He’s been a good friend. Stood up for me at school when I came out. Not that my sexuality was a huge surprise to anyone. I mean, darling, look at me!’
I laughed. Max was wearing tweed, but also pink socks, a pink shirt, a yellow tie and a pink beanie.
‘So, he’s been a good friend,’ he carried on. ‘And, I know we all get a bit carried away sometimes…’
‘Carried away?’
‘Those pictures, after he broke up with Caz, are a case in point.’ Max raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Anyway, Jasper knows exactly who told the papers he’d broken it off with her, who told the photographers where he was that night. But he’s not going to say anything. He’s too honourable.’
There was a bang down the line and a pheasant dropped through the air towards the ground. ‘Right, here we go again. Time to concentrate,’ said Max, turning round and lifting his gun.
Back at the castle there was tea. The sort of tea you read about in a Dickens novel. Sandwiches, sausage rolls, fruitcake, shortbread, tea in actual teapots. Also, port. Port! In miniature wine glasses! Joe and I put away a couple of cheap bottles of Pinot Grigio from Barbara’s shop almost every night, but we didn’t drink as much as this lot. The Duke’s blood must be 93 per cent alcohol, I reckoned, watching him drain another glass of the syrupy red liquid.
After half an hour or so of standing on the fringes of the drawing room, defrosting my hands yet again on a teacup, Jasper’s friends started leaving and I snuck out gratefully to my room. I then ran a hot bath with a good few slugs from an ancient-looking bottle of hyacinth bath oil I found in the bathroom cupboard. Sylvia Plath once said that a hot bath cured everything, which I’d always thought slightly ironic, because poor Sylvia then went and killed herself. But I needed a bath to help collect my thoughts. The evening dinner promised to be a sort of cross between Downton Abbey and Coronation Street, while everyone politely ate their soup. Or drank their soup. What does one do with soup? Anyway, everyone would be doing something with their soup and discussing the day while bad tempers seethed underneath. Maybe soup would be thrown.
Because nobody in this house, this castle, rather, seemed able to move without some form of alcohol in their hand, Ian had sent me upstairs with something called a ‘hot toddy’. A few fingers of whisky, some hot water and a teaspoon or so of honey, he’d explained. ‘It’ll warm you up,’ he’d said.
I swirled it around in its glass, splashing hot, oily water over the side of the bath. It burned my throat going down.
My phone suddenly vibrated on the bed, so I climbed out of the bath, wrapped myself in a scratchy towel, picked it up and lay – steaming – on the narrow little mattress. It was Lala again.
How’s it going, Pols? Do you like Jaz? Send my love to everyone. Don’t forget the make-up thing Xxxx
I quickly typed out a reply.
All good, don’t worry. I’ll report back on Monday xxxx
Still hot and damp from the bath, I then stood up to heave myself into the floor-length dress Legs and Lala had insisted I wear. No tights, because they were common apparently. I looked in the full-length mirror. A ropey Twenties flapper girl looked back at me. But it would have to do. And somehow I needed to walk downstairs in the ridiculous heels they’d given me, so high they looked like they might give me vertigo.
I picked up my phone again and checked the time. Nearly seven o’clock. I needed to find the drawing room where Ian had told me the family gathered for drinks. More drinks! And I still hadn’t sat down to interview Jasper yet. I’d scribbled some more notes
