Kissing Toads (6 page)

I didn't even hint to Delphi, of course. Under the rhino hide necessary for media stardom, the effortless arrogance, the self-assurance, the bouncing ball of her optimism, I've always sensed hidden insecurity, a deep-seated vein of sensitivity – in short, the usual junk we all carry around. I haven't ever seen much evidence of it, but I know it's there. When I confessed to having taken the job she bubbled over with enthusiasm and self-satisfaction, insisting on a champagne lunch because we had so much to celebrate. ‘We'll put it on expenses,' she concluded.

Oh God.

‘No we won't,' I said. ‘Crusty would fire me before I've even started, and he'd be perfectly justified.'

‘Darling, I
always
put things on expenses. So does he. When did you get to be so stuffy?'

‘When I accepted the position you pulled strings to get for me,' I responded unhappily.

‘Look, it's quite all right. Ask Crusty if you don't believe me, though I must say—'

‘
No
.' If I didn't assert my authority now, I never would.

‘You told me Kyle used to put everything on expenses.'

‘Not when I could stop him.' As a mere assistant, my powers had been limited, but I was determined to take my new responsibilities seriously.

Delphi agreed to pay for lunch, pained rather than grudging, an injured innocent labouring under the stigma of unjust accusation. But she'd forgotten about it before the starters arrived.

‘We have
lots
to celebrate,' she declared. ‘I've been wanting to tell you, only you were so miserable about Kyle I didn't think it was tactful. Alex and I have got a date.'

‘What kind of a date? You've been dating for years – I mean, you live together. You don't need a date.'

‘A date for the
wedding
! Honestly, Roo . . .'

‘Oh . . . That's wonderful. That's absolutely terrific. When?'

‘Next summer – when I finish the series. Of course, we've been vaguely engaged for ages, but he's bought me a ring now. I wore it last week and you didn't even notice.'

She was right. I'm not awfully observant at the best of times, and times lately hadn't been the best. I admired the ring, a chartreuse diamond of impressive dimensions in a modern setting. Alex had very good taste.

‘He has, hasn't he?' Delphi glowed contentedly. Half the clientele of the Ivy could probably see the aura. Of her glow, not the ring. ‘Actually, I chose it, but he agreed with me. I want you to be my maid of honour. I'll have a couple of sweet little girls – Alex has some nieces who'll do – but you're the important one.'

‘Do I have to? I look awful in frilly dresses.'

‘No frills, I promise. This is
me
, remember? We've always said we'd be maid of honour for each other, ever since we were kids. Roo . . . you are pleased for me, aren't you?'

‘Yes, of course.' Her flicker of anxiety, indicative of those hidden sensibilities, touched me with guilt, and I injected real warmth into my voice. She was genuinely happy, and I was being picky and ungenerous.

‘You do like him?'

‘Very much. He's adorable.'

This was true. Alex
is
adorable – he's adorable like an Andrex puppy or a small child. You want to cuddle but not shag him. At least, that was my reaction. Evidently Delphi felt differently. And he had always been a near-perfect boyfriend, remembering her birthday (I suspected she took care to remind him) and even mine, squiring her to all the right social occasions, bringing her flowers after any tiff (Delphi and Alex didn't row, they only tiffed), giving her surprise presents of things she didn't want, like Perspex jewellery and soft toys. They'd been drifting towards marriage since they met, when Delphi ticked off his various qualities on some private checklist in her head. She'd moved into his mews house within four months, redecorated it in her own image, done her best to charm his parents, his three sisters, and any partners of same. Spoilt, indolent and sweet-natured, Alex seemed only too happy to let her run his life. They had the sort of successful, stress-free relationship that all the rule books advocate. It was just . . .

It was just that I didn't think it was love.

Three-quarters of the way down the Bolly, I said so. In a roundabout way. Vestiges of diplomacy remained to me.

‘You do love him, don't you?'

‘Of course I do!' Delphi's eyes widened at the imputation. ‘I wouldn't
dream
of marrying without love. Alex is fantastically handsome – he's charming, he loves
me
to bits. How could I not love him back?'

Lorelei Lee, I thought, recalling Monroe in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
. But Delphi wasn't a platinum-haired gold-digger who'd hooked a compliant millionaire. Delphi had subtle streaks and deep-seated veins – or something.

I really shouldn't have champagne at lunchtime.

‘It's only . . .' I floundered, ‘you never seem to get upset about him, or worry if he's late to meet you, or think he fancies other women.'

‘Alex only fancies me,' Delphi sighed blissfully. ‘He's so good like that.'

‘But when we were teenagers, and you were keen on Ben—'

‘Ben Garvin,' she retorted tartly, ‘was a mistake. I
learnt
from that. That's your trouble, Roo: you never learn. You keep doing the same old thing over and over again. If you'd only learn from the Kyle business, you could meet Mr Right and get married and live happily ever after, like me. It's like someone or other said – before you get your prince you have to kiss an awful lot of toads. Ben was one of the toads, Alex is—'

‘A frog?'

‘Alex is
my
prince.' Delphi swept minor niggles aside. ‘You're still stuck in toad mode. You've got to start thinking princes.'

Maybe she was right. She looked happy – radiantly happy, serenely confident of the future. Who was I to quibble because Alex never made her miserable?

‘We've got to start planning the wedding,' she went on. ‘It's going to be mega. I was thinking a castle, like Madonna and the McCartneys. Maybe Hot God would lend me his? I had considered Brighton Pavilion, because that would be
amazing
, but apparently
anybody
can get married there, so obviously it won't do. Alex wants us to use his father's place in Wiltshire – it's huge, about twenty bedrooms and acres of garden – but I told him you can't get married in your own home, it's so naff. And then there's the dress. I want it to be
totally
over the top, but tasteful. How about Stella – or John Galliano?'

Evidently Alex's perfections were to be set aside for more important matters.

‘Who did Posh use?' I murmured wickedly.

Delphi all but blenched. ‘
I
don't model myself on Victoria Beckham,' she said. ‘I don't follow; I lead. Which reminds me, once I'm married I'm going to broaden my professional horizons. I think it's time I became a lifestyle guru . . .'

According to T.S. Eliot, J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons. Lately, I seemed to be measuring mine in champagne corks. A few days after my celebration with Delphi, Crusty invited both of us to lunch to discuss the show. The location moved from the Ivy to the Garrick, with its pictures of legendary thespians like Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt, its misogynistic rules (we weren't allowed in the main dining room), its modest Euro-English cuisine. Working on
Behind the News
hadn't involved glamour-lunching; socialising usually happened in pubs and bars, the sleazier the better. I'd generally avoided drinking during the day and when Crusty ordered Krug as a matter of course I asked timidly for mineral water. (My glass got filled anyway.)

‘Sensible girl,' Crusty said approvingly. ‘But don't worry, champagne isn't a
real
drink. I always think it's a lot like Perrier, only nicer.'

He drank it like Perrier, I noticed.

The working title of the series had changed several times, as is the way with titles.
God's Scottish Paradise
,
Redesigning Eden
and
The Rock Star and the Rockery
had given way to
Dunblair: Quest for a Garden
(the castle was called Dunblair) and now, Crusty informed us,
The Lost Maze of Dunblair
.

‘They grew maize?' Delphi demanded, at sea.

‘He means maze as in Hampton Court,' I hazarded.

‘Exactly.' Crusty beamed further approval at me, which would have been embarrassing if Delphi had paid any attention. ‘Dunblair was originally the property of the McGoogles, an old Scottish family going back to the time of Hadrian, or thereabouts.'

I could see Delphi opening her mouth to ask about Adrian and murmured
sotto voce
, ‘Chap with the wall.'

‘Some time in the sixteenth century the incumbent McGoogle planted a maze, asserting, according to local tradition, that when it was grown high enough to hide him, he would marry.'

‘Why?' Delphi interjected.

‘Probably wanted to put off getting married,' I suggested, a little thoughtlessly. ‘Any excuse. Besides, folklore is like that. When the first apple ripens on the tree planted yesterday the queen will be with child. That sort of thing.'

‘Anyway, the Laird was quite old before the hedge outgrew him – he was a tall man – and he took as his bride a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Unfortunately, her heart was given to Another.' Crusty clearly favoured the old-fashioned cliché – I could hear the capital letter. ‘She trysted with her lover in the secrecy of the maze, until one night her husband caught them there and slew them both in his jealous fury. After that it was said to be haunted; several people who wandered into it were never seen again. Bonnie Prince Charlie hid there from the British, although this time it was the soldiers sent to search for him who disappeared.'

‘Convenient,' I remarked.

‘It's a wonderful romantic story,' Delphi enthused.

‘There's more. In the Victorian era there was a laird called Alasdair McGoogle who came into his inheritance at an early age. He was handsome and popular with his tenants, so everyone was upset when instead of the wife chosen for him by his family he married an English girl. However, on their wedding day the whole district was invited, and there was drinking, dancing and games far into the night. Some say the bride ran into the maze to tease her husband or hide from him, others that she was decoyed there by her rival, but she never came out, nor was her body ever found. Alasdair was so distraught he razed the hedges to the ground and ordered all copies of the plans destroyed, so the maze could never be planted again. Then he went to Africa, died of a fever, and was succeeded by a long-lost cousin.'

‘He dunnit,' I said promptly. ‘The cousin.'

‘The rival girlfriend,' Delphi said. ‘And I bet she married the cousin in the end.'

‘Actually, I believe she did,' Crusty conceded. ‘But there's no way of finding out what really happened. However, HG –' presumably Hot God – ‘thinks he may have found a surviving plan of the maze at the back of an old painting. It's in a poor state of preservation, but it may be recoverable. His idea is to bring in full-grown hedges and restore the maze to its original glory.'

‘What about the ghosts?' I asked.

‘HG is calling in a psychic researcher.'

‘Oh God,' Delphi said. ‘Not one of those people who wander round picking up sinister vibes, and saying they feel a supernatural chill when everyone knows the central heating doesn't work?'

‘I'm afraid so.' Under the moustache, Crusty smiled ruefully. ‘But we're also getting a serious historian on the case – Nigel Willoughby-Purchiss, you must have heard of him – and we're considering incorporating some dramatic re-enactment into the programmes.'

Delphi looked dubious – she was losing too much of the limelight. Then her expression brightened. ‘I could do that,' she said. ‘After all, I
am
an actress. I could play the vanished wife.'

‘Which one?' I said, wondering if she would appropriate both.

‘The English one. I don't do accents.'

‘That sounds like a great idea,' Crusty said, looking unfazed. It occurred to me that with Delphi acting as well as presenting he would have one less person to pay. Maybe he was more devious than I'd expected.

We went on to discuss further aspects of the maze and the mystery, while I panicked inwardly, seeing my job growing several new heads, like the Lernean Hydra after pruning. (That's the mythical monster, not a plant.) At the end of the meal Crusty paid with a card. ‘It'll all go on expenses for the show,' he told me.

Damn.

‘Who's Nigel Willoughby-Purchiss?' Delphi demanded when we were alone.

‘He's the latest TV historian.' She didn't watch educational programmes, naturally. ‘Did a series recently on the Minoans. Young men with pecs running round the ruins of Knossos half naked. It got quite good reviews, at least from gay critics.'

‘Is he good-looking?' Delphi enquired hopefully. Possibly she thought he might be a prospect for me. ‘Some of those academic types are.'

‘It depends. If you admire men with no chin and a long twitchy nose like a shrew . . .'

‘They shouldn't allow people like that on television,' Delphi said. ‘It puts off the viewers.'

‘He's got character,' I said for the sake of argument. ‘And brains.'

Delphi treated the remark with the contempt she felt it deserved.