One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon (7 page)

Watching his daughter wrap the old fool round her little finger, Rory Flint-Hamilton felt a deep sense of foreboding. Having Tati behave disgracefully in London was bad enough. If she did it in Fittlescombe, Rory’s life wouldn’t be worth living.

‘Fine,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You can come. But I mean it, Tatiana: I don’t want any trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Daddy,’ Tati beamed. ‘We’re all going to have a lovely Christmas.’

Friday, 23 December, was always going to be a big day for Laura Tiverton. It was the day that Daniel Smart was arriving to spend Christmas with her, a huge leap forward in their relationship. It was also the day of the Furlings Hunt Ball. Most importantly of all, it was the dress rehearsal for the Nativity play, an event that had raised Laura’s anxiety levels to borderline insanity.

She woke at 4 a.m., haunted by dreams of collapsing sets, children singing out-of-tune carols, live animals running amok through the audience and Gabriel Baxter having disturbingly graphic sex with Lisa James on the straw-strewn stage.

Drenched in sweat, she got herself a glass of water and tried to go back to sleep, but it was useless. The image of Gabe’s handsome, mocking face refused to leave her mind. He knew his lines and was perfectly capable of giving a good performance. But he wasn’t above messing things up on purpose just to get a laugh out of the audience, or to irritate Laura.

Ever since Laura heard that Graham Kenley, a hugely successful TV producer with a house in Chichester, would be in the audience (he was in Fittlescombe for the Furlings Hunt Ball, and had a niece at St Hilda’s playing one of the angels), she’d been in paroxysms of doubt and terror. Graham Kenley was bound to have heard rumours about Laura’s swift, unexpected exit from the BBC. Her name was featured prominently on the programmes as both writer and director of this year’s Nativity. That was an embarrassing enough comedown in itself. But, if the play was awful, if Gabe Baxter ruined it, Laura would never be able to show her face in the British television world again.

By six o’clock, exhausted but unable to lie staring at the ceiling a minute longer, Laura had a hot bath, dressed and went down to the kitchen to brew herself a strong coffee. Daniel’s arrival had given her all the excuse she needed to go wild with the Christmas decorations at Briar Cottage, which now glittered with more tinsel and baubles than Santa’s grotto. Pressing play on her iPod speakers to allow the calming opening bars of ‘In Dulce Jubilo’ to fill the room, Laura opened the bread bin, tore off a huge chunk of Marks & Spencer’s panettone, and lit a White Company ‘Winter’ candle to lift her spirits. She threw a piece of the sweet bread to Peggy the pug, who ate it, lifting her head momentarily from the comfort of her fireside basket before lowering it again with a disgusted snuffle. It was pitch dark outside and clearly far too early for any sane person, or dog, to be awake.

By the time Laura had cleared away breakfast, plumped the sofa cushions and arranged fresh logs and kindling in the grate (Daniel’s imminent arrival had brought on a rare burst of domesticity), the sun had finally peeped its head up over the horizon. Outside, the air was cold and crisp, but the usual blue skies had been replaced by a thick, brooding blanket of clouds. The heavens looked swollen and pregnant with the snow that had been forecast for weeks now. In one way, of course, it would be lovely to have a white Christmas. But fresh-fallen snow would wreak havoc with narrow village lanes. Laura was already having nightmares about half her cast being snowed in, not to mention the audience. After so many months of work, she would not see the funny side if this Nativity play were cancelled.

By the time the dress rehearsal got under way, Laura felt as if she’d been awake for a year. Her nerves, on top of the sleepless night and four enormous mugs of coffee, had left her wired and jittery. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

‘I want a word with you about my boy.’

Gary Trotter, a great, fat slob of a man with a reputation in the village as a bully and a troublemaker, marched up to Laura as the children took their places. Gary’s son, the improbably named Denver Trotter, was a chip off the old block, popular at school at least in part because he and his cronies bullied any kids who dared to stand up to them.

‘How come Denver ain’t got a solo?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Laura said distractedly.

‘You gave the solo to that posh kid. Stick together, your lot, doncha? Well I’m not ’aving it. My lad’s got a much better voice.’

‘That posh kid’ was George Monroe, a shy, nerdy little boy with an absolutely angelic treble. Denver Trotter could hold a tune, but he wasn’t in the same league. It hadn’t escaped Laura’s notice the way that Denver and his mates picked on George. Most of the middle-class families in Fittlescombe sent their children to one of the local private prep schools, but George Monroe’s parents hadn’t two beans to rub together, so St Hilda’s was their only option. With over 80 per cent of the pupils coming from the local village estate, George had struggled to fit in, but his efforts weren’t helped by the likes of Denver Trotter.

‘Mr Trotter, the auditions were held weeks ago. George Monroe has the solo because he was felt to have the most suitable voice.’

‘The poshest voice, you mean.’

Laura bit back her irritation. ‘The music department allocated the children their roles, not me. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with them, but this is a dress rehearsal. We are certainly not going to reallocate roles now.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ The fat man stalked off.

‘What was all that about?’ Gabe appeared next to Laura. In his simply fashioned brown woollen robe and sandals, and with a dark beard glued onto his chin, he looked unrecognizable as Joseph.

‘Wow.’ Laura looked him up and down. ‘You look amazing.’

‘I look like a knob end. And this bloody beard’s itchy as shit,’ Gabe grumbled. ‘What did Gary Trotter want?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just stupid playground politics.’

‘The man’s a cock,’ said Gabe.

‘Yes,’ Laura agreed. ‘He doesn’t like George Monroe, or his son doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s posh.’ Laura gave Gabe a meaningful look.

‘What are you looking at me like that for?
I
like George. I think he’s a sweetheart.’

‘Mm-hmm. So people being posh doesn’t bother you, then?’ Laura asked archly.

‘No. It doesn’t,’ said Gabe, annoyed now that he finally understood her meaning. ‘It’s people being bossy, stuck-up know-it-alls that I don’t like. How
is
Daniel, by the way?’

If the morning had started badly, it was about to get worse. Someone had overheated the hall, no doubt in anticipation of the snow, and the children were wilting under the bright stage lights. Laura, who’d opted for a new, skintight, bottle-green, cashmere polo-neck and slouchy wool French Connection trousers in honour of Daniel’s arrival, was sweating like a Christmas turkey in an abattoir. Her face had turned an unbecoming shade of red, and her freshly blow-dried hair already looked greasy and damp with sweat. The animals fared no better. By lunchtime, one of the heifers, scared by the spotlights, panicked and lashed out with its hind legs, destroying the Baby Jesus’s crib and putting a sizeable hole in the wooden stable wall. Lisa James had fluffed almost all her cues as Mary, and a scuffle had broken out among the Year Four angels that resulted in George Monroe falling off the stage and badly scraping his knee.

One of the teachers helped the boy up. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ said George. Up on stage, Denver Trotter and his friends had formed a huddle, their whispering interspersed with loud bursts of malicious laughter. Ken Ruddell, the choirmaster, broke them up, but it was obvious what was going on.

‘Don’t let them get to you,’ Gabe whispered in George’s ear, taking him aside. ‘They’re just jealous because you’re the star of the show.’

‘Thanks, Mr Baxter. Unfortunately that doesn’t help me much. And the teachers never do
any
thing.’ George Monroe was a gentle soul, but he looked up at his tormentors with eyes alight with hatred.

They broke at eleven thirty for biscuits and squash for the children, and a much-needed cup of tea for the adults. Gary Trotter was still hanging around, ostensibly to help with the children’s drinks and snacks, but actually to harangue poor Ken Ruddell about Denver having been robbed of his rightful position of star of the show. Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw George Monroe reach for a cup of squash, only to have Denver Trotter snatch it up and down its contents in a single, mean-spirited gulp.

‘Children can be so cruel,’ she observed to Harry Hotham.

‘My dear girl, they’re animals. Always have been, always will be. There are few environments more ruthless than a primary-school playground, believe me.’

‘Spoken by a man who never worked for the BBC,’ quipped Laura. She felt awful for poor George, but there was no time to ride to the rescue now.

‘Places, everybody! Two minutes to curtain.’

Act Two of the play opened in the now-wrecked stable –
how the hell were they going to get that fixed by tomorrow lunchtime?
– with a set piece involving the shepherds and kings bringing their gifts. Lisa James, centre stage but with nothing to do except nod and smile, began at last to look like a convincing Mary. And Gabe delivered his few lines with no court-jester embellishments. Even the schoolchildren, as the heavenly host of angels, seemed to have pulled themselves together, with Denver Trotter in particular looking subdued.

It wasn’t until George Monroe launched into his first verse solo of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, his pure, reedy treble cutting through the air like the voice of heaven itself, that Laura noticed it. Denver wasn’t just subdued. He was grimacing, clutching his stomach. No one on stage seemed concerned. They were all focusing on their own lines and cues. Until suddenly Denver’s eyes widened and with a horrified, helpless wail of ‘Oh, shit!’ he made a run for the stage door. Unfortunately for Denver, a particularly large and obstinate donkey stood between him and salvation.

‘Move!’ the boy cried. ‘Move, for fuck’s sake!’

But it was too late. With a fart so spectacularly loud it sounded like a thunderclap, Denver Trotter’s bowels exploded, a thick brown stain spreading across his white angel’s robe as splatters of shit sprayed the entire chorus line behind him. Little girls started screaming. The pianist stopped playing, and various teachers ran on stage, flapping their arms uselessly like a flock of surprised chickens. George Monroe, still on his pedestal, kept singing, changing the words to ‘Once in Royal Denver’s Shitty’, and unable to keep the delight off his face.

Laura put her head in her hands.
It’s official. The play’s a disaster. I’m going to be the laughing stock of Fittlescombe, and Graham Kenley, and Daniel, are going to be there to witness my humiliation first-hand.
Looking up, she saw that Gabe Baxter was clutching his stomach too. Surely the whole cast hadn’t got food poisoning? Or some terrible, super-contagious vomiting bug? But then Gabe stood upright and she saw that, far from being unwell, he was actually crying tears of laughter. He winked at George Monroe, and little George winked back.

They did it together!
Laura gasped.
They slipped something into Denver Trotter’s drink!

Gary Trotter was on stage now, yelling blue murder. Grabbing his sobbing son by the shoulders he was trying to lead him off stage, when a follow-up thunderclap occurred and Denver exploded for a second time. Unfortunately, this time he was standing right in front of the fan that the stagehands used to make the angels’ wings flutter.

A fine mist of faeces sprayed out across the hall, showering the entire cast with foul-smelling diarrhoea. Even Laura, in her director’s chair at the foot of the stage, didn’t escape. She was wiping flecks of brown from her ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater when the rear doors to the hall opened and Daniel walked in. In a dashing, floor-length winter coat and Burberry leather driving gloves, carrying a vintage Aspinal of London suitcase and with a beautifully wrapped Christmas present under his arm, he looked like a creature from another planet.

Sexy.

Sophisticated.

Not covered in a ten-year-old boy’s poo.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Pulling out a handkerchief he held it over his nose. ‘What in the hell happened?’

Gabe Baxter answered him through tears of mirth. ‘The shit hit the fan, Daniel. Bet
that
doesn’t happen too often in the West End.’

Back at Briar Cottage, Laura deposited Daniel on the sofa and raced upstairs to peel off her sweat-soaked, poo-splattered clothes. When she saw her face in the bathroom mirror, she had to stifle a sob. She looked a fright. Her cheeks were beet-red, her nose had gone all shiny, and strands of limp, greasy hair stuck to her forehead like tendrils of seaweed clinging to a rock. Heavy bags under her eyes attested to last night’s lack of sleep and a hellish day of rehearsals. The Furlings Hunt Ball would get under way in a matter of hours, attended by a raft of stunning, perfectly groomed women. Apparently, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had come home for the event, on the lookout for a new lover and determined to outshine all the competition.

She won’t have to try very hard to outshine me
,
Laura thought miserably.
I’m going to look like such a frump
.

What on earth had possessed her to bring Daniel to the ball as her date? If he hadn’t already realized how far out of Laura’s league he was, tonight was sure to bring the point home to him.

Oh well. Too late now
.

Jumping into the shower, slathering cinnamon body scrub onto every inch of her skin, and washing her hair twice with extra-shine shampoo, Laura tried to push today’s disastrous dress rehearsal out of her mind. It was well known in theatre lore that the best productions had the worst dress rehearsals. Perhaps today was actually a good omen. Everything that
could
go wrong
had
gone wrong. Tomorrow’s performance could only be better.