The Party Season (4 page)

'Gerald, I'm sorry I'm late. I had trouble with the … er …'

'Neighbour's cat? Postman? Door handle?'

'No. I, er, lost my, em …'

'Walking ability? Tube pass? Mind?'

'Oh look! My canapé samples have arrived!' I exclaim joyfully. Aidan, god bless him, has whisked up behind Gerald and shoves a small tray in my face.

'Sorry, Gerald. Chef said Izzy should try them now while they're hot.'

We both smile patiently at him. We're all petrified of the head chef so this is a safe bet. 'Well?' asks Gerald. 'Are you going to try them, Izzy?'

'Hmm? Oh yes! Of course!' I hastily take one and shove it in my mouth. It's stone cold and tastes vaguely of salmon.

'Deeelicious!' I spit crumbs at them both and wonder if they would notice if I am quietly sick on their shoes. Gerald opens his mouth to say something else, then thinks better of it and shuts it again. He closes his eyes and rests his head in his hands in a Gawd-help-us kind of way. We have a small interval of silence. Then Gerald obviously decides that he cannot be bothered with us anymore, makes an impatient flapping gesture with his hands and returns to his office. We breathe a sigh of relief.

'Thanks, Aidan,' I murmur.

'Sorry about the canapés, at least they're only yesterday's. Coffee?'

'Please,' I bleat. I slump down at my desk and, without even bothering to take off my jacket, rest my head on a very convenient seat cover some wonderful person has placed there. Probably not for this purpose but I am grateful all the same.

It is a matter of minutes before Aidan is back bearing the ambrosial brew. I half-heartedly sit up and manage to take a couple of restorative sips. He has been an absolute rock in these last three weeks. He knows that my current state of dishevelment is very out of character. Normally I am extremely organised and efficient.

'Why are you in such a state? What on earth have you been doing? Was it anything exciting?'

'Just Dominic and me,' I whisper and pull a face.

'Darling Dominic,' says Aidan fondly. 'How is he?'

'Ill, I hope.'

'Izzy, darling, I know this Rob thing has upset you but when can we have our old Isabel back? The anal, every-thing-has-its-place Isabel?'

'I thought you hated that Isabel,' I mumble into my seat cover.

'Oh, she's not so bad. Besides, my figures don't add up.'

'Leave them on my desk. When I can see again, I'll have a look at them. Who have you got this evening?'

'Mrs Pritch-Bonnington's Arabian Nights party. More Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen than Lawrence of Arabia, I'm afraid. What about you?'

'Nothing until Wednesday.' I raise my head from the seat cover. 'If anyone calls tell them I'm dead. It's not too far from the truth.' The only thing that disturbs me for the next half an hour is Dom texting to ask how he can commit suicide with a paperclip and a Post-it note. He's obviously feeling bad too. Good. I smile to myself as my head drops back down to my seat cover.

Later that morning we gather in the boardroom for our bi-weekly management meeting, where we discuss future projects, assign them to someone if an organiser hasn't been specifically requested and mull over any general problems or ideas. It normally takes all morning; much of it is spent deciding who wants what from the coffee shop next door.

They start without me as I endure a seemingly never-ending call with a client renowned for her absolute hatred of green food at her events. Not even an olive can remain. When I walk in to the meeting Gerald is in the middle of giving someone a big going-over but as soon as he claps eyes on me he's distracted.

'ANYWAY,' he says loudly, 'since the mother ship has finally beamed Isabel back down let's move on to new projects. Does the name Monkwell mean anything to you, Isabel?'

I frown. It does mean an awful lot to me. Great chunks of my childhood are tied up with that name.

'Er, Isabel?'

'Yes?'

'The name Monkwell?'

'Well, of course I know the name Monkwell! Doesn't everybody?'

'I mean personally.'

I pause slightly. Gerald is looking very sternly at me. He must have got hold of the fact that I used to be on quite intimate terms with the Monkwell family. I've never mentioned this and contacts are everything in this business. And the name Monkwell would mean BIG business. 'I haven't seen any of them for years,' I say in a very small voice, conveniently forgetting my 'almost' meeting with Simon.

'Simon Monkwell?' interjects Stephanie in wonder. '
The
Simon Monkwell? You
know
him?' This is said in an accusatory tone. She's always in a foul mood in these meetings because Gerald banned her from smoking in here after the time she asked one of us to 'chuck her a fag' and Aidan threw himself across the room with 'Here I am darling!' Gerald couldn't get any sense out of us for about half an hour.

'Em, sort of.'

'How, sort of?' persists Gerald.

'Er, I knew the family as a kid. I grew up on Simon's country estate with him. Why?' I decide to play the innocent.

'Someone called Monty Monkwell called me this morning.'

'Really? That's Simon's father.'

'Yes. Apparently he heard you were in the party planning business through your Aunt Winnie. The one who thinks I'm a communist.' Aunt Winnie is well known to everyone at Table Manners. She has long conversations with anyone in the office who is hapless enough to take her calls.

'Through my Aunt Winnie?' I frown. Aunt Winnie would have mentioned it if she'd been in touch with one of the Monkwells.

'Well, not exactly through Aunt Winnie. Apparently through a Mrs Charlesty who had been speaking to your Aunt Winnie. I've got all the details. A charity ball is being organised up at the estate—'

'Pantiles,' I fill in.

'Yes, Pantiles. He wondered if you would be able to go along and help out. The fee he's offering isn't much but if you do well, and bearing in mind you actually know the family,' he throws me a nasty look here, 'we might be able to get our foot in the door for the corporate entertaining contract for Simon Monkwell's company. Which, I don't need to tell you, would be massive business. Only last week
The Times
named him as one of the most up and coming entrepreneurs in the country.'

'And
Tatler
named him one of their top fifty eligible bachelors. He's dreamy-looking,' Stephanie throws in. 'That huge country estate. Think of all the money.' She stares off longingly into the distance.

'What does he do exactly?' asks someone.

'Buys companies, tears them apart, sells them off. With their permission or without it. Fairly ruthless by reputation.'

'Not just by reputation,' I murmur to myself. The discussion becomes more animated and everyone leans forward, anxious to add their piece.

'Doesn't he insist on personally firing all the management of the companies he takes over?'

'Something about how he likes to gloat over their failure?'

'Didn't he lay off a thousand workers from his last company?'

'Okay all right everyone, so the man doesn't exactly smell of roses, but that doesn't change the colour of his money,' Gerald interrupts the proceedings before they deteriorate. 'If we discounted all our clients on the basis of the morality of their money we'd probably only have about two left. I might ask you, Izzy, why you never deemed it important enough to mention here?'

'Simon and I didn't get on.' I shrug my shoulders and stare down at my pad. Simon Monkwell and I were best friends. Note the past tense. Were best friends.

'How old were you?'

'Eleven.'

'How can you not get on when you're eleven? Did you steal his mint humbugs? Did you row over who'd had the roller skates last? I don't think he'll hold it against you.'

'When is the ball?' I ask, flipping my huge, stalwart diary, every party planner's faithful companion, open for December.

'Next month.'

'Next month?' I look up in horror.

'Apparently the charity have had to move venue at the last minute and asked the estate if they could relocate there, which is why Monty Monkwell wants you along to help out.'

'But there's not enough time. I can't organise a ball within a month!'

'They might have a lot organised already. I've booked you in for a fact-finding meeting on Monday. So just go along and see what needs to be done.'

'I'm going to see my Aunt Winnie for the weekend; she lives quite near, so she might take me,' I concede. I haven't got a car and Gerald's puritanical attitude towards expenses is ingrained in all of us.

'Mr Monkwell says the estate has never organised anything like this before. It's their first official event.'

'They have never been a working estate. The house and grounds were always strictly private. I can't see Simon Monkwell welcoming anyone with open arms.'

'Well, Simon Monkwell is abroad so you won't see him.'

'Good.'

The Pantiles estate. I never thought I'd be going back there. A rush of memories overwhelms me as I think of it. What a beautiful place it is. The Monkwells own the estate, the village and a couple of thousand of acres of land besides. When I was about eight we moved back to England and we ended up living on the estate in a cottage only a few minutes away from the main house. Pantiles, Monty and Elizabeth Monkwell, Simon and his brother Will became my whole world and, until I turned eleven, I absolutely adored that golden family.

'If this is the first time the estate has done anything like this then we could be in on the start of something highly profitable,' Gerald says, interrupting my thoughts. 'You'll probably need to clear at least the week before the ball due to the timescale problems. Mr Monkwell said you could stay with them if you need to rather than keep going back and forward to London. Wouldn't hear of anything else. It would save us on travel expenses. Whereabouts in Suffolk is the estate?'

'Little village called Pantiles. Quite close to Bury St Edmunds.'

'He said he was looking forward to seeing you again. God knows why you haven't mentioned these people before, Izzy.'

'I've told you. Simon and I just don't get on. In fact, I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that he positively hates me.'

'Why? You're pretty innocuous.' This is a compliment coming from Gerald.

I shrug. 'I really don't know.'

'It'll probably be something trivial, knowing kids. Did you get on well with the rest of the family? Would that be too much to ask? How about Monty Monkwell?'

'Oh yes! I loved the rest of the family.'

But most of all I adored the boys. Having one sister, no brothers and a frequently absent father, I found the presence of male company incredibly refreshing. At first Simon and I got on brilliantly; he treated me as though I was his baby sister and I loved every minute of it. We were together constantly, talking in our special made-up language which nearly drove our parents to distraction.

'Anyway, is the date free?' asks Gerald.

I turn my diary to the suggested weekend and frown. 'Mrs Cherington's drinks party.'

'Could you take that Aidan?'

'Not on your nelly! That old battleaxe! I'd rather …' He trails off as he catches sight of Gerald's face. 'Yes, of course I can.'

'Good! Simon Monkwell's secretary wants your CV faxed up along with a signed confidentiality agreement.'

'A confidentiality agreement? Why?' A confidentiality agreement is considered perfectly normal if the event is high-profile but not for something like a charity ball.

'Presumably because something might be confidential,' Gerald says in his best morons voice, raising his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. 'Isabel, it might have escaped your notice these last few weeks but Simon Monkwell is trying to complete a hostile takeover of a rather large manufacturing company. I daresay the family might be worried you could hear something you shouldn't. Pull yourself together, for God's sake. You normally know exactly what's going on.' I blink at Gerald, realising he's right. Aidan jumps into the awkward silence with both feet. 'Oh look!' he exclaims. 'Here's my smelly pineapple rubber! I've been wondering where that had got to!'

Back at my desk, I try to concentrate on a seating plan for Lady Boswell's Nordic Ice Feast but my thoughts keep straying to Simon Monkwell. Just as I thought I had forgotten all the hurt he caused me, which had been dragged up from the depths of my memory by our recent meeting, the mere mention of his name has brought it all rushing back again.

Simon Monkwell was my best friend when I was eight and in a way our friendship brought our two families together. I don't think we'd have spent nearly as much time in each other's company if Simon and I hadn't been so close. But just after Simon was sent away to boarding school, things started to change.

His first few weekends at home were fine. We'd go fishing. We'd ride our bikes. We'd watch TV. But slowly Simon became introverted and sulky. And spiteful. He played all sorts of unkind tricks on me, locking me in deserted rooms on the estate, abandoning me in the woods at night. Simon was two years older than me so perhaps he outgrew our friendship, but whatever happened it was devastating to me. It got to the stage when any planned visit to the Monkwells' would reduce me to tears and I'd beg my mother not to make me go. I couldn't tell her why so relations became strained between us all. The magic of Pantiles disappeared for me that autumn and the woods held only malice.