Needles and Pearls Read online

  I’m not sure about knitting a jumper with a train on the front for someone who’s nearly twelve; Jack would throw a fit if I tried to get him to wear anything so babyish, and he’s only seven. I think I’d better suggest something else before she finds her pattern and spends ages knitting something her grandson is pretty much guaranteed to hate on sight.

  She’s rootling through her basket, putting things on the counter while she searches: a Thermos, some string, an assortment of carrier bags, and for some reason best known to herself a very rusty old tin-opener. It’s like a twilight-zone version of The Generation Game.

  ‘Maybe something a bit more grown-up might be better, Mrs Marwell. They get so picky at that age, don’t they? I’ve got a lovely cable pattern, and I know how good you are at cable. Why don’t you go upstairs with Gran and I’ll sort you out something nice?’

  Gran nods.

  ‘We were just going up for a cup of tea, if you fancy one.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you think so … that would be lovely.’

  Gran winks at me as they walk through into the back of the shop towards the door to the stairs. I lit the fire in the workroom when I got in, so it’ll be nice and warm up there, and more importantly it’ll get them out of my way, because I don’t think I can cope with much more of the freesias versus carnations debate.

  I sort out some dark-grey flecked double knitting for Mrs Marwell, and put in a few stock orders, with a steady hum of chatter and clinking tea cups from upstairs, and I’m just about to go up and retrieve Elsie so I can go to the butcher’s when Lady Denby sweeps in, with Algie and Clarkson, her Labradors. Brilliant: perfect timing, as usual.

  Elsie, who’s got hearing like a bat, belts down the stairs as soon as she hears Lady Denby telling Algie to sit. This is shaping up to be a top day for her: first Gran’s wedding and now our local mad aristocrat.

  ‘Just come from the committee, and I thought you’d like to know we’ve decided to splash out on new bunting for the High Street this summer. We need to pull out all the stops if we’re going for gold this year. Counting on you for one of your special window displays, my dear. Some places have won more than once, you know – faint whiff of money changing hands, if you ask me – so let’s pull out all the stops, shall we? Jolly good. Gather congratulations are in order, your grandmother. I must say I do approve of getting hitched. Never too late … do pass on my best wishes.’

  ‘She’s upstairs, Lady Denby, if you’d like to pop up and say hello.’

  Elsie’s practically curtseying.

  ‘Is she? Right, well, I might just do that.’

  She hands Elsie two ancient-looking dog leads, and Algie and Clarkson stand up. They’re both quite keen on licking people’s feet, particularly Clarkson, and I’m fairly sure Algie has just farted.

  Elsie’s looking very nervous, and I don’t blame her, so I take the dog leads from her and head towards the shop door.

  ‘I’ll just take them outside, Lady Denby, if you don’t mind. A few of our customers aren’t that keen on dogs, and I’m sure they’ll be happier outside in the fresh air. I’ll tie them to the railings, shall I? You go on up; Elsie will show you the way.’

  Elsie gives me a look of undying devotion, which is rather similar to the one Clarkson is currently giving to my new boots as I tug on the lead and try to keep out of licking distance.

  ‘I’m off in a minute, Elsie. If Mr Prewitt rings, tell him I’ll bring the cashbooks round later on, would you?’

  ‘Right you are, dear. This way, Lady Denby. Have you heard we’re doing special knitting classes at the infants’ school? I’ll be helping out too – I’m really looking forward to it.’

  Lady Denby looks impressed.

  ‘Marvellous, used to teach all the girls to knit in my day.’

  ‘The boys will be learning too, Lady Denby.’

  ‘Oh yes, quite right. Got to be multi-sexual nowadays, haven’t we?’

  Elsie hesitates at the mention of the S-word, but manages to rally as they head towards the stairs.

  ‘Might I offer you a cup of tea, Lady Denby?’

  Bloody hell; sometimes I think I should just open a tea shop.

  It’s starting to rain as I drive towards Graceland, but at least I’m away from the wedding fest. I’ve got some balls of cashmere and silk mix in raspberry, with a few balls of dark chocolate too. Maxine, Grace’s PA, rang yesterday to tell me Grace wants to make another blanket for Lily, although how she gets the time or the energy to knit with a three-week-old baby is anybody’s guess. But having a nanny, a cook, and a driver, as well as a full-time PA and security in the shape of Bruno probably helps, and I suppose I count as staff too, since I’m officially on the payroll as knitting coach to Ms Harrison. Which is a good thing too really because the £400 a month they pay me has been a lifesaver. Sometimes it’s more than I make in a whole week in the shop if it’s quiet. Although the new stock is starting to pay off, and we do get days when we get a couple of people in like we did at the weekend, who bought bags full of the more expensive yarns and bamboo needles.

  The house looks damp and chilly in the drizzle, and much less like a gorgeous stately home than usual. God knows how they managed in muslin frocks and silk slippers when they built the place – they must have been half frozen for most of the time. No wonder they kept fainting: it was probably hypothermia.

  I’m waiting by the gates for Bruno to recognise me on the security monitors and buzz me in when PC Mike comes over for a chat; he’s our neighbourhood policeman, wearing his fluorescent jacket today and looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Pretty quiet this morning. It was bedlam here yesterday. I had to call for back-up.’

  Grace hasn’t released any photographs of baby Lily yet, so the press have been down here in force, climbing up ladders, trying to get over the walls, and generally annoying everyone within a five-mile radius.

  ‘Oh dear, what happened?’

  ‘There were stacks of them, obstructing the public highway, but I soon put paid to that. They might get away with it in London, but not down here, they won’t. Not while I’m on duty.’

  The gates are starting to open, very slowly.

  ‘I’ll see you in, shall I? Make sure none of them follow you?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He’s having a lovely time being on patrol at the gates. There are two jeeps and a green VW Golf parked further up the lane, with various men inside with cameras slung round their necks, talking on mobiles and looking very bored, who’ve shown a brief flicker of interest in my arrival, but since my name doesn’t appear on any kind of A list, except for Annabel Morgan’s A for Annoying one, they just take a few half-hearted snaps and then go back to talking on their phones.

  PC Mike stands slightly to one side as I drive forwards, with his arms outstretched to hold back the invisible hordes.

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  He salutes.

  Bless.

  I park at the side of the house, as far away as possible from the enormous new silver jeep that makes my car look even more sordid than the gleaming black one does, and I’m just about to get out when two huge dogs come racing over. Jesus, they must be Great Danes or something. I close my door, and lock it: they probably can’t open car doors, but I’m not taking any chances. It’s like I’m suddenly appearing in The Hound of the Baskervilles, only there’s two of the sods. One of them leaps up on the bonnet and starts slavering all over my windscreen. Bloody hell.

  Bruno comes jogging round the corner blowing a whistle, but it doesn’t seem to be having much of an effect on the Baskerville boys.

  He grabs collars and starts pulling, laughing, as I open my window.

  ‘Sorry about that, Jo. They’re only playing.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘I’m training them, but they haven’t really got the hang of it yet.’

  ‘Right.’

  We both look at my windscreen, which is now opaque.

  ‘I’ll so
rt that out for you, love, I don’t think he’s scratched the paintwork, but we’ll pay for any damage, of course. Do you want to have a look?’

  ‘Bruno, it’s covered in dents and scratches – don’t worry about it. It was just a bit of a shock.’

  I get out of the car and have my hands licked while Bruno tries to get them both to sit.

  ‘They’re only babies.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘That’s the whole idea, put those bastards off coming through the woods.’

  ‘What are they called?’

  I’m expecting Titan and Trojan.

  ‘Tom and Jerry.’

  ‘Good names.’

  ‘Grace wanted names she could remember. Look, I’ll sort your car out for you, give it a wash, don’t you worry. And if you wouldn’t mention it to Her Highness I’d be grateful, only it took me ages to persuade her we needed them.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘They’re as soft as butter, when you get to know them.’

  ‘Like I can’t believe it’s not butter, only with dogs?’

  He’s chuckling and yanking on collars when Maxine comes out of a side door and walks towards us across the gravel.

  ‘Hi Jo, I see you’ve met Bruno’s babies then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I meant to warn you – sorry.’

  Bruno stiffens.

  ‘They’re an important part of our security.’

  ‘And what about last night then? What were they barking at? An intruder?’

  Bruno looks at his feet.

  ‘A member of the press hoping for an unscheduled interview?’

  Bruno mumbles something and Maxine winks at me.

  ‘Sorry, Bruno, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘They’re still learning.’

  ‘It was a squirrel. Right?’

  ‘Yes. But it shows they’re alert.’

  ‘We were all pretty alert, Bruno. It was just a shame it was half-past two in the bloody morning.’

  ‘Has she said anything?’

  ‘Grace? Oh yes. She said quite a lot, but I don’t want to repeat it in front of Jo.’

  Bruno’s looking a bit worried now.

  ‘You’re all right, you can keep them for now, but you’d better fit them with silencers if they’re going to be chasing squirrels again. The floodlights came on and everything.’

  He nods.

  ‘I’m going to give Jo’s car a quick clean for her. Do you want yours done too?’

  She softens slightly.

  ‘Yes, please, and Ed’s due soon, so chain Tom and Jerry to something solid, will you, because he’ll have a fit if they jump on his precious Porsche. You know what he’s like.’

  Bruno grins.

  ‘They could say hello, though, couldn’t they, if I had them on their leads?’

  Maxine laughs.

  ‘Yes, they could, but make sure I get to watch. Grace is upstairs, in the grey room, Jo, if you want to go on up. Tea?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Grace is lying on a grey velvet chaise longue, in skinny jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt, with Lily asleep in a basket at her feet.

  ‘Sorry I look such a state – I’ve just got her off.’

  She looks amazing, and even though she’s a mega film star it still surprises me how stunning she is, whatever she’s wearing. It’s like she’s made out of something different to the rest of us: something more ethereal and photogenic. She’s got her hair pulled back and she’s wearing huge drop earrings, which clink slightly as she reaches for the phone.

  Seconds later the nanny appears, in a smart striped uniform, and picks up the Moses basket.

  ‘I’ll just pop her into her room, shall I, Miss Harrison?’

  ‘Thanks, Meg, but call me if she wakes up. OK?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Meg closes the door behind her, and Grace sits up.

  ‘I can’t get her to call me Grace, and it’s driving me crazy. She keeps forgetting. It’s like I’m suddenly in Upstairs bloody Downstairs, and I’m so not into all of that. Is Max bringing tea up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. I’m getting so dehydrated with all this breastfeeding, but I think I’ve finally got Meg to get with the programme.’

  ‘She seems very efficient.’

  ‘Oh yes, apart from calling me Miss Harrison all the bloody time, but they’re all obsessed with this four-hourly thing. Put baby down to sleep, all that rubbish.’

  ‘What happens if the baby wakes up?’

  ‘You leave it to sob, I think. Christ. As if. Not with my gorgeous girl they bloody don’t. What did you do with your boys?’

  ‘Fed them all the time. I tried to get a schedule going, but neither of them were very keen. I think it depends on the baby. Some of them are just hungrier than others.’

  She smiles.

  ‘Lily’s like me, always starving. Although I’ve had years of practice, so I’m used to it.’

  ‘Really?’

  She gives me a look, like I might be about to cross into the danger zone of personal questions – there’s a sort of unspoken rule to all our conversations, where she can tell you things, but you never ask. But given how many people sell the tiniest scraps of information, or misinformation, about her, I don’t really blame her.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘I’ve been dieting for years – it’s part of the job. Did you think this was all just luck? It takes hours of fucking work to look like this.’

  ‘No, sorry, of course … it’s just you look so healthy and everything.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not obsessive about it. Well, I am, but in a healthy way. I don’t do pills. Or surgery. Yet. But I can still tell you the fat content of every substance on earth. I’ve done GI, combining, and colours. You name it, I’ve done it.’

  ‘Colours?’

  ‘Only eat green. A bit of purple, very little white. None, actually.’

  ‘That sounds good. So would damson crumble count as purple?’

  She smiles.

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  Maxine comes in with tea.

  ‘Thanks, Max. Is Bruno still playing with those fucking dogs?’

  ‘Yes, and washing Jo’s car. They got a bit carried away saying hello to Jo.’ Grace grins.

  ‘I’m hoping they’ll slow Jimmy down if he decides to put in an appearance.’

  Jimmy Madden is Grace’s rock star ex-boyfriend, and father of Lily, and he’s definitely persona non gratis round here, as Gran would say. He was in the papers when Lily was born, whining about how he wants to see his baby, but so far I don’t think he’s actually tried.

  ‘Is he likely to turn up then?’

  ‘You never know with Jimmy.’

  ‘But he hasn’t been in touch?’

  She hesitates. Damn, I’ve done it again, strayed into tabloid territory.

  ‘Not directly, but give him time. He’ll get round to it, once he’s got his exclusive lined up. Has Ed arrived yet, Max?’

  ‘He’s due any minute.’

  ‘Well, bring him straight up, would you. Now then, wool. Show me, Jo, and I hope the pink isn’t Pepto-Bismol puke pink.’

  ‘Raspberry and dark chocolate?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I’m casting on two hundred stitches for her when Ed arrives, with paw prints all over the front of his trousers.

  ‘Fucking dogs, whose bright idea was that? And where have all the police pissed off to? There’s only one of them out there now. Christ, talk about a thin blue line.’

  ‘Morning, Ed. Lovely to see you too. What’s the latest on the photos?’

  ‘Vanity Fair suit you, madam?’

  ‘Sure. Who with?’

  ‘They’re sorting that out now. Daniel Fitzgerald, possibly, if they can get him.’

  I try to seem nonchalant at the mention of Daniel’s name, but I think Grace has noticed. She’s giving me a rather careful look as Ed sits down on one of the grey sofas.

 
‘Do you remember Daniel, Jo? He was the one who did that shoot in the summer. With the rowing boat.’

  ‘Oh yes, vaguely.’

  I’m still trying for nonchalant but I’m not sure it’s working.

  Bugger.

  ‘The only thing is, they want an interview.’

  ‘Tell them to fuck off.’

  ‘I’d never have thought of that.’

  ‘They can have what we give them and work with that. Or we’ll go with someone else.’

  ‘No we bloody won’t. Leave it with me, babe, and I’ll get back to you. Yes?’

  ‘Babe?’

  ‘Fuck. Sorry.’

  ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Jesus. Not again.’

  ‘Ed.’

  ‘All right, I’m going.’

  Ed gets up, looking rather fed up.

  ‘If he calls me babe he has to do three circuits of the house. Is Bruno still out there?’

  ‘I think so, why?’

  ‘Then you’ll have Tom and Jerry for company then, won’t you?’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  There’s a sound of barking and shouting, and then we stand at the window and watch Ed racing past the cars at full pelt with Tom and Jerry chasing him.

  Grace turns to me and gives me a very searching look.

  ‘So. Daniel Fitzgerald? Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘There’s no point trying to kid me – I know every trick in the book. Come on, tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Grace. There isn’t anything to tell.’

  ‘Either you’ve had a fling, or you came close. I need details. How was he, out of ten? I’ve always wondered. Tell me, or you’re fired.’ She’s smiling, but I’m not entirely sure she’s joking.

  Oh God.

  ‘There really isn’t anything to tell.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  Christ.

  ‘Ten.’

  She laughs and claps her hands.

  ‘I knew it, although nobody’s a ten, except me, of course. When?’

  ‘Grace, it was just a one-off.’

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘In Venice.’

  ‘Good for you. Found a way to make Christmas with your mother that little bit more bearable, did you? Clever.’

  ‘Yes, but it really wasn’t serious or anything, and he’s back with his girlfriend now.’