Daddy’s Girls

Walking into the family dwelling only served to depress her further. To most eyes, Huntsford would be an incredible place to call home. From the outside it was a rambling, honey-coloured stone wedding-cake of a building, with romantic castellated turrets, long mullioned glass windows and a vast oak front door approached by a sweeping arc of gravel drive. On either side of the building sprawled hundreds of acres of grounds, from woodland studded with foxgloves to open fields of lush grass – but inside the castle it was a different story. Despite the Old Masters that lined the panelled walls, and the hand-painted frescoes and chandeliers that decorated the ceilings, Huntsford just made Venetia shudder. As one of the country’s most successful interior designers, she saw the house as gloomy and tired and getting more faded by the visit. The once-lustrous walnut panels were cracked and mottled like old leather, the plasterwork was crumbling, the French crystal chandeliers hung unpolished and dull. Huntsford had become a shabby shadow of the immaculate palace it had once been. Venetia, whose career had been built on the sympathetic renovation of old family houses, had made countless offers to redesign her beloved home but, so far, her father was resistant to any modification of the place, apparently content to let it slip quietly into decay.

As she stood looking around the room, Oswald appeared at her side and placed a chilly hand on her shoulder. Venetia flinched at his touch, turning away to disguise her discomfort. ‘So you’ve finally decided to make it,’ he said tartly.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. ‘Jonathon didn’t finish till six. Then we had to pick Cate up from home. The traffic was terrible.’

‘It would have helped if she hadn’t almost crashed the car on the way over,’ muttered Jonathon.

Oswald immediately sided with his son-in-law. ‘Yes, Jonathon, that can’t have helped, can it?’

The chilling disapproval of a childhood scolding flashed before Venetia.

‘And what’s wrong with Catherine?’ Oswald said tartly, pointing to his other daughter who was taking the bags out of the car boot. ‘Face as long as a racehorse’s. Tell her to perk up, can’t you? I need her to entertain Jennifer Watchorn and her ghastly sister with some London tittle-tattle. Perhaps that magazine job of hers is actually good for something.’

‘Oh actually, Daddy,’ Venetia said quickly, ‘Cate has had a rather horrid day at work today, so if you could keep away from shop talk …?’ She caught a whiff of his breath and immediately regretted her words. Her father was obviously in a belligerent mood and whisky always roused the devil on his shoulder. She certainly didn’t want to give him any more ammunition. She was just about to turn back to her father when her attention was caught by a shimmering blonde coming down the stairs. ‘Camilla!’ cried Venetia and Cate together as they both ran up the stairs to hug her.

Oswald stood watching them, his anger building. Saviours of the Balcon legacy indeed! He snorted into his whisky. Look at them! Venetia: airhead, a silly puppy desperate for attention. Cate, uptight and unsmiling, always on that bloody mobile phone of hers, as if women’s bloody magazines were high finance or some such, while Camilla was defiant, truculent …

With the exception of Serena – whose beauty and A-list celebrity secretly delighted him – he was increasingly disappointed in his girls. Every time they came down it was the same: clinging together like monkeys, gossiping and giggling in the corner without a thought for their father who had raised them with pain and sacrifice. Oswald took another pull of his whisky and looked across the room to where Jonathon and Nat were greeting the final guests, Oswald’s old friends Nicholas and Portia Charlesworth. At least Venetia and Camilla had had some success in attracting the right partner, conceded Oswald. Montague was from an established family – new money, of course, but he seemed solid enough – and Jonathon – von Bismarck, well, he was definitely cut from the right cloth. Of course he had recognized the ruthless City player as a scoundrel from the first. He had heard wild rumours about Jonathon: his exotic sexual preferences, the endless stream of discreet and not-so-discreet affairs. But Jonathon came from a long line of Austrian aristocracy, and that made him a useful addition to the Balcon line – whatever his extra-curricular activities.

Collins the butler clanged a gong and dinner was served in the Red Drawing Room. Rich scarlet curtains framed high French windows, the walls, hung with a rose-pink damask, blushed apricot in the candlelight, while the enormous marble mantelpiece was lined with photos of Oswald posing with various dignitaries: Thatcher, Reagan, Amin. A sharp observer might have noticed the lack of family portraits beyond the dark, disapproving faces of Balcon ancestors staring down from the gilt-framed portraits high on the walls.

Oswald took his place at the head of the table and surveyed the room, while animated conversations about politics, parties and business bounced around.

What was Watchorn going on about now? thought Oswald, catching the end of a story. Philip was telling Nicholas about his recent stay at Chequers. Although he nodded and feigned interest – Chequers! How marvellous! – Oswald was silently bristling at his friend’s growing proximity to the Cabinet. It wasn’t so long ago that Oswald had been the one with the high-flying political connections and tales of the corridors of power. As a proud peer of the realm, Oswald had taken his Lords’ duties very seriously, making the journey to London to sit three times a week in the upper chamber. But that was before New bloody Labour culled over eighty per cent of Britain’s hereditary peers in Parliament in one fell swoop. It was the end of the twentieth century and the end of Oswald’s life as he knew it. Now Oswald’s days were empty, occasionally dropping by the Balcon Galleries in Mayfair, which had been thriving for years with very little input from him. He had also written a well-received book about the Viceroy George Curzon and his time in India. But that wasn’t real work.

‘Been over to St Bart’s today,’ said Philip, turning to face Oswald.

‘Fabulous!’ gushed Venetia. ‘We wanted to go there for New Year, didn’t we Jonathon? The hotels get terribly booked up, though.’

Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘The hospital,’ he said.

Oswald looked over. ‘Trouble?’

‘No, no. Not me. Haven’t you heard about Jimmy?’

‘Jimmy Jameson?’ He shook his head. Although Jimmy had been part of the crowd in the sixties and seventies when a big group of them would frequent Annabel’s and various other Mayfair watering holes, Oswald had been deliberately poor at maintaining the friendship. He frankly did not want to get his nose too dirty. Jameson had been the business partner of Alistair Craigdale, another friend of the group, who had sensationally disappeared in the seventies after shooting his wife’s lover dead. ‘The Craigdale Killer Case’ was how the tabloids had luridly referred to it. Oswald had taken the scandal as a prompt to leave that life of gambling and carousing behind – in public at least – and while Philip, Nicholas and a handful of other useful friends had remained in his circle, the likes of Jimmy Jameson had been axed from his life.

‘It’s awful,’ said Jennifer, her voice slurring slightly from an enthusiastic intake of wine. ‘Cancer,’ she whispered.

‘Bloody broke my heart to see him,’ said Philip, wiping his mouth with a crested napkin. ‘You know what a big lad he was, Oswald? Mustn’t be more than nine stone now. Doctors say visitors are keeping his spirits up. Apparently a lot of the old crowd have popped down this week. I’m sure he’d love to see you.’

‘Of course, of course,’ replied Oswald, having absolutely no intention of making the trip to London. ‘Anything for an old friend.’

Across the table, Cate was dying a slow death of her own. Why am I here? she asked herself as she answered another mindless demand for celebrity gossip from Jennifer and Elizabeth. The truth was, Cate had been so desperate to see a friendly face after her confrontation with William Walton that the threat of her father’s disapproval had seemed a small price to pay. Now, as she looked at his frowning face, she wasn’t so sure.

At the best of times, Cate had a real love-hate relationship with Huntsford. Her earliest memories were fond: her mother reading them stories, the smell of a warm apple crumble, Camilla on a tricycle being chased by their nanny through the hall. But those later memories – well … Cate was well practised in sweeping them under the carpet. But they had a nasty way of tripping you up.

‘So, Catherine, what’s this fracas at work that Venetia’s been telling me about?’ said Oswald, cutting through Cate’s thoughts. ‘Horrid was the word, I believe.’ He rolled the word off his tongue mockingly.

Cate shot Venetia a look. She had hoped to get to Huntsford early in order to tell her father about her dismissal, but now there was nothing for it but a public announcement of her unemployment. She took a deep breath and stared at her plate.

‘Actually I was fired this afternoon,’ she said quietly. ‘Apparently for being too posh.’

Nicholas Charlesworth, a card-carrying member of the upper classes, pro-hunt and pro-class division, spluttered with outrage. ‘How utterly ridiculous,’ he cried. ‘I hope you’re seeking legal advice, Catherine.’

Camilla looked over at Cate in shock. ‘Oh Catie. I’m so sorry – I had no idea. I know an excellent employment lawyer if you need one.’

Cate shook her head. ‘As much as I am furious, I don’t think it would be sensible to take it to an industrial tribunal. You know how it works, blotting your copybook in the industry.’

Philip Watchorn gave Cate a good-natured smile. ‘Take it from an old man, Cate,’ he said. ‘If you get through your working life without ever being fired, you’re doing something wrong. I’d been dismissed –’ he began counting on his stout fingers silently – ‘four times before I was your age. Then I thought, bugger the corporations, I’ll do it my own way.’ He spread his hands as if to say, ‘I rest my case.’

Oswald’s face, however, seemed set in granite. ‘Thirty years old, with no job and no man. Things aren’t looking too good, are they?’ he smiled thinly.

Cate met his eye for the first time. ‘Actually, it’s thirty-two, soon to find a better job, and waiting for the right man,’ replied Cate with as much dignity as she could muster.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said her father, his laughter strained with cruelty.

Feeling her eyes well up, Cate rose from the table. ‘I think I’ve had enough,’ she said politely, moving quickly for the door. ‘I hope you’ll all excuse me.’

‘Oh Catie, don’t …’ said Camilla.

‘Cate, please …’ echoed Venetia, watching her leave the room.

‘Let her go,’ mumbled Oswald with a casual wave of the hand.

Camilla began to rise to follow her sister, but froze at the sound of her father’s palm banging the tabletop. ‘What did I just say?’

Camilla and Oswald’s eyes locked.

Nicholas Charlesworth looked around the room and began quickly talking about the fishing. ‘Think it’ll be a good year, Oswald?’

‘Always a good year in these waters,’ replied Oswald, his eyes still on Camilla.

‘Thought we’d return the hospitality next month if you’re up for it,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Got tickets for Così Fan Tutte at the ROH.’

Concerned about Cate, but keen to diffuse the tension, Venetia seized her opportunity to change the subject. ‘Speaking of opera,’ she began tentatively, clearing her throat, ‘Did I tell you, Daddy, I’m in the middle of a commission for Maria Dante?’

Nicholas Charlesworth noticeably perked up and Philip Watchorn whistled.

‘The singer? Not exactly Pavarotti, is she?’ said Oswald moodily.

Philip playfully chided his friend, hitting him with the end of the napkin. ‘Don’t be so uncharitable, Oswald. Maria Dante is as good as Callas. Better looking, too. What’s she like, Venetia? Feisty young bird, I should imagine.’

‘Quite. You should hear her speaking to the builders.’

‘Where’s the property?’ asked Jennifer. She was always eager to collect information for her social database.

‘Three-storey stucco in Onslow Square. Needless to say she wants a very theatrical look for the house. All blood-reds and purples. Awful. I’m sure she wants Dracula’s castle.’

‘That’s the wops for you,’ said Oswald.

‘Actually,’ said Venetia, turning to Philip, ‘she was thinking of arranging a musical event for sometime before she flies to the Verona festival in July. She would perform, of course, possibly get some friends of hers on the bill – Lesley Garrett, maybe even Dame Kiri – and the proceeds would go to charity.’

‘What about a venue?’ asked Philip, quickly grasping that such an event would be a wonderfully original occasion to invite clients to. ‘She’ll be lucky to get a slot at the Barbican or Royal Festival at this late stage, won’t she?’

Venetia took a deep breath, her hands shaking slightly under the table. She knew Huntsford would be perfect as a venue, but she was also aware of her father’s distaste of commercial ventures. ‘I actually suggested Huntsford to her,’ said Venetia, avoiding her father’s eyes. ‘It’s so beautiful here in early summer, and the proximity to London is perfect.’ She paused. ‘It would be a hotter ticket than Glyndebourne.’

Oswald leaned forward in his chair. ‘Under no circumstances am I allowing anything like that to occur at Huntsford,’ he said, glaring at his daughter. ‘Unlike your bloody sisters, who can’t seem to keep out of the newspapers, I value the privacy of this family.’

‘We could do it for the Royal Marsden,’ chimed Jennifer Watchorn, always eager to join a charitable committee.

‘Balls to charity,’ boomed Oswald, ‘it will ruin the lawns. There’ll be bloody Japs everywhere with their sushi picnics. Christ, I suppose you intend making the orchard a car park?’

‘Give it some thought, Oz,’ said Philip, taking a cigar from the wooden casket Collins was passing round. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a patron of the arts,’ he said teasingly.

‘Yes, well. Not at the bloody expense of my property,’ he said, pouring a glass of port.

Just then there was the sound of raised voices from the hallway followed by a loud crash. ‘What the hell?’ Oswald quickly strode to the far end of the room and pulled the doors open. Sprawled on the floor, dressed in a pair of white jeans and a green kaftan, was Serena, half buried under a suit of armour. She looked up at her father with a chastened expression, her huge aquamarine eyes pinched and rimmed with red. Then she burst out laughing.

‘Serena, what the hell’s going on?’ boomed Oswald as the rest of the guests gathered behind him in the doorway.

Serena slowly picked herself up, trying vainly to regain her poise, staggering against the heavy oak doorway like a music-hall drunk.

‘Hello, everybody,’ she slurred, waving a half-empty champagne bottle. ‘Guess what? I’m home.’

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