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.’
Ten-year-old Cate Balcon clutched the tow-rope anxiously and threw a nervous smile to her sisters who were standing on the jetty behind her. Her bent legs wobbled as she bobbed in the chilly water, waiting for the engine to growl to life. She squinted, the glare of the Côte d’Azur sun bouncing off the sea as she looked to her father sitting in the boat in front of her. She hadn’t wanted to water-ski. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, so the open sea scared her, but if there was one thing that frightened her more, it was her father.
‘Are you ready?’ he shouted, turning from the wheel to salute her as the hum of the motor grew louder and louder. She nodded, her knees shaking as the boat roared away. Concentrate. Straighten legs. Pull up. A breeze slapped against her navy blue swimsuit as she stood shakily on the water. They were going fast now. Waves splashed onto her legs and the pine trees that flanked the shore blurred into the granite rock of the Cap Ferrat coastline behind them. But