Love Song Read online

  ‘But you said no excursions, so we can’t even go there.’

  ‘True …’ he ruminated, stroking his chin. ‘But you won’t need to. Lovely house. And very private. Lovely grounds. Exactly what the boys need. I only wish I could stay there with you.’

  ‘You’re not staying?’ Everything he said made it worse.

  ‘Too much to do,’ he shrugged. ‘And the boys don’t need me for this bit. They need inspiration. Freedom. Peace.’

  ‘They’ll hate it,’ I said, with feeling. As would I, sharing it with them. They wanted nightclubs, DJs, champagne on tap. They wanted models and Matisses and ranches in Montana. Even I’d been banking on sunshine, not gloomy English weather. Almost Scottish weather, which was worse. Dad always joked that the Scots have more words for rain than the Inuit do for snow.

  Windy went quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘They might hate it. But it’ll be good for them.’

  Oh, fabulous. I so looked forward to their reactions when he told them. Because we all knew how much rock stars liked doing things that were good for them. That wasn’t going to be a problem at all.

  On we drove, through a storm and a spectacular sunburst. Past grey concrete cities and hills that looked like mountains. With the hood up, the cabin steamed up with our hot breath and it fogged up the windscreen so that Windy kept having to wipe it with his cap. I thought about all the things I’d re-packed (kaftans and flip-flops), and all the things I left behind (jeans, long-sleeved shirts, my best angora jumper).

  Then I thought what a girl like Sigrid Santorini would say if you told her she’d have to live in a freezing cold house in Northumberland for several weeks, with four angry boys and only a skinny dog and a plastic bag of bikinis for comfort. At least picturing her reaction gave me something to smile about.

  At sunset we drove through a stately town with quiet, wide streets and slate-roofed houses, then out into what seemed like endless countryside. The hills ahead got higher and the roads got narrower. The road signs had more Scottish names than English ones and we simply had to be there soon. There wasn’t much of England left.

  ‘It’s somewhere … down … here …’ Windy muttered.

  He was looking at the hedgerows and scanning every road sign. After a mile or two he spotted a pair of small stone houses either side of some wonky wrought-iron gates. He stopped, tapped in a code to open the gates and swung the car between them.

  We drove under an avenue of bushy trees whose branches seemed to reach across the space above us to blot out the sky. The drive curved through the rolling landscape, and the occasional sheep, caught in the bright beam of the MGA’s headlamps, lifted its head to check our progress. Twiggy, sensing them, sat alert on my lap, her nose pressing against the window. Like me, she would be glad when this journey was over.

  I just caught sight of a tall building through the gloom, but it was blocked from the light of the headlamps by a line of huge cedar trees. A couple of minutes later we pulled up outside some ramshackle buildings and Windy turned off the engine.

  ‘Here at last!’

  He slowly unfolded his long frame from the low-slung seat and stretched happily, breathing in the evening air. I let Twiggy out and cautiously followed her.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he beamed. ‘I was so lucky to get it. Now, off you go inside.’

  Picture a bright, sparkling villa in Mustique … and then change absolutely everything about it.

  That was where he’d brought me.

  A door in the dark mass of rambling buildings stood half open, letting a sliver of light fall on to the dirty cobbled courtyard where the car was parked. I hobbled across to it, still bent double after all that time in the cramped, tiny cockpit. Inside was a long, thin corridor that smelt of damp and mould, lit by a single light bulb.

  I looked down at Twiggy, who was padding at my heels.

  ‘Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.’

  Despite her gracious lines and grand demeanour, the whippet didn’t seem as bothered by it all as I was. She trotted quickly past me, her claws clattering on the flagstone floor. Windy appeared in the doorway behind us, his arms full of bags and dog beds.

  ‘Carry on! Carry on! That’s it. Turn right at the end. No, left. Excellent.’

  I found myself in an enormous high-ceilinged kitchen, lit by a mixture of lamps and candles. It wasn’t quite as cold as the corridor outside, and there was a vast red Aga range at the far end, where a pan was simmering away on one of the hotplates. Twiggy was already making herself at home next to it and I went over to join her. The oven’s gentle warmth was a relief after so many hours in the cold, damp car.

  The smell coming from the saucepan was delicious too. I lifted the lid to see what it was. A bright green liquid bubbled like something out of a witch’s cauldron. Windy saw my face and laughed.

  ‘It’ll be fantastic, whatever it is. Orli’s food always is. And talk of the devil!’

  ‘I’m an angel, Windy, and you know it.’

  A young-ish woman with short, blonde corkscrew curls walked in through a side door, wiping her hands on a dish-cloth. She had a round face and green eyes that seemed to sparkle with laughter. If she wanted to be an angel, she could be, I decided. I needed an angel right now.

  ‘Orli, this is Nina, like I promised,’ Windy announced. ‘And Nina, this is Orli. She’ll be looking after you and you’re very lucky. She only cooks for the very best – I had to prise her out of the clutches of an Arab prince, didn’t I, Orli?’

  ‘Well, not exactly his clutches,’ she giggled. ‘Now, I expect you’re starving, Nina. Windy thinks the world lives on crisps and prawn sandwiches. I’ve cooked you a chicken and a bit of soup. I wasn’t sure when to expect you, but they can be ready in five minutes. Why don’t you show Nina to her room, Windy? D’you need help with the luggage?’

  ‘No, this is it,’ Windy said, cheerfully indicating the sad little pile of bags in the corner.

  ‘Oh, Windy!’ Orli took in the size of my tote and the plastic bags beside it, put her hands on her hips and flashed him an exasperated look. ‘What’s the girl going to wear?’

  ‘She packed the essentials. Didn’t you?’ Windy asked me, hopefully.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Orli asked.

  ‘Mostly bikinis,’ I admitted, in a small voice. ‘And my camera. And my laptop and charger.’

  ‘Oh, Windy!’ She threw up her hands in despair. ‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you? All this secrecy business … it’s ridiculous! It’ll be worse tomorrow, and you know it. Come on,’ she added to me. ‘You can’t trust that man to do a thing. I’ll take you to your room.’

  I followed her out of the kitchen and down a different corridor, at right angles to the first, which was blocked at the far end by a heavy door backed with thick green fabric.

  ‘Now, they keep me in the servants’ quarters,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But wait until you see this part.’

  The green door opened on to a huge hallway, two storeys high, with a wide oak staircase that divided in the middle, leading to a gallery above. The floor was dusty chequered marble. Dark portraits in gilt frames adorned the walls, lit by a vast brass carriage lamp suspended on thick gilt chains.

  This was not what I’d expected after the ramshackle courtyard and the kitchen. I caught my breath.

  ‘I know. Pretty fancy,’ Orli said. ‘But watch your step on the stairs. Half of them are rotten. And don’t use the far staircase ever. It’s got a hole in it big enough for a hippo to fall through. This place is great, but it needs some attention, shall we say. Windy loves a cheap deal.’

  The gallery ran from left to right at the top of the stairs. Several doors and two other corridors opened off it, leading towards the back of the house. This was a place where it would be easy to get lost. Orli turned right and I followed her. She stopped outside the farthest door on the main corridor, turned the handle and put her shoulder to it.

  ‘Sticks a bit,’ she sa
id, grunting with the effort. ‘Everything does. Anyway, just wiggle and push.’

  She did both, and the door opened. The bedroom we entered was at least as big as one at the Ritz. How bizarre that I should know that. It didn’t look anything like the bedroom at the Ritz, though. In the dim light from the corridor, this one seemed brown and gloomy. Orli went up to a set of heavy curtains and pulled them apart. Instantly, moonlight streamed in through the many panes of a wide window, forming dramatic parallelograms on the floor. Outside, the sky was dark purple, and the moon hung like a perfect silver disc in the centre of the frame. I caught my breath again.

  ‘This window’s OK,’ Orli said, tapping the glass with her knuckle. ‘We’ve tried to put you all in the rooms with the fewest broken panes. Also, you’re pretty much above the kitchen here, and I’m hoping the heat will rise so you won’t freeze. If you need more blankets later, let me know. Now, soup’ll be ready soon. Come down when you are. Don’t forget – use the staircase on the left going down, or you’ll die a horrible death. Oh, and that’s the bathroom, in case you were wondering.’ She pointed to a door in the far corner. ‘See you in a mo.’

  ‘Yes. Right. Thank you.’

  I stayed where I was for a moment, taking it all in. The air smelt musty. Opposite the window sat a wide, brass bed with old-fashioned bedknobs at each corner, spread with a faded pink quilt. The carpet was a patchwork of rugs, all faded and worn. There was a dressing table, a small set of bookshelves, and, to the left of the door, a dark mahogany wardrobe so big you could get lost in it – and quite possibly travel to Narnia.

  Along the wall from the wardrobe, it looked as though a cube had been carved out of the room. This contained the door to the bathroom Orli had mentioned. Stepping gently over the parallelograms of light, I headed towards it.

  By now, I was expecting grand Victorian plumbing, with lots of chrome and copper piping, but this little room was a massive disappointment. Its thin, wonky walls contained a bubblegum-pink bathroom suite, cracked green tiles and a round mirror in a yellow plastic frame. Dad, who was a talented builder and prided himself on his craftsmanship, would be horrified by these people, whoever they were, and what they’d done to their house.

  But at least they’d left the window. This one matched the one next door, and without any curtains, it let in even more light. I’d be able to lie in the bubblegum bathtub and look up at the moon. In fact, I couldn’t wait to do exactly that, as soon as supper was over. A quick glance at my bedraggled hair and pale, puffy skin in the mirror told me I was doing a fair impression of a resident ghost.

  I was sorry that Orli had to see me like this, but Windy deserved it. I scraped my hair out of my eyes and decided I was too tired to bother to reapply any make-up. Despite what Orli had said about the heat from the kitchen underneath, the room was cold, and I shivered.

  I’d pictured myself lying by some pool in the sunshine by now, starting on my tan. When would I ever learn?

  Supper consisted of fresh pea soup, homemade bread, roast chicken and a dish of steaming vegetables. We ate it around the kitchen table, while Twiggy watched us from her dog bed, hoping for scraps.

  ‘It’s just something I threw together when I heard you were on your way,’ Orli said dismissively with a wave of her hand.

  Yeah, right. It was a feast, and tasted glorious. Maybe I was going to spend the next few weeks in the freezing cold Northumberland ‘summer’, wearing nothing but blankets, but at least I wasn’t going to starve.

  The kitchen was interesting. Big but homely, with a rocking chair in the corner beside a tall, deep-set window, lots of mismatched painted cupboards, and a pine dresser full of crockery taking up nearly a whole wall.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked, helping myself to vegetables.

  ‘Ah. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Windy said. ‘I’m rather proud of finding it fully furnished. It belongs to the Otterburys. Old family. Had it for generations. All barmy, of course.’

  ‘What, barmier than you?’ Orli asked him, laughing.

  ‘Oh, much barmier than me. I got the full story at the pub in the village. The Otterburys have been here since Victorian times, but the house is much older. They made all their money in diamond mines. Hunted, shot, fished and held the best parties south of the border.’

  ‘So why aren’t they here?’ I asked.

  ‘All those parties …’ Windy explained. ‘Lots of social graces and no business sense. They should’ve hired me. Now the place is owned by Venetia Otterbury and her brother Percival. They don’t have enough money to keep this place up, but they can’t agree how to split the money if they sell it. They’ve been arguing about it for thirty years, apparently. They’ve tried to rent it out, but nobody’s wanted it till now. I can’t think why.’

  I looked up at a large damp patch on the ceiling, and thought of the hole in the stairs, and my bubblegum-pink bathroom. I could think of a reason or two.

  ‘Where are they now?’ Orli asked, passing around seconds of vegetables.

  ‘Venetia moved to London, and Percival lives in Tuscany. According to pub gossip, they had a nanny who never let them wear jumpers and they can’t abide the cold up here. Madness! The place is glorious, but the best thing is, it’s remote.’

  I looked up from my almost-empty plate. ‘Why does it being remote matter?’

  ‘Because if even one Pointer Sister got one single inkling that Jamie and the others were here over the next few weeks, then the place would become surrounded. They’d camp in the woods. They’d hide in the shrubberies. They’d hide in the bedrooms, if they could get inside. The paparazzi would descend in a pack. The boys would do no work and I’d be back to square one.’

  ‘How will you stop people finding out?’

  ‘As long as the boys behave by the rules,’ he said, ‘we’ll be fine. And that reminds me – don’t call home tonight. I’ll explain it all tomorrow, OK?’

  Well, no. Not OK, Windy. Do you really think I’m going to spend several weeks away from home shacked up with a bunch of unstable rock stars and not tell my family where I am? Oh, and did I hear you mention the boys behaving by the rules? When was that ever going to happen?

  I thought all of these things, but somehow I was too tired for the words to come out of my mouth. I’d say them tomorrow. Very firmly. Meanwhile, my mind wandered to the room upstairs, wondering if the bathwater would be hot, and if the bed was as comfortable as it looked.

  ‘She’s falling asleep, God bless her!’ Orli laughed.

  My head jerked up. ‘No, no, I’m fine!’ I forced my eyes to stay open.

  ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘I’m taking you back upstairs while you can still stand. Poor creature.’

  Back in the bedroom, she took off my shoes for me and helped me under the bedclothes. I started to protest that I needed to brush my teeth and make that phone call home. But the words wouldn’t come. All I could think about was the soft, comfy pillow under my cheek. Before she’d even left the room, I was asleep.

  In the morning, I woke up to endless leaden grey skies. Welcome to Northumberland.

  I pulled the pink quilt around my shoulders and wandered over to check out the view from the window. After the brief glimpse of the cluttered courtyard where we’d parked last night, I’d half expected to see a farmyard, but instead, the room looked over a grassy slope leading down to a small lake, surrounded by trees. To my left, near the house, was a sunken garden, where straggly rose bushes bloomed between weed-strewn paths. Up ahead, beyond the lake, purple hills rose to distant hazy blue mountains, the colour of thunderclouds. I found myself staring at them for ages, lost in their ancient shapes and watercolour shades, until the quilt slipped from my shoulders and reminded me how chilly the air was.

  While I ran the bath I so badly needed, I checked my face again in the tiny bathroom mirror. It was marginally less ghost-like than last night, but L’Oréal wouldn’t be hiring me any time soon. However, I had a worse problem than my pale skin: what to wear? I’d tra
velled up in jeans, so there were those, and … basically nothing. The T-shirt I’d been wearing stank. No way was I traipsing round this place in a kaftan. In the end I was reduced to a moth-eaten (literally – there were more moth holes than actual fabric) woollen dressing gown I found hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I looked like Arthur Dent in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The boys were so going to respect me in this.

  Downstairs, Orli had obviously thought about my predicament too. There was a small pile of clothes laid out on a bench underneath the kitchen window.

  ‘I found this whole cupboard of clothes the family left behind. I’m sure they won’t notice if we borrow a thing or two.’

  She’d dug out a flannel shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers that looked as though they’d been used for gardening. They smelt of mothballs and face powder, and somebody else’s life.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  She saw the look on my face, though. ‘I was in a hurry. I’m sure you’ll find something better.’

  While I changed into the shirt (the trousers were beyond hope, so I stuck with my jeans), she toasted some home-made bread for me and refused my offers of help with the washing-up.

  ‘I’ve got this. Why don’t you take Twiggy for a walk? She’s looking restless.’

  The slim whippet rose to her feet at the sound of her name and ‘walk’ in the same sentence, and looked up at me hopefully. I grabbed her lead from a counter by the door. The corridor outside was freezing, but it contained a cupboard full of old coats and boots in a vast range of sizes. I slipped on a man’s tweed jacket, fraying at the elbows, and took the dog outside, retracing our steps from last night.

  Windy’s sports car was still parked in the courtyard. Beyond it was a range of outbuildings with broken windows and sagging doors. The house itself was a higgledy-piggledy mess of pale grey pebbledash and brick. It was big, though – much bigger than I’d realized last night, as if a child had drawn it and kept adding on new pieces.

  A cobbled path ran between the side of the main building and a walled garden beyond, and I followed it curiously, past a patchwork of windows, while Twiggy sniffed the plants along the way. The path led through a brick archway framed with trailing ivy, on to a gravel drive. The sunken garden was beside us now. I recognized this as the view from my bedroom. Ahead, the rough lawn led down towards the lake, with its view of the thundercloud mountains.