Bunburry--Death of a Ladies' Man Read online

  “A cockatoo,” Sasha corrected. “Look, its body and the branch it’s sitting on are eighteen karat gold. Its feathers are diamonds and rubies, and that’s a Ceylon sapphire for the eye.”

  She displayed it to Liz, who murmured in awe, and then to Alfie, who thought it looked like something you might win at the funfair.

  “Sebastian absolutely insisted I get it, because he knew how much it meant to me. The cockatoo is my spirit animal.”

  “Your spirit animal?” said Marge.

  “It’s the wisdom of the Native Americans. We all have a spirit animal who guides us through life. The cockatoo represents the power of the spirit – it indicates the presence of strong energy, representing enthusiasm, alertness and happiness – all the things that are really very me.”

  She took back the brooch and refastened it as she snuggled up to Sebastian on the sofa. “I’m such a lucky girl. We’re blessed that our business is doing so well.”

  “We’re in business too, and it’s also doing very well,” Marge piped up.

  Alfie noticed Sebastian press his leg against Sasha’s.

  “Really?” said Sasha. “What business are you in?”

  “Fudge-making,” said Marge, gesturing towards the uneaten piece of fudge in Sasha’s saucer. “Why don’t you have a taste.”

  Sasha obediently bit into it. “Goodness,” she cried. “This is absolutely delicious!” She popped the other half into Sebastian’s mouth. “There, darling, isn’t that the most wonderful thing you’ve ever tasted?”

  He chewed, nodded and grinned.

  “So how long have you been making fudge?” she asked Marge.

  “Oh, Liz is the fudge-maker,” said Marge, gesturing towards her friend as though this was of minor importance. “But she just did it as a hobby until I moved in with her and became her business and distribution manager.”

  “That’s not quite –” began Liz mildly, but Marge kept speaking.

  “Liz can’t add up to save her life, and she’s got no commercial sense. I’ve sorted it all out for her.”

  Sebastian’s leg pressed against Sasha’s once again.

  “How wonderful,” breathed Sasha. “And you know, with our expertise, I’m sure we could help you monetise your business even further. A tiny investment on your part and I guarantee your profits will soar.”

  Alfie stood up. “Apologies for being so rude, but I have some things to sort out.” He wasn’t going to let Liz and Marge fall into the Londoners’ clutches. They had no concept of the high financial stakes Sasha and Sebastian played for, and their small business was doing perfectly well without the complex business development plans Sasha and Sebastian would come up with. He would have to offer himself as a distraction. “Let’s meet up for dinner at The Horse this evening, so that we can discuss the business opportunity you told me about.”

  Liz and Marge struggled out of the vast armchairs.

  Sasha stood up as well. “Will you be joining us for dinner, ladies?” she enquired with an encouraging smile.

  “Definitely not,” said Alfie. “Liz and Marge would be bored to tears. I wouldn’t dream of inflicting our business conversation on them. Is seven thirty okay?”

  Sasha’s smile didn’t waver. “We’re probably staying for a day or two, so don’t worry, ladies, we’ll make sure we have a proper chat about how we can help your fudge-making business. Here, let me give you our card,” she said. “Come on, Sebastian, let’s leave Alfie in peace.”

  Alfie showed them out, then turned to Liz and Marge, who were reaching for their coats.

  “Please don’t leave if you don’t have to,” he said. “I just said that to get rid of them. I can only stand them in very small doses.”

  Marge looked at her watch. “Goodness,” she said. “Gin o’clock.”

  Alfie laughed. “Resume your seats and your drinks will be with you shortly.”

  When he returned, Liz and Marge were well into their dissection of the new arrivals.

  “They must be loaded,” said Marge. “Did you see their clothes? I’m sure her outfit was The Vampire’s Wife – it was just like what’s-her-name’s at Harry and Meghan’s wedding. And those shoes. Christian Louboutins.”

  “I don’t think so, dear,” said Liz. “Louboutins have red soles.”

  “Jimmy Choos, then.”

  “They look very expensive, whatever they are. She must be very good at monetising,” said Liz. “Perhaps I’ll be able to buy a pair if I monetise the fudge.”

  Alfie quickly changed the subject. “I wonder what my spirit animal is,” he said.

  “Judging from the speed with which you’re renovating the cottage, I should think it’s a sloth,” said Marge.

  “And what about me, dear?” asked Liz.

  “An elephant,” said Marge without hesitation.

  “An elephant, dear?” There was a slight edge to Liz’s voice.

  “They like sticky buns, so I’m sure they like fudge, and they never forget.”

  Alfie was relieved that Marge hadn’t mentioned the elephant’s most obvious characteristic – its size.

  “So, what’s my spirit animal?” she asked.

  “A West Highland terrier,” said Liz. “They’re small, they’ve got white curly hair, and they never stop yapping.”

  It seemed that Liz had inferred the size remark.

  “Let me refresh your glasses,” said Alfie to prevent the conversation going further. The generous measures he poured out practically emptied the bottle.

  His own spirit animal, he decided, was the chameleon. Since Vivian’s death, he had spent a lot of time concealing his true feelings. And he definitely wasn’t looking forward to dinner.

  2. Oscar

  Armed with a mug of coffee, Alfie headed to the bedroom to ring Oscar. Oscar refused to talk except on a landline, and Alfie had now taken to ringing him only on Aunt Augusta’s. He recognised that this was completely illogical, but it felt right. Perhaps he was getting as eccentric as his friend.

  Oscar answered in his usual fake persona of “Lane the butler,” a ruse to get rid of cold callers.

  “Good afternoon, Lane,” said Alfie. “Please tell the young master that for the moment I am withdrawing his open invitation to come and stay in Bunburry.”

  “Ah,” said Oscar in his normal voice. “Reverse psychology. You really paid attention in that course of yours, didn’t you? Tell me I can’t come, and then I’ll want to. Well, I’m terribly sorry, my dear fellow, but nothing will induce me to visit a lot of fields. Instead, my mission is to bring you back to civilisation.”

  Alfie took a swig of coffee and changed from sitting to lying full length on the bed.

  “How can you think I would be so devious?” he said. “A psychologist would say it’s a reflection of your own behaviour. No, I’m being completely altruistic in keeping you away from Bunburry while Sasha and Sebastian are here.”

  “No!”

  Oscar’s reaction was so loud that Alfie pulled the receiver away from his ear. When he put it back, Oscar was saying: “– me that you didn’t invite them.”

  “Of course I didn’t invite them,” said Alfie. “I’ve been desperately trying to avoid them. But they’ve got an investment opportunity that they can’t bear to let me miss out on. An opportunity so incredible that they’ve come all the way from London to sign me up.”

  “I have yet to meet a more dreadful couple,” said Oscar. “Money, deals, it’s a complete obsession with them to the exclusion of all else. I’m sure they’ve never gone to a play or a concert or an art gallery in their lives. Haven’t they got enough money by now? Why do they need more and more?”

  Sasha and Sebastian had attempted to ingratiate themselves with Oscar’s artsy in-crowd but had been firmly sent packing. But Alfie’s avoidance techniques had apparently been too subtle to put them off.
He sat up and had some more coffee.

  Oscar was off on another tack now. “And tell me what extraordinary thing Sasha was wearing.”

  Alfie, who was still reading a new biography of Oscar Wilde that Oscar had given him as a farewell present, said: “According to the original Oscar, you can never be overdressed or overeducated.”

  Oscar snorted. “He clearly never met Sasha. She seems to wear Asprey’s entire jewellery collection all at the same time, and her clothes would make the most dedicated fashionista wince.”

  “Whatever she was wearing, there was a lot of it,” Alfie conceded. He eased himself back to a sitting position so that he could have some more coffee. “And she was wearing a five-thousand-pound brooch of a cockatoo, which is her spirit animal.”

  “Oh, please,” said Oscar in disgust. “If you ask me, her true spirit animal is the Barbary ape, expert at relieving the unwary of their wallets.”

  “That’s not fair,” Alfie protested. “Business development is risky. Sometimes things work out and sometimes they don’t. I don’t think it’s the money that drives the pair of them, it’s the excitement of the risk. And it often pays off very handsomely.”

  “There you go, making excuses for them. You only have yourself to blame for them pursuing you. You’re too polite. They’ve never bothered me again since I made my feelings plain.”

  “Politeness costs nothing,” Alfie murmured.

  Oscar gave no indication of having heard this. Instead, he said: “If Sasha and Sebastian are in Bunburry, it’s definitely time for you to come back to London. Let me tell you about life in the metropolis.”

  Alfie fortified himself with more coffee.

  “I introduced Kathrin and Rebecca to Bellini’s Ice Cream Parlour.”

  Just as he had introduced Alfie and Vivian to it. Bellini’s was to ice cream what Liz was to fudge – Alfie found himself yearning for the Chi-Chi Chia Cheesecake.

  “It’s just opened a new branch in Kensington High Street, and you won’t believe the latest USP – it’s got a liquor licence.”

  “Seems reasonable,” said Alfie. “Nothing like a glass of chilled Chablis with your sundae.”

  “No, you dolt, they’re making milkshake cocktails, including a Bellini with fresh peach ice cream. I’ve never tasted anything so exquisite in my life. You must try one.”

  Alfie and Vivian had gone to Bellini’s, what, three, four times? It had outlets all across London, but Oscar’s favourite was the original parlour in Islington. Established by Italian immigrants in the Sixties, it had been transformed by their son into a gastronomic paradise with a multitude of exotic flavours from Angelic Acai to Goji Berry Bonanza. Vivian had loved the place. She played along with Signor Bellini – he flirted outrageously with every female between nineteen and ninety, insisting that his use of organic ingredients and superfoods meant that the ice cream was completely calorie free.

  Alfie realised that Oscar had stopped speaking. “Oscar?”

  “I was just thinking,” said his friend quietly. “Vivian would have adored it.”

  As Alfie got ready to go out for dinner, he compared Sasha’s over-the-top faux sympathy with Oscar’s genuine understanding.

  ***

  Alfie had met Oscar when they both joined an amateur dramatics society, which was putting on Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest.

  Oscar de Linnet was an Old Etonian whose cut-glass accent was perfect for a Wildean character. The director was ecstatic to find that Alfie could mimic it perfectly, claiming that they both sounded utterly authentic for the 19th century. And Oscar turned out to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of his namesake, to the extent that he often appeared to be channelling him.

  “How old are you, Alfie?” he asked one day. “Forty? The same as me. To get back my youth, I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.”

  One evening, the director clutched Alfie’s arm, exclaiming: “Have you seen Oscar?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” said Alfie.

  “He is here,” said the director impatiently. “I mean have you seen him? He’s wearing a double-breasted jacket with a green carnation in the buttonhole – it’s just too perfect!”

  And that was how Alfie, who could barely tell one end of a flower from the other, discovered that Oscar Wilde was famous for wearing a dyed green carnation, arguing that “to be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.”

  When the cast went for a post-rehearsal drink, Oscar insisted on one particular wine bar. “They cater to my tastes,” he said. Alfie wondered what these might be. The place was quite dimly lit, but otherwise seemed unexceptional. Oscar came to the table with a tray holding a jug of iced water and a drink as green as his carnation.

  “What on earth is that?” asked the director.

  Oscar raised the glass. “Absinthe.”

  “I thought absinthe was a hallucinogenic,” she said.

  “Oh, I do hope so,” said Oscar. Before their fascinated gaze, he brought out a small bag of sugar lumps and a tiny silver trowel-like implement.

  “An absinthe spoon,” he explained, putting the slotted trowel across the top of the glass, placing a sugar lump on it, and slowly sluicing it with iced water. The green liquid became a cloudy white.

  He pushed the stemmed glass towards the director. “Try it – it’s delicious.”

  She sniffed at it suspiciously. “Urgh, liquorice, horrible. I don’t know how you can drink it,” she said, pushing it back.

  “It’s easy. I open my mouth and pour it in.”

  As the conversation round them got noisier, Alfie murmured: “I presume if it’s sold over the counter, it’s not that hallucinogenic?”

  “I remain optimistic,” said Oscar, “but it fails to live up to its hype. As do you.”

  Alfie blinked and set down his pint. “Sorry?”

  “For a multi-millionaire, you’re remarkably low-key. I thought you would have a chauffeur-driven car, drink nothing but Dom Perignon, and light Havana cigars with hundred-pound notes.”

  “You know who I am?” said Alfie, conscious as soon as he said it that it was a somewhat unnecessary question.

  Oscar quirked an eyebrow. “I know a lot about the 19th century, but I know quite a lot about the 21st as well.”

  If it was meant as a rebuke, Alfie felt he deserved it. Oscar’s fey persona was so strong that Alfie had dismissed him as someone with only the vaguest grasp of the contemporary world. But none of the other cast members had made the connection between their fellow actor and the so-called maverick entrepreneur.

  “Don’t they say nine out of ten start-ups fail?” Oscar went on.

  “I’ve been lucky,” said Alfie.

  “I imagine you’ve made your own luck,” said Oscar. “So now you’ve sold the business, what occupies you apart from amateur dramatics? Are you planning a new start-up?”

  Alfie shook his head. “So far, I’m just enjoying my freedom. I’ve been travelling, and I’m taking a psychology course.”

  “The human mind is a wonderful thing,” said Oscar, retrieving some undissolved sugar from the bottom of the glass with his silver spoon. “Especially when fuelled with absinthe. May I get you one?”

  Alfie was about to refuse when he reflected that he had eaten and drunk all manner of strange things on his travels. Why play it safe in a London wine bar? Half a dozen of the cast proved equally adventurous, and soon Oscar’s sugar lumps and absinthe spoon were being passed round.

  Alfie took a tentative sip. Not liquorice. Aniseed. Fennel. And something else mingling with the sweetness of the sugar, something very familiar.

  “Is there coriander in this?” he asked.

  Oscar shot him a look of admiration. “Well discerned.”

  “I do a bit of cooking,” Alfie sai
d. “I like picking up recipes on my travels. I’ve just been in China, so I’ve been using a lot of coriander.”

  “Cooking. Now there’s something I’ve never been tempted to try,” said Oscar.

  “I thought Oscar Wilde said you should try everything once except incest and Morris dancing?”

  Oscar grimaced as though in pain. “No, he didn’t. Nor did he say ‘Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.’ You have much to learn, young padawan.”

  And Oscar had got him together with Vivian, for which Alfie would always be grateful.

  3. Dinner at The Horse

  The summer tourist season was in full swing, and The Horse was more crowded than Alfie had ever seen it. Visitors were knocking back Bunburry Brew and enjoying the excellent cuisine. William had taken on extra bar staff to cope, and they were rushing around, noting orders, serving and clearing.

  Alfie would have expected Carlotta to be orchestrating her team, welcoming new arrivals, thanking those who were leaving. But she was behind the bar, deep in conversation with a customer. Their heads were practically touching, their dark hair an almost identical shade. Most people were in summer casuals, but the man was wearing a long-sleeved pastel pink shirt and white trousers with an immaculate crease. Alfie noticed that he was also wearing fine Italian leather shoes, very like Alfie’s favourite pair, which had come to grief at a crime scene. He really should order replacements.

  There was something quite un-English about the man’s easy style. As he got closer, he could hear Carlotta speaking in rapid vivacious Italian, punctuated by the man saying: “Si. Si. Bene.” There was something familiar about him, about the voice.

  “Signor Bellini?” said Alfie uncertainly.

  The man swung round on the bar stool, his wide smile displaying perfect teeth. “At your service! What can I do for you?”

  “You won’t remember me,” said Alfie. “But I’m a friend of Oscar de Linnet.”

  Signor Bellini looked at him more closely, then beamed even more widely. “Si, the friend of Signor Oscar, of course I remember you.” He sprang off the bar stool to embrace Alfie. “And I remember your beautiful signorina – is she here?” He scanned the pub hopefully.