Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [72]
“Ready, Rory?”
Rory ran his finger along the folded paper that had contained the coke and rubbed it thoughtfully across his gums. He must remember to put the proper inflection on the name in that next shot….
He walked out onto the set, put his arm around Shelly, and waited while continuity checked the shot and Dirk tightened the camera angle. This time he got it in one take.
“Brilliant, Rory, brilliant,” called Dirk. “I knew you’d get it this time.”
10
Venetia knew she shouldn’t have come. Lawten Hall was tucked away in the wilds of Wiltshire, in a landscape of frozen fields and stark trees that matched Mrs. Fox-Lawten’s personality exactly. When she appeared at the front door and icily instructed her in future to use the servants’ entrance, Venetia knew she should have got the message then, and turned around and left her to it. But she had contracted with the agency to cook for a weekend house party of fourteen, and therefore she stayed. And it was three days’ work, which would boost her income considerably.
The trouble had started before she had even taken off her coat and Sondra Fox-Lawten had swept into the kitchen to discuss the menus. No mention of a cup of coffee or showing Venetia her room—and it was a good thing she hadn’t, because then for sure Venetia wouldn’t have stayed. Her room was in the attic, which, when the Fox-Lawtens had renovated the old house, had been omitted from the central heating system. The poky room was furnished in meager junk-shop style, and a single-bar electric fire was its only source of warmth.
The first battle had come over the menus, which they had previously discussed over the phone so that Venetia could do the shopping and precook some of the dishes. Now Mrs. Fox-Lawten had changed her mind—or rather Tony Fox-Lawten had decided he must serve a ‘64 Haut Brion with the main course at Saturday evening’s dinner party—when there would be six extra guests—and so now they weren’t to have chicken poached in champagne with white grapes, around which Venetia had built the rest of her menu. They were to have pheasant, which meant that something lighter would have to be substituted for the terrine of wild game she had spent hours preparing at home. And the vegetable would have to be changed. It made a hell of a lot of extra work, and she already had enough on her hands with all those people to serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner—as well as afternoon tea for those who wanted it.
Tony Fox-Lawten had popped in to introduce himself on the Friday evening when he’d returned from the City. “Hear I’m in a spot of bother,” he’d said, sticking his head around the door. “Came to apologize.” His busy eyes had checked her out and he’d smiled as he crossed the kitchen. “Hello, hello, hello, we don’t usually have cooks who look like this.” Venetia brushed the hair from her eyes, wishing she’d remembered to tie it back, and folded her arms firmly over her apron. Tony Fox-Lawten was short and tubby with pink cheeks and the bluish chin of a man who had to shave twice a day to keep from looking swarthy.
“It’s no bother, Mr. Fox-Lawten,” she’d said politely. And then, damn it, she’d told him, “Well, as a matter of fact it was a hell of a nuisance and caused a lot more work.”
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll make it up to you. A bit extra in the pay packet, you’ll be all right. How about a drink, eh? Perk you up a bit. You probably need one if Sondra’s been keeping her usual pace. Quite a perfectionist, Sondra. How about it, then—gin and tonic?”
It was amazing, thought Venetia, how true to form they all were. Could it be just her rotten luck or were the whole of the English shires peopled with lecherous husbands, freed from the week’s City pinstripes and feeling