Page 50 of Hit For Six (Balls and Banter #1)
What a contrast to the eerily quiet welcome this place had given her a couple of weeks ago.
And now Lola was rapidly realising she was completely underdressed in what was essentially a Victorian nightie, as a younger woman, clad in a fawn satin gown and beautifully bejeweled hair clips– who bore more than a striking resemblance to Monty– fell upon them.
‘Gosh, it’s fabulous to meet you, darling. I’ve heard so much about you!’ said the posh but surprisingly approachable Saskia.
Monty’s big sister’s smile felt reassuringly genuine but Lola already knew that she wouldn’t be thinking the same about Bea when they were finally introduced.
She surveyed the rest of the chic women from her vantage point which gave her a long range view into the bustling kitchen and right outside through its open French doors.
Surely he would have told her there was a prerequisite dress code if the ladies needed to wear proper cocktail dresses?
As Lola understood, this was a smart-casual end of summer dinner party.
Which was precisely why her boyfriend was in a shirt and chinos, sans tie– as were the rest of the men she was introduced to as Monty led her to the garden and she feigned appreciation anew at the sizeable staircase, its puffed up portraits and the colossal kitchen.
True to his word, Monty was the perfect gentleman as they navigated the throngs of family and close friends.
A male singer in a suave suit and slim tie belted out Volare , sixties style, his band providing an upbeat soundtrack.
If this little accessory was Helena’s definition of laidback, what was a Beauchamp-Carmichael charity gala event like?
Lola and Monty walked hand in hand as he pointed out various features of the estate to her and she nodded eagerly, trying not to look like she was panning for gold.
Was this it? Had she been accepted? Everyone had treated her with dignity and kindness thus far– although Frederick seemed to have gone AWOL, showing a genuine interest in the way that she and Monty had met, her career, and her views on modern day Bath.
At length, Helena appeared like a shimmering vision on the lawn, ringing a deceptively loud handbell that cut right through the Sammy Davis Junior lookalike’s rendition of New York, New York .
‘Dinner is served, one and all!’
Everybody rushed to their seats. Helena might have defrosted where Lola was concerned but her demeanour with her guests didn’t half remind her of a formidable Hogwarts professor.
Monty was seated next to Lola, just as he’d said he’d be.
He placed his reassuring hand on her thigh every couple of minutes, half soothing her worries, half revving up her libido.
Then there was a paunchy elderly gent on her right.
‘Godfather number one,’ Monty enlightened her.
But he was mostly engaged in conversation with his skinny male neighbour ‘and that whippet of a dude is GF number two, making them quite the double act.’
Paunchy’s wife, who may or may not have been Monty’s godmother, was seated opposite her rotund husband.
Lola couldn’t take her eyes off the giant pièce de resistance sapphire, whose chain was lost somewhere in the folds of her skin, as it nestled in her ample bosom.
And opposite Lola and Monty, sat the evasively curly-locked Bea– who it soon materialised was not one for eye contact– and her egotistical, beady-eyed husband, Hugh…
who was. Yet somehow the chit chat flowed pleasantly with Monty at the helm.
But then the grilled scallop and ‘nduja butter starter arrived. Lola waited until one of her fellow diner’s took a bite, and then she dived in before she had time to think about how unpalletising the experience would be.
Since the dish was so tiny and served in a shell, presumably it was also acceptable to tip it from said shell into her mouth.
Like people did with oysters. To Lola’s astonishment, the fusion of flavours was absolutely delicious, especially paired with the white Rioja.
What a turnaround from the night that she’d first met Monty’s parents.
Everything was going remarkably well. Until Helena coughed.
Lola had never thought it possible that a cough could have a language all of its own.
But this cough said ‘peasant in our wake, please excuse the horrendous etiquette!’.
At which point, Lola furtively looked from left to right, and at all those well-versed people sitting in front of her.
Damn it! She should have been using cutlery.
Titters fluttered around the table as some of the guests looked the other way.
Lola thought she would die of shame. This was just like being back in that stadium.
Except here there was no escape. Unless she wrestled Monty to the ground for his car keys.
‘Bloody genius idea!’ the man in question quipped.
Lola’s head slowly turned to her side. She could not believe what she was hearing or seeing.
And neither could Helena, by all accounts.
Monty hadn’t yet started tucking into his scallop, and now he was holiding his shell aloft like Lola, necking the disc of succulent seafood back in one, and following it up with a swig of wine.
Now a couple of the older gents at the long table followed suit, and there was much merriment as a select group of people decided this was a much better way to enjoy their starters. Even in posh company.
‘See, you’ve triumped!’ Monty whispered in her ear. ‘Everyone loves you. And I love you most of all.’
Lola was about to ask Monty if he needed glasses, because ‘everyone’ did not extend to his frosty mother, who continued to glare at Monty’s girlfriend as if she was a three-headed monster.
In much the same way as she had beneath the street lamp that night.
But as the singer launched into his version of Something’s Gotta Give , the gazebo decided to collapse on him and his band; the trumpeter’s finger blaring a continuous foghorn of a Bflat.
‘Cor blimey!’
‘Send in reinforcements!’
‘God save Sammy DJ!’
Monty sprang from his seat amidst the chaos, ever the hero in such predicaments, as did the sprightlier of the men dotted around the table.
Meanwhile, the words from the first verse of the song rang out in Lola’s head, casting doubt over everything she’d let herself believe; that she and Monty were indestructible, that she’d come out of this evening unscathed.
She couldn’t sit here and pretend to be one of the gang, much less watch the pandemonium take Monty away from her for a second longer.
She felt inexplicably vulnerable. As if somebody might pounce on her now the golden opportunity had arisen, accusing her of being an imposter, shining a spotlight on her shortcomings.
Lola deftly excused herself and sneaked over to the house.
Hopefully the gazebo pegs would be secured and all the commotion over by the time she’d spent a penny, freshened up and calmed the mind chatter.
Lola recalled that there were two downstairs bathrooms; one just along the corridor from the games room on the ground floor.
But before she could reach its sanctuary to take stock of the evening and check how her hair and makeup were holding up, Frederick emerged from the library, blocking her path. Lola jumped out of her skin.
‘You seem to know your way around here rather well.’
‘I… erm. Monty showed me–’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Frederick smirked, yet it was an expression devoid of amusement. ‘Listen, Lola, I was hoping our paths might cross during a quiet moment this evening. Shall we?’
Lola’s mouth went dry, her palms turned sweaty.
Why did she feel as if she’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office by yet another man?
She’d already been through one panic attack today.
This party was a mistake. Too good to be true.
She’d let down her guard. A silly little fly caught in a black widow’s web.
But it wasn’t Helena dishing out the poison this time and her husband was very much alive. More was the pity.
‘Of course, Mr Beauchamp-Carmichael,’ Lola managed.
Monty’s father put his hands up. ‘Call me Frederick, please.’ Unfortunately his next words weren’t quite so endearing. ‘Just for tonight.’
‘Okay, y-yes.’
Frederick led her along the corridor, stopping next to a particularly sneery oil painting of a duke in his frills before pushing open the door to the games room.
Oh, good grief! Anywhere but here. Even one of the bedrooms would be preferable.
Lola swore she saw the curtains move as they entered the room but then again, this particular space in the B-C’s mansion had left her a tad paranoid after the drone saga.
She willed herself not to look at the pockmark in the flooring where the billiard ball had thudded during the height of orgasmic passion.