BB is our family shorthand for “Big Bonus.” Dad worked in insurance for years, and now he’s retired. But he still does consulting work, and it’s amazingly well paid. He goes off a few times a year in a suit, and then once a year he receives a bonus check and we always get a treat. This year it was particularly good, because Mum got her pearls, and he bought me an Alexis Bittar necklace and Minnie a new dollhouse. Even Luke got a beautiful pair of cuff links.
Luke always says to me that Dad must have some sort of niche specialist knowledge that is really valuable, because he commands such high fees. But he’s so modest about it. You’d never know.
“My clever husband.” Mum kisses Dad fondly.
“You look beautiful, my love!” Dad beams back. Dad bought himself a new tweed jacket with his share of the BB, and he looks really good in it. “Now, where’s this famous fountain?”
A few feet away, Tarquin is being interviewed for the TV. Poor Tarkie. He’s not cut out to be a media star. He’s wearing a checked shirt that makes his neck look bonier than ever, and he keeps wringing his hands as he speaks.
“Ahm,” he keeps saying. “Ahm, we wanted to … ahm … enhance the house.…”
“Bloody stupid idea,” comes a gruff voice behind me.
Oh God, it’s Tarkie’s dad, the Earl of Whatsit, stalking up. (I can never remember where he’s earl of. Somewhere Scottish, I think.) He’s tall and lanky with thin, graying hair and an Aran jersey, just like Tarkie wears. I’ve never spoken to him properly, but he’s always seemed pretty scary. Now he’s glowering at the lake and jabbing a weather-beaten finger at it. “I said to the boy, that view’s been unspoiled for three hundred years. Why on earth would you want to go messing with it?”
“They’re going to do fireworks on the lake in winter,” I say, wanting to stand up for Tarkie. “I think it will be beautiful!”
The earl gives me a withering look and turns his attention to a plate of canapés being offered to him. “What’s this?”
“Sushi, sir,” says the waitress.
“Sushi?” He peers at her with bloodshot eyes. “What?”
“Rice and raw salmon, sir. Japanese.”
“Bloody stupid idea.”
To my relief he stalks off again, and I’m about to take a piece of sushi myself, when I hear a familiar earsplitting noise.
“Please! Pleeeease!”
Oh God. It’s Minnie.
For a long time, my daughter’s favorite word was “mine.” Now, after intensive training, we’ve got her on to the word “please.” Which you’d think would be an improvement.
I swivel around wildly and finally spot Minnie. She’s balanced on a stone bench, tussling with Suze’s son Wilfrid over a red plastic truck.
“Pleeease!” she’s yelling crossly. “Pleeease!” Now, to my horror, she starts hitting Wilfrid with the truck, yelling with each blow: “Please! Please! Please!”
The trouble is, Minnie hasn’t really absorbed the spirit of the word “please.”
“Minnie!” I exclaim in horror, and run toward her across the lawn. “Give the truck to Wilfie.” Luke is coming toward her, too, and we exchange wry looks.
“Please truck! Pleeease!” she cries, clutching it harder. A few people gathered around start to laugh, and Minnie beams at them. She is such a show-off, but she’s so adorable with it, it’s hard to stay cross.
“Hey, Becky,” says a cheerful voice behind me, and I turn to see Ellie, who is Suze’s nanny and absolutely brilliant. (There’s also Nanny, who looked after Tarkie when he was little and has never left. But she just potters around and tells people to wear undershirts.) “I’m taking the other children to watch from the steps there.” She points at a bank on the other side of the lake. “They’ll get a better view. Does Minnie want to come?”
“Oh, thanks,” I say gratefully. “Minnie, if you want to go to the steps with the others, you have to give the truck to Wilfie.”
“Steps?” Minnie pauses at this new word.
“Yes! Steps! Exciting steps.” I grab the truck from her and give it back to Wilfie. “Go with Ellie, sweetheart. Hey, Tarquin!” I call, as I see him hurrying by. “This all looks spectacular.”
“Yes.” Tarquin seems a bit desperate. “Well, I hope so. There’s a water-pressure problem. Whole area’s affected. Terrible timing for us.”
“Oh no!”
“Turn it up,” Tarkie says feverishly into his walkie-talkie. “Whatever it takes! We don’t want a feeble little gush, we want a spectacle!” He looks up at us and grimaces. “Fountains are trickier blighters than I realized.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Luke says reassuringly. “It’s a marvelous idea.”
“Well, I hope so.” Tarkie wipes his face, then checks the countdown clock, which reads 4:58. “Crikey. I must go.”
The crowd is getting bigger and there are now two local TV news crews interviewing people. Luke takes a couple of glasses of wine and hands me one, and we clink glasses. As we near the cordoned-off VIP area, I can see Suze talking animatedly to Tarquin’s business manager, Angus.
“Tarkie must surely have business interests in the States,” she’s saying. “I’m certain he needs to do a trip out there. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s really not necessary, Lady Cleath-Stuart,” Angus says, looking surprised. “All the U.S. investments are taken care of.”