Page 52 of Famous Last

“Prince!” said Spencer.

“What are you laughing about?” asked Nile, who had removed his earbuds.

“Nothing,” said Bev and Prince in unison, before falling into fits of giggles again.

Spencer leant forward and put his head in his hands.

* * * *

Fortunately, nobody stopped them along their journey. Prince had opted to head southwest before joining the M25 heading north, guessing that traffic would not be heavy. Once they’d left the motorway the roads to the north of Beaconsfield shrank seamlessly from broad metropolitan to narrow rustic, into a confusing maze of tight B-roads. Right now they hurtled down a serpentine country lane.

“Slow down, Prince,” said Spencer, checking the paper map. “There should be a left turn up ahead, but it’s not showing on my phone app.”

“How close are we?” asked Prince. He was a good driver, kept his eyes fixed to the road and generally drove at a speed that ensured the comfort of his passengers.

“According to the satnav? Eight minutes. Although we’re also currently driving through a field according to the device. Good job Blake gave us these typed-up directions.”

They almost missed the lane, which was concealed by overhanging bushes. Bev managed to spot the flaky signpost nailed to a tree trunk for the New Horizons Rehabilitation Centre.

A ten-minute crawl down the lane and the Moresbys’ country residence came into view, a vast modern farmhouse set in the middle of acres of farmlands. Accessed by another private route, itself virtually hidden by overhanging trees and towering hedgerows, the Moresbys’ home stood isolated and secluded.

As instructed, they parked up farther along the lane in a covered car park designated for rehabilitation centre staff and visitors, where other cars were already parked. Once out of their Mini, they followed Blake’s instructions along a covered pathway leading them back towards the farmhouse, but stopped before they reached the home. A sign pointed them to the end of a massive old barn.

“The fuck?” said Prince, staring up at the place while Spencer reread the instructions.

“Are you sure this is it? Blake would never allow this. I know it’s Christmas, but surely they can’t be holding the party in their bloody stables!” said Bev, pulling a face.

He couldn’t blame her. She had splashed out on a new outfit, a scarlet strapless cocktail dress that she had on beneath her black raincoat. Her matching slingbacks sat in the small carrier bag dangling from her hand. Spencer had seen a picture she’d sent him from her phone—from what must have been the shop—and she had pushed the boat out today, even having her red hair styled for the occasion. As usual, she looked amazing.

“The instructions point to the entrance on the south side,” said Nile, taking the lead.

When Spencer looked back and studied the whole arrangement, he realised what the Moresbys had done. If a police helicopter were to pass overhead there would be nosign of any untoward activity. The cars sat concealed beneath coverings, the path to the barn was under a covered walkway. Only the short walk along a concrete way skirting the building was exposed to the elements.

A vestibule with large double doors had been built onto the awning on the south side of the barn, and inside someone met them and took their temperatures followed by their names. Once this had been done, and after confirming they had all arrived in the same car, they were given a rectangular number tag in red plastic for their coat and phone check. The woman also pointed out the digits on the reverse—eighteen and fifteen.

“We will come and notify you ten minutes before but you will need to leave at this time. We want to make sure large groups of people don’t depart together and potentially draw attention to the location. If you need to leave earlier, please inform us at the door.”

“I thought the party finishes at ten,” said Prince.

“For close guests of the couple only. Others are politely requested to leave earlier, at their allotted time,” said the woman, stony-faced.

“Nice. Really nice,” said Beverley, glaring at the woman. “Do you know how much I spent on this dress?”

“Please feel free to take the matter up with Mr Moresby junior.”

Once inside, and just beyond the threshold, all of them stood frozen to the spot, gaping at the wonderland. The whole A-frame interior had been decorated beautifully with simple white lights and silver pennants hanging from exposed beams. More white lights mixed with silver had been wrapped around the barn’s columns, a theme continued onto each of the tables. Ten round tables with white tablecloths and white seats spaced generously apart from one another filled the central space. At the same time, one of the aisles contained tables crammed with chafingdishes, the other housing a long bar already staffed by white-jacketed waiters. Even the floor of polished teak must have been laid specially for the event, and Spencer noticed with a smirk how all windows had been covered with thick blackout curtains. Unsurprisingly, the Moresbys had thought of everything.

“Follow me, please, and I’ll show you to your table,” said one of the attending staff.

Spencer’s group was led towards a table containing other staff and partners from the magazine, including Muriel’s personal assistant, Alice, and her husband.

“Is this the naughty table?” asked Spencer as he took the seat next to her.

“Because if it wasn’t before, I think it probably is now,” said Bev, sitting on the other side of him and making Alice’s husband laugh.

Spencer looked to the head table of six where Blake and his fiancée sat in the middle, with Blake’s sister Beatrice and someone who appeared to be the youngest of Ambika’s brothers at the end. To Ambika’s right sat someone he assumed to be her sister followed by the older brother. Blake—as unsmiling as ever—caught his eye and nodded, something Spencer returned equally formally.

“He’s molten hot,” said Bev, leaning into Spencer and following his gaze. “Ambika’s brother, I mean.”

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