Page 28 of A Class Act

‘I’m so sorry, Araminta. I’m absolutely mowed down with work at the moment.’

‘Really?’ Araminta glared in my direction. ‘You didn’t tell us you were friendly with the… thewaiting staffat Graphite.’

‘Only one of them.’ Fabian smiled, reaching for my hand. ‘This is Robyn.’ He was saved from any further comment by Boris bowling up, shooting his head lovingly into Araminta’s crotch before, having obviously fallen in love, attempting to mount her bare tanned leg.

‘Come here, you damned dog.’ In his wake came a tall dark-haired girl in torn jeans and white vest who, after apologising to Araminta for the dog’s bad manners, flung herself into Fabian’s arms.

Not another one? Were they all in love with Fabian Mansfield Carrington?

‘Thank God you’re here, Fabian,’ I heard her whisper. ‘I’m just about to turn to drink with this lot.’

‘This is my little sister, Jemima.’ Fabian grinned, turning to me while hugging her. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink…’ and then, realising the little chap, and certainly Araminta, appeared to think the invitation included them too, said, ‘I’ve not seen Jemima for weeks and thethreeof us are going to head off for a drink and a catch-up. Lovely to see you both,’ he added somewhat dismissively, taking my hand and pulling Jemima’s arm through his own before we all set off at pace across the lawn.

‘Right, Jemima,’ Fabian said when we had put some distance between ourselves and the other two, ‘this is Robyn.’

‘Robyn, golly, we meet at last. I feel I know everything about you.’ She gave me a hug. ‘Never known this big brother of mine to talk so much about any woman.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I grinned, instantly liking this sister of Fabian’s.

‘Oh, you must, you must. Let’s get a bottle of wine and sit under the willow and get rat-arsed.’

‘Well, one drink would be lovely,’ I conceded.

‘There’s Pimm’s actually,’ Jemima said. ‘Let’s have Pimm’s, shall we?’

‘I’ve been off work for four days with a dicky knee,’ I explained ruefully. I felt I could down a whole pitcher of Pimms. ‘I’ve been let off this afternoon’s matinee, but I have to be back at the theatre for the evening’s performance. I shouldn’t drink at all really, but I don’t suppose one Pimm’s will hurt: it’s just a fruit cocktail, right?’

‘One it is, then.’ Jemima smiled. ‘And I suppose you’re driving Robyn back to London in a couple of hours, Fabes?’ She sighed. ‘Looks like it’s just me, then… Oh, hell, hang on, Mum’s on her way over.’

‘Fabian? You made it?’ The approaching woman glanced at Jemima. ‘When didyouarrive, dear? Any chance you could have dressed for the occasion?’ Jemima raised an eyebrow and shrugged before heading off in the direction of the Pimm’s, and Gillian Carrington turned to me, extending her hand. ‘Hello. Thank you for attending this afternoon?—’

‘Mum,’ Fabian interrupted, ‘you’re being a bit formal. This is Robyn.’

‘Robyn.’ She nodded almost dismissively. ‘I believe you work in the theatre? You’re an actress?’ She said the word with as much disdain as though she’d been saying ‘sex worker’ or ‘layabout’.

‘I think we’re probably all calledactorsthese days, but yes, I’m currently at The Mercury in the production ofDance On.’

‘Right, right…’ She trailed off, seemingly unable to think of anything else to say on the matter of my work, and instead turned back to Fabian. ‘Fabian, Lucinda is here with her parents. She’s just been called to the bar and I know she’d love to have a word with you.’

I realised, despite what I’d just been telling Jemima, I could do with being called to a bar myself, but I stood stoutly in front of this red-haired, raw-boned woman, a fixed smile on my face.

‘If I bump into her, Mum, of course, but, to be honest, we’ve only just dropped in for an hour or so. I’m taking Robyn for afternoon tea atThe Fat Duck.’

‘Oh?’ Gillian Carrington frowned. ‘Are you? A special occasion, is it?’ She gave me a hard stare before demanding of Fabian, ‘You’ve managed to get a table? That was very clever of you.’ She turned once more to me. ‘So…?’

‘Robyn,’ I prompted.

‘So, Robyn, where are you from?’

‘Well, I’m living in Soho at the moment, but I grew up in Beddingfield – it’s a village in West Yorkshire.’

‘West Yorkshire? Really? The industrial part of the county as opposed to Harrogate in the north?’ She sniffed slightly. ‘No, I meant, where are youreallyfrom?’

Oh, dear God, not this again. Surely,surely, people didn’t still ask this of people who didn’t look just like themselves? ‘Where am Ireallyfrom? Well, I’m reallio, trulio, from Yorkshire, although,’ I said, putting on a slight West Indian patois, ‘ma big man’s half Jamaican and my mum is half Indian – but actually that could be half Pakistani: she was adopted at birth and has no real inkling as to her truebackground. I believe therestof me is pure Yorkshire but, as you say, urban West Yorkshire as opposed to the more leafy-avenued North Yorkshire…’

If Gillian Carrington had actually put up her two hands to stop my monologue, I wouldn’t have been surprised but, well-brought-up woman that she allegedly was, she simply cut me off by pointedly and meaningfully turning her back on me.

‘Mum,’ Fabian warned, obviously embarrassed at his mother’s rudeness, ‘we’re going to get a drink and catch up with Jemima.’

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