Eve White: Literary Agent

from MARRIED MEN

“Turn left! Mum! Turn left now!” My mother ignores me and the car sails past the huge pillars and wrought iron gates. “Mum! That was the entrance to Ketton Place!” “Nonsense,” says my mother, flipping down the sun visor and checking her lipstick in the mirror. “It can’t be. The Sat Nav would have said something.” My mother’s faith in the Tom Tom Simon and Faye bought me for Christmas is absolute. Never mind it sent us the wrong way for six junctions of the M4 before calmly telling us to turn around; she won’t have a word said against it. “That sign said Ketton Place!” I twist my neck to try and read the sign but it’s gone in a blur as my mother does her best Formula One impression. “We’re going the wrong way.” “Robyn, you worry too much,” my mother says, dropping a gear and screeching around a corner. “You certainly don’t get that from my side of the family. Just relax, darling. We’ll find it.” “We had found it!” “And as for your temper, that’s pure George. You really should get some anger management therapy. You’re far too stressed.” “Only when I’m with you,” I mutter. I’m perfectly entitled to be stressed today. I’m meeting Saffron at Davie Scott’s Wiltshire mansion to discuss the wedding plans. She’s hinted that her famous father will be sitting in on some of our discussions which make my nerves jangle so loudly I can practically hear them. When Dolly refused to start this morning I nearly went into orbit. Of course Fate decided to flip a v and none of my friends were available to rescue me so in the end I was forced to call my mother and ask for her help. Actually, I’d only asked if I could borrow her car. The last thing I need today is mum in my right ear for two hours, criticising the plans I’ve made, suggesting all sorts of improvements and winding me up so much that I start to chime. But once Mum learned exactly why I wanted to borrow her Golf GTI nothing could have kept her from coming too. “Don’t you realise how exciting this is?” she’d screeched down the phone. “Davie Scott is really reclusive these days. Nobody gets an invite to Ketton anymore. Not like in the sixties! Davie’s parties were legendary; the Stones, Marianne Faithful, Twiggy, even Profumo visited. Everyone who was anyone went!” “I’m going there to work.” “Not if you haven’t got any transport.” “Mum! That’s blackmail!” “What a nasty way of putting it,” my mother had said. “I’m offering to give up a day of my precious time to chauffeur you to Wiltshire and you call it blackmail. Well, it’s up to you, Robyn.” I’d been silent. I desperately wanted to make this meeting but the thought of my mother reliving her youth and trying to flirt with Davie Scott made me feel quite giddy with horror. “Oh darling, please.” Sensing my indecision Mum went for the kill. “Hester has never stopped bragging about dating Davie. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if I could tell her how well everything is going for Perfect Day and make her a teeny weeny bit jealous at the same time?” Hester has been unbearable for months. I haven’t actively caught her rumour mongering but several of my contacts in the wedding planning business have told me she’s been pretty unpleasant about Perfect Day. Hester always was a bad loser. “She’s supposed to be your friend, mum.” “She is,” said my mother. “But you’re my daughter.” Touched, in the head probably, I’d given in which is why three hours later I’m lost somewhere south of Salisbury with my Kamikaze diver of a mother and a Sat Nav with no sense of direction. It doesn’t help either that Gideon set the voice on the Tom Tom to that of Yoda from StarWars and that I have no idea how to change it back. Why do boys always have to fiddle with gadgets? Why can’t they just leave things alone? “A junction there is,” says the Sat Nav from its perch on the dash board. “Turn left you will.” “See!” crows my mother, yanking at the steering wheel. “I told you.” “Told me what?” “I told you we were going in the right direction. This has to be the entrance to Ketton Place.” Does it? I look out of the window and feel alarmed. We’re now bumping along a pot holed track more suited to a massive four by four. The Golf lumbers over the ruts and nearly drowns in a deep puddle. Dark swathes of Rhododendrons press in upon the track, blocking out the light and scraping the sides of the car and thick tufts of wild grass grow down the centre of the track, small islands in deep puddles. “Last night I dreamed I went to Manderly again,” I mutter, through teeth that rattle as the car bounces over the pot holes. “Nearly there!” says my mother, ever the optimist. “This doesn’t look much like a drive.” “Nonsense,” Mum taps the Sat Nav with a scarlet nail. “We’re definitely going the right way.” Whatever Davie Scott spends his millions on it isn’t the upkeep of the drive, I think, clinging on to the door handle for grim death as my boobs bounce around with more energy than the Andrex puppy. I wish Saffron had warned me to come in a Land Rover. “There it is!” cries Mum triumphantly as we round a bend in the drive. “Davie Scott’s house! Now take it all back about my navigation!” “We’re coming out of the woods,” I point out. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? Maybe that road leading up to the house is the actual drive?” “Oh be picky then. Honestly Robyn, you’re never satisfied. You don’t get that from my side of the family. You must get that from – “ “My father, I know.” I bury my face in my hands. “You’ve told me a million times before.”