She was always by my side and saw in her the mother I always missed. Miranda is a tiny delicate lady who always dresses properly—actually accurately—to the rules of the protocol of course. Being around the Royal family painted her life even though she only lived the glamour second hand. Even George was only the man in the third row watching the play from a distance. Surprisingly enough that he was considered in the end to serve with MI5—the British secret services. Not for long as he was discovered on a secret mission and shot in front of Sofie’s eyes while having his five o’clock tea in the salon of their country house in Oxfordshire. Only Sofie and the trophy deer on the wall—proudly shot by George himself—could have witnessed his death. And as the deer was stuffed and Sofie under shock and distress—nobody really could reconstruct what happened. They both could not be interrogated—not Sofie and not the deer. She was depressed even those days, the poor thing. It was difficult for her coping with the loss of their luxurious standard of living which they used to enjoy in India and China. These days she works in the office of the Liberals in London. She copy prints, files, files and copy prints—another file please; for 1.400 pounds sterling per month.
Life isn’t easy for Miranda’s daughter or for Daisy. My ex husband got her daughter the job. He has got an endless and useful network of contacts.
“Come on boys! Pancakes are ready!” I shout from the entrance hall towards the second floor. No one can hear me.
“Boys!”
No answer. The house is huge with high ceilings and thick walls. I’m sure the boys are wearing headphones.
Jock stands in the doorframe. “Is my breakfast ready, my love?” he asks me.
I freeze. He drove home late last night, mainly because of the boys. His car has not been on our grounds all night long. Did they even realise? “Jock ... how nice. I’m sure you want to pick up the boys for fishing? That’s great, isn’t it, Eddie?”
“Yes, yes ...”, he replies mumbling. Looking at the floor he is searching for words. Oh God, what a relief it will be when he finally goes to boarding school. A two hour drive from London and he will be back home every three weeks. Lots of sports and fresh air will do him good.
The morning fog makes its way over the river. We watch the endless view, the river, the meadows, the on the other side of the river Tay. Here at the end of the world. Here I’ve spent the best years of my life. Alone—while Victor travelled to market his politicians. Alone—while the boys were in boarding school. Most of our friends use their manor houses during the holidays or sometimes at weekends when a bank holiday gives an extra day to relax and the children wouldn’t be at school and nobody goes to the office. Hardly any guests at the dinner parties as we are so far away from London. Four hundred and fifty miles up north which means seven hours by car. And I spent my time alone up here in Scotland instead of being a Sloane Ranger. I could have gone to the theatre with my friends, played tennis in Queen’s Club or be in the party committee of a breast cancer charity.
“Let’s go!” I hear Jock calling the boys.
“Do I really have to ...”, Eddie mumbles.
“Of course, it does you good. Your father will be proud
of you. Come on, hurry up!” I interrupt him.
He is getting so much on my nerves with his stammering, his learning difficulties and his unwillingness for anything. Soon I will be on my way to San Francisco. Finally when all kids are back to boarding schools after this holiday I will be in my future husband’s arms: Edward D. Wilton IV— Eddie’s father!
Like a jester dressed, in a silly gown,
something evil came to town,
at the darkest hour, in the dead of night,
all who'd listen gathered round.
From the uninspired from the tortured sounds …
LADY MACBETH, written by John Lees, Barclay James Harvest
EDWARD D. WILTON IV
“Yes, I’m listening. What did you just say honey? I can’t understand you. Bad line. Sure I’m in the office. Listen, I haven’t got time. I’m gonna be in a meeting in a minute. Let’s catch up later.” I hang up.
My office is close to San Francisco airport. My private jet charter business is booming as never before and my turnover raised about 130 per cent each year since the Taliban attack. It’s been a successful 9/11 for me! I look out the window and inhale the smell of kerosene deep into my lungs. In about an hour I will meet my lawyer for lunch. Oh yeah, soon I will make Edwina become Mrs. Edward D. Wilton IV! But hang on ... I’ll need some time for preparation. Four months until the wedding—that’s not long.
I met Edwina at that dinner party in Queen’s Club in London. She sat next to me at the table. The first question I ask any woman is: “How many doctors do you have?”
“What kind of question is that?” she asked me and laughed. “Two of course, a GP and well you know—one for these women things.” She blushed.
I kind of liked it. Yeah, she was Mrs. Right. She told me about the separation from her husband, about being in the middle of a divorce. She still got on perfectly well with her almost ex husband. Three sons they’ve together and one of them even is Eddie’s age. Edwina is a tiny spindly woman, I would say she almost appears anorexic thin. Not a beauty at all, no definitely not. She rather has the body of a young lad. Small breasts, no butt. She is blond and pale and she has that kind of sad sense of humor that always inspires my sympathy. She often laughs to hide her wish to burst out in tears. Before they got married she was her husband’s PA. Victor made career as a liberal Scottish lobbyist in England while she stayed at home. I liked that! She was used to be left by herself, looking after the children just waiting for her man. She is that kind of woman, satisfied with little: she wouldn’t go for my empire, oh no! Victor and she even shared the same lawyer in the divorce. That sounds loyal to me. I’m 68 years old and far to experienced to be a fool!
“Hello Edward! You made your way to Fillmore Street!”
Anthony taps on my shoulder.
We meet in the SPQR, an Italian restaurant of his choice.
I would have suggested something more common for having lunch with him. The place is very small and the tables are very close to each other. I don’t really like that for the kind of conversations I’m planning to have with my lawyer.
“The food is fantastic! Matthew Accarrino is the best Italian chef in town! The pasta is superb and the exquisite wines come from Italy—not only Nappa Valley!” Anthony laughs. Today is a Saturday and the restaurant is fully booked.
“Anthony, I’ll marry Edwina.” Anthony isn’t enthusiastic about it.
“I don’t believe you! You, Edward, you had more wives than Henry VIII! You found another one saying ‘yes’ to your proposal? How did you do that?” He isn’t joking at all. I know that. Since he rescued me from my marriage with Mary Grace he can’t stand the idea of me being married ever again.
“Edward, you know what another divorce could mean to you. You are wealthy enough for having a mistress in every single country of the world. Come on, why does it have to be a marriage again?”
We both keep silent.
“Have you chosen a starter?’
We stick our noses in the menu.
“She is the right one, Anthony!” I try to rise the subject again.
“They all were, Edward, including Mary Grace. Don’t forget how much it cost you to take your son Eddie away from her. Beware: Edwina might be a fabulous stepmother but he’ll grow up and will be older. Soon he’ll be at boarding school. It’ll be much easier for you. You don’t need a wife, Edward, you need a nanny for him. Or a