So why not take it?

Chapter 40

The day of the Beetle Drive, I was in the office from eleven and the hotel from three. Insurance and table decorations I had sorted—the insurance by a lot of stressed-out telephone conversations and the table decorations by staying up all night making them with Priya and James Royce-Royce—but I’d come up blank on music. And I was telling myself that no one would mind because posh people mostly just liked the sound of their own voices when Rhys Jones Bowen poked his head into the cubicle where I was frantically pulling on my formalwear.

“I heard,” he said, paying absolutely no attention to the fact I was in my underwear, “you were having a spot of bother in the music department.”

“It’s fine. We’ll do without. We had a string quartet last year, and nobody cared.”

“Well, if you’re sure, I’ll tell Uncle Alan we don’t need him after all.”

“I feel like I’ve missed the middle of this conversation. Who is Uncle Alan, and why would we need him or otherwise?”

“Oh, you see, I was talking to Becky the volunteer, who was talking to Simon the volunteer, who was talking to Alex, who was talking to Barbara who was saying the band you wanted had pulled out and you couldn’t get a replacement. So I thought, why don’t I ask Uncle Alan. So I rang him up, and he says to me that he and the boys are in town anyway because they’re on Songs of Praise and they’d be happy to help us out.”

I resigned myself to being trouserless for the rest of the encounter. “Okay, Rhys. One more time: who is Uncle Alan?”

“You know who Uncle Alan is. I’ve told you about Uncle Alan before. I’m always talking about Uncle Alan.”

“Yes, but I’m never listening.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah, there was me forgetting what a bellend you are. Uncle Alan is the managing director of the Skenfrith Male Voice Choir. They’re quite big in male voice choir circles.”

“And you’re only mentioning this now because…?”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up if it wasn’t going to come through.”

I surrendered to the unstoppable power of Rhys Jones Bowen and his seemingly limitless supply of talented Celts. “Fine. Can you get them settled in and give them whatever they need. And…” I realised with a sinking feeling I was experiencing a moment of genuine gratitude towards Rhys Jones Bowen. Again. “Thank you. Sorry I’m a bellend. I really do appreciate your help.”

“Happy to oblige. Nice boxers, by the way. Are they Markses?”

I squinted downward. “I’m not sure I track my pants that closely.”

“Right you are then.”

And with that, he ambled off, presumably to wrangle a choir. I returned my attention to dressing and had, once again, got into the yoga position necessary to get one leg into my trousers without sitting down, falling over, or dropping anything in the loo. Then Alex burst in.

“For God’s sake,” I yelled. “I’m not a peep show.”

Alex seemed unperturbed. “Um, quick question. You know that one job I had?”

“You mean, the job of not losing the earl?”

“Yes, that job.” He paused. “Roughly, how inconvenient would it be if I hadn’t a hundred percent discharged it to the full extent of my abilities?”

“Are you trying to tell me you did lose the earl?”

“Only a little bit. I don’t know exactly where he is, but I have an increasingly comprehensive list of places he isn’t.”

“Please, Alex.” I practiced some calming breathing. “Just find him. Now.”

“Rightio. Sorry to, ah, interrupt. Nice boxers, by the way. Very chic.”

“Go. Away.”

He went. Away. And I began hopping in a small circle, trying to drag my inconveniently clingy trousers over my inconveniently long legs with their inconveniently bendy knees when I heard the door open again behind me.

“Alex,” I snapped. “Please will you fuck off for five minutes.”

“Oh, I say,” said a voice that was much older than Alex’s, but not much posher. “I’m terribly sorry. I think the lock must be broken. Though now you mention it, I have misplaced a chap called Alex. Do you know where he is?”

I shuffled back around, still very much under-trousered, to face the patron and primary donor of CRAPP, the Earl of Spitalhamstead. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I thought you were somebody else.”

“I gathered that when you called me somebody else’s name.”

“Ah yes. How very astute of you.”

“I enjoyed the swearing, though. I do like a bit of swearing.”

“We strive to please. If you give me ten seconds to put my clothes on, I’ll take you upstairs and we’ll find Alex together.”

“It’s no bother. I’m sure I’ll track him down myself.”

“No, no,” I insisted. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The Earl of Spitalhamstead was ninety if he was a day, barmy in a way that only the aristocracy were allowed to be, and had a habit of getting into what Alex described as “scrapes.” The last time we’d let him wander around unattended at the Beetle Drive, he’d taken a wrong turn into the hotel bar, ordered an obscene amount of champagne “just to be polite,” and wound up flying to Vienna with someone he’d completely failed to recognise was a prostitute. Apparently they had a lovely time, but it did rather put a dent in our fundraising.

Ten somewhat hairy seconds later, I was mostly dressed and shepherding a peer of the realm somewhere vaguely in the direction of where he needed to be while he told me a long story about an elephant, a racing monoplane, and the time he slept with Marilyn Monroe.

We found Alex looking very carefully inside a potted plant.

“What,” I began, very much aware that I was about to ask a question to which I might not want to hear the answer, “are you doing?”

Alex looked at me like I’d said something deeply foolish. “Looking for the earl. Obviously.”

“And you thought you’d find him inside a potted plant?”

“Well, I think you’ve just made yourself look dashed silly, because that’s exactly where I found him.” He pointed at the Earl of Spitalhamstead, who hadn’t moved from my side for the length of the conversation. “See?”

“Hullo, Twaddle,” said the earl cheerfully. “How’s things?”