CHAPTER 9 #2
The party moved next door, to what appeared to be Dorna’s study.
There was a large beige-leather-topped desk, with a wide wooden chair with a beige-leather-padded seat.
It was on wheels so it could spin and roll in any direction.
On the right side of the desk was a low lamp that looked like a modern sculpture; next to that a large leather-trimmed blotter and a stack of expensive-looking black and gold-trimmed fountain pens and ballpoints.
Perhaps you couldn’t get beige pens, thought Pat.
It was a power desk by anyone’s standards.
The rest of the room had two large beige leather sofas placed opposite each other, with a low glass table in between, upon which was a carefully arranged collection of RIBA journals and Architectural Review magazines.
The room was organised, uncluttered, the antithesis of the jangly bangles and vegetable-dye hair.
Pat supposed the architect must have stopped short of styling his client’s actual person.
Dorna Braddon was serious about business, she thought as she looked around the room.
There were a few books on the shelves, but the rest of the space was filled with silver-framed photographs of Dorna in various guises – long mousy locks, short red hair, a choppy blonde bob – wearing a hard yellow hat and a hi-vis jacket.
They were all souvenirs of development projects.
She had torn down and built or rebuilt a lot of buildings.
‘Over here is something I have been very keen to show you all,’ she said, beckoning the book group towards the window. ‘Hang on a second.’ She paused. ‘Just let me turn on the light.’
One click, and a whole model complex was illuminated before them.
‘Wow! Amazing,’ enthused Fi, just as she did every day on Instagram.
‘What a huge thing,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s enormous.’
‘Welcome to Boho Golf & Spa House Club!’ pronounced Dorna. ‘Isn’t it fabulous.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘There was I thinking she had a groovy new train set,’ Prichard whispered into Pat’s ear. ‘Champagne!’ he added. ‘This calls for champagne!’ He lifted the newly opened bottle in the air as a serving suggestion.
‘I think you’ll find that’s English sparkling,’ said Pat.
‘So over here is Beachy Head.’ Dorna pointed. ‘And here is Westlinke, and here is Boho Golf!’
‘Wow! Amazing,’ repeated Fi, who’d run out of superlatives. ‘I mean truly wow! Amazing. Don’t you think, Lucy?’
‘Yes, wow,’ Lucy agreed. ‘Amazing.’
‘So what’s this?’ asked Marcia, bending down to inspect the model development, complete with tiny cars and people as well as roads and the occasional tree or bush. Unless they were gorse or hawthorn, Pat knew nothing would ever be able grow in the poor chalk soil with the fierce prevailing wind.
‘Oh, that’s the swimming pool,’ smiled Dorna.
‘Right on the cliff edge?’ queried Marcia.
‘We might move that in a bit,’ agreed Dorna. ‘But it’s essentially there.’
‘And what is essentially here?’ asked Pat, pointing to a small building that looked remarkably close to Ivy Cottage. It was, in fact, just the other side of the grass verge of pain, where everyone parked their cars.
‘Oh, that.’ Dorna thought for a second. ‘That’s the septic tank and pump room for the spa.’
‘But that’s right by my house!’ Pat jabbed the building with her finger. ‘It couldn’t be closer. The smell of sewage—’
‘Oh, it won’t smell,’ Dorna smiled. ‘I can promise you that.’
‘Can you indeed. And the noise?’
‘We’re planting some sycamores in front of it. It’s all in tasteful flint, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’
‘Certainly not for you. I see your house is nicely protected. And you have permission for all of this?’
‘Sure.’ Dorna shrugged.
‘But aren’t there bats in your barn?’ asked Prichard. ‘I know because I used to go and visit them and photograph them.’
‘There were,’ replied Dorna. ‘But they have long since disappeared.’
‘Long since?’ he queried. ‘I could have sworn I’ve seen them recently.’
‘Not any more. They’ve migrated. Moved house, or barn, or whatever they do.’
‘But isn’t that why Save the Seashore were protesting against the development?’ Prichard’s innocent face looked puzzled. ‘They said they found bats there.’
‘They were mistaken.’
‘But they can’t have been.’
‘Well they’ve gone now. Pouf.’ Dorna was looking tense and shifty. It was clear to Pat that the bats had not gone of their own accord.
‘Weren’t Save the Seashore supposed to file an objection to the development?’ asked Prichard. ‘At least that’s what I was told.’
‘They never did. The deadline was last week.’ Dorna’s face was overcome with faux sadness. ‘They must have decided not to.’
‘Hence you celebrating in the pub?’ asked Pat.
‘So what if I did?’ Dorna snapped. ‘It’s not illegal. Those Save the Seashore protesters are a nightmare. They’ve been on our case for months. They’re a bunch of dozy busybodies, nimbies poking their noses into other people’s business. Honestly, I felt like killing the lot of them myself!’