‘More than alright. You must bring him round over Christmas. We’ll have a houseful, but if he doesn’t mind that.’
‘No, really?’ Ellie’s delight was almost shaming. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. If you’re going to go off and leave us the least we can do is take a look at the man who’s stealing you.’
To Felicity’s astonishment, Ellie lurched forward and enfolded her in another, more robust hug. ‘Thank you! When shall we come?’
‘What about Christmas dinner?’ Felicity heard herself say. ‘We’re having it later this year, early evening?’
‘You got it, we’ll be there! That’s amazing, he’ll be made up to meet you, I’ve told him so much about you all.’
Of course Felicity had always known it was going to happen sometime. Good nannies – especially really bright, nice ones – were in a seller’s market. And these days they were young. No matter how good the pay or the relationship, they were going to take off eventually. There had been two nannies before, one English, one Scottish, neither of them as nice. Ellie had not been here as long as either of them, but in that time she had made a greater impression.
There were sixty people at the party, and Felicity wore her pale blue velvet off-the-shoulder dress, with the diamond teardrops Robin had given her on their first anniversary. Ellie was on hand to put Cissy to bed and spirit Rollo away when the time came, so there was a spurious air of normality. But amid the clink, sparkle and rising chatter and laughter of the party Felicity had to keep reminding herself that she was going to have to find someone else with all the nuisance and heartache that entailed. And something worse – she was going to miss her.
When they were in bed, exhausted and on the outside of too much Tattinger, Robin leaned over to kiss her goodnight and at once brushed her cheek with his fingers.
‘Fliss … what’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I know that, but what?’
‘I was going to tell you tomorrow.’
He leaned up on his elbow. ‘Now I’m really scared.’
‘Ellie’s leaving.’
‘Oh.’ Robin lay down and eased her into his arms. ‘Is that all?’
This wasn’t good news, but he was still reeling from what Anton, their lovely French neighbour, had told him at the party. Couldn’t wait to tell him actually, absolutely dying to unburden himself … And such a cliché, straying with the older lady from the residents’ association … Even Anton had been nearly laughing at himself.
‘So stupid, so easy, I can’t believe I let it happen!’
‘Let it happen?’ Robin was appalled. ‘What are you, a teenager?’
Anton popped a Gallic one-shouldered shrug. ‘I went to her house to discuss … never mind what … She hit on me. She’s not unattractive, she made it plain it would be only that and no more—’
‘Idiot!’ hissed Robin. Anton had wanted a cigarette, they were out on the patio. ‘There’s always more! What about Lilian?’
‘She will never know.’
‘Not just that!’ Robin couldn’t believe how angry he was, he wanted to hit his friend. ‘She doesn’t deserve this – don’t you know how lucky you are?’
At this, Anton had hung his head. ‘What can I say? My resistance was low.’
At this point Fliss had come out, and that was that. But the exchange had ruined not just the party. For Robin, something had been irreversibly spoiled.
He held Fliss close – she wasn’t asleep.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You and me.’
The words were for him as much as for his wife. They were a prayer.
Nineteen
December the twenty-second was an auspicious date in the Blyth calendar. It had been Hugh’s father’s birthday and coincidentally the date of his death, too. He had been old, and Hugh, an only child, only fifteen when he died so none of the Blyth offspring remembered their paternal grandfather. And their grandmother had died with the first crocuses, of what some said was a broken heart but also an inability to manage without the man she had always called her ‘dearest Bod’. The origin of this nickname was lost to memory – Hugh’s father’s name was Dennis, so maybe, their descendants speculated, their marriage had been a more passionate one than anyone knew.
Hugh had only the fondest memories of his father. A liberal with both large and small ‘l’, and a gentle parent who even when he couldn’t understand some behaviour of his son’s, was slow to blame and quick to forgive. Hugh remembered the long letters he received at boarding school. His mother sent parcels, but it was his father who wrote, and would often enclose a newspaper cutting or a cartoon as well. The family home had been in Belsize Park, not so very far from where Felicity and Robin lived now, and Hugh was still susceptible to a strong, nostalgic yearning when he was in the vicinity. He could never have brought himself to walk down Calcutta Road, in case he found that the house had been turned into flats or, worse still, demolished, along with his past. A past which certainly informed his own family life, but which had been so completely different – urban, more ordered, solitary.
This December twenty-second he and Marguerite were on the train to London, travelling first-class courtesy of Robin and Fliss. They had window seats facing one another. He gazed lovingly at his wife, deep in the latest psycho-drama, her preferred festive reading. For someone whose emotions were so near the surface, she read these carefully imagined horrors with great calm, her expression one of repose, her fingers resting at the base of the page, ready to turn to the next atrocity.
Feeling his eyes on her, she glanced up and smiled. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re wondering how I can read this stuff.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t.’
Comfortably, she returned to her book. He looked out of the window, smiling to himself. It was their way of saying they loved each other.
The TS’s party had been a huge success. The house looked beautiful, the caterers had excelled themselves, the children were adorable and well-behaved. All the guests, whether close friends or more recent acquaintances had risen to the occasion, feeling themselves to be part of the theatre of a TS occasion – the women glamorous, the men dashing, everyone warm and witty and fun. But the usual pleasant after-glow of satisfaction eluded Felicity. She was going to miss Ellie and dreaded the inevitable round of interviews and the tricky running-in period. And she dreaded telling the children that they were going to lose far and away the nicest nanny they’d ever had.
Also, now the party was over there was the different and more complex phase of the family Christmas to be negotiated. At a party, everyone had their best face on and their best foot forward. Everyone – anyone – could manage that for a few hours. And not many of them had history or hinterland in common. They were social friends, some of them no more than acquaintances. There was no agenda. But with family, there always was. Her mother’s determination to be appreciative and agreeable … her father’s jokey astonishment at how organized she was … and then of course there was Bruno in the mix. His extended stay with them had been without incident, he had made himself quite useful, but this would be different because the parents would be there, with their mother dying to know about where he was living and what he was doing. Felicity remembered Robin saying how horrible the street had looked, she didn’t want there to be a drama. With a bit of luck Hugh would calm things down, he was so good at that. Felicity loved her father more than he knew. And in the time-honoured manner she had married a man who was rather like him, if not in looks then in manner – easygoing, imperturbable, not given to overreaction, nor disposed to argue. She had learned how fortunate she was, and was increasingly alive to the possibility of taking him for granted.
Today, for instance, he was going to meet her parents at Paddington. They could have got a taxi, but he’d insisted – it was the proper, hospitable thing to do. There were no preparations left to make, or not till Christ
mas Eve anyway. The stage was set – the main guest bedroom fresh and fragrant, with silky-smooth many-threaded Egyptian cotton sheets and furnished with white roses, a selection of books (some of them old and treasured), bottles of Evian and tumblers, and a casket of Fortnums’ tiny violet-flavoured cookies to ward off night starvation. She’d even remembered the Christmas edition of Private Eye, a favourite of Hugh’s. The smaller spare room was less lavishly equipped for Bruno, but spotless and with a small TV and a copy of Viz. Felicity had a genius for the practical side of hospitality and was famous for her eye for detail.
Cissy and Rollo were in the playroom with Ellie making paper angels to hold place cards. Noah was on his bed with his Playstation. Felicity felt she should have lured him away from that, but on the other hand peace would be in short supply for the next week so she might as well take advantage of it. She was at her computer when the phone rang.
‘Hi there.’
She didn’t at once recognize the voice. ‘Sorry – who is this?’
‘Give you a guess.’
It was the tone that did it. ‘Oh, Charity, I’m sorry – how are you?’ A wary, reflexive impulse prompted her to add, ‘Where are you?’
‘Not outside your door, you can relax.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. Are the Ps there yet?’
‘Rob’s gone to meet them.’
‘I just called to pass on the compliments of the season in a sisterly fashion.’
‘How nice.’ Felicity didn’t believe this, but let it pass. ‘Thank you. Remind me what your plans are?’ She must have been told, but couldn’t remember.
‘My plan was to spend a couple of days with a friend.’
Charity wasn’t usually coy, but apparently details would have to be coaxed out of her. Ready to listen, Felicity went to sit by the picture window. ‘But there’s been a change?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Charity, is there something you want to tell me? If so, spit it out. The Ps are probably on their way as we speak.’
After a short, tense pause, Charity said, ‘The truth is, I don’t know. I’m in unfamiliar territory.’
‘Go on.’
There was another silence which made Felicity think her sister might be smoking – which would be a pity, because she’d given it up a while ago. ‘Charity?’
‘You know what? I don’t think I want to go through it all right now.’ She made it sound as if Felicity had made the call, and had been interrogating her.
‘All what?’
‘Nothing. Nothing I can’t sort out without boring the pants off you first.’
‘You’re not boring me, but I’m not a mind-reader.’
Charity gave a short laugh. ‘Probably just as well. Look – have a wonderful Christmas, pass on my love to everyone, maybe we’ll speak some time while the Ps are with you …’
‘Of course we will – on Christmas Day. What time would be good? How about midday?’
‘I’m sure that will be fine. I don’t know … Tell you what, I’ll call you.’
‘OK, but don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’
Felicity sat with the silent phone in her hand, gazing at the sparkling black sea of the city. Something’s going on, she thought. Everything changes.
A day later, at about the same time, Charity was thinking, This isn’t me.
But if you were doing a thing voluntarily and without awkwardness, then presumably it was you, but a different version. One you hadn’t met before.
Whatever the answer, she was elated. Standing there in the public bar of The Jockey with a Jack Daniels in her hand, waiting for a man she barely knew and with whom she had nothing in common – this was weirdly exhilarating.
She’d never have been there if she hadn’t accidentally bumped into him a second time. She’d been in an unfamiliar part of town to pick up a picture she was having framed (a clever shot she’d taken of a site in Orkney). After she’d collected the picture from the framer’s studio on the industrial estate she’d stopped at a little Cypriot supermarket to buy milk, only to bump into Luke Tanner by the cold cabinet. It was a small shop and there was no chance of pretending she hadn’t seen him – they were no more than two feet away from one another, and he didn’t bother to conceal his delight.
‘Hang on, it’s you, isn’t it?’
‘Who?’ she’d asked dryly. ‘Me?’
‘Go on.’
She looked to either side. ‘I suppose it must be.’
His smile was untarnished. ‘I don’t know your name.’
‘And I’m afraid I’ve forgotten yours.’
‘Luke – Luke Tanner. I bummed a fag off you up at the campus bar.’
‘If you say so.’ She wasn’t usually so abrasive, but his perky, laddish confidence seemed almost to invite it.
‘Do you live round here?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Only we’re putting on the show just up the road.’
‘The circus?’ Too late she realized she had given herself away but he showed no sign of noticing that, either.
‘That’s right. You should come along.’
‘I haven’t been to a circus since I was ten. And to be honest, I hated it.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ he said equably, ‘but ours is different. No animals, no not-funny clowns. Acrobats, juggling, magic – you’d like it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We could walk there now, it’s on your way. Give you the idea.’
‘No thanks.’
‘OK.’
His unshakeable good humour implied that he had Charity’s number and didn’t believe she was half as frosty as she made out. She found this completely infuriating, and turned to go. She’d reached the till before realising she hadn’t bought what she came in for, but no power on earth, let alone a pint of milk, would have made her go back, so she left empty-handed.
In her irritation she drove a touch too quickly. But stopping at a red light, she saw it – Tanner and Bright’s Travelling Circus, luridly advertised outside the old British Legion Hall. You literally couldn’t miss it. Curious in spite of herself, and because there was a pay-and-display space just beyond the junction, she pulled over. There was no way Luke Tanner, on foot, would be here in the next few minutes.
‘Hello there! Are you here for this afternoon’s show?’
The young woman in the foyer was in an electric blue sequined leotard and silver stilettos, a cockade of blue and silver feathers attached to her gold hair. Her upfront manner matched her outfit.
‘No,’ said Charity firmly. ‘Just taking a look.’
‘Feel free!’ The young woman gestured in the direction of the door, which was heavily disguised with blue velvet drapes and gold cord.
‘I don’t necessarily want to watch.’
‘No worries, take a seat and I’ll be in later to see if you’d like to pay for it, how’s that?’
Jesus, thought Charity, business must be bad if they were letting passers-by like her in on spec. But the hall, though admittedly not large, was three-quarters full. There was music playing, and curtains had been swept up to the centre of the ceiling to give the effect of a tent. A scaffolding frame supported a trapeze, some rings, and a bunched-up net. Colourful wooden blocks had been arranged in a horseshoe shape around the performance area, and behind these was a row of tiny chairs, the sort Charity remembered from primary school, most of them occupied by children. A man dressed as a large black and white dog was juggling. The juggling wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t meant to be – it was comical. The children were laughing.
Charity stood at the back. A teenage girl walked on rather sheepishly, then proceeded to perform astonishing feats on the trapeze, followed by a couple of guys who could only be called tumblers, like the juggler not perfect, but that only added to the thrilling sense of jeopardy. Then another woman released the net like a suspended cat’s cradle, and swung and rolled without
ever getting tangled. Everything was, if not tacky, then low-rent and simple, but the children’s faces were lifted, turning this way and that like sunflowers. There were exhalations of amazement, gasps of anxiety, sighs of relief. Engaged in spite of herself, Charity perched sideways on the edge of the nearest free chair.
Half an hour later the interval was announced. The girl in the blue sequins was waiting by the door.
‘You enjoying the show?’
‘Yes – I owe you.’
‘That’s alright, you can pay at the end.’
‘No, I’m leaving now, but I’ll definitely pay.’ Charity added without meeting the girl’s eye. ‘It’s impressive what you’ve done in that small space.’
‘Thank you. Here’s the boss, you should say it to him.’
‘Hello there! Changed your mind?’
She was caught bang to rights, it would have been churlish not to admit to her enjoyment. ‘I caught the first half, it was pretty good.’
‘We aim to please. Look’ – he cocked his head – ‘I need to get back there, but fancy a drink later on? Or tomorrow?’
Having watched his show, suddenly she couldn’t be bothered to fence with him. The girl had disappeared with a tray of ices. After all, what did it matter? None of this was important.
‘Go on then. Name your time and place.’
They’d arranged this meet at the The Jockey, and then he’d picked up a container (it looked like a swing bin) covered in Christmas paper, and held it out to her with a shake.
‘Here, help yourself.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Present. Everyone gets one. It’s on the ticket.’
‘I haven’t bought one yet.’
‘Never mind.’ He gave the container another shake. ‘Go on. Lucky dip.’
Mac rang at the time she had suggested, but there was no reply. He didn’t worry, it was a time of year when people were busy, having drinks with colleagues, doing last minute shopping, preparing to have people round or, of course, to go away. He didn’t mind that she was doing any of these things. His own preparations were made and he was in a state of happy anticipation. He decided against leaving a message. He’d be seeing her soon.
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