The Perfect Happiness

by Santa Montefiore

  “In this state? I think you’d be lucky to be employed at all,” said Candace, teasing her gently.

  “It was only once, and now I’m going to be punished for the rest of my life.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m too ashamed.”

  Angelica narrowed her eyes, considering possible candidates. Letizia put her arm around Kate’s skinny shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze, enveloping her in pale cashmere and perfume.

  Candace looked at her watch. “I don’t mean to be rude here, but Jeremy Irons isn’t going to wait for me to turn up to Act Two. Can we move this along, please?”

  “Sorry, Candace, you’re really good to me.” Kate sat up, bracing herself for the moment of truth.

  “Have you got the kit?” Letizia asked. “There is no better time than the present.”

  Kate pointed to four boxes on a side table. “Just in case . . . you know . . .”

  “Sure, they lie all the time!” said Candace, striding over to get them for her. “Come on, Kate. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  Letizia fetched her a glass from the kitchen, Candace handed her the tests, Angelica helped her up the stairs and pushed her into her en suite bathroom.

  “Right, give it your best shot!” said Candace, throwing herself onto Kate’s super-king-size sleigh bed. She ran her hand over the brown furry bedspread. “This is nice.”

  “Who do you think it is?” Angelica hissed.

  “Must be Ralph Lauren,” said Candace.

  “No, not the bedspread. Her lover?”

  “Oh, well . . .”

  “Robbie?” Letizia suggested.

  “Robbie who?”

  “Her trainer!”

  “Oh no! That’s such a cliché! She’d have told us if it was him.” Candace waved her hand dismissively. “It’ll be someone we all know. One of us.”

  “I can’t pee! I’m too nervous!” Kate wailed from the bathroom.

  “Run the tap,” Letizia suggested. “I’ll kill her if this is all a false alarm,” said Candace.

  Angelica glanced at her watch. “Not if Olivier gets here first. It’s eight-thirty!”

  “Is it coming?”

  There was a long pause, then finally a shriek. “Now I can’t stop! Help, the glass is too small!”

  They all waited without uttering another word. Kate poked her head around the door. “Are you still here?”

  “Of course we’re still here. It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do!” said Candace.

  “Well? What does it say?” Letizia asked anxiously.

  “I haven’t done it yet. I’m too scared.” She emerged with the glass.

  “Oh really! Too much information!” Candace cried, hiding her eyes.

  “You must all have a test,” insisted Kate, handing them each a box.

  “This is insane!” But Candace took one anyway and opened it.

  Letizia threw her empty box on the bed. “I’m confident it will be negative. What are we looking for?”

  “Were you born yesterday? A blue stripe,” said Candace. “And you’re going to have to look at mine for me.”

  “This takes me back a few years!” said Angelica, studying the device with nostalgia. “I should have had another one.”

  “You can have mine,” groaned Kate.

  “Don’t say that, darling. You might not even be pregnant.” Letizia was a natural optimist.

  “Let’s see,” said Angelica. “All together now.”

  “Oh Lord, can I do this with my eyes closed?” said Candace.

  “You’re making more of a fuss than me,” said Kate.

  “That’s simply not possible!” said Candace.

  The four women dipped the sticks into Kate’s urine. “I think I’m going to be sick,” moaned Kate.

  “You’re going to be sick. At least it’s your wee!” Candace grimaced.

  Angelica pulled hers out and watched as the little window turned blue. She felt a wave of pity for her friend. “But it’s your baby, Kate,” she said quietly.

  They all stared at their tests. Then they all stared at Kate.

  “Any negatives?” Letizia asked hopefully. They all shook their heads.

  Kate sank onto the bed. “Hell! What am I going to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” asked Letizia, sitting beside her and putting her arm around her again.

  “You don’t know how hard I’ve worked for this stomach,” she exclaimed, then burst into tears. “Now I know, I can’t even have a fucking cigarette or a glass of wine. I might as well enroll in a convent!”

  “It’s a little late for that!” said Candace.

  Kate put her hand on her belly. “If I could be sure it was Pete’s, it wouldn’t be so bad, would it? But what if it’s not Pete’s. I mean, he’ll know. Men always know. Babies always look like their fathers, don’t they?”

  “Not always,” said Letizia.

  “Oh, they always do. That way the fathers don’t eat them,” Candace retorted.

  “You don’t have to make your mind up now, Kate,” said Angelica, aware that she was now running very late indeed. “Think about it for a few days.”

  Kate ran her rheumy eyes over Angelica’s dress. “You need a belt,” she said with a sniff.

  “I put one on and Olivier said I was emphasizing the widest part of me.”

  For a moment Kate was drawn out of herself. “He said what?”

  “I hope you cut off his balls!” said Candace.

  “No, I took off the belt.”

  “You sop! What are you? A doormat?” Candace laughed fondly. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “I think I need a new body.”

  Letizia sighed. “No, darling, you just need a new husband.”

  Kate managed to stagger over to her chest of drawers and pulled out a belt. “Don’t argue with me. I’m dangerous when drunk.” She slipped it around Angelica’s waist. “This is not the widest part of you, whatever Olivier says. You look fabulous!”

  “You really do,” agreed Letizia. “Olivier should be ashamed of himself. You should have married an Italian. They love curvaceous women.”

  “The widest part of you, my ass! His ego’s so wide he can barely make it out the door! Tell him that and see how he likes it.” Candace smiled at her affectionately. “Go knock ’em dead!”

  “Now we’ve sorted you out, let’s talk about me,” said Kate.

  Candace gave her a big hug. “Angelica’s right. Sit on it for a few days. Call me in the morning. Letizia will put you to bed.”

  “You’re leaving?” said Kate in a small voice.

  “I’m not,” said Letizia, stepping in dutifully.

  Candace beckoned Angelica with a brisk wave. “Come on, honey, we’re out of here.”

  Angelica put her arms around Kate, whose face crumpled like a child being left at boarding school. “I’ll call you in the morning—if I’m still alive!”

  “Thank you for coming, you two. I really appreciate your support.”

  “I know,” cried Candace as she hurried down the stairs. “We expect huge rewards in heaven! Birkin bags and Louboutin shoes by the truckload—in every color!”

  “What a mess!” Angelica sighed as they stepped onto the pavement.

  “This time it really is a mess,” agreed Candace. “Where do you have to go?”

  “Cadogan Square.”

  “I’ll take you.” She summoned her driver with a wave. The glossy black Mercedes pulled out into the street.

  “But you’re late for the theater.”

  “I’ll say I crept in at the back—what’s the difference? He’s mad already. Anyway, you know what? I’ve seen enough theater for one night.”

  “You think she’s acting?”

  “Her whole life is theater, God love her. And we do love her, don’t we!”

  As they climbed into the car, Kate’s front door flew open and Letizia hurried down the steps waving Angelica’s bag.
r />   “Oh Lord!” Angelica sighed. “Not again!”

  “If your brain wasn’t in your head, you’d be leaving it all over the city,” said Candace.

  “You sound like Olivier.”

  “No, honey. Olivier doesn’t think you have a brain!”

  2

  Buddha says that pain or suffering arises through desire or craving and that to be free of pain we need to cut the bonds of desire.

  In Search of the Perfect Happiness

  Angelica arrived to find the dinner had already begun. She was led by a young man in a black Nehru jacket through the candlelit hall to the dining room, where the sound of chatter and clinking glasses rose into the lily-scented air. When she entered, those she knew called out and waved, teasing her for being late. She dared not catch Olivier’s eye; it was enough that she could sense his staring at her furiously from the far end of the table. The hostess in tight leather trousers and shiny black boots was more forgiving. She leapt up and strode around the table to embrace Angelica affectionately, wrists jingling with bracelets and bangles.

  “Hi, doll. I got a text from Kate but couldn’t leave the house.” Scarlet lowered her voice. “Is she okay?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. Long story. But she’s alive!”

  “Well, that’s something. You look like you could do with a drink?”

  “I’ve already had one.”

  “Then have another. You’re as pale as a pancake. I’ll get Olivier suitably wasted. He’ll be love’s young dream by dessert!”

  “Thanks, Scarlet. Right now he’s a grumpy old nightmare!” Olivier was now in conversation with the ravishing Caterina Tintello. There was nothing that lifted his mood as surely as a beautiful woman.

  “Now, you’ve got the delicious Jack Meyer from South Africa on your right—give that husband of yours something important to worry about—and my slightly less delicious husband on your left.”

  “Oh, Scarlet, William is very delicious!”

  “Well, he is to me, I suppose, but Jack’s delicious to everyone. Now, let me introduce you.”

  Scarlet tapped Jack on the shoulder. He said something to Stash Helm, the vivacious woman on his right, then stood up politely, towering over them like a bear. Angelica felt her spirits jolt back to life, recharged by his big shaggy head and wide, infectious smile as he grinned down at her appreciatively. She smiled back, the tension melting away in the warmth of his handshake.

  “Jack, meet Angelica Lariviere. Jack’s a notorious flirt,” Scarlet teased. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “While the cat’s away . . .” he replied, without taking his eyes off her. Angelica was enchanted by the humorous twinkle behind his glasses.

  “There’s no keeping this dog on the porch,” Scarlet added with a chuckle.

  “Some dogs aren’t made for porches,” said Angelica.

  “You seem to know a lot about dogs.”

  “She knows a lot about everything. Angelica’s an author, a very successful one, too! Jack loves books. That’s why I put you next to each other.”

  Scarlet returned to her place, and Jack pulled out Angelica’s chair.

  “You smell of oranges,” he said.

  “Is it overpowering?”

  “No. It’s delightful.”

  She basked in his accent. It wasn’t strong, but she could feel the sun and smell the rich red soil in those gently clipped vowels.

  He sat down and scrutinized her. “You seem familiar,” he murmured.

  She shook her head and looked away, disarmed by the intimacy of his gaze. “I don’t think so.”

  “We haven’t met before?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He laughed it off and spread his napkin on his knee. “Funny, I feel I know you. A past life, perhaps.”

  Before Angelica could respond, William turned to greet her on her left. Reluctantly, she swung around to kiss him, hearing Jack resume his conversation with Stash. “You look well,” William commented, running his eyes over the glow Jack had just ignited. “Where have you spent the summer?” William was reserved in that cool, phlegmatic way for which upper-class Englishmen are notorious. Angelica had known him and Scarlet for years: they were part of the London social scene, and Scarlet had become one of her inner circle of friends. However, as fond of him as she was, right now Angelica wished she could turn away and talk to Jack.

  She was aware of every movement he made and most of William’s conversation went unheard. The first course was eaten, the plates taken away, and, although Jack passed her only a few comments about the food or the wine, she felt they were isolated from the rest of the guests on a little island of their own, acutely conscious of each other. She could feel his arm against hers, and it was warm and strangely familiar. Neither moved away, and she wondered whether he, too, was aware of it. She could hear his voice, the foreign way he articulated his words, but having to respond convincingly to William made it impossible to tune in to what he said. His laugh was infectious, and she laughed herself, deliberately feigning amusement at something William had said. Her host felt witty, growing uncharacteristically animated as a result of her encouragement.

  Finally, with reluctance, William turned to Hester Berridge, a buxom, rosy-cheeked Englishwoman who bred horses in Suffolk while her husband worked at the Tate. Angelica was cast adrift for a moment while Jack continued to talk to Stash. She sat back and sipped her wine, the sense of anticipation causing her stomach to fizz. She glanced at her husband, who was still deep in conversation with Caterina. Their heads were almost touching, and he was grinning roguishly. He had once looked at her like that, before they had married and their conversations had been dragged into a more domestic domain. He threw his head back and they laughed together. Angelica didn’t mind—Olivier was always better company after a good flirt.

  “So, now I get to talk to the authoress,” said Jack, turning his heavy gaze on her as if she was the only woman in the room he wanted to talk to. She noticed the deep lines around his mouth and across his temples, slicing through his rough and weathered skin as he smiled, and felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time: the stirring of tiny bees’ wings in her stomach. “What sort of books do you write?”

  “Fantasy novels for children. Probably not your thing, unless you’re into sorcery and time travel.”

  “I’m definitely into those. I love Tolkien, and I’ve read all the Harry Potters. I suppose I’m just a big kid.”

  “Most men are. The only thing that changes as they grow up is the cost of their toys.” He laughed and the crow’s feet deepened across his temples. “They’re a bit of fun, that’s all,” she added modestly.

  “Children’s books are far harder to write than adult fiction.”

  “I think I’m just too fanciful to stick to reality.”

  “Which writer is your role model?”

  “I’d hate to sound like I’m comparing myself to the greats. But I suppose I aspire to be Philip Pullman in the same way a painter aspires to be Michelangelo!”

  “It’s good to aim high. If you focus hard enough on your goal, I’m sure you’ll get there. Philip Pullman’s a genius. Your imagination must be exceedingly fertile.”

  “You have no idea.” She laughed. “I get lost in there sometimes.”

  “I’d like to get lost in there, too. Real life is way too real most of the time.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s a place for a man like you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Far too fluffy. You have to swim through an awful lot of cotton wool to get to it.”

  “I’m a good swimmer.” He smiled, running his eyes over her features appreciatively. “What name do you write under?”

  “Angelica Garner. My maiden name.”

  “I’ll look out for your books. I need a good book for the journey home.”

  She blushed with pleasure. “So, what do you read?”

  “While I’m on the porch?”

  “While you’re on the
porch.”

  “Lots, simultaneously. I have books in every room of the house. I like mystery, adventure, love.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Love?”

  “I have a strong feminine side.” He pulled a soppy face.

  “Now that surprises me.”

  “Why? A book without love is like a desert without flowers.” His gaze grew intense. “What is more important in life than love? It’s what it’s all about. Why we’re all here, and, when we go, it’s all we take with us.”

  “Well, I agree with you, of course.” She was stunned by the emotion in his words.

  “I’m a frustrated writer,” he confessed sheepishly, playing with his spoon. “Never had anything published, though. Not for want of trying.”

  “What have you written?”

  “Rubbish, clearly.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I’m Jack of all trades, master of none.”

  “What are the other trades, besides writing?”

  “There was a time in my youth when I wanted to be a pop star.” He pulled a face, anticipating her amusement. “I had long shaggy hair and leather trousers and smoked joints while I strummed my guitar. Now I make wine.”

  “Not a poet then.” He gave her a quizzical look. “‘A book without love is like a desert without flowers.’”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Just a hopeless old romantic.”

  She watched him help himself to food, admiring the leonine strength in his profile, the big, pawlike quality to his hands, the very male ruggedness of his skin—so unlike Olivier’s polished European glamour—and wished the night could go on forever.

  “Do you have a vineyard in South Africa?”

  “How well do you know South Africa?”

  “I’ve never been.”

  He looked surprised. “Then you must come. I own a beautiful vineyard called Rosenbosch in Franschhoek. You would love it. You can set your next novel there.”

  “I need something to inspire me. I’m growing tired of what I do. Right now I’m considering doing something a little different.”

  “Which is?”

  She hesitated. Olivier teased her about her fascination with the esoteric; she didn’t want to look foolish in front of Jack. “I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss it,” she replied, embarrassed.