Octavia

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Did you get through?’ snapped Jeremy.

  Gareth nodded. ‘We’ve timed it very well. They’re giving a party tonight. They want us all to go. The land at the back of their house slopes straight down to the river. They suggested we tie up there about teatime. Then you two girls can have baths and tart up at your leisure.’

  ‘How super,’ said Gussie. ‘But I haven’t got anything to wear. Will it be very smart?’

  ‘I don’t expect so. Anyway they can lend you something if it is.’

  I turned away. My palms were damp with sweat. The thought of a party terrified me. Drinks and noise and people I didn’t know. They would be Gareth’s friends too, probably as tough and flash and sarcastic as Gareth himself. He must have warned them about me already — the tart with the heart of ice.

  ‘We’d better get moving,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’ll start up the engine.’

  ‘I’ll wash up,’ I said, diving into the kitchen.

  No one had washed up last night’s plates and, as we were running short of water, I had to wash everything in the same grey, greasy liquid.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice. Gareth was standing in the doorway. I stiffened and concentrated hard on the bubbles of yellow fat floating on top of the washing-up water.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said with studied lightness. I was determined to show him that yesterday’s showdown hadn’t bothered me in the least.

  He came and put his hand on my shoulder. I jumped away as though he’d burnt me.

  ‘Easy now,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to apologize for last night. Not for what I said, because it needed saying, but I should have put it more tactfully.’

  ‘If you think anything you said last night had any effect on me, you’re very much mistaken,’ I said in a stifled voice. ‘Damn! We’re out of Quix.’

  With a swift movement he took off my dark glasses.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t you dare!’ I spat at him. I didn’t want him to see how red and puffed my eyes were with crying.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said. He had me cornered now. God, he was big. His very size in that kitchen was stifling, overpowering. I backed away against the draining board, looking down at my hands, trembling with humiliation.

  ‘Why do you keep bullying me?’ I whispered.

  I’d done that trick before, letting my breasts rise and fall very fast in simulated emotion, but now I found I couldn’t stop myself.

  Gareth put his hand under my chin and forced it upwards. For an insane, panicky moment, I wondered whether to bite him, anything to drive him away, to destroy this suffocating nearness. Then he let go of me, and handed me back my dark glasses.

  ‘You can actually look ugly,’ he said, in surprise. ‘I don’t know why, but I find that very encouraging.’

  ‘Gareth,’ shouted Jeremy, ‘can you come and open the lock gates?’

  ‘Just coming,’ Gareth shouted. He turned as he went up the steps. ‘Don’t forget it’s your turn to put on the chef’s hat and cook us lunch.’

  That was all I needed. I opened the door of the fridge and the baleful eye of a huge chicken peered out at me. How the hell did one cook the beastly thing?

  Gussie popped her head through the door.

  ‘Gareth says you’re going to cook lunch. How lovely. I’ll truss the chicken for you if you like, and then you can make that thing you made us the other night. There’s masses of cream and lemon juice in the fridge.’

  She’d only just had breakfast and her mouth was watering already.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said weakly. Why, oh why, had I been so foolish as to pass Luigi’s haute cuisine off as my own last week?

  I go hot and cold every time I remember that lunch. I got in such a muddle that we didn’t eat until three o’clock, by which time the others were absolutely starving. I shall never forget their hungry flushed faces turning gradually to dismay as they sat down to eat and realized the chicken was burnt to a frazzle, the sauce was curdled past redemption and the spinach boiled away to a few gritty stalks. But the potatoes were the worst disaster. Because I hadn’t realized you had to roast them longer than twenty minutes, they were hard as bullets.

  ‘It’s a pity we haven’t got a twelve bore on board,’ said Gareth. ‘Then we could have spent the afternoon shooting pigeons with them.’

  ‘It’s absolutely delicious,’ said Gussie, chewing valiantly away at a piece of impossibly dry chicken.

  Jeremy said nothing. Gareth laughed himself sick. He didn’t even make any attempt to eat, just lit a cigar, blew smoke over everyone, and said at last he understood why Gussie was always going on about the importance of having a good breakfast.

  I escaped on deck and sat there gazing at the pink rose petals drifting across the khaki water. The panic and terror of the morning were fast hardening into hatred against Gareth. Once and for all I was going to get even with him.

  Jeremy came and sat down beside me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I get these blinding migraines sometimes, they make me completely stupid. I’m sorry I loused up lunch.’

  ‘Hell, that doesn’t matter. We should never have let you do all the cooking. Why didn’t you tell us you were feeling awful?’

  I smiled up at him. ‘It’ll go soon. Do we have to go to this party tonight?’

  ‘Of course not, if you don’t want to. I rather fancy going, just for the sake of going into a room with you, and everyone thinking you belong to me.’

  ‘You win,’ I said.

  He took my hand. ‘Do you still dislike Gareth that much?’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  He nodded. ‘A bit.’

  He caught at a leaf of an overhanging tree. ‘Gus gets some funny ideas. She thinks you’re very mixed up beneath the panache and the sophistication. She says you need someone like Gareth to sort you out.’

  ‘How kind of Gussie to be so concerned with my welfare,’ I said, trying to keep the tremble of anger out of my voice.

  There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the boat. Such was my paranoia, I was convinced Gussie and Gareth were talking about me.

  ‘Would you make me any different?’ I asked, looking deep into Jeremy’s eyes.

  ‘I’d just like to make you,’ he said. ‘Let’s not bother about irrelevancies.’

  It’s the same old story, I thought, as I did my face before we went ashore. Now he’s really pursuing me, I don’t want him so much. The intensity and lust in his eyes had me frightened. I had a feeling I might have got a tiger by the tail.

  My thoughts turned to Gussie and Gareth.

  ‘Insecure, unhappy, mixed-up, frigid, hard enough to cut a diamond on.’ They were having a field-day passing judgements on me. How dare that fat slob Gussie patronize me, how dare Gareth take it upon himself to tell me so many home truths? The chips were down. If they thought I was a bitch, all right, I was going to behave like one.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later in the afternoon as we went across water meadows into a large orchard, we could see a Queen Anne house through the trees.

  ‘What are these people called?’ asked Gussie.

  ‘Hamilton,’ said Gareth. ‘Hesketh and Bridget. They’ve got hordes of children, but I don’t know if any of them are at home.’

  Gussie picked a scarlet cherry up from the long grass. ‘And they’re nice?’

  ‘Nice, but perfectly crazy,’ said Gareth. ‘Hesketh has madness on one side of the family and a Rumanian grandmother on the other, so you never know what to expect.’

  ‘I bet they’re hell,’ I whispered to Jeremy.

  But they weren’t hell. They were a gently unworldly middle-aged couple. Hesketh Hamilton was tall and thin with spectacles on the end of his nose. He had been gardening and was wearing faded blue dungarees and a kind of mauve and white striped baseball cap on his head to keep off the sun. His wife had straggly pepper and salt hair, drawn back into a bun, and eyes the colour of faded denim. She was wearin
g odd shoes and an old felt skirt covered in dog hairs. They were both obviously delighted to see Gareth.

  The house was beautiful but terribly untidy, with books and papers everywhere. It didn’t look as though anyone could possibly be giving a party that night. The afternoon sun slanting through the drawing-room window showed thick layers of dust on everything. Assorted dogs lay on the carpet panting from the heat.

  ‘We’ll have tea in the garden,’ said Bridget Hamilton. ‘You can come into the kitchen and help me carry the tray, Gareth. I want you to tell me if Hesketh’s got enough drink for this evening. We seem to have asked rather a lot of people.’

  Out in the garden the lawn sloped down to a magnificent herbaceous border. Through an iron archway swarming with red roses, deckchairs and a table were set out under a walnut tree.

  Gussie as usual went berserk, gushing like an oil well.

  ‘What a fantastic garden! My mother would be green with envy! Look at those roses and those fabulous blue hollyhocks!’

  ‘They’re delphiniums,’ said Hesketh Hamilton gently.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Gussie unabashed. ‘And that heavenly catmint. I love the smell.’

  ‘It always reminds me of oversexed tomcats,’ Hesketh said, smiling.

  ‘It’s so kind of you to let us all come to your party,’ said Gussie, sitting down and putting a very severe strain on a deckchair.

  She ought to be re-christened Gushie, I thought savagely.

  Gareth came across the lawn carrying a tray, his eyes slanting away from the smoke of his cigar.

  ‘You’ve got enough drink in, Hesketh, to float the QE2,’ he said.

  Bridget Hamilton, her hands still covered in earth from gardening, poured black tea into chipped mugs and handed sandwiches round.

  ‘How many of the children are home?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘Only Lorna, and she doesn’t know you’re all coming. She’s taken her new horse out. Absolute madness in this heat. She’s not such a child now you know, Gareth. She’ll be eighteen in August.’

  Gareth grinned. ‘I know. I hope you’ve been keeping her on ice for me.’

  He helped himself to a cucumber sandwich as big as a doorstep.

  ‘I’m starving.’ He gave an unpleasant smile in my direction. ‘I don’t know why but I couldn’t eat a thing at lunchtime.’

  Bridget Hamilton turned to me. ‘And what do you do in London? You look like a model or an actress or something.’

  ‘She’s quite unemployable,’ said Gareth.

  Bridget looked reproving. ‘I see you’re as rude as ever, Gareth.’ She smiled at me. ‘I never worked in my life until I got married. Anyway, I expect you meet lots of interesting people.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘The one I’d like to meet is Britt Ekland — so charming looking. Wouldn’t you like to meet Britt Ekland, Hesketh?’

  ‘Who’s he?’ said Hesketh.

  Inevitably there was a good deal of laughter at this and Bridget Hamilton was just explaining, ‘He’s a she, Hesketh, he’s a she,’ when a door slammed and there was a sound of running foot steps and a girl exploded through the French windows. She was as slim as a blade, in jodhpurs and a red silk shirt, with a mass of curly hair and a freckled, laughing face. Her eyes lighted on Gareth and she gave a squeal of delight.

  ‘Gareth! What are you doing here? How lovely to see you!’

  Gareth levered himself out of the deckchair and took both of her hands and stared at her for a long time.

  ‘But you’ve grown so beautiful, Lorna.’

  She flushed. ‘Oh golly, have I really turned into a swan at last?’

  ‘A fully-fledged, paid-up member,’ he said, bending forward and kissing her smooth brown cheek. There was not much more he could do with us all watching him, but I had the feeling he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss the life out of her.

  ‘You might acknowledge someone else, darling,’ grumbled her mother.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry!’ The girl beamed at the rest of us. ‘I’m Lorna. It’s just that I’m so pleased to see Gareth. You will stay for the party, won’t you?’ she added anxiously.

  ‘I suppose we ought to think about washing a few glasses and rolling up the carpet,’ said Hesketh Hamilton.

  ‘I must wash my hair,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s the only way I’ll get the garden out of my nails.’

  ‘Aren’t they complete originals?’ said Gussie, as she and I changed later. She was wandering around in the nude trying to look at her back. Between her fiery red legs and shoulders, her skin was as white as lard.

  ‘I’m not peeling, am I?’ she asked anxiously. ‘It itches like mad.’

  ‘Looks a bit angry,’ I said, pleased to see that a few tiny white blisters had formed between her shoulders. It’d be coming off her in strips tomorrow.

  ‘Isn’t that girl Lorna quite devastating?’ she went on. ‘You could see Gareth wanted to absolutely gobble her up.’

  ‘She’s not that marvellous,’ I said, starting to pour water over my hair.

  ‘Oh but she is — quite lovely and so natural. Think of being seventeen again, all the things one was going to do, the books one was going to write, the places one was going to visit. I must say when a girl is beautiful at seventeen she gets a glow about her that old hags like you and I in our twenties can never hope to achieve.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ I muttered into the washbasin.

  I knew when I finally finished doing my face that I’d never looked better. My eyes glittered brilliantly blue in my suntanned face; my hair, newly washed and straight, was almost white from the sun. Gussie, I’m glad to say, looked terrible. She was leaning out of the window when there was a crunch of wheels on the gravel outside.

  ‘Oh look, someone’s arriving. It’s the vicar.’

  ‘We’re obviously in for a wild evening,’ I said.

  ‘We’d better go down. Shall I wait?’

  ‘No. I’ll be ready in a minute. You go on.’

  I was glad when she’d gone. I thought she might kick up a fuss at the dress I was going to wear. It was a short tunic in silver chain mail — the holes as big as half-crowns. High-necked at the front, it swooped to positive indecency at the back. Two very inadequate circles of silver sequins covered my breasts. I didn’t wear anything underneath except a pair of flesh-coloured pants, which gave the impression I wasn’t wearing anything at all.

  Slowly I put it on, thinking all the time of the effect it would have on Jeremy when I walked into the sedate country living room. I gave a final brush to my hair and turned to look in the mirror. It was the first time I’d worn it with all my party warpaint, and the impact made even me catch my breath. Oh my, said I to myself, you’re going to set them by their country ears tonight. I was determined to make an entrance, so I fiddled with my hair until I could hear that more people had arrived.

  There was a hush as I walked into the drawing-room. Everyone gazed at me. Men’s hands fluttered up to straighten their ties and smooth their hair, the women stared at me with ill-concealed envy and disapproval.

  ‘Christ!’ I heard Jeremy say, in appalled wonder.

  But I was looking at Gareth. For the first time I saw a blaze of disapproval in his eyes. I’ve got under his guard at last, I thought in triumph.

  There seemed to be no common denominator among the guests. They consisted of old blimps and tabby cats, several dons from the University, and their ill-dressed wives, a handful of people of Lorna’s age, the girls very debbie, the boys very wet, and a crowd of tough hunting types with braying voices and brick red faces. It was as though the Hamiltons had asked everyone they knew and liked, with a total disregard as to whether they’d mix.

  I wandered towards Jeremy, Gussie and Gareth.

  ‘I see you’ve thrown yourself open to the public,’ said Gareth, but he didn’t smile. ‘I suppose I’d better go and hand round some drinks.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have worn that dress, Octavia,’ said Gussie in a
shocked voice. ‘This isn’t London, you know.’

  ‘That’s only too obvious,’ I said, looking round.

  Bridget Hamilton came over and took my arm. ‘How enchanting you look, Octavia. Do come and devastate our local MFH. He’s dying to meet you.’

  He wasn’t the only one. Once those hunting types had had a few drinks, they all closed in on me, vying for my attention. Over and over again I let my glass be filled up. Never had my wit been more malicious or more sparkling. I kept them all in fits of braying laughter.

  Like an experienced comedian, although I was keeping my audience happy, I was very conscious of what was going on in the wings — Jeremy, looking like a thundercloud because I was flirting so outrageously with other men, Gareth behaving like the Hamilton’s future son-in-law, whether he was coping with drinks or smiling into Lorna’s eyes. Every so often, however, his eyes flickered in my direction, and his face hardened.

  About ten o’clock, Bridget Hamilton wandered in, very red in the face, and carrying two saucepans, and plonked them down on a long polished table beside a pile of plates and forks.

  ‘There’s risotto here,’ she said vaguely, ‘if anyone’s hungry.’

  People surged forward to eat. I stayed put, the men around me stayed put as well. The din we were making increased until Gareth pushed his way through the crowd.

  ‘You ought to eat something, Octavia,’ he said.

  I shook my head and smiled up at him insolently.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ drawled the MFH who was lounging beside me.

  I turned to him, smiling sweetly, ‘Only for you.’

  A nearby group of women stopped filling their faces with risotto and talking about nappies, and looked at me in horror. The MFH’s wife was among them. She had a face like a well-bred cod.

  ‘The young gels of today are not the same as they were twenty years ago,’ she said loudly.

  ‘Of course they’re not,’ I shouted across at her. ‘Twenty years ago I was only six. You must expect some change in my appearance and behaviour.’

  She turned puce with anger at the roar of laughter that greeted this. Gareth didn’t laugh. He took hold of my arm.