His name’s Mitchell, M. Chartered Accountant but we won’t hold that against him. You’re meeting in swanky bar in St Pancras. Perfect 4 Eurostar if mad with lust and need 2 head 2 Paris.
Clarissa is approaching this whole Soulmates pantomime with the focus of an oligarch trying to buy a premiership team. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taken out a bet with Paddy Power that she can get Margot hitched up by Easter. Margot swallows. Who knows how her time with Felix might play out? Yet spending an evening with another Soulmate would be like eating in a greasy spoon after experiencing a Michelin star.
The dishonesty of all this is cancerous. Margot knows that Clarissa is concerned for her emotional well-being. Yet she can’t tell her about Felix, not yet. The risks she’s taking are acute enough already. Clarissa and discretion do not exactly go together.
As for opening to Felix about Soulmates. Tell him she has a live profile up there as Mary, designed to snare as many men into her orbit as possible? After she’s been so insistent on secrecy every time she’s seen him?
Somehow, she must unravel all this.
Can’t wait until Friday, Gogo. How do you fancy meeting up with a couple of my mates first for a drink? Incognito, naturally. F xxx
Let’s keep it to the two of us. I’m too selfish to share you just yet … M xoxoxo
Love it when you get possessive ;-) F xxx
The inevitable few are still milling around after the family service, drawing deep on St Mark’s hospitality, though she knows that for most of this group of stragglers, there’s no one waiting for them at home. Jeremy’s ‘no chucking out’ rule is inviolable.
‘Margot, I need to speak to you.’
She glances up at Fabian, braced. His hair has been lopped a couple of inches, a making him look gaunter, shorter-fused. Even more like his nephew. A cloud passes over the sun through the clerestory glass.
‘In private, if you don’t mind.’
She nods down at the pile of papers she’s cradling.
‘I’m just going to the office.’
‘Somewhere else.’
He checks over his shoulder. There’s something uncharacteristically coiled about him.
She leads the way through to the hall, past the robes cupboard and the boxes storing all the dusty donations for the nursery. The Kool Gang finished over an hour ago, but the scent of cherry bubblegum still lingers. Discarded shards of coloured paper carpet the floor. One of the Care Bears out there flirting with the vicar will come in here later and snatch up the dustpan, muttering. Margot needs to get to it first.
She places her papers down on one of the glue-streaked tables and sits down.
‘This is for the Lenten talks,’ she says, gesturing at the pile. ‘We had eight last Thursday which, given there was an Arsenal home game and some cliffhanger on Coronation Street, wasn’t bad.’
Why does Fabian always have this Tourette’s effect on her? She’d hate to be a junior assistant in one of his departments. That’s probably how he sees her: Margot, the office temp.
He pulls a chair up close and leans in.
‘This whole kitchen thing is exploding.’
She frowns.
‘Pamela wants to put in some crappy budget solution which, I can tell you, is totally out of the question.’
The aftershave is rich and musky. A patch of grey chest hair is visible below the satin collar.
‘She’s already been out to some retail park near Harlow.’ A muscle in his cheek flickers. ‘It’s got to be stopped.’
Margot can’t fathom this anger.
‘You’re an intelligent girl, Margot.’ He stops, reconsidering. ‘You and I are on the same page, anyway. Why chuck money away on some trashy chipboard we’ll have to replace in two years? We need to think much bigger and better. Much more upmarket. This is an opportunity for St Mark’s to––’
The door at the far end of the hall bangs open and one of the mothers rushes forwards, dragging her toddler.
‘Hurry up, Connor. I told you to tell me as soon as you needed to wee.’
‘Hopeless,’ snarls Fabian. ‘We can’t talk tactics here.’
They’re not planning an M & A deal between two FTSE 100 giants. Watery sunlight falls on the paint-encrusted aprons on the pegs opposite. Why does he care so much about all this? Surely it’s small change to a businessman of his reach?
‘You and I should meet for a drink one evening,’ he says. ‘In the meantime, I’ll have a quiet word with Jeremy and tell him not to agree any purchasing decisions. He’ll not go against me.’
He’s right on that.
‘Evenings are a bit difficult for me, Fabian,’ Margot says.
‘Oh?’ He leans back, interested.
‘I mean,’ Margot hesitates, ‘You know, all the PCC and other meetings and the Lent talks and everything.’
‘Hmmm.’ He nods, eyeing her carefully. ‘I know you’ll find a time. I’m relying on your support.’ He reaches out his hand and she takes it reluctantly.
‘I think we understand each other, no?’
She gives a neutral smile.
‘You’re looking very well, by the way. Glowing in fact. Ministry agrees with you.’
There’s a bang and Connor hurtles back through the hall, scattering chairs like a one-child destruction squad. Fabian stands, rests his eyes on her a second too long, and walks back towards the vestry.
She shudders. She’s not the first woman to have to deal with a workplace letch. But Fabian is the Lionel Messi of St Mark’s, the two grand-a-week star striker who must be kept sweet at all costs. That’s how Jeremy sees him. A razor-sharp operator amidst a sea of geriatric good intentions.
But, then, a heavy hand with the Aramis and a display of greying chest hair do not a case of sexual harassment make. Even that time when his fingers brushed slowly against hers when she handed him the chalice. Not everyone wants to sleep with her. She flushes and buries the thought.
Then she remembers Arthur’s warning.
She’s lying in bed a few days later, reliving the previous evening with Felix – their slow meander past the bars and boutiques of Soho, the glasses of fino sitting on stools in the tiny tapas place, just another young couple absorbed in each other’s account of their day – when there’s a knock on her door.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Margot.’ Nathan looks sheepish. ‘You weren’t praying, were you?’
One day, she must ask him why he always assumes she’s doing – or has just been doing – something religious.
‘I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be away next weekend, from Friday until Sunday night.’
Her breath quickens.
‘Disneyland Paris. A couple of the boys’ friends went at half term and you know how that goes. Where one wallet leads, we all must follow. So much for my booze-free Lent. I’ll need plenty of their house rouge to get me through it.’
‘All of you?’
She almost shouts it, her heart one peg away from taking flight.
‘Cyd wasn’t ecstatic at the prospect, you won’t be surprised to hear, so she’s staying over with one of her school friends for the weekend. Gives you a bit of peace and quiet for a change.’
She waits until he’s safely closed the door behind him before she leaps off the bed, whirling around the tiny room in excitement.
Two night and two days. She isn’t even on the rota for either of the morning services, for the first time in months.
Hey guess what? xxxxx
Chapter 15
Early April
‘Hey there, Margot, just checking in again. Call me when you have a moment, OK? Would be good to catch up with you.’
The fifth missed call from Hadley.
Margot has deleted all the messages one by one. She’ll call her back soon. Very soon. Fill her in on all of it.
She stares down at the text. What was it Hadley said? We don’t want you shipwrecked on this most important of journeys. Some days, there are so many rocks spiking the path
ahead, the horizon is littered with them like dragons’ teeth.
Her finger hesitates above Hadley’s number. It’s late afternoon. She’ll be tied up with college chaplaincy duties, or possibly just setting off to evensong right at this moment.
She’ll leave a message.
And after next weekend, she’ll make that call.
Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 10 April 2017
The Vic’s mad for me to do some more evening talks in the run up to Ascension. Says he doesn’t want my brain turning to porridge. A bit late for that, sadly. When I get home in the evenings, all I’m good for is a pot of Ben & Jerry’s and a copy of Heat. The Vicar says he’ll even throw in a couple of bottles of his best sherry to get people through the door. But as I said, why waste it on people whose taste buds are so dodgy, they wouldn’t know La Gitana Manzanilla from bat’s piss? We’re in Norf London, not Belgravia.
Margot stares at the screen for so long her eyes start to water.
The joke’s over.
‘This way, Madame.’
The accent sounds fake. The fleur-de-lys interior definitely is. And you’re the fakest thing of all, she thinks, catching her reflection in the ceiling.
That must be him, over in the corner. Turning the menu over in his hands, probably wondering why they’re meeting somewhere where the cocktails cost the price of a main course in Pizza Express. He doesn’t know Clarissa, though.
He looks like a poster boy for normal with his plain blue shirt and jeans and slicked-back hair. He doesn’t look much like an accountant, whatever they look like. What does a priest look like?
She moves forwards, stomach tensing.
Mitchell waits until the cocktail waiter has left.
‘I always think it’s best to get the formal stuff over with first.’
What is he? Some sort of Soulmates frequent flyer?
‘Jobs, education, that kind of thing.’
Straight to the jugular.
‘Your profile was a bit of a tease, Mary.’
All of a sudden she’s lost the will to dissemble, even for the sake of her friendship with Clarissa. She glances at her watch. She’s got food shopping to do for the weekend.
Mitchell scoops up a handful of knobbly green crackers.
‘So what is it you do, exactly, Mary?’
‘Why don’t we talk about something else? Britain cutting itself off from the rest of Europe, for example?’
She at least owes it to Clarissa to stay half an hour.
He gives her an odd smile.
‘Know what, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’
She’s taken aback by the change of gear. He finishes his crackers and reaches over for some more.
‘I googled you.’
‘You did what?
‘Cut and pasted your photo and up popped some graduation shot.’
‘How enterprising.’
‘Girl priest. Now that is a turn-on.’
She’s back through the fleur-de-lys and onto on the pavement in seconds, praying so hard that he won’t post anything on Twitter, she can barely breathe.
‘And?’
Clarissa is very the last person Margot wants to speak to right now. She shoves her trolley past the chilled cabinets, picking up one juice carton after another in a haze of indecision.
‘Not my type.’
‘He looked really promising.’
‘He turned out to be a creep with a thing about women priests.’
‘So what was the problem?’
‘It could have been really bad for me. You know that.’
She feels nauseous even now at the thought.
‘Relax. He’ll just cruise on to the next prospect. It’s all a game, this online stuff.’
‘For you.’
‘I take it you do want to meet a man at some point?’
Margot takes the expensive muesli out of her trolley and reaches instead for a couple of jars of French jam.
‘And on that note, ciao, for now.’
She drops her phone into her bag and shoves the trolley onwards. Whenever she does tell her, it’s going to be ugly.
She stops by the shower gels.
‘Mmm, those jams look tasty, Margot.’ She whips round. Gwen is scrutinising her basket. ‘Bit pricey though, aren’t they?’
‘Do you usually shop here?’ Margot asks, straining to keep her voice level as she hurries towards the till. She chose this place because it was so far off the St Mark’s radar.
‘Of course not.’ Gwen smiles. ‘I saw you through the window when I was crossing the road. Several of the ladies have been asking about the book club. I was thinking you and I could sit down next Saturday afternoon when David’s out at a bowls match in Golders Green.’
‘Bag?’ asks the guy behind the counter, pouching gum inside his cheek.
‘No,’ Margot snaps to Gwen.
‘Suit yourself,’ the assistant shrugs. ‘It’s only five pence, love.’
‘No, sorry, I mean, yes, please.’ She breathes in and turns back to Gwen. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that Saturday, Gwen.’
‘Oh, but I’ve told the ladies and you had nothing pencilled in your diary in the office so I assumed––’
‘Would you mind actually not doing that?’
The assistant looks up at her, blowing out his cheeks.
‘Doing what?’ he asks.
Gwen is frowning.
‘The previous curate was very happy for me to help organise his schedule.’ She watches Margot unloading the items in her basket. ‘I thought we should get on with it. Easter’s almost here.’
‘Tariq, can you come and take this tag off for us?’ The assistant holds up the bottle Margot had tried to hide beneath the leeks and napkins.
Gwen’s mouth falls open.
‘Ok, so we’ll check the diary,’ scrambles Margot.
‘I’ll talk to you about it at St Mark’s.’ She sniffs. ‘You seem a bit preoccupied.’
‘Wait, Gwen, I’ll take a look now,’ she calls, but Gwen has already waddled through the automatic doors, head rigid, carrier bags banging into her side.
Gravity is suspended, the normal business of life and all its baggage. She pushes all thoughts of St Mark’s to the fringes of her mind, as they stroll around Sir John Soane’s Museum and its eclectic displays, everything propelling them towards tonight.
It’s late evening by the time they reach Highbury Corner. Margot glances around her, as they leave the tube. It’s dark enough to be safe, but her throat is still constricted, every sense alert.
Felix glances at her, and slips his arm around her like a protective band.
She’s aware she should savour each second of this walk across the Fields in the fragrant, still warm air. She’s aware of every inch of her skin, his fingers warm in hers.
They’re crossing over Aberdeen Avenue, a couple of blocks from home, when something smashes into her consciousness. Shouts, screams, an aggressive thumping bass. A scrum of teenagers is crowding the pavement and into the road further ahead of them, forcing cars to slalom left and right. She gasps, as she and Felix move closer. The Armstrong house. Her house. Every window flung open, electronic beats ripping gashes into the night.
‘Gogo?’
A pulse is drumming in her temple.
‘What’s up?’
She’s barely aware of him next to her.
‘What’s up? Why have we stopped?’
There are even more of them spilling out onto the pavement now.
‘What, not that lot?’ He snorts. ‘Just a load of kids messing around. Don’t worry, we’ll walk straight on past them.’ He threads his arm through hers. ‘Half of them are probably from Highbury High, God help me.’
Blood is rushing from her head.
Felix starts to guide her forwards but she resists.
‘We can’t. Not now.’
He’s very still next to her.
‘I don’t understand what’s going on.’
<
br /> ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Come on, let’s just keep walking. It’s not far now, right?’
‘No,’ she snaps.
He drops his hands and takes a step back.
‘So are you going to tell me, or what?’
She covers her face with her hands.
‘I live there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s where I’m lodging. It’s,’ she hesitates again, ‘it’s the Armstrongs’ house.’
‘Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Cyd Armstrong’s family.’ Her eyes are stinging.
He blows out hard.
‘Shit, wow. You kept that one quiet.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice starts to break.
He turns her around to face him, cups her chin in his hand.
‘But you’re still entitled to a private life.’
A straggle of teenagers starts to walk down the pavement towards them.
‘You need to go, Felix. Now. Quickly.’
She pushes his shoulder hard.
‘Hey, hey, slow down.’ He rubs his hand across his forehead. ‘I don’t get why you didn’t tell me any of this before. I mean, wouldn’t that have been easier? But, look, if you’d rather, come back to my place instead. I think we can make that work.’
‘Hurry up. Please, Felix.’
Something smashes on the pavement up ahead, followed by barks of laughter.
‘No, wait, Margot, surely we can sort this? And I can’t just dump you here.’ He reaches for her, but she sidesteps him and races up the pavement towards the house. She throws one quick glance back when she gets to the gate, but he’s gone.
None of them takes the slightest notice as she walks through the open front door. The hallway reeks of alcohol, cheap perfume, cigarettes and weed. Even in this darkness, she can make out a solid mass of bodies all around her. Virtually every girl seems to have masses of dark hair down her back. Every single one could be Cyd.
There must be sixty or seventy of them. Who knows how many upstairs? A couple of boys are lolling against the wall next to the coat rack. She recognises them from that day in the classroom. The one on the right looks as though he’s about to pass out.
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