Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  Nick looked aghast. ‘Josh? Pippa’s going out with that creep in the white jeans?’

  ‘Er – well, yes, but actually, Nick, you’re not supposed to know, so forget I said that,’ I said hastily.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because, because –’

  ‘Because he’s married, is that it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he is a bit,’ I said, falling into Pippa’s trap.

  ‘A bit? He’s either married or he’s not – Christ, what is Pippa up to?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick, don’t be so high and mighty!’ I stormed. ‘You’re so unbelievably smug, aren’t you? You’ve no idea how difficult some people’s lives are. Just because everything fell neatly into place for you, it doesn’t mean –’

  ‘Coo-ee!’ A little blond head popped round the door. Bruce looked from me to Nick, registering our flushed, embattled faces.

  ‘Oh dear, having a bit of a domestic, are we? Pardon moi, I’ll come back a bit later,’ he murmured, withdrawing.

  ‘No, no, it’s all right, Bruce, come in,’ I said quickly. He might at least defuse the situation. ‘Did you want me?’

  The head popped back. ‘Well, actually, no.’

  The rest of Bruce sidled in and he perched his pert little bum on the edge of the table. He pursed his lips, clasped his hands together and gazed adoringly at Nick.

  ‘I was after the man of the house,’ he purred.

  Nick pushed his chair back nervously. ‘Er, yes, Bruce, what can I do for you?’ he said as assertively as possible.

  ‘A petite favour.’ Bruce cocked his head prettily on one side. ‘S’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Er, y-yes, fire away,’ said Nick, much less assertively.

  Bruce produced a book from behind his back with a dramatic flourish. It was Miller’s Antiques Price Guide.

  ‘Well, Sam doesn’t need me for the moment,’ he pouted, ‘more’s the pity, and since I brought dear old Mr Midler down, he and I were wondering if we might just take a wee peek-a-boo at your porcelain again. Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all, be my guest!’ Nick looked relieved. ‘I’m delighted you’re so keen, help yourself. You know where the cabinet is. I’ll just get you the key.’ He stood up, took a jar down from the top of the dresser and fished it out. ‘Here.’

  Bruce clasped the key to his bosom. ‘Too kind, too kind,’ he murmured, ‘and if I may be so bold, I’d like to take this opportunity to say how absolutely thrilled to bits we all are to be here and to be on the receiving end of your generous hospitality, which, I gather, knows no bounds. For, correct me if I’m wrong, but Brucey Boy heard on the grapevine that you’re planning a little din-dins party for this evening! Quel fun!’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, but –’ I began.

  ‘Oh yes, do come, Bruce,’ cut in Nick wearily, sitting down again.

  Bruce held up his hands in mock horror. ‘Oh no, no, I couldn’t possibly, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘No, do, you’re absolutely right, our hospitality knows no bounds. In fact, it hasn’t the faintest idea when to stop, it’s like a bloody runaway train, and of course the more the merrier, eh, Polly? And the merrier we get the more fun we have, isn’t that right?’ He raised his eyebrows quizzically at me. I glared back, fuming silently.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ murmured Bruce, slipping down off the table. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll just pop upstairs to check out the collectables – see you anon!’ He gave a dinky little wave and wiggled out, key in hand.

  ‘You didn’t have to invite him,’ I snapped when he was out of earshot. ‘You’re just desperate for the martyr’s crown now, aren’t you?’

  Nick sighed wearily. ‘Oh, what’s one more fun guy at my dinner table, Polly, and actually, contrary to what you might think, I rather like Bruce – at least he’s genuine. He’s a genuine poof and a genuine antiques enthusiast – fine, you know where you are. It’s all these bloody phoneys swanning around pretending to be something they’re not that irritates me.’ He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I trust you’ll be rustling up something predictably delicious for tonight’s little gathering?’ He grabbed his flat cap from the dresser. ‘Can’t wait,’ he muttered grimly, before striding out of the back door, slamming it behind him.

  I stared after him for a second, then, in a moment of blind fury, leaped to my feet, ran to the saucepan cupboard, pulled out the biggest one I could find and hurled it after him with a vengeance.

  ‘AAAAARRRRGH!’

  It went straight through the window next to the back door, smashing it to smithereens. My hand flew to my mouth. Oh God. I stared at the hole, aghast.

  Nick was back in a moment, his face white with anger. ‘Clear up this mess, Polly, and get someone in to fix the window,’ he said quietly, ‘and in future, if you’ve got something to say, try to express it with words rather than resorting to primeval urges and hurling things through windows. It’s rather an expensive way of communicating.’

  ‘I – I didn’t mean it to go through the –’

  ‘JUST FIX IT!’ he thundered, and slammed out again, making the door frame shudder.

  I shut my eyes tight, clenched everything in my entire body – teeth, fists, toes, buttocks – and when I was sure he was out of earshot, let rip.

  ‘SHIT SHIT BUGGER SHIT!’ I shrieked, expressing myself – I thought – extremely clearly.

  Then, all sworn out, I slumped in a heap at the kitchen table, snarling into the stripped pine and thinking murderous thoughts. After a while I roused myself, poured a glass of wine and slammed around the kitchen, sweeping up the glass and muttering darkly. Why did he always have to be so right, I seethed, banging the dustpan on the floor. Why? Why couldn’t he be wrong, just for a change, and let me be right? And what the hell was I going to cook tonight, eh? Eh, Delia? I pulled her roughly from the shelf and blew the dust off her spine. I flipped miserably through the pages, staring vacantly at photographs of beef stroganoff and chicken à la king, all of which were apparently foolproof, but not, of course, Polly-proof.

  I looked up and stared miserably at the broken window. He’d spoiled everything, the bastard. How was I supposed to enjoy myself tonight with this little débâcle hanging over my head? How dare he speak to me like that, how dare he, and, more to the point, what the hell was I going to cook? I hurled Delia on to the floor, again expressing myself, I thought, very succinctly. She struck me as being just a bit too bleeding perfect, actually, hard to hack at the best of times but insupportable when I was feeling so incredibly imperfect myself.

  I slumped down at the kitchen table again and bit the skin around my nails, hoping for a brainwave. Surprisingly, one crashed over my head remarkably quickly. Yes, of course! I ran to the phone and punched out a number.

  ‘Sarah? Hi, it’s me. Listen, are you and Tim doing anything tonight …? You’re not? Well, why don’t you come for supper? Nick and I are having some of the film people over, should be quite a laugh … Great! Listen, the only thing is, I was just wondering if you could sort of give me a hand, only … Oh, no, no, not the whole thing, I wouldn’t hear of it, but … Really? You don’t mind? Well, that would be terrific! Yes, if you could do the main course I’ll do a pudding and a starter … Brilliant! Thanks so much, you’ve saved my life as usual, we’ll be eight, by the way … See you then! Bye!’

  I grinned and replaced the receiver. My star of a sister-in-law. She knew my limitations and, after all, she had to eat the food, so she might as well make sure it was edible. All I had to do now was nip into Helston for some smoked salmon, some wildly extravagant out-of-season strawberries, a few tubs of Häagen Dazs ice cream, and Bob was undoubtedly my uncle.

  With a skip of pleasure and forgetting entirely about the little business of getting the window fixed, I pranced out of the back door, car keys in hand, feeling positively buoyant again.

  Bugger Nick, I decided as I leaped a flowerbed, I was damned if he was going to spoil my few days of fun �
�� oh Christ, there he was, coming out of the potting shed. I immediately dropped the skippy routine and adopted the obligatory sober walk – head hung low, face contrite, et cetera, et cetera. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, radiating disapproval. What the hell was he doing sneaking up on me all the time? He was like something out of the Gestapo.

  I trudged meekly round the car, shoulders hunched, and slumped disconsolately into the driving seat. I had a quick peek, caught his eye and looked forlornly away. I drove sedately past him down the drive, but as I turned into the lane and was sure he couldn’t see me I snapped u2 into the cassette player, gave a whoop of pleasure, and shot off to Helston, singing at the top of my voice.

  Chapter Eight

  The next time I saw Nick I was charging downstairs at seven thirty to organize supper. He grabbed my arm as I sped past.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘What?’ I followed his incredulous gaze downwards.

  ‘That pink thing round your bottom.’

  ‘It’s a skirt, of course.’

  ‘But, Polly, I can see your knickers!’

  ‘No you can’t, only if I bend over. I’ve practised in the mirror.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a relief. Let’s just hope you don’t drop your napkin. Are you seriously wearing it tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course, why not?’

  Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, no reason, don’t mind me, I’m obviously way out of touch. I had no idea the jail-bait look was in this season.’ He shook his head in disbelief and carried on upstairs.

  I treated this remark with the contempt it deserved and ran on down to the kitchen. Sarah was just staggering through the back door with an enormous pheasant casserole which she dumped gratefully on the kitchen table. She was followed by a startlingly attractive girl bearing a large vegetable dish, which she too deposited.

  ‘Oh, Polly,’ gasped Sarah, collapsing in a chair, ‘you’ll never guess what, I walked past your film crew in the bottom field and ran into Amanda here. She’s the art director and she was at school with me! We were in the same dorm! I’ve asked her for supper, hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all!’ After all, I could hardly object when she’d cooked the thing, could I? ‘Where’s Tim?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be a bit late, I’m afraid, digging potatoes.’

  I smiled at Amanda, who was blinking shyly. ‘Typical farmer, always late. Here, grab a chair, I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled and sat down, flicking back her dark silky hair which was swept off her face in a velvet hairband. She had small, perfect features, a pink and white complexion and pale-blue eyes. She was wearing a navy-blue skirt, a sleeveless puffa jacket and pearl earrings. Very pretty, and very Sloaney, I decided.

  ‘So you were at Benenden with Sarah?’

  ‘Yeah, for me sins,’ she said in an exaggerated Cockney accent. I’m a sucker for a silly voice myself.

  ‘Bi’ of a dump then, was it?’ I bandied back.

  ‘Yeah, couldn’t wait to get out of there.’ She nodded round the kitchen. ‘Nice place you got ’ere, Polly.’

  ‘Oh, ta ever so, we like it.’

  ‘Wodja call this then – a manor?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bloody great mansion really, innit?’

  ‘Bet it cost a bob or two. Me dad’s got a place a bit like this down Purley way.’

  ‘Purley, eh? Nice part of the world that, me nan came from Purley – ’ere,’ I said, passing her a glass of wine, ‘get that down yer Gregory Peck.’

  I poured one for Sarah too, but when I passed it to her I noticed she’d gone very pale behind her freckles. She shook her head at me slowly. Suddenly I had a most unpleasant feeling in my tubes. Oh God.

  Amanda got up and clutched her bag. ‘Can I use yer lav, Polly?’

  ‘Um, yes – yeah,’ I mumbled, ‘first on the left.’

  ‘Ta.’ She withdrew.

  Sarah rounded on me. ‘You berk!’ she hissed. ‘That’s how she speaks!’

  ‘Well, I realize that now,’ I hissed back, ‘but how was I to know? You said she was at Benenden with you, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Only for the last year. Her father made a fortune in wet fish and sent her there to iron out her vowels!’

  ‘Didn’t work, did it?’ I groaned. ‘Oh no, I’ll have to talk like that all night now.’

  Sarah was appalled. ‘Polly, you can’t!’

  ‘I’ll have to, otherwise she’ll think I’m taking the piss – oh, er, ’ello again, found the karsy orright, did yer?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  She slipped her bag off her shoulder and started helping me arrange the smoked salmon on to plates. I noticed she’d applied some more lipstick to her rosebud mouth. She certainly was very beautiful.

  ‘Sam coming, is ’e?’ she asked nonchalantly.

  ‘Yeah, he should be ’ere soon. Know him well, do yer?’

  Sarah moaned softly and tiptoed from the room.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve worked wiv him a bit over the years.’

  ‘Nice bloke, is ’e?’

  She blushed and looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘He’s all right,’ she said shortly.

  She avoided my eyes and busied herself arranging slices of lemon on the plates. I wondered if she fancied him. We worked in silence for a minute and I tried desperately to think if I knew anything about Purley or wet fish that I could use as an opening gambit, but luckily I was saved from making a complete idiot of myself by a sharp rap on the back door. We both swung round and in strode Sam, his face almost completely obscured by an enormous bunch of flowers, closely followed by Pippa, Josh and Bruce. Sam popped his head over the top of the flowers and grinned.

  ‘And I didn’t nick them from your garden either, although I must say I was sorely tempted when I saw the display out there. Touch of coals to Newcastle, I’m afraid!’ He thrust them into my hands.

  I laughed, feeling unaccountably flustered. ‘Thanks! They’re beautiful, it’s a long time since anyone brought me flowers.’ I hurried to a cupboard and busied myself finding a vase.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ he said, leaning lazily against the dresser and watching me closely as I arranged them too hurriedly, ‘I don’t believe that for one moment. Surely the farmer sits down to breakfast with a rose between his teeth every morning?’ His hazel eyes twinkled.

  ‘Hardly!’ I laughed. Suddenly I remembered Amanda. ‘Not on your bleedin’ nellie, actually – hah hah!’ I cackled like a fishwife.

  My guests eyed me curiously. There was a slight pause.

  ‘Where d’you want us then?’ asked Pippa eventually. ‘Shall we get out of your way?’

  I nodded furiously, grinning inanely. Surely if I stuck to nodding and grinning Sam wouldn’t think I was unspeakably ‘cor blimey’, and Amanda wouldn’t think I was taking the mickey? I wasn’t really enjoying this; I felt a bit clammy under the arms.

  ‘Yes?’ Pippa raised her eyebrows enquiringly, head on one side. ‘Shall we get out of your way? Go-in-the-drawing-room?’ She enunciated it slowly as if I was brain dead.

  I nodded enthusiastically and ran to the door, gesturing like a demented traffic policeman for them to pass through. They trooped past me, looking slightly mystified, and Pippa paused to hiss in my ear, ‘We’re going to have to get you up to London pretty damn quickly, Polly. You’ve obviously been stuck in the country far too long – you’re behaving like the village idiot!’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ I muttered out of the corner of my mouth. ‘There’s method in my madness.’

  Whilst everyone else was drinking in the drawing room I slipped away and hurriedly wrote out some place cards, putting Amanda as far away from me as possible next to Nick at the far end, and Sam as close as possible, on my right. By the time I’d slipped back into the drawing room the noise level had reached a pitch that suggested that thus far, at least, the party could be deemed to be a success. Nick was leaning up against the fireplace laughing and joking with
Sarah and Amanda; Josh and Pippa were screaming with laughter at something outrageous Bruce had said, and Sam was beside him, egging him on. Suddenly I felt unaccountably happy. I stood in the doorway watching for a moment. This was more like it. This was what you might call a social life. After a moment I clapped my hands and yelled at everyone to come and sit down.

  We all trooped through and as everyone jostled into their places I noticed Amanda glance over and catch Sam’s eye. He smiled but she looked away quickly. She’s definitely got the hots for him, I thought as I shook out my napkin, either that or they’ve had a ding-dong in the past.

  ‘So, Polly,’ said Sam as he settled down next to me with a grin, ‘tell me, what does a married lady get up to on a vast estate like this? A tinkle on the pianoforte, perhaps? A visit to the neighbours with your calling card? A slow amble round the gardens with your parasol before collapsing on the chaise longue with the vapours? Am I close?’

  I laughed, but was aware he was mocking me slightly. ‘Heavens, no, I wish you were! No, I’d love to play at lady of the manor but unfortunately I’m much too busy.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Oh yes, this place keeps me –’ I broke off, suddenly recalling Pippa grilling me in a similar vein a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t going to get caught out twice. I licked my lips. ‘This place keeps me pretty occupied, but I also have a – a hobby, which is terrifically time-consuming.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s terribly boring.’ I gulped and gripped my wine glass.

  ‘Try me.’

  I caught my breath and looked wildly around the room for inspiration. Wallpaper-hanging? Carpet-laying? Table-laying? Luckily my eye caught the serried ranks of silver photograph frames arranged on the cabinet in the corner.

  ‘Well, it’s photography, actually,’ I blurted. ‘I’m absolutely mad about it. Snap, snap, snap, I’m at it all day!’ After all, anyone can take a picture, can’t they?