Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  Lionel senses a change in the air. He opts for one final press of his suit.

  ‘Hetty . . . dearest,’ he begins with none of his previous fluency, ‘I know there’s a lot to consider. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, hasn’t it?’ He tries a little laugh. ‘Like teenagers, almost!’

  Hester looks taken aback. Oh dear . . .

  ‘I mean . . . eight days!’

  He leaves a pause in case she wants to reply. She doesn’t.

  ‘But sometimes you just know, don’t you?’

  Except she clearly doesn’t.

  ‘I mean, all our shared interests: cooking, food . . .’ He scrabbles for more proof of their compatibility. Fatefully, fatally, he summons his trump card: ‘And bridge, of course.’

  Hester’s mouth drops open before she can stop it. Bridge? The mortification of their one partnership at the table washes over her afresh. An image of Peggy and Cynthia comes to the fore, the pair of them waiting to pounce and exploit Lionel’s inexperience, if not total ineptitude, while she sits opposite, impotent, her bids misinterpreted, her signals unread. And what of her long-time partner, so finely attuned to the vagaries and nuances of her game? What of Harriet?

  CHAPTER 56

  ‘You can’t,’ says Marion.

  ‘Can’t what?’ says Harriet, taking a roll.

  Marion slides the butter across the table. ‘Ask Susie.’

  Harriet’s knife stops its journey through the roll. ‘Why not?’ A horrible thought. ‘Oh God, Marion, you don’t mean—’

  Marion purses her lips. ‘No. But good as. No, I shouldn’t say that. But you won’t get much change out of the poor love these days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tell me,’ says Harriet, appetite gone.

  ‘She’s in a home, poor darling.’ Marion sniffs. ‘Bloody Alzheimer’s, can you believe it? Early onset. Lois told me last time we spoke.’

  ‘Oh, Marion!’ She’s younger than me, Harriet thinks, a chill running through her. A chill not only at life’s vicissitudes, but because the trail has once more run cold.

  ‘I know. Shitty doesn’t begin to describe it. Such a livewire, bless her.’ Marion hands Harriet a bowl of tomatoes; she takes a couple without thinking.

  ‘That’s it, then.’ She is filled with despair. Poor Susie. Poor Stephen. ‘Hopeless.’ Everything’s hopeless, she thinks, fighting tears.

  ‘You could always ask Mark.’

  Harriet’s heart somersaults. ‘Mark McFee? Why on earth—’

  ‘He’s her cousin, remember? He might know something. Worth a shot, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Here you go.’ Marion swivels the laptop around to show Harriet some pictures. A screen full of different images of the same handsome silver-haired man in late middle age, sleek with the unmistakable patina of wealth, a suspicion of jowls developing.

  ‘Gorgeous as ever,’ says Marion. She registers Harriet’s bemusement. ‘What? I can’t admire beauty from afar, even if I don’t want to get into bed with it? He always was a bit of a looker.’

  ‘God, yes,’ agrees Harriet, remembering the hungry eyes that followed them wherever they went. She had been aware they weren’t for her. ‘Not that he didn’t know it.’

  Marion swings the laptop back to face her and starts typing.

  Harriet stares out of the window, thinking, Susan . . . lost. All that spirit, the sheer joy in life . . .

  Marion peers at the screen for a moment. ‘Okay, we’ve got contact details for work but not a home address or telephone number. Still, I suppose the office is worth a try? Let’s see.’ She picks up the telephone.

  It doesn’t take long. No, the receptionist can’t divulge Mr McFee’s personal details, but she will take a message. Yes, she will pass it on immediately. No, she has no idea when Mr McFee might be able to return the call.

  ‘Sure you won’t have another drop of wine?’ Marion refills her own glass as Harriet refuses. In truth, right now there is nothing she would like more than something to steady her nerves: the thought of speaking to Mark McFee after forty-odd years is ridiculously nerve-racking. They had not parted on the best of terms when she had finally managed to convince him that she had no intention, whatever blandishments he might employ, of resuming their relationship. That attractive face had then revealed the wolf behind the smile: in memory she almost fancies he had bared his teeth. It had shaken her at the time, that visceral reaction to being thwarted, the spoilt rich boy denied his heart’s desire for once.

  ‘If he decides not to ring back, I guess that’s it,’ she says. Despite all that’s at stake, she almost hopes he won’t. The past can stay buried. ‘Dead end.’

  ‘Well, we tried anyway,’ says Marion robustly. ‘You could write to him, I suppose, at the office. Anyway, one jolly good thing out of all this: we’ve met up again. Friends are always important but when you get to our age, they’re a godsend.’

  As are sisters, thinks Harriet, wondering how Hester is doing. Their parting this morning had been more than cool, Harriet ashamed of her intemperate revelation about Lionel; not the fact that she had told Hester—she had to be told—but the way in which she had done it, with, she cringes to remember, such self-righteousness. She had seen the hurt in Hester’s eyes and been instantly sorry to be the cause of it. She wonders now for the hundredth time if their relationship can survive its recent turbulence; more alarmingly, wonders if she really wants it to.

  ‘You all right?’ Marion leans forward to catch Harriet’s eye. ‘Lot on your plate, by the sound of it. Want to talk about it?’

  Harriet finds she does. Very much.

  CHAPTER 57

  ‘So. Hester.’

  ‘Lionel.’

  Unexpectedly, he leans towards her and seizes her by the upper arms, looking deep into her eyes. She is glad he is just a little taller than she is.

  ‘You are a remarkable woman, Hester. I mean that. I shall always treasure our week together.’

  ‘Oh, Lionel . . .’ Faced with the inevitable, a resolution she has engineered, she has to stop herself uttering some banality about staying friends. But he is there ahead of her.

  ‘We’d have made a good team, I think. Could have had a lot of fun. Still,’ he manages a sad smile, ‘it takes two to—’

  ‘Tango. Yes.’ She drops her gaze, unwilling, unable, to continue the scrutiny. She has rarely felt so wretched. Tilting her face up she plants a swift kiss just beside his mouth. ‘Goodbye, Lionel. You’ve been so . . . so kind. Understanding. I hope you find what you’re looking for. I really am very fond of you. And I’m—’

  ‘Sorry? No, there’s no need, my dear. I’m sure you believe you’re making the right decision. It’s just a shame it doesn’t accord with mine.’

  Lionel Parchment makes his dignified way around the front of his immaculate car, insinuates himself behind the wheel and with a final, almost regal, wave drives away down the lane and out of Hester’s life.

  ‘So. Harriet.’

  ‘Mark.’

  A moment on the doorstep, each trying to mask their surprise at the depredations of age. Harriet suspects she comes off worse from the inspection, wishes she had worn something a little more . . . well, what? Alluring? Provocative? And why? Why on earth should Mark McFee’s opinion matter to her in the least? All the same, she regrets her untrimmed hair, the dowdiness of her outfit. In contrast, he looks sleek, polished, rich, in his expensive shirt and Italian loafers.

  Mark steps back into the spacious hall with a sweeping gesture. ‘Please.’

  She cannot suppress a small inhalation of admiration as she takes in the exquisitely proportioned hall with its wide staircase up to a galleried landing. ‘What a beautiful house!’ The interior delivers on the promise of the gravelled drive between ancient oaks to the imposing entrance, where she had pulled up in her shabby car in a spit of stones.

  I won’t be intimidated, she vows, as Mark shows her through to an enormous lounge looking out over immaculate lawns to a large pond. Please don’t let there be
a duck house, she thinks, I shan’t be able to contain myself. She makes her way over to the long windows, as much to compose herself as to check, to find Mark close behind her, glasses of champagne in hand.

  As he passes her one, his mouth twitches. ‘I got the serfs to shoot the ducks before you arrived.’

  She gives a shout of appreciative laughter and as he joins in, she realises it’s going to be all right. For a moment she considers refusing the drink, then decides that might be misconstrued. I’ll just sip it.

  ‘You’ve got my measure, I see,’ she says with a smile, raising her glass in a silent toast.

  ‘Oh, Harriet, I never had your measure,’ he says sadly, touching his flute to hers.

  They stand together in momentary silence, then, to cover the awkwardness, lift their glasses in unison.

  The speed with which Mark had returned Marion’s call had disconcerted her. He had sounded courteous but businesslike and, having established Harriet’s whereabouts and proposed journey home, had immediately invited her to call in en route. ‘Unless you’d prefer to arrange another date? Or would like us to meet somewhere neutral?’

  She was surprised how accommodating he was being, thinking, No, let’s get this over with. Sooner the better.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ Marion had said.

  ‘Why? Do you think I need protecting?’

  ‘Do you?’ Marion had given her a searching look.

  Mark turns back from the window. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Harriet pauses, glass halfway to her lips. ‘You don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do.’

  Harriet cannot fathom the crooked smile. If she didn’t know Mark McFee of old, she would describe his expression as almost fearful. To cover her confusion, she takes a gulp of the ice-cold champagne. It’s delicious. She flicks him a look; he drops his eyes.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ she says, unaccountably uneasy. Are they alone in this enormous house? Wanting to put a little distance between them, she makes for the fireplace and chooses an armchair in preference to the sofa. ‘Let me come straight to the point. I want to talk to you about Susan. Your cousin Susan.’

  ‘Susie? I don’t think so.’ His initial friendliness seems to have evaporated, his face now shadowed and unreadable.

  Has she hit a nerve? Is Susan’s illness an unmentionable topic in the family? The thought that it might be makes her bridle.

  ‘I don’t mean to upset you, Mark, but I know all about her condition. It’s a terrible tragedy for the family, I’m sure, but I really need to—’

  ‘No, no.’ Mark is shaking his head vehemently. He drops down on a sofa opposite and knocks back the remainder of his drink.

  Harriet forges on, embarrassment warring with indignation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark, but I must insist—’

  ‘No, Har, listen—’

  No-one has ever called her Har except him. She had liked it at first then, as their relationship unravelled, had started to regard it as a clumsy way to try to appropriate her for himself. Forty years on it still grates.

  ‘It’s Harriet,’ she says tightly.

  ‘I’m sorry. Harriet. There’s no point talking to Susie. I promise you. Or about her. It’s me you want.’

  ‘Visitor?’ says Peggy Verndale, materialising from who knows where, both dogs in tow, inquisitive noses twitching. All three of them. She has an uncanny knack of silently appearing at the most inopportune moments. Hester drags her eyes away from Lionel’s car rounding the distant bend.

  ‘Oh! Hello, Peggy.’

  Peggy is still staring at the disappearing car. ‘That’s an old one!’

  Hester frowns fiercely.

  ‘I meant the car! Gosh, I had one of those donkey’s years ago when I first learnt to drive. A friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Hester. As Peggy’s eyes gleam with curiosity, she adds swiftly, to deflect any further probing, ‘Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘Never mind me,’ says Peggy heartily, still peering up the lane. ‘How about you? Glad to be back?’ She glances at her watch. ‘Good heavens! That time already? Teatime and a half.’ She looks up expectantly, so that Hester has no option but to invite her in.

  Peggy swiftly ties the dogs to the gatepost and scurries after Hester into the hall.

  In the kitchen, Hester turns from the sink where she is filling the kettle to find herself alone. ‘Peggy?’

  ‘Coming.’

  Hester makes for the larder in search of biscuits, then, puzzled by silence, retraces her steps. Peggy is standing in the hall inspecting the staircase, running a finger up and down one spindle.

  ‘Problem?’ says Hester, making Peggy jump. She snatches her finger away.

  ‘No! No, not at all. Just thought I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I . . .’ She looks around desperately, then flaps her scarf. ‘Caught this on the . . . thought there was a splinter.’

  ‘A splinter?’ Hester steps towards her for a closer look.

  ‘No, look, on second thoughts,’ gabbles Peggy, a glance sweeping around the sitting room, ‘forget the tea. I really ought to get back. The dogs, you know . . . and Ronald . . .’

  She’s out of the door and down the path before Hester can gather her thoughts.

  ‘I’ll ring you. Bridge on Thursday? Great.’ Peggy fumbles with the dogs’ leads and in seconds is almost sprinting up the lane.

  ‘What the hell?’ murmurs Hester. Then she shouts after Peggy, ‘We had a nice holiday. Thanks for asking.’

  Harriet is on her second glass of champagne without realising it. By the time Mark interrupts his narrative to refill her flute, she’s too astounded to decline.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she stammers, fury strangling her voice. ‘How could you? How bloody could you?’

  Mark lowers his head in mortification. ‘I know. I know. Unforgivable.’

  Harriet stares at him; she doesn’t need to ask the question.

  ‘I was angry with you. All right? No, more than angry. I was furious. You dumped me! No-one had ever done that before. And you made me beg . . .’

  ‘I didn’t! I told you I don’t know how many times that it was over.’

  ‘All right! But I begged all the same. I was . . . beside myself. Enraged. And I couldn’t let it go. I loved you, Harriet!’

  He looks across at her, imploring her understanding. Her face is granite. He stumbles on.

  ‘Then this girl—’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘Leona. Leona Porter. First year. Biology. She worshipped me.’

  ‘How very gratifying.’

  ‘Harriet, believe me, I know how this is making me sound. A shit.’

  A pause for her to comment. Is he expecting her to argue? She doesn’t.

  ‘So, the inevitable. She gets pregnant. I mean, we weren’t even going out any more when she told me.’

  ‘How long after we . . .?’

  He gulps a mouthful. ‘Week or so.’ Taking in Harriet’s flinty expression, he adds, ‘Yes, I know. It was on the rebound!’

  ‘A week!’

  He nods miserably. ‘Like I said. A shit. Anyway . . . just my luck, she’s Catholic. Won’t have an abortion. I thought, Okay, then have the baby if you want, but I’m not marrying you.’

  Harriet shakes her head.

  ‘I was twenty-two, Harriet! I didn’t love her. It would have been a disaster.’

  He reaches for a decanter, slops some whisky into a pair of tumblers and passes one to Harriet. She finds herself taking it unthinkingly, downing a mouthful.

  ‘She disappears. I mean—’ as Harriet’s eyebrows go up ‘—I mean, I didn’t see her around any more.’

  ‘That must have been a relief,’ says Harriet acidly.

  Mark flinches but soldiers on, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Months go by and I sort of forget about it. Her. Then I get this letter. From Liverpool. God knows why, she was from Surrey. Anyway she sounds desperate, wants to see me. So I go
up there. What else could I do?’

  Well, thinks Harriet, you could have ignored it. Is glad that he didn’t.

  ‘I presumed she needed money . . . She’s working in this café, no friends, hadn’t dared tell her family. Thought they’d disown her: can you imagine? She tells me she’s going to give the baby up. I thought, Thank God. Few more weeks and the whole wretched business will be over. Next thing I know, she’s gone into labour and we’re tearing off to the hospital. I don’t know what’s going on and then suddenly she grabs my hand and starts crying. She’s seen someone she knows—someone she was at school with, working at the hospital. Unbelievable. This girl doesn’t see her, but she’s scared witless all the same. Thinks she’ll bump into her, or this girl will see her name, and it’ll all come out. She’s pleading with me to help her, so when they admit her, I take over and I think, What if they don’t know her real name? What if—’

  ‘So you give them mine.’

  ‘Yes.’ Now he does look at her. ‘God, Harriet, it was madness, I know. I was panicking and I had this woman waiting to fill in the form and I suddenly thought of you. That night in your flat, that stupid game we all played . . . And I thought how things might’ve been different . . . if you hadn’t . . . if we had still been . . . well, none of this would have happened.’

  Harriet is almost apoplectic with indignation.

  Mark sees the pit he has dug and scrambles to extract himself. ‘I’m just telling you! Being honest. I know it’s ridiculous: of course it wasn’t your fault, but I wasn’t thinking straight! Christ! It was a moment of complete insanity. I told them I didn’t know who the father was, I was just a friend. And once I’d done it—given them your name—I couldn’t undo it. But I swear, Harriet, I’ve regretted it ever since. It was—’