by Pippa Wright
I lifted my eyes to see him looking at me in barely disguised amusement.
‘I thought you said you were safe in taxis,’ I muttered, trying not to laugh.
‘That’s before you trapped me between your thighs, Basher Bailey,’ said Matt. ‘A man has to defend himself. Though there are worse places to be, I’ll admit.’
He flexed his fingers, brushing the edge of my knickers, and I started to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, our legs intertwined on the seat, his hand squashed, pine needles scattered all over the floor of the taxi.
‘Bet you’re warming up, though,’ I said, squeezing my legs together even harder.
‘Oh definitely,’ he answered. He lifted his free hand to cup the back of my head and pulled me towards him, his eyes deep and dark.
His lips pressed onto mine for a moment and then he pulled back to look at me. I didn’t expect confident Matt Martell to be so hesitant, so cautious. I thought he’d be the kind of man to crush me passionately, but he just held his face very close to mine and let a slow smile spread over his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. I could hear my own heart beating and wondered if he could hear it too.
The moment stretched out until I could stand it no longer. I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him so hard our teeth clashed.
11
I know I’m late when I ring on the doorbell at Mum and Dad’s; Mrs Curtis had spotted me leaving and insisted that I start the evening with a sherry at hers. ‘Just a little sharpener, dear.’ It felt unneighbourly to say no, even though I had to suppress a shudder as I forced down a sticky Harvey’s Bristol Cream. I had thought sherry was a drink for lightweight old ladies, so I’d been surprised to discover, as Mrs Curtis lectured me about the benefits of cold-water swimming on the cardiovascular system, that one tiny glass had left me feeling decidedly tipsy.
Still, I’m only behind by half an hour or so. In London that’s considered on time, but I should have known Prue would think differently. The front door has barely opened before she launches into her attack, voice lowered to a hiss so that it doesn’t carry back into the house.
‘I knew you would find a way to make this all about you!’
‘Sorry—’ I say, not sure whether to explain myself.
‘You always have to make an entrance, don’t you? The great Kate can’t just turn up when I ask her to. She has to leave us all sitting around waiting when we don’t even have any wine.’
‘Jeez, give me a break,’ I say, handing over the carrier bag from the wine shop. ‘I thought Mum and Dad would have some already. I didn’t realize I was depriving you all.’
‘They don’t have the right wine,’ Prue snaps. ‘We were waiting for the right wine. To go with the canapés, actually.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry, it was just—’
‘Oh, spare me your excuses,’ sneers Prue. ‘God knows we’ve heard enough of them over the years. “I can’t help out with Granny Gilbert because I’m in Singapore for the Grand Prix”; “I can’t come to Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary because I’m in Ibiza”; “I can’t come to your birthday party because I’m hanging out with Beyoncé and Jay-Z in Los Angeles”.’
‘Prue! That’s not fair! That was work; I couldn’t help being away. You know I’d rather not miss family things if I can help it.’
And frankly ‘hanging out with Beyoncé and Jay-Z in LA’ sounds far more exciting than the reality, which was discussing how many pounds of Beyoncé’s gigantic stage set can be permitted per square yard of hastily built stage, and rowing with the managers of Argentina’s biggest tween boy band over child-labour laws in the state of California.
‘Well, you haven’t been working lately, have you? And it’s not as if you came down to Lyme until you had no choice. You just don’t have to make it so obvious that we’re your last resort.’
I can see I could be stuck on the doorstep for a very long time if I try to defend myself. Prue’s clearly taken my accidental lateness as a diss of enormous proportions, a statement about my lack of interest in her life, my failings as a sister and as a member of the Bailey family. I seem to be failing at quite a lot these days.
‘Prue, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I know this evening’s important to you. Are you going to let me in?’
‘Okay,’ she says, opening the door at last. ‘Come in then. Everyone’s waiting.’
My parents greet my arrival with an excitement that suggests a certain amount of desperation, springing up from their battered old sofa to hug me as if we haven’t seen each other for weeks. Dad hisses into my hair that I had better have brought the wine. Even Mum ventures to ask if I came via the off-licence, and she thinks she’s veering close to alcoholism if she has a second helping of sherry trifle at Christmas. Ben stands up from the armchair behind the fire and extends his hand towards me. I allow him to crush my fingers in greeting while I size him up.
He is not at all what I had expected from someone who Prue first met at a Young Entrepreneurs’ South West conference. I suppose I had, snobbishly, imagined a mobile phone salesman type – all shiny suits and over-gelled hair. Instead Ben looks more like a refugee from a Young Farmers’ meeting. He sports violently red trousers – to coordinate with his florid cheeks perhaps? Although that is unfair since sitting next to the fire could do that to anyone’s face. His checked flannel shirt is open at the neck – intentionally, I assume – and by his stomach – unintentionally, surely? – exposing a small triangle of pale belly beneath his corduroy jacket. His thick hair grows in whorled curls flat on his head, like the hide of a young blond bullock, and his eyelashes are long and fair, which makes the bovine resemblance all the stronger. He’s so thoroughly rustic that when he drags me into a bear hug I expect him to smell of hay. But instead he smells, strongly, of aftershave.
‘Kate, hullo, very good to meet you,’ he says, heartily slapping my back. ‘I’ve heard an awful lot about you from Prue.’
I cannot imagine that she’s said anything good, so I can do no more than laugh nervously.
‘Wine. At last,’ Prue announces tersely, depositing an opened bottle on the coffee table where five glasses wait expectantly. ‘The canapés will be ready in five minutes, so if you need the loo then go now so you’re ready for them.’
Dad grabs at the wine and pours out large glasses; I take mine gratefully. Ben lets out a loud ‘Aaaaaah’ after his first gulp and Dad looks at him murderously. Since Dad is not exactly a stickler for manners, and used to be famous for his ability to crush a beer can on his forehead, I wonder what Ben has done to ignite his wrath.
‘Ben here has just been telling us all about his business plans for Baileys’,’ says Mum, her eyes swivelling nervously from Dad’s face to Ben’s. ‘They’re very, er, interesting. Aren’t they, David?’
Dad mutters into his wine. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘They are very . . . interesting.’ He takes a swig from his glass and slams it down on the table, staring challengingly at Ben.
‘Lovely,’ I say, trying to understand all that remains unspoken here. I’m afraid to ask a question in case the entire room combusts. Only Ben seems immune to the atmosphere, smiling affably back at Dad in a way that suggests there is not an awful lot going on in that curly-haired head of his.
Prue bustles in from the kitchen, proffering a plate of wildly ambitious canapés.
‘Mango, scallop and Thai basil skewer?’ she offers, thrusting the plate at Ben. ‘Mini timbale of oriental vegetables?’
Ben exclaims, ‘Yum, yum,’ like a little boy, as he accepts a mini timbale. He rubs his stomach appreciatively in anticipation and his face falls as he realizes his shirt is open. While he tries to button it up again with only one hand, the tiny timbale leaps out of his thick fingers, and lands, split in two, on the carpet. If only Minnie had been here he’d have got away with it. Her hoovering abilities beat any cleaner.
‘Ben!’ shrieks Prue, whisking the tray away from Mum, whose hand hovers in mid
-air, halfway through reaching for a skewer.
‘Gosh, sorry, Prue.’ Ben’s face goes even redder as he stands, frozen in shame.
‘Please don’t worry,’ insists Mum, scooping up the canapé and flinging it into the fire. ‘That rug’s had everything you can imagine dropped on it over the years, a mini – what was it Prue, love? – a mini thingummy won’t do it any harm.’
‘It was a mini timbale, Mother,’ says Prue. ‘And I only made three each, so Ben you can only have two now.’
Dad raises his eyebrows at me, unseen by Prue. We are all a little terrified of my sister, and never more so than when she’s playing the ungracious hostess.
‘Mmm, scallop skewers, yum,’ I say, reaching for one in the hope of mollifying Prue.
‘Don’t patronize me!’ she hisses under her breath.
‘I’m not – they look lovely,’ I say, and it’s true.
‘Well, take one then,’ she snaps. And I do. She puts the tray down on the wobbly wooden table by the side of Ben’s armchair and stalks back to the kitchen.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Prue never does anything by halves, does she? Did she dive for these scallops herself out in the bay, do you reckon?’
‘Ah, no,’ says Ben, with a look of polite condescension. ‘Prue isn’t a diver. She bought the scallops, actually. From the fishmonger down by the Cobb. But I’m sure they are just as fresh as if she had dived for them.’
‘Right,’ I say, not quite sure how to answer.
Ben grimaces at Mum, ‘Awfully sorry about the carpet.’
‘Really,’ Mum insists, lowering her voice, ‘it’s not about the carpet; Prue’s just a little stressed because she’s spent all afternoon making sushi and I don’t think it’s gone awfully well.’
‘She made her own sushi?’ I ask. I’m astounded. Even at my most derangedly domestic goddessy, I have never attempted sushi.
Dad harrumphs; he’s still looking at Ben with misgivings. ‘I never knew rice could stick to a person like that,’ he mutters.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. I have to bite my lip to stop myself smirking. I notice Mum can’t meet my eye either.
I don’t want you to get the impression that Prue is some kind of monster. She isn’t at all, although I realize I’ve painted her as one so far. Maybe it makes me feel better to make her sound worse than she is. I mean, all she’s trying to do is make a meal for her family and her boyfriend. It’s not a crime. She just seems to get no enjoyment out of it, so it’s hard for anyone else to enjoy it either. Sometimes it feels like we’re separated by more than just eight years – sometimes it feels like we’re doomed to be for ever distinct and separate; parallel – never meeting, like the layers of rock out on the cliffs.
‘So, Ben,’ I venture when the atmosphere has thickened to the point where I could scoop it up with a spoon and use it to top a mini timbale, ‘you’ve been talking to Mum and Dad about your business ideas?’
Dad’s face darkens.
Ben, on the other hand, beams delightedly, as if he’s been waiting for just this question. His ruddy cheeks crimson further. ‘Well, Kate, we were just discussing that when you came in. I’ve been looking for some time now for expansion, development and growth opportunities in the South West region.’
It sounds like he’s reading from a press release.
‘Oh right,’ I say. I don’t really understand when people talk about ‘business’ like that. It’s like when someone says they work in ‘systems’ or ‘analysis’. To be honest, when I hear any of these expressions, to me it’s like someone telling me they’re a fundamentalist Christian. I’ll do my best to listen to what they say, but I’ve already pretty much switched off.
‘Yuh,’ says Ben, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair so that he seems to be sitting in state, like a Pope. I suppose commerce is the new religion, but he doesn’t look especially Papal with his stomach still hanging out.
‘Just been talking to your parents about developing some new revenue streams for Baileys’,’ he continues. ‘Shaking things up a bit, you know?’ He taps his fingers on the chair, contentedly beating a little rhythm.
It all sounds fairly boring to me; I can’t understand why his uninspiring corporate speak has Mum and Dad seething on the sofa next to me. I can virtually feel their anger.
‘Yah,’ Ben says. ‘What I’m aiming to do is turn the business around from a well-established but essentially moribund concern into something pretty exciting. Everyone thinks all the action is happening in London, but they couldn’t be more wrong.’
Dad rolls his eyes and Mum smiles tightly by his side. I nod encouragingly at Ben, who ploughs on regardless of the fact that two thirds of his audience appear to hate his guts. And all three of us can see his gut.
‘Yuh, consider Copella apple juice – old family business, stuck in the doldrums until it was given a proper kick up the arse by someone who knew what they were doing. Now look at them – millionaires! Yeo Valley, too. The South West’s full of chances for someone who’s got vision.’
‘Like you,’ says Dad. The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable. But not to Ben.
‘Absolutely, Mr Bailey – or can I call you Dad?’
Dad is too surprised to say anything.
‘That’s why I’m coming to work with you, Dad. And Mum. To help you out. To inject a bit of fire into the business.’
‘I’m not sure I feel quite comfortable with that, Ben,’ says Mum. I don’t know if she means she objects to him calling her Mum or to him injecting fire into their sleepy family business. I think either is a possibility.
‘No, really,’ Ben barrels on, beaming heartily. ‘I insist. We’re family. Practically. Right, Dad?’
By now Dad’s beard is bristling, as if he’s an animal readying itself for a fight. I can see he’s about to blow, so I launch into another question to stop him having the chance to speak.
‘So, Ben, you’ve already started working for Baileys’?’ I ask. I’d thought it was more something that was under discussion than an actual reality.
‘Yup,’ says Ben slapping his hands down on his thighs. ‘All official. We were just hammering out the details when you arrived.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ Dad starts. But before he can really get going, Prue appears at the door that divides the kitchen from the living room.
‘Everyone having fun?’ she says, her smile so brittle it looks like it might fall off and shatter on the floor. ‘Dinner is served.’
Here is a piece of advice for you. Don’t try sushi at home. And especially don’t try it on your parents, however gamely adventurous they may be. Cold fish, glutinous rice and wads of slithery seaweed do not make for a comforting, relaxed family meal. Especially when Dad keeps asking, ‘Is it supposed to be like this?’ And if everyone’s a little too afraid of the food to dig in with gusto, it stands to reason that they’ll dig into something else instead. Namely the alcohol. I’d imagined the four bottles I’d brought were more of a gesture – we’d drink one, and the other three would probably be set aside for another time. But we are already halfway down the fourth bottle before Prue accepts defeat and clears the half-eaten leftovers from the kitchen table. She tops up my glass before she leaves – is it my imagination or have she and Ben made sure I drink more than anyone else tonight? Oh well, I’m not driving, so I don’t suppose it really matters.
At least we’ve all been too busy comparing chopstick techniques and attempting to convey Prue’s California rolls from mouth to plate without incident (again, Minnie’s help here would have been most welcome) to engage in much more discussion about Ben coming to work with Mum and Dad.
Prue reappears from the kitchen with a tray of ramekins filled with a burned green sludge that she declares to be green tea crème brûlée. I hear Dad groan as he reaches for the wine again.
‘Shh, David,’ Mum whispers. ‘I’ll make you a sandwich later.’
‘Before I pass round dessert,’ says Prue, reaching out for Ben’s hand. ‘We have some
news we’d like to share with you.’ She nods at Ben, as if giving him a cue.
He stands up alongside Prue and clasps her close to his side; she gazes up at him with a kind of surrender that I’ve never seen on her face before. As if, for once, she is prepared to let him speak for both of them. But only, I think meanly, because she has probably already written the script.
‘Mum, Dad, Kate,’ he says, nodding to each of us in turn. ‘I’m very, very happy to let you know that Prue and I are getting married.’
‘No!’ exclaims Dad in a strangled voice. He manages to recover himself quickly. ‘No! What a wonderful surprise!’
‘Oh Prue, love,’ says Mum, her eyes filling with tears. ‘My baby, getting married. I can’t believe it.’
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ asks Dad, his eyes narrowing.
‘Dad!’ exclaims Prue, scandalized. I’m not even sure if she has ever even shared a bed with Ben, although surely she must have done. They’ve been on holiday together, I know that much. But she’s the most puritanical twenty-something I’ve ever encountered, and that includes the evangelical Christian ones at the Jesus Rocks! event in Colorado in 2002.
‘Just joking!’ Dad insists, though the relief on his face suggests this is not strictly true.
‘Prue, that’s amazing news, congratulations,’ I say. I’m horrified to feel a tear sliding down my face as I hug her; it must be all the wine I’ve drunk. I manage to wipe my cheek surreptitiously on Ben’s jacket as I hug him too. This is not the time for me to lose it. It’s Prue’s moment.
The disaster of Prue’s dinner is forgotten in the triumph of her news. ‘We haven’t got a ring yet,’ she says, her face shining with excitement. ‘Ben’s granny wants me to have hers but it’s too big for my finger, so we’re having it resized. It’s a family heirloom.’
Ben looks down at his future wife admiringly. ‘Worth a pretty penny, I can tell you. Prue’s going to have to take very good care of it.’
‘I will,’ she says with mock annoyance. ‘And because Ben’s giving me something important and valuable connected to his family, it’s very important to me that he joins Baileys’ and works in the business with all of us.’