Made in Heaven

by Adale Geras

  But, she told herself, if I do love Bob, then why do I think about nothing but Gray? Dream about him? Long for every message on email, on the phone, by text? Treasure every word he sends me? Is it about sex? Is it simply that Gray is a better lover? Makes me feel things Bob has never, ever made me feel? Is that all it is? She knew it wasn’t. She just couldn’t face the thought of years and years of not looking at Gray’s face, not saying the silly things, the mad and ridiculous things that people who loved one another said when they were together. She and Bob had always been good friends, but the excitement of their first years together hadn’t ever been like this. Their lovemaking in those days had been energetic, and loving and enthusiastic, but they’d never been … Joss struggled with herself to know how to describe it … They’d never been mad, crazy, unbridled, even in the early days. Bob didn’t do unbridled. He was too rational, perhaps, for unrestrained passion. That was the truth about him, and until she’d met Gray, Joss had assumed she was not particularly passionate either, but now she’d found that she was, and it was addictive. She wanted so much more now than she’d ever dared want before. She wanted everything: every sensation, and every taste and every adventure. She wanted to fuck in hotels with crisp linen sheets, on the grass in a wood, on a beach. For the very first time in her life, that word, one she’d never used, appeared in her innermost thoughts and Joss recognized the thrill that comes with breaking the rules. Most people, she reflected, get over this sort of thing when they’re sixteen. I’m too old. I’m scared. I’m elated. I can’t sleep. I want to sleep and dream and hold Gray in my arms in my dreams and taste his mouth on mine all day long, every day. If I close my eyes, I can always bring back the taste of him. The touch of him on my skin.

  She stood up, left the study and went to lie next to her husband, who had stopped snoring and was now simply hogging most of the duvet, as he always did. Joss pulled some over to cover her shoulders and closed her eyes. I’ll see Gray on Monday, she thought. Whatever else happens, I’ll see him.

  Monday

  ‘What do you think?’ Charlotte stood in the hall and peered into the mirror. ‘Is this formal enough?’

  ‘You look lovely as usual, dear. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Yes, Charlotte, have a good time,’ said Edie. ‘And give dear Joss our best. How wonderful if she wins!’

  Charlotte was pleased with her reflection. She was wearing a blue woollen two-piece and had a smart black coat to go over the top. Joss and Bob were coming down on the train and meeting everyone at the venue. Zannah, Emily and Isis were going with Adrian in his car and the Ashtons were driving up from Guildford and picking her up en route to the restaurant. She’d have been quite happy to get a taxi, but it had been a kind thought, and however much she didn’t want to discuss wedding arrangements with Maureen, Charlotte felt that the subject was bound to come up. Never mind, she thought. It’s not too long a ride. She’d have been happy to attend the poetry award itself, but tickets were limited to five for every poet and, of course, Bob, Zannah, Emily and Isis had a prior claim on them, and Adrian could hardly be asked to wait outside like a chauffeur, so he had to be there too. Actually, Charlotte would have bet good money that neither Adrian nor Bob was particularly exercised about whether or not they attended the ceremony, but she couldn’t say so of course. Never mind. The girls would give her a good account of the occasion, and besides, Charlotte wouldn’t have enjoyed the tension before the announcement. It wouldn’t have been good for her blood pressure.

  ‘They’re here!’ Edie had stationed herself at the hall window and was now waving frantically. Charlotte stepped out into the porch and found that Graham Ashton was already holding the back door of his car open for her.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Parrish,’ he said. What a lovely smile he has, Charlotte thought.

  ‘Charlotte, please.’ She smiled back and said hello, and settled herself on the back seat, not forgetting to wave at Edie and Val, who could be seen, as the car rolled away, framed in the window.

  ‘Well,’ said Maureen, ‘I’m getting quite excited. Imagine if we had a prize-winning poet in the family! Though of course, she might not win. Mustn’t forget that.’

  As she talked – and when Maureen talked, there was little that could stop her – Charlotte had a good view of Graham’s profile. His mouth was clamped shut and he looked as though he was driving to some sort of trial or ordeal instead of a convivial dinner in an Italian restaurant. Who had told her that he wrote poems too? Joss, she thought, or maybe Zannah. She couldn’t remember.

  ‘You write poems yourself, don’t you, Dr Ashton?’

  He glanced back at her, smiling again. ‘You must call me Graham, please, if you’re to be Charlotte. Yes, I do. I write a bit. Nothing like the success … er … Joss is having. That’s wonderful. I hope she wins, I really do.’

  He meant it. And he was blushing. Why was that? Charlotte would never have been able to tell anyone exactly why, but she had the distinct impression that Joss’s failure or success meant something to him. She wondered about it. As far as she knew, they’d not spoken or met since the day when Joss had run away from the engagement party. And he called her ‘Joss’. Maybe, she reflected, that was simply because Maureen never stopped mentioning her name. Still, when you also considered the tone of the poems in The Shipwreck Café perhaps there was more here than met the eye. Could her niece be somehow involved with Graham Ashton? How could that be? Surely Joss would have mentioned knowing him if she’d ever met him before the engagement party. A mystery. She made up her mind to reserve judgement and be alert this evening.

  *

  For a few moments, Emily couldn’t think what the poets, standing in a line on the stage, with the Madrigal organizers already in full flow at the lectern, reminded her of. Then it occurred to her that it was the TV coverage she’d seen of the declarations from town halls all over the country at the time of the general election. All four looked nervous. Ma was white. One of these days, Emily thought, I’ll have to have a serious talk to her about blusher. Still, if this was a beauty contest, she’d have won, hands down. The other shortlistees were all most unprepossessing. One was clearly fond of the bottle. His nose was like an enormous strawberry. Another was stick-thin and almost as pale as Ma, but not as well dressed. In fact, he looked as though someone had pulled him out of bed five minutes before bringing him here. The other woman might have been quite striking once, but had retained, almost unaltered, her hippy attire: cheesecloth and sandals in November, not a good look, particularly when worn with shoulder-length hair that was crying out for the attentions of a talented hairdresser. Ma, on the other hand, if you didn’t count the pallor, had made a real effort. She was wearing a dark red dress which was just the right length, the right fabric, the right style for this sort of occasion and at this time. Who’d helped her to choose it? Emily wondered. Could she have been looking at magazines? And her hair, fortunately, was so thick and glossy that it didn’t really matter that the style hadn’t changed for years and years.

  The chap at the lectern was still droning on and on. Mal, Ma’s editor, was staring at the floor, biting his lip. Emily wished Zannah, Isis and Adrian were standing near her so that at least they could have exchanged a look or a shrug. Isis was being very good, considering how boring the event was. Her hair was held back with butterfly slides and she kept smoothing the skirts of her party dress, knowing, Emily was sure, how pretty she was. Zannah, as usual, looked fabulous. Emily had long ago realized that it was pointless to envy her sister’s effortless beauty. Tonight she was wearing a long dress in pleated kingfisher-blue silk. I look, Emily thought, like a magpie in black and white. She’s like a heron.

  ‘And the Madrigal Prize,’ said the man at the lectern, interrupting Emily’s thoughts, ‘for 2005 has been awarded to Lydia Quentin for The Shipwreck Café which, in the unanimous opinion of the judges, is one of the most accomplished and elegant first collections we’ve read in a long time. Many congratulations!’

  It took E
mily a second to grasp that Lydia Quentin was her mother, and when she did, she leaped into the air, shrieking as though she were at a football match. Zannah and Isis, she could see, were also jumping up and down and Pa, who’d been standing at the foot of the stage, punched the air. Mal looked as though he’d won the prize himself, which, in a way, Emily supposed, he had. Ma was now no longer pale, but scarlet. She was being led to the lectern to say a few words, and Emily could see that she was wishing she didn’t have to do that. At last, a hush fell on the crowd.

  ‘Thank you,’ Joss said, her voice quiet in spite of the amplification. Flashbulbs were going off in her face and she was trying, Emily could see, not to blink or look disconcerted. A couple of the photographers had come up on to the stage and positioned themselves near the lectern as she began to talk. ‘I haven’t prepared a speech because I didn’t think I’d be winning today, but I would like to thank the judges. Thank you very much to them, and to my family. Thank you.’

  Well, Emily thought, she’s no Churchill, but on the other hand she’s not Gwyneth Paltrow, for which we must all give thanks. A skeletal bloke in a suit that looked as though it had recently been excavated from one of Pa’s Egyptian burial chambers tottered up to her and handed her a cheque. Joss stepped away from the mike holding the piece of paper in one hand and not knowing what to do with it. Mal came to her rescue and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. Emily smiled. Ma’s going to forget all about it, she thought, but I’ll remind her. Then the besuited skeleton took her elbow. Together they made their way down the stairs at the side of the stage. Pa, Zannah, Isis and Adrian gathered round her and Emily pushed through to join them. By the time she reached Joss, everyone else had kissed her, and hugged her and congratulated her.

  ‘Clever old Ma!’ Emily said, throwing her arms round her mother. ‘I knew you’d win.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, silly,’ Joss said, hugging her younger daughter, ‘but it’s lovely of you to say so. Em, will you text Charlotte for me? She’s driving to the restaurant with Maureen and — with the Ashtons. She’ll be anxious. Tell her the good news, d’you mind? You’re the fastest texter in the family.’

  ‘No problem.’ Emily fished in her handbag for her mobile, turned it on and sent a message to Charlotte. She could see her father coming towards her, purposefully. ‘Faster than the speed of light, me! Hiya, Pa!’

  ‘Hello, my darling. How are things with you? Hungry? I’m starving. I thought that organizer bloke was never going to shut up.’

  *

  Zannah took a spoonful of zabaglione and looked round the table. The talking hadn’t stopped since they’d sat down. Toasts had been drunk to Ma, to the Madrigal Prize, to poetry, and everyone was very merry indeed. Isis was next to Pa, and the two were having what seemed a high old time, giggling away together. It had taken Isis a while to get used to it all, and she’d been overawed at first by her surroundings, which she pronounced ‘easily the poshest restaurant I’ve ever been in’. She soon relaxed, however, and having established that she could indeed order what she still called ‘forgetti Bolognese’ (’Don’t be silly, Mummy. I know that’s not its proper name’), she settled down to eat and drink and exchange jokes with Pa.

  Zannah wished that things had been arranged so that she hadn’t had to sit with one Ashton on either side of her. The table was round and, in theory, everyone could have chatted to everybody else, but in practice, you were stuck with your immediate neighbours and that was it, really. So, because Charlotte and Emily were in conversation with Graham, Maureen was the person she’d spoken to for most of the evening. They’d discussed flowers, and her future mother-in-law had talked at length about how wonderful Genevieve’s food for the wedding would be. Now, thankfully, she’d turned her attention to Adrian, who was sitting between her and Joss and was being charming and attentive to both of them. He was at his best on occasions like this, and even more handsome than usual. He made it seem as though the conversation was exactly what he wanted to hear. For a moment, Zannah tried to imagine Cal in his place and smiled to herself. He’d have been totally out of his element. He regarded long meals in restaurants as a bit of a waste of time and wasn’t good at the kind of inconsequential chat … not exactly small-talk but not deep discussion either … that was happening round this table. Emily was laughing at something Isis had just said, which Bob was relaying to everyone. Zannah was quite enjoying not talking to anyone for a bit and used the time to study her mother. They’d not had much chance to say anything to one another before sitting down but Ma looked … How did she look? Not as happy as someone who had just won a prestigious prize ought to look. Feverish. Smiling, but nervously. Whatever was the matter with her?

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ma said, and pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Zannah, rising to her feet. She smiled at Adrian and bent to kiss the top of his head as she passed his chair. ‘Won’t be long.’

  She followed her mother into the ladies’. As they were standing at the washbasin staring together into the mirror, Zannah said lightly, ‘In Cagney and Lacey the two of them always used to go into the loo to have revealing conversations, didn’t they? D’you remember?’

  ‘Nothing to reveal,’ Joss answered, speaking cheerfully enough but, Zannah thought, with a shifty air. She said, ‘You’re looking shifty, Ma. Are you quite sure nothing’s the matter? You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if anything was wrong? If anything was bothering you?’

  ‘You’ve got enough on your plate with the wedding, darling.’

  ‘Is that a yes, then? There is something worrying you?’

  ‘No, no, really. Not a bit of it … Honestly, Zannah. It’s wonderful … this prize. A great surprise. I suppose I’m wondering a bit if my life will change now because of it. I don’t think it’ll make much difference, but you can’t help feeling a little nervous.’

  She was still washing her hands. At last, she straightened up and said, ‘I don’t know why they put such ghastly lighting in these loos. I look like a ghost. And so do you, which is more surprising. Isn’t Isis enjoying herself? Let’s go back, if you’re ready.’

  ‘Are you looking forward to the hotel? Paris?’

  ‘Oh yes … You know I love hotels. And Paris … yes, I’m longing for that. It’s years since I was there. Always lovely to be in France.’

  She sounded sincere but still, Zannah was uncertain of her mother’s state of mind. It was almost as though she was under strain. But what on earth could possibly be stringing her out and stressing her at such a convivial party? A mystery.

  Their table was on the far side of the restaurant and Zannah followed her mother towards it. Her gaze fell on Graham Ashton … She’d been looking in Em’s direction, wanting to catch her sister’s eye, wanting to convey something of her unease about their mother and she happened to intercept … What was it? What had she seen? Had she really seen it, even? She sat down, without a word to anyone, and tried to relive the last few seconds in slow motion. Graham had been gazing at her mother as they approached the table, Zannah was sure of it. She saw … she’d thought she saw a slightly raised eyebrow, perhaps a hint of a smile, she wasn’t quite sure. What she was a hundred per cent certain of was the force of his gaze and the emotion behind it. You didn’t send such a glance to a near-stranger. The love she thought she’d seen … but how could it be? It was impossible … shining out of his eyes for a few seconds was evidence of some kind of relationship, and Zannah was pretty sure that Ma hadn’t even seen Graham Ashton since May.

  I’ve had too much to drink, she thought. They hardly know one another. I’m imagining it. She addressed a remark to Graham, and he answered in his usual voice, completely normal again. He hadn’t seemed in the least normal a few moments ago. He had been … What was the right word? Transfigured. That was it. Different. She’d forgotten to look at her mother. Had Joss seen Graham staring at her like that? Had she caught the smile, the raised eyebrow? Had anyone else noti
ced anything? Now Ma was talking to Pa, but there were two spots of colour on her pale cheeks that hadn’t been there before she came out of the loo. How Zannah wished the evening was over! What she most wanted to do now was get home and discuss everything with Em.

  *

  Isis was nearly asleep in the back of Adrian’s car. It was the latest she’d ever been up in her whole life. The street lights, traffic lights and neon signs, in lots of different colours, were streaking past the car windows very fast, looking like fireworks. Mummy was sitting next to Adrian in the front and she and Em were in the back. Isis leaned on her aunt’s shoulder and said, ‘I’m not really sleepy, just resting.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Emily, and she tucked her soft woolly scarf round Isis’s neck. It smelled lovely, just like her. Adrian was talking about how well the evening had gone and the murmur of his voice and her mother’s voice soothed Isis and her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Adrian couldn’t help it, she decided. He was nice really, but sometimes he just had to be bossy, even when he didn’t need to be. I wasn’t being naughty, she reflected. I was just laughing a bit loudly, that’s all. He didn’t have to say what he did. The others thought it was a good joke. He’d leaned across the table and smiled straight at her.

  ‘Don’t you know the old saying, Isis?’

  She’d shaken her head instead of answering. She had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Little children should be seen and not heard.’

  He’d laughed then, and some of the others round the table laughed too. Isis blushed and couldn’t think what to say. Mum would be cross if she was rude, and Granny’s evening would be spoilt if she burst into tears. In the end, it was Grandpa who came to her rescue. He said, ‘Isis isn’t a little child. She’s wise beyond her years as befits a goddess. Aren’t you, my dear?’

  Everyone thought that was quite funny and then the waiter came and gave them some food and that stopped the others looking at her. She bent her head and didn’t say another word till the meal was over. She just listened to the grown-ups. It wasn’t very interesting and she was quite glad when they finished and got into the car to go home. Adrian was giving them a lift. Mum isn’t speaking to him now, Isis noticed briefly before her eyes closed altogether. Maybe she’s cross with him for being so horrid to me. Maybe she’ll tell him off. The lights travelling past the window grew blurred and fuzzy and she fell asleep, still dimly aware of the movement of the car.