Feeling his mood darken and worried that it would infect Ellen, he asked her about her plans for the rest of the weekend, to which she replied wryly that, unless he had had any better offers, she was expecting to accompany him to the gala evening at the Metropole. Flustered, he seized on her request to sketch out his relationship with Charlie Lyndon, recounting how they had performed together in several Footlights Smokers and an outdoor production of Cyrano de Bergerac. He glossed over their subsequent fling, even though, of all his Cambridge girlfriends, she was the one for whom he retained the deepest affection. Wary of begging favours from his famous friends, particularly after the outcry over Miles Dorset’s act in the fund-raiser for the Fishermen’s Museum, he knew that he was safe with Charlie. He had written to her in January, soliciting her support for the FPT. She immediately offered to bring Mrs Thrale (‘all I need is a first class train ticket and some hot and cold running waiters’). The first date that she had free was 3 November and, although the pier had since been sold, she insisted on honouring the commitment, with the proceeds earmarked for any legal challenge to the development plans.
So it was with a heady sense of anticipation that he made his way to the Metropole to meet her on Sunday afternoon. As he walked into the fusty vestibule he felt a flicker of unease. After the Mercury’s splash on a recent Good Hotel Guide report that there was not a single hotel to recommend in Francombe, the manager had accused him of setting out to destroy the town’s tourist industry and declared him persona non grata. Yet, far from berating him, he was the soul of deference, greeting him warmly and escorting him to the conservatory to meet the celebrity guest. Duncan felt the stardust lighting on him when, with the most effusive ‘darling’ he had heard in years, Charlie clambered out of her seat to give him a hug. He had forgotten how small she was until the cameo pendant perched on her bust rubbed against his waist. She sat down, still clasping his hand, and summoned a waitress, whose excitement was palpable. To Duncan’s surprise, Charlie ordered nothing but a pot of Earl Grey.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve given up cake?’
‘Don’t be absurd, darling. It’s strictly temporary. I’m filming a bedroom scene next month.’
‘Not the rom-com at last?’
‘I wish! I’m playing a gay nymphomaniac for Sky. Cue tastefully lit shots of the Lyndon boobs.’
‘How are Brian and Jasper?’ Duncan asked, aware of the eavesdroppers.
‘I trust that’s a non sequitur,’ Charlie replied with a chortle. ‘Tickety-boo. They send their love. At least Jasper does. He’s at some Frank Lloyd Wright symposium in Chicago. I’ve barely spoken to Brian for days. He’s in Halifax ministering to his aged mother. She’s in shock after discovering that the barrister her favourite granddaughter’s living with is actually dishing out coffee in Starbucks. Isn’t it priceless?’
‘Absolutely,’ Duncan replied, confused. ‘Any news of the old gang? I’m so out of touch.’
‘Best way to be. You’re so lucky to live in such a wholesome atmosphere – and I don’t just mean the sea air.’ Duncan smiled as she extolled Francombe, confident of the return ticket to Waterloo tucked in her bag. ‘I see Angus and Ross regularly, of course. And I was at a party last Sunday for Miles’s fiftieth.’
‘Really?’ Duncan frowned at the mention of Miles, whose savage mockery of his ‘Well-loved Caretaker Retires’ headline still rankled.
‘It’ll be us before you know it. Oh, I remember what I wanted to tell you. I saw Alice last month in Cambridge.’
‘Was there a reunion?’ Duncan asked, swallowing his hurt.
‘No, just the Union. Baboom! We were guests speakers in the debate: This house believes in the biblical definition of marriage.’
‘I presume you were on opposite sides.’
Charlie wrinkled her nose. ‘From the way she talks, you’d think she’d written the Bible, not just followed it. Whatever happened to the biggest tart in Newnham?’
‘She found God and Lesley, not necessarily in that order.’
‘You might have expected her to keep a low profile after all that business with her son. But no, she’s used it as an opportunity for more of the “hate the sin, love the sinner” bilge she spouts in her columns.’
The waitress brought two pots of tea along with a cake stand filled with meringues, éclairs, macaroons and doughnuts. As Duncan considered his choice, Charlie stretched across and grabbed the éclair with a look that dared him to comment.
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘Dykes aren’t body fascists. I can always claim I put on weight for the part.’
For two hours they chatted without constraint, interrupted only by a bashful fan requesting an autograph for Lindzee (‘with a “z” and two “e”s’). At six o’clock Charlie went up to her room to prepare. ‘A line-run with my stage manager and some emergency repair work to the façade. And no, I’m not talking about the stucco. How wicked of you to send that luscious young man to “do” me!’ she said with studied ambiguity. ‘You knew he’d break down all my defences.’ Duncan protested his innocence and she promised to forgive him as long as he laughed loudly at the jokes and brought Ellen, whom she was longing to meet, for a glass of champagne after the performance. He hurried home to change, feeling a deep satisfaction that nearly thirty years on he could still fit into his Cambridge dinner suit. Forty minutes later he was once again waiting for Ellen outside her gate, although now for reasons of haste rather than discretion.
‘You look stunning,’ he said, as she appeared in a strapless ivory gown, with her hair in a braided bun.
‘Do you mean that?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Stunning!’ he repeated, kissing her lightly on the lips.
‘I bought a new dress. I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.’
‘No one could ever be ashamed of you.’
‘Try my daughter!’
They drove to the Metropole where, having found their names on the seating plan, they walked into the Crystal Room, its lustre dimmed now that the last of the chandeliers had been removed. Temporary waiters in starched linen jackets stood stiffly as the four hundred guests took their places. Threading his way through the tables, Duncan was hailed by Geoffrey Weedon who, as usual, turned a handshake into a trial of strength. He was sitting with his wife, brother, sister-in-law and four friends, among them Lorna Redwood, Chair of the Council’s Leisure and Recreation Committee, who smiled sheepishly at Duncan as though he had caught her raiding the fridge. After kissing Linda, he introduced Ellen to Frances who, flouting both taste and convention, wore a crimson mesh dress slit almost to the navel, exposing a wide triangle of fake tan.
‘Congrats on the turnout,’ Geoffrey said to Duncan. ‘Shame it’s all for nothing. I trust you’re arranging to give these good people their money back now that the FPT’s washed up.’
‘On the contrary, we’ll need the cash more than ever if we have to fight your plans.’
‘Come on, you know the game’s up! Your only hope now would be to prove some impropriety in the contracting process.’ From the corner of his eye, Duncan glimpsed Lorna Redwood shift in her seat. ‘Which you can’t.’
‘Well, I mustn’t keep you,’ Duncan said. ‘Your prawn cocktail will be getting cold.’
He escorted Ellen to their table, where he introduced her to their fellow diners: Glynis Kingswood and her husband Bill, a former classics master whose loathing of children had long pre-dated his retirement; Ralph Welch, branch manager of Barclays, typecast as treasurer of several local charities including the FPT, and his wife, Bella, a woman so obsessed with her prize borzois that it came as a shock to learn that she had three daughters; Lea Brierley, a Salter artist best known for her paintings of womblike caves, who, permanently unattached, had brought along her taciturn teenage son, Noah. Noah’s embarrassment at sitting next to his mother was shared by Duncan, although he trusted that he hid it better. Some weeks after Linda’s departure he had spent a disastrous night with Lea, which, unaccountab
ly, she had been eager to repeat. For months she plagued him with invitations that he gently declined. He finally lost patience when she rang one press day with the news that ‘My fanny’s very dry this morning’. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ he snapped. ‘Hold the front page?’ She had never spoken to him since.
After a meal marked by Lea’s caustic asides to Ellen who, unaware of the history, looked baffled, Duncan was heartily relieved when the waiters removed the remains of the tiramisu and the play began. Heralded by a short blackout and a blast of Handel, Charlie, wearing a powdered wig and grey Brunswick gown, made her entrance to rousing applause. With minimal props and a set consisting solely of a lacquered screen, ladder-back chair, writing desk and two stone urns commandeered from the hotel conservatory, she evoked an entire eighteenth-century world. Her consummate portrayal of a woman of whom few had heard held the audience spellbound throughout. In one especially felicitous touch she quoted Johnson’s celebrated analogy between women preachers and dogs, alluding to her TV persona without ever stepping out of character. At the end of the ninety-minute monologue when Mrs Thrale posthumously read her own obituaries, Duncan wondered whether he were alone in thinking that the tributes to her talent, eccentricity, wit, generosity and spirit might well apply to Charlie herself.
The curtain call was duly rapturous, after which Glynis Kingswood, as gauche as a child at a primary school prize-giving, stepped up to the stage and presented Charlie with a large bouquet before delivering an equally florid vote of thanks. Wickedly insinuating that Glynis’s confusion of a ‘perfectly simple’ and ‘simply perfect’ evening had been deliberate, Charlie in turn thanked the audience for being so ‘laughable’. Then, waving the flowers above her head – a moment that Duncan, now doubling as the Mercury photographer, failed to capture – she swept out, an effortless blend of eighteenth-century hostess and twenty-first-century star.
Bidding a hasty goodbye to their dinner companions, Duncan led Ellen up to Charlie’s suite. ‘Are you decent?’ he called through the half-open door.
‘That depends if you read the Daily Mail,’ she replied. ‘Just changing. Come on in; make yourselves at home.’ They entered a sitting room that was so impersonal as to render the phrase redundant. A moment later Charlie emerged dressed in a black kimono, having removed her wig but not her make-up, as though half of her remained in the world of the play. ‘You must be Ellen,’ she said, hugging her ebulliently. ‘I say “must”, yet knowing Duncan he might have picked up somebody else since tea. Don’t look at me like that, darling; I’m giving you a brilliant write-up. Make yourself useful and open the champagne.’
As he eased out the cork Duncan feared that Ellen, who had confessed to being daunted by Charlie’s celebrity, would be further disconcerted by her manner. He poured the champagne and handed it round. ‘A toast!’ He raised his glass. ‘To Charlie! Thank you for an amazing performance.’
‘To Charlie!’ Ellen echoed.
‘To all three of us!’ Charlie replied. ‘Old friendships and new loves.’
‘Don’t push it!’ Duncan said, with a glance at Ellen. ‘We’ve only known each other six weeks.’
‘Who said I was talking about you? Typical man!’ She gave a throaty chortle. Then, insisting that she was bored with the sound of her own voice, she asked Ellen to tell her everything about speech therapy.
‘I’ve only been back in the profession a few months,’ Ellen said nervously.
‘So it’ll be fresh.’
Ellen needn’t have worried since no sooner had she begun than Charlie interrupted with the story of a friend who was undergoing gender reassignment (‘we’re all PC now’) and so seeing a speech therapist to help raise the pitch of his voice. ‘He sounds like Mrs Thatcher with mumps.’
‘I’m afraid I only deal with children,’ Ellen said.
‘Don’t be afraid, darling. I’m sure it’s wonderfully rewarding. But I’m old school: never work with children and animals!’
‘Do you have children of your own?’
‘Christ, no! I’d have been the world’s worst mother – well, worst but one. When I was nine, my mother told me I was so disgusting that not even a paedophile would want me.’
‘How dreadful!’ Ellen said.
‘And now she wonders why I haven’t spoken to her for twenty years! I’ve had two abortions. People think I did it for my career but the truth is I did it for my sanity. I know I’m supposed to beat my breast and say that the memory will haunt me till the day I die, but it isn’t true. Best thing I’ve ever done. Saving your presence, of course.’
‘Not at all,’ Ellen replied, gulping.
‘Still out to épater the rest of us,’ Duncan said. ‘You should take care – too much champagne on an empty stomach.’
‘Too much? I’ve barely had a thimbleful. You’re neglecting your duties.’ She held out her glass for a refill. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Ellen. The world must be peopled and all that. Just not by me. You two should have children. Lots of gorgeous children.’
‘Really?’ Duncan said, sensitive to Ellen’s discomfort. ‘I told you, we’ve only just met.’
‘Which is why you mustn’t waste any time. We’re none of us getting any younger. Don’t let him slip away, darling. Take it from me. I did, and I’ll always regret it.’
‘I’m flattered,’ Duncan said, ‘but it was nearly thirty years ago.’
‘You’re still the best, the most passionate, the most considerate lover I’ve ever had. Don’t you agree, Ellen?’ Since by her own admission, Ellen had only had two boyfriends before marrying Matthew, to whom she remained faithful for sixteen years, she had little scope for comparison. Fortunately, rather than pressing her for a reply, Charlie launched into an account of his behaviour during her breakdown. ‘I was in the funny farm for three months during my second year at Newnham. Tons of friends came to visit (I was the first of our lot to crack up, you see). They brought fruit and flowers and chocolates, all the usual. But not Duncan. Do you remember what you did?’
‘Yes,’ he said softly.
‘He arranged for me to see a hairdresser, not the hospital hack but a stylist from town. He found the perfect way to make me feel better. No one’s ever done anything so beautiful for me before or since.’ She stood up and moved to him with tears in her eyes. ‘You have the memory of my youth on your face.’ Just as his own eyes started to fill, he wondered if she were quoting a line from a play and the spell was shattered.
Afraid that she was growing maudlin, he told her that they had to leave. ‘Sorry, but I have an early start in the morning.’
‘You can’t! You’ve only just arrived. How can I finish all this fizz by myself? Who am I trying to kid?’ She grabbed a second bottle, prised off the cork and filled her glass, oblivious to the cascading foam. With promises on both sides to meet again soon that were all the more poignant for their sincerity, Duncan kissed Charlie and led Ellen to the door.
‘One moment!’ Charlie said, running into the bedroom and coming out with the flowers. ‘These are for you.’ She handed them to Ellen.
‘No really, I couldn’t!’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll only be leaving them for the chambermaid.’
‘Oh well, in that case … Thank you.’
With a backward glance at Charlie, Duncan followed Ellen into the corridor where the strong smell of damp reinforced his sense of exile. They walked slowly to the lift.
‘Did you hate her?’ Duncan asked.
‘Not at all,’ Ellen replied. ‘She’s so … feisty. You wouldn’t think she’d spent the evening on stage.’
‘That’s the adrenalin. It takes time to come down after a show.’
‘Of course,’ Ellen said. ‘It was very kind of her to give me the flowers.’ She led the way into the lift.
‘They smell marvellous,’ Duncan said, as a stray lily brushed his nose.
‘They’re heavy.’
‘I’d offer to carry them, but if we bump into anyone we know, they
might think I’m taking them back to the florist’s for a refund.’
As it turned out, Duncan spotted a familiar face as soon as they reached the vestibule. Chris, Adele’s carer, wearing a dinner suit with exceptionally wide lapels, stood beside an older man in black tie and a bright red cummerbund. Introductions were effected, causing Duncan to wonder how much weight to attach to the ‘friend’.
‘I didn’t realise you were coming,’ Duncan said to Chris.
‘Oh, we never miss a gala, do we, Paul?’ Chris said, his words belied by the whiff of mothballs issuing from his jacket.
‘We never miss Miss Lyndon,’ Paul said. ‘The Vicar’s Husband is my all-time favourite sitcom. I’ve worn out my DVDs.’
‘Not to mention your friends. Go on, show him your doll.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Go on! You know you want to.’
Coyly, Paul opened his bag and took out an eighteen-inch, flame-haired doll dressed in a cassock and surplice, which, despite the blandness of the embroidered face, bore a definite resemblance to the Reverend Penny.
‘It’s uncanny,’ Duncan said. ‘What do you think, Ellen?’
‘Did you make it yourself?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Paul said testily. ‘I’ve made hundreds. All my favourite stars. The Queen. Princess Diana.’
‘You should see his front room,’ Chris said. ‘You think your mother’s bad! I’ve told him, you wouldn’t get me dusting in there.’
‘In your dreams! I wanted to give this one to Miss Lyndon. But the stuck-up bitch at reception – pardon my French – says they’re not allowed to accept any unauthorised packages. Security.’
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