I closed the door and followed.
‘Hi,’ said Patrick absentimindedly. ‘Fuck! She is out of date.’
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Lili, leaning her firm, small derriere against the corner of the sofa and crossing her ankles.
‘Six months! Fuck and double fuck!’ His hair was standing on end, literally.
Lili turned to look at me. ‘Any ideas?’
‘The cat’s not well,’ I explained.
I suppose I thought that she, being younger and more beautiful than me, would also be a better person and more attuned to Patrick’s feelings. This turned out not to be the case. Her perfect nose wrinkled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Peaches.’ I pointed at the invalid. ‘She’s poorly.’
‘So get her fixed,’ said Lili to Patrick. He threw down the card and clapped his hand to his brow. ‘Or have her put down.’
He gave her a strange kind of half-glare, to indicate that he would have murdered her if he could be bothered. Then he turned to me. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘You’ve left a message. If the vet doesn’t call back, take her in to the surgery. It’s only—’ I glanced at my watch – ‘an hour and a quarter till five. She won’t succumb between now and then.’
‘I hope not …’ He chewed his lip. ‘I really do …’
‘Well!’ Lili stood up, hands on hips. ‘Are you free till then or will she need you to wipe her brow?’
‘What?’ asked Patrick. So he had double-booked anyway, but was far too preoccupied to pay that little problem no never mind.
‘See you,’ said Lili. She sounded not angry but cool and self-possessed. My own anger had dissipated in the face of Patrick’s mini-crisis. Automatically I went into the hall and saw her out. On the front step she looked over her shoulder and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I have better things to do.’
I made some sort of small sound intended to convey whatever was appropriate, and watched as she cantered coltishly down the steps and swung away down Calcutta Road. Then I closed the door quietly and returned to the living-room. Patrick was sitting on the sofa and had taken Peaches on to his knee. I began to pick up the folders and papers that were scattered over the floor, including the immunization record, which I placed on the seat next to him.
‘She wasn’t very pleased,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Lili – I don’t think she understood about the cat.’
‘Never mind,’ said Patrick. ‘She’ll get over it.’ He couldn’t even be bothered to make some slighting remark in his own defence.
‘Shall I make some tea?’ I asked.
‘By all means …’
As I fiddled about in the kitchen I reflected that Lili and I, who had nothing in common and who had until now scarcely acknowledged each other’s existence, had been fleetingly bonded in adversity. The difference between us was that while she had not wasted another calorie playing second fiddle to an ailing pet, I was still here, making tea. We had both been downloaded, but in a single bound she was free.
I stirred in the several sugars that Patrick liked, and took through the mugs. I handed him his, and sat down in an armchair on the other side of the room. My dealings with Becca had taught me how to handle this state of irritable anxiety in others – the thing to do was not to handle it, but to stand back and await developments.
Because of the need to provide a lap for the cat, Patrick sat with his legs pressed neatly together from thigh to ankle. It was an old-maidish attitude completely at variance with his tousled bulk and unshaven face. Pathetic he might be, but the bit of me that was a decent God-fearing wife, mother and grandmother rather liked him for worrying about his cat, and realized that this was the first time liking had entered into the relationship.
‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said, stroking with one hand and raising the mug to his lips with the other.
‘My pleasure.’
‘Christ!’ He took a slurp and looked at me as though he’d suddenly remembered. ‘ Lili – she buggered off.’
‘She did.’
‘Shit. I was worried.’
‘I know,’ I said, but couldn’t resist adding. ‘ But she’d have buggered off anyway.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I was here. You invited us both at the same time.’
‘No I didn’t.’ He must have been feeling cheerier, because his voice was returning to normal, and regaining its customary note of robust self-confidence. ‘ She just turned up.’
‘She seemed to be expecting you to be free.’
I was championing my rival. It was bizarre.
‘She was wrong.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’ll be off now.’
‘Must you?’ he asked absentmindedly. I didn’t even bother to answer.
‘So chances are I won’t be able to come,’ said Josh with the studied casualness of the man planting an explosive device.
‘You must come,’ I said. ‘It’s a family wedding.’
Josh was standing on the top landing, outside his room, leaning over the banisters. I was on the first-floor landing, carrying a plastic basket of washing and looking up at him, getting a crick in my neck. He had an unerring instinct for advantageous positioning.
‘They won’t miss me,’ he said. ‘They hardly know me. They’ll be better off without me.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Then what is?’
‘There are only so many occasions when we all get together as a family, and this is one.’
‘But it’s work.’
‘Only work. Josh.’
‘Not so much of the ‘‘only’’ – double time, for crying out loud!’
We eyeballed each other, neither of us entirely sure of our ground but hoping the other would blink first. Josh had a holiday job cleaning up classic cars for some more-money-than-sense individual on the edge of town. The Saturday of Steph’s wedding, he had just revealed, was the day the cars were to be moved to their new home in a motor museum in the Midlands. Not only was there double-time on offer from six in the morning to six at night, but Josh would actually get to drive some of the pampered beauties he had been cosseting, even if only to the end of the drive. It was the big payoff in every sense.
‘It is tough,’ I said, ‘but even if Steph doesn’t care, the grandparents will. It means a lot to them.’
‘As a matter of fact I mentioned it to Gran,’ said Josh, ‘and she thought I’d be barmy to turn down the big bucks.’
Well, thanks a bunch, Mommie Dearest, I thought. ‘You know perefectly well Gran will say whatever she thinks you’d like to hear.’
‘You talk about your mother as if she were ga-ga. How would you like it if we talked about you like that, hm?’
‘I wouldn’t, of course, but that isn’t what I meant. She’s very far from ga-ga, but she’s extremely indulgent towards you lot. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to see you turn up at a big family occasion.’
‘Second-guessing someone else is no basis for rational argument,’ he said, and withdrew from the banister. The door closed behind him. The resonant patter of tom-toms and the yelps and ululations of an electronically enhanced war party signalled that the exchange was at an end.
Later in the evening Becca dropped in with the children. I knew better than to enquire about the bridesmaid’s dress. Liam’s remarks and the fact that she was here at all and in apparent good humour, were enough to indicate that the necessary alterations had been made. The last thing I was about to do was claim any credit.
The children went out into the garden with a bag of chipsticks, and Becca and I had a glass of wine.
‘Griggs is on again this evening,’ she said. ‘Mind if I record it?’
‘Do.’
‘It’s not till about ten,’ she added.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll put a tape on.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Manchester.’
‘Gospel Camp.’
Becca gave me a speaking look. ‘Nightmare. I mean, come on, can you imagine anything more ghastly?’
‘She’ll be having a wonderful time. Have you heard from Roberto?’
‘He rang up. It looks as if they may get three weeks at Her Majesty’s before Christmas.’
‘Fantastic! How thrilling! We must all go.’
‘He is cute, isn’t he?’ agreed Becca absentmindedly. We went and sat on the patio. Amos did death-defying things on the climbing frame while Sinead sat on the grass shovelling down the remaining chipsticks while the going was good.
‘Liam came round,’ I said cautiously.
‘Crying?’ asked Becca, entirely without sarcasm.
‘Cheerful. He asked if we’d take photos of Sinead at the wedding.’
‘I’ll try, but I’m hopeless at remembering to take pictures.’
‘Someone will.’
‘Amos! I’ll give you such a walloping if you do that again!’ shouted Becca, barely turning her head in her son’s direction. In a normal voice she added, ‘ He was okay the other night. Maybe Sinead’s dress provided the necessary distraction, but we actually managed a whole hour without my explaining why I don’t want to marry him. Or anybody else.’
I recorded Human Condition doing their spot on an arts programme, and Griggs making a good job of the subsequent interview with the thinking man’s totty. It was obvious that the totty was hopelessly attracted to her subject, and her self-consciousness made her unnecessarily tart.
I’m afraid that a smile of unseemly maternal pleasure wreathed my lips as I switched off the TV and went upstairs.
I was in bed when Patrick rang. He was fully restored and up to his old tricks.
‘All clear?’
‘Yes. As it happens. But please don’t do this.’
‘Sorry about this afternoon.’
‘Never mind. How’s Peaches?’
‘She stuck a syringe like an Exocet into her, and she’s got to take three tablets a day for a week, but she’ll be fine.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said testily.
‘So how about now?’
‘Out of the question.’
‘Why? You said the coast was clear. No obstacles, no traffic.’
‘My son’s upstairs. I can’t think of any pretext whatever on which to get up, get dressed and leave the house at eleven-thirty at night.’
‘He won’t even notice.’
‘He will, believe me. And he’ll ask.’
‘Tell him you’re going to succour a distressed friend,’ suggested Patrick. ‘You have no idea how much I want you to come.’
‘I’ll see,’ I said, and hung up.
I went to the bedroom door and listened. Josh had been out with a couple of cronies and was now back, but the Red Indians were still in full cry. I decided to take the initiative and brazen it out. I put on a track-suit – easy to get on and off – went up the stairs to his landing, and knocked on the door.
‘Josh – I’m popping out.’
‘What?’
‘Open up.’
He appeared at the door, wearing only his boxer shorts and glasses, and carrying the Penguin Classics edition of The Mayor of Casterbridge.
‘What?’
‘I’m popping out.’
‘Fine.’ He was completely uninterested.
‘I thought I ought to let you know.’
‘Okay, fine.’
‘A friend of mine just rang.’ I considered this to be especially plausible, since he might well have heard the phone ring. ‘Susan Upchurch – you know?’ Josh stared back uncomprehendingly but I blundered on. ‘She’s feeling awfully down so as Dad’s not here I’m going to pop over and offer a bit of shoulder.’
‘Right. Fine.’
‘I shan’t be more than a couple of hours.’
‘Okay.’
Unsurprisingly he looked baffled by this unwarranted flood of information. It was quite obvious he wanted me to cut along as soon as possible. Which I did.
I got back to Alderswick Avenue at 3 a.m. All was quiet, and dark. I decided with a certain pride in my own decadence that I’d have a lie-in the next day. I was tired, but I felt light and airy as a leaf.
Because of the hour and the near-emptiness of the house, my return wasn’t attended by the usual sense of my roles and responsibilities baying at me like a pack of hounds. I poured myself a long glass of orange juice and mineral water and went slowly up the stairs.
There was a note on my pillow, in Josh’s handwriting.
Susan Upchurch called from Crete about five minutes after you left. I think she was pissed. She said to tell you she’s thinking of you. The night has a thousand eyes, according to her. She’ll call again.
Josh was up before me, to go to work on the classic cars. He appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘Get my message?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘How was your friend?’
‘Okay.’
‘See you.’
He didn’t have to labour the point. I could tell, by the cantering rhythm of his feet on the stairs, that he reckoned his chances of double-time on the day of the wedding had improved immeasurably.
Chapter Fifteen
Glyn was due back on the Wednesday. I went into London during the day to egg my mother on as she bought something to wear at the wedding. She was a great one for dress exchanges, and had recently found a new one in South Molton Street at which top people’s castoffs changed hands at relatively silly prices. She explained why this particular one had commended itself to her.
‘There’s another female giant somewhere,’ she told me as we strode along the pavement to the fancifully named Almost Paradise, ‘a rich one, and she brings her mistakes here. It’s incredible how often I’ve found the very thing in the right size. I feel as if I know this woman!’
We went in. The girl in charge was American and greeted my mother like the second coming.
‘Mrs Beech, hi, great, you couldn’t have come at a better moment. I have just a million things that will drive you crazy.’
‘Truly?’ said my mother. ‘Lead me to them.’
It was restful shopping with my mother because she was so good at it. For a start, she brought out the best in shop assistants. This may not have been so applicable to the American girl, who was the type to be up for Employee of the Month wherever she went, but even in post offices my mother elicited the very best attention.
These circumstances were her spiritual home. Given chic clothes at time-warp prices, a saleswoman for whom nothing was too much trouble, a congenial companion and an upholstered chair just in case, she was in her element.
‘What do you think?’ she asked me after the shortlist of three had been tried on and we were drinking coffee while the American served someone else.
‘They’re all nice. The yellow’s stunning.’
‘It is, isn’t it – terribly jolly! But I’m not sure that my desiccated old cortex can stand up to it. I don’t want to look any more tortoiselike than I can help.’
In anyone but my mother the remark could have been construed as shameless fishing for compliments, but she had a genuinely robust attitude to the effects of ageing and a healthy desire to look as good as possible. She was a beauty, but a practical one. I agreed that looking tortoiselike was to be avoided at all costs.
Having discounted the yellow we were left with a choice between tailored french navy with white piping, and a shift and matching pleated coat in aquamarine silk. My mother – I could have written the script – talked her way into the crisp navy and white, and then at the last moment followed the dictates of her heart and went with the coat and dress.
‘Shall I be mutton dressed as lamb?’ she enquired of the shop at large. There was a murmur of dissent from the two lean and well-heeled Sloane matrons cruising the racks, and an explosion of approbation from the assistant.
‘Mrs
Beech, it’s perfect. Not everyone can wear really romantic clothes, but you definitely can. Don’t you agree?’ She turned her wide, toothy smile and shining eyes in my direction. There was a look of more penetrating enquiry on my mother’s face.
‘Yes, Laura. What do you think?’
‘It’s lovely. Really.’
We took charge of the aquamarine outfit and then set off to the nearest branch of a well-known chainstore to look for a hat.
‘I am not,’ said my mother, ‘on this occasion, going to make my usual mistake of spending more on the accessories than on the outfit itself.’
She was as good as her word. She found a plain cream picture hat and some wide grosgrain ribbon that matched the dress and coat. The most expensive part of the hat was a signature cream silk tea rose to sew on to the side.
‘Gloves? Handbag?’ I asked weakly.
‘Got ’em,’ she said, to my huge relief. ‘ Or got what will do perfectly well. Shall we go in search of lunch? My treat.’
Having graciously taken control, my mother conveyed us by taxi to Rules for a meal hedonistically loaded with saturated fats. ‘A very successful morning!’ she declared over the g and t’s when we’d ordered. ‘ Thank you so much for your moral support, darling, it makes such a difference.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said truthfully.
‘Peter’s never enjoyed shopping. But then I’m not sure I’d want to be married to one of these men who like to tell their wives what to wear.’
‘Nor me. Like being a kept woman.’
‘Exactly.’ She laughed. ‘Though that’s what I’ve been all my life when you come to think of it.’
‘You could say the same of a lot of married women of your generation.’
‘Perhaps you could.’ She thought about this. ‘Perhaps.’ I thought she was going to add something, but she didn’t. Instead she exclaimed ecstatically over the arrival of her potted shrimps and peered curiously at my warm salad with bacon and avocado. ‘Remind me …’ she said. I told her. ‘It’s a sign of advancing decrepitude, but I still see a warm salad as a contradiction in terms.’
Life After Lunch Page 26