Hidden Treasures

by Fern Britton

  ‘Yes. That would be very kind,’ she said slowly.

  When he’d left the room, Chloe mouthed, ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘What for! He’s a bit of a creep, sucking up by making tea like that, but he is gorgeous. Has he … Do you … Are you … ?’

  Helen couldn’t bring herself to ask if Mack had actually defiled her virgin daughter, but Chloe, pinkening, helped her out. ‘Mum! We just surf together!’

  ‘Good, that’s important, isn’t it? Well, have a nice evening and, erm, don’t do anything you are not comfortable with … especially in my bed.’ Both women giggled and Helen sped upstairs before she caused any further embarrassment.

  *

  The Starfish Hotel was bathed in sapphire-blue floodlights, its palm trees standing stark against the starry night sky. Helen had never been to Cannes, but guessed it couldn’t be any more splendid than this. Voices, laughter and the sound of swing music drifted down from the roof terrace. Walking up the wide steps to the front door, she glanced over her shoulder to the glassy water of the harbour. It shone with the reflection of the building.

  Helen sang the Black Eyed Peas Tonight’s Going To Be A Good Night to herself.

  Stepping out of the beach-hut decorated lift, on to the roof terrace, the breeze caught her hair and made her shiver. She was wearing a long turquoise fine-knit cashmere dress. Very simple with little cap sleeves. It set off her creamy skin, freckles, and glossy auburn curls to perfection. She took in the faces, now so familiar, gathered around, smiling and talking.

  ‘There you are, darling.’ Gray strode up to her and, taking her in his arms, whispered in her ear. ‘I must say, you look sensational. Very fuckable.’

  She pulled out of his embrace and looked at him. A number of possible responses occurred to her, but she held her tongue and said, ‘Good! Thank you.’

  ‘Let me get you a glass of something. The white is superb.’ With his hand in the small of her back he guided her to the bar and, cutting across everyone else waiting, called, ‘Rob, a bottle of the white and two glasses, please.’

  ‘Coming up, sir,’ nodded Rob the bartender.

  ‘We’ll be at my usual table.’ Another nod from Rob and several tuts from the queue. Helen noted that Gray hadn’t lost his touch with the bar staff.

  Gray took her hand, and Helen allowed herself to be led towards a small table set in a quiet corner overlooking the sea. A trellis of ivy surrounded it and acted as a windbreak to the cool night air. On the bleached wood table stood a lighted storm lantern.

  ‘Sit here, darling.’ Gray motioned to the double bench seat with gaily striped feather cushions on it and a warm fleecy blanket hung over each arm.

  She sat, without comment, and he took one of the fleeces, flapped it open and draped it over her legs. He sat next to her just as Rob arrived with a tray, ice bucket, wine and glasses.

  ‘Cheers, my darling.’

  They each drank and Helen realised that, despite everything, she was grateful that Gray was there to spare her the unnerving experience of hanging around at the edge of the action like a spare part.

  ‘Gray …’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘What exactly are you doing here?’

  ‘Earning some money with the cars and enjoying time with you and Chloe and Pen.’

  ‘Why can’t you let go of our marriage?’

  He put his glass down and held his hands in his lap. His gaze drifted towards the party, ‘I wasn’t the one who started divorce proceedings.’

  ‘Not if you don’t count sleeping around repeatedly – or doesn’t that constitute the end of a marriage?’

  ‘Helen, please don’t.’ He turned his face to hers. ‘My behaviour towards you shocks me whenever I think of it.’

  ‘Is that why you drag your heels over replying to the solicitor’s letters?’

  He looked uncomfortably into her eyes, ‘Yes. I suppose. I’m just waiting for you to have enough of this women’s lib stuff, and come home where you belong.’ He shifted his body round to her and in a low voice said, ‘When are you coming back to me, darling?’

  Helen looked at him for a long moment. ‘I am no longer your wife, Gray. Maybe by law I still am, but not in my heart. I can never come back to you. Nothing would change.’

  ‘It would, I promise—’

  ‘Hush. This is the first time since leaving school and meeting you, that I’ve had an opportunity to find out who I am and what I believe in. I am contented in a way that living with you never made me.’ Gray’s face pinched into a hurt expression. ‘Three decades have gone by and I find myself with a blank page in front of me. A chance to discover a life that doesn’t include washing, ironing, cooking and shopping for a family who thought it was all I needed. And I find that what I needed was someone who was a friend to me.’

  ‘I am your mate.’

  ‘Mates don’t treat mates the way you treated me. Mates are loyal and kind. They listen and share. They don’t demand supper and sex when you’re knackered, or leave a trail of shaving scum and laundry in their wake.’

  ‘What’s got into you, darling? All this Germaine Greer stuff isn’t you. Have you been listening to too much Woman’s Hour? This is all very peevish and, if I may say so, childish.’

  ‘That’s something you can easily recognise.’

  ‘Well, what about you?’ He sat straighter, picked up his glass and took a large mouthful. ‘All those months of refusing me sex after you had Chloe and Sean. What’s a man supposed to do when his wife is frigid? I tried to encourage you. What do you think all that sexy underwear was for?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘No! It was for you. To help you feel sexier towards me.’

  ‘Ha!’ Helen tipped her head back and barked out a mirthless laugh. ‘I’d have felt sexier towards you if you had brought fish and chips home for supper instead of expecting me to cook, or if you once emptied the dishwasher without saying, “I’ve emptied the dishwasher for you.” What did you expect, a medal?’

  ‘Oh this is pure kindergarten. You are being absurd.’

  ‘No. I am just trying to get into your thick, emotionally unintelligent head the realities that could have kept us together. And if I ever meet someone again with whom I wish to spend my life, it would have to be on the basis of complete trust. You couldn’t even keep your hands off your own son’s girlfriend. To betray your wife is one thing, but to betray your son is quite another.’

  ‘Helen, I have taken just about enough of your insults. I’ve never laid a finger on you. I never kept you short of money. In truth, I am glad to be shot of you. That dear young girl I once knew has turned into a harpy.’ During the final few words, he stood up, tucked his shirt into his belt, pulled his waist up and knocked several ivy leaves on to the table.

  ‘I feel sorry for you, Helen. And so do your friends. Your true friends, back in London. Not this bunch of pathetic vicars and hippies. You need help. If you need a doctor or a therapist, I’ll find one for you, but I am not certain things would ever be the same between us again. It’s a burden to have a partner with mental health issues. A burden that would be hard to bear, even for a man as strong as I.’

  He topped up his glass of wine and walked back towards the party.

  35

  Helen wanted to leave immediately. Go home to her little nest and cry pitiful tears. But she couldn’t. Chloe was there. She could call a friend and ask to come over, but her friends were here, at the party. And anyway, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to confide in Penny or Simon right now.

  She didn’t regret a word she had said to Gray, but this hadn’t been the time or the place. How did Gray always manage to turn things round so that she was the guilty party? Gray, the man she had loved so very much, the father of her much-loved children. Gray with whom she’d had the best of times and the most painful of times. Gray who had sex with other women, who penetrated their bodies, kissed their nipples, gave them oral sex. Gray who would then come home to her, saturated in the essence o
f these other women, and want to do the same with her. A huge wave of white-hot anger managed to breach her wall of resentment and denial.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She turned her back on anyone who might see her and faced out towards the sea. Her eyes were burning now and she screwed them tight shut whilst trying to breath normally. Was she mad? Did she need help? She thought about those friends who Gray said were worried about her. Not one of them had phoned her since her arrival here. She’d received a handful of Christmas cards, but none with any messages of real interest or concern for her. She opened her eyes and a stream of tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Rummaging in her bag, she found a small packet of tissues and a mirror. When she looked at her reflection she saw a woman who, apart from soggy eyes and a nose wiped free of make-up, looked OK, really. No dark circles, no extra wrinkles. She examined her hairline – no grey hairs – yet. And why did she look OK? Because, she told her reflected self, you are doing what you want to do, and you are happy, aren’t you? Happy to be free of responsibility. Happy to have dumped your old life, no matter how much it hurt people. Happy to have hurt even your new friends, like Simon. Happy to be a selfish cow who wants it all her own way?

  Her head was pounding now and the tears came again. She had to go home. Any control she had over herself was slipping away. With a final wipe of her eyes, she picked up her bag, stood up and turned to make her escape.

  *

  The party-goers were in full swing. The band on the other side of the terrace had struck up ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ and bodies everywhere started to dance. Others were standing in small groups, laughing and drinking, and a couple of the make-up girls were already in the steaming hot tub, calling to David Cunningham to join them. ‘Come on, birthday boy. Don’t be shy.’

  ‘Later, my beauties! Later!’ he called back. ‘I have a little business to attend to first.’

  The smoke from the barbecue was imbued with the rainbow colours of the carnival lanterns strung above their heads.

  Helen kept her head down and, sticking to the dark edges of the crowd, made her way round to the door leading to the lift. Just another half-dozen paces and she’d be there.

  ‘Helen!’

  Oh God, who had seen her? She pretended not to hear.

  ‘Helen!’

  Still keeping her head down, Helen saw a pair of beautiful ankles in very high black suede killer heels. ‘Look who I’ve found!’

  There was nothing for it but to look up. When she did so, she was confronted with the dazzling vision of Dahlia Dahling, resplendent in a backless, strapless, possibly bra-less, red jersey dress that gave new meaning to the word ‘figure-hugging’.

  ‘Hi, Dahlia.’ She looked up a little further and swallowed hard. ‘Hello, Piran.’

  The sight of Piran took her breath away. He was wearing a black dinner jacket complete with black bow tie. His hair was super clean and shiny. He’d shaved and the musk of his cologne made her want to lean in and kiss him with a terrifying intensity. Dahlia broke the spell.

  ‘Piran was just going to get me a drink. Would you like one too, Helen?’

  ‘I was just going, actually. A bit of a headache.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport! Have just one drink before you go. Piran, we’ll be waiting for you on those two chairs. Don’t be long, now!’ Dahlia waved a graceful hand towards the bar.

  Piran gave Helen a searching look and extricated himself from Dahlia’s arm, which was around his waist. Both women watched him walk to the bar.

  ‘Quick, darling. Tell me everything you know about him … I can plan my strategy then.’

  ‘Strategy for what?’

  ‘For seduction, of course! I won’t let a little thing like his being gay get in my way, you know!’

  ‘Ah, well, you see, I may have given you the wrong end of the stick—’

  ‘Oh, do look at David! Will he never learn?’

  Helen followed Dahlia’s gaze and saw David and one of the waiters exchanging money for a small paper wrap.

  ‘What an idiot! I must stop him. Keep Piran here till I get back.’

  Dahlia had leapt to her feet and was following David to the gents’ loos.

  Surely now, if she was quick, Helen could escape. But just as her brain was telling her body to stand up, Penny and Simon appeared, both giggling, and Simon very pink in the face.

  ‘Hello, darling Helen. Are you having a lovely time?’ gushed Penny. ‘Simon’s an amazing mover on the dance floor. Did you know he could jive?’

  ‘West Country champion 1988.’ Simon beamed. ‘Helen, you haven’t got a drink. You need a drink. I’ll go and get you one. And another one for you too, Pen? Got to keep your jiving legs oiled. Ha ha.’ He turned a little too fast and lost his balance slightly, but kept his path to the bar.

  Penny sat down and gave out a huge breath. ‘That man is amazing. He dances like a demon. And he’s very funny when he’s had a drink.’

  ‘You look as if you’ve both had a couple of glasses!’ Helen snapped wearily.

  ‘Well, we had a bottle in my room earlier. Don’t look at me like that! I was finishing some phone calls and so he waited upstairs with me rather than in the lobby like a spare pr-pr-priest at a wedding.’

  Penny laughed loudly at her own joke.

  ‘Anyway, Miss Femme Fatale,’ she continued, ‘how is the evening going for you? How is the hunt going for the future Mr Merrifield?’

  Helen tried to answer, but Penny kept going: ‘I see the ex-Mr Merrifield is here. He’s plying all the girls with drink and regaling them with his interminable stories. They are lapping it up, the poor saps.’

  ‘We had a bit of a row earlier. And, Penny, what are you doing getting Simon drunk? He isn’t one of your London playboys, you know.’

  But Helen had already lost Penny’s attention. ‘Well, hello, Piran! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’

  ‘Good evening, Penny.’ He passed Helen her drink. ‘It’s a St Clements. I thought alcohol wouldn’t help your headache.’

  ‘Thank you, Piran. I’m off in a minute, actually.’

  ‘That’s one of the few sensible things you’ve said. This isn’t my sort of thing. I’d rather be in the pub.’ Piran pulled on his tight collar.

  Penny stopped them. ‘Oh, you party poopers. You can’t go until you’ve had at least one dance.’ She caught sight of Simon, weaving his way unsteadily towards them with three glasses in his hand. ‘Simon, take Helen to the dance floor immediately!’ she commanded.

  ‘Righty-ho, milady.’ And he hauled Helen to her feet. She gave Piran a pleading glance but his attention was taken by an advancing Dahlia. Too late, she had him by the elbow and, too late, Helen found herself being twirled vigorously by Simon.

  After three fast-paced numbers, Helen was puffing, perspiration running down her back. Her hot breath steamed in the cooling night air. She was no partner for Simon, whose dance technique was rather novel and quite unrelenting. He shouted at her above the noise: ‘I thought I’d forgotten how to do this. My mother was very keen on dancing. A jitterbug champion during the war. Perhaps we’ll start a dance class in the village. What do you think?’

  He picked her up above his head and swooped her back down to the floor before she had time to reply. Her burgeoning headache was now bouncing around inside her skull. At last the band came to the end of the number and, breathing heavily, Helen told Simon she really ought to go.

  ‘I have to be up early,’ was her lame excuse.

  ‘Certainly, of course. Penny told me you all have to catch up on the hour off you’ve had today.’

  As they walked off the dance floor the band started up again with ‘Big Spender’. From somewhere in the crowd came the sound of a powerfully deep woman’s voice, singing along to the lyrics. There were several whoops from the crowd, and Penny heard David Cunningham’s familiar voice cry out, ‘Go, Dahlia!’

  As the partygoers stepped back to create a space, Dahlia stood in the middle, looking l
ike Rita Hayworth in Gilda, her hour-glass figure filling her clingy, red silk jersey dress, her brunette hair tumbling in careless curls around her face. She had one arm above her head, her face in silhouette, the other hand was holding up her skirt, revealing black stockings and a hint of bare thigh. As she sang she began to bump and grind her way towards Piran, who watched her darkly. He was leaning on the bar, close to the now-empty hot tub. The crowd melted from around him and Dahlia, the mongoose to his cobra, kept singing and undulating towards him. As she reached the steps of the hot tub she slipped her shoes off and, without stopping, still singing, stepped right into the bubbling water, her dress riding up to expose lacy stocking tops and black ribboned suspenders. She sank deeper into the water, still singing. Piran remained at the bar, a dangerous expression on his face.

  Dahlia was now purring the last few bars of the song and, as she reached the final lyric, she stood up revealing shapely breasts clearly outlined beneath her clinging wet dress, reached towards Piran, took his hand and pulled him towards the water.

  He shook her off immediately.

  ‘What are you doing, woman? Get out, get dry and stop making a damn fool of yourself.’

  Dahlia looked as if he had slapped her. ‘What did you say?’ she replied with menace.

  ‘I said, get out and get dry. This isn’t an 18–30 holiday.’

  Dahlia leapt out of the pool like a tiger and flung herself at Piran.

  ‘Piran, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ A new voice joined in.

  Piran, Dahlia and the crowd turned as one to see who the newcomer was.

  ‘Dawn. I told you not to come.’ Piran was struggling to grab Dahlia’s wrists, but she was now winding herself round him like a Russian vine. ‘What is it with you bloody women?’ He finally threw Dahlia off and as she staggered towards the open, welcoming arms of Gray, Dawn advanced with speed.

  ‘What are you doing with my fiancé?’

  ‘Dawn, once and for all: I am not your fiancé.’ Piran stood firm between the two women.

  ‘Your fiancé? Honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’ Dahlia screamed. ‘He’s a faggot. Didn’t you know?’