by Chris Else
‘Imogen is coming to you tomorrow?’
‘Sunday,’ he said.
Of course. He would be hung over tomorrow. They would all be hung over tomorrow.
He glanced at her. He seemed anxious about something. Their argument. Don’t bring it up here, she told herself. Don’t let’s have a stand-up in the middle of Hardy’s china department. It might be just too tempting. And her anger dragged at her again like a child tugging at her sleeve. Do I hate him? God, maybe I do. Maybe it’s necessary, essential to the arrangement.
‘How about you?’ Colin was asking. ‘Are you well?’
‘Yes.’
A pause as she felt the awkwardness of that. The lie in it. For a moment she thought he was going to touch her and she flinched. Like a wire, which you were sure was dead but just might not be.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’m making much progress here. I might try High Street.’
‘It is supposed to be china, isn’t it?’
‘So I believe.’
‘Dumb idea.’
‘Would it be easier if it were wood? Or stainless steel?’
‘Or plasticene. Probably not. One could always ignore tradition, of course.’
‘But that’s the curious thing about Syl and Larry. They wouldn’t agree on anything except the tradition.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’
So that was it, then? No more? What more could there be?
‘Well, I think I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.
‘Happy hunting.’
‘Best of luck to you too.’
33.
THE LADY AND HER hired man, her gardening consultant. He brings her catalogues, suggestions. She listens, she looks, she chooses. He notes down her wish, lest he forget. This is part of a transaction, circumscribed by their business arrangement. And, of course, they trust each other. There would be no point otherwise.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I like that.’ Leaning forward in her chair, right hand resting on the table beside the plan, left hand at the top of her thigh. The gesture pushed her chest out, curve beneath the fine knit of her beige sweater. She turned her head and looked at him, blonde hair shifting. Blue eyes.
‘Of course, there’s some pruning to do,’ he told her, ‘but that’s about all in terms of maintenance. And you’ll have colour all the year.’
‘White.’
‘White?’
‘Yes, I want all the blossom to be white. Or pink. Pale pink.’
‘Plum blossom.’
‘If you say so.’
‘A magnolia I’m thinking of would be quite dark, black or purple, when it started to flower but then later white, a creamy white.’
‘That’s fine.’ Another look. ‘How much?’
Lips seemed to hold the last sound, stayed half open.
‘I’ll have to cost it. I guess a thousand. Not more than two.’
‘Good. And your man starts Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ A little smile. ‘Shall we drink to that?’
‘All right.’
She stood up, moved away, heading across the big room towards the kitchen. After a moment, in which he felt the sudden vacuum of her going, the drop in temperature, he followed her.
She was bending down, looking into the refrigerator.
‘How’s the stock market?’ he asked her, pausing by the breakfast bar, leaning on it, watching her. The sweater riding up and exposing a little patch of skin, mouthshaped, above the waistband of her jeans.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Boring.’ Standing up with a bottle of wine in her left hand.
‘You lost,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Yes. Not much. But it spoilt my record run. Nine straight weeks with a profit, and this time?’ Moving towards him, bottle in one hand, corkscrew in the other, holding them out to him. ‘Here.’ Fingers touched. The warmth of her skin and the cold of the bottle. She turned away again.
Nothing happens if you wait. There is safety in stillness.
He split the seal with the sharp end of the corkscrew, running it round the top of the neck and lifting off the little black cap. Screw then into the yellow-brown of the cork, winding it in.
‘What did you do before this?’ he asked.
‘Before what?’
‘Clisserford and the stock market.’
‘I’m not going to tell you that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ Standing there a metre or two away, a glass in each hand. ‘Because I don’t like that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Levering the corkscrew, little pop as the cork came free.
‘Information about people. Background. Confession. I don’t like the past.’
‘This place is the past.’ He gestured up and about at the space around them.
‘This is different. This is a style. You can confront a style.’
‘You like confrontation?’ He held out his hand for a glass and she gave him one.
‘Yes. I like confrontation. At least, I don’t like my reactions cluttered up with useless facts.’
Pouring wine, giving it back to her. Taking the second glass, filling that one also. Raising it. ‘Here’s to confrontation,’ he said.
‘I thought we were drinking to all the white blossom.’ Touching glasses with him.
A mouthful of wine, cold, slowly letting it trickle round his teeth and down his throat. He put the glass down on the breakfast bar. He thought about the river, the grey force. Do you sink or do you swim? Do you go down like a stone or are you carried off by the rush of water, laughing, to the city, to the sea and the sky? You’ll never know until you jump.
A woman here with hair like gold.
She went to move past him, perhaps to sit on one of the stools. Not touching but close enough that he felt the movement of the air against his hand. He didn’t think about what he did next, it was just something to do, to see what would happen. Because although the hired man, drinking wine with the lady, knows his place and knows his job is to yearn for her from a hopeless distance, the madman does not. Reaching out, gripping her wrist. No feeling for a moment. But, when she didn’t pull away, didn’t twist and yank herself free, but merely paused and then turned to him and reached around him, putting her glass down on the bar beside his, her eyes on his, he began to want her.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I see you like confrontation too.’
He reached for her, pulled her towards him, found her mouth. She pressed in close, hard against him, and his hands slid down her back to her buttocks, gripped her. He felt the muscles tense and wriggle under his palms. Her mouth was chewing at him. He breathed a scent of musk and lemon, clean and sharp and dragging at him like a hook. And the need, the familiar need, that was new with the eagerness of each new body, began its demonstration, the empty logic of desire.
‘Ah.’ Mouth twisted aside from his. Her voice hot against his neck. ‘Down, Fido,’ she said. Her fists on his chest, pushing him away. ‘I think we should just sit here and drink our wine. Like good little children. All right?’
34.
THE SEATING WAS A problem. Maddy was not the sort of person who got into a flap about such things, but this was an occasion, something special. It took her back to her childhood, with her mother worrying about cutlery and canapés and who should talk to whom to best advance her father’s latest scheme. And, in any case, she knew that if she left it to chance it would be a disaster, with all the men at one end of the table and the women at the other. So it had to be formal: boy, girl, boy, girl. Larry and Syl at the ends: they were the guests of honour and you couldn’t have them in the middle of a side because, with three per side, there was no middle pair. And Colin and Lisa probably wouldn’t want to be next to each other and maybe not even opposite. Although, of course, some couples had to be next or opposite. It couldn’t be done otherwise. Was there a way? Well, eventually she found one that kind of worked: Larry, with Lisa on his left, an
d then Tom next to Lisa and Maddy herself next to Tom. Then Sylvia at the other end with Colin on her left and Heidi next to Colin and then Ward. Ward would want to sit next to Larry as Colin would, too, probably, but then they both couldn’t be there.
She had written the cards out in black ink with a calligraphic pen and she placed them carefully on the table among the silverware and the gleaming glasses, little twinkles of the light reflected from the open fire that flickered pale brown shadows on the walls. The room had a chill but it was growing warmer. The lights were turned down to a cosy gloom. It was The Little Frog’s back room, kept for special functions or for when the main restaurant was exceptionally busy. There was a table and a sideboard for the wine and for serving the food, and space, too, so that the ones who arrived early could mill about for a while, and some extra chairs if they wanted to sit.
‘All right?’ Ward standing by the fire with a glass in his hand. He was quality-testing the champagne. Or so he said.
‘Yes.’
The table looked fantastic. Gaston had found a silver serving dish for the centrepiece, long and narrow with a handle at each end, and Maddy had bought some flowers from Belles Bouquets in High Street, just some princess lilies, creamy white with a purple blush in the throat, a mound of them, up and spilling out with a few spiky leaves to give the extra definition. Less was more with such things. So the flowers and the glassware, the silver cutlery and the white linen, the glow of the fire and the dim lights, all made it seem like an occasion. She wanted it to be an occasion. Something to remember.
Ward looked at his watch. ‘Almost kick-off,’ he said.
‘How’s the wine?’
‘Fine, fine. Just a little …’ He lifted his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, searching for the word. Then he realised. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sorry, Poppet.’ He took another mouthful from his glass and headed to the sideboard. ‘There’s a sauvignon blanc here, if you’d rather.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Only asking.’ Light tone. ‘Who’s going to be first, do you suppose? Col and Heidi?’
‘Lisa and Tom.’
‘You think?’ Coming back towards her, bearing the two glasses, handing her one. ‘Cheers.’ Raising his. And hers to meet him. Touch. Like a little bell.
‘Well done,’ he said.
‘Not me. Gaston mostly.’
‘No, but your idea. Your initiative. You’re a good organiser, Mad. You know? You get things done.’
‘Thank you.’ Happy at the compliment. ‘I do wonder if we should have had the kids here.’
‘What? All of them?’
‘Well, Josie and James, anyway.’
‘No. Time enough,’ he said. ‘Time enough when we’re all old and grey and they’re grown up. They can organise things then. They can run around and make sure poor old grandma’s got her slippers.’
She laughed. ‘Stop it, you’re depressing me.’
‘It’ll happen, though. Old age. I mean, do you suppose we’ll all be here in another twenty years?’
‘You mean here? Celebrating Larry and Syl’s fortieth at The Little Frog?’ It was a strange thought. Not depressing exactly because it seemed so improbable.
‘Would it be so bad?’ Ward asked. Because, of course, it would be exactly what he wanted.
‘Twenty years is a long time and we have things to do. I mean, once you’re Mayor, you might think about Parliament.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Poppet.’ Looking doubtful and amused at the same time. But then a thought struck him. ‘You could, though.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
Smiling. She could feel herself smiling. Why not?
Colin held the front door to let Heidi through first. She stepped past him, brief press of her elbow against his stomach. He followed her inside into the main room of the restaurant. The door by which they entered was in the middle of one long wall. There were maybe a dozen tables, most of them in the space to the left. To the right was the kitchen and, in front of that, a counter where the till was. A woman there. Gaston’s hostess, Annette, looking up as they came in. Dark hair and a narrow bony face, a big mouth, smiling when she saw who it was, walking towards them now.
‘Bonsoir. Nice to see you.’ A heavy French accent on the English phrase. She held out her hands, waiting for their coats. Heidi’s first, draping it across her arm. Colin tried to juggle the package as he removed his own but, in the end, he gave it to Heidi.
‘We’re in the inner sanctum, I guess,’ he said.
Annette smiled, tipped her head to one side. A lean woman, slight build. Not much in the way of breasts. A bony ride.
‘Of course,’ she said.
Was she really French? He could never quite decide.
Annette gestured for them to precede her towards the counter, towards the door almost hidden away there. It led into a narrow corridor. An arrow on the wall in front of them pointed down the passage to the right: Toilets. To the left a wooden door, kauri panels, knob down at thigh level. Heidi turning it, moving on through.
Voices, warmth. Here they were. Ward and Maddy. Lisa and Tom. Faces turning as they came in.
‘Hello.’ Ward drew out the word and raised his hand, his good hand, like someone waving at you from the other side of the road.
Heidi moved towards him, allowed herself to be hovered over, kissed on the cheek. Colin, watching, waited to find out what she would do with Tom, but before he had a chance to see, Maddy was there in front of him.
‘Hello.’ Smiling at him, that little Maddy smile that lifted more on the left of her mouth than the right. He leaned towards her, touching her elbow, kissing her on the cheek.
‘You’re looking gorgeous,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Touch of her fingers at his wrist. Heidi and Ward were over by the sideboard. She was putting the present there, with the others.
‘I expect you’d like a drink,’ Maddy said, waving him forward.
‘I would indeed.’
Tom and Lisa were to the right of the fireplace but he ignored them, mostly, didn’t catch their eyes.
‘Apéritif,’ he said to Ward’s big back.
‘Ah, Colin.’ Turning. ‘Yes, yes. It’s nothing special. Just a Deutz.’ He had the bottle in his hand, a flute in the other, pouring, handing it to Heidi. ‘And one for monsieur.’ He pronounced it ‘messier’.
‘Thanks, me old boot.’
‘You’re well?’ Ward asked.
‘I’m all right. Better for a day not thinking about other people’s financial crap.’ Taking the glass, drinking. He would really rather have had a Scotch, a couple of Scotches. There was a bottle there. Laphroaig. Unopened. For Larry’s benefit, no doubt. Patience, he told himself.
‘How about you?’ he asked.
‘Million dollars,’ Ward said.
‘I should hope so.’
Together, he and Ward turned towards the others. Heidi was over by the table, looking at the flower arrangement. Maddy standing with Tom and Lisa. Colin raised his glass to the three of them. Tom and Maddy responded in kind. Lisa just smiled. He remembered their encounter in Hardy’s this morning. It had felt strange, talking to her like that, almost as if they were a couple, together. And he had thought, just for a second, was it possible? Could he have her back? If things fell apart with Heidi, could he go to Lisa and say, hey, you know, why don’t we try again? The idea appealed to him, not because it would happen (how unlikely was that?) but because just thinking it was possible gave the world a hopeful spin, a yellow tone.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Ward said. ‘Monty Kerrington. All signed up. I’ve invited him Tuesday, to meet a few of the members. You might like to join us.’
‘Sure. Why not? Will Larry be there?’
‘I’m not sure. He … Ah, speak of the Devil!’ Attention suddenly towards the door, which was opening. Sylvia was coming in, Larry behind her.
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‘Surprise!’ Ward moving forward with arms spread wide in welcome.
‘Good Lord!’ Sylvia laughed.
‘Happy anniversary!’ someone said. Was it Maddy or Lisa?
When they finally got to the table, there was a fuss about the seating arrangements. Ward didn’t care but Maddy was annoyed. A couple of her labels had got switched somehow. Colin wasn’t supposed to be next to Lisa and opposite Heidi. He was supposed to be next to Heidi with Tom next to Lisa. It didn’t seem to bother Lisa, though.
‘Come on,’ she said, grinning at Colin. ‘We can do this, can’t we?’
Bad luck. Maddy didn’t like her plans getting out of whack. Ward could see the little lines between her eyes deepening as people ignored the fact that the labels were wrong and sat down, telling her, Look, how good we’re being, taking our places exactly where we’re told, like good boys and girls. She didn’t like being teased. He caught her eye, winked at her, gave her a little shrug of his shoulders to show he understood. She deliberately deepened her frown for a second and lifted the corners of her mouth in a pretend smile. It was all right, basically. Of course it was.
In actual fact, Ward preferred the new arrangement. It would be easier to talk to Colin sitting there, opposite and one along, and he would rather talk to Colin than Tom. He tried to like Tom but it was hard. Tom didn’t make small talk. You could chat away to him and he would say nothing at all back to you, as if you were talking drivel. Ward always felt that Tom disapproved of him, not morally, but intellectually. Well, morally, too, if you counted the other thing, but Tom didn’t know about that. Nobody knew about that and Ward didn’t want to think about it either, not tonight, not ever. He had put that from his mind, locked it up and thrown away the key. Except he hadn’t quite, had he? A feeling of doom, a feeling of panic.
He turned, looked at Larry, who was supping on his wine. Ward caught his eye.
‘How now, my pretty knave! How dost thou?’ Larry grinning at him.
Ward lifted his glass in the toast. ‘Buttocks!’
‘Trees!’
Laughing, then. Made him feel better.