by Moyes, Jojo
Above them the rain beat thunderously on the roof. Where it hit the ground in front of them, it splashed up into the hut, making Mr. Beans jump.
“So I thought maybe I should just keep an eye on her. But then she went into the station waiting room, and there were these guys there in uniform, and she sits down with them and starts chatting away, and they’re obviously loving it, so I thought maybe she knew them. They all seemed like they knew each other. I thought maybe they’d all been to the dance together.”
Lottie’s mind was reeling with the thought of what Mrs. Holden would say at the picture of her daughter drunkenly engaging servicemen in conversation. It also explained why she hadn’t brought her satin slingbacks home; she had told Mrs. Holden that a girl from secretarial school had stolen them.
“And at one point she sits on this guy’s lap, and she’s laughing and laughing, so I figured she must know him, and I walked away, back to the ticket office. And then—it must have been about five minutes later—I hear this shouting, and then a woman’s voice shouting, and after a few minutes I think I should probably take a look, and—”
“They were attacking her,” said Lottie, for whom this story was beginning to ring some bells.
“Attacking her?” Guy looked puzzled. “No, they weren’t attacking her. They had her shoe.”
“What?”
“Her shoe. They had this pale pink shoe of hers, and they were dancing around holding it up so that she couldn’t get it.”
“Her shoe?”
“Yes. And she was so rotten that she kept bumping into things and falling over. And I watched for a minute, but then I thought it was pretty unfair, as she obviously didn’t know what she was doing. So I stepped in and asked them to give her her shoe back.”
Lottie stared at him. “And what did they do?”
“Oh, they were pretty sarky to begin with. One of them was asking me if I fancied my chances. Ironic, really, given the result. And to be honest, Lottie, I was pretty polite with them, because I didn’t fancy my chances against three of them. But they were okay guys, really. Eventually they just threw the shoe at her and went off up the platform.”
“So they didn’t try to grab her at all?”
“Grab her? No. I mean they may have grabbed her a little when she sat on the guy’s lap. But not so as she got upset or anything.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, I just thought someone really needed to take her home. I thought she’d probably got off quite lightly, to be honest. But she was in such a state that she could easily have fallen asleep on the train, and I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to be alone . . . looking like that.”
“No . . .”
He shrugged. “So I took her back to her aunt’s place, and her aunt was pretty suspicious of me to begin with, but I left her my name and number so that she could call my mother and check that I was . . . well, you know. And then Celia rang me the next day to apologize and say thank you, and we went for a cup of coffee . . . and . . . well . . .”
Lottie was still too stunned by this version of events to absorb the implications of his last words. She shook her head.
“She was drunk? You looked after her because she was drunk?”
“Ah. But she told me the truth about that. She had thought she was only drinking ginger ale, but someone at this dance had evidently been slipping vodka or something in there, so before she knew it she was all over the place. Pretty bad behavior, really.”
“She told you that.”
Guy frowned. “Yes. I felt pretty sorry for her, to be honest.”
There was a long silence. The sky outside was now neatly bisected into blue and black, the sun already reflected in the wet road.
It was Lottie who finally broke the silence. She stood, so that Mr. Beans leaped happily out onto the path, ears pricked at the departing storm.
“I think I’d better go back,” she said briskly. And began to walk.
“She’s a nice girl.” His voice caught on the wind behind her.
Lottie turned briefly, her face tense and furious. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
THE OTHER LADIES HAD DEFINITELY DEVELOPED SOMETHING of an air when she mentioned her morning walks. So Deirdre Colquhoun felt rather disinclined to tell them about her latest discovery, compelling as it had been.
No, Sarah Chilton had been rather curt when she’d mentioned Mr. Armand on Tuesday, so there was no reason at all she should tell them that for two mornings running now she had seen something she considered just as dramatic. The men didn’t seem to come anymore, so it had been rather a shock to see her, and Deirdre Colquhoun had had to pull her little opera glasses from her handbag to make sure it was actually the same woman. Wading into the waves, she had been, not seeming to notice the cold or anything, in that tight black swimsuit of hers, her hair all scraped back into an unfashionable bun. And even as she waded in, in a manner that Deirdre Colquhoun frankly found a little mannish, you could see she was sobbing. Yes, sobbing, loudly in broad daylight, as if her heart would break.
SIX
It was not the welcome Mrs. Holden had planned. That welcome had involved her standing pristine in her good wool dress with the matching belt, her two youngest children in front of her, as she opened the doors to welcome their visitors, the wealthy, cosmopolitan family to whom they were now going to be linked by marriage. That version had the Bancrofts pulling up in their gleaming Rover 90 four-door sedan (she knew it to be this model, as Mrs. Ansty had heard it from Jim Farrelly, who worked the desk of the Riviera Hotel) and her skipping out past an immaculate front lawn and greeting them both like long-lost friends—perhaps even as Sarah Chilton and one or another of the ladies just happened to be passing by.
In that version, the preferred version, her husband emerged behind her, perhaps placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder, the kind of simple gesture that spoke volumes about a marriage. The children, meanwhile, smiled sweetly, kept their good clothes clean, and held up their hands to shake those of the Bancrofts in a rather charming manner before offering to show them indoors.
They did not wait until two minutes before guests were due to arrive to reveal that not only had they found a dead fox in the road down by the Methodist church but they had scraped it up into a seaside bucket, laid it out on the floor in the living room, and, with the help of Mrs. Holden’s best sewing scissors, planned to make a fox fur from it.
Neither, in the preferred version, did Dr. Holden announce that he had been called out to a sick patient and didn’t expect to be back before teatime, despite its being a Saturday and despite almost the whole of Merham’s being quite aware of the fact that his secretary, that redheaded girl who always managed to put a superior tone in her voice when she answered the telephone to Dr. Holden’s wife, was leaving town the following day to take up a position in Colchester. Mrs. Holden closed her eyes briefly and summoned up an image of her rose garden. It was what she did when she didn’t want to think too hard about that woman. It was important to think about nice things.
Perhaps most important, in the preferred version Mrs. Holden wasn’t also faced with three of the most miserable young people she had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Celia and Guy, far from being bathed in the soft glow of the newly affianced, had been decidedly surly and had barely spoken to each other all morning. Lottie, meanwhile, had hovered silently in the background, brooding darkly in that way she had. It really made her look most unattractive. And none of them seemed to care that she had put forth so much effort to make the afternoon go so smoothly; every time she jollied them up a bit, tried to get them to put a bit of a brave face on or at least give her a hand keeping control of the children, they would variously shrug, look at the floor, or, in Celia’s case, look meaningfully at Guy, her eyes glittering with tears, and announce that she “simply couldn’t be expected to be cheerful every darned day.”
“Now, I have really had enough of this, dears. Really. This place has an atmosphere like a
morgue. Lottie, you go and make the children clear up that blasted animal. Get Virginia to help. Guy, you go and wait outside for the car. And, Celia, you go upstairs and brighten yourself up a bit. Put some makeup on. These are your in-laws you’re meeting, for goodness’ sakes. It’s your wedding.”
“That’s if there’s going to be a wedding,” said Celia miserably, so that Lottie’s head whipped around.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there’s going to be a wedding. Now, go and put some makeup on. You can borrow a bit of my scent if you like, perk yourself up a bit.”
“What, the Avon stuff?”
“If you like.”
Celia, looking momentarily cheered, raced upstairs. Lottie trudged mutinously to the drawing room, where Virginia was still shaking from her discovery of the road-kill and Freddie was lying on the sofa theatrically clutching himself and complaining that he would never, ever, ever be able to sit down again, ever.
Lottie knew what was making Celia so miserable, and it caused her equal measures of delight and self-loathing. Late the previous evening, as the storm receded, Celia had asked Lottie to come up to their room and once there, seated on the side of the bed, had confided that she needed to talk to her. Lottie knew she had flushed. She sat very still.
Stiller when Celia said, “It’s Guy.”
“He’s been really off with me for the past few days, Lots. Not himself at all.”
Lottie had been unable to speak. It was as if her tongue had swollen, filling the entire space within her mouth.
Celia studied her nails and then, abruptly, lifted her hand to her mouth and bit one off.
“When he first came here, he was like his London self, you know? He was so sweet, so caring. He was always asking me whether I was all right, whether I needed anything. He was so affectionate. He used to take me around to the back porch while you were all clearing up after tea and kiss me until I thought my head was going to spin right off . . .”
Lottie coughed, realizing she had stopped breathing.
Celia, oblivious, stared at her hand and looked up, her blue eyes brimming with tears.
“He hasn’t kissed me properly for four whole days. I tried to get him to last night, and he just dismissed me, muttered something about there being plenty of time later. But how can he feel like that, Lots? How can he not care whether he kisses me or not? That’s the kind of behavior you expect from married men.”
Lottie fought to contain the swell of something uncomfortably like excitement leaping within her. Then flinched as Celia turned toward her and in one swift movement threw her arms around Lottie’s neck and burst into sudden sobs.
“I don’t know what I’ve done, Lots. I don’t know whether I’ve said something and he’s just not telling me. It’s entirely possible—you know how I do chatter on about nothing and I don’t always think about what it is I’ve said. Or perhaps I just haven’t looked pretty enough lately. I do try and everything. I’ve been wearing all sorts of nice things that Mummy bought me, but he just . . . he just doesn’t seem to like me as much as he did before.”
She began to sob again, her chest heaving against Lottie’s. Lottie stroked her back mechanically, feeling treacherously relieved that Celia couldn’t see her face.
“I just can’t work it out. What is it, Lots? You’ve spent enough time with him now. You must know what he’s like.”
Lottie breathed in. Tried to keep her voice steady. “I’m sure you’re imagining it.”
“Oh, don’t be such a cold fish, Lottie. You know I’d help you, if you asked. Come on, what do you think he’s thinking?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to say.”
“But you must have some idea. What can I do? What am I supposed to do?”
Lottie closed her eyes. “It might just be nerves,” she said eventually. “Perhaps men get nerves just like we do. I mean, with his parents coming and all. It’s a big thing, isn’t it, introducing one’s parents?”
Celia pulled back and stared intently at Lottie.
“Perhaps he feels more tense about it than you realize.”
“You know, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that at all. Perhaps he is nervous.” She smoothed back her hair, glancing out toward the window. “Because no man would want to admit he was nervous, would he? It’s not really the kind of thing men do.”
Lottie shook her head, wishing with a kind of grim fervor that Celia would just go. She would say anything, do anything, if she could get Celia to leave her alone.
But Celia moved back to Lottie and gave her a clinging hug. “Oh, you are clever, Lots! I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit . . . well, distant lately. It’s just I’ve been so wrapped up in Guy and weddings and everything. It can’t have been much fun for you.”
Lottie winced. “I’ve been fine,” she croaked.
“Right. Well. I’ll go downstairs and see if I can get the rotten old pig to pay me some attention.” Celia laughed. It still sounded a bit like a sob.
Lottie stared at her departing back before sinking slowly onto the bed.
IT HAD ALL BECOME REAL THEN. THE FACT THAT GUY and Celia were really getting married. The fact that Lottie was in love with a man she genuinely couldn’t have, a man who, more importantly, had done nothing to suggest that her feelings were reciprocated, other than to accompany her on a few walks to a house he liked and to admire some silly, childish flowers in her hair. Because that was it, wasn’t it? When you boiled it down, there was nothing to say that Guy liked her any more than he liked, say, Freddie. Because he spent lots of time with Freddie, too. And even if he did like her, there was no way they could do anything about it. Look at the state Celia had been in just because he’d paid her slightly less attention over the past few days.
Oh, God, why did you have to come here? Lottie groaned, resting her forehead on her knees. I was perfectly content until you came here. And then Mrs. Holden called her down to give Virginia a hand rearranging the good silver.
CELIA, DESPITE HER POSITIVE INTENTIONS, HAD BEEN unable to shake off her sense of dejection. And possibly with reason. Lottie watched as she paraded her newest dress in front of Guy, as she pinched his arm playfully and laid her head in a coquettish manner upon his shoulder. Lottie watched as Guy patted her with the comfortable detachment of a man patting his dog, and Celia’s smile become rigid in response. And Lottie fought to control the simmering cauldron of emotions bubbling inside her. And went to help Sylvia lace up her dressy shoes.
FOR A MAN WHO HADN’T SEEN HIS PARENTS FOR ALMOST a month, a man who professed to adore his mother and thought his father one of the finest men he knew, Guy had seemed less than enthralled by the prospect of their imminent arrival. At first Lottie had put his incessant pacing around outside down to impatience; then she looked closer and realized that he was arguing with himself under his breath, like the mad lady down at the park who used to wave a pair of drawers at anyone who dared venture onto what she thought of as her bowling green. Guy’s face did not look eager; it looked troubled and ill tempered, and when he shrugged off Freddie’s persistent requests to play tennis again—and with an uncharacteristic expletive—Lottie watched silently from the drawing room window and prayed passionately to whatever deity it was up there that it was she who was the cause of, and the remedy for, his misery.
SUSAN HOLDEN LOOKED AT THESE THREE MISERABLE young people and wondered that any of them would have survived the war. Not a stiff upper lip or an ounce of backbone among them. If she, with the troubles she had—with Henry’s wretched absences and Freddie’s obsessions and Sarah Chilton still making pointed comments about how lucky it was that they had managed to get Celia betrothed “all things considered”—could face the world with a smile, then you’d think these ruddy children could just get hold of themselves and brighten up a bit.
She pursed her lips at her reflection, then, pausing for a moment, reached into her bag and pulled out a lipstick. It was quite a bold one for her, not one she would have
worn in front of the salon ladies, but, applying it carefully (wincing slightly as she bent forward), Mrs. Holden told herself that some days one needed all the props one could get.
That redheaded girl wore lipstick the color of Christmas candles. The first time Mrs. Holden had called into Henry’s office and seen her there, she’d been unable to take her eyes off it.
Perhaps that had been the point.
Virginia called up the stairs.
“Mrs. Holden, your visitors are here.”
Mrs. Holden checked her hair in the mirror and took a deep breath. Please let Henry come home in a good mood, she prayed.
“Let them in, dear. I’m coming down.”
“And Freddie is refusing to let go of that . . . that dead thing. He says he wants to keep it in his bedroom. It’s made the rug smell awful.”
Mrs. Holden closed her eyes. And thought, with some desperation, of roses.
“WHAT A SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL GARDEN. HOW WONDERFULLY clever you are.” Sweet words, to a nervous, underappreciated potential in-law. And Susan Holden, still knocked onto a back footing by Dee Dee Bancroft’s broad American accent (Guy hadn’t said anything!), found herself quite shaky in her gratitude.
“Are those Albertines? Do you know they’re simply my favorite roses? Cannot grow them in the darned excuse for a garden that we have in Port Antonio. The wrong soil, apparently. Or I had them too close to something else. Then, roses can be terribly tricky, can’t they? Prickly in more ways than one.”
“Oh, yes,” said Susan Holden, trying not to look at Dee Dee’s long brown legs. From here she could have sworn that the woman wasn’t wearing any hosiery.
“Oh, you have no idea how I envy you this garden. Look, Guyhoney, they’ve got hostas. Not a slug bite out of them. I don’t know how you do it.”