Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “I’ll get Vera to lay another couple of places at dinner then, shall I?” Piers went on lightly. “I was just off to decant the port.”

  “Oh—yes, of course.” Eleanor looked flustered suddenly. “I’m so sorry, we’re going to submit you to a ghastly black-tie dinner tonight.” She grimaced. “That’s your penance, I’m afraid. But actually, it’s perfect. You can meet all our neighbours in one fell swoop—or all your neighbours, should I say!”

  “Oh God—you’re having a party. No, we couldn’t possibly—”

  “Of course you can. It couldn’t matter less,” Piers boomed. “The more the merrier, in fact.”

  “Particularly with the motley crew we’ve got coming this evening,” Eleanor said with feeling. “It’s a bit of a duty party, and some of them definitely need diluting. It’ll give you some idea of what you’re getting yourselves into. You might wish you’d never come!”

  “But—I haven’t got anything to wear,” I stammered. “I left a case of evening clothes with my neighbour. I was going to pick them up later. Why don’t Alex and I just go to the pub?” I said desperately. “We could maybe leave Rufus here with Theo and—”

  “Nonsense, I won’t hear of it,” said Piers. “I’ve got a spare dinner jacket Alex can wear and I’m sure Eleanor can find you something to fit, can’t you, darling?”

  “To fit” was an unfortunate phrase, and I could feel everyone wondering how the fuller-figured Imogen, without the assistance of a crowbar and a jar of Swarfega, would ever fit into one of Eleanor’s teeny-weeny dresses, but Eleanor was all fluttery hands and assurances.

  “Of course I can. In fact—I have the very thing. Come with me, Imogen.”

  She seized my hand and, in a moment, was bounding up the stairs with me in tow.

  “Oh, but I’d better check on Rufus, I haven’t seen him since—”

  “He’s in the playroom,” Piers informed me, striding under the staircase towards the dining room. “I saw him as I came through, happy as a sand boy with Theo’s train set. You girls go and play. Alex, come and help me decant this port, would you? It’s a Fonseca ’66, rather a good one, I think. My father laid it down aeons ago and I’m slightly concerned that if we don’t drink it soon it’ll be vinegar…”

  And so it was, that moments later, whilst my husband spookily acted out the decanting-wine-with-Piers scene I’d so recently envisaged, I found myself in Eleanor’s enormous chintzy bedroom being squeezed, like a very pale fat sausage, into a red velvet dress the size of a napkin.

  “It’s not actually velvet, you see, it’s velour, so it stretches,” Eleanor assured me, panting with the exertion of doing up the side zip as I held my arm aloft. Embarrassingly, my pits needed a shave and I wasn’t convinced they were terribly fragrant after loading the car and the journey. “It’s one size, and it really does fit anyone. My sister wore it last Christmas, and she’s the size of a house.”

  Oh, marvellous.

  “There!” She stood back in triumph as I regarded myself in the long mirror.

  My hands instantly went to cover my cleavage. The dress was very low cut, so low you could practically see my tummy button, and as I spilled voluptuously over the top, my hips splayed out even more voluptuously at the bottom. My hand scrambled in horror for the zip.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly wear this.”

  “Nonsense, it’s perfect. Honestly, Imogen, you look terrific. You should wear dresses like this more often, and look, I’ve got these amazing bra cups that you just slip in and attach with glue so you don’t have any straps.”

  She was producing a couple of black triangles but I’d already scrambled out.

  “No, no, honestly.”

  “Or you can just put Sellotape over your nipples so they don’t stand out like organ stops. I’ve done that before.”

  Lordy.

  “Um, maybe some trousers…”

  “Well…” she crossed doubtfully to her wardrobe. “These Joseph ones are Lycra, so maybe…” I snatched them gratefully but of course it was wildly optimistic: I could hardly get them over my thighs. I did manage—stupidly, and just to prove a point—to do the top button up, but not the zip, and then turned and pretended to view my bottom in the mirror.

  “Mmm, not sure,” I gasped, for gasp was all I could do. Then of course I couldn’t get the wretched things off.

  Eleanor kindly turned away and pretended to tidy her drawers as I struggled, finally flopping back on her four-poster bed to peel them off with sweaty palms. She kept up a constant chatter to hide my blushes, but as she rooted around yet again in her wardrobe and I sat on the side of her bed in my undies, I wondered, wretchedly, what on earth I was doing here? Scrambling into her clothes, which were too small for me; borrowing her cottage, which was too small for her. Who was the fool?

  “The red,” she said decisively, whipping out the velour number again. “With these fantastic M&S grippy pants that hold all your bits in. Hang on, they’re around somewhere…” She was rummaging again.

  “I have…the pants!” I squeaked with feeling. Christ, I wasn’t going to borrow those too!

  She sensed the defiance in my voice and turned quickly. “Look, I’m sorry you’ve been landed with this wretched party,” she said anxiously, “and I’m sorry you saw the cottage in such a dreadful state, but I just know everything’s going to be fine. You’ll love it here, really you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Her eyes were wide and appealing, and actually this should have been my moment. My moment to say, yes, OK, I’m sure I will love it, but tell me, why were you crying just now, Eleanor? And why did you fall on my husband’s neck and gaze adoringly into his eyes, and why do I always get the feeling you’re after him, and why should I believe you’re not when you wrecked his marriage to Tilly, pretended to be her friend, and then stole him from her? But I didn’t. Perhaps because I didn’t want to know the answers, and perhaps because I knew that by my coming down here and accepting her hospitality, she held all the cards and I held none.

  Six months, I told myself grimly as I stalked off to the sumptuous spare room she’d directed me to, clutching the red dress and a pair of high heels; six months was precisely how long our house was let for and that was precisely how long we’d stay. No longer. This was a short sabbatical to refresh our finances; a couple of terms out of school for Rufus, and then we’d be on our way; back in time for him to start the new school year back at prep school in September, and back to our old house too. And I’d tell Alex as much tonight, I resolved as I padded through the thickly carpeted bedroom to the bathroom. I turned on the taps and seized the bottle of Jo Malone placed considerately by the side of the bath. Sloshed a dollop in. Yes, I’d tell him just as soon as we had a moment together; before supper.

  Well, naturally that moment didn’t arise, because while I was having a bath, Alex was in one of the many other bathrooms this huge house boasted, having a shower, and evidently changing there too, because when he finally popped his head round the bathroom door saying he was going downstairs and did I want him to wait for me, he was in his dinner jacket. I had my toothbrush in my mouth and a mouthful of froth, and by the time I’d rinsed, swallowed and yelled, “Yes I bloody do!” he’d gone.

  By the time I’d put on my make-up and settled a highly over-excited Rufus into Theo’s room amidst much giggling and talk of farting, and then summoned all my courage for the descent down the vast sweeping staircase, it was getting late. The red dress, ably assisted by my very own grippy knickers and the two bra cups—a feat of engineering that relied worryingly on something called body-glue—actually didn’t look too bad. I caught a glimpse of myself in the long mirror halfway down the stairs. Rather obvious, of course, a voluptuous blonde in a skimpy red dress, but as long as I ate precisely nothing, I decided, and didn’t turn round too quickly and knock anyone out with my jiggling bosoms, I’d be fine. I wobbled downstairs, breathing in hard.

  Quite a few guests had arrived and gathered in the beautiful
yellow drawing room with the ornate plaster ceiling, and Piers was buzzing around being the perfect host, getting drinks. They were mostly middle-aged, these neighbours—and by neighbours I knew we were talking people who lived in the same county and not next door—the women formidable, statuesque, with well-upholstered bosoms and lots of powder and jewellery, and the husbands, mainly ruddy-faced with paunches and dandruffy shoulders. They were standing in little clutches, braying loudly and shrieking with laughter, obviously terribly familiar with one another. One much younger man, with flashy dark looks and black curls that hung over his collar, was standing apart on his own, sipping a whisky. His head was cocked contemplatively as he regarded the spines of the books in the shelves. His head didn’t move, but his eyes tracked right to look at me as I came in; they roved up and down as he mentally undressed me, which, since I was only wearing a napkin, didn’t take long. When he’d finished he straightened up and his face lit up as if to say—ooh, good, a trollop. I flushed hotly and ignored his grin.

  My eyes darted instead to—ah, yes, there they were. By the fireplace. Eleanor was leaning on one end of the ornate Adam mantel in a simple black sheath dress and pearls, whilst Alex propped up the other, supremely elegant in a borrowed dinner jacket, which, he being tall and slim like Piers, fitted like a glove. He was flicking back his fair hair as he laughed at something Eleanor said, and he looked so at home, so absolutely as if he belonged here, it almost took my breath away.

  I fumbled in my bag for an uncharacteristic cigarette. Would Piers even notice if Alex moved in here, I wondered? If he sat with them at breakfast, strolled round the garden with them admiring the roses as a threesome, crawled into bed with them at night? The smoke hit my lungs and I suppressed a cough. It occurred to me that there might even be some grand plan going on. Perhaps the Latimer marriage was cold and loveless? Perhaps he beat her? Perhaps Piers had affairs. Maybe he was glad to have another man around; maybe it took the heat off him, or maybe, I thought wildly, he was secretly gay? Maybe he’d fathered his children and now wanted to be let off the leash? My mind whirled with possibilities and what with the very tight pants and the cigarette, I felt quite faint. It took me a moment to realise Piers was at my elbow, offering me a glass of champagne.

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “That’s quite a dress, Imogen,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over me appreciatively.

  “Thanks. It’s Eleanor’s.”

  “Is it? Well, it doesn’t look like that on her. I’d have remembered.”

  Right. Perhaps not gay. Perhaps very straight, so perhaps I could have an affair with him? That would be neat, wouldn’t it? If a little yuk-a-roo.

  “Sorry to be boring, Imogen, but we’re a bit of a nonsmoking house. It’s Mummy, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I looked around wildly for somewhere to put it out, and for Piers’s mother, who was no doubt already fixing me with a steely glare.

  “Oh, finish it now you’ve lit it. She’s not here tonight. No, I just meant for future reference. Tell you what, come and meet Robert and Pamela Ferrers. They’re terribly nice. Farmers.”

  Farmers, right. By that I knew he meant landowners. Gentry. Probably the High Sheriff and his wife. He guided me across to a tall, thin couple in the corner.

  “This is Imogen, Alex’s wife. They’re taking Shepherd’s Cottage,” Piers was saying.

  Alex’s wife. Always Alex’s wife, never Imogen Cameron, she’s a wonderful artist, you must see her paintings. Oh, stop it, Imogen. Stop carping.

  Pamela was haughty and imperious-looking with a hawklike nose down which she peered from her great height. I instantly warmed to her though when she affected a mock cockney accent. “’Ello, luv, I’m Pamela.”

  “Ooh, ’ello, pet, I’m Imogen!” I grinned.

  “You settlin’ in nicely, then?”

  I gulped. Flushed to my roots. Shit. She spoke like that. Except it wasn’t a cockney accent, it was a strong West Country accent. Her husband was watching me closely. Piers looked aghast.

  “Y-yeah. We are.”

  “Tha’s nice. Tha’s a grand little cottage you got therre. A peach of a place, my Barb always says, don’t you, Barb?”

  Bob didn’t answer. He was staring at me.

  “Ooh, it’s that orright,” I faltered, reddening under his gaze. “A—a peach!” Oh, that the ground would swallow me up. I knew, though, that if I wasn’t to offend her, or her beady-eyed husband, I had to continue in this bucolic vein. All night, if need be.

  “Tha’s lovely soil you got down there,” Pamela was saying sagely, tapping my arm. “Drains well an’ all. Lovely an’ loamy.”

  “Mmm…ooh, it is. Loamy!”

  She looked rather quizzical, hopefully puzzled by lack of small talk and not my peculiar accent. Oh God, please don’t let her ask me where I was from. Could I bluff my way, agriculturally speaking, through my humble rural origins on some smallholding in Somerset, perhaps? Or was she au fait with every smallholding there was from here to Land’s End? Knew every farmer and their straw-chewing daughters? Weren’t they all related, these people? Or was that Norfolk? Piers, happily, was alive to the pitfalls, and was steering me away, saving my bacon.

  “And you haven’t met the Middletons either,” he said loudly, walking me across the room to a new set of faces.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “So much.”

  “My pleasure,” he growled. “Now this is Tom and Sandra Middleton. More tenant farmers.”

  “Got it,” I breathed as the Middletons broke off their conversation to smile interestedly. Tenant farmers. The real McCoy. Not landowning gentry stalking around waving shooting sticks and barking orders, but proper, rustic folk, getting their hands dirty. Sandra Middleton, petite and pretty, smiled and extended her hand.

  “Hi.”

  My fingers still clenched my cigarette, which had gone out ages ago and was now a dead butt. I looked around wildly for an ashtray but there wasn’t one, so I popped it in my open handbag.

  “Hi,” I grinned, and took her hand.

  “Ah, more fellow soil tillers!” said Tom cheerfully as I shook hands with him too. Piers had moved on to greet some late arrivals coming through the door, both about ninety and on two sticks apiece. Where was his wife while all this meeting and greeting was going on? Still propping up the fireplace with my husband, no doubt.

  Tom had to repeat his opening gambit.

  “Hmm? Oh, no, we’re not farmers,” I laughed. “We’ve just taken one of the cottages for a few months. We’re going back to London in September,” I added firmly.

  “Oh, really?” Tom looked surprised, but Sandra, clearly delighted to have first crack at some new blood, was busily filling me in on her role as helper at the local playgroup. Anxious not to make any more blunders, I found myself blithely agreeing that I might well come in to help the little ones with their reading, and maybe even take charge of the Show and Tell table, until Sandra was practically hyperventilating with excitement. Suddenly she rested a cool hand on my arm.

  “God, you’re smoking.”

  “I know, I’ve already been told off by Piers, but someone else is too.” The man with the curls I’d secretly christened Heathcliff was puffing away by the open French window. I caught his eye and glanced away quickly.

  “No, your bag.” I glanced down, and saw to my horror that the little straw bag on my arm was on fire. Smoke was pouring from it and flames were even now licking the bamboo handle.

  “Oh!”

  Instinctively I shook it off. It smouldered brightly on the carpet. “Oh God—quick!”

  In one swift movement, a man’s arm reached across, picked up the handle, and flicked it deftly into the fire, between Eleanor and Alex’s legs. I remember their faces, turning as one, in horror.

  “What the hell…?” Alex looked aghast.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry!”

  “Anything precious in there?” Tom Middleton was jabbing at the burning bag with a poker. A bit of a crowd h
ad gathered.

  “No, just a lipstick, but—oh God, Eleanor, your carpet!”

  All heads swivelled like a Wimbledon crowd to look at the nasty dark patch in the Persian rug.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s ancient.” She tripped lightly across and rubbed it with her toe. “It’s only singed. Adds character. And look, I can flip this one over it.” She deftly pulled a smaller fireside rug to cover the burn. “There. He’ll be none the wiser.” She glanced across at Piers who, happily, was still busy with the octogenarians. “It’ll be our secret,” she giggled. “Anyway, I’ve never really liked it.”

  Alex was by my side now. “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed.

  “I put a cigarette butt in my bag. It obviously hadn’t quite gone out.”

  “Obviously! Why didn’t you find an ashtray?”

  “Because there wasn’t one. And I would have thrown it in the fire,” I snarled suddenly, “but you and Eleanor were hogging it!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he snapped, “don’t be so childish. Come on, we’re going in to dinner.”

  Seething quietly we walked silently together into the dining room, following the flow. It was a beautiful room, the walls hung with dark red silk and ancestral portraits, and tonight, lit entirely by candles, which shimmered in a sea of polished mahogany and silver and white roses. There were appreciative murmurs all round as we were shown to our seats, and I had the feeling people felt rather honoured to be here. I remembered Eleanor saying something about a duty party.

  It looked for a moment as if I had Piers on my right and the old man on two sticks on my left, but suddenly I saw Eleanor dart across to the twinkly-eyed gypsy, nod and whisper conspiratorially in my direction. In a moment the old boy had been spirited away, and in his place was Heathcliff. Irritated, I pulled my chair out, ignoring his attempt to do it for me, watching as Eleanor nipped back and directed Alex to sit next to her. She winked at me and I gave her a tight smile back. Oh, you think it’s that easy, don’t you? I thought as she turned to whisper something to Alex. Put the local stud on Imogen’s right and she’ll be happy. Meanwhile you can flirt your little socks off with my husband.