Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  “Pernod! Got some—I just haven’t put them out.” She dashed behind the bar and tore open a box. Polystyrene bobbles spilled everywhere, and we then had a very jolly time dealing out the ashtrays, one to each table. She hesitated.

  “What I really want is candles. You know, in bottles, with the wax dripping down the sides, but it’s so tacky and seventies, I just wonder…”

  “Why not?” I said staunchly. “This is a retro French café, isn’t it? You’re being intentionally kitsch.” She looked at me a moment, and then, in another, she’d whipped a whole load of waxy bottles from a cupboard behind the bar where she’d clearly stashed them, uncertain as to what they said about the proprietress.

  “Let’s light them,” I said decisively, taking a few from her and popping them round the room, adrenalin making me bossy.

  “What, at lunch time?”

  “Well, it’s a gloomy old day, and people will see them flickering invitingly through the windows. Might lure them in.”

  We lit the whole lot in the end, and even put a few on the bar, and then, with the place glowing soft and sumptuous in the candlelight, my paintings shimmering magically in the flickering flames, Molly went to the fridge and took out a bottle. She popped the cork expertly.

  “Come on, we need a drink. Even if no one else in this sodding town does.”

  I laughed and we moved to perch on stools at the bar. Molly poured us each a large glass of Chablis, and as we sipped companionably she told me about her hopes for this place; about her dream of bringing a little bit of Paris where she’d worked for some years to this small market town; about her sleepless nights as she’d borrowed more and more money to open it, about her bank manager’s misgivings, and about her despair as the clientele walked resolutely by to the Dog and Duck. To console her I told her about my own gnawing guilt that I wasn’t a real artist at all, just a dilettante fake—unwise perhaps, since she’d just taken eleven of my pictures—but she seemed to take it in her stride, and we were on the point of going beyond work to our more personal lives—which, in my case, fired by two glasses of wine on an empty stomach would probably have gushed forth torrentially—when we were saved by the bell. A tinkly one over the door that Rufus would have liked. A young couple stuck their heads round. The man looked apologetic.

  “Oh. We didn’t know if you were open yet, or—”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, we are.” Molly nearly fell off her stool, just managing to save herself, as she slipped, with a ravishing smile, behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

  I drained my glass, shooting her a wink, then, gathering up the solitary landscape we hadn’t been able to find space for and attempting to leave some money on the bar which Molly refused with a firm “On the house,” I went out into the street.

  The air was still and calm, and a soft rain was falling, so light it was almost a mist. I stood there for a moment, relishing it, letting it cool my cheeks, flushed with wine and success. I’d found a home for my pictures. I’d found a new friend—who, if I was honest would probably turn out to be more of a soul mate than Sheila. I’d had a good day. Not the first since I’d been here, but the best for a while. Still smiling foolishly and with my warm glow threatening to reach furnace proportions, I tossed the solitary picture in the back of my car, and headed off out of town.

  Thank you, Mr. Pat Flaherty, I thought, gripping the wheel tightly and raising my chin as I swept off down the narrow lanes, cow parsley brushing the sides of my car. Thank you very much indeed. If you did but know it, you’ve given me the very kick up the backside I needed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The barbecue at the Latimers’ started badly. I was getting ready upstairs, dithering between a long floaty skirt or some smart linen trousers—I’d been caught out last summer when Eleanor had asked us to an informal barbecue and there’d been two hundred people there, complete with marquee, caterers and hog roast—and was just wondering if what I actually needed was a tiara, when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Damn. I was hoping to get the answer machine.”

  “Hannah? Why, what’s up?”

  “Er, well. You’re not going to be awfully thrilled.”

  “You’re not coming?” My heart gave a quick, guilty flip. Not being responsible for my family might help enormously today.

  “Oh, no, we’re coming. But Dad’s coming too.”

  “Dad!” I sat down abruptly on the side of the bed.

  “Yes. Now don’t go ballistic, Imogen. I couldn’t help it. He rang, you see, reminding me it was his birthday—”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly, and had I remembered that we might meet for a drink, which of course I hadn’t, so I said, oh, Dad, I’m awfully sorry, we’re going out to lunch. And then of course I put the phone down and felt awful, so I rang Eleanor to say, actually, so sorry, we won’t be coming, I’ve forgotten Dad’s birthday, and she said, bring him along, the more the merrier.”

  “To which you replied, oh no I couldn’t possibly,” I growled dangerously.

  “Well, of course I did, but she wasn’t having any of it. She said he must come, and bring his girlfriend too, and that she’d got enough food to feed a battalion and—well, what could I do?”

  “You could have insisted, that’s what!” I yelped. “God—Mum, Dad, Dawn—please don’t tell me Purple Coat, too?”

  “Well, I don’t imagine he’ll leave her behind, do you?”

  I shut my eyes. “No, I don’t imagine he will. Well done, Hannah.”

  “There’s no need to be like that,” she said testily. “It wasn’t my fault and, if you must know, I’m feeling pretty lousy myself today and would rather stay at home.”

  “Sorry,” I said meekly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Chronic constipation and stomach ache, since you ask. I’ll see you later. And don’t forget a card for Dad.” And with that she put the phone down.

  Marvellous, I thought as I pulled on the floaty skirt and quickly slicked on some lipstick. My sister was honing her sanctimoniousness under the aegis of my father’s birthday, when the simple truth was that Dad never celebrated. For reasons best known to his vanity, he never wanted to be reminded of the passing of the years, was almost offended if you rang and offered birthday greetings or presents, yet this year, had chosen to come out of denial and celebrate at the Latimers’. Perfect.

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” Alex yelled up the stairs.

  “Coming!”

  I grabbed my bag and pashmina and went down. Alex, fresh from the shower, looked like he’d stepped out of the Sunday Times Style magazine: pink shirt, pale cotton trousers, blue cashmere sweater slung casually around his neck, his blond hair swept back from his forehead. A Man in his Prime, the caption read.

  “Come on, darling,” he said impatiently. “We were due there twenty minutes ago.”

  “I know, but no one’s ever on time for these things. I’ve just got to find a card for Dad.” I rifled around in the kitchen drawer—a futile gesture—found a piece of plain white paper, folded it in half and pressured Rufus into making one. As he wielded his felt pens at the table, the phone rang again. Alex rolled his eyes to heaven and left the room.

  “Hello?” I snapped, anticipating another family member.

  “Yeah, it’s Sheila here, luv. Have you got Tanya’s snake?”

  “Her what?”

  “Her snake, only she’s lost it, an’ Rufus was at our place Friday, wasn’t he? It crawls in people’s bags an’ that.”

  “Oh! Er, hang on. Rufus, have you got Tanya’s snake?” I hissed. “No, but check my book bag.”

  “You check your book bag!” I said, appalled.

  “What the hell is going on?” thundered Alex, coming back into the kitchen, jingling coins in his pocket in irritation. “Rufus, haven’t you finished that card yet? Who’s on the phone?”

  “Hannah,” I lied.

  Alex hadn’t quite warmed to Sheila yet. The one and only time he’d met her, he�
�d come home from work unexpectedly to find her and her brood filling the entire cottage and eating us out of fishfingers. “I am not running a mini welfare state!” he’d seethed to me afterwards.

  “She er, left something here the other day. Wants to wear it. I’m just going to look.”

  “Can’t it wait?” he roared as I took the stairs two at a time.

  I nipped into Rufus’s room. Book bag, book bag—ah. I snatched it from the bed and, holding it at arm’s length, peered in cautiously. Just the usual exercise books and pencils. Oh, hang on—swimming bag. I picked it up off the floor and gingerly teased out his wet towel and trunks, then realised, with horror, that there was something slimy lodged in the bottom. Lip trembling, I ran to the bathroom, tipped the bag upside down in the bath and shut my eyes as…out it dropped.

  “AARGHH!”

  I was still shaking when Alex came in. “Swimming goggles,” he said, hooking them out. “Are these what Hannah wanted?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, opening my eyes.

  “To wear today?”

  “Er…”

  “Like Biggles?”

  “N-no. Tomorrow. A fancy-dress party.”

  “Thank Christ for that. Your sister’s dress sense is eccentric at the best of times. Can we go now, please?”

  By the time we’d all tumbled out of the cottage—deciding to walk, on the grounds that we could both have a drink which I badly needed—we were indeed late. Actually, I was secretly pleased. If Eleanor had loads of people coming, I reasoned, raking a brush through my hair as we hurried along up the track, we could just creep up on the fringes and mingle discreetly, and hopefully Dad and his entourage would do the same. I lunged at Rufus’s curls with the brush, but he dodged and I put it back in my bag, taking a deep breath to steady the nerves. As we strolled up the hill, the unseasonably hot sun shimmering on the buttercups, Rufus scampering ahead, I thought, that to an impartial observer, we must look like the perfect little family. A terribly handsome man with his not altogether ghastly wife—rather losing it round the hips but still with youth on her side—their russet-haired son blowing dandelion clocks as they went. And we were the perfect little family, I thought, sneaking a sideways glance at Alex.

  He gave me a quick smile, making an effort to forget his irritation. “All right?” he said gruffly.

  “Yes, fine. And you?”

  “Of course.”

  My heart began to beat fast. Too formal. Far too formal for the perfect couple. Where was the reconciliatory arm around my shoulder? The nuzzling in for a quick make-up kiss? Oh, everything has to be perfect for you, Imogen, doesn’t it? Well, only because I’m nervous, I reasoned, although I shouldn’t be, because actually, I’d decided in the bath last night, I was being completely neurotic about Eleanor Latimer. I’d had a bit of a Damascene moment as I lay there in the bubbles, and in fact it was my own little crush on Daniel Hunter that had done the trick. Married people did have crushes, you see, but it didn’t mean anything. Not a thing. And it wasn’t the first one I’d had, either. No, there’d been that French chap who sold olives in the market at Turnham Green; the one with the silky blond curls and the blowtorch smile; lovely hands. God, I’d bought olives from him for weeks, practically lived on them, and one night, I’d even dreamed about him. About his hands. Had woken up in a muck sweat imagining them gliding up my jumper, cupping my bare breasts—“Oh!”

  “What?” Alex had woken up blurrily beside me.

  “Bad dream!” I’d gasped guiltily, clutching the duvet under my chin as his arms encircled me.

  “No monsters in this bed,” he’d said sleepily, nuzzling into my damp neck, my pulse racing. “Go back to sleep.”

  But I’d lain awake thinking—how awful! An erotic dream! I’m married! But…was it so awful? Or was it, in fact, perfectly normal? And was it just the same for Alex? A bit of harmless fantasising? A perfectly natural crush that the two of them had on each other? And would it help, I thought, now, as we waded through the buttercups together, if I joked about it? Said things like, “So, lunch at your girlfriend’s today, Alex—can’t wait!” To which he’d laugh, scratch his head sheepishly and reply, “Yeah, I suppose I’ve always had a soft spot for her.” And I could joke around with Piers too, say, “Crikey, Piers, the heat from those two—phew!” (Fan myself.) “We ought to join forces, you and I.” (Link his arm.) “We’d make a good team!” And he’d throw back his head and bray delightedly. Yes, that was the way forward, that would defuse the situation, and good heavens, if the roles were reversed it was exactly what Eleanor would do, wasn’t it?

  As we rounded the side of the house and approached the back lawn through the rose gardens, it occurred to me that it all was rather quiet: no hum of voices I’d expected, no shouts of laughter, no clinking of champagne glasses. Odd. As the terrace came into view, I saw Piers, sitting up ramrod straight on a bench with Dawn beside him. Hannah was slumped lumpenly in a wicker sofa in the manner of one who’s reached her journey’s end, and Mum was beside her: Eddie was assiduously turning sausages on the barbecue, talking to my father, whilst Eleanor, stunning in a salmon-pink T-shirt and denim shorts, buzzed around barefoot with a jug of Pimm’s.

  Alex glanced at me, horrified. “Your entire family’s here!”

  “Yes, I…forgot to tell you. I thought it was a big bash. Had no idea it was just us. And Eleanor invited them,” I added quickly. God, and here I was in a long dress more suitable for Ascot. I tried to hitch it up. Could hardly tuck it in my knickers, though.

  “Christ Alive,” Alex muttered. “Piers will freak.” It occurred to me that he already had. “Who’s the girl with no clothes on?”

  “That’s Dawn,” I muttered. “Dad’s girlfriend.” I’d forgotten Alex hadn’t had the pleasure.

  “Sweet Jesus, she looks like a hooker!” Dawn had obviously expected quite a gathering too, and had dressed up—or down, depending on how you looked at it—in a lot of heavy make-up, a pink crop top, and a skirt, if you counted the white thing around her waist.

  “Imogen, Alex, how lovely!” Eleanor did look genuinely delighted as she tripped lightly across, and although I tried not to notice how she kissed Alex, I decided it was just a nice, friendly kiss. Not lingering, but not too carefully social either.

  “And I don’t need to introduce you to anyone, because of course you know them all!” she laughed. “Isn’t this jolly?”

  “Very,” remarked Alex drily, stepping forward to shake hands with Dad, who came across, beaming with pleasure and looking like the cat who’d got the cream. He was wearing tight white trousers and a Hawaiian-print shirt of such dazzling hue I almost had to shade my eyes.

  “Happy Birthday, Dad,” I smiled, kissing him and handing him the card. “Sorry I forgot.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, when you get to my age you stop counting. I say, quite a pad your mates have got here, haven’t they?” His eyes roamed admiringly over the balustrade to the landscaped acres beyond, shimmering in the heat. “You’ve landed on your feet getting a toe in here, haven’t you? I gather Ellie here is an old girlfriend of yours, Alex.” He nudged me. “Better watch that, love. They’ll be rekindling old flames!”

  Eleanor laughed and filled up his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. He’s far too besotted by your daughter!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said boldly, in my new vein. “Alex can always slip in another one.”

  A surprised silence fell. I hadn’t quite meant it to come out like that.

  “Well, he’s a better man than I am, then,” quipped Dad, saving my blushes. “I was just saying what a fine place your friends have got here, Alex. No wonder you took the cottage.”

  Alex agreed and I moved away to greet Mum. I hadn’t quite got the hang of the jolly banter yet. Might have to work on it. As I bent to kiss my mother, I relaxed slightly. At least I could count on her not to let the side down. She was looking effortlessly elegant in a cream linen dress and a floppy straw hat, her eyes bright with amusement as she
puffed away on her cigarette.

  “Isn’t this marvellous?” she chuckled quietly as I sat down beside her. “Look at that man. He’s about to pass out with shock!”

  Piers, it was true, was a picture: veins standing up in his forehead, eyes bulging, as Dawn, tapping his arm for emphasis with a long black fingernail, explained, in carrying tones, about her friend Malcolm who had a big house—almost as big as this—in Peckham.

  “He keeps llamas, right,” she was saying, “and ostriches. It’s new-wave farming, see?”

  Piers blinked. “Good Lord. In Peckham?”

  “Yeah, it’s a great little business. You should try ostriches, Piers, wiv all your fields an’ that.”

  “Well, it’s a thought,” agreed Piers vaguely.

  “You sell the meat, see, to the local farm shops, and you sell the feavers.” She tapped his arm. “So it’s all economically—whatsit?”

  “Viable?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But who on earth buys the feathers?”

  “Christ knows. But I’ve got an ostrich pompom G-string, ’aven’t I? So someone must! They probably use it to stuff pillows an’ that.”

  “And…where does it go?”

  “Pillows go on beds, Piers.”

  “No, the pompom.”

  “Oh, on the front. Blimey, not round the back. You’d look like the frigging Easter Bunny!” She roared and elbowed him in the ribs. He looked genuinely delighted and roared back.

  “Where did he meet her?” Alex bent to hiss in my ear.

  “Who?”

  “Your father! Where on earth did he meet someone like that?”

  I looked up into his furious blue eyes. “At the opera house, of course,” I said smoothly, getting up to find a drink. I wasn’t in the mood to be my father’s apologist. I moved on to speak to Hannah.

  “Isn’t this just the best fun?” she drawled as I sank down beside her on the wicker sofa. “Dawn hasn’t drawn breath since we arrived.”

  “I think it’s a case of beam me up, Scottie. How are you feeling?”