The room was filling up with my friends, Dad’s friends and the kid’s friends. I caught myself thinking the evening ahead had all the ingredients for a great party. Except it was a funeral party. Mum would have loved it, in her earlier days.
‘I told you,’ Adam said, indicating the old couple he’d earlier suggested were serial mourners. ‘They’re here for the free feed and whatever else they can lay their hands on. Better hide the Grahame Sydney.’
I started. One of the few marital possessions of real value, a Grahame Sydney painting of the big-bosomed Lammermoor Hills, had been returned to its rightful place on the wall after a matrimonial tussle between me and Steve. That painting held much more value to me than its monetary worth. Quite apart from the calm universe it engendered, it somehow exemplified the sense of self-worth I’d finally managed to achieve months after Steve walked out on me. I doubted I’d ever sell it, even if I was down to my last dollar.
For a moment I seriously considered hiding the painting upstairs, as Adam suggested, but realised it would be a bit naff to whip it off the wall in front of everyone.
‘I’ll watch them like a hawk, don’t you worry,’ I said. ‘And you keep an eye on them too.’
‘I’m going to ask them how they know Granddad,’ Adam said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘I’ll see if I can shame them into leaving.’
Grabbing a club sandwich off Tamsin’s passing tray, he made for the mystery couple. I couldn’t help but notice a look of alarm in the old lady’s eye as Adam approached.
But my attention was soon distracted by Stephanie, who was approaching from the doorway, smiling like the cat who got the cream, accompanied by none other than Marcus and their daughter Seraya.
Chapter 36
Seraya was looking more than usually sour, and I’d have bet a lot of money on it she was here very much against her will. Marcus, on the other hand, was looking his typically dapper self, clad in a suit so sharp you could cut a swathe with it, and a designer tie that matched the ostentation of his shiny alligator shoes. His expression gave nothing away; he could have made a killing at poker.
‘Here’s Marcus,’ my sister said, stroking his cheek proprietorially. I caught a suggestion of a flinch before his face resumed its funereal pose.
‘I’m sorry for the loss of your mother,’ he said, every inch the solicitous ad-man.
‘Thank you, Marcus,’ I replied equally seriously, wondering what the hell was going on. ‘Would you two like something to drink? There’s plenty of beer and wine on the breakfast bar. Or a cup of tea? I’m sure you must be dying of thirst after your long journey, Marcus?’ I knew I was fishing desperately but didn’t care.
‘Yes, I could murder a Steinlager,’ he said, heading for the kitchen with Seraya in tow.
‘Turns out Marcus was having an affair with a girl at the agency,’ Stephanie hissed after they’d gone. ‘One of the leggy young artists. Hardly old enough to be his daughter. She texted him all the time we were on holiday. You’d be amazed how steamy a text can be when crafted by the hands of a nubile young sex magnet.’
I shot her a quizzical look.
‘Yeah, I saw them. I got suspicious about all the buzzing his phone was doing in his pocket. Especially when it seemed to be giving him a hard-on. I mean, I know they vibrate, but really … So when he was in the shower I took a look. The texts were steamier than the shower.’
‘So you confronted him?’
‘Not right then. I wanted to build up the full story. Besides,’ she gave me a wicked grin, ‘I was kind of enjoying reading all these propositions she was making. Made me quite horny.’
I grinned back. ‘So you laid a trap.’
‘Too right. I figured I could make it even-stevens. I was already in deep doo-doos for straying, and now he was too. But I had to be sure of it all first. So I kept a record of the texts — sent and in his inbox. I reckon I got most of them before he deleted them. It kept me busy, I can tell you, getting access to his phone when he wasn’t looking. I’d pretend to be asleep in the sun, put him completely at ease. Little did he know …’ She chuckled.
‘So what’s good for the goose was good for the gander?’
‘You’ve got it. Lord knows, I was a bit of a goose over JJ.’
‘So how did you … ?’
‘I didn’t stop there. I got onto the internet when he was out sailing a Hobie Cat and checked his credit card statement …’
‘You can access his bank accounts online?’
‘Of course. Couldn’t you, when Steve was around?’
I shrugged. Steve, the meticulous accountant at work, was a monetary slug at home. I’d done all the banking and knew all the pin numbers. Clearly, code-remembering genes ran in the family.
‘And there it was. The whole time I was away in Europe there were dinners at fancy restaurants, flowers to fill the Chelsea pavilion ten times over and even a debit from Swarovski.’
‘A traditionalist, then?’ I said sarcastically.
‘Just like when he was courting me,’ she exclaimed. ‘Wining, dining, flowers, jewellery … the only thing missing was the naughty lingerie.’
‘Marcus is into that sort of thing? I don’t believe you.’ I laughed. ‘Next you’ll be telling me he’s into suspenders and whips.’
‘I wish!’
‘Er, Penny, can you please show Jenn where the loo is?’ Mikey said, coming up behind me.
I blushed, hoping he hadn’t heard my exchange with Stephanie.
‘Oh, and you could tell Marcus,’ he said, turning to Stephanie, ‘that a leather face mask with an O-ring can do wonders for a flagging libido.’ He gave us both a wicked grin.
‘Mikey, that’s disgusting,’ Stephanie said. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘I take that as a compliment.’
The arrival of Jenn in search of the bathroom prevented Stephanie’s riposte, which was just as well. I led the way up the stairs past Adam’s and Charlotte’s rooms and showed her the door.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I called after her, then retraced my steps. As I reached Charlotte’s door, I noticed a strangely familiar odour wafting through.
I knocked. There were muffled voices and rustling noises.
‘You all right in there?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ Charlotte called.
‘What’s that funny smell?’
‘Incense. I’ll be down in a minute.’
Now I might behave like a bit of a fuddy-duddy now and then, especially in my kids’ eyes, but I can recognise puffs of pot smoke when I smell them. I mean, I was around in the days of peace, love and rock and roll, and if that wasn’t the pungent aroma of marijuana seeping around Charlotte’s bedroom door then stone the crows, I’m Jimmy Hendrix.
I could hear the sound of giggling and two other voices behind the door, one belonging to Becks and the other sounding surprisingly like Seraya’s. The last person I would ever have suspected of getting high would be Miss Goody Two-Shoes, but she’d clearly managed to extricate herself from the old geezers in the lounge and find her way to Charlotte’s room seemingly within milliseconds of arriving — and I hadn’t even been aware that Charlotte had made it home.
Things were definitely getting out of control. And the party had only just started!
I debated with myself for an instant: should I storm in and confiscate their secret stash? Or should I leave them to it? I reasoned that both Charlotte and Seraya had been through quite a traumatic time, what with an unwanted pregnancy and philandering parents. Maybe a spot of pot was just the calming influence they needed.
‘Okay. No need to hurry.’
The giggling exploded into laughter as I retreated down the stairs, the tangy herbal pong wafting after me.
I was met at the foot of the stairs by an excited-looking Tigger who must have made his way through the hole he’d dug under the front fence and circled back through the front door. Tigger loved parties. People patted him endlessly and succumbed to his pleading brown eyes,
feeding him titbits, also endlessly. I shrugged. The only way I could stop him hounding my guests would be to lock him in my bedroom and turn a deaf ear to his pathetic howling. I figured his begging was by far the better option.
The lounge and outside deck were now filled with a mix of Dad’s generation, my generation and Adam’s generation, some mingling, some sticking to their own friends; some drinking tea, some slurping wine and beer; some talking animatedly and laughing, some looking sombre and funereal. I noticed several clients among the throng — I’d been too distracted at the funeral to remember who had been there — talking to the girls from work. Sarah from the library had come, as had my geeky IT client Phil Wiggins; Ted had extracted himself from his poo ponds — and had even found a presentable jacket and shirt to wear — and, of course, Andy the funeral director was very much in evidence, having arranged the perfect send-off for Mum. At the sight of toilet paper magnate Jim Stephens, another of my clients, a brainwave hit me, and I made a mental note to put him in touch with Ted. What better investment for his toilet-paper profits than oil from sewage?
I turned as Phil Wiggins tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Penny, you’re looking wonderful!’
‘Phil, thank you. And thank you for coming to the funeral.’
‘The least I could do, Penny, after giving you such a hard time about getting some exercise. I’ve felt bad ever since, especially after I heard your Mum died.’
‘I don’t believe you’ve got the conscience to feel guilt, not even for a minute,’ I laughed.
‘Seriously, though,’ Phil continued, with a teasing twinkle in his eye, ‘you look great. All that sun and sea must have been a great tonic for you.’
‘I didn’t want to come home,’ I said. ‘Especially now all this has happened …’ I indicated the room full of mourners, who by now were starting to look more like revellers.
‘I don’t blame you.’ He put an arm around my shoulder. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it. If there’s anything I can do …’ ‘Just don’t offer to take me mountain-biking again.’
He stood back and gave me the once-over. ‘I reckon, the way you look now, you’d leave us all for dead.’
‘Well, since you do your best to kill yourselves every trip,’ I retorted, ‘it wouldn’t be that hard.’
Phil let out a huge guffaw. ‘I can see you’re never going to be a mountain-biker.’
‘What you do isn’t your average mountain-biking,’ I said.
‘True. It’s more like extreme mountain-biking.’
‘My life is extreme enough, thank you.’
‘Penny, you’re so right. If I had a life as extreme as yours, I wouldn’t need to fling myself down a mountainside to get my thrills.
‘I often think that’s just what my life is like — some sort of Fear Factor contest that never ends.’
‘That sounds about right, Penny. I don’t know how you manage to hold it all together,’ said Andy, approaching from the kitchen, munching on a savoury.
I introduced the two men.
‘You did a great funeral, man,’ Phil said. ‘It’s good to be able to celebrate a life like that, rather than go maudlin on it.’
‘Thank you,’ Andy said.
‘With clients like you, who needs brothers?’ I laughed.
‘I hope your brother’s looking after you and keeping you away from predatory men,’ Andy said. ‘You’re looking hot these days, Penny — you should watch it.’
‘I was just telling her that,’ Phil said.
‘You’re both very kind,’ I said. ‘But you’re way too young for me, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ Andy said, giving me an affectionate squeeze.
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ I grinned.
Suddenly there was a loud shout from one of Dad’s friends, and we all turned to see what was going on. They were all knocking back the watered Glenfiddich — probably about the strength it should be when consumed at that terrific rate. It sounded as if they were reciting something, very loudly.
‘God grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway …’ one of Dad’s friends was saying.
‘ … the good fortune to run into the ones I do,’ said another.
‘ … and the eyesight to tell the difference!’ Dad roared. ‘That’s the Senility Prayer!’
They all fell about laughing, slapping each other on the back.
I disentangled myself from my two clients and was on my way over to Dad to tell him to take it easy when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tigger approaching one of the elderly ladies who used to live opposite Mum and Dad before they shifted to the villa at St Joan’s. She was wearing a pink woollen suit (despite the warmish spring weather) and the sort of cute little felt cloche bonnet that was so old-hat it had made a comeback. Her left hand was holding a teacup, pinky pointed ceiling-ward; her right hand was extended over the arm of the sofa, and she was waving her hand to make a point.
What had attracted Tigger, predictably, was the almost-whole cupcake held between her thumb and forefinger. Apart from a small bite out of its side, the cupcake was a fine example of the caterer’s art, its white icing topped with a dainty pink flower with blue stamens. Tigger didn’t care less about the flower and its stamens. His eye was on the cake.
I hesitated a moment too long. Ever the opportunist, Tigger raised himself high enough to reach his prize by resting one paw on the side of the sofa, and gently eased the cupcake out of the poor woman’s grasp without her even noticing. Then he slunk away to a quiet corner where I knew the cake would be devoured in an instant. You had to hand it to him: when it came to food, Tigger was a master of the art of deception and thievery.
Moments later, the old duck finished her story and raised her hand to her mouth, only to discover there was not a morsel to be had. The look on her face was priceless. I knew I should be appalled, but I couldn’t stop chuckling.
I turned back to the hall door to hide my mirth and saw Simon arriving in a whirl, a bottle of Glenfiddich under one arm and a big bunch of lilies and roses under the other.
‘These are for you,’ he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek, ‘and this wee dram is for your father.’
‘You’re a treasure,’ I said, kissing him back. ‘Thank you. I’ll pay you back next week when this mayhem is over.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I took the bottle over to Dad.
‘Simon’s here,’ I said. ‘And he’s brought your whisky.’
‘It’s not whisky, lassie. When will you understand? It’s single malt. It’s a precious drop, this Glenfiddich.’ He thanked Simon, patting him affectionately on the arm while nursing the bottle in his other, as if it were a baby. He carried his prize triumphantly over to his bowling mates, set aside their used glasses and filled clean ones with the new arrival.
‘You’ve certainly made him happy,’ I said, giving Simon’s hand a quick squeeze. ‘Now what can I get you?’
‘He seems pretty cheerful,’ Simon said, nodding towards Dad. ‘You wouldn’t know he’d just been to a funeral.’
I took a closer look. Simon was right. Dad was indeed cheerful.
‘Perhaps it’s the whisky. Besides, I don’t suppose you can expect him to look glum and tearful all the time,’ I said defensively.
‘That’s not a man’s way,’ Simon said. ‘We have to be the strong, silent type, no matter what assails us.’ He beat his chest like Tarzan and gave me a broad grin, his eyes twinkling, giving me the come-on.
‘You stop that, Simon Wakefield. I know what you’re thinking and it’s definitely not the time or the place.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re so gorgeous these days I can hardly keep my hands off you.’
‘What? Me?’ I was beginning to wonder if someone had been handing out rose-tinted spectacles at the door.
‘Yes, you.’ He put his arm around me. ‘It’s such a long time since I’ve been well enough to have a good look at you.’
&n
bsp; ‘Come on, let’s have a drink. I’m dying for something cold and fruity with citrus and gooseberry aromas.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t knocked one back already,’ he said, still smiling at me. ‘I would have thought you’d be onto your second by now.’
‘It’s not for want of trying.’ I steered him into the kitchen, plucked a Steinie out of the fridge and picked up an already-poured Oyster Bay from the bench.
‘Here’s to a long and happy life,’ he said. ‘And may your mother rest in peace.’
‘And may the world be our oyster.’ I clinked my glass to his bottle, took a swallow, then led the way through the throng in the lounge out to the deck.
‘Boy, that tasted good.’ I savoured the fresh, zingy taste lingering in my mouth and took another swig.
‘I can see that disappearing fairly fast.’ Simon nursed his glass. ‘I’d better watch it though — I’m driving.’
‘I can’t deny it — I’m definitely in the mood for it.’ I gulped another mouthful. After all, I reasoned with myself, I had plenty to celebrate: my father wasn’t locked up in some police cell charged with murder, because he’d been lucky enough to strike a locum who was in too much of a hurry to ask any penetrating questions. Charlotte wasn’t still throwing up from morning sickness because she was no longer pregnant to that evil libertine. And Adam wasn’t going to be expelled from school, despite availing himself of a powderkeg full of explosively confidential information, because his mother and father had, for once, set aside their differences and grovelled to the principal to let him stay.
Which reminded me, where was Adam? I hadn’t seen him for some time …
‘Excuse me, Simon. I’d better go check on Adam. He’s got an exam next week and he’s supposed to be studying.’
‘This evening? Surely not …’
‘Believe me, Adam would much rather be studying upstairs than down here making polite conversation with this lot.’ I indicated inside towards the row of old ladies on the sofa and Dad’s bowling buddies beyond them.
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