I stared aghast. The old couple, unaware, cooed their thank yous.
‘Ooh, you are kind, dear, thank you so much.’
‘My keys!’ I spluttered as they pawed me gratefully. ‘I’ve thrown my car keys in too!’
Immediately their wrinkled faces collapsed. Hands went to mouths. Rheumy eyes widened in horror. We all turned to gape, then back to each other, appalled. We cast about wildly, for some handy man to assist – but no. No tattooed, gum-chewing hero was going to emerge in wife-beating vest and filthy trousers from the empty hut that cringed below in the yard; no greasy Alsatian would strain on a chain beside him. No Stig of the Dump.
I gulped. Swung back. I could see the keys, glinting with a smart red leather tag, atop a bag. There was nothing for it, I’d have to go in.
The elderly couple twittered in consternation as I gingerly lowered myself into the vast skip, an eight-foot drop at least.
‘Oh, my dear, is that wise?’
‘Probably not,’ I agreed, and as soon as my feet touched plastic, and one disappeared, I realized wherein lay the real problem. These shiny, slippery, disgusting bags full of rotting food were like veritable quicksand, and if I wasn’t careful I’d disappear down the side of one, and thence another, never to be seen again. This fluttery old couple were unlikely to whip out a mobile and call for help, and I imagined the headlines: ‘Woman Dies in Dump’. Or even, when some Daily Mail journo had spotted the Ivan angle: ‘Spurned Older Woman Commits Suicide in Dump’.
Quick as a flash I lay flat on my stomach. I’d watched enough 007 films to know instinctively that prone was the way forward. If I was to achieve my keys, glinting ten bags away in the evening sunlight, I had to spread the weight. Had to crawl, commando-style, towards them. Nose and mouth clenched, I inched my way across bags of a heave-making revolting nature, some of which had split, spewing forth their disgusting contents. Finally I was within snatching distance. I lunged, grasped – and slipped sideways down a crevice. Hugging a bag in a full-on embrace to stop myself falling, the red leather tag in my fist, I whimpered with panic, eyes bulging in terror. I could hear the elderly couple at the side, twittering in consternation. I clung on. Then, slowly, slowly, eased myself out of the crack, out of the… kipper bones… the ancient yoghurts, the mayonnaise, the coleslaw, the – oh, dear God – nappies… and crawled back, slowly, hyperventilating gently, towards the side. Towards freedom.
Getting out, however, was not so straightforward. Whilst I’d lowered myself impulsively and easily down an eight-foot skip wall, without bionic springs, I couldn’t just as easily leap out. Whimpering now, I piled bag upon bag of rancid rubbish into a rotting, tottering pagoda up which to climb. I placed my foot just so – and the bag split under the pressure. Chicken vindaloo squelched over my witty little shoes and right up my legs. I told myself it would all end soon. Soon be over. I clamoured aboard the top one, declined the delicate arms that flailed over to help lest I snap them, and heaved myself over the side.
Much consternation and agitation then ensued, but even my new friends backed off sharpish at the pong that was emanating from me; at the sight of me, slathered from head to toe in household waste. They thought twice about laying their papery hands on my ketchup-smeared arms. Off they scampered to their car, croaking their thanks, whilst I, walking – appropriately enough – like The Thing From the Swamp, arms and legs away from my body, dripping with – oh, let’s just call it goo – went to mine.
Not wanting to brush myself down for fear of what I might brush, longing to strip, to shower, to scrub, to flay even, longing for an out-of-clothes-and-body experience, I found an old newspaper to sit on. Then I opened all the windows – hands trembling, I noticed – and sped back down the lanes to Laura’s. Chin raised, lips clenched, I could almost hear the shower running. Could almost sniff the Lifebuoy. No: don’t sniff.
I crunched up the gravel drive and parked in a creative fashion at the front, making a mental note to hose the car out later. Eschewing the grand portal and steps, I ran, arms still hanging like a baboon’s, around the side of the house to the back door, but as I beetled past the herb garden, past the scullery window and turned the corner, Laura appeared, already dressed in a beautiful navy silk dress. Already coiffed and fragrant.
‘Oh!’ She halted in her tracks. ‘Hattie. Good God, whatever’s happened? You’re covered in muck! You’ve got spaghetti and – oh yuk, teabags, and something gross in your hair! Is that a condom?’
She stared at me in horror and since I hadn’t dared glance in the rear-view mirror, could only imagine the gory scene I presented.
‘Long story,’ I gasped, as she backed away, hand to nose. ‘Been in the tip.’ I could hardly speak.
‘Hattie, you don’t have to get in.’ Her blue eyes widened in dismay. ‘You just drop the bags in. You don’t actually have to—Oh.’ Suddenly her face changed. Was covered in confusion as she glanced over my shoulder. I too swung round at the footsteps.
‘Oh! Hi, there, how lovely,’ flustered my sister, putting on her most social smile. I gaped in horror. ‘Um, Hattie, I don’t know if you remember – well, of course you do, how silly of me. And of course, you saw each other the other day. Um, it’s Letty’s brother-in-law, Hal Forbes.’
23
Obviously I wanted to die on the spot. And, horror of horrors, he was advancing steadily, in a crisp checked shirt and jeans. Smiling, moving in for a kiss. A polite social one, of course, two perhaps, one on each cheek. Not to be borne.
‘No! No, I stink!’ I warned. ‘Unclean!’ I took a hasty step away, stumbled, and reared back into a rose bush. My feet went out from under me as I landed, tits up in the thorns.
Hal blinked down, astonished.
‘Hattie’s been in the tip,’ Laura purred, hastening to help. ‘She’s from London,’ she explained, as if I were cerebrally challenged. ‘Didn’t realize you don’t actually have to get in, just pop the bags over the edge. She thought we—’
‘No, no, I knew that,’ I gasped, struggling to get up. ‘But there were some other people there, and I threw my car keys in the middle and—Ow!’ My ankle had gone. I sank back, wincing.
‘What, like after a dinner party?’ Laura’s eyes popped above me.
‘What?’ I squinted up at my sister.
‘Car keys in the middle? Well, not us, obviously,’ she flustered nervously. ‘Hugh and I never do. But… isn’t that what swingers do?’
‘But at a tip?’ Hal frowned, mind clearly boggling at visions of unsavoury characters – unshaven tattoo artists, rancid bag ladies – gaily tossing keys to souped-up Escorts, untaxed Mondeos…
‘No – no,’ I breathed, struggling to my feet and wishing Laura would just shut up. She had offered to help me, but thought better of it on seeing my outstretched hand. ‘I threw my car keys accidentally in the middle, as I endeavoured to help a sweet old couple throw their rubbish away.’ I was vertical, finally. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me…’ I glared at my sister as if she, personally, had pushed me in, and turned, mustering what shreds of dignity I could, on my heel.
Feet swimming in my shoes – to say they squelched barely hints at their condition – I limped away in a haze of eau de dump, trailing alphabet spaghetti in my wake.
Some time later, having nearly taken my skin off in the shower, I threw my clothes in a plastic bag, and hastened them to Laura’s laundry where I set the dial to boil. Clad only in a towel, I hurried back to my room to get dressed for dinner.
Hal again. On my patch, again. But then… it was his patch too, wasn’t it? As he’d neatly pointed out in France. His family had grown up at The Pink House; indeed, I’d first met my brother-in-law there. It was only natural Hal might be here, having dinner, perhaps even shooting tomorrow, but still… Laura might have warned me. But then again, I’d been pretty much incommunicado all week, hadn’t I? Perhaps she’d emailed me that too? I miserably cast off my towel. And I couldn’t have looked more terrible. Couldn’t have smelled more terrib
le. I shuddered as I recalled. Well, if that doesn’t put him off, nothing will, I thought as I shimmied into an evening dress. I stopped. Stared at my reflection in the cheval mirror. Put him off? He’s engaged, Hattie. And why on earth would he be On in the first place?
Nevertheless I found myself taking an inordinately long time over my make-up. I removed my mascara when it clogged and reapplied it. Told myself I always wore scent behind my knees at a dinner party. But I eyed myself carefully as I removed some pearls from my ears and switched them for something more glitzy. More shimmering. I’ve always had to be on the lookout for subversive behaviour. Skulduggery. But it wasn’t just me, I decided defiantly, as I slicked on some lipstick and pressed my lips together to seal it. Something in his eyes, Hal’s eyes, had arrested me. I’d spotted it in France and, despite my disgusting state, I’d spotted it again today, from the depths of the rose bush. Something lit from within. He’d disguised it quickly enough, but not before I’d seen. He was pleased to see me.
Minutes later, heart fluttering, I went along the galleried landing, one hand brushing the banister rail, the other smoothing down my dress. I realized I was spectacularly nervous. It had occurred to me, in my bedroom, that she would be down there too – Céline. Undoubtedly. And I had to meet her, make polite conversation. Plaster on a smile. And all the while, might I be thinking… it could have been me? It should have been me, even? I stopped, my breath taken momentarily. That I could think such a thing.
On I went. Already I could hear the muffled chatter and clinking of glasses, sounds of pre-dinner drinks in full swing. But as I got to the top of the stairs, I was halted again, by voices much closer. They were coming from the room my brother always stayed in when he was here. His voice, together with another very familiar voice, was raised; laughing. The door was ajar. I pushed it incredulously.
Maggie was sitting on the bed, hands clasped under her chin, as Kit paraded in a full-length cassock.
‘Ooh, yes, I love it!’ she cooed as he gave a twirl. ‘Definitely the blue. It matches your eyes. Oh – hi, Hatts.’
She got up from the bed, looking a little sheepish, I thought. She kissed me, covering any confusion.
‘The blue? As opposed to?’ I enquired coolly, kissing my brother. ‘Hi, Kit.’
‘The grey,’ he said serenely. ‘For Sunday’s service. Maggie thinks the blue is more suitable for Harvest Festival.’
‘Does she now,’ I said drily, knowing Maggie very well. Recognizing the shine to her eyes, the flushed cheeks. ‘But surely not for dinner, Kit?’ I enquired lightly.
‘Oh, no, I’m just about to change. Now off you trot,’ he shooed us both out. ‘Just showing Maggie because she was interested.’
I bet she was, I thought, as she scuttled out ahead of me, all ready to party on down. She was wearing elegant black silk trousers and an ivory top, prattling some spurious nonsense about what a lark my brother was. But she didn’t get very far as, at that moment, Mr de Granville appeared from another bedroom. They stopped, glared at one another and then, just like a French farce, Maggie disappeared firmly into her own room, muttering something about forgetting her evening bag.
‘So exhausting,’ Ralph murmured, shaking his head as he fell in beside me. I took it to be a rather friendly tone and glanced up, surprised. He was looking particularly dashing in his black tie, floppy hair curling on his collar.
‘To be so despised,’ he explained, with a wry smile.
‘Oh, she’s all right really,’ I assured him. ‘I think the two of you just got off on the wrong foot. She can be a bit insecure.’
‘Well, if she’s insecure she should be tethered,’ he snapped in more like his usual voice. ‘Put on a lead and not allowed to snap at one’s ankles like a yappy little terrier.’
‘Oh God,’ I grinned. ‘She’d hate to be thought of like that.’
‘Would she?’ His face cleared. ‘Excellent. I shall make it my analogy for the evening. Might even refer to her as Nipper.’ He bared his teeth.
I giggled.
Ralph swept back his hair. ‘Sweet of your sister to ask me to stay on this weekend,’ he observed lightly.
‘She wanted to thank you. She’s thrilled with what you’ve done here and I’m not surprised, it’s fab.’
‘Why, thank you, flower,’ he drawled, but looked genuinely pleased.
‘And of course she’s not averse to having a trophy designer at her dining table,’ I reminded him.
‘Just as I’m not averse to being one,’ he shot back.
As we descended the huge sweeping staircase – and privately I was glad not to be doing it alone – we encountered two portly, middle-aged men at the foot of it. They were removing coats and straightening cummerbunds, brushing dandruff from shoulders. One, with bristling eyebrows, was addressing the other, very florid one.
‘I say, awfully sorry to hear about your wife,’ he remarked as we followed them to the drawing room.
‘What about my wife?’
‘Well, I gather you’ve split up.’
The florid one turned even pinker. ‘Do you fancy my wife?’ he demanded.
‘Er, no. Of course not.’
‘Well, neither do I,’ he barked, stalking off to find a drink.
Ralph snorted with delight. Whispered in my ear: ‘Rather sets the tone for the evening, doesn’t it? They’re far friskier than us Londoners, you know. He’ll be shacked up with someone else’s wife before the night is through. Oh, hello, what did I tell you?’
Following the florid one in, we watched as indeed he lost no time in accosting a tall, buxom lady in a low-cut turquoise dress by the door. As he slipped an arm around her waist he growled, ‘Evening, Fiona. What fucks like a tiger and winks?’
‘Gerald!’ she brayed. ‘I’ve no idea!’
He gave her an extravagant wink, then swaggered off to the drinks tray. She broke into peals of delighted laughter.
Ralph rolled his eyes at me. ‘See? I rest my case.’
I grinned and glanced around the room. It was heaving already, noisy too. Despite the throng, the first person I saw, looking gorgeous in his dinner jacket, on the other side of the room talking to an elderly gent, was Hal. He must have changed here, I thought. He’d been in jeans in the garden. Was he staying, then? Which bedroom, I wondered. Which bedroom, Hattie? And which one of these lovelies was his intended? His affianced. For lovely they all were, the women, and I don’t know why that surprised me. The hair was much longer than in London, clothes different too – more glamour, less restraint. Fashion rules seemed to have been thrown away. If it was sexy – wear it, seemed to be the code. There was more velvet, more jewellery, higher complexions from hunting, firmer thighed too, I suspected under those silky evening dresses. I felt slightly pale and underdressed in my simple Armani shift and kitten-heel shoes. These women were high of heel and low of cleavage, tanked up, and as Ralph had rightly observed, raring to go.
‘Some people have come a long way,’ Laura had remarked to me earlier, ‘so we party hard.’ I could believe it.
Across the noisy, braying heads I spotted Letty, in a low-cut, fuchsia-pink number. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes overbright. She gave me an extravagant wave.
‘Oo-oh!’ she shrieked, muscling through. ‘How lovely! You look terrific!’
Her cheeks were boiling as she kissed me. I had a feeling she was well oiled already.
‘Have you seen Hal?’ she yelled. ‘I gather you two met in France – had dinner even!’
‘Um, yes.’ I flushed, glancing round warily and hoping Céline wasn’t in earshot. ‘Well, supper, really. Just to – you know – catch up.’
‘Oh, I do know,’ she roared, with massive innuendo and a sharp dig in the ribs. She was clearly disastrously pissed. I began to feel a bit panicky. So loud.
‘Um, lovely to see you, Letty, but I’m just going to catch Seffy. Won’t be a mo.’
‘Oh, Yes, I saw Seffy earlier, helping the girls. Someone pointed him out. Isn’t he divine? No
wonder Cassie can’t stop talking about him! She’s so annoyed she can’t get out this weekend – bloody schools.’
I gazed at her as Seffy came up with a bottle of champagne, butler for the evening.
‘Top up, Mum?’
‘Thanks, darling.’ I said, distractedly, still looking askance at Letty.
‘Where’s your glass then?’
I turned. Came to. ‘Oh. I haven’t got one yet.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Does help. Oi, Biba!’ He beckoned to his cousin, who was bobbing about with a tray of full glasses. She pushed across as Letty moved on.
‘Hi, Hattie,’ she grinned, offering me a drink. ‘Don’t you love the outfit?’ She and Daisy had dressed as French maids for the evening, in killingly funny little skirts, bibs and mop caps. She dropped a curtsy, eyes lowered. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Love it,’ I assured her, rallying.
‘We tried to get Seffy to put Dad’s tail coat on, but he wouldn’t.’
‘I don’t want to look like a bloody Etonian.’ Seffy moved off with the bottle.
‘And, by the way, I think your ex is gorgeous,’ Biba hissed in my ear. ‘Mummy told me you went out with him at university.’ Her eyes roved across the room as I coloured.
‘Well, no. Not strictly true.’
‘But fancied his brother more, who was married to Letty!’ She pulled a face. ‘I think this one’s way better looking. I’ve seen pictures of the famous one. He was Foreign Secretary, wasn’t he? Dad said he was really well known at the time, all sort of Kennedy-ish and young statesman-like, and then those famous diaries came out when he died. So sad he was killed, but honestly, Hattie, this one’s really fit. And unmarried!’
One Day in May Page 28