One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  She looked sheepish. Shrugged. ‘Needs must,’ she muttered.

  Needs must. My brain whirred furiously. ‘Not Carlos?’ I hissed eventually. Carlos owned the sandwich bar on Munster Road and had been flirting furiously with Maggie for five years. He was easily fifty, small, round, hirsute, swarthy, but very, very determined. He’d recently promised Maggie, sotto voce as he handed over her egg mayonnaise on brown, that, ‘one day, ’ee would ’ave her little tooshy.’ Maggie confessed she found this both terrifying and faintly thrilling, and over lunch we’d speculated exactly how hirsute he’d be, where it began – neck and wrists – where it all ended…

  ‘He hasn’t ’ad your little tooshy, has he?’ I gasped.

  ‘Certainly not!’ She pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. I stood there, racking my brains.

  ‘Norman! Ooh, Maggie, is it Norm?’

  Norman, from the pub opposite, was a strange young man with hooded eyes and a brooding, psychopathic expression but who, when Maggie shamelessly batted her eyelashes at him, occasionally shifted heavy furniture for us. Gormless Norm, who sent Maggie hot stares from behind the bar when we popped across for a lager, and who, I’d tell her, looked exactly like Anthony Perkins in Psycho, then I’d rock crazily in my chair like the mother. Once, when he’d collected our glasses – I swear this is true – he carefully licked the rim of Maggie’s half-pint glass on the way back to the bar.

  ‘Norman!’ She was incandescent with rage. ‘How dare you! Now bugger off, Hattie. You’ve got your own blissful little love nest smouldering away on the other side of town, how about leaving me to mine?’

  ‘Blissful little love nest?’ I snapped to attention. ‘I thought you said it was needs must?’

  ‘What are you, the FBI? This isn’t Channel 4 News, you know.’

  ‘So who’s the lucky—’

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ a familiar voice boomed out, but one I couldn’t instantly place. It drifted from within, certainly, but not from upstairs. From down.

  I peered around Maggie’s shoulder in its general direction, then back at her. She was going very pink. In fact, she avoided my eye completely and regarded her bare feet instead. From out of the sitting room, clad only in a length of burgundy chenille curtain fabric worn around his waist toga-style, revealing a bronzed and perfectly toned torso, came Ralph de Granville.

  32

  ‘Good God.’ It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. ‘I thought you were—’

  ‘In Italy?’ Maggie cut in quickly.

  ‘Or gay?’ enquired Ralph, not in the least abashed.

  I flushed. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Lots of people do,’ he conceded. ‘And I don’t always disillusion them. They like the idea of a gay decorator, feel far more comfortable with it. Can’t quite grasp the idea that a red-blooded heterosexual would want to finger their drapes.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ve never thought that,’ I said, the colour of the red chenille swathed around his middle.

  ‘Yes she did,’ Maggie admitted as he put his arm around her. ‘We both did, didn’t we, Hatts? But happily,’ she giggled as he nibbled her ear, ‘he’s all man.’

  The breath had all but left my body. I was bereft of speech. I gazed, stupefied. All man.

  ‘Can I offer you a cuppa? I was just going to put the kettle on.’ He turned to me cheerfully. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll leave you girls to discuss my finer points.’ He flashed me a wink. ‘Builder’s, if it’s all the same to you. Can’t be doing with the flowery Lapsang muck. I drink enough of it in my line of work.’

  ‘Oh, um…’ I faltered.

  ‘Come in, deary, you’ll catch your death.’

  This last was delivered in his habitual camp manner, and I realized he was demonstrating how he could turn it on. Up until then his voice had been quite normal. Bloke-ish South London, in fact.

  ‘No, no, I won’t stay,’ I said hurriedly as he strode off to the kitchen, no hint of a wiggle now.

  When he was out of earshot I turned to Maggie.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I am completely floored!’

  ‘Not as floored as I am,’ she purred, still with what I realized was a post-coital glow.

  ‘But… half of London thinks he is!’

  ‘More fool them. Their loss is my gain,’ she grinned, wrapping her dressing gown around her.

  I gaped at her, again bereft of any meaningful dialogue. She looked like the cat who’d gulped the cream.

  ‘You might have told me,’ was all I managed, eventually.

  ‘l was going to, but I knew you didn’t like him.’

  ‘Didn’t like him! Didn’t like him! Bloody hell, that’s rich, coming from you. Only because you didn’t. You hated him. Couldn’t be in the same room with him!’

  ‘Because I was afraid of him. Funny, isn’t it?’ she mused. ‘Can’t get enough of him now.’ She went a bit misty-eyed.

  I stepped inside out of the cold, shutting the door a bit behind us, keen to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘But how the hell did it happen?’ I hissed, glancing down the hall. ‘I mean, how on earth did you two ever get it together?’

  ‘We had a fight one day – one of many, I might add – at Laura’s. It was when you’d gone back to London. We were arguing about that vase of his in the hall, with the cherubs on, remember? He kept putting it there, on a table, and I kept taking it away because I felt it interfered with the karma of the kitchen?’

  I did. Some silly squabble about how three paces from the kitchen was still her territory, and when she flung open the door, all she could see was his hideous vase, intruding.

  ‘So I picked it up and marched off with it, planning to plonk it in the dining room, his space. He blocked my way down the corridor, telling me to put it back, now. I refused. Told him to bugger off. We stood there facing each other, hissing and spitting like two cats, getting closer and closer until we were nose to nose. There we were, eyeball to eyeball, still trading insults, when suddenly, he put his arms around me and kissed me really hard on the mouth, like something out of a Cary Grant film. No – Gone with the Wind, at the end. Clark Gable.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘I nearly dropped the bloody vase, which, as you know, is worth a fortune, and of course I couldn’t hit him or anything, didn’t have a free hand. I couldn’t even wriggle, he’s so strong. And then, after a moment, I realized I was enjoying it. Really enjoying it. So I sort of… succumbed.’

  ‘Like Scarlett!’

  ‘I suppose.’ She looked abashed. ‘And of course I was paralysed with shock too, because I’d always always thought he was gay.’

  ‘Well, quite!’ I agreed.

  ‘But he’s not. He’s just really artistic and creative. But people don’t understand a man who rearranges bedcovers for a living, so he affects this dandy camp bit, which becomes something of a habit when he’s working. Look at that chap on the telly—’

  ‘Laurence Llewelyn…?’

  ‘Thingy, exactly, and he’s as straight as they come. And, of course, it goes down brilliantly with all his female customers, who love the idea of a gay best friend. Goes down well with their husbands too, incidentally, who don’t necessarily want some gorgeous hunk in the master bedroom discussing king size or super king. I mean, it’s the tennis coach with knobs on, isn’t it, if you’ll excuse the expression. And imagine how many frustrated housewives would be wrestling Ralph into their boudoirs if they knew he was up for it?’

  ‘There is that,’ I said with feeling. Ralph was distinctly gorgeous, and some of the women of Kensington and Chelsea were panting as they opened the door to the milkman. He’d be dragged in by his velvet lapels. She’d quite stolen a march.

  ‘Good for you, Maggs,’ I said admiringly.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she agreed coquettishly, rearranging her dressing gown again. She blinked in astonishment. ‘And I thought I’d got to the age when getting lucky meant finding your
car keys.’

  I giggled.

  ‘And it’s not just that,’ she went on with a little frown. ‘He really wants to be with me, you know? I mean, not just in bed.’ She peered at me. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘Well, if someone likes you, of course it is.’

  ‘See? I forget. It’s been so long. Can’t think what I’ve been doing all these years.’ She looked dazed. ‘I tell him I’m going out to get some milk, and he jumps up and says I’ll come with you. Or I potter to the shop for an hour, and he comes too. He really likes the shop, incidentally. But with Henry, all I could think about was how long he’d stay at the flat afterwards, which wasn’t long.’

  ‘But that’s so lovely, Maggs,’ I said, delighted.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she blushed. ‘He’s practically moved in.’

  ‘Has he?’ I gaped. ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes!’ She glanced round in case he overheard. Lowered her voice. ‘He’s got this incredibly cool pad in Docklands, but seems to want to spend all his time in my poky little house.’

  ‘Tea’s ready!’ A voice boomed – yes, boomed – from the kitchen.

  ‘And he’s got so many brilliant ideas for our business,’ she confided breathlessly. ‘In fact, he thinks we ought to go into business together, just him and me. Not that I ever would,’ she added hastily. ‘And I’m sure it’s just – you know – pillow talk. But he seems to really like what I do. He admires me, and I was never sure Henry ever did. Just thought I had a sweet little job, something I did during the day, to keep me out of mischief. But Ralph really gets me, you know?’ Her eyes searched mine.

  ‘Yes. I think I do.’

  ‘Says I’m a strong woman, and doesn’t make that sound like a bad thing.’ She paused, reflective a moment. ‘And oh, Hattie, we have such a laugh!’ Her eyes widened in sudden delight. ‘Really hold-your-stomach laughing. About all our funny customers, all those X-ray women. You should hear him take off Mrs Barty-Clifford – “Aim orf to Glorstishire for the weekend” – should hear him take them all off, actually. Honestly, it’s like talking to you. Like joking around with a good mate, and I could never be like that with Henry. So – well, uninhibited. D’you know what I mean? Always felt I was being someone else to please him, to fit in with his idea of me. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it does.’ I gazed at her. Didn’t want her to say any more. Didn’t want her to stir anything else up. I almost didn’t recognize her, either. The light in her eyes. Her happiness. There was a lump in my throat.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Well, a bit,’ she admitted.

  A bit. Suddenly a light went on in my head. I blinked. ‘Oh my God. Was that Ralph I saw leaving your bedroom that night at Laura’s? After the dinner party? Corridor creeping?’

  ‘Might have been.’

  ‘Might have been – it was! And you were with him at the shoot the next day!’ Perched behind him on the brow of the hill on a shooting stick. I thought back feverishly. Remembered how surprised I’d been to see him walk into the breakfast room in macho tweeds, quite late, but oddly, how it had suited him. How lit up Maggie had been that day. And I’d thought she was lighting up for the beaters. She’d had a night of passion.

  ‘Tea’s up, ladies.’ Ralph came back down the hallway with a tray. He took it in the sitting room. ‘One lump or two?’ This, over his shoulder to me, in his old camp voice.

  ‘You old fraud,’ I grinned.

  He shrugged cheerfully. Then came back rearranging the chenille around his waist. ‘Yeah, well, sorry about that. Sorry to hoodwink you, but there’s not much call for muscular decorating in SW3, I’m afraid. Everyone wants you to be in touch with your feminine side. And of course, I’m much keener on being in touch with Maggie’s.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her in towards him. Two pairs of eyes shone rather magically at each other. I stared, transfixed. Ralph remembered me. Turned.

  ‘You coming in or what? The neighbours are having a field day. Afternoon, Mrs Watson!’ he called over my shoulder through the open door with a wave. ‘Yes, that’s right, she’s got a new lover.’

  Maggie giggled.

  ‘Um, no. I’m going. You two… carry on.’ I turned and stepped back outside. They were fairly oblivious to me, anyway.

  ‘Oh, did you want me?’ Maggie remembered suddenly; poked her head around the door as she went to shut it. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at me. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, honestly. Really fine.’

  I walked off down the path, giving a cheery backward wave over my shoulder, shutting the little gate behind me.

  Right, I thought as I headed off back down the street. Well, that was that. No danger of a chin-wag with her. No chance of skirting round the subject until her eagle eyes steadied and she thrust in with a rapier like, ‘What’s up, Hatts? What’s the problem?’ She was far too distracted for that. And I was pleased, actually. Pleased I hadn’t voiced any doubts about the way my life was going. Because once they’re out, those doubts, there’s no retracting them. They’re there for good. Remembered for ever. Yes, thank goodness. A reprieve. And I was thrilled for Maggie, really thrilled. A man who was looking for a strong woman for a change. Well, Maggie was certainly that. And I’d always felt she’d needed a he-man like Henry to match her blow for blow, not a sensitive, creative type. How wrong we both had been. I could suddenly see them together, Ralph and Maggie, not just now, but in years to come: Maggie, obviously bossing him by then; Ralph making wide eyes and creeping around theatrically – ‘Yes, my love, anything you say, my love.’ Making her laugh. Which was what it was all about, wasn’t it? That wretched lump in my throat again. Good luck to them, I thought as I walked on in the twilight.

  ‘Good luck, Maggie.’ I said it softly, into the dusk.

  I realized I was walking home, heading down some very familiar streets, which I hadn’t intended to do, and not pausing to ring Sally or Alex. But I didn’t feel like Sally now. Didn’t feel like sitting in a bar with single women, having just a little too much to drink, going home poorer and slightly worse for wear. I didn’t know what I wanted, or if I did, I certainly wasn’t disclosing it to myself. Home it was, then.

  As I turned the corner and started down my road, trying to keep my thoughts at bay, I saw a figure emerging from the passageway that ran alongside the house, where Seffy kept his bike. I stopped in shock. Then walked on. Oh, of course, it was Christian. He’d been watering my plants whilst I’d been living in sin on the other side of town. He smiled: raised his hand when he saw me.

  ‘You no supposed to be here!’ he called.

  ‘I know,’ I said when I’d reached him, kissing his papery cheeks. ‘But I popped in on Maggie for a chat. Haven’t seen her for a while. This is a treat, Christian.’ I raised my game for him: it was a relief to do so. ‘You are such a star to do my plants, particularly when they’re so pathetic. How are you?’

  ‘Ah, you know, I survive. One day they find a cure for arthritis, no doubt, but until then,’ he shrugged, ‘like your plants, pathetic. And you with your shiny new lover? You flourish?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I flourish.’ I walked smartly up the path. ‘Are you coming in?’

  Christian and I had talked long and hard when I’d popped in to see him last week: about Seffy, about what I’d done, and about how he, Christian, had always suspected, so it was odd that I couldn’t quite look him in the eye, I thought as I fumbled now for my keys. I’d laid myself bare to pretty much everyone: everyone had had a jolly good peer into my soul, but Christian had almost been the hardest. Perhaps because he’d helped me so much back then, when Seffy was a baby. I felt I’d betrayed his trust.

  ‘Well, for a moment maybe, but only to show you the terrible state your roses in.’

  ‘Roses?’ I flashed him a grin. ‘Didn’t know I had any.’

  Christian despaired at my garden, pointing out that although he watered it, it was no earthly good if I didn’t dead-head,
prune or weed. We walked through the musty, closed-up house, with its stifling smell, and out the other side via the French windows to the sorry patch of lawn and straggly flowerbeds at the back.

  ‘Dismal!’ He groaned, shoulders sagging dramatically, hands raised to the heavens. ‘Neglected! No form!’

  ‘I know,’ I laughed. ‘But actually, Christian,’ I hesitated, ‘it’ll be someone else’s problem soon. Hal and I are moving to Notting Hill.’

  ‘Ah?’ He turned. ‘He propose?’

  I smiled. Christian, sweetly old-fashioned, wasn’t at all sure about cohabiting.

  ‘Not exactly. He asked if I’d spend the rest of my days with him.’

  ‘Same thing. And you say?’

  ‘I say… said, that I was honoured. And very flattered. But I asked… if I could have a bit more time.’ I thought back to us standing there on the stone bridge, the river rushing beneath us, both Hal’s hands holding mine. ‘I said I thought I needed some space, after all the Seffy business.’

  ‘And he say?’

  ‘He was very understanding. Said he completely understood, wouldn’t rush things. Was happy for us just to be together. Which we are.’

  ‘And when he ask you again?’

  ‘He may not.’

  ‘He will.’

  I licked my lips. ‘I’ll say yes.’

  I was surprised to hear myself say it. But I knew Christian was right, knew a life-time contract was what Hal wanted.

  ‘You accept because you feel you owe it to him? To everyone? To Seffy, your family? To yourself even? To not be problem any more? To make up for everything you’ve done?’

  I stared, astonished. ‘No, Christian. Of course not.’

  He shrugged. His mouth sagged theatrically at the corners.

  ‘And of course this man Hal, you owe him even more, hm? Owe him huge amounts. He look after Seffy this whole year, guide him through traumatic time. Be there for him. And Seffy, he like him very much, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘He be good father figure, too. Good influence, good role model. Successful lawyer, yes?’