Perhaps, I wrote, it was that rough, demanding, unasked-for kiss that fanned Mattie’s resentment to a fury. Left to herself with only the whispering moors for company she might very well have come to terms with her uncle’s request, and seen that since her aunt had not long to live it was her place to be at her side, supporting the frail old woman at the end of her life as she had been supported by her as a child.
I paused. This last sentence had so many pronouns that I was by no means confident my reader would be able to navigate through them to the meaning: that Mattie owed her aunt one. I put a wiggly line under it, and continued:
Mattie’s heart was in the right place, but that kiss had given it an unpleasant jolt. Furious now with herself as well as with Grandsen she set off for Marsdyke, running as fast as she could, her head bowed beneath the pouring rain.
She slammed the door of the corner house behind her and leaned back on it, panting and bedraggled. Gransden was sitting at the table, peeling an orange. Mattie guessed it was for Clarice. He was making a mess of it, his large, gnarled fingers were clumsy and kept tearing away the fruit with the pith. The sight of him doing this small task infuriated Mattie.
‘Oh for goodness sake!’ she snapped, snatching the orange from him and beginning to peel it herself with fierce, quick movements. ‘I’ll do this for you because I can’t stand to see you make such a mess of it. But I’ll not stay, Uncle! I will not!’
‘Very well, lass,’ he said quietly. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes as she peeled the orange and saw that there was no fight left in him. He was an old, tired, unhappy man. And why should she, young, beautiful and ambitious, spend her time with him? It was out of the question.
‘There you are,’ she said, returning the neatly peeled orange on its plate. ‘And now I must go and get ready.’
The next day the heat changed. It took on a sullen, threatening quality. The girls complained bitterly about the few clouds which gathered on the horizon like a group of louts in a bus shelter. Teazel retired to the woodshed. Rindin reset his cannon and withdrew. Lew roosted in the atelier reading Down Our Street with admirable concentration considering half of it was in longhand.
As I was sweeping the verandah in the morning Royston came out to do some illegal watering.
‘Storm’s a-brewing,’ he called cheerily. ‘Hot enough for you?’
‘Do you think it’ll hold off till after tonight?’ I asked.
He stood arms akimbo and gazed about him like an old salt on the sea wall. ‘Very like. This kind of thing can go on for days.’
I wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or not. It was only ten thirty and I was already running with sweat.
‘You have a visitor, I see,’ observed Royston.
‘That’s right.’
‘Family friend?’
I should have told him to mind his own business but I wanted to clarify matters. ‘My agent, actually. We have a business transaction to discuss.’
Royston shook his head indulgently. ‘Honestly, what a pair you are. No sooner has George gone rushing back to the UK to see to some problem or other than you’ve brought in your agent. If this is the Blairs en vacances I’d hate to see them under pressure!’
‘It was an unavoidable coincidence,’ I said. ‘And none of it would have arisen,’ I added frostily, ‘had you not been so keen to share your desktop facilities with George. One can only avoid work if one is incommunicado.’
I didn’t wait for him to top this one, but went in and put the kettle on.
‘Coffee, you two?’ I bawled through the girls’ door. They were playing a rap tape, three minutes of funky hectoring against which the normal, unamplified female voice was powerless to compete. It was Lew who came to the atelier balustrade, and called down:
‘What was that, Harriet?’
‘Oh, Lew. Coffee?’
‘Sounds great. Black no sugar, but I’ll come and get it.’
He came trotting down the stairs. Today he wore a pink golf shirt with the same baggy white trousers and a red sweatshirt knotted carelessly about his shoulders. The sweatshirt had risen up round his ears so he looked like a sheep in a muffler.
‘I can’t tell you how I’m enjoying your book,’ he said. ‘It has such narrative drive, such feeling. You do have a knack, Harriet, of taking a popular genre and making it your own. Giving it the Blair touch.’
‘Well, thanks,’ I said. Dear Lew, peeping out of his red sweatshirt. ‘Do you think it’s what Aurora want?’
‘I think Sonny is going to be bowled over. It has such authenticity.’ It was as well it was dark in the house, or Lew would have seen me blushing. ‘We may get ourselves a really good deal here.’
He went back happily with his coffee. The girls’ door slammed open and Clara emerged in her George Michael outsize T-shirt. ‘Is that coffee?’
‘I did try to offer you some but I couldn’t make myself heard.’
‘That’s okay.’ Clara assembled mugs and yelled: ‘Nev! Coffee!’
‘Why don’t you turn the music down?’ I suggested. ‘Lew is trying to read upstairs.’
‘Tough titty,’ responded Clara. ‘We’re on holiday. He could go to the hammocks.’
‘It’s too hot out there. He’s not acclimatised.’
As it turned out Nev switched the machine off before emerging. True to type she wore a blue baby-doll nightie which hung from her chest like a bell tent.
‘It’s your dinner party tonight,’ she said sunnily. ‘Is that going to be a problem with us going out?’
‘Going out?’
‘Yes, you know,’ said Clara, ‘it’s that dance in the town. Dad said he’d take us.’
I remembered now. George had said just that, and it would be pretty mean of me to back out of it, especially when feasting and fun were planned on the home front.
‘No, that’s all right, I’ll get you there.’
‘Great!’
‘Where is it?’
‘At the town hall.’
‘It will be jolly good for your French, that’s for sure. And you can ring Royston’s number if you have any problems.’
As they carried the coffee back into their lair I heard them choking with laughter and repeating: ‘Jolly good for our French!’
Dinner parties no longer filled me with alarm, because I’d long since stopped giving them. I went out of my way to tell invitees that the meal would be supper. This meant that they could only be pleasantly surprised by whatever amusing little dish I threw together. The men didn’t have to wear suits, the women could look as beautiful as they liked while still being comfortable, and it didn’t matter that none of the crockery matched, nor that we did not own a complete set of dining chairs. George was mortified by our deficiencies in the chair and crockery departments, but I kept telling him that it showed we were free spirits, happy with nothing more than a crusty loaf, a rough red wine and some spirited conversation among good and trusted friends.
Mind you, things weren’t quite the same at the Villa Almont. It was an odd feeling entertaining in someone else’s house, with guests who had very probably been here before under the regular management.
I tried not to let it put me off my stroke. But I kept coming across Jules and Antoinette’s notes urging me to use the antique glasses, the Limoges china, the silver candlesticks, the lace tablecloth and napkins … Would it look like downright rudeness to use the kitchen stuff when such an embarras de richesses was on offer?
In the end I decided it wouldn’t matter so long as we ate out of doors on the verandah. The atmosphere out there was as humid as a weight-lifter’s armpit, and the sky was boiling with uncertainty, but I put my faith in Royston’s prognosis. I covered the table with a check tablecloth, found some plain green linen napkins, fetched out the kitchen cutlery and a couple of brass candlesticks, and offered up a prayer of appeasement to Thor.
I had dispensed with a first course and constructed a feast of delicious, low-labour options as the centrepiece for
the meal. Charcuterie, marinaded cold fish, pasta in homemade tomato sauce, and assorted salads of my own devising, to be accompanied by a choice of breads. For afterwards I had made a stupendous fresh fruit salad, and there was cheese, celery and (I had tracked them down in the Lalutte supermarket) Bath Olivers to please the English contingent. I picked some trailing nasturtiums and a few coral and white roses from the garden and put them in a pottery vase. It was going to look very pretty and inviting, and unmistakably informal. Teazel sat beneath the bellpull and watched me with languorous expectancy. In this mode he reminded me strongly of our own cat, Fluffy. A feeding trance was a feeding trance no matter where one found it.
The guests had been invited for seven thirty, so I told the girls they must be dropped at the town hall in Lalutte not a second later than seven p.m., whether they liked it or not.
‘That’s miles too early,’ Clara complained. ‘It’s so naff to be hanging about waiting for things to start. Can’t you take us after you’ve eaten?’
‘No, I can’t!’ I replied, scandalised. ‘I’m not going to jump up and abandon my guests for half an hour at that stage in the proceedings. Besides, I shall have had a glass of wine or two by then.’
‘That’s an idea,’ put in Naomi. ‘We can go to that café and have a couple of drinks while we’re waiting.’
I began beating on their door at a quarter to seven, and at five to they emerged in full battle colours. Clara wore the same ensemble she had worn to the château, but this time her hair, usually a farouche cloud of tangled ringlets, was up in a Bardot-esque style, backcombed on top, stray tendrils hanging round her face and on her neck. She looked quite indecently seductive. Naomi had swapped the black miniskirt for calf-length flares. I had to admit that if I had been a casual observer asked to say which one was the nice girl, I’d have gone for Naomi.
‘Won’t you be cold?’ I asked Clara.
She not only interpreted this correctly, but treated it with the contempt it deserved. ‘I am not dressing like a nun to go to a disco.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Naomi, ‘we’ll be good.’
I left Lew opening red wine and putting clean teatowels over the dishes, and took them to the town. The château, as we went by, was studded with lights.
‘They’re getting ready for your party,’ said Clara.
For some reason this remark, intended to encourage me, made my heart sink, but once I’d deposited the girls in the town square and reminded them of their rights and responsibilities it bobbed up again. Everything was ready. It might even be possible to enjoy the evening.
As I walked back into the house Lew handed me a glass of champagne.
‘Here’s to my favourite author!’
‘Lew! How lovely – when did you get this?’
‘In the duty-free. Here’s to Down Our Street. I know it’s going to be your breakthrough book in the States.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
We clinked glasses. Lew was looking quite fetching tonight, in oatmeal slacks and an oatmeal and white striped matelot jersey. He spent such a lot of time and money on his clothes it was a shame he so seldom looked right. You either got or you hadn’t got style, as the song said, and Lew hadn’t.
Just before seven thirty, as he and I stood on the verandah with our drinks, speculating on the imminence of the orage to end all orages, Royston appeared and told me I was wanted on the phone.
‘You go and take the call,’ he said bossily. ‘I’ll introduce myself.’
Breathing a prayer for poor Lew I picked up the phone. ‘Hallo?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh, hallo.’
‘I just thought I’d wish you bonne chance with your dinner party.’
‘Supper.’
‘Sorry, supper, quite right. Are you quorate?’
‘Not yet, only Lew and Royston.’
‘Who and Royston?’
‘Lew Mervin.’ Of course George didn’t yet know the results of his officiousness. ‘In consequence of your dishing out this number to all and sundry I’ve got Lew here for a couple of nights.’
‘Stap me – you mean the blighter invited himself? I am sorry.’
‘No, as it happens he’s been sent to pick up my manuscript. There is what is known as transatlantic interest.’
‘Oh, so that’s good!’ George was not going to lie down and accept guilt. ‘But – um – couldn’t you have put it in the post?’
‘No time. The bloke from Aurora isn’t in town long.’
‘And you need to strike while the chequebook’s hot,’ agreed George. ‘Well, well, well. I am missing a lot.’
I sensed he would ask why I hadn’t used the fax, but now there was a flurry of activity in the drive as a white Citroën and a motorscooter jockeyed for position.
‘They’re arriving. I must go.’
‘Okay. Have one for me. See you soon.’
I rang off hurriedly, realising as I did so that George had mentioned nothing of his own doings, or the likely date of his return. Before closing the office door I saw the battered 2CV from the courtyard of the château rattle through the still-settling dust outside the window.
I arrived at one end of the verandah as the Count arrived at the other. Royston, still bearing the mantle of host, threw his arms in the air.
‘Guy! Bienvenue! And who is this?’
I looked at the young woman accompanying de Pellegale. I held out my glass, nervelessly, to be replenished by Lew. I knew exactly who it was. I’d have known that bright, freckled, challenging face anywhere. It was Monica Ball.
‘Hallo, Monica,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
Monica shrieked and fell upon me, slapping my arms, massaging my shoulders and tousling my hair as If I were some faithful mongrel dog while the others looked on in amazement.
‘I don’t believe it!’ she squealed. ‘Way to go, Mrs Blair, I never thought it would be you!’
I introduced her to Royston and Lew, and cautiously permitted the Count to kiss my hand. It turned out Monica was on a footslog of Europe, as she put it, had spotted the Count’s flag and availed herself of the hospitality. It was not the moment to ask what else had been on offer, because the remaining guests were arriving thick and fast. First came the British couple invited by Royston.
‘Keith and Denise hail from outside Basingstoke,’ said Royston, a remark to which there was no possible response. The Platfords were trim and tanned, the sort of couple who have got everything so well organised that nothing can dent their self-satisfaction.
‘This is an exquisite place,’ said Keith, ‘but an energy conservationist’s nightmare.’
‘We decided right away,’ added Denise, ‘that whatever we bought we’d made sure it was just as lovely in the winter.’
‘And it is,’ confirmed Keith. ‘You must come over and see for yourself.’
During this exchange Monica’s attention had turned to Lew, and Véronique and Isabelle had arrived – theirs had been the bone-shaking 2CV.
We were, as George would have said, quorate. Royston was passing among the company with a bottle, so I slipped away to the kitchen.
I’d only been there thirty seconds when Monica came bounding in. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, it’s all organised. Just a case of putting it on the table. It’s only supper.’
‘Mmm!’ Monica bent over my cold collations, peering and sniffing and making foodie noises.
‘Only simple stuff,’ I said. ‘I am on holiday.’
‘That’s right!’ agreed Monica. ‘So where’s George?’
From the way she said this it was clear that my husband’s name had been on her lips – and very probably those of others – quite frequently since I’d last met her. His rarity value in having remained twenty years married to the same woman had elevated him to the status of conversation-fodder.
‘He had to go back to the UK.’
‘Oh no, whatever for? And I really wanted to meet him.’
‘A business problem,’ I said curtly, sprinkling chopped chives on the fish.
‘M-hm. Too bad,’ said Monica. I could almost hear the cogwheels whirring.
‘How long are you in Europe?’ I enquired, shaking the jar containing the salad dressing and not bothering to disguise the slightly threatening note in my voice.
‘Another month,’ replied Monica. ‘I’m not even sure I’ll go back to Oz then. I might pack in the job and look for something in London.’
‘Goodness, what a big decision.’ My heart sank at the prospect of lunches at the Gadfly during which fresh revelations about Monica’s social life would make heads snap round all over the dining room like a pinball machine.
We carried the various dishes and plates through to the verandah and laid them out on the table. It was prematurely dusk and so hot that on exposure to the air the food broke into an instant sweat. Beyond the trees the horizon was lit by the occasional sickly electrical flicker. Even the arrival of supper couldn’t bring the palpitating Teazel to his feet. The candle flames were stunted and motionless.
‘A veritable feast!’ exclaimed the Count, which compared to the catering at Forêt Noir it undoubtedly was.
‘Sit anywhere,’ I said. ‘There’s no plan.’
There may have been no plan, but Keith and Denise soon devised one. It involved putting me in the middle of the long side of the table with my back to the double doors ‘for easy access’, with the Count on my left and Keith on my right. At the end of the table next to the Count was Monica, with Royston opposite her. Facing us were Véronique, Lew, Denise and Isabelle.
‘Best we can do with nine, I’m afraid,’ said Keith, a man used to trouble-shooting.
‘Shall I dish up?’ asked Lew, always eager to please. As plates were passed and filled to order, the Count leaned towards me and breathed in my ear: ‘You know our little traveller?’
It was the kind of euphemism that in the purlieus of Basset Magna would have referred to some embarrassing bodily pest – a headlouse, thread worm or pubic crab – but it seemed unlikely to have such a connotation here.
‘I’m sorry?’
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