The Last Laugh

by Lynn Freed

  “It would make us seem complicit if we left now,” I said.

  “Complicit?”

  “As if we, too, were running away from a murder.”

  “But we would be running away!” cried Bess. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Want to do me a favor and write the next column?”

  She scowled, she sulked. “You’re just changing the subject.”

  “Why not write about running away from running away?”

  “That cow in New York would only ruin the fun.”

  “I’ll deal with her. And it’s only three hundred words.”

  “Only!”

  I laughed. The children had gone off for a windsurfing lesson and we had the afternoon to ourselves.

  “That’s how I met Rex, you know,” she said. “Windsurfing.”

  “Windsurfing?”

  “In the Bahamas. He was the instructor.”

  “You were learning to windsurf?”

  “God, no, of course not. I was there with Victor. He was learning.”

  “Who’s Victor?”

  She tossed back her hair. “I was with them both for a while,” she said. “It was lovely.”

  “They knew about each other?”

  “Naturally! We were a sort of trio. Wilfred pronounced them both gay, of course. But then he thinks everything’s gay—the table, the chairs, the washing machine, and so forth.”

  I laughed, I kicked off my shoes. The idea of Rex as a windsurfing instructor had shaken me back into my skin. “So, what happened to Victor?” I said.

  “He went back to Paris after a while, or Liège, I think Liège. Said he couldn’t stand another minute of English weather. But I think there was a mistress there, or a wife. Or both. So that left just Rex and me.”

  * * *

  AND THEN, A FEW DAYS before the party, Rex himself sauntered in. He was very tanned, very blue-eyed. “I’ve been phoning Bess,” he said, “but she’s not answering. Any chance of a coffee?”

  I glanced into the kitchen. Gladdy and two of her friends were clattering around in there, clucking and gesticulating in what had clearly become a sort of common language among them.

  “On second thought,” he said, following my glance, “I’ll have some later.”

  I smiled, quite unable now to see him as anything but an aging windsurfer who’d lost Bess her fortune on lampshades. If ever I revived the Gripp series, I thought, I’d bring that in, it would be easy. And I’d talk about the sort of aging woman who’d fall for his sort of charm. And how quickly she’d recover.

  Gladdy came to the kitchen doorway, the friends behind her. “Too early for Miss Bess,” she said. “Come back later, Mr. Rex.”

  “You’re staying at the hotel?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the thing. They’re full. A wedding. You couldn’t find it in your heart to put me up here, could you?”

  I looked away before I found it anywhere in myself to offer him Dania’s room. Or mine. Or even the couch.

  “You can stay at the hostel, same like Mr. Finn,” said Gladdy.

  “Mr. Finn? Who’s Mr. Finn?”

  Gladdy clicked her tongue and turned back into the kitchen.

  “What’s got into her?” he whispered.

  I got up and went through to the kitchen. “Gladdy?” I said.

  But she just went on cracking and separating eggs with the other women.

  “Listen, Gladdy,” I said, “Bess and I don’t even want this party—”

  She whipped around then, her whole face puffed out like a sea urchin. “I make the party!” she shouted. “I pay for the party, too!” She dug furiously into the pocket of her apron and pulled out her old zipped purse. “See?” She thrust it at me. “See?”

  The only time I’d ever seen Gladdy lose her temper like this was on the phone with her grandson. “But, Gladdy,” I said, “you shouldn’t be paying for any of this.”

  “Then who is paying? Who?”

  The Greek women stood behind her, two dark, squat pillars in aprons. Clearly she was showing off for them.

  But I’d had enough. “We are paying for it,” I said, “as you very well know. What’s happened to the money in the coffeepot?”

  “That is not party money!” she spat out. “That is house money!”

  House money? Party money? The woman had gone mad. “Gladdy,” I said, “how much have you spent? I’ll make sure you’re paid back.”

  But she just clicked her tongue and turned on the electric mixer.

  “Listen,” I said to Rex, coming back into the living room, “you’d better go down to the café for a coffee. And pop into the hostel on the way.”

  * * *

  à gg, Greece

  Bess here again. I have to say I’m getting a bit sick of the women who write in, wanting us to give them more of a Shirley Valentine or Enchanted April sort of year. Listen, women, why don’t you try it yourselves? Try putting up with the sour looks you get in the morning because you happen to have sampled the honey cake Ruth thought she’d hidden on the top shelf, behind the sugar. I found it, of course—you can’t hide food from an addict—and sampled it, and it was so bloody marvelous that, sample by sample, I managed to finish the whole thing.

  I mean, can you imagine hiding food? It’s like being stuck in one of those English boarding schools with starvation rations and midnight feasts.

  And another thing—try having meal after meal with women who keep saying, “No more for me, thanks.” Pudding? “No more for me, thanks!” And the preserved oranges I keep buying at the bakery because Ruth loves them? “No more for me, thanks.” Meanwhile, I see her pulling in her stomach when she looks at herself in the mirror. The trouble is, she can’t pull in the bags under her eyes or lift the sagging jowls—that she can’t do, although, of course, she’s miles above plastic surgery, that’s for women like me—frivolous women who think of nothing but food and clothes and men.

  I haven’t even mentioned Dania here because Ruth says that that could jeopardize us all. So I’ll just say that the closest I’ve come to the Valentine experience is with my Greek poet. (Ruth says his poetry stinks. She’s a snob, of course, and cares more for poetry than for men. Except mine. But that’s another story.)

  Anyway, back to my poet. Going out to dinner with him is pure pleasure—dishes upon dishes and, of course, puddings. Even yogurt and honey is better than “No more for me, thanks.” (The only snag is his wife, who’s a cow, and even fatter than I am.)

  So, listen, women: If you’re going to bolt, don’t bolt with other women. And please don’t write in to say how much you “cherish” an evening or a weekend with your “girlfriends.” This isn’t an evening or a weekend, it’s a whole damned year, and these women are definitely not girls. Take it from me: If you want to get away from husbands and children, get away with a man. That’s romantic. And it’s much more fun.

  * * *

  BESS KNEW, OF COURSE, I’D be reading the piece before sending it off. I had to transcribe everything she wrote because she couldn’t type, she could only peck at the keyboard with one finger. And so, typing along, I was stopped suddenly, as if slapped. Bags and jowls? I went to stare into the mirror, and, yes, there they were. And it wasn’t even as if I didn’t know them intimately—rue them, abhor them. I did, I did. It was just that the wreck that faced me every morning had always seemed, somehow, between me and me, at least until I’d put on makeup and sunglasses. But now, seeing myself as if by mistake through the eyes of a “Granny à Go Go” reader—well, yes, indeed, surgery could only have helped. Even Dania had known this.

  I finished the typing and sent the piece off with a breezy note to Stacey. And when I came back into the living room and Bess looked up, expecting God knows what, I said as lightly as I could, “Two days to the party, four till they leave. Have you ever known time to crawl so slowly?”

  She didn’t answer, just muttered, “I’m sorry, Ruth, chuck it in the bin. I can be a hell of a bitch when I’m jealous.”
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  “Agh,” I said, waving this off. “I’m sorry we didn’t run away as you suggested. Never mind the party. Never mind Hester either.”

  She tossed her hair. “They’re both bullies,” she said, “she and Agnes. And it’ll be a battle to the death. Our death. Wherever we are.”

  So it was over and would remain over, I thought. And if Rex had used me to have her back—which I didn’t think he had—well, if he had, I didn’t want him back, regardless. It was she, as it turned out, who’d told him to come for the party. She’d told everyone to come, everyone except Wilfred. And just as I was thinking that at least he wouldn’t be there, at least that, Agnes and Hester burst in, the children close behind them, and there they stood, like a choir about to sing.

  “You’re not going to like this!” Hester announced breathlessly.

  Agnes let out one of her rare whinnying laughs. “Wilfie is on the one o’clock ferry!” she said.

  “And they’re bringing the new baby!” said Lily.

  “What?” Bess sat up, sending her magazine flying.

  “And the au pair,” said Agnes, “because she’s still breast-feeding.”

  * * *

  IN THE SILENCE THEY LEFT behind them, Bess took long, deep breaths.

  “Listen,” I said, “we can show up at the party, stay for a bit, and leave again. What’s wrong with that?”

  She just shook her head, still breathing loudly.

  “Bess,” I said, “what’s the situation with money?” It was a question I’d been saving for the right moment, and although this wasn’t it, I wanted to know what power Wilfred might still be holding over her. “Your grandmother’s money?” I said. “It’s safe?”

  “Sort of. I promised to give some to Rex—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Bess!”

  “But I won’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  I threw up my hands, as exasperated as if it were my money she were throwing away.

  “It sort of keeps him at my side,” she said, “like a puppy.”

  “That says a hell of a lot about his devotion, doesn’t it?”

  She laughed. “He’s devoted to himself. They all are.”

  “I could almost wish Finn were coming,” I said, “just to give Rex a run for your money.”

  She gave me a sideways glance. “Finn is coming,” she said. “But it’s supposed to be a secret.”

  * * *

  Hester #8

  I laughed when Hugh called his sons bloody aliens. And yet that’s just what he’d have in Hester, too—another bloody alien.

  The other day, she announced with pride that she was reading through Trollope (“reading through”!). Does she notice, I wonder, how casually Trollope describes the bonds within a family? One child adored, another overlooked, no “shoulds” in the matter? Hester herself is full of “shoulds.” Just yesterday she said to me, “Lily’s been reading your books, you know. You should ask her what she thinks.”

  “As if!” as she would say. My suspicion is that when she reads the books, she’s on a treasure hunt for signs of herself. Finding none, she pays me back by saying nothing. And, of course, I never ask.

  And do I care? In fact, I do. I want us to be able to walk off the narrow stage on which we seem to have confined our drama. I want to be irrationally, unquestioningly, and absolutely in love with her. But, for all this, she remains a stranger—a stranger whose happiness is, somehow, central to my peace of mind, just as mine is a threat to hers.

  * * *

  “WHAT DOES SHE MEAN, ‘downhill sentence’?” demanded Bess. We were on the veranda with glasses of ouzo, enjoying the few hours left before the party was to begin. “I don’t see what’s downhill about ‘the only snag is his wife, who’s a cow, and even fatter than I am.’ What’s she talking about?”

  “I think she’s saying if you leave it at ‘the only snag is his wife,’ it’ll be stronger. Readers like to work a bit.”

  “But she is a cow, and she is fatter than I am!”

  “I know, I know. She’s also bleached and a termagant. But it might be funnier if you just left it at ‘the only snag is his wife.’”

  “What’s funny about that?” she demanded.

  “It’s hard to explain funny.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “it isn’t meant to be funny.”

  “That makes it even funnier.”

  “And I left out ‘bleached’ on purpose,” she insisted, “because they’re all bleached here, or dyed dead black, so what’s the point? Do you know how long it took me to find someone here who could get my color right?”

  I gazed down at the Aegean, brilliant in the afternoon light. The ouzo, which usually lifted my spirits, was only making me maudlin. “Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes angulus ridet,” I murmured.

  “Ruth? Are you listening?”

  “‘This corner of the earth smiles on me more than any other.’”

  “But will you tell her not to change it? I don’t give a damn about the readers. And what’s a termagant?”

  How much better it would have been, I thought, to have had Greece to myself. No Bess, no Dania, no Gladdy, no children, and no Wendy.

  “And when it’s printed in the magazine, I want to make sure she sees it.”

  “Who?”

  “The bleached cow! What’s the matter with you?”

  I shook myself to attention. “We’ll probably be gone by the time a copy reaches here.”

  “Good! I can’t wait to be gone! Even Gladdy’s getting on my nerves these days. Maybe I’ll just fly off and leave her with her church friends and their tiropitas.”

  I looked at my watch. “Are you ready? It’s time to go to the party.”

  She hauled herself up. “Half a sec, I’ve got to change my shoes. Those cobblestones are lethal.”

  * * *

  “OH, GOD,” SHE SAID AS we came down the slope. “Wilfred and his gang are there already.”

  I looked down into the crowd, and, yes, there they were—Wilfred and Tarquin and a pale young girl cradling a baby. They were sitting along the far wall, with Lily crouching at their feet, trying to coax Mohammed away from a feral cat.

  “Lily!” I said, pushing through to her. “The cats are full of disease. Don’t touch them.”

  But when she scooped Mohammed up, he turned in his rage and bit her hard on the shoulder. “OW!” she yelled.

  “He didn’t mean it,” said Tarquin, taking over the shrieking child.

  Lily’s eyes were swimming with tears now. “Ow,” she said again softly.

  “What you do with a biter is to bite him back,” I said, examining her shoulder. “You’ll have a bruise, but at least the skin isn’t broken.”

  “JESUS CHRIST!” cried Tarquin, pushing the child off his lap. “Wilfred! The little bastard has drawn blood this time! Just look!”

  Wilfred gave a dramatic sigh.

  “Come, Liliput,” I said, taking her by the hand. “Sometimes one is lucky enough to see providence at work.”

  She looked at me and, for the first time, I saw how astonishingly like Hugh she was—the hair, the jaw, even the tilt of her head as she broke into a smile.

  I sat down at an empty table. “What about some wine?” I said. Carafes of red and white had been placed on every table. Gladdy had thought of everything.

  “Mum would have a fit,” she whispered.

  “At sixteen? Then we won’t let her see, will we? Where is she anyway?”

  “Over there, welcoming people. With Agnes.”

  I turned to look. There they were at the lower entrance, both of them in Greek-style long dresses, like a pair of caryatids.

  “It’s not nearly as bad as being bitten by a horse, you know,” Lily said, examining her shoulder.

  With the color high in her cheeks, she really was quite beautiful in an artless, girlish sort of way.

  “You’re very like your grandfather, you know,” I said.

  She looked up, startled. “Really?�
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  “Absurdly so.” I filled our glasses with white wine. “And I think he’d very much approve of you.”

  The plaza was overflowing now, and townspeople kept coming in, their children with them. A lamb was turning on the spit, smoking the air gloriously.

  “Ha! There you are!” said Bess. “Seen Rex?”

  “It’s hard to see anyone except Agnes and Hester. Do you see where they’ve stationed themselves? There, at the entrance.”

  She turned. “Oh, God!” she said. “Are they mad? They’ve gone all empire and ruched.”

  “Mum bought it specially,” murmured Lily, her whole face on fire now.

  But it was impossible to stop Bess once her sense of style had been offended. “And bottle green!” she went on. “And that girl glued to Agnes’s hip as usual. Oh, God.” She looked around disconsolately. “Where is Rex?”

  “There he is,” said Lily.

  Bess stood up. “Oh, there!” She waved to him with both arms. “Rex!” she shouted. “We’re over here!”

  But, if he heard, he ignored her, pushing on past a table of priests toward where Wilfred and Tarquin were sitting at the far side.

  “Ruth!” said Bess urgently. “Would you go over there and save him? Tell him we’re here?”

  I got up and made my way among the tables, nodding, smiling, thanking, and all the while chasing down the source of whatever it was that was so unsettling me. Rex? It certainly wasn’t Rex. Nor was it Bess. Nor even Finn, who was about to turn up out of the blue again. No. It was Hester in that bottle-green dress—all the hope that had gone into it—and Lily like Boudicca, defending her.

  The trio along the wall didn’t seem to notice Rex approach. But when he took hold of a spare chair from a nearby table and seated himself before the young girl, Wilfred looked up and said, “Relax. I had the DNA done. You’re not the father.”

  Rex ignored him. “Irina,” he said, “when are you going home?”

  She couldn’t have been much older than Lily, and yet she looked ancient, used up—sunless, vapid, pale as water. It was ridiculous to think of her replacing someone as vivid as Bess.