Francis blinked. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘And it’s not just her heartstrings that are ripe for the plucking,’ observed Benji. ‘As the pheasant plucker said.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘I know what you’re all thinking, but you’re wrong. I can handle myself perfectly well, thank you. Now let’s get back to the party, shall we? We can’t leave poor Tommy holding the fort.’
And raising my chin, I swept defiantly back to the drawing room. There was a great deal of eye-rolling and whispering behind me, but at length, they followed. Grudgingly.
Supper was interesting. Penny, a self-confessed domestic disaster, had strayed rather ambitiously from her usual fish pie to coq-au-vin. Or coq-oh-up, as she observed grimly to me in the kitchen, as we tried vainly to find some chicken amongst the bones in the pot.
‘I’ve stewed it to distraction!’ she wailed. ‘Boiled it to broth!’
‘So put it in bowls and give everyone spoons,’ I suggested, rummaging in a drawer for a ladle. ‘Here, scoop it out.’
‘D’you think?’
‘Why not? Very French.’
‘But I’ve only got six soup spoons,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Give them to the Thompsons. The rest of us can have straws.’
She looked at me in horror. ‘Joke, Pen,’ I said hastily. ‘Go rustle up some pudding spoons.’
‘And keep pouring the wine down your end,’ she muttered as we went back through to the dining room, balancing brimming bowls on trays. ‘Then no one will notice.’
No one did seem to notice, the conversation being far too lively to worry about the food. Rupert and Francis, both amusing raconteurs, seemed to be getting on like a house on fire, whilst Benji, stuck at the other end with Mrs Thompson, strained jealously to hear what was being said, hating to be left out. Mariella, meanwhile, regaled the rest of us with the perils of dancing in Monaco’s nightclubs when one had just had a bunion operation and was forced to wear carpet slippers.
‘Perilous!’ she exclaimed to a startled General Gerald. ‘Those dance floors are like sheet ice. Lethal.’
It was a bit like an OAP complaining about getting to the Spa in the depths of winter.
‘Something should be done about it,’ she went on forcefully.
‘Grit?’ offered Benji.
‘Poor Juan came a complete cropper the other night, and fell over during “The Locomotion”. Had fluid on his knees for weeks.’
Visions of geriatric tax exiles being forced to shuffle around Monaco’s nightclubs, complaining bitterly that the poles provided for pole dancing were too cold and slippery for their withered thighs and the flashing lights too hard on their cataracts sprang ludicrously to mind. I turned politely to Juan beside me to sympathize and quell the hysteria, but Juan, having planted himself firmly in the only chair facing a mirror gave a tight little smile – for tight was all it could be – and continued gazing at himself. From time to time he’d lean forward with a frown and adjust his toupée.
Mariella, meanwhile, had moved on from the perils of Monte Carlo’s premier night spots and was up in the stars now, astrologically speaking.
‘I haven’t got Christmas presents for the children this year,’ she was confiding in a low voice to her daughter-inlaw. ‘I’ve done their charts instead.’
‘Splendid,’ said Penny faintly. ‘I’m sure that will go down a treat.’
‘What is your brother?’ Mariella hissed suddenly in my ear.
‘Um, he’s a fund manager.’
‘No, no,’ she waved her spoon in Benji’s direction. ‘What star sign is he?’
‘Oh. Er, Capricorn, I think.’
She leaned urgently across the table towards him. ‘Young man,’ she demanded imperiously. ‘Are you a swimmer?’
Benji, keen to have a respite from Pamela Thompson’s offsprings’ education and the efficacy of her cleaner, brightened considerably. ‘Not especially, but I like a bit of freestyle,’ he quipped.
‘Because if you are,’ she swept on, ‘you should know that Neptune is rising in your aura.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Of course! Your energy is compounded twofold!’
‘Excellent news,’ grinned Benji. ‘I shall get down to Putney Baths immediately. D’you think one of the lifeguards would like to share my energy? Slip in a length?’
‘I thought the aura was the bit around the nipple,’ muttered Francis in my ear, frowning at Benji to behave.
‘Aureola,’ I muttered back. ‘D’you think Juan’s are pierced?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. And not just his nipples, either.’
‘Oh please.’
Pamela Thompson, meanwhile, in an effort to steer the party back to more prosaic topics, had turned a bright smile on me.
‘Have you and Rupert been married long?’
A horrible hush fell over the proceedings.
‘Oh, er, we’re not married,’ I flushed. ‘Just good friends.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I heard you mention children, so I assumed …’
‘Yes, yes, I have got children. From my first marriage. I mean – my m-marriage,’ I stuttered, seeing quite a lot of people contemplate their plates. ‘My husband and I are separated though,’ I said defiantly, and saw Penny and Benji glance up at me, round-eyed.
‘Well, how nice to have someone to take you to dinner parties,’ Pamela rallied.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I agreed, not daring to look at Rupert.
‘Just what your sister could do with right now,’ growled Gerald Thompson to his wife. ‘A walker. Poor girl. Even a poofter would do. She was jilted a couple of weeks ago,’ he explained.
Another hush descended on our little gathering.
‘Well, not jilted exactly,’ Pamela hastened to explain. ‘Not actually at the altar. He broke it off just after the invitations had gone out. All the presents had arrived though, the dress had been bought …Poor Tilly, she was heart-broken.’
‘I imagine she was,’ said Benji quietly. ‘I’m not sure even a poofter could help mend that.’
Gerald glanced from Francis to Benji, and as the penny slowly dropped, his eyes bulged.
‘Didn’t that happen to a gel you knew, Penny?’ Mariella asked sharply. ‘Years ago. Supposed to be marrying a chum of Tommy’s in the Guards.’
Penny seemed unable to speak.
‘Pretty little thing, with a very pushy mother. Quite nouveau riche. Definitely not top drawer. Tried to bag him too young, as I recall. Ended up marrying someone from the East End.’
‘More soup, anyone?’ enquired Penny, frantically plunging her ladle in again.
The evening deteriorated badly after that, with a lot of people finding succour in alcohol. The Thompsons didn’t dally, murmuring nervous excuses about a long journey home, and Mariella and Juan left soon after, keen to test the boards at Annabel’s. When they’d all gone, the rest of us collapsed in a giggling heap in front of the fire, and agreed that the evening had been an experience.
‘Oh God, remind me never to entertain again,’ moaned Penny, flopping down on a sofa and throwing a tea-towel over her face. ‘Yes please, to the top,’ she advised her husband as he went to fill her glass.
‘Remind me never to accept an invitation again,’ murmured Rupert, sinking weakly down beside her.
‘You weren’t invited,’ she reminded him sharply, snatching the tea-towel from her face and looking sideways at him, her mouth twitching.
‘You’re quite right,’ he agreed, ‘I wasn’t.’ He hesitated. ‘And I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Oh no!’ everyone chorused, inebriated beyond belief now. Of course he should have come, of course! He’d made the party! Also, insisted Benji, who was flying, it was marvellous to have closed the chapter like this. Seeing him again had given us all closure, as the Americans put it, and now we could all let bygones be bygones. And Francis wouldn’t have missed meeting him for the world, would you, Francis? Fra
ncis, who didn’t have a head for drink, opened one eye and agreed sleepily that he wouldn’t.
When Penny finally showed us out at 2 a.m., she was adamant. Swaying, but adamant.
‘Fine,’ she slurred in a pissed whisper, eyelids drooping as Rupert went down the path ahead of me to find a cab. ‘Fine. You brought him, and I don’t mind.’ She clutched the doorframe for balance. ‘Helluva guy. Always liked him. Very sexy bottom. Very – you know. Pert.’ She swayed a bit more, then lurched forwards suddenly and wagged a finger in my face. ‘But whatever you do, don’t have coffee. OK?’
I nodded gravely. ‘OK,’ I agreed in an equally pissed whisper. ‘I won’t.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Coffee?’ enquired Rupert casually as the cab rumbled back towards Piccadilly.
‘Why not?’ I agreed, equally casually. I flashed him a sexy smile. Unfortunately I was so dehydrated my top lip got stuck to my gums and I had to lick it free, which rather spoiled the effect.
Rupert leaned forward to speak to the driver. ‘Pull up outside the Royal Academy, would you? We’ll walk the rest.’
‘Oh. Your place?’ I said in alarm, clutching the door handle and lurching forward drunkenly as the cab came to a halt at the kerb.
Rupert swung the door open and glanced at me in surprise. ‘Would you prefer one at yours? I thought this was more on the way.’
‘Oh yeah, right,’ I agreed casually. ‘And I’ll catch a cab back later. Just a quick cup, though,’ I gabbled. ‘It is pretty late.’
‘Sure.’ He got out and opened his wallet to pay. ‘I can order you one,’ he said, helping me out. ‘I’ve got an account.’
‘Oh, marvellous.’
Yes, marvellous. Splendid, in fact. I tried not to sway as he paid the driver; tried to look as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to go back to Rupert’s place at two-thirty in the morning. As the taxi trundled away we put our collars up against the wind and headed off. As we threaded our way around the back of the Royal Academy, the night air hit me; chilly now, with a hint of mist, it sobered me up. Just a quick cup, I decided nervously, and I’d throw it down my neck in seconds. Get back to Kensington. But we definitely needed to chat, I reasoned. I’d been so on edge before in the flat, and we hadn’t had a chance at Penny’s to really – you know – catch up.
Our heels clattered up the stone steps and through the oak front door of Albany, then across the hallway and into the gilded lift. Rupert pulled the familiar, concertinaed door shut behind us. We stood in silence as it whirred into action and as it slowly picked up speed, purring up to the third floor, I felt the years drop off me. How many times had I heard that shudder, felt that lurch, as it overshot the floor – then shunted down an inch to the right level? Nostalgia washed over me as we walked out across the landing, and as Rupert put his key in the green door opposite, he saw my face. Grinned.
‘Feel odd?’
‘Most peculiar.’
He laughed. ‘Wait till you get inside. When you realize no one’s lifted a finger to improve the decor, you’ll feel even more peculiar.’
He opened the door and I stepped in, glancing around. The pale, nondescript walls of the hall, hung with sporting prints, closed in on me instantly. ‘God, you haven’t, have you?’ I said in surprise. ‘Rupert, this is unreal. Like walking into a time-warp.’
He scratched his head sheepishly. ‘I know. Can’t seem to get round to it.’
I wandered through to the sitting room, which had been functional but tired in my day; now it looked downright exhausted. The pale brown sofa and chairs circa 1973 were still in situ, albeit with a few more holes and coffee stains on the arms, and the threadbare green carpet had even more bald spots in it, although I spotted a new rug by the fire.
‘To hide the really monster holes,’ Rupert informed me, flipping it back with his toe to reveal a barren patch.
The paintwork obviously hadn’t been touched for fifteen years, but had deepened from a sad cream to a distressed beige, and was only enlivened by a wall full of military prints. Even in my youth I’d been itching to get my paint-brush out, but this was ridiculous.
‘Rupert, why don’t you sort this place out?’ I said, the drink emboldening me. ‘It’s like walking into Miss Havisham’s patch, it’s ridiculous!’
He grinned. ‘You haven’t seen the kitchen yet.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve at least – oh good grief!’
I stepped into the familiar little room, to be confronted by the same peeling blue walls, yellow Formica surfaces, the old cork pinboard with a curling sporting calendar, the strip lighting on the ceiling, plus a few more holes in the black and white lino floor.
‘I don’t notice it,’ he said simply, shrugging. ‘Although I have to say, seeing it with your eyes now, I’m rather embarrassed. But it’s purely somewhere to lay my head when I’m in London. And anyway, I don’t like change.’
‘And your father?’ I said, astonished, moving from room to room. ‘Doesn’t he – well, no, of course he doesn’t.’
I corrected myself. ‘We’re talking Colonel Andrew Ferguson here.’
‘Whose spiritual home,’ Rupert remarked dryly, ‘is probably the smoking room of Brooks’s across the road. Home has never been a home for him. Anyway, he’s never here.’
‘Even when he’s in London?’
‘Not recently. He stays with his girlfriend. She’s got a flat in London. That’s where he is at the moment.’
‘Oh, right. The new bird.’
I tried to imagine Andrew in some twenty-something’s flat, possibly one she shared with a girlfriend; knickers and bras hanging from the shower rail over the bath, rock music blaring, girls chattering on the telephone or painting their nails, and in the midst of it, Andrew calmly doing the Telegraph crossword on a beanbag, the fronds from a fibreoptic lamp occasionally rustling his paper.
‘He takes his own Frank Cooper’s marmalade and Gentleman’s Relish,’ Rupert informed me with a grin, following me down the passage as I peered in all the rooms in a totally pissed and nosy fashion.
‘I’m surprised he doesn’t take a hot-water bottle and a Teasmade, too. D’you mind me spying in all your rooms, Rupert?’
‘Do I have any choice? You always were a nosy old bag – oh, now this one has changed,’ he said, as I pushed open the door to his old room.
‘I should hope so. If I find Airfix models of fighter planes still hanging from the ceiling …Oh, I see. Yes, it has a bit.’
I walked in and gazed around. Rupert’s boyhood single bed had been replaced by a cream sofa, and shelves had been put up to accommodate hundreds of books. ‘Golly.’ I ran my hand along the spines. ‘Something tells me you’ve taken up reading.’
‘Less of the cheek. They were always here actually, in boxes, in that cupboard. Clearly your nosiness hadn’t fully developed in those days and you failed to peer in.’
I grinned. ‘All military history.’ I cocked my head sideways to read the spines. It reminded me of home, somehow. My father’s study. Just his subject. Someone else’s, too. ‘You’ve got the same literary tastes as Laurie,’ I observed.
‘Which is where the similarity ends.’
I turned at his tone. ‘Oh really? What d’you mean? I thought you two were friends?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Not exactly. We certainly know each other pretty well and we’ve served together in Northern Ireland, but I wouldn’t say we were buddies.’
‘Were you above him? I mean, rankwise?’
‘I was his Commanding Officer. And if I hadn’t been, I dare say he’d have been thrown out of the Battalion long before.’
‘Oh? Why?’
He hesitated. ‘Laurie’s reputation goes before him, if you know what I mean. I’ve bailed him out of one too many scrapes.’
‘You mean with women?’ I blushed, suddenly remembering my own little scrape with him.
‘Mostly with women. In fact – hell, what am I saying – always with women. And
always at inopportune moments when he should have been on guard duty, or border patrol.
We nearly lost a squaddie once, thanks to Laurie’s negligence. He was supposed to be patrolling a farmhouse we knew the IRA had their eye on, but he was shacked up with a barmaid instead. His platoon went ahead to recce it without him, and one of them got a bullet in his head. Luckily it only took his ear off.’
‘Oh.’ I was silenced and sobered. Yes, it was a war these boys fought, wasn’t it. In Iraq. The Gulf. Ireland. Not just dressing up in bearskins outside Buckingham Palace and knocking back the gin. It was so easy to forget that, particularly in Laurie’s case, as he flashed his good looks all over the TV, using the glamour of having been a soldier to promote his media career.
‘And no, I don’t resent his success,’ said Rupert, reading my thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t want the attention. He does seem to have done surprisingly well though, doesn’t he?’ He smiled. ‘Any truth in the rumour that the books are ghost-written?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ I demurred, eyes lowered. I myself had been surprised to listen to a tape recently and discover that, although Laurie was reading the script, the text was actually credited to another historian.
‘Anyway, he’s so busy with the TV work now,’ I added loyally. ‘I think that’s rather taken over from the books.’
‘More lucrative too, I should imagine, and hey – why not? His face fits, he’s got the credentials, the charm – let someone else provide the brainpower and do the leg-work.’ He smiled. ‘It’s always been Laurie’s way.’
‘So …why were you ringing him the other day? When I answered?’
He sighed. ‘A while ago he was filming something in Ireland and came to see us at our headquarters in Armagh.
You know, famous TV personality pops into the Mess to have drinks with his old muckers – the boys loved it. Anyway, he went out afterwards with a few of the lads and managed to get a local girl pregnant.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Exactly. Oh God. He went home, and I ended up picking up the pieces. Since he’d been out with my boys at the time, I felt it was my responsibility. And solutions to such problems are still not readily available in Ireland. I was just going to leave a rather terse message with him, about the current state of affairs.’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 24