I frown. ‘Of course I want to spend time with you. This isn’t about you and me, or even you – and of course you’re not a monster! It’s about me doing something productive with my time.’
Stell steps into her jeans, leaving them undone, and pulls a silk shirt from the wardrobe. ‘I just would’ve thought that taking a two-bit job in the village might be a little beneath Mr Advertising, that’s all.’
‘It’s an academic discussion at this point, anyway: I asked around on my way back from the station just now but no one wants me. No one wants George Wolsey!’ I laugh to detract from the hurt.
‘Where did you try?’
‘The pub. But Derek said he had nothing.’ I walk over to the window. ‘Tried the gift shop, too. I quite fancied selling tea towels and soaps for a few hours a week. Keep my mind off things.’
‘And?’
‘No-go. And the coffee shop, too, so it looks like you’re stuck with me, after all.’
‘Why don’t you focus on the house-warming party? Consider it a project?’
Ah yes. The famous house-warming. ‘Do you think people would still come? Some must know by now…’ I picture the villagers and try to imagine if they’d care. My London life is so remote from their concerns. ‘They would, wouldn’t they? Free booze and they’ll be dying to see what was done to the house.’
‘Yeah, they’d come. They won’t have heard about your “work issues” yet. It’s another world out there.’
‘Fingers crossed they won’t ever.’
Stell does a silent cheer. ‘Yay. That’s the spirit. But the party: you could make it amazing – come up with a theme, get a band and a dance floor. I can do the catering.’
‘Yeah. I guess it’ll keep me busy. And you don’t have time to do it, do you?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m trying to tie up a lot of things so I can slow down in case…’ She puts her hand on her belly and, as I look at her, I realise that she’s still standing there with her jeans and shirt undone, wanting to get pregnant and looking for all the world like some Amazonian Victoria’s Secret model, all glossy hair and tits. I’m still curiously aroused after kissing Ness so I lift her hair and kiss the back of her neck, then work my way around her collarbone.
‘I’m going to start writing my novel, by the way.’ Stell tilts her head so my lips can work their way up her neck.
‘Maybe I could get used to being at home…’ I whisper because I know this is what she wants to hear. She turns in my arms and presses herself against me as her hands slide over my skin.
‘Maybe,’ she whispers with her lips on mine. ‘Maybe you’ll find that staying at home isn’t such a terrible thing…’
She pushes me back onto the bed and straddles me. ‘Maybe, if you stick around, you’ll find that I’m actually way more fun than selling scented bloody candles…’
TWENTY-FOUR
George
I’ve always believed there’s no time like the present so, the very next morning, Stell and I are in the kitchen with our coffees, hand-writing the invitations for the party. In front of me is the ring-binder file I’m using to collate all the plans – and, God knows, I’ve been up since dawn so there are plenty of those.
‘I don’t know why we couldn’t just print the invites off the computer,’ Stell says, opening and closing her fingers. There’s a smudge of ink on her index finger from the fountain pen. ‘I could have designed a really nice invite and printed it off: done.’
‘It looks more personal this way,’ I say, shaking out my hand. I’m left-handed: writing with ink is really tricky for me – I have to bend my arm around the script to make sure I don’t smudge it. ‘We want to give a good impression. I want every single person we’ve invited to know that we’ve thought specifically about them, not just done a mail drop.’
‘But this is a mail drop.’
‘Maybe. But it’s a personal one.’
‘We don’t even have half the names.’
‘That’s not the point. The point is that they’ll each receive a hand-written invitation through their door. That’ll go a long way to making people like us. Trust me.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Stell says. ‘It’s your bash.’
I get up. ‘Another coffee?’
‘Sure.’
I look at the kitchen counter for a moment. ‘Did you move the coffee-maker?’
Stell laughs. ‘What a strange question!’
I point to the counter. ‘Wasn’t it here before?’
‘No! What are you like?’
I rub my eyes. ‘Must have been imagining it. It’s just I thought…’ I shake my head. ‘Never mind.’ But no, this really bothers me. ‘Actually…’ I pull out my phone and open the camera. I open the line of cupboards and stand back to take a couple of pictures of the contents and of where things are on the work surfaces.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Taking photos of where things are.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘I swear, things are never in the same place. But then I don’t know if I’m imagining it or just remembering wrong. I spend a lot of time thinking about it. I’m going to sort it out once and for all.’
‘What are you saying? That some fairy comes in and moves stuff?’ Stell’s proper-laughing now. She pretends to pray. ‘Oh, dear kitchen fairy, while you’re magicking things around the kitchen, pretty-please would you also load the dishwasher?’ She looks at me sharply. ‘Did you seriously just take pictures?’ She gets up and peers at my phone over my shoulder. ‘You did!’
‘So what?’
She looks at me as if I’m a complete lunatic and suddenly I see myself standing there in the kitchen photographing the coffee-maker and I see how ridiculous it looks.
‘OK,’ I sigh, deleting the images. ‘It’s just… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on in my head these days.’
‘Have you had any more memory lapses? Have you been writing your diary?’
I shrug. ‘Yeah. There’ve been a few things I don’t remember, but nothing major like those nights.’
‘I wonder what’s causing it. You’re not taking any medications other than your cholesterol stuff?’ Stell taps her fingers on her lips. ‘Something that reacts badly with alcohol?’
I cluck my tongue. ‘No.’
‘Maybe it’s just the stress,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I did some research. Memory loss can be linked to stress, anxiety and depression.’ She pauses. ‘But then I think it started before all this stuff with your job happened, didn’t it?’
I shrug again. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Like you say, probably just stress.’
‘I hope it’s nothing more serious.’
‘Like what? Alzheimer’s?’ I roll my eyes then put on a doddery old-lady voice. ‘Darling… darling… I love you so much… what was your name again?’
She tuts. ‘No. Not Alzheimer’s, you prat. Like a stroke or something.’
‘What?’
‘Apparently memory loss can be a symptom of a “silent stroke” or even a brain tumour. I’m just worried, that’s all. Maybe it’s worth getting yourself checked out.’
The coffee machine beeps. I rinse and refill the cups in silence.
‘There’s a nice doctor here – Dr Grant,’ Stell says. ‘No harm in getting a quick appointment just to rule out any underlying conditions. Wouldn’t you rather just know? I mean, if it’s something major, it’s better to catch it early. Right?’
‘It’s nothing. I’m just tired and, as you said, a bit stressed. As you can imagine.’ I rotate my shoulders backwards and realise how much tension I’m carrying in them.
‘But you never know. And—’ she looks at me coyly, flutters her lashes ‘—I’d kind of like you not to conk out on me.’
I smile back at her. ‘All right.’
‘All right what?’
‘All right, I’ll see the doctor. OK? See what he says. But I think it’s kind of pointless.’ I plonk her cof
fee down on the island.
‘Thanks, darling. And for the coffee, too.’ Stell smiles at me, a huge beam, and somehow I’m left with the impression that I’ve just been played though, for the life of me, I can’t think how or why.
TWENTY-FIVE
Stella
‘It’s going to be a great party,’ I say as George and I walk down the lane towards the village to hand out the invitations. There’s warmth in the sun today but it’s fleeting, turning chilly every time a cloud passes over. ‘Are you pleased with the arrangements?’
‘Yes, I think so. Thanks for coming up with such a great menu.’
‘I enjoyed planning it. I hope I haven’t gone overboard. I can’t wait to see the LED dance floor. Do you think people will dance?’
‘After a few drinks, yeah, I reckon.’
We walk in silence for a minute. From the direction of the village I can hear music and a voice, amplified by microphone, encouraging people to ‘roll up, roll up’. We turn the corner and see tented stalls lining the street. People are milling about chatting.
‘Oh it’s the village fête today! I’d completely forgotten.’ I pull the stack of party invitations out of my bag and give George about ten from the top: Rachel, the yoga girls and Dr Grant are all in his section. Rachel helped me get everyone’s addresses. I’ve got the bulk of the anonymous ones I’m going to push through every door.
‘Right, see you back here,’ I say. George gives me a kiss and turns up the road while I head towards the bustle of the market. There’s all sorts going on under the tents: local produce for sale, cakes, face-painting, some bric-a-brac on sale for the local animal shelter. Dressed in jeans, a sweater and an olive body-warmer, Rachel’s manning the stall.
‘Hi. How’s business?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know,’ she says, casting her eye over the goods for sale. It’s a table of other people’s junk, really. Rows of tatty paperbacks, dog-eared toys, some DVDs, glassware, a set of crockery, a few bits of costume jewellery, a few garments on wire hangers and a new hairdryer in a box. I don’t even pretend to look.
‘How are you?’ Rachel asks. ‘Everything all right?’
‘No complaints.’ I smile. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’
‘Oh I’d love one, cheers. Let me get you some money.’
‘No, not at all. My treat. Since you’re doing your bit for the community.’
‘Well, thank you.’
I potter through the market, chatting to those few people I know, then stand in the queue at a catering truck. It’s selling hot dogs, doughnuts and candy floss as well as hot drinks and the queue straggles down the street. Small children yank at their parents’ hands.
‘Pleease?’ I hear. ‘Why can’t I have candy floss?’
‘You know what you’re like on sugar, darling.’
I wouldn’t be so mean to my own child, I think, looking at the mother’s stony face and at the child’s right leg wobbling back and forth with desire, if only I ever get a chance to have a child. Sometimes it seems as if the whole world pops out babies without so much as thinking about it. Except me.
I order two teas and head back to Rachel.
‘Thank you so much,’ she says. ‘So, have you had a good look around? We always get a good turnout for the fêtes. The whole village comes together. I love them, especially the summer one in June. The weather’s usually better. It often ends up with everyone bringing drinks out from the pub. Derek sometimes sets up a Pimm’s table. That’s always fun.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘It is.’ Rachel looks around at the busy scene and smiles.
‘I’m handing out invitations to our house-warming party today,’ I say.
‘You’ve decided on a date, then?’
‘Yes. April first.’
‘April Fool’s Day?’
‘Ha. Yes, I guess it is. But it’s a Saturday and I’m hoping the weather’ll be good enough.’
‘It’s outside?’
‘Sort of. We’ve booked a marquee, just in case.’
‘Wise.’
‘George has your invitation. He’s putting it through your door.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you think you’ll be able to come? You and your husband, of course.’
Rachel fiddles with the stock on her table. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to check my diary and get back to you.’
I shrug. ‘Sure.’ Then I see George walking down the street towards us, his hands devoid of invitations. As I watch, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs in a message. He’s smiling as he does it, a million miles away from Main Street. His phone’s back in his pocket by the time he reaches us, but the smile remains.
‘Oh, here’s George now,’ I say.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rachel nods but doesn’t take the hand George is holding out.
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ George says giving her his megawatt smile, and I know what he means – I know this is one of his stock phrases – but, somehow, with Rachel here in the village, it comes across as smarmy. Rachel gives me a weak smile.
‘Right,’ she says, fiddling with things on the stall even though there are no customers. ‘Must be getting on. See you around.’
TWENTY-SIX
George
Stell’s out of bed like a rocket on the morning of the party; no lie-in, no snuggles, even though we’ve got almost twelve hours till kick-off. I follow her down to the kitchen. Given she’s a caterer, I’d have thought she’d be calmer than this; more of a pro. Ness certainly was. But Stell’s all over the place, won’t sit still, keeps getting up and jotting things down. Her nervous energy would light up the whole of London.
‘What about power sources?’ she asks. ‘For the band? They’ll have an electric guitar and a keyboard. Microphones and so on. Have you got that covered? And what time is the marquee coming? Will it be up in time for the dance floor to be fitted?’
I catch her as she orbits the kitchen and hold her by her wrists. ‘It’s all under control. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
She shakes me off and sits down with a leg bent under her. She’s sucking a pen and flicking through my lists. ‘Yes maybe, but in my domain: we’re giving over the kitchen to the chef. We won’t have access after he sets up – I mean, we will be able to get in here if we need to, but we can’t count on this as a usable space. The bar will be set up outside, yes?’ I nod. ‘So we need to get all the drinks out before the chef arrives.’
‘Princess, you worry about the catering. I’ll sort out everything else. Trust me. It’s going to be the party of the century, and I’m in control.’
And I’m proud of this one. At the top of the garden, there’ll be a glow-in-the-dark lounge that gives the feel of a Scandinavian vodka bar: in daylight, the sofas will look white but, as the sun goes down, they’ll glow with LED lights: blue, yellow, green and pink. The bar itself will glow electric blue. Behind the bar, the spirits will be set up with optics. In a bank of fridges, I’ll have bottles of wine and beer lined up, labels to the front, like glass soldiers. But the pièces de résistance will be two large ice bowls that take pride of place on the bar. Fifteen minutes before the party starts, the barman will fill them with ice and a hundred and fifty miniature bottles of champagne for guests to grab and drink with straws.
Waiters will circulate with the food. I run through Stell’s menu in my head: we’ll start with arancini with roasted pepper dipping sauce, then move on to the more substantial things: fish and chips in mini paper cones, mini bowls of mushroom risotto, lamb skewers, mini burgers and roast beef on tiny roast potatoes. At the bottom of the garden, there’ll be a marquee, which is where the band will play. Inside, there’ll be a stage and an LED dance floor, surrounded by incidental bar tables and clusters of gilt chairs and dining tables for those who’d rather sit. I bet the village has never seen anything like it.
Stell takes a deep breath. ‘You’re right. And I do trust you. It’s just that I want everything to be right f
or you.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I’m on a high all day as we get everything in place. I haven’t been this busy since I was suspended, and it feels great: me doing my thing and Stell doing hers. It’s how it might be if we were still in London; still working.
*
By seventy-thirty, Stell and I are standing by the bar.
‘Shall we?’ I say, looking at the mini champagne bottles that stud the ice bowl like spikes on a hedgehog. All are opened, straws peeping temptingly out of the tops of the bottles.
‘It’d be rude not to,’ Stell says, smiling at me.
‘Quality testing, of course.’ I pick a bottle from the bottom of the display and hand it to her, then take one for myself.
‘Cheers, Mrs W.’
‘Cheers.’
We clink bottles and Stell slides onto a bar stool. ‘Nice outfit,’ she says. ‘You look great.’ A pause. ‘Where’s your wedding ring, by the way? Why aren’t you wearing it?’
‘Oh.’ I look at my left hand, massage the ring finger. ‘It’s, um, upstairs, I think. You want me to go get it?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. I was just wondering.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve put a sign on the front door telling people to come around the back, by the way, just in case they don’t hear the music,’ she says. Even so, her eyes flick to the garden path every few seconds. It’s contagious: I find myself doing it too.
‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘They’ll find their way. Just relax. Enjoy yourself. All the hard work’s done.’
‘Before it all gets going, I just wanted to say well done for organising such a great party. It’ll be talked about for years to come.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’m surprised your brother isn’t coming.’ Stell’s examining her nails.
‘I didn’t invite him. He’s so busy. He wouldn’t want to traipse down here for a house-warming.’
The One That Got Away Page 18