‘Oh, walkers. Just at the other end of the high street and then over the bridge. I’ll see you in about an hour or so.’
He dug in his pocket and handed me the key to the room. Then, after bestowing one of his lovely smiles, he was gone.
As I watched him duck his head under the low door, I breathed deeply and easily, cosy and happy now. I’d finish my tea, I determined, and go straight up. I wiggled my toes happily under my cushion. Yes, a nice long bubble bath with some hotel smellies, and then I’d change into that rather clever blue silk dress I’d found in Coast. Clever in that it was definitely for my age, but not mumsy: was slightly edgy, actually, in its Chinese styling, the frogging down the front. A little bit like Mrs Middleton’s coat at the wedding: a clever twist on a classic, although obviously not in a mother-of-the-bride sort of way. More of a – well, dinner-in-a-candlelit-restaurant-with-an-attractive-man sort of way. Silky hold-ups instead of tights – which were great so long as you got the sticky bit at the top at the right tension. Too tight and circulation would be cut off and you could pass out, nose-diving the soup; too loose and within a few strides they were round your ankles, like Nora Batty’s. I’d done both, to greater or lesser degree.
The Nora Batty occasion had been a scary dinner party at Ginnie’s with all her smart friends. Sebastian, glowering and drunk, had insulted the woman next to him, saying that if all she did was shop and play tennis she was a parasite on society, all of which I could hear down my end of the table. Out of nerves, I’d proceeded to get disastrously pissed myself. I’d stumbled to the loo mid-pudding, not knowing my hold-ups were floating round my shoes. When I got back, amid concerned stares, I’d needed to blow my nose – it always runs when I’m plastered. Plunging my hand into my jacket pocket for a hanky, I’d found an egg. Naturally it smashed, and when I withdrew my eggy hand I wiped the goo and shell on my napkin, which the man next to me had seen and found startling.
‘I’m her thister,’ I told him in slurred tones, as if that explained everything, including collecting an egg from the hen house in a smart jacket, the first coat to come to hand on a kitchen chair.
‘Ah.’ He nodded nervously and turned to his other neighbour, clearly of the opinion I’d been let out for the day and would be driven back to the Home for the Bewildered later.
The next day, when I’d apologized to Ginnie, she’d been furious. She said I’d looked a sight as I’d gone to the loo in trailing underwear, and when I explained, she said no one minded being insulted by Sebastian; they expected it. It was all part of the fun and the glamour of meeting a famous artist. It was true, the women had swarmed around Sebastian as we’d arrived and he’d glowered back, in his Heathcliff way, to yet more fawning. But for me to get so pissed … Well, she said, I’d really let the side down. I recalled the flaming row Sebastian and I had had on the way home from that party. Sebastian insisting on driving, weaving down the lanes. Me, shrieking about how he played shamelessly on his creative credentials, flirting and insulting people. ‘Well, which is it?’ he’d snapped. ‘Flirting or insulting?’ And I couldn’t decide, befuddled with drink and constantly escaping hosiery, which I began to rip off furiously in the car. Weirdly, we’d made love that night when we got home. Drunk and unhappy, desperate for something from each other. Anything. It wasn’t long after that that Isobel appeared on the scene. I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to think about any of this now. About the passionate rows and lovemaking with my husband, even whilst he was with Isobel. Like a child claiming it was my turn. I shut my eyes in self-disgust.
When I opened them, it was to see cars beginning to arrive in the pub forecourt. My vantage point on the sofa in the window gave me a bird’s-eye view as they swung, one after another, in a string almost, onto the gravel sweep. They were a little early for dinner, I thought, but evening drinks, perhaps. This place certainly seemed to do a good trade. I watched as the headlights – more lamps than lights, actually: huge, round, old-fashioned things – dimmed slowly before going out. As people clambered out of doors that seemed to open the wrong way I could see that they were old. The cars, not the people. Vintage, was perhaps the word I was scrambling for. Like the ones in The Great Race but smaller.
‘Oh, I see they made it, then.’ A plump, rosy-faced waitress gazed over my head out of the window as she bent to collect my empty teapot, cup and saucer.
‘Sorry?’
‘Them old cars. They have a rally at the farm down the road once a month, and dinner here the night before. Sometimes one gets stuck along the way.’ She chuckled. ‘Many a time my Frank’s had to get his tractor and pull ’em out. Get ’em here in time for supper.’
‘Ah.’
Once a month. Right. As the pub door opened, heralding a blast of cold air and then the first clutch of motorists, one or two pennies began to drop. Quietly at first, but slightly disconcertingly nonetheless. Like the one which reminded me how I’d originally heard about this place. Where I’d picked up the brochure. As the second couple came through the door, another penny clattered down, slightly more loudly. I recognized them instantly, of course I did. They lived across the road from my parents in Buckinghamshire. I recognized the dog, first, actually. A huge great ginger thing, straining on a lead. Damn. They might not recognize me, though, I thought, quickly shrinking down in the sofa and pulling my fringe over my eyes. I reached for Ludo’s Telegraph and put my nose in it. It was ages since I’d seen them and, without the dog, I’m not sure I’d know them either. After all, I glimpsed them only on the occasional visit home. Saw them in church on Christmas Day, or at Boxing Day drinks at that nice lady Peggy’s. Out of context, it was unlikely they’d know me. Still with my head in the paper I found my shoes, wiggling my feet into them. When they’d turned to the bar for a drink, I’d slip away upstairs. It would be the work of a moment. I watched out of the corner of my eye.
She, the wife, looked harassed and windswept. She unwound a scarf from her dark curls, berating her husband, a rather attractive man with hair swept back like an ocean wave, for always having to have the roof down, whatever the weather. In flaming October, for heaven’s sake!
‘I feel as if I’ve been to Thorpe Park dressed as Isadora Duncan,’ she wailed, but she was sweet to the waitress. My comely lady. Said how lovely it was to see her again, and how beautifully warm it was in here. And what a blessed relief to be here. One simply never knew with those wretched cars, whether they’d make it or not. She smiled broadly, thanking heavens for such a tolerant hotel that took dogs. There were so few these days, and the poor thing was simply no good at being left. Even with a house-sitter she’d eat the curtains, out of misery, until they got back. And my waitress beamed back, assuring her it was a pleasure to have the dog here, and how was the beauty, anyway? She bent to stroke her. Leila, wasn’t it?
Jennie, as I now remember she was called, smiled and said yes, it was Leila and she was as naughty as ever. But she had calmed down a bit since she’d had puppies.
‘We’ve got her son here, too, I’m afraid, and he is such a pickle. Hopefully he’ll be on his best behaviour. He’s coming in another car.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Dan, we must look out for Angus; that car he’s in is worse than ours. I do hope he’s OK, I thought they were right behind us.’
I went a bit cold. Let Angus be the dog.
‘He’ll be fine, love,’ he soothed. ‘He’s been in one before.’ He headed to the bar, fishing out a tenner, but his wife looked fussed as she stared out of the window.
‘Look, it’s still got its lights on.’ She reached out for her husband’s arm. ‘The car that pulled up literally just after us. That’ll be him. Do go and rescue him, Dan. You know how the door sticks when you try to get out. They’ll be having a hell of a tussle.’
As Dan agreed good-naturedly and shuffled towards the door, I prayed. Please God, let Angus be the son of Leila. Or, if not a dog, a friend of Dan’s. A common enough name, surely? Yes, a friend of Dan’s, whom he’d allowed to drive his car, as a trea
t. Chap from schooldays, perhaps, or the pub, or … oh, dear God.
The door opened before Dan got to it, and the wind caught it so that it banged back hard against the wall. Another blast of cold air rippled newspapers and napkins, sending the latter fluttering up in the breeze. Into the bar, ruddy and windswept, spluttering and roaring about how that had been the best fun he’d had in bloody years, bloody marvellous, in fact, his hair – what there was of it – standing on end, strode my father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘That thing’s got no ruddy door handles!’ he roared, beaming around as he stood on the threshold, a scarlet-spotted hanky billowing wantonly from the top pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘At least none that I recognize, anyway. Been trying to get out of it for five minutes!’
‘Oh, Angus, I’m so sorry.’ Jennie hastened across to greet him. ‘They’re silly little things, like hair pins. I can never get out unless someone helps me, but I was so desperate to get Leila out of the boot, I’m afraid we didn’t wait. Dan, you are hopeless – I told you it was him.’ She scolded her husband as he shrugged apologetically.
All this, I hasten to add, was happening firmly off stage as far as I was concerned. I took the odd peep, but, in the main, my face was covered by the Daily Telegraph crossword puzzle, two-thirds of which had been filled in by Ludo, and which I kept firmly pressed to my nose. My heart was pounding as I eyeballed one across. Bolt from the blue, he’d written. How apposite. And how stupid of me to suggest this place, which, of course, I’d first heard about when I went to see Dad: picked up the brochure from his coffee table.
‘Well, he’s here now,’ soothed Dan. ‘And I’ve seen the Hendersons and the Fields; they’ve gone up to see their rooms. And Peggy and Peter are on their way.’
‘Peggy and Peter are here,’ a gravely female voice assured him, one that I recognized as belonging to a delightfully colourful lady, a widow, who lived down the road from my parents.
‘That Humber’s not as quick as your Morgan, though, Dan,’ said a male voice I didn’t recognize. ‘I did my best, had my foot firmly on the floor, but I’m more used to getting power out of a horse than a carburettor.’
‘That’ll teach you to abandon your horse box to impress your lady friend!’ boomed my father. ‘Should have stuck to what you know, Peter!’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to show you all up,’ said the male voice easily. ‘That old lorry has got more age than most of these souped-up vehicles put together. And, I’ll have you know, Peggy is more than just my lady friend these days. In a very rash moment last weekend she agreed to become my wife.’
Such ecstatic whooping and wild congratulating greeted this remark that I wondered if this was my moment? To escape? Surely the diversion caused by so much backslapping and cheering and clustering would enable me to creep, unnoticed, from the room? As the flurry of delighted good wishes continued I started my crawl around the room, sticking firmly to the edges. It was something of a steeplechase, however, as there were various stools and tables to negotiate, but I pressed on, newspaper to nose, making silent headway. As I skirted the throng at the bar I recognized Jennie’s voice saying: ‘Oh, Peggy, how marvellous. I am so thrilled for you both. And Peter, does Poppy know?’ She was assured that Poppy did know, and was delighted, and had sent huge congratulations and masses of love from Italy.
‘Don’t tell me you’ll live at Peter’s place!’ roared my father, who only has one volume. ‘You’ll be all right for whisky but not much else!’
Shrieks of mirth greeted this and Peter assured him good-naturedly that no, they’d be based at Peggy’s, but his horses would remain at his yard. I, meanwhile, had the door in my sights. Corks were popping as champagne was ordered and I was just on the point of sliding out, literally almost home and dry, when the comely waitress popped her head round my newspaper.
‘Everything all right, love?’ she looked concerned.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I whispered, scared. Please go.
‘Only, you went ever so pale a moment ago and I thought maybe you wasn’t feeling well. Found a good article, have you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In the paper?’
‘Oh.’ I lowered it an inch from my nose. ‘Um, yes.’
‘What’s gripping you, then, love?’
‘It’s … about horses.’ It had been the first thing to spring to mind on account of the conversation at the bar.
‘Oh, horses! Lovely. Fond of them, are you?’
Shh, I implored her silently, but too late. Her voice had reached the recently engaged man and struck a chord, as shared enthusiasms often do. As this small, dapper-looking, older chap overheard, he smiled at me. My upbringing let me down. It was such a charming smile that I couldn’t immediately flick the newspaper up again so, instead, I flicked the briefest of smiles back. The paper shot up, but too late. My father, taller by a head than the dapper man, and standing directly behind him, had caught it and was bearing down.
‘Darling!’ he boomed in astonishment as I turned to stone at the door. ‘Good heavens! What on earth are you doing here?’ He gave me a huge bear hug, delighted to see me.
‘I’m, um – just here with a friend,’ I faltered, when I’d finally located my vocal chords. Unwrapped them from round my tonsils.
‘A friend? Oh, splendid. Lottie?’ He gazed around the room expectantly. ‘Or Ottoline, perhaps? Not Ginnie, I hope. She’s frightfully cross with me at the moment! Ha!’
‘No it’s … not Ginnie.’
‘Lottie, then, eh? Excellent! I say, cat got your tongue? Well, good for you, darling, you girls should get away more often. Do you good to get out of the sticks and away from all that mud. And there’s masses to see in this little town. Where is she, love?’
‘I’m … not sure.’ The truth.
‘Stuck in the lavatory, no doubt, like the three old ladies!’ He nudged me hard in the ribs and roared. ‘Seems to me you girls are never out of the lavatory! Beats me what you do in there. Applying your lippy, no doubt. Shame in a way it’s not Ottoline, because did I tell you Peggy was at school with her? No?’
I confessed I didn’t know that.
‘Years ago – well, obviously years ago – but at the same convent. You remember Peggy, don’t you? From Boxing Day shindigs and what have you. And Jennie and Dan from across the road? I say, Jennie –’ And suddenly I was being propelled across the room to the bar, where my father insisted on introducing me to absolutely everybody in his vintage-car-rally group, something Dan had roped him into, he explained. Even lent him a car, which was super fun. ‘My daughter, Ella. She’s here with a friend. Amazing coincidence, but then it is the best place for miles around, so perhaps not? You’ve been before, darling? No? Oh, well, you’re in for a treat, then! The chef is quite magnificent. You’ve booked into the dining room, I hope? Best tucker in the county! Go for the sole; he cooks it to perfection. My daughter!’ he kept roaring, pleased as punch. ‘Have you met Ella? My daughter!’
‘Oh, married to the famous painter?’ someone asked with interest and I had to agree I was.
‘Sebastian Montclair,’ the woman informed a friend beside her: an elegant, older lady with a purple velvet coat, bright eyes and high cheekbones, who I knew to be Peggy. She gave me a very beady look but Jennie, now with two straining dogs on leashes since Dan had brought another in from his car, had turned to me with real interest.
‘Oh, but – hang on, you must be Hugo’s aunt,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, determined to be polite but then to make my excuses and leave forthwith. My father, having had the pleasure of introducing me to all his friends, happily seemed to have forgotten about Lottie, and, seeing that Jennie had fallen on me, was pleased to break away from the women and into a more convivial male group at the bar, handing his champagne back to the barman and saying he’d prefer a gin and French, actually, if that wasn’t too much bother.
‘How is his mother, do you know?’
I gazed into Jen
nie’s concerned eyes, all at sea. Suddenly I came to. ‘Ginnie? She’s fine.’
‘Oh, good! Only I’ve been so worried about her.’
I realized she was referring to Hugo being ill. ‘No, no, she really is fine now,’ I told her more earnestly. ‘I mean, of course she’s been terribly worried about Hugo, but she’s pleased he’s on the mend. She just wants him to get better and be happy, so she’s not fussed about the university thing any more.’
‘Oh, I am so pleased. Oh, I can’t tell you what a relief that is.’ Her hand went to her heart and her face relaxed visibly. ‘Only, she finds it hard to speak to us, sometimes. For obvious reasons,’ she added quickly.
‘Obvious?’
‘Well, you know Hugo’s living with us?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said, surprised. ‘You mean at weekends? I mean, he’s mostly at Cambridge, surely?’ My mouth was forming the words, but in my head I was elsewhere. I was rapidly changing hotels. There must be another round here. This town was heaving with tourists, bound to be loads. I needed to text Ludo too, tell him not to return. Then I’d check out. Rather a lot to do, one way and another.
‘Well, no, not now.’ Jennie frowned. ‘I thought you said his mother knew? Was fine about it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Didn’t you know? He’s chucked the whole thing in.’
‘Oh! But – but I thought he was just retaking the first year?’
‘He was, and he started to do that, but still hated it. Hated the pressure. He’s living with us now, has been for a bit. And I know how I’d feel about that, as a parent, and how your sister must feel – if she even knows! And I do try to encourage him to tell his parents. I tell him to take Frankie back with him if he needs moral support, tell them what’s happened, or even just ring them. He doesn’t have to do it face to face, but he just won’t. And obviously I don’t like to push too hard after all he’s been through.’ She looked desperately concerned.
My Husband Next Door Page 30