‘If a little sacrificial,’ Jennie muttered, surreptitiously blowing out one or two as she hurried in with a plate of delicate choux pastry puffs filled with salmon mousse.
Everyone was in their finery too; no jeans and sweaters this week. Indeed most people looked as if they were going to a cocktail party. The men were in jackets, the women coiffed, baubled and made-up, and a general air of expectancy prevailed. Angus was dapper in a tweed jacket, MCC tie and reeking of Trumpers aftershave. He exuded boyish excitement, rocking back on his heels as he guffawed at something Luke said, thrilled to bits at having been allowed out – no doubt equipped with a notebook or perhaps even a tape recorder in his lapel. Saintly Sue was in white trousers and an extraordinary floaty top, pale blue with embroidery around the plunging neckline, which might just have been in fashion five years ago. Jennie was in very tight black trousers and had a great deal of lipstick on her teeth. Only Peggy was resolutely in jeans, an old polo neck and her trademark suede pixie boots. She was also the only one not standing up and buzzing animatedly. She glanced impatiently at her oversized man’s watch.
‘Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s get cracking,’ she said, perched as she was in the circle of chairs Angie had set out at the far end of the room, by the fire.
‘Oh, I think we’ll give them a few more minutes, don’t you? It’s only just seven-thirty.’ Angie patted her hair, her gaze roving out of the window which gave onto the gravel drive.
‘Why? They can just join in when they arrive, surely?’
‘Except that might look a bit rude, Peggy. Seeing as it’s their first night.’
Peggy snorted and muttered something about the people in this village not getting out enough if they were sent into a frenzy by having a couple of Americans amongst them, when suddenly, headlights illuminated the room from without.
‘They’re here!’ squeaked Angie. Jennie leaped to rearrange her asparagus rolls. ‘And d’you know, I think Peggy’s right. Maybe we would look a bit more serious and literary if we were all sitting with our books? What d’you think?’
There was a general consensual murmur at this and everyone dived for a seat as if the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs. Peggy rolled her eyes. By the time Chad and Hope pushed through the front door, which Angie had left conveniently ajar, we were all sitting in a circle, a bit pink and overexcited but, hopefully, with intelligent looks on our faces. Our books were open, although unfortunately on different pages. Angie’s was upside down.
Chad was as handsome as I remembered: tall, slightly burly, square-jawed and wearing chinos and a shirt, no jacket. Hope, beautiful, tiny and dark, was effortlessly casual in a grey cashmere jumper, sweat pants and pumps, instantly throwing into suburban relief our ties and high heels.
‘Hope! Chad!’ Angie got to her feet with a bit of a swoon, manufacturing the impression she’d just come out of a literary trance, so engrossed had she been in the narrative. ‘How lovely to see you. Now I know you’ve met Jennie and Poppy before, but this is Angus, Peggy, Sue – I won’t do surnames,’ she fluttered with a tinkly laugh. Everyone stood up: some in a rush so their books fell on the floor; some with a bit more ease, like Luke; and some, like Passion-fuelled Pete, even giving a little bow as he shook Chad’s hand.
Chad, looking even more Adonis-like close up, displayed impeccable manners and some perfectly straight white teeth as he smiled. He smiled a lot and intoned ‘Chad Armitage’ every time he was introduced, making his way around the circle and looking right into everyone’s eyes. He was followed by Hope, whose tiny little hand as she extended it seemed as fragile as a bird’s wing. She really was awfully pretty, I thought, as I drank in more perfect teeth and silky hair. We all beamed as she greeted everyone warmly. Only Peggy’s smile was more amused, and she declined to stand, politely offering her hand and muttering to me that at her age she only stood for royalty and the over-seventies. Certainly not for a man. What did Angie think she was doing?
Angie, who’d once met Camilla Parker-Bowles and never quite got over it, was indeed becoming more and more lady-in-waiting-like as she proffered the two remaining chairs. Then she decided they were too ropey for the Armitages and made Luke and Jennie swap, in order to give Chad and Hope more acceptable ones.
‘So!’ said Chad, rubbing his hands and looking huge on the chair Angie had finally deemed suitable, a tiny gilt rococo number she’d bought at Sotheby’s. His voice was thrillingly transatlantic. ‘What are you guys reading, then? Hope and I are so excited about this, incidentally. We did a lot of reading groups back home and got so much out of it.’
Angie cleared her throat. ‘Well, this week we’re all reading The Ghost by Robert Harris. It’s not a frightfully intellectual book,’ she hurried on, ‘and of course we will read something more challenging later on, but it’s a rattling good read with a terrific plot. A good starter book, we thought.’
‘Oh, OK, good idea,’ Chad agreed. He took the book from Pete beside him, who offered it. ‘Hey, I like the sound of this,’ he said, reading the blurb on the back. ‘Makes a change from Philip Roth, doesn’t it, Honey?’
This, to Hope, who, if she was surprised by the popular nature of the novel, was hiding it beautifully. ‘It certainly does. In fact it looks wonderful,’ she said, turning it over in her hands as he passed it to her. ‘And what did you all make of it?’ She glanced around, smiling.
‘Oh, it’s tremendous!’ boomed Angus. ‘Absolutely first class.’
‘Really? That’s great.’ She smiled at Angus, perhaps waiting to be further illuminated. If she was, she was disappointed. He beamed back. ‘What about you, Pete?’ She turned kindly to her neighbour, having remembered his name. The blood surged up Pete’s neck and into his cheeks.
‘Oh, um … I thought it was very good too.’
‘Good, good.’
This didn’t give us a great deal to build on. And although Hope could have asked someone else, it would have thrust her into a dominant role, so she sensibly refrained. Instead she smiled encouragingly at Pete, hoping for more. Pete eyed the door as if he might make a run for it.
In the deafening silence that followed, Angie shot me a pleading glance. ‘Poppy, what about you?’
Sadly I hadn’t read it. I’d had too much on my plate this week. Although, actually, come to think of it, I was pretty sure I had read it, years ago.
‘I thought it was gripping.’ Angie’s eyes demanded more. Much more. ‘And … and I particularly liked the bit where the guy hangs from the cable car, in the snow,’ I said wildly. ‘Really exciting.’
‘That’s Where Eagles Dare,’ said Jennie, rather disloyally, I thought.
Everyone cast their eyes down to their book. ‘Anyone else got any thoughts?’ Angie said brightly. ‘Who didn’t enjoy it?’
Lots of shocked murmuring, head shaking and pursed lips at this. But no concrete ideas.
‘So … everyone enjoyed it.’
More enthusiastic agreement. But then something of a hiatus again. And don’t forget we were all in a circle, so it was a bit like Show and Tell at Clemmie’s school. A mistake, I felt. Too intimidating. We were also missing Simon, who surely would have had some erudite, eloquent remarks on the matter. Angie, Jennie and I looked despairingly at one another. We hadn’t thought this through. Did this need chairing? In which case, who was going to do it? Were there too many of us? Too few? How did it work? What was a book club?
‘Did anyone have any thoughts on characterization?’ suggested Luke, and I could have kissed him. Angie looked as if she really might clasp his head in her hands and plant a smacker on his lips. Of course. Characterization. We all glanced surreptitiously at the Americans to see if they’d clocked this bon mot. Hope was smiling, nodding. Unfortunately, though, no one did. Why were we all so tongue-tied?
‘I thought the characterization was good,’ said Jennie desperately. ‘Particularly that of Adam Lang, the hero.’
‘I agree,’ said Angus staunchly. ‘Best character i
n the book.’
‘And I particularly liked the way he was depicted as tough, yet tender,’ broke in Saintly Sue. We all turned to her gratefully. She went very pink. Opened her book to where a piece of notepaper lay within. She cleared her throat and read: ‘It seemed to me he emphatically fulfilled the role of romantic hero in the classical sense, much as Chaucer’s Troilus did in Troilus and Criseyde, adhering to the conventions of courtly love and the literature to which it gave rise in the Middle Ages, which emphatically supplied the first of several historical bases to underlie any adequate interpretation of the principal characters, and any situations in which Troilus – and therefore Adam Lang – emphatically coexist today.’ She slowly closed her book, eyes down, lips pursed.
‘Well,’ said Jennie faintly, after a pause. ‘Yes. Quite. Thank you, Sue.’
‘More wine, anyone?’ said Peggy wearily. ‘That is, if no one’s got anything emphatic to add?’
She got to her feet, and everyone, apart from the Americans, eagerly got to theirs, agreeing that was a jolly good idea.
‘Shall we pass round the food now, Angie?’ someone asked. They did so, anyway.
Bemused, the Armitages stood to join us.
‘A real page-turner,’ Angus assured Chad, pressing the book into his hands. ‘Go on, take mine. You’ll love it. Be up all night.’
‘Thank you,’ Chad said. ‘Although, I should probably read next week’s book, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, next week’s,’ agreed Angie, with a note of panic, looking at me.
But I was miles away. Organizing a plumber to fix Marjorie and Cecilia’s boiler, even though they lived sixty miles away in Ashford. But Phil was the man of the family, you see. Role-playing was important. Men were important. On one occasion, Marjorie had turned to me and asked: ‘Where are the men?’ One was in his cot, six weeks old. I’d found it diverting for days. I didn’t now.
‘Hope?’ Angie abandoned me and turned desperately to our new friends. ‘Any suggestions for next week? You must have been to loads of these things in New York,’ she gushed.
‘Oh God, too many. Twice a week sometimes,’ said Hope. ‘But we tended to decide on the next book at the end of the meeting.’
‘This is the end,’ Peggy informed her.
‘Oh, really?’ Hope blanched. ‘You mean … that’s it?’ She waved a hand at the empty chairs.
‘It’s the end of the booky bit. Not the end of the evening.’
‘No – no, it’s not the end of the booky bit,’ Angie insisted, flustered. ‘We’re all going to sit down again and – oh, look, here’s Simon. How marvellous.’
It was said with feeling, and indeed it was something of a relief to have Simon breeze in amongst us. He looked urbane and expensive in his suit, bringing something of London with him, and not just the Evening Standard. Jennie coloured up slightly but I noticed that although he greeted her warmly, he didn’t linger; he greeted everyone else then said hello to the Armitages, who he appeared to know – through mutual friends, he explained. He did some man-chat with Chad, whilst we women swarmed around his wife.
‘You must think we’re hopeless, Hope,’ said Angie. ‘Oh, that sounds dreadful – hopeless hope!’ she twittered. ‘Being so disorganized. But we’ll be much better next week.’
‘Oh no, not at all. I think it’s all going brilliantly. And Chad and I are so thrilled to be asked, anyway. We were just saying the other day that it’s high time we integrated more with the village. Really got involved in the community.’ We basked in her sweet smile and her wide blue eyes, feeling she really meant it. So lovely.
‘And we really would welcome suggestions for next week,’ Angie told her. ‘We’ve all loved this thriller, but maybe we do need something more stimulating to get the chat going a bit more. Any ideas?’
Hope lowered her voice. ‘D’you know, there are huge gaps in my literary education,’ she confided.
‘Oh, mine too!’ agreed Jennie.
‘So much I haven’t read.’
We all nodded enthusiastically. This we liked. Loved, in fact.
‘D’you want to stick to this particular genre?’
We all looked at her blankly.
‘I mean, the thriller?’
‘Oh no, we’re happy with any … genre. Tragedy, romance. I’d happily read Georgette Heyer every week!’ Jennie assured her.
‘I don’t know her.’
‘You don’t know Georgette Heyer?’ Jennie looked genuinely shocked. She clutched her heart. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got the whole lot. I’ll lend them to you. You’re in for a treat. Start with Faro’s Daughter and you’ll be hooked for life!’
‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. And meantime,’ Hope lowered her voice again and we all had to lean in because her voice was soft. And she was tiny, so we must have looked like we were mugging her. ‘Well, meantime, if you’re really looking for suggestions, I’m ashamed to say there’s one book which I know I should have read in high school, but just never got around to. I’d love to do it now.’
‘Oh!’ we breathed. Plenty of those. Whole libraries full. ‘Yes?’
‘You’ve probably all read it.’
‘Noo, noo, not necessarily,’ Angie warbled.
‘It’s Ulysses.’
‘Ulysses!’ Jennie and Angie agreed in unison. They rocked back on their heels, glancing wildly at one another. It rang a faint bell, but not a very loud one.
‘Can you believe I’ve never read it? Must be one of the greatest novels in literary history.’
‘I’ve never read it either!’ squealed Angie, hand pressed to her heart. ‘I’ve been so ashamed of that for years!’
‘I’ve always meant to,’ Jennie chimed in. ‘Just never got round to it. Poppy, what about you?’
But I was hanging out Marjorie’s washing now, because she’d asked me to. Large white pants, huge conical bras, the cups of which a puppy could have curled up and had a nap in. Hanging them on my line, while she watched my television.
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes, I told you. I liked the cable-car bit.’
Jennie blinked. Turned her back on me pointedly. ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea, Hope. We’ll all read that for next week, then.’
‘And I could get a few notes from the Internet, perhaps? Circulate them, if you like, to help us along?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. As you can see, we didn’t need notes for this one!’ Angie trilled. She turned. ‘Everyone!’ She clapped her jewelled hands prettily into the party atmosphere that had naturally ensued – flooded in, more like, when given the chance. Angus was already florid and booming; Luke had his hand on Sue’s arm as he told an anecdote, just emphasizing a point, but still; and the volume was high. ‘Um, everyone! Listen up! Hope’s made a marvellous suggestion for next week. We’re going to read Ulysses, which is a lovely book, apparently. I’m sure you’ll all adore it. It’s by –’ Angie turned to Hope expectantly.
Hope looked startled then collected herself. ‘Oh, OK. James Joyce.’
‘James Joyce, and it’s about …’ Angie tinkled, cocking her head to one side, liking this double act.
‘Well, not so much about anything as a stream of consciousness. One day in the life of. I guess if it does have a central theme it’s … well, it’s –’ Hope puckered her pretty brow; looked momentarily flummoxed.
‘It’s about death,’ Peggy interjected softly, from over by the window.
We all turned to look at her. Her face, in profile to us, was sad and mournful. She blew a thin blue line of cigarette smoke at the pane of glass and thence to the darkened fields beyond.
15
‘Saintly Sue and Luke seemed to be getting on rather well last night, didn’t they?’ Jennie said casually.
I was on my way back from the shop. Jennie was on her hands and knees in her front garden, messing around with a trowel, the second time I’d found her thus in two weeks. Generally she expressed the opinion that plastic flowers were the way forward,
so authentic were they nowadays, and soil-tilling just another extension of a housewife’s shackles, only we got to rattle them in the fresh air.
I paused at her gate. ‘Yes, they did, didn’t they?’
‘You don’t mind?’ She straightened up anxiously.
‘Not in the least.’
I didn’t, really. Well, OK, I might have been a bit piqued that he’d spent so much time flirting and amusing her, but no more than that. ‘I’m seeing him on Tuesday, anyway,’ I assured her. I hated disappointing my friends.
‘Are you?’ She brightened, as I knew she would. ‘Oh, good. Oh, I am pleased.’
‘You sound like someone’s mother, Jennie.’
‘I am someone’s mother.’
‘Yes, but not mine.’ I smiled.
‘Fair comment.’ She paused. ‘Probably just humouring Sue last night, then?’
‘Most probably,’ I conceded, although privately I thought the giggling I’d heard behind the azalea bush in Angie’s front garden as I’d left the party might have been more than humouring.
‘Simon was on good form,’ I said conversationally, but not without a parrying thrust. A touch of touché.
‘Yes, he was, wasn’t he?’ she said lightly. ‘Although not with me.’
‘He was busy catching up with the Armitages, Jennie,’ I said, instantly regretting the parry.
‘You don’t have to placate me, Poppy. I’m married, remember? I’ve got my Toad.’ She grinned. ‘My life is complete. You’re the one that needs a man.’
She knelt and resumed her digging, humming to herself, which she didn’t do. I mean, years ago we all did; sing, even, but not recently. There was a strange contentment to her too, as she chivvied those weeds, which was as alien as the horticulture. I went distractedly up my path with the children. Something about Jennie and Simon’s behaviour last night had alerted me; the way they rather pointedly didn’t linger in each other’s company. It was as if, in private time, some modus operandi had been arrived at. As if they were beyond seeking each another out at a party and having tongues wag. Had some decision been made, I wondered nervously? I wasn’t sure. One thing I did know, though, was that the more I encountered Simon, the more I liked him. We’d had a good chat at Angie’s, and amongst other things he’d said how outrageous it was that the bus route from the village was in danger, and that for some old people it was their only independent way into town; they didn’t want to rely on lifts. Said it was the first thing he was going to tackle if he was elected, that and the threatened closure of the post office, which he was tackling anyway, elected or not. He was taking a petition round all the villages affected. Yes, a decent man. A sensible one too. Which Dan wasn’t always, I thought uncomfortably.
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