The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  I tapped my fingers on the bamboo table and gazed out at the view. I was unsure how I was going to handle it, either. I mean, sure, on the one hand, the man was a complete bastard. His behaviour was treacherous, the situation untenable and therefore she should turf him out tout de suite. But on the other, there were her three gorgeous children asleep upstairs. There was this huge London house, another one in Tuscany, a Caribbean holiday booked with the Frowbishers next month, their vast network of friends and … OK. I raised my hands. Tapped.

  Lucinda paused for a moment by the Adam fireplace in her eau-de-Nil drawing room. She glanced up and regarded her reflection in the antique overmantel mirror. Her face was pale, and her grey eyes huge with fear in her heart-shaped face. She glanced down at her Cartier watch again. Ten-fifteen. Where was he? With her, Tanya? In a hotel bedroom in the West End, somewhere? Suddenly, she heard a key in the door.

  I broke off exhausted and pushed back my chair. Phew. Golly. Eight lines. This creative malarkey was jolly hard work. Perhaps I needed a coffee. Or some chocolate. I scraped back my chair and got up. I was uncomfortably aware, too, that I wasn’t quite sticking to the brief as outlined by my new editor, Sebastian Cooper. After his fulsome letter of praise and acceptance some time ago, I’d rung to introduce myself properly, and he’d been equally complimentary on the phone. Couldn’t have been nicer, actually. He’d praised my style, my dialogue, my – something else – but he’d also volunteered a hope that we might see the story from Henry’s point of view. Maybe even see him in action with Tanya.

  ‘You mean … you want sex?’

  ‘Sorry?’ he’d said, startled. ‘No no,’ I’d said hurriedly. ‘In the book.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, in the book! Yeah, definitely,’ he’d agreed. ‘Lots of it, yeah. Sells really well, you know, that sort of thing. Why don’t you, like, chuck it in all the way through? A bit in each chapter?’

  ‘Er, well …’ I’d faltered. ‘I’ll … do my best.’

  ‘Great. T’rific. Just let it – you know – flow. Go with the flow.’

  He’d sounded awfully young, I’d thought in surprise as I’d put down the phone. I’d had an idea a senior editor would be about forty, but perhaps not, these days.

  It was important to keep him happy though, I decided as I took my mug and went out of the summer house. Perhaps we ought to see him in his boxer shorts? Henry, I mean. Maybe he could have a bit of a raunchy tussle in chapter three, wrestle with Tanya on the dealing-room floor after lights out or something? But I wasn’t convinced I could keep it up for twenty chapters. Wasn’t convinced Henry could, either, so to speak.

  In the kitchen, Matt was pouring boiling water into his own mug.

  I smiled, cheerily. ‘Phew. See you’ve taken a break too! Hard work, isn’t it?’

  He looked at me blankly, grunted something noncommittal, and made to move past me back to his study, when the phone rang.

  ‘I’ll get that. It might be David.’

  ‘It’ll be for me,’ he said curtly, heading me off at the pass and disappearing into his room to pick it up.

  The door slammed behind him. Well. Not necessarily, I thought, irritated. Rude man. I mean, I lived here too, it could just as easily be for me, couldn’t it? And he had a habit of doing that, didn’t he? I ostentatiously slammed all the cupboard doors he’d slovenly left open. Being perfectly pleasant one minute, and then ruining it by being perfectly foul the next.

  As I stirred my coffee, I heard his voice rising angrily behind the door. Unable to resist, I tiptoed across.

  ‘Listen, I’m not gonna put up with it, OK? I’ve told Madeleine before,’ he snapped, and then his voice dropped again. Golly. I inched away. Glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of that. Some minion, no doubt, back in his Boston hospital getting it in the neck. Not doing things the way the Führer liked them done.

  I cradled my coffee and sauntered out of the back door, down the stone steps, and into the sunshine streaming across the daisy-strewn lawn. God, it was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. Such a waste to be shut up in the summer house like that. Maybe I’d just sit out here for a bit, take a break in the clover, and recharge the old batteries. Give Lucinda some thought. I went to the far edge of the lawn where it met the long grass, lay back with my hands locked behind my head, and contemplated my heroine. The sun was in my eyes though, so I put my head right back, and shut them. Fatal, really. The next thing I knew I was waking up to sounds of shouting and whooping coming from people messing around on a boat, below in the creek. I sat up with a start. Felt hot and sweaty. My face felt burnt, too. I touched it tentatively. God, how awful. Had I really fallen asleep? Mid-morning? I looked at my watch. Damn, I had. Been asleep for about twenty minutes.

  I swung around to make sure no one had seen, and realized I’d chosen to kip, albeit at a distance, but pretty much in a beeline from Matt’s study. Behind the bay window his head was bent studiously to his task, but he’d have to raise it occasionally to breathe, wouldn’t he – if indeed he did breathe. He’d have been unable to miss me, spread-eagled on the grass, legs splayed, mouth open, snoring loudly.

  I got up quickly and brushed myself down. Damn. Damn. And damn the fact that I couldn’t just do that. Couldn’t have a kip on my holiday on my own sunny back lawn if I felt like it. Irritated now beyond belief, I stalked back to the summer house, where Lucinda De Villiers was still flicking back her long blonde hair and blinking nervously in the mirror.

  Oh, don’t be so wet, Lucinda, I seethed, viciously snapping on my laptop. Chuck Henry out and get your own back, for heaven’s sake. Go have some rumpy-pumpy with one of the zillions of blue-collar workers you must have crawling around your mansion, watering your begonias and changing your lightbulbs. Go unzip your Armani jeans, girl, and get on with it!

  I settled down to empower Lucinda and incapacitate Henry, forming a vicious plot to give Tanya a nasty bout of piles – or even crabs – in chapter two. But just as I was getting into my stride, I realized that those raised voices I’d heard down on the creek not a few moments ago were awfully familiar. They were getting closer now too, and louder, and through the gap in the trees, I could just see the top of Flora’s head as she came up the steep slope through the woods, pushing her bike. I stood up and craned my neck. Down below at the water’s edge, I could also see Michael, trousers rolled up to his knees, steadying a boat on the shore in which Rosie and Clare wobbled precariously, shrieking with laughter, as they tried to climb out.

  God, already? It hadn’t taken Clare long to offer to bring Flora back in the boat and take a quick shufti at our house, had it, I thought drily. I switched off my machine and went out to meet them. They’d left Michael in charge of the boat, and the pair of them came puffing up the hill towards me through the woods, Flora arriving just ahead of them.

  ‘Mum, look who I found!’

  I forced a grin. ‘So I see.’

  She disappeared towards the house as I went across to kiss my sister, then Rosie, who was panting hard. She stopped, clutching her knees.

  ‘God, what a hill!’

  ‘Steep, isn’t it? Sorts the men from the boys, we find.’ I shot Clare a look. ‘Lesser pilgrims never even make it to our little abode; they fall at the first hurdle, at the first hint of an incline, but then they lack your determination. Come to spy on me already?’

  ‘There’s no already about it,’ snorted Clare, gasping. ‘We got here yesterday morning, actually, came a day early because the weather was so glorious, and left it a whole day before coming to see you. Is that OK?’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I soothed with a placatory smile. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘We left Dan in charge of the children. There wasn’t room in the boat with Flora’s bike.’ Clare was still holding her sides, panting. ‘Blimey, is this it?’ She squinted up into the sun at the house. ‘Shit, it’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Clare, who rarely swore, having far too much self- control, was evidently impressed.

  �
��Pretty,’ agreed Rosie, shading her eyes with both hands. ‘And so out of the way, too. The rest of the north coast is heaving, let me tell you, but you wouldn’t know it here. God, it’s no good, I’ve got to sit down.’ She flopped dramatically on her back in the long grass.

  ‘I know, and so few people come down to this creek,’ I enthused, kneeling down beside her. ‘I don’t think they even know it’s here. It’s incredibly private.’ I was keen to show off.

  ‘Well’ – Clare made a face – ‘except that it’s not now, is it? Flora says you’ve got some man living here with you. Honestly, Annie, you are extraordinary, I can’t quite believe it!’ Her eyes were incredulous.

  Ah. So she’d told them. ‘Yes, well, that’s all fine too, actually,’ I said quickly. ‘It was a misunderstanding. All Gertrude’s fault, but not a problem in the least. He just keeps himself to himself.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s living here!’ insisted Clare. ‘With you and Flora! I mean, does David know?’

  ‘Yes, he does, and shush, would you?’ I glanced nervously back to the house. ‘He’ll hear you. He’s working in the study. And he’s married.’

  ‘So where are you working then?’

  ‘In the summer house.’

  ‘That grotty old thing? That’s a bit rough, isn’t it?’ Did I detect a hint of glee in her voice?

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘So what’s he like, then?’ asked Rosie, sitting up to cup her hands around a match and light a cigarette.

  I hesitated. ‘Nice,’ I said, finally. ‘I mean … fine.’

  ‘Really?’ She glanced across, catching my tone. ‘You’ll meet him later,’ I said quickly. ‘Anyway, how are you lot all getting on? How’s life down at Penmayne Terrace? Children thrilled to be here?’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Rosie, resting her head back in the dandelions again and taking a deep drag of her cigarette. She exhaled slowly. ‘We’ve been down on the beach from the moment we got here, and we haven’t been off since, have we, Clare? Splendid. We are having,’ she enunciated carefully, ‘the time of our lives.’ There was an edge to her voice which didn’t escape me. I had to look away quickly before I laughed.

  ‘And so this is, what – how many bedrooms?’ Clare was still on her feet, arms folded and surveying the house pseudo-casually, head on one side, like a prospective buyer.

  ‘Four. No, five, I think. Have a wander, if you like.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ she mused. ‘Yes, I could do with a pee. Back in a mo.’ She sauntered nonchalantly up the lawn, but there was nothing nonchalant about her eyes. She was looking around greedily, taking it all in: the sweeping but unkempt acres, the old fish pond encrusted with moss and lichen, the tennis net, the large crumbling terrace with barbecue; clearly impressed, but not wanting to show it. Not wanting to race up the garden shouting, ‘Oh, you lucky thing, Annie, it’s fantastic! Quick, show me around – it’s divine!’ As I’d have done.

  ‘She is driving me mad,’ muttered Rosie in measured tones, head back in the grass, eyes shut.

  ‘I gathered,’ I muttered back. ‘But, Rosie, come on. You’ve only been here a day. Give it a chance.’

  ‘She won’t let me smoke,’ she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. ‘I mean, even on the terrace! “Couldn’t you do that down on the beach, Rosie,” she says in that imperious voice of hers, and she told me off for drinking too much last night. “This isn’t the Munich beer festival, dear,” she said lightly, but believe me, that “dear” went through me like a poisoned arrow.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t drink, you see.’

  ‘Clearly. And then this morning she woke us all up at eight o’clock – eight o’clock! – to send Dan off to get the papers, and me to the bakery. “Come on, Rosie,” she said, shaking me – shaking me – as I dozed. “Got to get in that bread queue, or it’ll all be gone.” For a moment I thought I was in Poland, with a coup on or something. Thought I’d be shuffling out with a black shawl wrapped round my head. Anyway, ten minutes later – no cup of tea, mind, no breakfast, haven’t even washed my bloody face – there I was, standing in this queue of women who, spookily, all look just like Clare! It was like something out of The Stepford Wives. I promise you, there they all were in their immaculate sailing shorts and sporty little polo tops – the sort of gear one imagines comes straight out of a drawer marked “Cornish Holiday”. Not dissimi

  lar to yours, actually.’ She

  eyed me with dismay.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I muttered, hurriedly untucking my shirt.

  ‘And they’ve all got these pristine deck shoes on and recently waxed white legs which are looking a bit embarrassed to be out on display, and there am I in Dan’s old shirt and ripped jeans with sleep in my eyes and a bloody shopping list in my hand!’

  ‘Ah yes, the bread queue.’ I nodded solemnly. ‘That’s all part of the ritual, I’m afraid. Part of the initiation ceremony.’

  ‘And then it was back to the kitchen to join a production line of bap-buttering whilst Clare filled them with one hand, washed fruit with the other, and simultan -eously, it seemed, poured coffee into a Thermos with her toes, whilst the men sat in the sunshine with the papers and did bugger all!’

  ‘Hm. She has rather got that fifties mentality. Very like my mother. Very much the bap-maker.’

  ‘And then off we all trooped to the beach – at nine-thirty, mind, sharp, to bag the best spot – where, apparently, the intention was to stay all day, with no alcohol whatsoever, and no prospect of nipping to the pub at lunchtime. Just a sandy ham roll, a force-eight gale, and a hard rock to sit on, followed by a game of rounders with the children, French cricket, more rounders, more French cricket, rounders, cricket, rounders – all bloody day! Dan and I were pretty frightened and confused, I can tell you. At one point I abandoned first base and made a break for it. I toddled down to the freezing cold water feeling like John Stonehouse, where I was accosted by an ex-colleague of Dan’s, whom I last saw in a pin-stripe suit at the Fulham ABC, and was so frightened by his huge naked paunch hanging over his jokey Boden swimwear I hurried back up the beach again. It was only when Flora arrived and we had the bright idea of coming up to see you that the nightmare ended. Please tell me it’s not going to go on like this?’ she begged. ‘Not day after day? I’m coming out in a rash.’

  I giggled. ‘But this is a Cornish holiday, Rosie. Surely you know the rules? We did it as children, and have glorious, rose-tinted memories, and now we have to ensure that our little darlings have them too. Bugger the fact that the world has moved on and it’s not just the rich and pampered who are renting villas in Portugal, but Tracy and Wayne too. Oh no, the show must go on. And of course the children really do love it, so much so that Clare can smugly say: Oh, they’d much rather go to Cornwall than to Italy.’

  ‘Well, I think she’s mad,’ Rosie said shortly. ‘I bloody wouldn’t, and neither would Dan. What – she’d rather butter bread rolls and sit on a windy beach than sip an aperitif in a sunny piazza, stroll to the harbour arm in arm with Michael, and then back to the villa for a siesta complet?’

  ‘Oh, I think the complet bit would be right out of the question,’ I said drily. ‘Clare’s off games. At least as far as Michael’s concerned.’

  ‘So we noticed. He’s grovelling around for some attention like a dog hoping to be tossed a bone, and all she’s throwing him is a cold pasty. And meanwhile, she’s been very ostentatiously putting lipstick on on the beach, in case a certain Todd family appear.’

  ‘Ah yes. The Todds.’

  ‘Which as yet, they hadn’t, but good old Clare looks up expect

  antly from the sandy rug that we call home every time another familiar family droops past, weighed down with windbreaks and chairs and dogs and buggies and kites and God knows what else, poor bastards, all greeting us like long-lost buddies – which of course they are, incidentally, since the whole of south-west London is here. And then finally the Todds did drip past with Mr – who I assume is the object of Cl
are’s desire – so engrossed in chat with the French au pair that he didn’t even see her. There she was, Clare, lying back, elbows in the sand, bosoms pointing skywards like heat-seeking missiles, lips glossed – and he walked straight past! She nearly spat her ham roll in the sand, she was so livid. What’s that all about, then?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, Clare had a bit of a flirt with Theo Todd last year. Nothing serious, but she’s trying to get at Michael, you see.’

  ‘Ah. After his fumble with the fund manager at the Christmas party.’

  ‘Who told you that!’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Did I?’ I was horrified. ‘God, I’m so indiscreet. And the thing is, Rosie, I just don’t think she’s terribly happy. All this jolly holiday lark – what she really needs is two weeks on a tropical island with no children and just Michael, to remember who she is and who she’s married to. But she has to do this frantic earth mother bit every year, because she works so hard in the City and feels guilty about it. She’s a bag of nerves, actually. It’s all a big cover-up. And Michael’s terrified of her, of course.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ she muttered. ‘God, I’m petrified. I tell you, I’m going to set my alarm for seven-thirty tomorrow, and I’m going to be in that queue with my white legs on parade and my handbag swinging and – Oops, look out, here she comes. Look busy.’ She hurriedly stubbed her cigarette out. ‘Just tell me quickly though, what’s he really like, this lodger chappie?’

  ‘Frightful,’ I muttered back. ‘Really bolshy and chippy and opinion ated, and frankly downright rude. He makes a terrible mess, too.’

  ‘Well, so do you, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. The only good thing is that he doesn’t actually appear very often.’

  ‘Ah.’ She smiled. ‘So you’re selling your soul for the sake of a luxury holiday?’

  I raised my eyebrows back. ‘And you’re not?’