Flora's Lot
Page 18
‘Oh.' Flora felt inordinately pleased at this grudging approval.
‘I'll get the paperwork.’
While he was gone she did a quick check on her feelings for him. Perhaps he wasn't the most horrible man on the planet. Perhaps he was almost human. It took a bit of work to make the mental adjustment, but hell, she was flexible, she could do that.
When he came back he had a stern, businesslike expression and he gave her a look which seemed to draw attention to the amount of chocolate smeared over her. She reverted to disliking him. Life was simpler that way.
He produced a cheque. 'Is there somewhere I can put this where you won't lose it?'
‘I won't lose it! But if you're worried, you can put it on the mantelpiece.’
He crossed the room and then caught sight of the teapot. 'Oh my God!'
‘It's lovely, isn't it? Geoffrey gave it to me. We found it at a car-boot sale.'
‘It's the most revolting piece of kitsch I've seen in a long time. I'm surprised Geoffrey let you have anything to do with it.’
Flora grinned. 'Well, to be honest, he wouldn't have, only he could see I had my heart set on it and thought I'd pay too much if he didn't do the deal for me.’
‘So how much did he pay for it?'
‘A fiver.'
‘Hmm. That's not bad, actually. I should sell it, if I were you.'
‘But, Charles, it'll fit in so well with the rest of my collection!’
He rolled his eyes. 'Sell all of it. On a good day you'd get quite a lot of money.'
‘I may be a bit hard up, but I'm not ready to sell my precious teapots, yet.' Although it was a good idea, she acknowledged silently. She could do it on the Internet, and get her mother to pack them off to eager buyers.
‘You're hard up?'
‘Did I say that? No! I'm fine, now you've paid my wages.’
He frowned. 'I'm sorry that our rather sticky relationship meant you couldn't tell me something like that.' She shrugged.
‘On the other hand, our sticky relationship is entirely your fault.' He smiled, and for a second Flora caught a flash of the charm which all other women seemed to get all the time. 'I don't suppose I could have another peep at the kittens? I wouldn't like to ask in front of everyone else or they'll all want to see them too and it might be a bit much for them.'
‘That's very considerate of you, and of course you can see them. They've opened their eyes since you last saw them, I think.’
As he followed her upstairs she felt suddenly anxious at the thought of him being in her bedroom, it was so untidy. Still, it was too late now. She could hardly bring the whole caboodle downstairs, Imelda would hate it.
‘You'll have to excuse the mess,' she said as they reached the landing, getting more anxious by the second.
Her bedroom did indeed have that 'just burgled' look and he glanced around it, trying and failing to disguise his horror at the clutter of make-up and beauty preparations on the dressing table, and the heap of clothes on the bed.
‘I'm a bit short of clothes storage and I'd put a lot of my things in Emma's room,' Flora explained hurriedly. 'I had to bring it all back here when she came.'
‘I see.’
Then, because in spite of everything she was annoyed by his silent disapproval, she added, 'And some of them are waiting to be washed. I can't decide if I should just wash them all by hand or take them to the launderette.’
This little dig went home. 'I did promise you a washing machine, didn't I? I promise I'll get on to it. Now I've seen how great your need is . . .' He paused.
. . I'm less likely to forget. Now, are the kittens still where they were before?’
Flora nodded. 'In the cupboard with my shoes. Imelda and I are almost psychically in tune, you know.' He chuckled and knelt down.
‘This little black one is my favourite,' he said, plucking it up from the others.
‘He's very shy. He usually squeaks like mad if you pick him up.’
But the little bundle didn't squeak, it purred, snuggling into Charles's neck.
Flora felt a pang of irritation at the sight of her kitten taking so well to someone else. 'He likes you.’
‘Is it a boy?'
‘I think so. It's quite hard to tell. No, don't look! He's happy where he is.’
She stood up too quickly and, swaying slightly, put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. 'I'll leave you to it. I must get on.'
‘Yes, sorry, I must get back.' Charles put the kitten back in its box and got up. 'Things to do. Jeremy's really looking forward to it.'
‘Is he? I don't know if he should. I think we're having nettle quiche to start.'
‘It wasn't the food I was thinking about when I was giving him details.'
‘Oh?'
‘It was the company.’
Charles started downstairs, Flora behind him, suffering from mild shock. He was being nice. Or polite, at least.
‘Are you going to wear that dress?' Charles asked. Flora glanced down at the little slip dress covered with a tea towel. 'No. It's got chocolate on it.’
‘Oh, so it has.’
Flora became thoughtful. She was sure she'd seen him looking at the chocolate smears with distaste. Perhaps she'd got it wrong.
When he'd gone she went back to the kitchen and started whipping egg whites, wishing there was an electric beater in the cottage. Charles really was a law unto himself - talk about inscrutable! He made the sphinx seem like easy reading.
*
William, the cook, in charge of it all, was the calmest during an afternoon of preparation. He just stayed in the kitchen, doing his thing, while Flora and Emma cleaned and tidied and panicked. Flora was nervous for so many reasons that they'd merged into a single mass of anxiety. Loyally, Emma picked up on her feelings and did her best with the downstairs, which wasn't too bad, while Flora attacked her bedroom.
The disadvantage of having kittens in your bedroom, she realised, was that people were likely to go in there and look at them. Thus it had to be tidy. She was still blushing with embarrassment about how it had been when Charles came, although they did seem better friends now than before, which was definitely a good thing.
Now her bedroom was a picture of ordered simplicity. Her bed was made so perfectly it looked as if no one had slept on it, ever. The clothes and shoes, which had been strewn everywhere earlier, were packed into suitcases and hidden in the Land-Rover. The fact that even the clean ones would now have to be ironed again, possibly even washed, had not deterred her. She had a travel iron, after all, and she was aiming for the nun's cell look.
To this end, all the detritus of womanhood had been swept from sight, put into shoe boxes and hidden under the bed, and a simple bouquet of wild flowers adorned her dressing table in their stead. If she could have persuaded Imelda and the kittens to stay in their current, artistically arranged positions, she would have been completely satisfied, but as they'd look beautiful whatever they did, she wasn't too bothered. Annabelle wouldn't go up to see them anyway. That Jeremy might, though, and now she wanted Charles to admire them again, so he could see she wasn't always a slut. She could do minimalism, she just didn't, often.
They had spent hours decorating the dining table. Emma, after scoffing at Flora's ideas initially, had become particularly enthusiastic.
‘I want it to be very French,' Emma said, 'like a picture out of a posh cookbook. You know, when they have really pretty children in white dresses with garlands of flowers in their hair, and the mums are all really thin and gorgeous, even the cook.’
She had gathered tiny bouquets of wild flowers and pinned up the corners of Annabelle's double sheets that were doing service as tablecloths.
‘You don't think it looks a bit - bridal?' said Flora when Emma had finished. 'It just needs a big white cake in the middle and a priest.'
‘It's totally how I want my wedding to be,' said Emma. 'Only with champagne, of course.'
‘Sorry about that,' said Flora. 'Have some frascat
i instead.’
Emma took the glass without thinking. 'I wonder if Dave would like a wedding like this?'
‘Darling,' said Flora seriously. 'Don't think about the wedding, think about the man. It's not worth going through all the hassle of getting married to end up with . . .' She paused.
‘Dave?' suggested Emma.
‘Well, yes. Sorry, Em. I just don't think he's good enough for you.'
‘He doesn't want me, anyway.’
Flora glanced at her watch. Sympathetic as she was to Emma's feelings, and usually very willing to let people talk about their problems, she just felt there wasn't quite time for it all now. 'He probably does, but you have to think really carefully about whether you want him. Now I want you to take time this evening, when we're all chatting and laughing - please God we do all chat and laugh - and think about whether he makes you happy. Not necessarily all the time,' she went on, reasonably, 'no one can expect that, but most of the time. Now, I'm just going to get a cloth and polish the cutlery. It still looks smeary. And the glasses.'
‘Let's have another glass of wine first,' said Emma. 'Then I'm going to change.’
*
Both women were in the kitchen, getting in William's way, when they heard a car drive up. They both rushed into the sitting room so they could see who it was before Flora went to the door.
‘Do you think they'll all come together?' she asked Emma.
‘How on earth would I know?’
As the doors of Charles's car opened and a large man emerged, they exchanged glances. 'Don't fancy yours much,' murmured Flora to Emma.
‘Oh I don't know,' said Emma. 'I think he's OK. Now let's have a look at this Charles.’
Fortunately for Flora, her hostessly duties meant she had to go out and greet her guests and not listen to her friend's opinion of her cousin and business-partner, who she had recently discovered was not quite as loathsome as she'd once thought.
Jeremy, whom Flora would have paired with Annabelle, had she been playing Happy Couples, a card game she had yet to patent, was pleasantly tall, with slightly sparse curly hair, and wore a striped shirt and the sort of corduroys that look good in the country.
He was also the kind of man who kissed everyone, even on a first meeting. This set the tone for everyone else, otherwise Charles would never have kissed her, possibly fearing that such an action might turn him to stone. Not that you'd've noticed before, she added, with a secret chuckle. But he had loosened up a bit that afternoon.
After the initial introductions were over, and they had moved inside to the sitting room (William was still in the kitchen), Flora murmured to Annabelle, 'Just come upstairs a minute.'
‘Going to see the kittens, sweetheart?' said Charles. 'No,' said Flora briskly. 'Emma, can you and William do drinks?'
‘Why have you dragged me up here?' demanded Annabelle. 'I must say, it looks very sweet. Oh, there are the kittens.'
‘Never mind the kittens, it's your hair! What's with the hairband?’
Annabelle crouched down and regarded herself in Flora's dressing-table mirror. 'I used to get house points at school for having tidy hair.’
Flora tugged off the hairband and ruffled Annabelle's glossy locks. 'Why not go for some life points and muss it up a little?’
Annabelle, surveying her newly tousled hair and accepting its attractiveness, turned to Flora. 'It's very kind of you to do this.'
‘Yes, isn't it?' Flora said wryly. 'I hope Charles has noticed the improvement.'
‘Charles loves me no matter how I look,' Annabelle announced rather smugly. 'This – er – change, is just for me.'
‘And the school reunion?'
‘Yes, and that. Now let's get back down and join the others.’
Imelda yowled suddenly from her space in the bottom of the wardrobe. Flora stayed to comfort her so she could have a few moments alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Downstairs, Flora found that Jeremy, Charles and Emma were still standing round drinkless. William had just emerged from the kitchen and introductions were being got through. She took over in time to say, 'Right, well, Emma, this is Annabelle, and Annabelle, this is William, an old friend of Emma's.’
William took Annabelle's hand. 'I believe you saw me the other day. I'd come over to look up Flora, on Madam's instructions' - he glanced at Emma - 'and as she was out, I thought I'd do some tai chi.’
Jeremy regarded William with suspicion. 'Is that one of those martial art things?'
‘Sort of.'
‘I don't think he's remotely dangerous,' said Flora, and Jeremy smiled.
‘I hope not,' said William. 'I'm a pacifist - and a portrait painter, and a bit of a poet, too.'
‘All the p's,' murmured Emma.
‘I'm ex-Army, myself,' said Jeremy.
Seeing what could become a problem, Flora rushed to save the situation. 'Ex", you say? What a shame. I do love a man in uniform.'
‘I prefer men who don't need clothes to give them status,' said Annabelle, horribly against type.
Flora, rather thrown, rushed on, 'Shall we all have a drink? What would everyone like? Wine, red or white, elderflower pressé, apple juice . .
‘I've got a glass of wine in the kitchen,' said William, 'and if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to the cooking.'
‘Can I help?' asked Annabelle, quick as a knife. 'Did you say you were a portrait painter?'
‘Among other things, and thank you,' said William, 'I could do with a hand.’
Flora knew perfectly well that if it had been she cooking, Annabelle wouldn't have dreamt of offering help, but she seemed peculiarly intrigued by William. Then again, the whole point of the evening was for her to make sure William was safe to trust around her cottage. 'Better take a drink then, Annabelle. White wine?'
‘Marvellous, thank you.'
‘What about the rest of you?' asked Flora, hoping that William needed Annabelle to tear up raw nettles. 'White wine for me, too, please,' said Emma. 'Right.' Flora tipped the bottle up to pour the wine and realised it was empty.
‘Here, let me,' said Charles, and took the corkscrew from Flora's hand.
Usually she would have protested and opened the bottle herself, but the corkscrew was the kind that required you to put the bottle between your feet and pull like mad, nearly cutting off your fingers in the process. She surrendered the bottle and the corkscrew.
‘I'll have red,' said Jeremy. 'If that's open already.’
Flora smiled at him as she handed him his glass and saw his response. Oh, don't do that, she thought. This dinner party is complicated enough already.
‘Let's go outside,' she said instead, leading the way out of the front door. 'It's such a lovely evening and we're eating out there. Besides, you might have noticed, there's nowhere to sit here. All the furniture's in the garden.'
‘It looks very pretty,' said Jeremy, who had followed. 'Did you decorate the table, Flora?'
‘No, Emma did, actually. She's very artistic. She's got a real flair for design.’
Emma, following him out, looked appropriately modest.
‘So, are you in that sort of business, Emma?' asked Jeremy. 'You're obviously really gifted.’
Flora watched with satisfaction as Emma drew Jeremy away to where the wrought-iron table and chairs that Charles had brought had been pulled into a little area by the hedge. There was a cloth on the table and, on that, a vase with a single sprig of honeysuckle and a small dish of pistachios. The garden, untidy as it was, was still extremely pretty with rambling roses scrambling over the hedge, honeysuckle scenting the air and poppies spilling their petals shamelessly on to the grass.
‘What are you having, Flora?' asked Charles from behind her. She turned, unnerved, to see him with his hands full of bottles.
‘Oh, I think I'll just have elderflower. Emma and I had a glass of wine earlier.'
‘Well, it's not stopping me,' called Emma, hearing this. 'I'm surprised it's stopping you, Flo. It's not as if we've got to driv
e anywhere.'
‘I have to drive,' said Charles. 'I'll have elderflower, too.'
‘So, tell me all about what you do now you're no longer in the army,' said Emma to Jeremy, turning back to the matter in hand. 'I've learnt far more than I want to know about auction houses from Flora. She's totally hooked.'
‘Is that true?' asked Charles quietly, following Flora, who'd gone to perch on the arm of the sofa.
‘Well, I probably have chewed her ear off a bit,' she admitted.
‘I mean that you're hooked on auction houses.'
‘I wouldn't put it in the plural, but I am hooked on our auction house, yes.' She looked him in the eye. 'But you did know that, Charles. I have told you. On more than one occasion.'
‘I suppose you have.’
Flora took a breath, thinking about their row and how it still hung between them. She badly wanted to just sit in silence, enjoying the beautiful summer evening and not say anything about anything, but she couldn't.
Did he mind about Annabelle disappearing into the kitchen leaving him to make polite conversation? Was he fighting the urge to go storming in there, demanding that Annabelle rip off her rubber gloves and come back to the party? Would there be a fight? The thought made her smile slightly – it was so unlikely.
‘What's making you smile?' asked Charles.
‘Oh, nothing really!' She, who could chat for Britain, was totally at a loss. It might be that she was tired, but she feared it was because that she knew she had to apologise properly for the terrible things she had said to him during their row. She took another sip of her drink, wishing she hadn't been so abstemious and had allowed herself another glass of wine. She couldn't apologise when anyone was likely to overhear her – she didn't want the whole thing common knowledge.
‘Do you think Annabelle's all right in the kitchen?' she said awkwardly. 'Perhaps I should go and see?’
Charles was standing in her way, and would have to move if she did want to escape back inside the house. 'Annabelle's perfectly capable of leaving it if she's not enjoying herself, I assure you,' he said.