‘Well, I might try it,’ said James with an attempt at cheerfulness. He winked at Harriet. She smiled back.
‘Alan Hodges here, Mr Forrest. No news, I gather?’
‘No news,’ said James. ‘But – well, we’re turning over every stone here, Mr Hodges. As I’m sure you can imagine. Talking to everyone who just might have some ideas to toss into the equation. Now of course I’m not asking you to breach any confidences, but did Cressida ever say anything to you about – well, express any doubts at all about her marriage?’
‘I quite understand what you’re saying. And I’d like to help. Now let me see. Well, let me begin by saying I can honestly tell you she certainly never told me anything that would be classified as confidential. That any help to you?’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s comforting in a way. You mean she never told you she was planning to take the veil or anything like that?’ He winked at Harriet again; she had looked at him sharply. God, maybe that had crossed her mind; maybe it should have crossed all their minds.
‘Oh no, Mr Forrest. Most definitely not. Not the veil.’ The voice, as earnest as his wife’s, sounded shocked. James smiled into the phone in spite of his misery. Alan Hodges had not so much been in the back row when senses of humour were handed out, he hadn’t even been in the room.
‘Well, I didn’t really think that. But – well, she never talked about her plans –’
There was a silence. James’s flesh began to creep. There was something; he could feel it.
Then, ‘No. No, absolutely not. She seemed very calm and settled. Except – well –’
‘Yes? Except what?’
‘The other afternoon. Good gracious, it must have been only the day before yesterday. The panic about her passport, you know?’
‘No,’ said James sharply. ‘What passport?’
‘Her new one. Didn’t she tell you about it? Oh, maybe she didn’t want to worry you. She certainly didn’t want Mr Bergin to know. She’d left renewing it until terribly late. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get away on her honeymoon.’
‘I didn’t know, no,’ said James, carefully.
‘Well, obviously, she was keeping her worries to herself. It was only by chance I met her, in the post office in Oxford, she was getting one of those short-term passports you know, that do for a year. It was all she had time for, I suppose. Nasty little cardboard things.’
‘Yes, but that wouldn’t have been any use anyway,’ said James. ‘She – they were going to New York. It wouldn’t have got her there.’
‘Indeed not. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, she seemed very upset, distraught almost, I would say. Quite out of character. Although of course brides often do get into a bit of a state. Anyway, if I think of anything else, Mr Forrest, I’ll certainly ring you. And I’ll ask my wife if she has any thoughts as well. And try to keep your spirits up. I’m sure she’s all right. We’re praying for you all. Please know that. And if there’s anything more I can do …’
‘Thank you,’ said James. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Hodges.’
He put the phone down and stared at Harriet. ‘Did you know anything about Cressida’s forgetting to renew her passport?’ he asked. ‘I mean just in the past few days?’
‘No, of course not. In fact I know it was all right, because she had to get her visa, don’t you remember? About a month ago. So there can’t have been a problem surely. And Oliver’s got it anyway, because of the honeymoon being a surprise and everything. Why?’
‘Well, for whatever reason, she was applying for a new one the day before yesterday. Alan Hodges met her in the post office in Oxford. Oh God, Harriet, this is getting worse and worse.’
Chapter 9
Mungo Lunchtime
He had the worst job of all, it seemed to him; standing at the church, missing out on all the drama, in order to head off any arrivals. It would be a while yet of course: surely nobody was going to get there before one, not even the most neurotically punctual guests, but all the same, maybe some of the bridesmaids’ parents – anyway, James Forrest had said that someone should be there, just in case, and Rufus had volunteered, saying that he, Mungo, should stay with Oliver. Mungo had studied the two options and hastily opted for lychgate duty; Rufus would be far better doing his support number, it was just his sort of thing. Bit of a goody-goody, old Rufus. Mungo was very fond of him, but he longed just once to hear he had done something truly horrendous, like getting two girls pregnant at the same time, or embezzling some of the bank’s funds, or just running up a humungous debt somewhere and being unable to pay it. It was highly unlikely, of course. Rufus was upright, charming, and self-disciplined; Mungo had only seen him properly drunk once, and that had been to celebrate getting a first at Cambridge. What on God’s earth Tilly could see in him, he couldn’t even begin to imagine: Tilly, with her wonderfully outrageous approach to life, her overt sexuality, her staggering beauty, her interestingly individual morality; but she certainly saw something.
It was the most extraordinary relationship: sweet, tender, defying any kind of logic. Mungo watched them sometimes, caught together in a charged, almost tangible stillness, not even touching, excluding everything and everyone around them, and knew he was looking at love. It charmed him, even while it baffled him, made him happy, gave him pleasure. It had probably, he thought, been the inspiration for his own passionate, all-consuming love affair. The one he had to speak to his father about, that he could hardly believe in himself (so unpredictable, so unexpected it had been), the one he hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Oliver, not even Harriet, the two people he probably felt closer to than anyone in the world. Now there was compatibility. Stange, so strange, he thought even now, that Oliver had chosen Cressida, sweet, gentle, softly spoken Cressida, when he could have had Harriet. Harriet who was so original and clever and go-for-it and successful, who had always seemed to know what Oliver was thinking before he knew it himself, who loved doing all the things that he did, sailing and riding and rock music and travelling. They had once gone on a trip together with Merlin, when they were both about fifteen, had gone down the Amazon in a small boat, just the three of them and a guide, and had disappeared for days, come back charged with excitement, with wonderful tales of crocodiles (stunned at night by shining a light in their eyes) and sweetly smiling friendly dolphins and great shoals of fish, and monkeys and the brilliantly coloured parrots they had seen on a trek through the steaming jungle, so thick that their guide had often had to chop a way through it for them; the chattering, screaming noise by day and the deathly silence at night, the feeling that they had travelled back thousands, maybe tens of thousands of years. Cressida had listened to their stories, her eyes wide with horror, and said she couldn’t imagine anything more horrible and Oliver, reacting to her with barely disguised scorn, had said that he and Harriet were going to set off on their own as soon as they were allowed. They planned the trip for years, right up to the age when they both left school and no longer spent family holidays together. The adults teased them about it, asking them when they were off, how much money they had saved, whether it was to be China or India or the Arctic Circle this year, and Merlin would defend them, saying they were a fine pair of travellers, he was proud of them. But they had never gone, and Oliver went backpacking on his own in his college vacations and Harriet threw all her energies into building up her fashion business and wanted only to lie on a beach and recover in the short weeks available to her, and now of course it was quite forgotten and their wonderful joyous closeness had gradually disintegrated. Oliver had changed, naturally, had become grown-up, seriously grown-up and fiercely ambitious – and maybe that was a factor in choosing Cressida, so much more suitable these days, more – well, more wifely than Harriet, more the person he needed to be married to.
Only it was beginning to look like she wasn’t. Mungo wrenched his thoughts back to the present, and his task, refusing to allow himself to contemplate for more than the briefest wildest moment the glorious prospect of climbing into the car
and just driving away, and wondered if there was anything he could do for Oliver, apart from getting him so hammered he wouldn’t even know his own name. He decided there wasn’t.
The Forrest women, as he thought of them, and especially today, Maggie, Janine, Susie, Harriet, were all at work on different telephones, Maggie in her bedroom, Janine in the study on James’s line, Harriet on her portable phone, and Susie at the Beaumonts’, all working through sections of the guest list, telling people that Cressida was ill, that the wedding was postponed, that they were desperately sorry, that they would be in touch just as soon as it was possible to rearrange, refusing offers of help with the notifications (lest wires should be crossed, messages overlaid, lists muddled).
Christ, thought Mungo, what an incredible, filthy mess. The whole thing. Not just Cressida’s disappearance either, it had started hours before that, the nightmare; and he relived sharply, suddenly, the terrible scene at two that morning, when he and Rufus had driven over to the Bergins’ hotel, gone up to Oliver’s suite and found Oliver head in hands, horribly drunk, tears pouring down his unshaven face, saying he couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t marry Cressida, that even now, even at this late stage, they had somehow to get him away, get him out of it, that if they didn’t he would kill himself.
‘But why, Oliver, why?’ Rufus said over and over again, and Oliver just looked at them, his blue eyes almost black with pain, his fair hair wild where he had been pushing his hands through it endlessly, hopelessly, and said he couldn’t tell them, it was all too horrible, they just had to do something, help him, save him. He was extremely drunk, but there was a kind of quiet sanity about him as well. Mungo found the combination strangely terrifying.
‘If you don’t, I’ll do something desperate, I swear I will,’ he said, and as they tried to calm him, tried to find out what the trouble was, what had happened, he suddenly got up, walked almost calmly into the bathroom and locked the door. They looked at each other, Rufus and Mungo, thinking, hoping even, that it was over, that it had been simply a rather extreme case of last-minute nerves; then he’d walked out again, and smiled at them, with a sweet serenity, and said, ‘That should settle it, then.’
‘What should?’ Mungo said rather stupidly, and Oliver smiled again, more serenely still, and said, his voice slurring, ‘Taken something for it.’
Rufus looked at him thoughtfully and then got up and went into the bathroom himself; he came out with an empty half bottle of aspirin in his hand. ‘Ollie, did you take these?’ he said gently, and Oliver nodded and said, ‘Yes. Had to do something.’ And sat down, picked up a copy of Sporting Life and started reading the Goodwood report. To the end of his life Mungo was to associate horse racing with personal tragedy.
Rufus was wonderful. He went very quietly down to the hotel dining room and found several salt cellars, which he emptied into a jug of water and made Oliver drink. Then he took him into the bathroom. Mungo who was squeamish sat outside, trying not to listen and wondering if he should go and get Julia or Josh Bergin. After ten minutes Rufus came out with Oliver and laid him down tenderly on his bed.
‘Ring room service for some coffee, and some bottles of still mineral water,’ he said, ‘and ask them to leave it outside the door.’
‘Should I tell the Bergins?’
‘Christ no. He’ll be fine now. We caught it in plenty of time. Poor old boy.’
They both looked at Oliver who lay glassy pale, his eyes closed, half asleep.
‘How did you know what to do?’ said Mungo.
‘Girl I knew at Cambridge did exactly the same thing. She lived with a medic. He got me to help. As long as you’re really quick, there’s no lasting damage done. But we have to keep pumping fluids into him.’
‘What on earth do you think it’s about?’
‘Can’t imagine. Just nerves I expect,’ said Rufus, his voice rather determinedly easy. ‘They seemed perfectly OK at supper.’
‘Yeah. I wonder if Cressida’s been over, if something’s happened since.’
‘It hasn’t,’ said Oliver’s voice, very quiet, rather hoarse, from the bed. ‘Haven’t seen her since I left the house. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine now.’ His eyes closed; Rufus took his pulse.
‘He really is fine,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t look so scared, Mungo.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mungo. He was feeling rather sick himself. ‘It’s just so terribly unlike him. He’s usually so calm, so steady. He never even gets drunk.’
‘I know. I know.’
The coffee and water arrived; they fed it to him alternately, tenderly, as if he was a sick child. It was a long night; he had to be helped into the bathroom quite frequently. He slept a lot, fitfully at first, then more soundly. At around five, he woke and seemed almost himself.
‘Must have a pee,’ he said, standing up, smiling at them. ‘Don’t worry, Rufus, I won’t do it again. Can’t think what came over me. I’m so sorry.’
He came out again, walking rather slowly and painfully. ‘I guess this is what old age feels like,’ he said, ‘bloody awful. Every joint aches.’
‘It’s dehydration,’ said Rufus. ‘Drink some more water.’
‘I’m full of bloody water. I’ll start leaking in a minute.’
He drank another tumblerful, lay down again with a groan. ‘You are such good friends,’ he said simply. ‘I owe you my life, don’t I?’
‘Doubt it,’ said Rufus with a grin. ‘You’d have called someone else, if we hadn’t been here. You weren’t doing it for real.’
‘No,’ said Oliver, pulling himself together with a clear effort. ‘No, of course not. Panic, that’s all. Awful thing to do though.’ There was another silence; then he said, ‘I’m so sorry’ again, and closed his eyes.
‘Oliver,’ said Rufus gently, ‘Oliver, is it really all right? The wedding? Because it’s not –’
‘What? Oh God, I expect so. Maybe. I don’t know.’ And then was asleep, deeply and sweetly, in minutes. They sat looking down at him.
‘I think we should stay with him,’ said Mungo quietly. ‘I don’t like the thought of leaving him alone.’
‘Yes, of course we should. Poor old sod. What a nightmare. What do you think we ought to do? About it, I mean.’
‘Christ knows. Should we talk to someone, do you think? Try and find out if there really is a problem?’
‘Well yes, probably, but I can’t think who,’ said Rufus. ‘Cressida? Harriet? His mother? I mean think of them all last night. They all looked like a commercial for soupy happiness.’
‘I think we should talk to Tilly,’ said Mungo suddenly. ‘She’s very close to Oliver. And uninvolved enough to maybe have picked something up from him. Didn’t they have dinner two nights ago?’
‘Yes, they did,’ said Rufus. ‘I was furious because she wouldn’t let me join them. She wanted to give him a present, apologize for not coming to the wedding.’
‘Why wasn’t she coming, actually?’ said Mungo. ‘She was going to come. She told me she was looking forward to it.’
‘She suddenly had to work,’ said Rufus. He sounded defensive. ‘You know how in demand she is.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Well it doesn’t matter why. She just couldn’t come. But she did see Oliver. You’re right. It’s a good idea. She might have picked up something. I’ll call her. Very soon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Six thirty in France. I’ll get hold of her in an hour or so. Christ, what a night. Let’s try and get a bit of sleep. Shall we toss for the other bed?’
‘Not me,’ said Mungo with a weak grin, heading for the door. ‘I’d honestly rather take the floor in his sitting room.’
They were woken by Julia Bergin; she came in, without knocking – well, she was his mother, thought Mungo, but it still seemed odd – and practically tripped over him. She stood there, looking down at him, her face white with shock – and that was strange too, he thought, for she was fully made-up already, at – what? seven in the morning, and neatly dressed in tr
ousers and a sweater.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said, and her voice was harsh and angry.
‘We thought we should stay with Oliver, he wasn’t well last night,’ Mungo said, sitting up, feeling slightly sick again.
‘What do you mean not well?’ she said, and Rufus came out of Oliver’s bedroom, pushing his hair back, closing the door gently behind him.
‘He was – very drunk,’ he said carefully, ‘and – well, we were worried about him. Taking care of him. That’s all.’
‘And why was he so drunk?’ asked Julia Bergin, and Mungo thought how strange it was that the graciously charming woman – over-gracious indeed, absurdly charming – he had always known had become this hostile, harsh creature. ‘Were you drinking with him? I thought you were going to go back to your hotel last night, when we left the Forrests, not coming over here causing trouble –’
‘Yes, we were,’ said Rufus gently. ‘But Oliver phonedand asked us over. He said he was – nervous. He wanted company.’
‘I was here,’ said Julia, and the expression in her eyes was heavily antagonistic. ‘He could have talked to me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Rufus, ‘but I – well, I expect you were asleep. It was quite late.’
‘Well you can leave him to me now,’ said Julia. ‘And I’d like you to go, get out. Immediately. I still don’t quite understand what you’re trying to tell me. Was there some problem that I should know about?’
‘I – don’t think so,’ said Rufus. He still sounded calm and quiet. Mungo was impressed. ‘But he was quite – sick. Perhaps you could keep an eye on him.’
‘Rufus,’ said Julia Bergin, and her voice shook a little, ‘Rufus, I am Oliver’s mother. I have looked after him for thirty-two years now. I don’t need to be told what to do with him in any situation.’ She went through to the bedroom, looked down at her sleeping son. They couldn’t see her face. ‘He looks perfectly all right to me. I have to tell you I find your story a little hard to believe. I would suggest that what really happened was that you both wanted a drinking partner and came over here of your own volition.’
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