by Jilly Cooper
‘Sure.’ Zac smiled down like the golden sun warming her. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’
Joyfully Emerald swung round to the press and the gaping public. ‘This is my boyfriend Zac,’ she yelled.
Again, everyone laughed, and, having thought Emerald was pale, peaky, stand-offish and much too Sloaney, they all decided that, now her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed, she was very beautiful after all.
Having shaken hands with Raymond and agreed to stay as long as possible, Zac turned to Anthea, clicking his heels, kissing her hand, murmuring, ‘Beautiful as ever.’
‘This is Charlene’s day.’
‘Doesn’t stop you being beautiful.’
‘Oh, Zachary.’
‘Zac, you haven’t met my sister, Sienna,’ said Emerald sharply.
‘Sienna!’ Zac’s eyes, yellow as lime leaves in autumn, travelled downwards, taking in her paint-stained, clay-matted, hastily piled-up hair, her black glasses, the studs in her ears and her long greyhound nose, the sprinkling of spots on her unhealthily pale complexion, the furious sulky mouth, the tanktop showing off tattooed shoulders, the ripped jeans covering endless legs, and the dirty, ringed bare feet.
‘Sienna,’ he repeated mockingly, ‘are you raw or burnt? A bit of both, I guess.’
Enraged she was looking so awful, Sienna tossed her head, frantic to think up some withering reply. Emerald saved her the bother. Tugging Zac’s hand imperiously, she asked him to come and see her studio.
‘You have duties, Emerald,’ said Anthea coldly. ‘You have to draw the raffle at four-thirty.’
Then when Emerald looked bootfaced, Zac said firmly, ‘You’ve got to, babe.’
Anthea, determined not to be sidelined, swept them both round the gaping stall-holders, followed by henna-haired Harriet, ex of Oo-ah!, now an eager young reporter on the Independent.
‘This is my Aunt Lily,’ Emerald told Zac proudly, as they paused at the book stall.
‘That’s why I loathe her,’ hissed Sienna to Alizarin. ‘My house, my brothers, my father, my studio.’
‘She only wants to belong,’ said Alizarin reasonably.
‘And this is our dog, Visitor. You’ve got to guess his weight,’ went on Emerald. ‘He really adores me,’ she added as Visitor thumped his tail.
‘He’s my fucking dog,’ exploded Alizarin.
‘See what I mean?’ murmured Sienna.
‘Barney not here?’ Anthea was asking Rosemary. ‘Sad he doesn’t support the village. Gratifying our chaps have turned out in force.’
‘Bitch,’ snorted Lily, pouring herself another glass of white wine.
‘What did you say?’ demanded Anthea.
‘Bit of a crowd here,’ said Lily sweetly.
‘And how have your younger children got on with their new sister, Lady Belvedon, any jealousy?’ asked Harriet from the Independent.
‘Certainly not,’ said Anthea smugly. ‘But Dicky and Dora, probably because they’ve always been wrapped round with love, are awfully well adjusted. Dora’s been giving rides in her pony trap and is about to take Lily home,’ before the old witch gets completely blotto, thought Anthea furiously. ‘And Dicky’s been raising money with Visitor all afternoon. We’ve always tried to instil in them a respect for older people. Visitor’s actually won best pet in show for the last five years. Do come and have a look, he’s just going into the ring.’
Alas, this year’s very large lady judge had other ideas.
‘Your Lab is much too fat,’ she told Dicky when she reached Visitor. ‘He ought to go on a diet.’
‘So ought you,’ shouted back an outraged Dicky. ‘You’re much fatter than Visitor, you awful old woman.’
‘And Visitor doesn’t have droopy boobs,’ yelled an equally outraged Dora from the side of the ring.
Jonathan spat out his gin and tonic. Zac met Sienna’s eye and burst out laughing.
‘Dicky! Dora!’ screeched Anthea.
‘“Droopy boobs”,’ wrote Harriet from the Independent.
Raymond, not enjoying his Antiques Roadshow, gazed down at a tray on which was printed a picture of an eighteenth-century couple out walking with a fluffy white dog.
‘I’m afraid this is not painted by Gainsborough.’
‘How d’you know?’ demanded the furious old biddy. ‘You weren’t there when it was painted.’
‘Don’t forget you’re drawing the raffle at four-thirty,’ yet again Anthea reminded Emerald.
Fortunately, she was distracted by Dora thundering by in the trap, trying to prevent Loofah from trampling little contestants in the egg-and-spoon race.
‘Whoa, you fucking animal,’ screamed Dora, ‘bloody whoa!’
‘“Droopy boobs”,’ chuckled Lily, who bumped unfazed beside her, by which time Zac and Emerald had escaped across the footbridge.
House martins, flashing their white bellies, were darting in and out of the boathouse, meadow browns waltzed through a blond clump of meadowsweet. All round, the grass was flattened by lovers. Zac put an arm through Emerald’s.
‘Do you remember last time we were in the boathouse?’
‘Anyone who says finding one’s birth mother increases one’s self-esteem and provides a bridge with the past is talking garbage,’ stormed Emerald. ‘Come and look at my studio.’
Even in a dusty barn, Emerald had created order. Bags of clay were neatly stacked beneath a table on which stood paints, purple and scarlet sweet peas in a glass vase, and an old top hat filled with sharpened pencils and brushes. On the easel was a sensitive and charming drawing of Raymond, in preparation for later tackling his head.
‘That is terrific,’ said Zac.
‘Raymond’s been so sweet. He’s having a shower put in and a kitchen and a little bedroom on a higher level. At the moment I’ve only got this.’
Pushed against the bare brick wall was an ancient chaise longue, covered in a white linen sheet, and the bottle-green and white striped quilt from Emerald’s bed in Fulham.
‘This is perfectly adequate,’ said Zac softly. ‘“Gather ye rosebuds,”’ he added, drawing her gypsy dress off one shoulder.
Emerald stiffened.
‘I thought I’d never see you again. You never rang, never texted me. The Belvedons have been hell. You weren’t here to protect me. Ah . . .’ for Zac’s big warm caressing fingers had slid under one little breast with the delicacy of a small boy lifting an egg from a blackbird’s nest.
‘You can’t just waltz in here without a word of explanation.’
‘I had things to do.’ Zac’s hands were sliding downwards.
‘And expect me to roll over.’
‘Just belt up.’
Gathering her up, dropping her casually on the chaise longue, Zac unbuckled his own belt, slapping the leather against his palm.
‘D’you want me to use this on you?’
Emerald was ashamed to feel herself bubbling with excitement.
‘Yes, no, of course not.’
‘You ask for it sometimes.’
‘Undress me, Zac.’
Pulling her frock upwards and her knickers down he kissed her belly, whiter than any house martin. A moment later he was naked, honed, bronzed, rippling with muscle. I’ll never be able to take in all that without some foreplay, was Emerald’s last mistaken thought.
The sweat glistened on her pale forehead, her black ringlets flew, the chaise longue creaked, a bluebottle caught in a spider’s web buzzed frantically, Emerald closed her eyes mewing in ecstasy.
‘Oh Zac, oh Zac.’
Thrusting deeply down inside her, Zac left her on automatic pilot for a moment. Through the grimy window and olive-green treetops, amid the tall chimneys and mossy lichened roof of Foxes Court, he noticed a little turret, topped by a shiny gold weather-vane in the shape of a fox.
‘I’m coming,’ moaned Emerald, as she stiffened and shuddered.
And I’m getting there, thought Zac, smiling triumphantly down at her.
‘Sorry I ca
n’t offer you a drink here,’ said Emerald. ‘Let’s shower back at the house and I can show you round while the others are still at the fête. The pictures are fabulous.’
Sliding her hand into Zac’s as they walked across the deserted lawn, she pleaded, ‘Can we go out tonight?’
‘Sure – figured I’d ask Raymond and Anthea to join us.’
Then, when Emerald looked mutinous, he yanked her jaw upwards for a second, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
‘It’s important that your mom and dad are comfortable with me. Our time’ll come later.’
There was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes. He’s ready to make a commitment, thought Emerald joyfully as his beautiful mouth came down to meet hers.
Alas, Jupiter, who’d just been checking the house for burglars and, to be truthful, for Emerald, was looking out of an upstairs window. Ten minutes later, as Emerald flung open Sienna’s bedroom crying: ‘This is where the Larkshire Ladette sleeps, isn’t it a tip?’ she found Jupiter sitting on the bed, mending Sienna’s reading lamp.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he yelled, which was all the more frightening because he was normally so controlled. ‘You don’t own this place – yet – and don’t go snooping in other people’s rooms. Get out.’
He was quivering with fury.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Zac as they reached the safety of Emerald’s bedroom, ‘he hasn’t forgiven you.’
‘None of them has,’ wailed Emerald.
‘It’s quite simple,’ said Zac. ‘The women hate you because their guys want to fuck you, and the guys hate you because they can’t.’
The fête made a record £5,000 but Anthea was far from happy. She was furious with Emerald for bunking off with Zac and failing to draw the raffle. She was livid with Dicky and Dora for behaving badly, and with Raymond, who was exhausted, for suggesting she and he should stay behind with the twins, who were probably only acting up because they hadn’t seen much of their parents recently.
‘Don’t be so selfish,’ snapped Anthea, drenching herself in Shalimar. ‘I personally am far too tired to go out but we can’t let Zac and Emerald down.’
She was determined to maintain her image as the gracious, devoted parent, but Dicky and Dora knew of old their mother’s flat voice, her failure to look them in the eye, and her redistributing of favours. That was why, radiant in amethyst chiffon, with a pink rose in her hair, she was all over Zac as they later sat on the terrace watching the ultramarine dusk merge with the blue minarets of Raymond’s delphiniums.
Raymond, who’d already had a long chat with Zac, discovering their mutual fondness for bourbon and cricket, had also opened a magnum of Moët to celebrate the success of the fête. Defiantly he gave a glass each to Dicky and Dora.
‘You did very well, darlings, with your rides in the trap and Visitor’s dancing, and Emerald’s speech was excellent, and it’s great everyone’s paintings sold.’
‘Alizarin’s didn’t,’ said Anthea smugly. ‘The General soon changed his mind when he saw it the right way up.’
‘And guess who tipped him off,’ muttered Jonathan, not looking up from Ian Rankin.
‘Anyway, an anonymous buyer came in and paid twice as much,’ said Sienna happily. Through the trees she could see lights on in the Lodge. Alizarin must be hard at it. She must get on with her poor tortured tigers. Champagne always sapped her resolve.
She was acutely conscious of a lounging Zac, sweating out his bourbon, loafers up on the table, black shirt unbuttoned to show the Star of David glinting on a smooth brown chest. He was so vain, she was surprised he didn’t pluck out the grey flecks in his dark hair. Beside his sleek beauty, Jonathan, with his bags under the eyes, his extreme pallor and the suggestion of a gut spilling over his belt, looked thoroughly seedy.
Glancing up, Sienna noticed Zac grinning at her, patronizing bastard, just because she looked so scruffy compared with ponced-up Anthea. He was so like a tiger: strange, predatory, watchful. She wouldn’t mind taking that smug smirk off his face with a red-hot poker.
‘In what distant deeps or skies Burned the fire of thine eyes?’ wondered Sienna.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Jonathan.
‘How odd that tigers are both predators and endangered species.’
‘Not particularly. I don’t imagine antelope and water-buck send many charity cheques to Save the Tiger.’
Zac took a slug of bourbon and turned to Anthea.
‘Garden’s looking fabulous.’
Lime blossom, philadelphus and jasmine were fighting a losing battle with Shalimar. Roses swarmed up dark trees; love-in-a-mist collapsed over the cooling flagstones caressing bare legs.
‘Raymond and I enjoy gardening, Zac, that’s the secret and, of course, keeping one’s staff. Robens our gardener, who’s been with us for ever, is the salt of the earth.’ Anthea rolled off clichés like amazing new truths. ‘Robens in fact is one of Nature’s Gentlemen.’
‘I don’t like Robens,’ said Dora beadily, ‘he waved his willy at me in the shrubbery last week, it was all stiff and purple.’
Sienna and Jonathan exchanged ecstatic glances.
Zac battled not to laugh.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ shrieked Anthea. ‘Raymond, we must sack Robens at once.’
‘Not before Emerald’s birthday party,’ said Jonathan acidly.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ squawked Anthea, then, not wanting to get into a dingdong with Jonathan in front of Zac, nor discuss Robens’s priapic lapse in front of the twins, she said, ‘Time you were in bed, you two. You’ve had a long day.’
She was distracted by a telephone call from Green Jean. By the expression on her face, and the furiously tapping lilac court shoe, it was pretty serious. Normally Anthea would not have bawled out Dicky, who had turned lime green, in front of an outsider. But such was her dislike of Alizarin: ‘Dicky,’ she said, switching off the telephone, ‘are you the anonymous buyer?’
‘Course I’m not.’
‘Don’t tell porkies. How did you pay for it?’
At first Dicky insisted he’d used his birthday money.
‘That wouldn’t be enough. Jean says you gave her a hundred pounds.’
‘Rotten sneak,’ stormed Dora.
‘Don’t interfere. You’re fibbing, Dicky, where did the money come from?’
‘It was Visitor’s dancing money.’ Dicky stood his ground. ‘We earned it.’
‘That money belongs to the fête.’
‘Money going to the fête anyway,’ said Raymond reasonably. ‘Alizarin donated the picture. I really can’t think—’
‘Let me handle this, Raymond. Dicky stole that money. You’re to give the picture back to Jean.’
‘It’s mine,’ yelled Dicky.
‘And where are you going to hang the horrid thing?’
‘In my room. Alizarin’s the only person round here who cares about me any more,’ and, bursting into tears, Dicky ran into the house.
‘And about me,’ agreed Dora, disappearing into the twilight.
‘And about me,’ agreed Sienna, draining her glass. Retreating through the french windows, she gave a gasp of horror as she passed Emerald who, not looking her best in orange, had the overpainted look of someone who’s tried too hard.
‘What on earth’s up with Sienna?’ she demanded as she came out onto the terrace. But as her sweet, musky scent swept over them like chloroform, Raymond, who had automatically risen to his feet, collapsed grey and shaking on the bench. Why was he terrified, unable to breathe, his lungs filled with poison gas?
‘Sorry about that everyone, but one must take a stand,’ said an unrepentant Anthea. ‘Lovely perfume, Charlene. What is it?’
‘Zac gave me it,’ said Emerald proudly. ‘It’s called Mitsouko.’
‘Oh bravo, Zac,’ drawled Jonathan. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you? This was the scent in which our mother drenched herself. Even on the day she was found dead.’
Only a further tel
ephone call, this time from Casey Andrews, announcing that he’d be dropping in in half an hour to deliver Emerald’s birthday present, persuaded Raymond and the others to escape out to dinner. Before they left, Jonathan drew his still trembling father aside in the hall and hugged him.
‘I’m really sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have said that about Mum’s death. The smell must have unhinged me, and I don’t think Zac’s kosher.’
‘Seems a nice chap,’ said Raymond dolefully. ‘I do wish everyone would stop fighting. Poor little Dicky. Anthea insists we don’t go up to say goodnight.’
‘I’ll tuck him in after you’ve all gone. Do you mind if I go up and look at the Raphael?’
For a second, Raymond glimpsed the deep hurt in the eyes of his favourite son. ‘Of course not. Stay as long as you like. Just lock up afterwards. Are you missing Mum?’
‘I don’t remember her enough to miss her. That’s probably why I’m so hard. Thank God for you, Dad.’
Zac’s return didn’t bring Emerald happiness. She had been so excited with the big bottle of Mitsouko, the first thing (except for the clothes and money she had demanded from him) that he’d ever given her, but it had only succeeded in antagonizing the Belvedons even further.
Raymond was sweet. ‘Of course it was a mistake, darling.’
His wife, who couldn’t understand why Emerald had emptied the bottle down the loo, thought it was a hoot.
‘How was Zac to know Galena bathed in the stuff, and chucked a bottle at Raymond the week before she died? It’s all such a long time ago, people are much too sensitive.’
Emerald was horrified to find herself sometimes hating Anthea. Every day she discovered other similarities in their character: their love of Chopin and Tchaikovsky; their need for sleep; most scary of all, their liking for Zac. She prayed it was merely Anthea’s desire to know a future son-in-law better and kept saying, ‘I’m so happy you and Raymond are still so in love. It restores one’s faith in marriage.’
Anthea was so frustrated she could scream. Emerald’s return had unleashed a torrent of past emotions: shame, guilt, resentment, heartbreak, and above all deep longings, stirrings of sensuality which she had suppressed during her marriage to Raymond.
