by Jojo Moyes
Perhaps most important, in the preferred version Mrs. Holden wasn't also faced with three of the most miserable young people she had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Celia and Guy, far from being bathed in the soft glow of the newly affianced, had been decidedly surly and had barely spoken to each other all morning. Lottie, meanwhile, had hovered silently in the background, brooding darkly in that way she had. It really made her look most unattractive. And none of them seemed to care that she had put forth so much effort to make the afternoon go so smoothly; every time she jollied them up a bit, tried to get them to put a bit of a brave face on or at least give her a hand keeping control of the children, they would variously shrug, look at the floor, or, in Celia's case, look meaningfully at Guy, her eyes glittering with tears, and announce that she "simply couldn't be expected to be cheerful every darned day."
"Now, I have really had enough of this, dears. Really. This place has an atmosphere like a morgue. Lottie, you go and make the children clear up that blasted animal. Get Virginia to help. Guy, you go and wait outside for the car. And, Celia, you go upstairs and brighten yourself up a bit. Put some makeup on. These are your in-laws you're meeting, for goodness' sakes. It's your wedding."
"That's if there's going to be a wedding," said Celia miserably, so that Lottie's head whipped around.
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course there's going to be a wedding. Now, go and put some makeup on. You can borrow a bit of my scent if you like, perk yourself up a bit."
"What, the Avon stuff?"
"If you like."
Celia, looking momentarily cheered, raced upstairs. Lottie trudged mutinously to the drawing room, where Virginia was still shaking from her discovery of the road-kill and Freddie was lying on the sofa theatrically clutching himself and complaining that he would never, ever, ever be able to sit down again, ever.
Lottie knew what was making Celia so miserable, and it caused her equal measures of delight and self-loathing. Late the previous evening, as the storm receded, Celia had asked Lottie to come up to their room and once there, seated on the side of the bed, had confided that she needed to talk to her. Lottie knew she had flushed. She sat very still.
Stiller when Celia said, "It's Guy."
"He's been really off with me for the past few days, Lots. Not himself at all."
Lottie had been unable to speak. It was as if her tongue had swollen, filling the entire space within her mouth.
Celia studied her nails and then, abruptly, lifted her hand to her mouth and bit one off.
"When he first came here, he was like his London self, you know? He was so sweet, so caring. He was always asking me whether I was all right, whether I needed anything. He was so affectionate. He used to take me around to the back porch while you were all clearing up after tea and kiss me until I thought my head was going to spin right off . . ."
Lottie coughed, realizing she had stopped breathing.
Celia, oblivious, stared at her hand and looked up, her blue eyes brimming with tears.
"He hasn't kissed me properly for four whole days. I tried to get him to last night, and he just dismissed me, muttered something about there being plenty of time later. But how can he feel like that, Lots? How can he not care whether he kisses me or not? That's the kind of behavior you expect from married men."
Lottie fought to contain the swell of something uncomfortably like excitement leaping within her. Then flinched as Celia turned toward her and in one swift movement threw her arms around Lottie's neck and burst into sudden sobs.
"I don't know what I've done, Lots. I don't know whether I've said something and he's just not telling me. It's entirely possible--you know how I do chatter on about nothing and I don't always think about what it is I've said. Or perhaps I just haven't looked pretty enough lately. I do try and everything. I've been wearing all sorts of nice things that Mummy bought me, but he just . . . he just doesn't seem to like me as much as he did before."
She began to sob again, her chest heaving against Lottie's. Lottie stroked her back mechanically, feeling treacherously relieved that Celia couldn't see her face.
"I just can't work it out. What is it, Lots? You've spent enough time with him now. You must know what he's like."
Lottie breathed in. Tried to keep her voice steady. "I'm sure you're imagining it."
"Oh, don't be such a cold fish, Lottie. You know I'd help you, if you asked. Come on, what do you think he's thinking?"
"I don't think I'm qualified to say."
"But you must have some idea. What can I do? What am I supposed to do?"
Lottie closed her eyes. "It might just be nerves," she said eventually. "Perhaps men get nerves just like we do. I mean, with his parents coming and all. It's a big thing, isn't it, introducing one's parents?"
Celia pulled back and stared intently at Lottie.
"Perhaps he feels more tense about it than you realize."
"You know, you're right. I hadn't thought of that at all. Perhaps he is nervous." She smoothed back her hair, glancing out toward the window. "Because no man would want to admit he was nervous, would he? It's not really the kind of thing men do."
Lottie shook her head, wishing with a kind of grim fervor that Celia would just go. She would say anything, do anything, if she could get Celia to leave her alone.
But Celia moved back to Lottie and gave her a clinging hug. "Oh, you are clever, Lots! I'm sure you're right. And I'm sorry if I've been a bit . . . well, distant lately. It's just I've been so wrapped up in Guy and weddings and everything. It can't have been much fun for you."
Lottie winced. "I've been fine," she croaked.
"Right. Well. I'll go downstairs and see if I can get the rotten old pig to pay me some attention." Celia laughed. It still sounded a bit like a sob.
Lottie stared at her departing back before sinking slowly onto the bed.
IT HAD ALL BECOME REAL THEN. THE FACT THAT GUY and Celia were really getting married. The fact that Lottie was in love with a man she genuinely couldn't have, a man who, more importantly, had done nothing to suggest that her feelings were reciprocated, other than to accompany her on a few walks to a house he liked and to admire some silly, childish flowers in her hair. Because that was it, wasn't it? When you boiled it down, there was nothing to say that Guy liked her any more than he liked, say, Freddie. Because he spent lots of time with Freddie, too. And even if he did like her, there was no way they could do anything about it. Look at the state Celia had been in just because he'd paid her slightly less attention over the past few days.
Oh, God, why did you have to come here? Lottie groaned, resting her forehead on her knees. I was perfectly content until you came here. And then Mrs. Holden called her down to give Virginia a hand rearranging the good silver.
CELIA, DESPITE HER POSITIVE INTENTIONS, HAD BEEN unable to shake off her sense of dejection. And possibly with reason. Lottie watched as she paraded her newest dress in front of Guy, as she pinched his arm playfully and laid her head in a coquettish manner upon his shoulder. Lottie watched as Guy patted her with the comfortable detachment of a man patting his dog, and Celia's smile become rigid in response. And Lottie fought to control the simmering cauldron of emotions bubbling inside her. And went to help Sylvia lace up her dressy shoes.
FOR A MAN WHO HADN'T SEEN HIS PARENTS FOR ALMOST a month, a man who professed to adore his mother and thought his father one of the finest men he knew, Guy had seemed less than enthralled by the prospect of their imminent arrival. At first Lottie had put his incessant pacing around outside down to impatience; then she looked closer and realized that he was arguing with himself under his breath, like the mad lady down at the park who used to wave a pair of drawers at anyone who dared venture onto what she thought of as her bowling green. Guy's face did not look eager; it looked troubled and ill tempered, and when he shrugged off Freddie's persistent requests to play tennis again--and with an uncharacteristic expletive--Lottie watched silently from the drawing room window and prayed passionately to whatever
deity it was up there that it was she who was the cause of, and the remedy for, his misery.
SUSAN HOLDEN LOOKED AT THESE THREE MISERABLE young people and wondered that any of them would have survived the war. Not a stiff upper lip or an ounce of backbone among them. If she, with the troubles she had--with Henry's wretched absences and Freddie's obsessions and Sarah Chilton still making pointed comments about how lucky it was that they had managed to get Celia betrothed "all things considered"--could face the world with a smile, then you'd think these ruddy children could just get hold of themselves and brighten up a bit.
She pursed her lips at her reflection, then, pausing for a moment, reached into her bag and pulled out a lipstick. It was quite a bold one for her, not one she would have worn in front of the salon ladies, but, applying it carefully (wincing slightly as she bent forward), Mrs. Holden told herself that some days one needed all the props one could get.
That redheaded girl wore lipstick the color of Christmas candles. The first time Mrs. Holden had called into Henry's office and seen her there, she'd been unable to take her eyes off it.
Perhaps that had been the point.
Virginia called up the stairs.
"Mrs. Holden, your visitors are here."
Mrs. Holden checked her hair in the mirror and took a deep breath. Please let Henry come home in a good mood, she prayed.
"Let them in, dear. I'm coming down."
"And Freddie is refusing to let go of that . . . that dead thing. He says he wants to keep it in his bedroom. It's made the rug smell awful."
Mrs. Holden closed her eyes. And thought, with some desperation, of roses.
"WHAT A SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL GARDEN. HOW WONDERFULLY clever you are." Sweet words, to a nervous, underappreciated potential in-law. And Susan Holden, still knocked onto a back footing by Dee Dee Bancroft's broad American accent (Guy hadn't said anything!), found herself quite shaky in her gratitude.
"Are those Albertines? Do you know they're simply my favorite roses? Cannot grow them in the darned excuse for a garden that we have in Port Antonio. The wrong soil, apparently. Or I had them too close to something else. Then, roses can be terribly tricky, can't they? Prickly in more ways than one."
"Oh, yes," said Susan Holden, trying not to look at Dee Dee's long brown legs. From here she could have sworn that the woman wasn't wearing any hosiery.
"Oh, you have no idea how I envy you this garden. Look, Guyhoney, they've got hostas. Not a slug bite out of them. I don't know how you do it."
Guyhoney, as Mr. Bancroft Senior was apparently known to his wife, turned from the back gate, which looked down over the playing fields, and began walking up to where the ladies were taking their seats under a flapping parasol, sipping at warm tea.
"Which direction is the ocean?"
Guy, who had been sitting on the grass, stood and walked over to his father. He pointed over to the east, his words carried away on the brisk winds.
"I do hope you don't mind sitting outside. I know it's a bit blustery, but it might be the last beautiful afternoon of the year, and I like to get the last of the roses." Mrs. Holden had made frantic motions behind her back to get Virginia to bring out more chairs.
"Oh, no, we love to be outdoors." Mrs. Bancroft put a hand to her hair to stop it whipping into her mouth as she took a mouthful of tea.
"Yes. Yes, one does miss the outdoors in the winter."
"And Freddie put a dead fox on the drawing room rug," said Sylvia.
"Sylvia!"
"He did. It wasn't even me. And now Mummy says she won't let us in there ever again. That's why we have to sit in a freezing-cold garden."
"Sylvia, that is not true. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Bancroft. We did . . . er . . . have a little incident in the room just before you came, but we had always intended to have tea out here."
"Dee Dee, please. And don't you worry on our account. Outside is fine. And I'm sure Freddie can't be as bad as our son. Guy Junior was just the most horrific child."
Dee Dee beamed at Susan Holden's shocked expression. "Oh, awful. He used to bring back insects of all sorts and put them in boxes and jars and then forget about them. I'd discover spiders the size of my fist in my flour bin. Ugh!"
"I don't know how you cope, out there with all those insects. I'm sure I'd have lived in perpetual terror."
"I'd like it," said Freddie, who had spent the last ten minutes peering at the fresh leather-and-walnut interior of Mr. Bancroft's brand-new Rover. "I'd like a spider as big as my fist. I'd call it Harold."
Mrs. Holden closed her eyes. It was somehow harder to think of one's rose garden when one was sitting in it.
"I would. It would be my friend."
"Your only friend," said Celia, who, Mrs. Holden noted, had recovered some of her tartness. She was seated on the edge of the picnic rug, her legs toward Lottie's, picking miserably at a plate of biscuits.
Lottie, meanwhile, sat hugging her knees, looking past everyone else at the front gate, as if waiting for some signal to leave. She had not offered to hand any of the scones around, as Mrs. Holden had requested before the Bancrofts arrived. She hadn't even changed into something pretty.
"So where's this house that you told us about, Junior? I bet it isn't half as pretty as Susan's house here."
Mr. Bancroft strode over to the table, his cigarette waving in his hand for emphasis. His voice, although English, was of indeterminate origin and had a definite transatlantic lilt, which Susan Holden found very unconventional. Mind you, there seemed to be little conventional about Guy Bancroft Senior. A large man, he was wearing a bright red shirt, of the hue one might expect to see on a cabaret performer, and he spoke very loudly, as if everyone else were at least fifty yards away. When he arrived, he had planted great wet kisses on both her cheeks in the French style. Even though he was quite clearly not French.
"It's over in that direction. Past the municipal park." Guy steered his father toward the coast again and pointed.
In normal circumstances one might have thought him rather . . . common. There was absolutely no refinement in his manners. His clothes, his loud voice--all pointed to a certain lack of upbringing. He had sworn twice in front of her, and Dee Dee had just laughed. But he did have a certain sheen: that of money. It was apparent in his wristwatch, in his highly polished handmade shoes, in the very beautiful crocodile handbag they'd brought Susan Holden from London. When she'd pulled it from its tissue paper, she fought an uncharacteristic urge to lower her head just to breathe in that delicious, expensive smell.
She tore her mind from the handbag to check her watch again. It was nearly a quarter to four. Henry really should have called by now to say whether he would be home for supper. She didn't know how many to cook for. She wasn't entirely sure whether the Bancrofts thought they were staying, and the thought of making her broiler chickens stretch out to a meal for seven made her chest quite fluttery with anxiety.
"What, toward our hotel?"
"Yes. But it's on a promontory by itself. You wouldn't see it from the coast road."
She could get Virginia to run down and get a joint of pork. Just in case. It wouldn't be wasted if they didn't stay; the children could have it in rissoles.
Dee Dee leaned over, her hand pinning her blond hair to her head. "My son has been telling us all about your fascinating neighbors. It must be lovely to have so many artists on your doorstep."
Susan Holden sat up a little straighter, beckoning to Virginia through the window. "Well, yes, it is rather nice. So many people assume that a seaside town has little to offer in the way of culture. But we do our best."
"You know, I envy you that, too. There's no culture out on the fruit plantations. Just the radio. A few books. And the occasional newspaper."
"Well, we do like to cultivate the spirit of the arts ourselves."
"And the house sounds fantastic."
"House?" Susan Holden looked blankly at her.
"Yes, Mrs. Holden?" Virginia stood in front of her, clutching a tray.
&
nbsp; "Sorry, did you say house?"
"The Art Deco house. Guy Junior says it is one of the most beautiful houses he's ever seen. I must say in his letters he's had us fascinated."
Virginia was staring at her.
Mrs. Holden shook her head slightly. "Er . . . don't worry, Virginia. I'll come in and talk to you in a minute . . . I'm sorry, Mrs. Bancroft, could you repeat what you just said?"
Virginia departed with an audible tut.
"Dee Dee, please. Yes, we're great fans of modern architecture. Mind you, where I grew up in the Midwest, everything's modern, you know? We call a house old if it was put up before the war!" She burst into peals of laughter.
Mr. Bancroft tapped his cigarette into a flower bed. "We should take a walk down there later this afternoon. Take a look at it."
"At Arcadia?" Lottie's head swung around.
"Is that its name? What a glorious name." Dee Dee accepted another cup of tea.
"You want to go to Arcadia?" Mrs. Holden's voice had risen several keys.
Lottie and Celia exchanged looks.
"I understand it's the most fabulous place, absolutely full of exotic types."
"It is that," said Celia, who for the first time that day was smiling.
Dee Dee glanced at Celia and back at her mother.
"Oh. Maybe it's a little difficult. I'm sure they don't want us gawping at them. Guyhoney, let's leave it for another day."
"But it's only five minutes down the road."
"Honey--"
Mrs. Holden caught the glance Dee Dee sent her husband.
She straightened a little in her chair. Looked deliberately past her children. "Well, of course I do have a standing invitation to visit Mrs. Armand. . . . I mean, only last week I received a letter . . ."
Mr. Bancroft stubbed out his cigarette and downed his tea in a thirsty gulp. "Then let's visit. C'mon, Guy, you show us what you've been talking about."
