Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  “You’re too flipping considerate, Liwy, that’s your problem,” she went on. “You’re even being considerate about Her, too, which, incidentally, Johnny cites as being totally typical of you.”

  “Oh, does he,” I seethed. I was dimly aware that Angie was deliberately trying to rouse me to anger, and that she was doing a damn good job of it.

  “Yes, he said, ‘You see, Mum? She’s even making a friend of Nina. It’s unreal!’”

  I jumped up. “Oh, is it bloody unreal, well, we’ll soon see about that!”

  “I think he needs a bit of a shock, Liwy.”

  “He’ll get one!” I hissed, pacing around my chair.

  “I think he needs to see that you’re not just sitting about waiting for him to come back.”

  “Too bloody right I’m not!” Lance approached down the garden with my drink.

  “That you’re your own person – ”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Still a very attractive woman – ”

  “You bet I’m attractive! God, I’m – I’m fucking gorgeous!”

  “Still highly desirable – ”

  “Yes!” I shrieked, banging the back of the chair with my fist, “yes, yes, yes!”

  “And I think he needs to see – ”

  “A man!” I interrupted, eyes wide. “That’s it: he needs to see a man!” I swung round wildly, looking for one, just as – “Lance!” I seized his arm. “Lance – you’d be perfect! Absolutely perfect! Just like David Gower!”

  “Sorry?” he blinked.

  “Lance,” I breathed, “listen. I – I need to borrow you, not for long but I – ”

  “Er, thank you, Lance,” Angie said hastily, prising my fingers from his arm and taking the drink. “Mrs McFarllen’s just a little overwrought. It’s the heat. Thanks so much for the drink.”

  Lance looked startled, but turned and went on his way.

  “Perhaps you could be a little subtler than just grabbing the nearest builder that comes to hand!” she hissed.

  But I was well away. “And a job,” I breathed. “I need a job. I’ll ring the Chelsea Physic, see if that’s still up for grabs, tell them I’ll take it on any sort of salary.” I paced up and down, gripping my gin. “Yes, it has to be in London. And clothes – I must buy clothes, expensive ones. Clothes, a job, a man – that’ll do the trick, that’ll show him!”

  “Now slow down, darling, slow down,” said Angie anxiously. “Don’t forget you’re doing this for you. It sounds to me as if you’re plotting all this for him again, to paint a picture for him!”

  I stopped in my tracks; stared at her. Then I sat down slowly, the wrought-iron seat cold beneath me. “Well, yes I am. Of course I am.” She was right.

  “Make sure it’s what you want,” she insisted, sitting down beside me. I stared at her even harder. Blinked.

  “But I don’t know what I want. I’ve been pleasing him for so long, Angie, I don’t know what I want any more. You’re right. He’s right. I’m just a frigging please machine. Press my buttons and I’ll please you. I don’t want a job or new clothes, I just want my husband back. Is that totally sad, as Claudia would say?”

  “No, it’s totally understandable,” she said slowly. “All I’m saying is…enjoy the process. Enjoy the means to the end. Because, believe it or not, if you approach it that way, you may enjoy the means, even more than the end.”

  I thought about this. “Unlikely, but I take your point. I also agree that it’s got to be more fun than sitting around waiting for him.”

  “Of course it has!” she squeaked. “That’s the spirit!”

  I blinked at her. “It is?”

  “Of course! Fun!” She raised her glass. “You, Olivia McFarllen, are about to have some fun!”

  I looked at her excited face. A slow smile spread across mine. “OK,” I said raising my glass too. “Here’s to fun then.”

  She crashed her gin enthusiastically into mine, spilling both. “Attagirl!”

  9

  The following morning, I rang Imogen. “D’you know any nice men?” I demanded.

  She paused, taken aback. “What sort of men?”

  “Attractive, sexy, single men, of course. Come on, Imo, you must know loads!”

  I felt her switch the phone to her other ear, give a little cough and shuffle her chair around. Perhaps the gallery was busy. “What d’you want one for?” she muttered.

  “I want to make Johnny as jealous as hell, of course. What d’you think!”

  “Ah, right. That old chestnut. I wondered when you’d come round to that way of thinking. Hang on, I’ll get my address book.” She broke off for a second. “Right, now, let’s see…” I heard her flipping through the pages. “Well, there’s Giles, of course, who would have been perfect…”

  “Yes?”

  “But sadly he’s come out. Such a waste.”

  “Oh.”

  “So then there’s James, who’s gorgeous, but then he’s rather gone the way of the Brompton Oratory brigade, bit pious now, so…” more page flipping, “Ah – hang on, Rollo! Yes, now Rollo’s lovely. He’d be very suitable. Works for the foreign office, frightfully rich, terribly intelligent, just split up with his girlfriend – he ditched her – fabulous flat in South Kensington – ”

  “Sold,” I purred. “Perfect, Imo. He sounds totally perfect. Invite me to dinner tomorrow. Then I’ll invite him back here this weekend.”

  “Tomorrow! God, you must be kidding. For a start he’s in Russia at the moment, and for another thing I couldn’t possibly suggest anything for his diary without a couple of weeks’ notice.”

  “A couple of weeks!” I shrieked. “God, that’s no good. I need him on Sunday!”

  “Sunday. Gosh no, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’d be able to deliver the goods by then, Liwy,” she said doubtfully. “There’s Simon Franklin, I suppose – he likes to do things fairly impulsively – but even he gets pretty booked up, although he might have a space for dinner in July – ”

  “Never mind, never mind,” I said quickly. “Forget it, Imo. Thanks anyway.”

  “Sorry, but, listen, I’ll tell you what. I was going to take the parents to that big concert they’re doing in the Abbey next week on the fifteenth. Dad really wants to go and Rollo’s a real music buff. Why don’t I fix that up anyway? You could come with us? It’s something to have in reserve if nothing else.”

  “What big concert?” I said dully.

  “You know. God, it’s on your doorstep, for heaven’s sake. Faulkner’s new orchestral piece. It’s going to be absolutely packed.”

  “Is it? Oh, OK, fix it up as a stopgap, but meanwhile I need some more immediate crumpet. Speak to you soon, Imo.”

  I put the phone down. Clearly Imogen’s friends were so rarefied and sought after there’d be no getting into their Filo-faxes, or indeed anything else, this millennium, and that was no good; I needed results and I needed them now. By Sunday actually, three days’ time. I gritted my teeth. Malcolm. It would have to be Malcolm. Oh God, could I really bring myself to? Yes. Yes, I could. This was an emergency, and needs must. Before I could change my mind I hurried to the back door, slipped on my old gardening boots, which were all I could find, and hastened round to Nanette’s for his number.

  Was he really so unattractive? I tried to remember as I scurried across the cobbles. No, quite good-looking actually, average height and with rather a lot of dark hair, I seemed to recall – hopefully it wasn’t a toupee – no sign of a paunch, reasonable teeth – yes, he’d do fine. I’d have to light him properly, I reflected as I hurried along – subtly, you know, in a dark corner of the sitting room. Thank God for dimmer switches, candles even – and if his clothes were too appalling I’d lend him something of Johnny’s. Yes, brilliant. Johnny’s old dressing gown or something – that would really set the cat amongst the pigeons, and he could be naked underneath. Suddenly I felt sick. The thought of Malcolm naked apart from a toupee made me stop, clutch a lamppost. I hung on to it for
a moment and breathed deeply, tried not to think about it. When I’d recovered, I went on up Nanette’s steps, and rang her bell.

  Nanette answered the door with Roger, beaming away behind her, clasping her from behind, as it were, both in matching kimonos and both looking very post-coital. Ah, so he was back. She was nearly sick with excitement when I told her my mission.

  “Oooh, I just knew you two would hit it off! Didn’t I say so, Rog? I’m so glad you liked him, Olivia! He’s such a poppet, dear old Male, and a great mucker of yours too, isn’t he, darling? Hey, perhaps we could all go out as a foursome sometime!”

  The very vocabulary set my teeth on edge, but I nodded gamely. “Great!”

  “The old dog!” hooted Roger. “Getting his feet under your table in double-quick time, eh? Blimey, Malcolm and his trouser snake pop up in the most unlikely places, although I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the class for you, Olivia!”

  “Oh, heavens, I thought he was totally charming.”

  “And now you can’t wait to get your hands on him, eh? Ha! Terrific! Well, I must say, I thought it was more the form for the boy to ring the girl, but then I don’t know many emancipatéd women, do I, Pumpkin?” He nuzzled Nanette’s ear. “Lucky dog!”

  “To be honest, Roger, I’m not that emancipatéd myself, but this is a bit of an emergency,” I said grimly. “Thanks, Nanette.” I took the piece of paper she’d scribbled the number on, hurried down the steps, and back home to my telephone, fingers itching to dial. Time was of the essence.

  Malcolm seemed delighted, if astonished, to hear from me. I could almost hear him loosen his tie, lean back in his chair and work up a bit of a sweat from the plate-glass office of his Luton car showroom.

  “Sunday? Er, yes, sure. Shall I book a table somewhere? What sort of time – eight thirty-ish?”

  “Eleven o’clock in the morning,” I said firmly. Johnny would be arriving at eleven thirty to take Claudia out.

  “Oh! Right. At your place?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And then lunch?”

  “Er, no. No, I’ve got to go out to lunch, I’m afraid.” God, I couldn’t cope with him for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  “Ah. Right. So – what time are you going out?”

  “Oh, about twelve. Thirty,” I added charitably. Didn’t want to seem mean.

  “So…you want me to pop round for about an hour and a half. On Sunday morning. Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” I agreed brightly.

  “OK…fine. And then we’ll take it from there, shall we?”

  “Yes, why not?” I agreed blithely. “Oh, and, Malcolm, um – what will you be wearing?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, just so I have an idea myself. Casual? Smart?”

  “Oh. Well, smart-casual, I suppose. The blazer perhaps – ”

  “No, no, not the blazer,” I said quickly. “What about a T-shirt and some chinos?” I suggested, catching sight of Lance through the window, looking good in something similar, sawing boards on a work bench in the garden. But what would Malcolm look like in a T-shirt? No, ghastly, like Tony Blackburn probably, I dithered.

  “A suit,” I said firmly. “Have you got a nice suit?”

  “On a Sunday?” He sounded bewildered. “Just for coffee?”

  “Yes, you’re right, you’re right, too over the top. Just a shirt and trousers will be fine.”

  “Right,” he said faintly. “See you then, then.”

  “Excellent, Malcolm, see you then.” I replaced the receiver. I hoped to God he wouldn’t overdo the aftershave – he looked the type who might – but I was sure I could kill it with something stronger, outblast him with Chanel, perhaps. But otherwise – perfect. I nibbled my thumbnail nervously. So. Three days’ time. And meanwhile all I had to do at the appointed hour was look totally alluring, very much in love, and as if I was having the time of my life.

  The following day I raced into London and took Knights-bridge by storm. I flew around Harvey Nichols as if my life depended on it, charging in and out of changing rooms, sending curtains swishing back and forth on their rails, wriggling into far tighter and sexier outfits than I would normally entertain, finally rejecting them all, and instinctively settling on a very elegant cream linen dress with capped sleeves and a pair of kitten-heeled, navy mules. If I say so myself, with my short dark hair and my eyes – which as my face got thinner, were getting huger and hungrier by the minute – the whole effect was very fey. Very Roman Holiday.

  That was Friday, but the complicated bit of the plan revolved around Saturday. It dawned and, as I sat at the scullery table in my old jeans, cradling my tea, ignoring my breakfast, and drumming my fingers on the old Formica, I grew thoughtful. The thing was, I didn’t particularly want Claudia around, (a) to see Malcolm and double up with mirth, (b) to witness any potential shit hitting the fan depending on whether Johnny, (i) hit the roof, (ii) hit the road, or (iii) hit Malcolm. So. I drummed some more. She was due to go to her best friend, Lucy’s house for the day, and had originally been asked for the night, too, but I’d refused on the grounds that Johnny would be coming to collect her on Sunday morning. However, a quick call to Lucy’s mother could change all that…

  I was just replacing the receiver, when Claudia sat down for her cereal. She was showered and dressed and ready to go, and hurriedly shook out a bowl of Frosties, sloshing milk on top. I hovered next to her.

  “Still going to Lucy’s?”

  “Mm-hm.” She nodded, mouth full. “Can you drop me there in about ten minutes? I want to get there really early. We’re going to make a ouija board.”

  “Sure. Is anyone else going?”

  “Lottie and Saskia. They’re both staying the night.” She glared at me as she munched away.

  “Are they? Well, darling, I’ve been thinking – seeing as it’s become a bit of a party, why don’t you stay too? You could see Daddy next Sunday. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  She nearly dropped her spoon. “Really? Oh, cool, Mum! Oh, that is totally cool! They’re going to see a film on Sunday morning, and have lunch in Café Rouge. Can I do that too?”

  “Of course.”

  “‘Of course?’ Good grief, what’s happened to you? This is brilliant! I’ll just go and pack a bag.” She jumped up.

  “I’ve done it, darling. There.” I pointed to her rucksack at the bottom of the stairs. She stared.

  “Oh! Great. Did you put my inhaler in?”

  “I did.”

  “But – hadn’t we better ring Lucy’s mum?”

  “I’ve done that too,” I smiled.

  “Oh, Mum, you are awesome this morning!” She ran to pick up her bag, then stopped. Turned. “Oh – but what about Daddy? Will he mind?” She looked anxious suddenly.

  “Of course not, my darling, and I’ll explain that it was a very special sleepover, planned ages ago. He’ll be fine!”

  “OK,” she said doubtfully. “And give him lots of love. Oh – I know, why don’t I ring him and tell him? Would he like that?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly, “I’ll do that. I’ve got to ring him anyway about something else. You just get your jacket and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Thanks, Mum. Hey,” she turned and looked at me suspiciously as we got to the front door, “you’re not by any chance seeing anyone tonight, are you?”

  I flushed. “Of course not. Why?”

  She grinned. “Just wondered. You seem awfully keen to get me out of the house, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I spluttered as I ushered her through the door. “The very idea! Now get in that car, young lady, before I change my mind!”

  Sunday dawned even brighter and sunnier than the previous few days. Ninety-four degrees was predicted in old money; twenty-seven in new. Either way, the heat was on. As I came in from the garden and went up to the bathroom to have a shower, I paused at my bedroom to gaze out at my handiwork. I smiled. Under the cedar tree, down by the str
eam, I’d put a small round table, covered it with a red gingham cloth, and placed two French cafe chairs either side. A posy of white roses was set just so already, but in an hour or two, when Malcolm got here, I’d add a basket of warm croissants, a jug of orange juice, fresh coffee, and a pot of raspberry jam. There Malcolm and I would be, talking intimately and laughing softly, so that when Johnny arrived for Claudia, rang the bell, got no answer because, of course, I could pretend I hadn’t heard it from the garden, and walked round the back, he’d be presented with an arresting tableau: his wife and a strange man, sharing not just a tender moment, but what could only be construed as a very late breakfast. A breakfast after the night before. A lovers’ breakfast. (At this point I’d reach out and clutch Malcolm’s hand, or something equally appropriate.)

  Yes, OK, I couldn’t do the subtle lighting job on Malcolm that I’d previously envisaged, but I could at least put him in deep shade with an old Panama hat of Johnny’s – quite familiar, I thought, to lend him that – pulled down over his eyes. Right down.

  I was just about to move away from the window and hop into the shower, fizzing with nerves and excitement now, when something stopped me. I stared. To my horror, I saw the caravan door open. Good grief, hadn’t they all gone home for the weekend? It was Sunday, after all. Did they have to live with me permanently? The door stayed open, but no one appeared. Oh terrific, I seethed furiously. All my sylvan scene needed was Mac, belching and scratching his balls, Alf, bending down for bricks and showing us half his backside, and Spiro, sobbing away in a corner somewhere – Jesus! I watched in fury as finally Lance came down the steps, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, his tool bag under his arm. Suddenly I remembered he’d said he was going to work this weekend because Mac wanted to get the Aga in next week and the cabinets had to go in first. Damn. I didn’t particularly want him ligging around, sniggering behind his hand at me and Malcolm, but at least, I reasoned, he was less obtrusive than the rest. And if he was ensconced in the new kitchen with his lathes and drills going, and Capital Radio blaring, he probably wouldn’t be any trouble. I followed his journey up the path, under the rose arbour, across to the terrace and – ah, that’s exactly where he was headed for. Good. He shut the kitchen door behind him, and, relieved, I hopped in the shower.