Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  As she beamed conspiratorially at me I nervously smoothed down the cream linen dress which had finally got an outing but had creased disastrously in the car. “My Rollo, eh?”

  “And Imo?” I asked, as I followed her through a wrought-iron gate, noticing her hair was quite grey at the back now, but that her ankles were still worth watching. “Does she have a dish of the day?”

  “Oh, my dear, haven’t you heard?” She stopped, turned, and for extra emphasis, touched my arm confidentially with cold fingertips. “The conductor, Hugo Simmonds! He’s on the podium tonight and he’s absolutely mad about her! He’s been here for dinner a couple of times because Gerald got quite involved with the organisation of this concert, and d’you know, Olivia, I have to say he couldn’t take his eyes off her!”

  “I think quite a lot of men have that problem,” I remarked with a smile.

  “Well, quite, but does she give them half a chance? No! They’re all nuts about her and then they’re lucky if they last two weeks! To be fair, the vast majority are no-hopers anyway, but I worry about her, Olivia. What’s wrong with the child?” She frowned petulantly. “And, you know, she’s not getting any younger; time is marching on.”

  “Mrs Mitchell! And you an ardent feminist – I’m shocked!” I laughed.

  “Feminism be damned,” she grinned, taking my arm again, “I’m a mother first and a feminist when it suits me, and it’s Ursula, Olivia, although I know childhood habits die hard.” She sighed as we walked down the stone steps to the crowded terrace together. “I do worry about her, though. She never seems to give anyone a chance, and Hugo is rather special. She’d be mad to pass him up. Darling, have a word if you can, would you? Tell her how scrummy he is?”

  I laughed. “I’ll try,” I promised. “Is he here?” I looked around.

  “No no, he’s limbering up with his baton at the Abbey. You’ll see him later, and it’s to be hoped that when she sees him strutting his stuff her heart will melt and – ah, now here we are – Imo! Imogen darling!”

  She called to her daughter, who was talking to a tall, slim man on the other side of the terrace. Imo turned. Her pale, golden hair was piled up on her head with tendrils escaping and curling at the base of her neck, Grecian style. She wore a simple, black shift dress, pearls, was lightly tanned, and looked amazing.

  “Liwy!” She came over, simultaneously catching the tall man’s sleeve and dragging him with her. “God, finally! I had a nasty feeling you were going to do a bunk. You look terrific, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I grinned, “so do you.”

  “Oh Liwy, this is Rollo. Rollo, Olivia McFarllen, who together with Molly Piper, who should be here but is predictably even later, is my dearest friend.”

  I shook hands with him. “Molly’s coming?” I said delightedly. “I didn’t think this would be her sort of thing?”

  “Of course it isn’t, I bullied her into it. Told her a bit of culture would do her good instead of gormlessly watching Friends and Frasier, who she’s beginning to believe are her friends, she’s so welded to that sofa of hers. Anyway, I’ve got to go off and relieve Mum at the door, so I’m going to stop wittering on, dear hearts, and leave you both in peace. Toodle-oo!” And with that she gave a dinky little wave and off she skipped. Just like that.

  I gazed after her. Blimey, don’t make it too obvious, will you, Imo? And couldn’t you at least have given us a starting point? This is Rollo, he’s in conglomerates, or – even better – this is Rollo, he’s an incredibly wealthy polo player?

  “Imogen’s tact is legendary, of course,” said the tall man, smiling down. “She once had the hots for a friend of mine in the diplomatic service, but I told her she’d make a disastrous diplomat’s wife. You can’t just plonk John Prescott next to the King of Tonga, tell them they’ve got a weight problem in common and then swan off hoping for the best.”

  I laughed. But first, I had to wipe my face. Because good-looking though Rollo undoubtedly was, with his toffee-coloured hair, which rather cunningly matched his toffee-coloured eyes, set wide apart in an endearingly boyish face – he had a problem. He spat. I took a discreet step backwards, lobbed up a social “And what do you do?” and studied him closer.

  Yes, it was the front teeth, I decided as he prattled away happily about the foreign office. Too big, and too far apart. Way too far, as Claudia would say. I reached for a canape and made a mental note, as I munched and smiled politely, occasionally managing, “Oh really?” out of the side of my mouth, and, “Gosh, the South African desk, that must be interesting,” that Claudia must have as much orthodontic treatment as she needed, as soon she needed it, whatever the cost. I didn’t want her growing up with an impediment like this and, let’s face it, it was an impediment. I reached for another canape, a tray of which had been handily placed on a table beside me. God, I was starving. I really must make an effort to eat properly now I was on my own. Trouble was I couldn’t be bothered, especially in the evening when – Bugger. He was gazing expectantly at me.

  “Um, sorry?”

  “I said, what do you do?”

  “Oh! Oh nothing much.”

  He raised startled eyebrows.

  “I mean, nothing much now,” I hurried on. Crikey, I’d forgotten he was Imogen’s friend and that ‘nothing much’ was tantamount to admitting you sucked worm’s blood. “I mean, I used to garden, you know, pre-children. Professionally, I mean. I used to do garden design.”

  “Terrific!” he brayed. “Gosh, I’d love to do something creative like that. You should keep your hand in. Did you ever do Chelsea?”

  “Er, not as such.” I reached nervously for more food.

  “Shame. Great mate of mine exhibited there every year, as well as at Hampton Court. You might know her actually – Saskia Soames?”

  A giant prawn, centimetres to my lips, froze. Saskia Soames had had an unfortunate effect upon it. On top of the prawn, perched and glistening, sat a huge, shiny globule of saliva. I lowered it carefully.

  “Er, no, I don’t know her.”

  “Oh, you must meet her, she’s such a gas. I’m surprised actually, because Imo knows her. We must get you both together!”

  “Yes, we must.” I looked round desperately for a handy dog, or a bin. Could I chuck it in the flowerbed? No, of course I couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry – you’re eating,” he said, following my gaze, “and I’m bombarding you with questions. Pop it in and I’ll shut up for a minute.”

  I gazed. Pop it in? Are you kidding? I stared at it hard. “Is this fish?”

  He peered at it, then up at me, incredulously. “Yes, it’s a prawn.”

  “Is it? Heavens! I can’t eat fish!”

  “But – you’ve just eaten about six!”

  “Have I? Good God, I’ll come out in the most almighty rash tomorrow. All over!”

  At this unattractive concept Rollo palpably flinched. “Golly, poor you,” he muttered. “Oh well,” he brayed, recovering, “it’s clearly my fault. I must have been distracting you! Disarming you, even! Ha, ha!”

  “Yes, clearly!” Prat.

  “Tell you what, I’ll have it,” he offered, opening his mouth gallantly.

  I didn’t hesitate. In fact I more or less chucked it in, and then we both beamed delightedly as he munched away. There was something pleasingly apposite about it I felt, back to its maker, as it were. Suddenly my hand shot up.

  “Molly!” Oh, the relief. “You made it!”

  “Finally,” she hissed, coming over and kissing me rather damply as she reached into her shirt to hitch up her bra strap. “Bloody baby-sitter was late and then Henry sodding well threw up over me as I kissed him good night – do I stink?” she asked anxiously.

  “No,” I promised, then realised she did. “Here,” I handed her my bag. “There’s some Chanel N°19 at the bottom, and do your other eye – you’ve only got one made up.”

  “Have I? Damn. Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing the bag, and was about to scuttle off when she sp
otted Rollo, hovering territorially. She raised her eyebrows and shot me a quizzical glance.

  “Oh! Sorry, Molly Piper, Rollo…?”

  “Somerset,” he offered toothily, complete with ocean spray. Molly flinched but, quick as a flash, I’d turned to kiss Hugh, her husband. All yours, Moll.

  Hugh, small, clever, and very theatrical, was gazing about him at the crowd, blinking with mock wonder. “People,” he muttered dreamily. “People talking…socialising…yes, yes, I remember now, it’s all coming back.” He sniffed his drink. “Alcohol too.”

  I giggled. “You’re not about to tell me you don’t have a life any more, are you, Hugh?”

  “Oh, but I don’t, my love, I don’t,” he said, putting an arm round my shoulders and leading me away. “Just a pukey little toddler and a soon-to-be-podding wife, and wait till that one pops out: you won’t see us for years. We’ll come up for air, ooh, in about ten years’ time I should think, when hopefully the world will still be turning and those who we chose to call our friends will still be out there, smiling and offering us a glass.” He gazed blankly into his champagne. “You know, I really can’t imagine why we all embark on this procreation lark in the first place, Liwy. Vanity, I suppose. An insatiable desire to recreate in our own image, and look where it gets us? Sunk in the mire of shitty despair.” He knocked back his glass in one go and smiled abruptly. “You, on the other hand, dear heart,” he said, waggling his glass at me, eyes twinkling, “seem to have it all worked out. You manage to make this whole childcare business look graceful and effortless, and all on your tod now, too, I gather. Tell me,” he added more gently, “is it a mid-life crisis, or has he just gone blind? You’ve never looked lovelier.”

  I smiled. “He’s a bit young for a crisis, isn’t he, Hugh?”

  “Lord no, everyone’s doing things so much earlier these days. Life’s become so accelerated, you see. Girls of eleven are having babies and sexually speaking one’s finished at forty. Johnny’s obviously doing a spot of panic-buying while he can still get it up, and making a total dick of himself in the process.” He grinned. “His loss, not yours. Oh, excuse me, young man.” He grabbed a passing waiter. “That was so delicious, I believe I’ll have another.” He put his empty champagne glass on the tray, plucked another full one, and emptied it in one, smacking his lips. “Yum yum.”

  I giggled. “Hugh, I’m not convinced this is quite the place to get plastered.” I glanced around at Ursula’s cronies.

  “Oh, but it is, my love, it is. Not only have we got all these stiffs to talk to here, but we’ve got the wretched concert to get through yet. If I drink myself to a standstill, with any luck I’ll sleep through it. Oh, by the way, I’m armed.” He slipped a hand in his pocket and brought out a hip flash. “Stick by me, kiddo, and you’ll be OK.”

  I giggled as Molly came charging up, still half made up. “He spits!” she reported in horror.

  “Doesn’t he just?” I agreed.

  “Bloody hell, don’t I get enough bodily fluids at home without being subjected to more at a party?” She wiped her cheek. “Outrageous! Is he supposed to be yours? What is Imo thinking of? Send him back!”

  “Shh, he’ll hear. Oh Christ – look out, we’re being hounded.”

  We smiled sociably as Ursula Mitchell bore down on us. She swooped, encircled our shoulders with bony arms, then confided in hushed tones, “The seats are numbered, my dears, but it’s better to get there early, otherwise it’s such a crush. If you youngsters wouldn’t mind making a move to the cars then I think the others will take the hint and follow. I just thought that if we got there in good time, Imogen might manage a few moments with Hugo, you see.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Imo, in no rush, still happily chatting away, and I wanted to say, “Look, Ursula. Knowing Imo as we all do, don’t you think that nothing is going to make her run a mile more than this sort of pressure?” But I didn’t. She was happy and excited, and dreaming of a society wedding in New College Chapel, orange blossom tumbling from the pews. So instead I dutifully followed Molly and Hugh to the loo, to the coats, to the door, to the cars, and thence, to the Abbey.

  Any qualms I had about venerable old cathedrals being used as venues rather than places of worship were quashed as I joined the glittering throng that waited outside to enter the Abbey. It looked fabulous, lit up and glowing in the clear night sky, and the chattering, excited crowd that jostled politely to get through the huge oak doors couldn’t have been more appreciative, ooh-ing and ah-ing as they strained their necks to get a glimpse of the vast, vaulted ceiling. I suppose if The Man Himself were to burst through the double doors and demand to know what the devil we were doing, tanked up, bejewelled – armed, even, in Hugh’s case – and awaiting entertainment, we might have had our work cut out convincing Him, but tonight I was happy enough to join the ranks of the great and the good – who were no doubt pious to a man, and who were out in force. I spotted the High Sheriff, the local MP, a brace of High Court judges with their wives, but also quite a few students, eager to hear the London Symphony Orchestra doing their stuff.

  “Blimey, I had no idea,” muttered Molly, reading a poster as we went in.

  “Me neither,” I admitted. “No wonder it’s so packed.”

  As I went up the steps, dutifully escorting Rollo, I couldn’t help noticing the young couple ahead of us. They were no more than seventeen probably, in duffel coats and college scarves, close, but shy, as they studied a programme together. He bent his head to hear what she was saying, as she, blushing into her straight fair hair, enthused falteringly about the pieces we were about to hear. He nodded, smiling, turned shining eyes on her, encouraging her. I felt a stab of pain. They were only just embarking, but already they’d found each other. And how lucky they were. For finding is everything.

  In the area just within the doors, people milled about talking loudly, waving programmes above their heads to friends they’d spotted in the crowd, and despite frantic attempts of officials to try to guide them to their seats, there was a general unwillingness to move on. This was too much of a social event to hurry, too much of an occasion. With elbows tucked in, and taking tiny pigeon steps, our party gradually made its way through the chattering throng, with Ursula, beckoning us on madly from the front like a wild-eyed scout leader, keen to get front-row seats. As I nudged through – “Excuse me, so sorry, oops, can I just squeeze through,” – I stopped suddenly. The back of a woman’s head, a few feet away to my right, looked terribly familiar somehow, but I just couldn’t place her. I peeled off from Rollo for a minute, took a quick peek around the side – and gasped. Stopped dead in my tracks. It was my mother. Except that I hardly recognised her. Her face was lightly made up and shining as she smiled and chatted. She was wearing a peach linen coat dress with peach lipstick to match, and her hair, which had been lightened and subtly streaked, was swept off her face in waves, tucked behind her ears, before curling softly at the edges. At her throat was a turquoise necklace which matched the bracelet on her wrist, and, I noticed, the sparkling gems in her ears. There was no dark helmet of hair, no pale, dramatic make-up, no navy-blue shift dress, and not a pearl in sight.

  “Mum!” My mouth, literally, hung open.

  She turned. Saw me. “Oh, hello, darling. I wondered if you’d be here.” She kissed my cheek. I stared. For a moment I simply couldn’t utter. Then I untwisted my tongue.

  “M-Mum – what are you doing here!”

  “Hmm?” She looked surprised. “Oh well, I was invited, of course!”

  “Really?” I looked around. The women’s group? Or the church perhaps. “But, Mum, this isn’t our church, so – ”

  “Oh no,” she laughed, “no, not the church, darling. Howard asked me.”

  “Howard?”

  It was then that I realised there was someone standing right beside her, right by her arm. I just hadn’t connected them. He was mid-fiftyish, tall, with a hint of a paunch, silver-grey hair and a moustache to match, and he was smiling p
roprietorially down at my mother.

  “Howard, this is my daughter, Olivia.”

  “Oh!” I gazed, shook his extended hand, but couldn’t speak.

  “At last,” he grinned. “I’ve heard so much about you but, I must say, I was keen to meet the real thing. You get a great press from your mum. Talk about proud mother and all that!”

  “Oh!” I said it again, gormlessly too, aware that my mouth was still open.

  “Howard’s a doctor,” offered Mum, helpfully. “We met when I took my usual stack of old magazines into the hospital.”

  He grinned. “The nurses kept telling me about this glamorous lady who was keeping them, not only in English Vogues, but in French and Italian ones too. I’m ashamed to say they plotted our meeting in an orthopaedic waiting room and I was an entirely willing participant!”

  I gazed. Don’t say ‘Oh’ again, you moron, just don’t. “S-so you’re a doctor then?” I stammered.

  “Well actually, I’m a urologist.”

  I racked my brains. “Ears?”

  He laughed. “Not even close. If I said that renal canals were a speciality, would that help?”

  “Oh! Yes, it would!”

  We laughed. Mum laughed. Mum, who couldn’t even mention a front bottom without pinched lips, was laughing at renal canals? I gaped at her. And the peach number! I just couldn’t help it.

  “Mum – the clothes!” I blurted out. “I mean – I’ve never seen you in anything remotely like that, ever!”

  She laughed. “I know, isn’t it strange? But Howard said he couldn’t be doing with all that navy blue. He bullied me out of it, said it reminded him of one of the sisters on his ward.”

  “A particularly repressed one,” put in Howard, with a sly grin. “Rumour has it she keeps a cane in the dispensary cupboard, to whip the other nurses into shape.”