by Fiona Walker
He really was pushing his luck. ‘In London.’ She retreated to a safe spot by a huge prickly cactus decked in fairy lights.
Bay followed. ‘I told Monique last night that I’m hopelessly in love with you.’
‘You did what?’
‘I talk in my sleep.’ The line was smoothly off-pat. ‘Thankfully, she never listens to a word I say.’
‘Stop with the cheesy chat-ups.’ She crossed her arms, rolling her eyes furiously. ‘I’ve told you, you’re fired. You’re no longer my safe married crush.’
‘Is that what it stands for?’ He laughed delightedly.
‘You mean you didn’t know?’
‘Closest I could come up with was social media consultant.’ He’d moved in beside her now, his glass clinking against hers. ‘I prefer safe married crush, Mrs Gunn.’
‘The only one of those things you still are is married.’
‘That,’ he ran his finger the length of her bare back, his breath on her shoulder, ‘is something we have in common.’
Petra laughed, an embarrassed reflex rather than because she’d found it funny, because it wasn’t funny at all when she thought about it. ‘I think I should go home, Bay, don’t you?’
‘You’re right. Kiss your host goodbye and go, Mrs Gunn,’ Bay ordered, sounding reassuringly rakish, a deep sigh of resignation calling time. It was what Bay did, the cheering Noël Coward campery of the larger-than-life flirt playing out attraction in a public pastiche. The eyes were sparkling so much they rivalled the sky overhead. No flooded ink, soul-mate, sex-right-now blackness.
The kiss was supposed to be a joke – a ‘mwah!’ piece of curtain-falls acting that would make them both collapse with laughter before heading back into the throng. Strictly no tongues.
But it went very wrong, very fast.
Their lips tasted of champagne, of quick quips and slow smiles, of all the laughter and flirtation they’d shared, of strangeness and newness. They tasted each other and they liked it.
They stopped at the same time, quick breaths together, knowing they’d overstepped the mark. Bay’s fingers were in Petra’s hair, her hand on his neck, wide and unfamiliar that high up, their bodies cleaving together, sex drives revving pedals to the floor whether they were at the wheels or not. They stood very still, momentarily stunned.
Their eyes found each other’s, searching for the stop sign. There was no stop sign.
Then they found they couldn’t stop kissing.
*
Carly tried not to let her teeth chatter too loudly as Fitz guarded his mother’s phone, like a terrier at a rat-hole. She couldn’t leave him. She’d be fired by now anyway. She was in this all the way to the sting.
When the theme from Black Beauty rang out, a dog barked somewhere near the conservatory on the far side of the house and they both jumped.
‘Here we go.’ Fitz held up the iPhone, its screen showing an unfamiliar number.
Carly watched him answer, so pale and self-controlled as he listened briefly to a voice screaming at the other end before hanging up.
‘Yup, it’s kicking off.’ He barred the number, pulling his own mobile out of a back pocket to check the messaging app. ‘I think they’re both at the flat. My guess would be now that Lozzy’s called Dad’s bluff by ringing his loyal wife. They’ll shout and cry a lot, have one last night together, and call it a day in the morning.’
‘How can you be so cool about it?’ She was once again reminded of the television mentalists, understanding people with no apparent emotional connection.
‘Because they’re not,’ he said, then his face crumpled. ‘Oh, fuck, Carly. I can’t handle this at all.’
She hugged him tightly, so whippet thin and sweet-smelling, shaking uncontrollably, his stupid waxed hair going up her nose. ‘There’s nothing you can’t deal with in life, Fitz. Nothing.’
‘Talk about sins of the father. This is way too much for a bisexual Lib Dem.’
‘Ssh.’ She held his face and wiped his eyes. ‘It’s okay, kid. Being clever and emotional just makes it harder.’
‘There’s nothing clever about this. I just heard Lozzy’s voice.’ He ran his cuffs across his snotty nose, looking incredibly young. ‘I can’t be certain – it wasn’t a great line. But I think he’s a man.’
*
Monique was on the war path, freeze-spraying farewell kisses to the left and right of departing guests automatically as she marched to the kitchen to track down her groom, a close confidant and reliable sycophant.
‘Where is Bay?’ she demanded. ‘I have bandaged his mother’s leg and she insists we must invite Ronnie Percy in, okay, because half of the guests want to say hello to her – Viv is quite mad at me, which is illogical – but now I can’t find Ronnie so she may have gone home, and I can’t find Bay. Surely they could sign the papers another time. What have you heard?’
‘Well,’ he cocked his head enticingly, ‘the hunt has so many stories about her I hardly know where to start.’
‘Cut to the chase.’
‘It’s a rumour about Ronnie Percy and Bay. You’re not going to like it...’
‘Bay’s with someone in the conservatory.’ The caterer came in through the back door briskly. ‘I just saw them while I was loading my van.’
‘Doing what?’
She lifted a cool box, looking uncomfortable. ‘I think you’d better see for yourself.’
*
Having retrieved Olive from the Austens’ compost heap and shoved her unceremoniously back into the boot of her father’s ancient Subaru, Ronnie now found that Enid was missing.
‘Bloody hell.’
She jogged up the steps to the terrace, where her elderly bitch had last been spotted, cursing herself for not leaving them both in the car in the first place. But it was so cold in there – the frost forming on the inside – and it smelt strongly of Stubbs, which meant Olive had already eaten half of the back of one seat on the short journey between stud and farm. Besides, she’d needed back-up.
The double doors to the orangery at the top of the steps were open now, its lights switched off. Ronnie scoured its windows for signs of a small, grey-muzzled thief intent on slurping and licking abandoned food plates. Instead she saw a couple intent on doing something similar to each other’s faces, illuminated by fairy lights, like Oberon and Titania in a glade. They were going at it with all the urgent passion of the illicit that Ronnie recognised only too well. The man had his back to her, tall and wide-shouldered, shielding his partner from view. Few Compton men were so superbly proportioned or such consummate kissers, a skill honed very early on.
Ronnie heard a low growl from just inside the door.
‘Pssst! Enid.’
Ignoring her, the dog waddled stiffly inside.
As the couple broke off, teeth white in the half-light from wide astonished smiles, Ronnie caught sight of the woman’s face and let out a cross sigh. Oh, Petra, you silly girl. It’s so much better in books.
*
The kiss Petra shared with Bay lasted a minute at most, but it was immediately living memory, looped to replay again and again. She couldn’t blame alcohol, and from the sweet, fresh taste of Bay’s mouth, she guessed he couldn’t either. Being drunk would have made them clumsy and guilty, it would have given them an excuse, but this was stealthy and deliberate. His fingers were on her jaw, her ears, her nape, pulling her deeper into his mouth, his body hard against hers. Knickerless and shameless, she free-fell for a long moment, unable to stop, too serious and dark-hearted for flirtation any more.
They sensed a presence behind them at the same time, jumping apart as though touched with a cattle prod. A small black and tan dog with bat ears stood watching and wagging its tail at them.
‘Jesus!’ Petra pressed her hands to her face. ‘What were we thinking?’
‘For my part, sex mostly,’ he murmured. ‘I want to take you to bed, Mrs G.’
‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Her fingers threaded together over her mouth and
she stared at him in horror. ‘This is madness.’
‘My fault. Sorry.’ Bay held up his hands as though she’d just turned into John Wayne with a sawn-off shotgun. She’d never seen his cheeks so high with colour. It matched his lips, which were now wearing a lot of Dior Rose Bonheur. It was all over his collar too, and his nose. His hair looked as though it had been backcombed by a cat’s claws. Faced with the evidence of her own kissing technique, not much improved since her teens, she was appalled.
Petra fought giggles, a panic reflex because she had behaved so badly. At the same time, she wanted to scream and weep in shame. They’d stepped over the invisible line, like mindless teenagers playing on railway tracks. Her son was here tonight. His wife was here tonight.
‘Bay!’ On cue the distant cry of the wronged ice queen sledding in, two rooms away but closing fast.
*
Fitz lay on his back staring up at the stars, spotting the W of Cassiopeia. ‘I used to think of that as my own personal star when I was William,’ he told Carly, pointing up at it. ‘Then I read that Cassiopeia was a queen so vain Poseidon put her there to stop her boasting how beautiful she was. Half the year she has to hang on because she’s upside down. I feel a bit like that right now. Not the vain bit, obvs, although I know I’ve got bloody good bone structure.’
‘Why did you change your name?’
‘My grandfather’s name was William – “Gunnpa”, we called him. I hated him. He’s the reason Dad’s so repressed. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
They could hear shouting coming from the house.
‘You want to go back inside?’ offered Carly. Her teeth were now chattering so badly she was shuddering on the spot, like a small pneumatic drill. If it hadn’t been for the white gloves, she suspected she’d have frozen to death.
‘Please.’ Fritz sat up and reached for the clutch-bag. ‘Carly?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You won’t tell anybody all this shit, will you? This village is the worst for dishing dirt.’
‘I only talk to a horse, mate.’
*
‘Bay!’ Less than a room away now.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Bay smoothed his hair, which sprang straight back up. He checked his reflection in the glass windows. ‘How do I look?’
‘Honestly?’ Wiping her own face as best she could, Petra spotted that he even had lipstick on his ear, giggles threatening to spill over into hysteria. ‘Like you’ve just eaten a tub of raspberry sorbet without a spoon.’
‘Oh, fuck. I’ll lose the kids.’ He pressed his palms to his forehead. ‘She’ll take them to Holland. Charlie’s a lawyer, isn’t he? He’ll whip your arse if this ends in divorce.’
‘It was just a kiss.’
‘Othello killed Desdemona for a handkerchief. You don’t know Moni.’
The gravity of the situation was the ice-bucket challenge that finally dissolved Petra’s giggles. ‘Hide!’
‘Where?’
‘Bay!’ Just seconds away.
‘What do we do?’ Petra looked around desperately, spotting a small gap behind the cactus just big enough for one.
‘You’d better do exactly as I say.’ The voice was as husky as a Lambretta in a sunlit Italian piazza as, with a blast of cold air and a rustle of potted fig, a small blonde figure appeared through the doors at the far end of the room.
‘Ronnie!’ Bay rictus-smiled in shock. He had lipstick on his teeth.
Petra swung round to their Pussy Galore saviour, the well-bred blonde hair glossier than ever, the smile devastatingly pretty. Ronnie’s Delft-blue gaze slid sideways: from where she was standing she could monitor Monique’s approach through doors to the main house. The Lambretta dropped its revs to a growl. ‘Your wife is ten seconds away. You,’ she pointed at Petra, ‘get behind that cactus. You,’ she gave Bay a kind, weary look, ‘say nothing.’
As Monique’s shouts closed in, Ronnie walked towards him, arms wide, purring in her best throaty cougar gurgle, ‘Darling, darling Bay! How gorgeous to see you!’
A moment later, her slim little hands were on his shoulders, her lips on his and the mouth that had been so passionately and intimately involved with Petra’s seconds earlier closed against hers. Part poleaxed, part thrilled, his eyes stayed wide open.
Petra cowered behind the cactus.
‘Just what the hell is going on here?’ demanded a shrill voice.
‘Jesus.’ Bay’s voice shook as Ronnie hastily dropped the kiss.
Petra peeped round the bristles.
Bay was now wearing far too much fuchsia pink lipstick to give away the Rose Bonheur beneath.
Glowering in the doorway, Monique was apoplectic, her groom and caterer agog behind her.
Entirely unrepentant, Ronnie pressed her fingertips to a smile as wide as the snowy horizon. ‘You caught us. All my fault. Forgive me. I was so pleased to see him.’ As she turned with a defiant flick of her chin, she caught Petra’s eye, Delft gaze knowing.
‘What is going on in here, Bay?’ demanded Monique.
‘Jesus,’ Bay said again, running his hands through his hair. ‘Sorry, Moni. Got a bit carried away there.’
‘Bay and I go back a long way.’ That crackling, deep-throat voice was incredibly endearing.
‘So I hear!’ Monique said shrilly. ‘Practically to the Ark in your case. This isn’t the first time you’ve pawed him, is it? He was only just past the age of consent last time.’ She made it sound like an Operation Yew Tree offence.
‘I was nearer bloody twenty,’ Bay blustered.
‘It was a lifetime ago, darling, let’s face it.’ The Lambretta was driving circles round them all, the smile still wide, the piazza still sunny. ‘I apologise for still finding him irresistible, Monica.’
‘It’s Monique.’
The arrival of Carly with a tray to clear glasses made them all stop shouting. Monique glanced into the main house, grabbed her husband’s arm and hissed, ‘The Scott-Channings are leaving. For God’s sake, wipe off your lipstick before you say goodbye. She’s a list three dressage judge. Je kunt me de kont kussen, lilijke dike oma.’ She spat at Ronnie.
‘Aanval is de beste verdediging.’ Ronnie had learned to trade insults in Dutch before she’d learned to count in it, thanks to long-term lover and horse dealer Henk. She stood her ground, holding up a thick envelope. ‘I just need five minutes with Bay. No more kissing, I promise. We have papers to sign. Hugh Scott-Channing’s a very dear friend of mine and, trust me, he won’t give a stuff if you say goodbye or not.’
Monique laughed hollowly, patently livid that Ronnie spoke Dutch and knew the Honourable Hugh. ‘And his wife is a good friend of mine. Poor Samantha puts up with a lot.’
‘Tough being a fifth wife, I imagine,’ Ronnie said lightly.
Crouching behind the cactus, Petra watched Carly move closer as she gathered glasses. Eventually, reaching the small table directly in front of the plant, she spotted Petra hiding there. As Carly met her gaze, those young eyes so wise and weary, Petra fought an urge to mouth, ‘Sorry!’
Her mouth still tasted of Bay’s, lips plump from his stubble, her body thumping with a deep pulse that refused to go away, however much it had gone wrong. The entrepreneurial farmer with the wandering eye and the Midas touch had cheered up her daydreams all too briefly before this nightmare started, and now it had all been ruined. She wished she could take the last half-hour back.
She could see Bay pulling himself together with effort and squaring up to his furious wife. ‘The land transfer needs sorting, Moni.’
‘You’re sleeping in the spare room again tonight, okay.’ Monique turned on her heel and flounced out, clicking her fingers for her groom and caterer. ‘I have witnesses.’
‘I’ll be waiting in Dad’s study,’ Bay told Ronnie, storming out too.
Ronnie whistled for her older dog and crossed the conservatory to Petra, spilling out of her prickly priest-hole. ‘Never contemplate infidelity during half-terms, holidays or Christmas. O
ne has far too much to do. Save it for January, which is boring and sober.’ Her face broke into its ravishingly naughty smile. ‘And don’t choose one with a Doberman Pinscher for a wife. You won’t always have an old trollop like me hanging round outside to cover your tracks.’
‘Thank you,’ Petra said hoarsely, so overwhelmed with gratitude she could hardly speak.
‘Aanval is de beste verdediging: The best defence is a good offence.’ She sighed. ‘She’s got a filthy mouth for a pretty girl. Watch that one.’ With a ghost of a wink, she turned away, passing Fitz, who had appeared in the doorway carrying a plate of leftover pigs in blankets, which he was motoring through, nodding politely at Ronnie.
‘Cougar.’ He whistled, scuffing towards his mother. Even with top-notes of expensive aftershave, organic chipolatas and Old Spot back bacon, he reeked of cigarettes.
‘Do you want to go home?’ she asked, trying to see past his fringe to his eyes, only able to make out the dark smudges beneath them.
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you have a good evening?’
‘Three work-experience offers and a holiday job lined up. Have a sausage.’
Petra ate three, no longer confined by controlling underwear, although she felt as though she had a surgical strapping bound nauseously around her chest. I just kissed a man who was not my husband and I liked it.
‘You okay, Mum?’
‘Fine!’
‘You look a bit flushed.’
‘It’s hot.’
‘Is it the change of life?’
The phrase was so dated, it was easy to attribute. ‘Just what exactly has Gunny been saying?’
‘She said you were getting grumpy and sweaty, and that women your age go a bit mad.’ Suddenly he sounded young and frightened.
My son’s not here to avoid his grandmother, Petra realised, with a crack fissuring through her heart. He’s here to check I don’t mutate, sweat excessively and grow another head, like Predator. She wanted to march straight home and scream at her mother-in-law: I am only forty-four, Barbara! I attract thirty-six-year-old red-blooded Casanovas. I could still bear you another grandchild, if your son would deign to have sex with me.
