by Jilly Cooper
‘I’d like a mother just like you or Mrs Cartwright.’
Sally had written people’s names on little cards decorated with holly and mistletoe.
‘Shall I put them round the table?’ offered Dora. ‘You’ll catch cold if you don’t dry your hair.’
‘That’s kind. Janna on Mr B-T’s right, Emlyn on my right,’ said Sally.
‘Hengist, Sally, Janna, Oriana, Emlyn, Charlie,’ read Dora.
In the shadows of Hengist’s study, she switched on her mobile. ‘Oriana’s got a new boyfriend coming called Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll keep you posted. So pants for Mr Davies.’
Out of the window, the snow was still falling, transforming the laurels into an army of lop-eared white rabbits.
‘She’s here, she’s here!’
The crunch on the gravel was softened by the snow. Oriana wriggled out of the dark green Peugeot, gathering up parcels and pashminas, a bunch of red freesias between her teeth like Carmen.
‘Hi, Mum.’
Oriana had never been a cuddly child, arching her back to wriggle out of every embrace. Now she rested first in Sally’s, then in Hengist’s arms, pressing her smiling red lips to their cheeks. Softened and glowing as never before, she took Hengist’s breath away.
‘Hi there, Coxie.’ She hugged a startled Mrs Cox before handing her a squashy, scarlet-wrapped present.
‘Here’s yours, Mum and Dad, Charlie’ll be here around eight-thirty. The house looks glorious – I’m so used to New York minimalism and neutral colours . . . and that’s new, and that too!’ She paused in front of a John Nash of weeping ashes, then a William Nicholson of a child and a dog asleep in a haycock. ‘Lovely, both of them.’ Then, peering into the dining room: ‘That green wallpaper’s great.’
‘Show’s how long you’ve been away,’ said Sally.
From a dark corner of the hall, Dora took pictures on her mobile.
‘Who’s coming tonight?’ asked Oriana.
‘Just a very small party. You are staying for a bit, aren’t you, darling?’
‘Well, at least till the New Year, if that’s OK. I want to show Charlie the West Country,’ said Oriana, running upstairs to her old bedroom.
‘Oh, how lovely you haven’t changed anything, except for that sweet little blue chair.’ Fingering the Christmas roses and snowdrops in a vase on the dressing table, she said, ‘You do know how to make things pretty, Mum.’
She must be in love to be so complimentary, thought Sally.
Hengist gasped when Oriana came down a good hour later. Her slenderness was enhanced by a sleeveless dark brown velvet dress, split to the thigh to show off long greyhound legs and very high heels. Her short spiky hair was softened by pearl drop earrings and, for Oriana, a lot of eye make-up, blusher and scarlet lipstick. She reeked of familiar scent.
‘You look absolutely gorgeous, darling.’
She must be bats about this Charlie. Where the hell did that put poor Emlyn?
‘Can I take a photograph of you and Mr Brett-Taylor?’ asked Dora, sliding in with a champagne cocktail on a silver tray.
Before long, Oriana reverted to being as spiky as her hair.
‘You’ve obviously been fundraising,’ she told Hengist. ‘Place looks more like a country club than ever, I nearly got lost on the way in. What are you teaching at the moment?’
‘First year,’ said Hengist, unstoppering the whisky decanter. He intended to get gloriously drunk this evening.
‘Hardly extending yourself.’
‘It’s a very good way of acquainting oneself with a new intake, and, quite frankly, teaching is something I do in my spare time these days.’
Then he tried to tell Oriana about Paris and the brilliant poem he’d written about England winning the World Cup, because for once David (Jonny Wilkinson) and Goliath (Martin Johnson) were on the same side. But he soon realized Oriana was interested neither in Paris nor the World Cup: ‘It wasn’t reported in the States; it was irrelevant on a global scale!’ nor in him fulminating about the dumbing down of the GCSE history syllabus, which now included the restoration of historic houses and the producing of television documentaries.
‘The aim is to make it more vocational, Jesus! They’re even talking of combining history and geography as one subject. It’s madness.’
Noting Oriana yawning, probably jet-lagged, Hengist put another log on the fire and switched to Iraq.
‘Seeing Saddam’s statue pulled down reminded me of Ozymandias, “round the decay Of that colossal wreck”. But I felt unaccountably sorry for the poor sod when he was arrested. Looked as though he’d been sleeping rough outside the Savoy. What’s going to happen about Iran?’
‘Oh, please don’t interrogate me, Dad. We’ve got all next week, I just need to unwind.’
‘Sorry.’ Hengist patted her rigid shoulder. ‘I’m just so proud of you. Wonderful if you could talk to the school about Iraq, you’ve got such a fan club here.’
But Oriana was rearranging her spikes in the mirror, a muscle rippling her flawless jawline. She’s hellishly nervous, thought Hengist, as he put on a CD of carols sung by his old college choir.
96
Sally knew Oriana was home because her bedroom had been ransacked for tights, shampoo, dental floss; Beautiful had been left unstoppered, Hengist’s aftershave ditto. Toothpaste lay like patches of snow in the basin, towels all over the floor. The hairdrier, still plugged in, was on the carpet. Favourite pearl drop earrings were missing from her jewel case.
Sally smiled and put on sapphire earrings instead.
‘It came upon a midnight clear . . .’ floated up the stairs as she pulled on a midnight-blue skirt and a turquoise frilled silk shirt. A dash of lipstick, a touch of mascara. Thank God for a good skin. Sally hoped Charlie Delgado would think her pretty. She imagined him dark-eyed and slightly Latin; perhaps he’d kiss her hand.
A second champagne cocktail hadn’t cured Oriana’s nerves; she glanced yet again at the clock and tried to ring someone on the remote control, then, cursing, punched out the number on her mobile.
Emlyn was the first to arrive as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight. He’d had a gruelling time with his mother, who was missing his father dreadfully and hinting that the only thing that would cheer her up was grandchildren. Nervous about the evening ahead, he’d done little justice to the Christmas lunch she’d spent so much time preparing. She had cried when he left. He longed to sweep her up and bring her to Bagley, but the contrast between their tiny overcrowded terrace house and the Brett-Taylors’ splendour, with all the candles, crimson roses, great glittering tree and the fire leaping in the lounge, would have been hideous.
Aware his dinner suit was crumpled and his face red from lurking outside in the cold, he felt horribly bucolic compared with Hengist, whose cream shirt open at the neck showed off his tan and whose dark green smoking jacket, another present from Sally, emphasized his merry dark green eyes.
‘Come in, dear boy. Happy Christmas.’
Emlyn’s spirits drooped even further as Oriana ducked her head when he tried to kiss her.
‘You look fantastic,’ he said, addressing her lowered grey and brown streaked eyelids, then handed her a small square parcel. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Thanks, I’ll open it later.’
Was she scared it was a ring?
Dora had no such inhibitions as she swept in with more champagne cocktails.
‘Hello Mr Davies. Merry Christmas. What’s that, a ring? Randal Stancombe gave my mother a lovely brooch, green enamel mistletoe with pearls as the berries. “Either wear it or put it in a safe,” he told Mummy. Then, so she’d find out how much it cost, told her to insure it at once. So pants! Do open it.’ She edged forward.
‘Come on, Dora.’ A grinning Hengist dragged her out of the room. ‘Give Oriana and Emlyn a moment together.’
After a long pause, during which Emlyn longed to enfold and kiss the life out of her, he asked, ‘How was the flight?’
<
br /> ‘OK, except I can’t get used to being recognized and pestered for autographs everywhere. It’s impossible to be an observer when you’re constantly observed.’
‘Hasn’t hurt John Simpson or Kate Adie,’ said Emlyn, more sharply than he meant. ‘You’re a superstar now, and you look like one. Lovely dress.’
The snow had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal Orion in his glittering glory. Janna wished she could pluck him down from the skies as her escort this evening. She hadn’t seen Hengist since before Stancombe caught out him and Mrs Walton. How would she feel about her great lost love? She was so nervous, she couldn’t understand why her car wouldn’t start until she realized she was trying to jam her seatbelt buckle into the ignition keyhole.
Her lovely day at the health spa yesterday had only made her realize, as hands massaged her face and body, how desperately she needed love in her life.
The snow was falling quietly and steadily again, blotting out caution. Hearing a scrunch on the gravel, Oriana raced to the window. It was not Charlie, but a surprisingly pretty redhead running up the steps as an icy wind blew aside a pashmina the colour of faded bracken to reveal a clinging dress in leopard-skin print.
‘Darling, darling, “a pardlike Spirit, beautiful and swift”.’ Opening the front door, Hengist drew Janna into a muscular, lemon-scented embrace. Then, when she glanced up, he kissed her on the mouth, holding her steady as she swayed in amazement and wonder. ‘So nice to see you again,’ he murmured. ‘Have you forgiven me?’
Janna’s heart leapt in hope. Did he still care for her? Then he swept her into the lounge, grabbed her a drink and introduced her to Oriana, who had Sally’s delicate features but Hengist’s colouring, and who, because of her courage and left-wing views, had long been a heroine of Janna’s, but who was now looking at her with hostility. Particularly when Elaine, who’d hardly budged when Oriana arrived, now jumped down sleepy-eyed from the sofa to nudge and chatter her teeth in welcome.
‘So pleased to meet you. I’m such a fan,’ said Janna, taking Oriana’s damp hand; then, turning to Emlyn: ‘How are you, how was Christmas and your mum?’ which made Oriana even frostier. Perhaps she’d heard Emlyn and Janna were friends.
‘How’s Larks?’ Hengist laced her champagne with a slug of brandy. ‘You’ve got to fill me in on everything – and how’s Xavier getting on?
‘Good,’ he said when Janna finished telling him. ‘I felt we let him down really badly. And how’s the divine Taggie? Is Rupert unfreezing at all?’
It was clear Hengist was on automatic pilot, firing questions, not listening to a word, because he was trying to overhear what Emlyn was saying to Oriana. Not a lot, it seemed. Oriana, equally clearly, was trying to find out what Janna was saying to Hengist.
‘How’s Xav getting on?’ repeated Hengist, and Janna was overwhelmed with sadness.
‘Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails . . .’
Emlyn looked as though he’d been turned to stone, or rather red brick.
Hengist was deploring universal ignorance again.
‘Ninety per cent of secondary-school children interviewed couldn’t name a single composer, and seventy per cent of them thought Churchill was the dog in those insurance ads, which is quite funny if it weren’t so dreadful. Mind you, teachers aren’t much better. Forty-seven per cent, according to the TES, couldn’t name Charles Clarke as the Education Secretary.’
‘They’re too busy to read newspapers,’ protested Janna.
‘Or too out of touch to teach children,’ mocked Oriana.
‘Janna’s head of Larks,’ said Hengist.
‘I thought it was about to close.’
‘It did,’ said Janna.
‘Not entirely,’ said Emlyn evenly, ‘it’s called Larks High now. I’m going to switch to Scotch, if that’s OK, Hengist?’
The restless Oriana had just put on L’Enfance du Christ when Sally rushed in.
‘Sorry, everyone. Mini crisis with the goose. Janna darling, how lovely you look, such a saucy dress. Emlyn dear, how nice. Hengist, look what Dora’s given us, it’s an American greyhound calendar, with different photographs of greyhounds for every month.’
Armed with her camera and following Sally into the room, Dora said, ‘February’s has such a look of Elaine, and April’s the spitting image of my father’s dog, Grenville, who lives with my sister now, and November’s just like Maud who— Smile please, Janna and Mr Davies, and er, Miss Brett-Taylor.’
Headlights shone into the room. There was another crunch on gravel.
‘Can you answer the door, Dora?’ said Hengist to shut her up, but Oriana had already flown from the room, past the banks of holly and pine, past the white candles and the crimson roses, letting in a blast of icy air before falling into Charlie Delgado’s arms.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Hairy, but I’m safe now.’
‘You are. Now I’m here.’
‘So good you’ve already changed. Let’s get your stuff out of the car.’
Two minutes later, with shouts of laughter and excitement, they came back into the house. Charlie’s arms were now full of presents and, carrying coals of fire to Newcastle, a huge bunch of crimson roses. Oriana dropped Charlie’s very smart suitcase in the hall.
‘Come and meet everyone.’
Dora emerged from the shadows and shot back in again in a state of profound shock. For Charlie Delgado was around five foot eleven, lean, raven-haired, lynx-eyed, handsome, wearing an exquisitely cut dinner jacket and very, very female.
‘My God.’ Hengist’s hand flew to straighten his tie and smooth his hair.
Next, thought Janna wearily.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sally gaily, ‘I’ve screwed up the numbers. Give Charlie a drink, darling, and take her up to the spare room.’
‘Oh no, Charlie’ll be sleeping with me,’ announced Oriana.
97
It was as though a suicide bomber had blown the conviviality of the party to smithereens. An evening of excruciating embarrassment followed.
Dora put her head back round the door, eyes on stalks, and belted off to tell Coxie.
Oriana filled up a glass for Charlie, and was just about to take her upstairs when Hengist said, ‘Mummy’ll take her,’ and dragged Oriana into his study, where neither of them noticed Dora’s charging mobile.
Like some outer Mongolian warlord, Ghengist Khan no less, Hengist’s eyes had narrowed to slits in his furious brown face.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
All the radiance had drained out of Oriana. Unfazed by snipers or Scud missiles, she now looked white and utterly terrified.
‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’
‘You could have bloody well tried.’
‘I’m gay, Dad. I’m sorry I can’t marry Emlyn and provide you with the son who’ll play for England.’
‘Don’t be fatuous. Have you told Emlyn?’
‘Not yet. I’ve never really fancied men.’ She was trembling violently. ‘I’ve been so unhappy about it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, it’s just a phase. Scores of people are bisexual.’
‘Not me. You and Mum wanted me to be a boy so I guess I tried to please you.’ When Hengist opened his mouth to protest: ‘No, let me finish. I walked into the Palestine Hotel in Baghdad in April; Charlie was at the bar. Another journalist introduced us. Charlie just stared at me, then said in that glorious deep voice of hers, “Why are you so late?” “What d’you mean?” I stammered. “I’ve been waiting all my life for you,” she said. “I knew the moment you walked into the room.”’
Oriana collapsed on the red leather fender seat.
‘It was the coup de foudre for both of us; we’ve been living together ever since. I wanted to tell you, Dad.’
‘You could have found a better time to do it. Poor Emlyn.’
‘I know. But don’t think it’s been fun.�
�� Having reeled on the ropes, Oriana was beginning the fight back. ‘Usually when people announce they’ve met Mr Right, the champagne comes out and everyone starts ringing round the family. We don’t get any of that. No engagement in The Times, only being brushed under the carpet and an awareness of murdering one’s parents’ happiness. I can’t help my sexual orientation.’
Through the open curtains, the snow was covering the past, stifling feelings.
Hearing voices, Hengist said, ‘We better go back and cause as little hurt as possible.’
Oriana scuttled upstairs.
Next door, Emlyn had turned grey, megalithic, anguish carved on his face. Janna tried to comfort him, but it was like offering junior aspirin to an elephant with a spear through its heart.
Sally, having returned from upstairs, looked equally stunned.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Janna found herself hugging her. ‘I’d better go.’
‘No, please don’t, we need you,’ begged Sally, then lowering her voice: ‘It isn’t so big a thing.’
Next moment Hengist walked in, also pale, but totally in control, and he put an arm round Sally’s shoulders.
‘More drinks all round, I guess,’ and he poured champagne for Sally and Janna and much darker whiskies for himself and Emlyn.
‘I’m afraid our daughter’s “come out”.’
‘Poor Emlyn,’ gasped Janna.
‘Poor Sally,’ snapped Hengist.
They were then joined by Charlie and Oriana, with all her lipstick kissed off.
‘Mrs Brett-Taylor, you are so kind,’ cried Charlie. ‘I’ve just opened my gifts. These cufflinks are so neat, look’ – she shot out her silken ivory cuffs – ‘and I’m wearing the perfume, it’s delightful.’ She held out a wrist for Sally to smell. ‘And this is so appropriate.’ She waved the pink elephant tie. ‘From what Oriana tells me about Brett-Taylor hospitality, I’ll be seeing pink elephants of my own in a day or two, and finally Catullus is one of my favourite poets, and translated by Lord Hawkley. He came and lectured us at Smith.’
‘“Let’s live and love, my Lesbia,”’ muttered Janna, who was starting to get drunk and lippy. ‘“Heed not the disapproval of censorious old men,”’ and received a filthy look from Oriana.
