‘What?’
‘Oh, babes, you sound so pissed!’
‘I am pissed,’ hisses Ben. ‘Have you any idea the shit I’m in?’
‘It can’t be that bad,’ breathes Louisa, but there’s a palpable note of anxiety in her voice. ‘Can it?’
‘Well, thanks for asking!’ spits Ben. ‘Thanks for coming round first thing to see how I was! What damage your tosser friends have done.’
‘I’ve only just got up,’ wails Louisa. ‘That was nasty shit we had last night. Didn’t you think so? We’ve all had the most horrible—’
‘Great! So you’ve managed to check with everyone else before you got round to calling me? Well, thanks for nothing. And no, I’ve no idea about whatever it was you forced down my throat last night—apart from the vodka—because I threw it up almost immediately. But it didn’t stop me having the mother of all hangovers, thanks very much. And now everyone’s on my case because the house is wrecked and my aunts are back in two days and I’m getting the blame for everything. And I’ll tell you something else, Louisa Jellinek, you may think you’re God’s gift but your sister’s worth a hundred of you any day. She’s worth a hundred of any of your airhead mates, too, and as far as I’m concerned if I never ever see you again, it’ll be a blessing.’ He stabs the off button and stands quivering and panting with rage.
‘You really shouldn’t speak to your mother like that,’ says Nats from the kitchen doorway. ‘Show some respect, will you?’
Ben spins round, appalled. How long has she been standing there?
Nats gazes at him levelly and then gestures towards the interior of the house. ‘Ralph wants you.’ As he pushes past her in a maelstrom of fury and embarrassment, he could swear he hears her snigger.
CHAPTER 41
Hester is seething, despite Lionel’s best efforts to calm her down. Their cleared plates lie empty and smeared before them.
‘So rude!’ she says for the umpteenth time, now on her second large glass of wine. ‘I am so sorry, Lionel. After all your hard work.’
‘But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
‘I did!’
‘Well, that’s all that matters. I suppose I could try reheating Harriet’s over some boiling water—’
‘Absolutely not. It would ruin the flavour—probably split the sauce.’ Hester lowers her voice as a large contingent of new guests enter the restaurant, secure several tables and fall upon the buffet. Lionel nods a greeting to the one or two who look their way. ‘Besides, I think the management have been extremely accommodating so far, letting you use the kitchen—you don’t want to exploit their goodwill.’
‘Good Lord, I should say not,’ says Lionel, looking stricken. ‘I really don’t believe I got in anyone’s way.’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t,’ says Hester abstractedly. ‘I suppose I ought to go and see if something’s happened. Chances are she’s closeted with that wretched Mary again. Oh, Lionel, don’t look at me like that. You’re as bad as Harry. Far too soft-hearted. I know, I know, I’m horrible—but honestly, don’t you think she has quite enough problems to contend with right now without adding to them unnecessarily?’ Problems, she ruefully admits, that are largely of her making. It is that sense of responsibility that propels her out of her chair and, with a promise to return swiftly, sends her off in the direction of Harriet’s room.
‘Ron,’ says Harriet, embarrassed at the sight of this overweight man in tears in her armchair and simultaneously fretting at the thought of Hester impatiently awaiting her arrival in the restaurant. If only she hadn’t gone back for her bag . . . ‘I really think you need to have this out with Mary yourself.’
‘I can’t!’ Ron slumps in the chair, one hand ineffectually shielding his streaming eyes. ‘I’ve never been able to talk about . . . things like that. Emotions and . . . oh God! . . . she thinks I don’t care, I know she does!’
‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t,’ says Harriet automatically.
Ron’s habitual belligerence resurfaces. ‘What makes you such an expert? You hardly know her.’
Harriet smiles grimly. ‘If you recall, I’ve been trying to make that point for the last five minutes, Ron. This isn’t my problem. I’ve simply got caught up—’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Ron, deflating. ‘You have. You’re right. Of course you’re right. I oughtn’t to have come. Ambushed you like that. Thoughtless. Selfish.’
Yes, huffs Harriet, yes, you bloody well are. Now, will you, for pity’s sake, go! She reaches for her room key.
‘The thing is,’ Ron continues, ‘I think she’s trying to teach me a lesson. Mary. That’s the only explanation that I can see. For having this . . . thing with that bloody woman. I mean, for heaven’s sake, we’ve been married for twenty-five years—or is it twenty-six?—and she suddenly decides she’s—’ he finds it impossible to say the word ‘—whatever she thinks she is.’
‘Gay?’ Maybe she should simply walk out, go off to find Hester and leave him to talk things out alone.
‘Gay!’ He spits the word out like a fruit pip. ‘She’s not gay! Mary? She’s just experimenting.’
So? thinks Harriet and says mischievously, ‘Late-blooming lesbians, I think The Guardian call them.’
For the first time since he entered the room, Ron looks at her directly, aghast. ‘The Guardian? Do you read The Guardian?’
‘Only behind closed doors and with the curtains drawn.’
Ron goes to reply, stops, looks at her afresh, brows beetling suspiciously, then heaves himself to his feet. Marching across the room, he flings open the door and halts. ‘Well, I’ve obviously been completely wasting my time here.’ The door slams shut.
‘Harriet? Harry!’ Harriet knows that voice. ‘Come in,’ she calls weakly.
Hester flings open the door to find her sister curled up on the bed, clutching her stomach. Oh Lord, Lionel was right! While she’s been guzzling wine and chomping her way through a plateful of linguine, mouthing off about her ill-mannered sibling, poor Harriet has been writhing in agony. She flies over to the bed and pulls Harriet to her bony chest.
‘Oh, Harry! Whatever is it?’
Harriet tries to speak but the sounds are unintelligible. Hester’s heart turns over. How could she have been so thoughtless? So callous? Why hadn’t she come to look for Harriet straightaway when she failed to appear? How long has she been lying here alone?
‘It’s all right,’ says Hester gently, trying to disentangle herself. ‘You’re going to be all right. I’m here now. I’m just going to call for a doctor.’
Harriet grabs her wrist. ‘No, no,’ she moans, face buried in Hester’s now-damp T-shirt. ‘Just let me—’ She erupts in another paroxysm before flinging herself back against the pillows. ‘I’m not ill,’ she manages to gasp.
‘Harry?’ Hester searches her sister’s face, takes in the reddened eyes spilling with tears, the heightened colour. ‘Are you drunk?’
Harriet explodes a second time. ‘No . . . no, I’m afraid not. Hetty, it’s much, much worse.’
‘Well!’ Hester throws herself down in the chair beside Lionel, shaking her head in exasperation.
‘Is she all right?’ He presses his half-full glass of wine into her hand; she raises it to her lips unthinkingly. He waits until she has taken a gulp, then tentatively takes her hand. ‘Is she?’
‘She is fine,’ hisses Hester. ‘She is lying on her bed, exhausted—’
‘Oh dear.’
‘—from laughing.’ She takes another gulp, heady with indignation. ‘She has been convulsed for the last ten minutes. It took me all that time to get any sense out of her.’ She looks down as if surprised to find her hand in Lionel’s. He hastily withdraws it. ‘It appears that she’s been besieged by all the protagonists in the soap opera that is the blessed Mary’s life and got trapped by each of them in turn. Somehow she allowed herself to get embroiled—typical Harriet! Ron Martindale ambushed her to talk about Mary and then discovered—horror of horrors—that she’s a
Guardianista.’
‘Mary is?’
‘Not Mary!’ snorts Hester, as Ron appears in the doorway, spots her instantly, throws back his head in contempt and marches out again. Suddenly the absurdity of the situation hits her. With laughter bubbling up, she sniggers, ‘I mean my darling sister. You know, my muesli-gobbling, bearded, sandal-wearing sister.’
‘Bearded?’ frowns Lionel, trying to fathom what or who on earth she is talking about, as Hester splutters into her wine.
Harriet, thoroughly drained by the dramas in her bedroom, has slept most of the afternoon, leaving Hester and Lionel to a drowsy few hours in the garden, both ostensibly buried in their paperbacks but each catching periodical naps when they believed the other to be engrossed. Hester had crept back to Harriet’s room in the late afternoon to find her deeply asleep, a smile still on her lips. Softly, Hester had drawn the thin blanket over her sister’s sleeping form.
Now, the evening sun dappling the distant mountains and the air still warm with the day’s heat, they are seated in the garden, all three enjoying the view and the quiet before dinner. Alfonso appears with a menu.
‘Buonasera, signore e signor. Come state? Bene, sì? I am thinking, it is a beautiful night, you would perhaps like to eat out here? We have many new guests so is quite lively in the restaurant. We would be very happy to serve you here.’
They agree that to eat al fresco would be delightful and pore over the menu for a few contented minutes.
‘I missed Lionel’s wonderful pasta at lunchtime,’ says Harriet, who has already apologised fulsomely for her non-appearance, ‘so can I start with the calamari and then the tortellini Portofino, please.’
‘Gamberoni, then the branzino primavera, Alfonso,’ says Hester, handing back her menu. ‘Thanks.’
Lionel hesitates. ‘I know what I want for my starter: the capesante—’
‘Oh!’ says Hester. ‘I missed that. Can I have the scallops as well, please, instead of the prawns.’
Alfonso corrects the tab and turns back to Lionel. ‘And to follow, signor?’
Lionel looks across nervously at Harriet. ‘Would it be unforgivable of me to have the veal?’ He looks as though he suspects Harriet of being a rabid animal-rights activist.
She smiles inwardly. ‘Please, have what you like, Lionel,’ she says pleasantly.
Lionel gives an uncertain smile. Hester, seated between them, feels a tiny charge in the atmosphere, the faintest sense of unease.
Alfonso’s pencil hovers.
‘No. Agnello, I think, on reflection,’ says Lionel, loosening his collar. ‘Now what about some wine, ladies?’
He leaves the ordering to Hester, who opts for a Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi (‘Okay with you, Harry?’) that meets with Alfonso’s approval: ‘Excellent choice, signora, the jewel of Le Marche! Very good with shellfish but not, signor, with the lamb so may I suggest for you a Rosso Conero?’ Lionel nods his agreement swiftly and Alfonso bounds back up the steps.
‘Better to be out here, I think,’ says Harriet, breaking the silence. ‘I’m not sure I could keep a straight face if I bumped into Ron.’ The remembered mirth bubbles up. She and Hester exchange a knowing smile. Good, thinks Hester.
Good, thinks Harriet. Just like the old days—
‘We wondered if you’d like to join us tomorrow,’ says Lionel. ‘I’ve hired a car and Hester and I thought we’d take a trip through the mountains. Stop for lunch somewhere. Seems a waste to come all this way and not see a little of the environs.’
‘Lionel says there’s an old abbey up in the hills, which the guidebooks say is a must.’
Harriet tenses. Damn. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she says. ‘I would have loved to but, unfortunately, I promised Mary—’
‘That bloody woman!’ The words slip out before Hester can stop them. ‘She’s already ruined enough of your holiday, hasn’t she? For God’s sake!’
Honestly, thinks Harriet crossly, she might have let me finish my sentence and explain!
A loaded silence falls as one of the waiters arrives with their wine, cutlery and glasses and proceeds to lay the table with agonising slowness. Hester glares at Harriet, then rolls her eyes at Lionel.
‘Shame,’ he says, as the waiter finally departs.
‘Shame indeed,’ fumes Hester, busying herself with their drinks. Well, to hell with Harriet. We’ve extended more than enough olive branches! What more does she want?!
Across the table, Harriet eyes her two companions with mixed emotions. Damn, damn, damn. Hester’s bound to take it the wrong way. Still, I daresay they’ll be thrilled to have a day alone up in the hills. Just the two of them. She catches Lionel’s eye. He colours and looks away. He’ll be cock-a-hoop.
CHAPTER 42
Milo is roaring. It is a source of endless wonder to Ben that a creature so tiny can generate such an astonishing volume. The baby is being egged on by Nats, who is matching him roar for roar as she teaches him how to make as big a splash in his bath as possible. Daria is downstairs in the kitchen, busy preparing supper, Radio 1 on full, drowning out her son’s cacophony. In the doorway to the cramped bathroom Ralph and Ben stand watching Nats tease Milo into a state of shrieking ecstasy as she pours a torrent of water from on high into his splayed hands. He is beside himself as he is engulfed.
‘Marvellous,’ says Ralph. ‘Never had much time for kiddies, but this little chap is—’
‘I know.’
Ralph scratches his cheek. ‘Well, I guess I’d better make a move. I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon. Hope our little tutorial helped.’
‘You kidding? It was awesome. Seriously. You make it all seem so . . . obvious.’
Ralph ducks his head in embarrassment. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Just common sense, really. Once you find something meaningful to pin things on to . . .’
‘It was sick, mate. Almost makes me look forward to the exam.’
‘Really?’
‘Almost.’
‘Monday morning, is that right? Listen, you just go over what we discussed, and any questions, ring me.’
‘Cheers. And about the wallpapering—’
‘Oh, Ben! Forget it. It was my pleasure. I mean it.’
Daria appears at the bottom of the stairs and calls up, ‘Everything okay, Natalie?’
Hearing his mother’s voice, Milo yells all the louder.
‘Brilliant,’ shouts Nats. ‘Should I bring him down once he’s in his PJs?’
‘No, no!’ cries Daria. ‘Nappy, then cot, please. For story. I will come—’
‘I’ll do his story,’ offers Ben quickly.
Daria’s face hardens; she’s not at all sure she’s ready to forgive Ben just yet.
Nats appears between the two lads, a flushed Milo wrapped in a towel in her arms, one fist triumphantly clutching several of her braids. ‘We’ll do it together, Daria. Give you a break.’
Daria surrenders. ‘Thank you, Natalie.’ She studiously avoids looking at Ben. ‘Ralph, you are staying for supper, yes?’
‘Oh!’ Ralph’s face is suddenly as pink as Milo’s. ‘No, really . . .’
‘You don’t like my cooking?’ Daria plants a hand on each hip, glaring up at him.
‘Stay,’ hisses Nats.
‘Kalduny,’ says Daria. ‘You don’t like kalduny?’
‘Er . . . I don’t know.’
‘Then you stay and try. Okay?’ Without waiting for an answer, Daria returns to the kitchen, calling out to her son, ‘Be good, soneyka. Mama will come to say dabranach after story.’
Kalduny, Ralph is soon to discover, are Belarusian dumplings, stuffed with mushrooms and onions and, in Daria’s version, served in a rich beef broth. They are delicious. Milo, dried, dressed and read to (brilliantly, with loads of sound effects) by Nats, has dropped into an exhausted sleep even before Daria can make it upstairs to kiss him goodnight. Nats, Ben and Ralph are just settling down around the modest kitchen table on a mishmash of stools and odd chairs when Artem appears in th
e doorway.
‘Room for two more?’
‘‘Two?’ says Daria, ladling soup and dumplings into various bowls at the stove.
Artem ushers a sheepish Barry into the cramped and steamy kitchen.
‘Barry!’ cries Daria delightedly. ‘Sit, sit!’
Barry has shed his overalls and now sports jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt under a leather bomber jacket. ‘You sure? Only Artem wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can easily get takeaway.’
‘Takeaway!’ spits Daria, appalled. ‘No, you eat here. Good food. Sit!’ She guides Barry over to her own place and seats him firmly, her hands remaining, in Ben’s opinion, far too long on the newcomer’s shoulders.
Artem returns from the hall with two more chairs and they all cram around the table, elbow to elbow. A companionable silence falls as, tired and hungry, they each concentrate on their supper. As bellies fill, desultory conversation starts up and, under Daria’s tireless probing, they swiftly learn that Barry is Pellington born and bred, lives with his widowed mother, is saving up for a Harley—‘Cool,’ says Nats as Daria tuts—and has ambitious plans for his own carpentry shop and firm in a couple of years. Artem nods in approval; ambitious himself, he has nothing but admiration for self-starters like his new friend. Ben scowls over his supper as Daria plies Barry with second helpings.
‘Cracking. What is this again?’ he asks, chasing the final dumpling around his bowl.
‘Kalduny,’ mutters Ben before Daria or Artem can reply. ‘Unleavened dough—flour, water, eggs, salt. You have to rest it, then boil in water or stock.’
‘Soup,’ says Daria sharply, affronted at Ben having the temerity to commandeer her national cuisine. ‘I cook these in soup.’
A prickly silence falls, broken by Nats offering brightly, ‘Ben’s a bit of a cook himself.’
A bit, thinks Ben. A bit! Ralph gives him what he reads as a supportive wink.
Daria sniffs.
‘Yeah?’ says Barry, looking at Ben properly for the first time. He’s aware that the boy is in deep doo-doo over events at The Laurels: Artem had explained to him on the way exactly what happened. ‘Like Bake Off?’
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 26
