by Hilary Boyd
Nonetheless, as Sophie reached the kitchen door, Karen called out, “Please, Sophie. Come back. We’ve got to talk about this . . .”
But her stepdaughter kept going and didn’t bother to reply.
Chapter Six
“If you could start laying the table for me, darling . . .” Patrick, swathed in a pristine red apron with a round, sweating face to match, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and took a long breath as he surveyed the chaos around him. The small kitchen was almost buried in vegetable peelings, jam jars with herbs of every kind sprouting from the neck, bottles of oil, cut lemons, an opened packet of butter, chopping board and knife, rolling pin, cream-clogged balloon whisk and bowl, frying pan with sautéed. mushrooms and onions, roasting tin holding a large fillet of beef covered in a tea towel, two round, cling-filmed lumps of pastry, watercress soup in a Pyrex bowl waiting to be liquidized, a tray cooling with sweet, peaked, coffee-colored meringues next to stacked punnets of strawberries and blueberries. And everywhere were dabs and spills and smears and dollops. Patrick was not the sort of cook to clear up as he went along.
“Getting there,” he said, with a grin of satisfaction.
Karen wasn’t sure if he was being ironic or not, so she just nodded encouragingly and collected the pile of large, white china plates, polished silver cutlery and starched linen napkins from the side. There were eleven people coming—more than enough for the small dining room—Sophie having canceled at the last minute and huffed off to London. Things had gone from bad to worse since the day Sophie had confronted Karen. They had barely spoken and, when they did, her stepdaughter was unresponsive and cold. Karen despaired of making peace now, and just wished the girl gone. She had even, fleetingly, considered paying her money to go—and would have, if she hadn’t realized that it would be a bottomless pit.
Patrick was waving toward the corner by the window. “We’re having proper placement. I can’t bear people choosing who they sit next to, it’s so safe. The list’s over there, underneath my mobile.”
“Who have I got?” Karen asked.
“Well . . . me, of course, darling. And Raki’s on your other side. I didn’t think you’d want a challenge so soon after poor dear Harry’s death.”
“Thanks, that’s perfect.” She went to get the list and read the names, all ones she knew, including Maggie and Rakesh, Tom Bridges—the doctor—and his wife, the Haskells and two gay friends of Patrick and Volkan’s who had just bought a weekend cottage on the other side of the village. Despite Patrick’s thoughtfulness on her behalf, there was no one there she might find difficult to talk to. The only one she was nervous of, suddenly, was William. But she told herself she had imagined the look that passed between them on the path, that her present emotional turmoil was responsible.
*
Champagne flowed right from the start that night. Patrick was resplendent in tartan trousers, velvet slippers and a collarless white shirt with turquoise stud buttons, Volkan’s dark good looks set off by a light-blue, button-down shirt, tapered black trousers and black suede Tod’s loafers.
Karen hadn’t needed to be smart in months, and the process of choosing what to wear was made worse because all her dresses reminded her of Harry. He’d taken a keen interest in her clothes in the past, and they’d spent many a happy hour in the foreign cities they visited, trawling the designer stores. Karen had never been that bothered about what she wore—she was self-conscious about her slightly plump figure—but Harry loved to see her in a beautiful dress, and he persuaded her to try things that if she’d been on her own she would have out-and-out rejected. Tonight, knowing Patrick loved glamour, she’d finally decided on a sleeveless, electric-blue stretch crêpe dress with a pretty flared skirt that her husband had bought her in Italy six years ago. She hadn’t worn it much because she thought it showed up her bulges, but since Harry’s death she’d lost quite a bit of weight, and the dress hung elegantly on her small frame.
“Wow, you look gorgeous,” Maggie said when she and Raki arrived.
“Not too gorgeous?” Karen suddenly felt brazen in the bright color, and worried it might be considered unseemly in the light of her recent bereavement.
Maggie laughed. “God, no. It’s great to see you looking a bit happier.” Her friend gave her arm a squeeze. “You’ve been so brave about it all.”
“Hasn’t she just?” Patrick echoed, who knew nothing about it, but as usual was determinedly supportive. “You’re a complete trooper, darling. That Harry was a lucky man.”
William, who was also standing in the circle, smiled at her too, making her immediately ashamed, unable to blot her confessions to the vicar from her mind.
*
“Did Maggie tell you?” Raki asked her later, toward the end of the meal. “That she’s coming with me on my next trip?”
“No. To India, you mean?”
Raki nodded. He gave her a cautious glance. “It’s not till next month, but we’ll be gone for at least a year.”
“A year? Oh, wow . . . that’ll be so great for you both. Maggie didn’t mention it.”
“No, well, she’s only just decided to come too. But we’re both a bit worried about leaving you in the lurch, what with Harry and . . . it’s so soon . . .”
Rakesh could do the most complex surgery in the most difficult environments with the utmost skill, but he wasn’t very fluent when it came to dealing with emotions. Since her husband’s death he had treated her with kid gloves and taken to shooting her nervous glances, as if he thought she might suddenly collapse, or worse.
“I’m fine, Raki. Honestly. Really fine. You’ve both been such a support, but it was two and a half months ago now, and I’m getting back to normal.” She didn’t believe she was anywhere close to normal, but it was easier to say that than try to explain the maelstrom of emotions in her heart.
“Are you?” He looked relieved. “Well, if that’s the case, it’s very good to hear.”
“It’s sweet of you to think of me. But please, don’t worry.”
“No. Well . . . you can always talk to Maggie in India, anyway. It’s not like these days we can’t communicate twenty-four seven.”
“Exactly.” Karen got up. “Just going to give Patrick a hand.”
She went through to the kitchen, where their host was putting together the cake amidst the chaos. The door was open on to the garden, bringing a welcome breath of cold night air. Outside in the darkness was a huddle of smokers, including Volkan, Tom’s wife, Nicole, and the two friends of her hosts that Karen hadn’t met before.
“What can I do?” she asked, viewing the large mound of chopped fruit, the meringues, and the bowl of whipped cream that Patrick had in front of him.
He looked up with a harassed grin. “All under control. Could you be a love and dig out the candles?” He wiped a handkerchief round his face. “They’re in an orange Sainsbury’s bag over there somewhere . . . maybe under the chocolates?”
She found them and peeled the silver candles from the packet, placing them in a pile on the worktop next to him.
“Marvelous. Thanks, darling.”
She watched him work in silence for a minute.
“It’s going well, don’t you think?” Patrick whispered.
“Brilliantly, Volkan’s absolutely loving it,” she said, just as William came into the room, carrying a pile of plates.
“Umm . . .” He looked around for somewhere to put them, but there wasn’t an inch of space anywhere.
Patrick waved his hand in the direction of the sink. “Just plunk them down, William. I’ll see to it later.”
But Karen couldn’t bear the chaos for one more minute. “We can put them in the dishwasher.”
William and Karen stood side by side, the vicar scraping the food off the plates and running them under the tap, then handing them to Karen to stack in the machine. They didn’t speak, but she was suddenly aware of his closeness and the quickening beat of her heart.
“Great party,” he said.<
br />
“Isn’t it?”
As she filled up the machine, he leaned across her suddenly to move up the edge of a baking tin, which had fallen across the racks, and their heads touched. Karen pulled back as if she’d been scalded.
“We can put this on the top,” he said, holding the tin and pulling out the upper rack, which was crammed full with soup bowls. For a moment they both surveyed the contents of the dishwasher.
“Or not,” Will said with a grin. His frank gaze, with those clear-water eyes, seemed to be taking in her face as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I challenge Janey’s stacking skills at my peril.”
“No . . . no, you’re right. It won’t work there either. We’ll have to wash it separately,” she managed to say.
And then there was a stillness between them, when neither of them moved or spoke, just gazed at each other. It may only have lasted three seconds, but it seemed like days and Karen was powerfully aware of his every breath, the blueness of his eyes, the strand of his hair that fell over his forehead.
“Do leave that, darlings,” Patrick was saying behind them. “The saintly Mrs. J arrives at dawn tomorrow to sort it all out.”
But Karen and William just continued with their task. Her heart was racing, her cheeks probably flushed, but she didn’t want to leave his side and go back to the party.
“Ta dah!” Patrick finally demanded their attention as he held both his arms out in a flourish, the beautiful meringue cake resplendent in front of him, waiting for their approval.
*
“William tells me you and Sophie might be up for some volunteering?”
The soup, beef Wellington, green salad, cheese, fruit and cake had all been eaten, some impromptu speeches had been made eulogizing Volkan, and a lot more wine had been drunk. The guests were now shifting seats and milling about in groups. Janey had squeezed in next to Karen, where Raki—who had just left with Maggie—had been sitting.
“Uh . . .”
“That would be brilliant. There are so many pensioners who just need someone to pop in and make a cuppa, have a bit of a chat. Or maybe you could teach somebody about emails and stuff—you used to work in an office, didn’t you? The Internet is such a great connector, if only older people could manage it.”
On she went, her bright, rather bullying delivery implying a deliberate attempt at zeal rather than zeal itself. Karen zoned out, still horribly aware of Janey’s husband, feet away, in an animated discussion with Volkan.
“I find it takes you out of yourself, volunteering.” Janey was still talking. “You forget your own problems when you help other people. It’s been scientifically proven.” She seemed to be persuading herself as much as Karen.
“I’m sure it has,” Karen finally summoned up the manners to reply. She had drunk too much, she knew that. When Harry had been alive, she had almost given up alcohol altogether, terrified that if she joined in it would only encourage him, although it made no difference whatsoever. “Um . . . gosh, it’s late. I’m exhausted. I think I’d better be getting home. What a great party.” She added.
The vicar’s wife looked disappointed. “Yes, we ought to get back too, I suppose. It’s William’s busiest day tomorrow, of course.” She got up, smoothing her black skirt over her thin hips. “About the volunteering . . . give me a call and we can work something out. It might be just what you need right now, a focus . . .” She must have seen Karen’s blank expression, because her wittering ground to a halt as she bent forward to give her cheek a peck.
When William came to say goodbye, Karen held her breath, but he merely smiled and laid a hand on her arm for a split second before moving off to Patrick.
*
The following morning Karen was restless. She’d been looking forward to having the place to herself for a change, without the lurking presence of a grumpy stepdaughter. But as it was, she couldn’t settle to anything. Roaming from room to room, she tried to make sense of these feelings she had for William Haskell. She had a crush on him, that much was clear, but identifying that didn’t seem to make things any simpler. Does he feel the same? she wondered. Or were those intense stares of his merely him trying to work out what was wrong with me? He was obviously an intense sort of person, and maybe his look last night had been quite normal for him. She was annoyed that she was even asking herself these questions. He’s the vicar, for God’s sake, she told herself, then smiled at her choice of words. And married with a daughter to boot. Whatever she felt for him, she knew it had to stop right there.
To distract herself, Karen thought she’d begin to check through Harry’s clothes in the large walk-in cupboard off the bedroom, with a view to packing them away. She wasn’t sure when she was supposed to do this. She knew that when her mother had died, her father had cleaned out the cupboards a week after the funeral, leaving anything he couldn’t decide about in a black plastic bin liner in the spare room for Karen and Johnny—then twenty-two and nineteen respectively—to sift through the next time they came home. But her father had already left Gloria for tea-shop Joan by then, so perhaps that was different? Maggie said that her mother still refused to move a single item of her father’s things four years after his death, despite endless encouragement.
Karen herself hadn’t opened Harry’s side of the wardrobe since he died, and now she did it almost absentmindedly, her thoughts still fixed on her childish crush. But the lingering smell of her husband’s aftershave, the sight of the rows of pristine shirts—Karen hated ironing, so she sent them to the dry cleaners—the tailored suits in every fabric from heavy tweed to summer linen, the racks of shoes, all polished by Harry himself, made her gasp, almost lose her breath. It was as if, suddenly, he weren’t dead, as if his essence were still there, live in the wardrobe, waiting to choose an outfit for the day. She gently brushed her hand across the soft cotton of his shirts, remembered laying her cheek against them, against his broad chest, in happier times. But his shoes were the thing that made her cry. Strangely so evocative of the man she had loved, she cradled one shoe of an ancient pair of shiny brown brogues in her hand—favorites of his—and wept.
*
“I wanted to talk to you,” Karen said to her stepdaughter later that week, catching her as she came downstairs around ten in the morning.
Sophie seemed to have had a good time in London and was marginally more upbeat since her return. She paused on the bottom stair, her hand on the round wooden finial at the base of the banisters, eyeing her stepmother with her usual wariness.
“What about?”
“Shall I make some tea?”
This was a safer suggestion than it might have been a month ago, because the raw-food diet previously obsessing the girl had been quietly dropped, no explanation given and none requested from Karen, who was just relieved that Sophie wasn’t starving herself anymore.
“OK.”
When the tea was on the table, Karen went on, “I know it’s a sensitive subject, but I think it’s time we began to clear out your father’s things. I’d love it if you’d help me.”
“Clear out Dad’s things? Now?”
“Well, not now, as in today . . . but we can’t leave them forever . . . it’s too weird.”
“I like his things,” came the stubborn reply, “they remind me of him.”
Expecting this reaction, Karen was patient. “I know, and I understand that. But he’s . . . well, he’s not here anymore, and at some stage we’ll have to sort them out . . . his clothes and stuff. I mean they could be useful to someone else. Someone who really needs them.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Give his clothes away? You can’t do that. It’s horrible thinking of some random guy walking around in Daddy’s suits.”
“I know, but it seems a shame to just throw them in the bin. He had some beautiful clothes, Sophie, they deserve a good home.”
But her stepdaughter was shaking her head in that familiar gesture which implied that Karen was predictably beyond the pale.
“But it’
s way too early, he’s only just died.”
“It’s nearly three months.”
Sophie looked miserable. “That’s no time. God, I wish he was still here. It’s so unfair.”
“I know,” Karen said, and was allowed to stroke the girl’s hand across the table.
There was silence.
“OK . . . OK.”
“You’ll help me, then?”
“Yeah, OK. But you have to let me keep things. We can’t throw all his stuff away.”
Karen breathed a sigh of relief. Not just because she’d negotiated the tricky subject without a blow-up from her stepdaughter, but because she’d sensed a softening of Sophie’s attitude, just slightly, in recent days.
As if she were finally growing tired of fighting with Karen.
*
It was almost two weeks after Patrick’s party before she spoke to William again. When Karen saw his name on her phone, she almost didn’t answer. He was clearly avoiding her, and she him, but she supposed at some stage they would have to speak—village life would inevitably throw them together. In the intervening days since the party, some mad part of her had run through the scenario where she asked him on another walk and then confronted him with her secret: “The truth is, William, I’ve got a huge crush on you and as a result I don’t think we should see each other again.”
But then she would have to stop seeing him. And while she knew that was the right thing to do, it wasn’t what she wanted to do.
“Karen, hi,” his voice greeted her. “How are you?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“Good, good.” Pause. “Umm . . . I’m calling about the fête.”
“Oh, God, the fête. I’d forgotten about the fête.”
“Would we be able to meet for a discussion sometime?” His tone was businesslike. He sounded as if he were walking somewhere, his breathing fast in the background.
