‘You might knock!’
‘A thousand pardons.’
‘What do you want anyway?’
‘Brett told me the scouts are having a wide game and night camp on Saturday, okay if I go?’
It looked as if Dame Fortune, just for a change, was smiling on me. ‘ Yes, of course. What does it entail, this wide camp?’
‘Oh …’ With permission granted, the effort of explaining the event to me was too great. ‘ We roam around the village finding things, with the cubs as well, and then after Makepeace—’
‘Mr Makepeace to you.’
‘He does bangers and dampers in his back garden.’
‘How very kind of him.’
Gareth and Brett exchanged glances and smirked. Thank God I hadn’t had the purple silk on when they arrived.
‘I’ve got people to dinner on Saturday,’ I said grandly, ‘so that will fit in nicely.’
‘Right.’
The lads withdrew, and as Brett went downstairs I heard one of them say, ‘Ay’ve got people to dinnah!’ and burst into squeaky guffaws of suppressed mirth.
Because I was already in the granddaddy of a bad mood I compounded it by launching into a grand tidy-up. In my house, even with the meticulous George absent, and in spite of the efforts of Damon, The Mess was like the star of some old, bad, black-and-white horror film: a malignant, every-growing entity which might be temporarily pushed back, but which within days was oozing and creeping once more from its lair to enfold room after room in its whiskery embrace.
All Damon and I could do was to keep it at bay. And even then it continued in its underground form, lurking as slut’s wool beneath the beds, mouldering as apple cores in the hearth and neglected shards of bone in the dog’s basket, clinging in sticky rings beneath the sauce bottles in the kitchen cupboard.
I was powerless against it, or so I felt. This resulted in my ignoring The Mess until it reached monumental proportions, and then conducting, as now, a hate blitz which left the house in a state of shrinking, quaking nakedness, smarting from an onslaught of household bleach which must have dispatched even the remaining one per cent of household germs. And which left me slumped over a g and t, reflecting gloomily that Jeffrey Archer and Wilbur Smith did not have to waste perfectly good working time prizing chutney jars off shelves with a knife, and gagging over the debris beneath the fridge-freezer. It was during these immediate post-blitz dolours that I felt most keenly my mediocrity as a writer. Was it any wonder that I did not set the NYT best-seller list alight? That the only reviews I got were those appearing in list form in August, damned for ever under the heading ‘Holiday Reading’? That intelligent women like Anna Ghikas found me ‘ tremendous fun’? I was bogged down. The housewifely fantasies in which I dealt, the Tudor studs and Regency ravers, were so much part of my everyday consciousness that they seemed to sip coffee with me at breakfast, to rustle alongside as I jogged the bridleways, to parade and posture in the bedroom as I read Cosmopolitan and drank cocoa. Only days ago had I not written a complete sequence without making a single conscious decision?
The depressing fact was that I came from the tail-end of the generation who still saw themselves as homebodies who managed to do a job with the energy that was left over, rather than vice versa. It was not George’s fault, God knows he had always encouraged me, and if I were to be left alone tomorrow I should still have been able to make a more than adequate crust from the historical hotbeds that were my stock in trade. No, it was my own self-image (as a Cosmo reader I was acquainted with the psycho-speak) which was at fault. If I was to change as a writer there had to be a fundamental change in me. Which might very well begin with Constantine Ghikas. Who knows but that a few snatched hours of illicit passion might unleash new fires in me, both literary and carnal? With the house barren and subdued and the children skulking in their respective bedrooms I once more took out the purple dress and held it against myself. My optimism returned. It was different, and that was what I was going to be.
On the night of the dinner party, the absence of both children enabled me to get off to a flying start. I was far less anxious about the meal, which consisted of tried and tested foolproof dishes, than about my own toilette, to which I devoted a considerable time. Having given Damon the Friday off, I had retained him for this evening to do the washing up and make coffee. It was soothing, as I painted my face and subdued my hair, to hear him Hoovering the sitting room and setting out ashtrays in an otherwise empty, tidy house. It gave me the entirely spurious impression that I was a lady of leisure. In an ideal world I might have wished that Damon was a stylish ‘exquisite’ such as might have come my way in the city, who would have advised me on face-packs and made mouth-watering hors d’oeuvres for the dinner table, but failing that he was still sufficiently unusual and now, in his new persona, clean too, to be a conversation piece. As I was putting on mascara there was a knock at the door and Spot, who had been lying under the bed generating a fresh harvest of slut’s wool, exploded forth and hurtled down the stairs slightly too fast for his skin, which seemed to slide back and then sharply forward.
In the mirror I saw that I’d applied a row of black dashes, like exclamation marks, over my left eye. As I wiped them off I heard Damon’s voice making greeting noises and Bernice’s tooting and blasting like a traffic jam.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ she called. ‘ I’m coming up!’
She came into the bedroom with Spot orbiting her legs, now in a state of abject apology.
‘Wow,’ she said, plumping down on the bed. ‘And double wow.’
I stood up, straightening the beads and smoothing the cummerbund. ‘Do you think so? Honestly? I mean, if you didn’t know me, what would you think?’
‘I’d think you were Basset Magna’s answer to Joan Collins.’
‘She’s fifty.’
‘You can’t have everything, dear.’
Bernice herself was dressed in a trouser suit like those worn by the exponents of judo. The jacket had no fastening, but was secured, if it could be said to be secured at all, by a black tie around the waist. I was sure the colour of the belt had nothing whatever to do with Bernice’s proficiency in the martial arts, and wondered if after all it had been a good thing to ask her. She could have given half her breast-weight to me, and still have had the edge.
‘You don’t look so dusty yourself,’ I said.
‘Thank you, you reckon?’ She bounced up and struck attitudes in front of the mirror. She wore open-toed red sandals and her toenails were painted.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘My dear, I could murder a Scotch and dry.’
We went into the kitchen, where Damon was opening packets of nibbles with his teeth. For his evenings’ duties he was accoutred like a poor man’s Shakin’ Stevens in a mint-green jacket, with the same checked shirt and twill trousers, and a greet knitted tie. Bernice placed her hand on his left shoulder and peered over his right.
‘How super to have help,’ she enthused, apparently oblivious to the effect her upper chest against his shoulder-blades was having on Damon. ‘And aren’t you looking suave, Damon!’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Damon, in a strangulated voice.
‘Isn’t he,’ I echoed, handing her her drink to put him out of his misery.
‘Do you want all these nuts out?’ he squeaked, holding up the packet.
‘No, just a bowlful. And some black olives, they’re in the fridge.’
Bernice took a slurp of her Scotch as we went over to the sitting room. ‘ Heaven! Arundel is so against spirits. Now tell me what we’re having—fetta? Tarama? Moussaka?’
‘Cold cucumber soup, roast lamb with herbs, lemon syllabub, Stilton.’
‘Sounds simply delish. You have no idea how nice it is to be let off my cooking. I get worse, you know. I must train Barty to cook.’
I was appalled. ‘Bernice, you mustn’t—think of it.’
‘Why ever not? Cooks don’t have to be pretty, they just have to cook.’
‘But what about hygiene? I mean, Barty …’
‘So? We get Barty’s peck of dirt, and I get to sip sherry and watch TV. A perfectly acceptable deal, I reckon.’
She took a large handful of cashews from the bowl which Damon had placed next to the sofa, and poured some of them into her mouth and some down the front of her jacket.
‘Where are the dear little ones?’ she asked, munching. ‘Did you finally immure them in the Regis bypass?’
‘Clara’s away for the night and Gareth’s with the scouts.’
‘What bliss,’ she said, without malice. Bernice quite liked my children, but she had a well-developed appreciation of the child-free state.
Of course, everyone was late. And because Bernice had been early we were finishing our second stiffener by the time the next knock sounded. Damon had been shuffling in and out as we talked, and nibbles of all sorts now stood invitingly about, while Peggy Lee breathed hospitably from the sound centre. The stage was set.
‘Off you toddle,’ said Bernice.
It was Constantine. Second stiffener or no I was quite unprepared for the dazzling beauty and elegance of his appearance. I had not seen him for more than a week and it was gratifying to note that the reality outdid the memory. In white jeans and a pale blue sweatshirt he appeared almost gilded, his hair gleaming and his skin the colour of honey on the comb. In one hand he carried a bottle of German white wine and in the other a bunch of freesias, dewy fresh, which, if he had bought them in the veggymart in Regis that morning must have cost him upward of ten pounds.
‘Oh …!’ I cried winningly as he handed them to me. ‘They’re gorgeous! Does anything smell lovelier than freesias?’
He sniffed the air and smiled engagingly. ‘ Your cooking, perhaps?’
‘And wine—you have gone to town.’
‘Coals to Newcastle, I’m sure, but you can always lay it down for another time.’
This mention of laying down made my pulses race. I caught him looking over my shoulder into the kitchen and there was Damon, green and angular, watching us.
I handed him the freesias. ‘Damon—would you put these in water and put them on the table?’
‘Is that the footballer?’ asked Constantine as I led him to the sitting room.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Is that your son? The one who’s keen on soccer?’
‘Oh, gosh, no, that’s Damon, my charperson.’
‘Ah, right …!’ There was a discernible note of relief in the poor man’s voice and I realised how close the Toms had been to losing their potential Under Fourteens manager.
‘My two are out for this evening,’ I explained. ‘ With other people,’ I added, in case he should think me the kind of parent who turned eleven-and thirteen-year-olds out into the night just because she had a few friends in.
We went into the sitting room. Bernice stood centre stage, grasping the bristling Spot by the collar. Of necessity this public-spirited act involved leaning forward, so Constantine’s first impression of my friend must have been of two majestic and untrammelled boobs on the verge of escaping from a flimsy jacket.
‘This is Bernice Potter,’ I said.
‘How do you do!’ cried Bernice. ‘No hands! Harriet, shall I put him somewhere?’
‘I’ll shut him in the yard.’
I dragged Spot away, and when I came back Bernice had taken it upon herself to furnish Constantine with a drink. He turned as I came in.
‘I was just saying, I’m awfully sorry but there is a slim chance I might have to take a call tonight. I’m standing in for Doctor Salmon, it was the only night he could get tickets for Lucia at Covent Garden and I could hardly refuse.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I gave the switchboard your number, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not in the least.’
‘The unacceptable face of general practice, eh?’ said Bernice.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Actually no. I think the anti-social hours part of general practice is of inestimable value.’ Oh, so did I, so did I. ‘ It’s the one part of our job which rescues us from being just a clearing house for the hospitals. I’m afraid I’m idealistic about the role of the GP in the community,’ he added with a disarming smile. This was not such good news.
‘I wish there were more like you about the place,’ sighed Bernice. ‘I come from Barford, and I couldn’t even tell you what my doctor looks like. Not that I’m ever ill, actually …’
She was enlarging on her robust state of health when there was a knock at the door and I went to answer it.
If Bernice and I could be said to have laid a foundation, then Mike and Linda Channing already had the footings up.
‘It’s only us!’ carolled Linda. Only? ‘I’m sorry if we’re late, we’ve been to a swill at the Mathers, do you know them?’
‘No.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Mike. He kissed me warmly. His breath was a humid tide of Glentrivet. He left his hands on my shoulders and looked me up and down. ‘You’re looking dishy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Doesn’t she?’ agreed Linda. ‘ Very Raj Quartet.’
‘Is that what it is?’ Mike put his arm round me and gave my spare tyre a jostle. ‘I call it Being Sexy.’
‘Well, you would!’
All this was entirely good-humoured, in fact they went off into gales of quite unjustified mirth. I took their orders for drinks and allowed them to go unattended to join the others, ricocheting off one another as they went along the passage to the sitting room.
Damon was sitting at the table, smoking and reading New Musical Express. The freesias were in a mayonnaise jar in the middle of the table.
‘Damon!’ I hissed. ‘Put that out, for goodness’ sake, I don’t want the place stinking of smoke when we come through to eat. And put those flowers in something nicer—a champagne glass will do.’
He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, then rose and shied his fag end into the sink where it sizzled like an angry snake. I took glasses for the Channings from the cupboard, and passed a champagne glass to Damon for the freesias.
‘I shan’t really need you again till later,’ I told him, ‘if there’s anywhere you want to go.’
‘Gotcher.’ He pointed two fingers at me like a six gun, it was all most disconcerting. ‘I’ll nip round the Wagon.’ The publican at the Wagon and Horses was famed for his ‘ask-no-questions’ policy towards under-age drinkers. But it was the practicalities rather than the ethics of the situation which concerned me.
‘You’re working tonight, remember, Damon. Only a little drink.’
‘Gotcher,’ he said again. He plonked the glass of freesias on the table. Before opening the back door he paused to turn up his collar and shoot his unshootable cuffs. Then Damon, his Marlboros and his NME were swallowed up in the dusk.
I checked the food, poured the drinks and went back to my guests.
Mike and Linda were holding court, quite drowning ‘ The Fool on the Hill’, a track I particularly liked. Bernice looked bright and startled, Consantine politely attentive.
Mike took his glass, swigged and continued with scarcely a pause: ‘ You can imagine, can’t you, the good lady and myself arriving in Tenerife simply covered in these appalling spots—you know, people edging away from us on the plane, customs waving us through with ashen faces—’
‘Not a pinch or a nudge to be had from the airport Lotharios!’ This was Linda, taking up the tale. ‘We thought of suing the Heathrow catering people but quite honestly I think they did us a favour. We sprinted through immigration like rats up a drainpipe.’
‘Were they frightfully itchy?’ enquired Bernice. I did hope no one was going to ask Constantine to diagnose the Channings’spots.
‘No, not really,’ said Linda, looking at Mike for confirmation. ‘Just bloody unsightly. You should have seen us next day though—picking each other over in the hotel room like a couple of chimps. Social grooming they call it on the box, don’t they
—’
‘Except that in our case it had distinctly antisocial connotations. It’s extraordinary actually,’ Mike assumed a loftier, more serious tone, ‘there’s nothing alienates one human being from another as quickly as a skin complaint. Connotations of dirt and contagion—in our case quite unfounded, I might say …’
I saw Constantine’s pleasant, interested smile, and his civility made me wish Mike and Linda would disappear up their own anuses. In an attempt to break the conversation down into two smaller ones I went to stand next to him and said quietly: ‘Everyone has a horror story about flying, don’t they? It’s the most dehumanising form of travel.’
‘Absolutely. It has the advantage of speed, and that’s all.’
‘But even that’s overrated!’ exclaimed Mike, determined to play Circulating Man. ‘The time one gains on the actual flight is all lost again with the endless farting about at the various termini—’
‘And those inevitable go-slows by foreign air traffic controllers,’ added Linda enthusiastically. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a stop-over at Rome when the organ-grinders haven’t made us circle for an hour!’
Bernice, God bless her, was quicker off the mark than I to put a stop to this dangerous line of talk. After all, Athens was notorious among airports, and the Channings would doubtless be able to corroborate general prejudice with a highly coloured and much embellished account of their own experiences there.
‘I won’t have anything to do with it!’ announced my friend. ‘Arundel and I went on a dig in Cumbria last summer and it was absolute bliss.’
‘How intriguing,’ said Linda. ‘Did you find anything remarkable?’
‘Good heavens no! Arundel was for ever going spare about old smashed-up pieces of this and that, but in the main I just lay behind an Iron Age fortification and got the most superb all-over tan.’
Mike finally moved in on her. It had only been a matter of time. He was a man whose stated preference in a social gathering was for ‘knees-under and leg-over’.
‘I do love your suit,’ said Linda to Bernice, spiking her husband’s flattery guns with practised ease.
Hot Breath Page 11
