by Ruth Rendell
Her expression that of a woman who has never before been asked for drink or food by a guest, Irene said, “Oh, of course. Help yourself. You’re practically one of the family now, aren’t you? Well, in a way,” she added.
Marion giggled, rather in the manner of the Hussein brothers. “I suppose you’re a sort of common-law wife. Can you describe yourself like that if you’re filling in a form?”
“There’s no such thing as a common-law wife.” Heather had picked up this piece of information from Andrew. “You’re either a wife or you’re not.”
“And you’re not?”
“Not until next Saturday,” said Heather.
“You’re getting married?”
“I thought Irene might have told you.”
This was the first time she had called her future mother-in-law by her Christian name and the first time the marriage had been discussed, though Edmund had told his mother a week earlier. Irene looked displeased at the familiarity but realized she could hardly protest. In silence she served their first course, carrot and coriander soup. The bread was Poilâne at five pounds for half a loaf, as Irene told her guests. Heather was prevented from praising it by the ringing—or playing of a well-known phrase of Vivaldi—of a mobile. Heather fished the phone out of her bag and was about to answer it when Irene said, “Oh, really, not when we’re eating, please.”
Thus Edmund was treated to the well-known tones of his mother saying penetratingly, “It’s quite appalling the way some people can’t be separated from a phone for five minutes.”
“Are you all right?” he said.
Heather said to Irene and Marion, “Excuse me. I won’t be long,” and carried the mobile into a corner of the room. “I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
He told her.
“Of course we must both stay with her.”
“She won’t have it,” Edmund says. “She—I don’t want to say it over the phone. I’m on the bus. She’s got sleeping pills and she’s taken one. No, it’s okay, I’ve taken the rest away. She’ll just sleep all night. I’ll be home in—well, half an hour.”
Irene had put their main course on the table. “I suppose that was my son?”
“He’s at my sister’s. He went to fetch the rest of my clothes.”
“If he had to phone, why on earth couldn’t he phone here on my phone?”
Tired of parrying Irene’s questions, Heather said, “I don’t know. He just didn’t.” She fell back on what she thought must be a sure-fire mollifier. “This is very good.”
It was hard to tell if Irene was pleased or not. “Praise from that quarter,” she said to Marion, “is praise indeed. She’s a professional cook, you know. Well, in a hospital, not a restaurant.”
“She’ll put us all to shame, then.”
Marion’s remark went down badly. Irene frowned at Heather as if she had made it. They had pears in red wine. Heather ate in silence, was offered no more wine, while Irene and Marion talked about Avice Conroy and Marion’s job.
“You are an amanuensis,” Irene was saying when Edmund’s key was heard in the lock.
He came into the room, said, “Hello, Mother,” and to Heather in the sort of tone that is warmer than an endearment, “Hello.” To Marion he nodded. Irene immediately asked him if he had had any dinner.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“But of course it matters. You mustn’t miss meals because of…” Because of what wasn’t specified, but it was plain she meant this omission was Heather’s fault. “I’ll get you something at once. Chicken? Soup first? Or some of Marion’s delicious fudge?”
“I don’t want anything, thank you, Mother. If you’ve finished, Heather, shall we go upstairs?”
“She hasn’t had coffee,” said Irene. “I was going to offer her a glass of dessert wine. I know how fond of wine she is.”
Heather got up, said, “Thank you for having me,” like a guest at a children’s party. They went upstairs. In their bedroom she sat down on the bed, her hands clutched together in her lap.
“What’s the matter? You’re not letting her get to you, are you?”
Heather made no answer. “Have you ever read Tess of the d’Urbervilles?”
“I saw the film. I’m not much of a reader. Nor are you, though. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She did know, he thought, but didn’t want to say. “I had to read it when I was at school. Not for O levels, it was before that. I was nearly fourteen.”
Puzzled, Edmund said, “Did you enjoy it?”
“When you don’t read much, things you do read stick in your mind. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
For the first time since he had met her he sensed in her an absence of trust. It seemed to him that perfect confidence had existed between them but did so no longer. She hadn’t lied, but she had hidden the truth, and for a little while—only a very little while, he hoped, only this evening—she had separated herself from him.
Chapter Eleven
The man who had talked to her at speed dating had so humiliated her that she considered giving the whole thing up. He was the third one she had spoken to. He attracted her not at all, but he was there, standing alone with a glass in his hand, and she approached him because all the others had paired off. Once more she introduced herself as Pam and he said his name was Keith. The tone he used when he said it was dry and condescending as if she hardly had a right to ask him.
“Have you ever been to speed dating before?” It had been her opening gambit at the two previous encounters.
He didn’t reply. He looked her up and down. “Bit over the hill for this sort of thing, aren’t you? What makes someone like you want to come here?”
She felt herself blush shamefully. “I’m fifty-six. How old are you?”
“It’s different for men, isn’t it?” he said. “A man of fifty-six isn’t old. He’s in the prime of life. Whereas a woman…” He left the sentence unfinished, looked about him. “Time to move on to the next lucky lady,” he said and walked off.
She hadn’t moved on to the next lucky man but had gone home. Beatrix was sitting where she had left her, lightly and slowly wringing her hands. Pamela poured herself a triple gin with a very small amount of tonic in it. The words the man called Keith had used to her rang in her ears. It was as if an actual voice were inside her head repeating what he had said.
She would have to give up the whole business. After all, she’d been doing it for three years now, off and on, there’d been month-long gaps, but she’d always gone back to it. Yet she’d never met anyone who remotely set her pulse racing or lifted up her heart or made her say, “Oh, yes, yes.” There had never been anyone who seemed to think in the way she did or want to do the same things as she did or read the same books or like the same kind of music. On the other hand, none of them had been rude to her or insulted her until now. With most of them things had never reached the point of lovemaking. Of those who had, she totted up the sorry total of four who had been impotent—two of whom said their impotence was her fault—three who had behaved while making love in such a brief rough way as to make ludicrous that decorous term, and one who had wanted to chain her to an exercise bicycle and paint her body with tomato soup.
She had often told herself what she wanted. A man of about her own age (her advanced age), not especially handsome but attractive to her, a good conversationalist, funny, clever, fond of the theater, someone who would take her out and spend the night with her, occasionally take her away for a weekend, be a best friend. Oh, and that phrase she was embarrassed to use even to herself: “a good lover.” Was that impossible to ask? Apparently. So she might as well give up and look ahead to the barren desert of real old age.
Until she read about “romance walking” in the evening paper. You signed up for romance walking first by filling in a form on the Internet. Pamela studied it with foreboding. You were asked for your date of birth, eye color, hair color, and if not exactly your weight, w
hether you were slim, well-built, or overweight. Surely no one would admit, publicly, on a website, to being fat. If she were fat as against being a bit overweight she would stop now and give up the struggle as she had thought of doing so many times before.
The romance walkers met in a pub. The group Pamela was scheduled to join were to meet at the Eagle and Child in a village near Epping, accessible only by car or by taxi from Blake Hall station. Not many Central Line tube trains went to Blake Hall and she had to wait more than half an hour for one to take her there. The Eagle and Child was just about within walking distance but not really when you would be walking the romance itinerary for several hours. She had to wait again for a taxi, most being out already, taking romance walkers to the pub. She sat outside the station worrying about her sister whom she had left on her own, having watched her carefully to see she took her pill. Either Ismay or Heather would have sat with Beatrix or at least looked in on her several times but Pamela felt she couldn’t ask them. Not with Heather’s wedding the next day.
A thin drizzle had begun to fall. If she had any sense, Pamela thought, she would use her return ticket now and go back to London. But the taxi came, the driver showing no surprise at being asked to drive her to the Eagle and Child. A group of ten people, five men and five women, were inside eating sandwiches and drinking lager and Diet Coke. For a moment Pamela wondered why five of each and then realized one of the women must be the guide or organizer. The one pointedly looking at her watch before she smiled and introduced Pamela to the others.
They were all, Pamela thought, between fifty and sixty years old. All looked fit and energetic. In a kind of embarrassed panic she hoped didn’t show, she thought she was by far the heaviest of the women. All were wearing jeans or fashionably cut trousers, she alone a skirt. She felt far from hungry. She felt a little sick but still she had a sandwich and drank some water.
“Time to pair you up,” the organizer said. “Now, Marilyn, you’ve been chatting to Bill here, so I think that means you enjoy each other’s company. Off you go then. Got your maps? Remember you have to be back here by four sharp.”
A very thin woman and the shortest and fattest man set off rather sheepishly. Their departure left two nondescript men; a tall, thin, bent man; and an equally tall dark man with a beard. Easily the most attractive, Pamela thought. The remaining women seemed older, one completely white-haired, another heavily made up, the third with very obvious false teeth she flashed a lot. She was paired off in brisk fashion with the tall bent man and neither looked very pleased about it.
The organizer cast her eyes over the remaining six. Pamela was sure she disliked her for being a little late and not apologizing. She expected the nondescript balding man to be allotted to her and waited with a sinking heart.
“Now Pamela or Pam as I expect you prefer to be called, I’ve seen your eye on Ivan here, so why don’t you two get together.”
No doubt there had been times when Pamela had suffered worse embarrassment, but she couldn’t remember any. She got to her feet, the blush burning her face.
“Got your maps? Back here by four, please.”
Pamela thought, if only he would smile. Show he doesn’t hate the idea of spending two hours with me. But perhaps he does, perhaps…
“Come on,” he said, and then, “Cheer up.”
He stood back to let her pass ahead of him through the doorway. The rain had stopped. Green countryside and woodland stretched before them. “I was hoping it would be you, Pam,” he said as they took a footpath skirting a meadow and a hedge. “The others were such a bunch of dogs. I couldn’t believe it.”
In the excitement of being preferred, she forgot she didn’t like men who called women dogs or being called Pam. In a moment he’d ask her to tell him about herself.
“Let me tell you about myself, Pam,” he said.
They were married, quietly and quickly, Heather not daring even to glance at her sister until it was over. But Ismay remained dry-eyed, though she didn’t smile much. A hire car was there to take them all to the restaurant in Marylebone High Street Irene had insisted on. Arriving, Edmund expected to find his mother there and perhaps Heather’s aunt Pamela. Both were there, uneasily eyeing each other, but so were Joyce and Duncan Crosbie, Barry Fenix from next door in Chudleigh Hill, and Avice Conroy. Marion Melville would no doubt have been there too, Edmund remarked afterward to Heather, if she hadn’t been looking after Avice’s rabbits. He was white with anger, but there was nothing to be done but take their seats and be pleasant. Congratulations were bellowed or murmured by all the guests, who indicated the wedding presents they had brought and stacked on a separate table thoughtfully provided by the management.
Edmund didn’t kiss his mother. He managed to smile at her and thank her for the bulkiest-looking present, as yet unopened, and the very ugly string of jet beads she had made for Heather. Under the table he took Heather’s hand and squeezed it so tightly she gave a little whimper. He whispered, “Sorry,” and she whispered back, “I love you,” which made everything all right, even having this bunch at his wedding. Champagne was served. He had to admit his mother had done them proud. Joyce asked him if he and Heather were any nearer getting into their flat and he had to say, not really.
“At the rate we’re going it could be late summer.”
“They’re very happy being with me,” said Irene in her loud, commanding tones. “The rooms they have are practically an apartment in themselves. In fact, now they are married I see no reason why they shouldn’t stay where they are. Give up this elusive flat. I can always let them have an extra room if they need it.”
And then Heather surprised—and delighted—him. In her quiet, measured way she said, “It’s kind of you, Irene, to offer us a home with you, but we’ll be moving out. We’re going to rent a studio flat until we get our own.”
It was what he had wanted all along. “Just as soon as I can find somewhere to suit us,” he said.
“When you get back from your honeymoon, is that it?” Barry Fenix, in a white Nehru jacket and rather tight trousers, uttered these words in an arch and rather lubricious way, as if there were essentially something naughty about such a vacation.
“We shan’t be having a honeymoon,” Edmund said. “Not yet. Not when we’re not sure where we’ll be living.” He smiled at Heather, looking into her eyes. “As soon as we’re settled we’ll go somewhere wonderful. Somewhere on the other side of the world,” he added as if he’d have liked to be in this paradise at present.
“India,” said Barry. “That’s the place. Kerala or Goa.”
“The Seychelles.”
“Or Tahiti.”
“Patagonia is the new place,” said Avice, who had never been west of Cornwall or east of Innsbruck.
“We’ll see,” said Edmund and, announcing that there would be no speeches, with Heather’s hand covering his own, proceeded to cut the cake a waiter had carried in to strains of the Wedding March from Lohengrin.
Ismay, who had eaten very little, nibbled at her slice of cake. She was thinking, inevitably, of Andrew, if roles could be reversed and she Heather and Andrew Edmund. This was quite a nice restaurant. They might have had their reception (or whatever you called it) here. But realistically he would probably want somewhere like Le Gavroche. Now he would be there with Eva Simber. Tears welled up in her eyes and, excusing herself, she got up to go to the ladies’. There she was, weeping quietly into the embossed and scented tissues the restaurant provided, when Heather found her.
“Oh, Issy, what is it? No, I know. It’s still Andrew, isn’t it?”
“Not ‘still.’ It’s always. It’s always going to be Andrew. Imagine if you were me and it were Edmund who’d left you.”
A shadow seemed to pass across Heather’s face, but she said nothing and hugged Ismay. After a while they went back to the party. Everyone could see Ismay had been crying. Her eyes were red and her makeup was smeared and blotchy, causing Avice to remark to Joyce on the way home that she thought
Heather’s sister was supposed to be so good-looking. The people around the table pretended nothing had happened except for Irene, who asked in an old-fashioned ward-sister’s kind of voice, “Is something wrong?”
No one answered. Heather turned to her and said, “Edmund and I want to thank you for doing this for us. It’s been lovely. And now we’d like to open our presents.”
Their taxi stuffed full of bed linen, a breakfast set, an electric mixer, an espresso coffee maker, and Irene’s gift of a microwave, Heather and Edmund were driven home to Chudleigh Hill.
“We ought to have brought your mother with us,” Heather said. “There’s room in the taxi.”
“Creep,” said Edmund, kissing her.
“It’s better than being enemies, isn’t it?”
“Oh, much. Did you mean that about moving out?”
“Of course. We’ll start looking tomorrow—if you still want to.”
When they heard Irene go out, taken to the cinema and a meal by Joyce and Duncan, they came cautiously downstairs as if they were children entering a forbidden room. “Or as if we think she hasn’t really gone out,” said Edmund, “or got Duncan to drop her off by the back entrance.”
In the hall Heather stood still and looked up at him as if she had a very daring question to ask. “Could we not go out, Ed? Could we eat something here? Would you mind?”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit, but I insist on the champagne. Back upstairs then?”
“I’d like to stay here for a few minutes. Well, half an hour. As long as it takes.”
Heather walked into Irene’s living room and took off her coat. She kept it over her arm as if she were afraid that to drape it over a chair would leave some trace of it behind for her mother-in-law to discover.
“Here, give me that,” Edmund said and took the coat out into the hall.
When he came back Heather was standing in front of the bookcase. “I can’t find it,” she said. “I suppose she hasn’t got it.”
“What are you looking for?”
