by Faith Martin
‘Clive, this is Professor Fergusson, the man who’s writing the book. And Effie James, a member of the team working at Grandmother’s house,’ Rosamund introduced them. ‘My husband, Clive.’
Clive Carteret looked over at them and smiled briefly. She knew from what Isabel had already said about him that her son-in-law had not long turned forty, but Effie noted that he appeared much younger than his years. Wearing tight-fitting designer jeans in a fashionably washed-out blue with a Lacoste shirt in pale lemon, he looked tanned and fit — and was undeniably good-looking.
But Effie immediately decided that his muscles probably came from regular trips to the gym, rather than trips around his building sites and hard manual labour. For although his company might be responsible for throwing up houses, she doubted that this man knew how to so much as lay a brick or plaster a wall. There was something so very polished about him that told her he was more at home with a spreadsheet than a cement mixer.
‘Oh right. So how goes all the ghost-busting?’ he asked sardonically.
Effie forced herself to smile politely and murmur something vague, now well on her way to understanding how much patience the others must have in order to regularly put up with such off-hand scorn. Such scepticism was beginning to annoy even her with its dreary and wearying predictability, and she was just an unbiased observer!
‘Oh, Effie’s very new to all that,’ Duncan slipped in smoothly. ‘In fact, she’s only doing it as a favour to me.’ He went on to explain things further, during which time Rosamund brought them drinks: an orange juice for Effie, and a glass of red wine for Duncan.
And as Duncan continued to state his case under Clive Carteret’s increasingly amused but far less antagonistic eye, Effie glanced around, perking up when she spotted Jean and Malc chatting to an affluent-looking, middle-aged couple over by a budding lilac tree. The woman, especially, seemed fascinated by the conversation, and Effie smiled, remembering how Malc had predicted that most people at the barbecue would be intrigued and interested in talking about ghosts. It was one of those subjects, he’d assured her, that would liven up even the dullest event, since nearly everybody had a ghost story to tell, or alternatively would relish the chance to do a bit of debunking. Either way, he’d told her with a wink, the C-Fits wouldn’t be considered boring.
‘Hello, Effie.’
Effie jumped, nearly spilling a little of her juice as Corwin suddenly appeared in front of her. She looked up to smile at him, then found her eyes instantly sliding past him as Zoe Younger pressed close against his side.
Today, the young weather presenter was wearing a white summer dress with a tight-fitting bodice and flowing skirt that swirled just below her knee every time she took a step. Her hair was swept back in an elegant French pleat, and she wore a single diamond-drop pendant on a silver chain around her neck. She was wearing white sandals with a tall but wedged heel.
‘Hello, Corwin. Zoe,’ Effie greeted them cordially. ‘Rosamund and Duncan you already know. And this is Clive, Rosamund’s husband.’
‘Just call me Ros, please, everyone,’ Ros said.
Clive’s eyes lit up at the sight of Zoe’s youthful summery presence and slowly reached out to shake her hand. With some reluctance, he then turned to Corwin and slowly looked him up and down. And as he did so, Effie got the distinct feeling that Clive Carteret was used to being one of the better looking and better dressed men wherever he went, and she strongly suspected that he was less than pleased with the competition that Corwin clearly offered.
Dressed in plain black trousers and a crisp white shirt, there was nothing obviously eye-catching about the leader of the C-Fits, but nevertheless, Effie could tell that many of the people around them were watching him curiously. It was not that he had an air of theatricality so much as that he just carried with him an aura that he was important. And interesting. It made people wonder who he was. And left them wanting to find out more.
‘Zoe, you look very familiar,’ Clive was saying smoothly, and as Zoe began, with obvious pleasure, to tell him why she might seem so, Effie began to feel distinctly de trop. Murmuring something about refreshing her drink, she gladly slipped away, heading towards the safety of Jean and Malc, and their spellbound companions.
‘Hey, girl, the grub smells good,’ Malc greeted her cheerfully. ‘This is Janice and Pete. Friends of Ros’s. Effie, you arrived just in time. I was just about to tell them about the cold spot we found . . .’
With a smile of relief, Effie let herself be swept away by Malc’s account of their vigil, and was not at all surprised to learn that her friend was definitely something of a raconteur.
Jean took the opportunity to move closer to her and glanced around. ‘So, how are you?’ she asked quietly.
‘Fine.’ Effie smiled. ‘You?’
‘Looking forward to the next vigil,’ Jean responded predictably. ‘So what’s he like? Rosamund’s husband?’ Jean asked, looking across to the patio. ‘We haven’t met him yet.’
‘We hardly exchanged two words. Why?’
Jean smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve been here nearly an hour, and you’d be amazed at the things you can pick up, just drifting about and listening. It seems he hasn’t been making any secret of the fact that he thinks his mother-in-law has made a serious mistake in calling us in.’
‘Oh well,’ Effie said a shade helplessly. ‘You can’t expect everyone to understand or accept what we do.’
She used the ‘we’ without thinking about it, but Jean didn’t fail to pick up on it, and smiled approvingly.
‘There’s being sceptical, and then there’s being anti,’ the former schoolteacher pointed out, a shade grimly. ‘And from what I can make out, he’s definitely the latter. And he wasn’t any too happy with his wife for inviting us to this shindig, either, I gather.’
‘Oh no. I don’t like to think we’re causing any marital trouble,’ Effie said, casting a concerned glance Ros’s way.
And the fact that Ros seemed to be paying rapt attention to something that Duncan was saying didn’t make her feel any more sanguine. She did so hope that Duncan wasn’t going to be too naughty. She didn’t think that Ros was particularly his type, but she didn’t for one moment doubt that he would be happy to take anything that might be offered. And if there were already fractures in the Carteret marriage . . .
Jean sighed. ‘No, I don’t like making trouble, either,’ she admitted.
‘Well, with a bit of luck, Duncan and Corwin between them will succeed in winning Clive over. And once he sees that we’re not going to be a nuisance he’ll come around.’
‘Well, that’s what we’re here for,’ Jean said with a slightly wicked smile. ‘To soothe, reassure, entertain and pass muster. Which is why we persuaded Mickey not to come.’
Effie had to laugh. Jean, although much better at ignoring Mickey’s more annoying habits than she was, clearly had her limits. And this proof that she wasn’t the only one who could find that young man very trying at times bolstered her spirits a little.
‘This sort of thing would probably be too boring for him anyway,’ she said diplomatically, glancing around at the largely middle-aged and sedate crowd. She hadn’t seen Isabel yet, but she had said that she and Jeremy might be a bit late.
‘Exactly. Oh, there’s Gisela and Debbie.’ Jean waved briefly to the tall redhead and her short, dark-haired companion.
‘Debbie?’ Effie said. ‘Is she another C-Fit member?’ She knew, from listening to the others, that there were another half-dozen or so people who attended vigils as and when the mood took them. These had an interest in the subject but lacked the core group’s commitment.
‘No, that’s her partner,’ Jean said. ‘They’ve been together for nearly seven years now. Debbie’s a physiotherapist. She might be five feet, but she can haul around grown men almost twice her size, believe me. I’ve seen her do it. She works at the John Radcliffe Hospital. Come on over, I’ll introduce you.’
Effie nodded amiably, and moved off i
n Jean’s wake.
* * *
Effie, happy to stick to the salad, found herself standing in a shady spot, alone for once, and more than happy to take a break from talking about ghosts, her ‘work’ for Duncan, and explaining how her unbiased, man-on-the-street mission was supposed to work.
For the last hour she’d either had to maintain her neutral status while listening to others argue the case for ghosts, or fend off equally determined arguments against their existence. But as Malc had promised, nobody she had spoken to seemed bored by the topic.
Now, as she rested gratefully in the shade, half-hidden by an overgrown, white-blooming spiraea bush, she speared a rocket leaf on her fork, listening whilst others talked for a change.
And right now, two women who were helping themselves to potato salad and coleslaw were happily chatting away in front of her. Both were middle-aged and comfortably plump, and Effie pegged them as near neighbours, invited to the ‘do’ in the cause of good neighbourly relations, rather than because they were lifelong friends of the Carterets.
‘I notice Ros isn’t wearing any of her grandmother’s jewels today,’ the dark-haired one said to the other, who promptly snorted.
‘Talk about having the luck of the Irish. I wish my granny had left me a handful of baubles when she passed away, bless her.’
‘I know. It is a bit sickening, isn’t it? Especially when she doesn’t even need it. That husband of hers is making money hand over fist.’
Effie couldn’t bring herself to eat any more of her salad now, and glancing around for something to distract her, she spotted Gisela and Debbie by the mobile bar on the patio. They made such a striking couple, being as they were, so physically very different. Gisela, almost giraffe-like, with her striking red colouring, and the physiotherapist, short, dark and fit.
She’d had no idea that their ‘sensitive’ had been gay and now wondered, a little sadly, if someone else, someone far more attuned than she was to other people, would have picked up long ago on the fact that she was. Probably, she acknowledged with a small sigh. She really had lost any social skills that she might once have had.
How had she let it happen? Did other women who lost their husbands unexpectedly retreat into such a tight shell that the outside world passed them by without their noticing?
‘Of course, jewellery doesn’t make up for everything, does it?’ the fair-haired woman in front of her said abruptly to her friend, who in return shot her a quick, questioning look.
Effie shrank back a bit further in the spiraea, wishing Ros’s so-called friends would move away and find somewhere else to talk. This was becoming so embarrassing.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s obvious that they’re in trouble, isn’t it?’ the darker woman said. Then, leaning a little closer to her friend, she lowered her voice — but unfortunately not quite enough for Effie not to hear. ‘Everyone knows that Ros wants kids and he doesn’t.’
Effie went hot, then cold, then felt abruptly sick.
‘Really? Why on earth not?’ Then before her friend could answer, proceeded to do so herself. ‘One of those selfish types, is he? Doesn’t want the smooth running of his domestic life interrupted with kids?’
‘Either that, or he’s one of those jealous, controlling types. You know, he wants to be the centre of her world, and thinks that having kids will only provide him with competition. I don’t understand men like that.’
Effie swallowed hard. She had to get out of here. Any minute she was going to . . . to . . . well, either be sick or pass out or do something equally embarrassing.
Just why on earth had she agreed to come here this afternoon? What had made her think she was ready? She’d always had a bad feeling about this party, and she should have had the courage to just listen to her instincts and make her excuses not to come.
She glanced around desperately, looking for Jean. If she could just catch her eye . . .
‘Apparently, the old lady, Ros’s grandmother, wasn’t helping matters any in that department, either. According to Miranda, she’d been encouraging Ros to divorce him for years.’
‘Well, you can hardly blame her for that, can you? She probably wanted grandchildren, poor thing. I’ve got three myself, and wouldn’t be without them.’
Effie bit back a whimper. She couldn’t see Jean or Malc anywhere, and the only other members of the C-Fits nearby were Corwin and Zoe. And she couldn’t hope for help there. Even if she did manage to catch their attention and indicate she needed rescuing, she didn’t think Zoe would bother. It was becoming more and more clear with each time they met that the younger girl simply didn’t like her.
Effie wondered if it could possibly be true that the weather girl actually thought of her as some sort of threat. But that was absurd . . .
‘Well as you know I haven’t got any myself yet,’ the conversation in front of her went painfully and remorselessly on, taking on a rather nightmarish quality now. ‘None of my three seem serious yet about settling down. Oh, poor Ros. If I were her, I’d get pregnant whether he liked it or not. There’s nothing like carrying a child . . .’
That’s it, Effie thought. I simply can’t stand this a moment longer. And then, just as she was about to step boldly out of the shrubbery and push past the two gossiping women, help came from an unexpected quarter.
Ros herself suddenly appeared, smiling widely and bearing a tray full of delicious little mini nibbles of the sweet variety.
‘Babs, Nancy, you have to try these mini-cheesecakes and tell me what you think.’ Her eyes flitted past them to Effie, abruptly cutting short her hopes that she’d gone unseen. ‘Careful mind, they’re really moreish. I haven’t been able to eat just one ever since I got the recipe.’
As the two women hastily took one each, Ros turned and pointed towards the far end of the garden. ‘I think Vince and Ewan are looking for you.’
‘They probably think we’re going to go and get them more beers,’ the dark-haired woman said with a laugh. ‘That’s husbands for you.’
‘Lazy swines, both of them,’ her friend agreed, as the two women ambled away together.
‘It’s OK, you can come out now,’ Ros said with a brief smile, and Effie, feeling foolish, drifted free of the shrubbery. ‘Are you all right? You look very pale,’ her hostess said, and Effie shook her head.
Quickly, Ros took her arm, and looking around, neatly and unobtrusively led her to the nearest chair — one of those ubiquitous, white moulded plastic chairs that seemed to multiply at garden parties. Set up in the shade of a neighbour’s overhanging cherry tree, it was just what she needed.
Thankfully Effie sank down and Ros pulled up another chair to sit beside her. Her hostess smiled and raised a glass at a passing friend, and Effie was relieved to realize that nobody was staring at them. Thanks to Ros’s quick thinking, she hadn’t disgraced herself after all.
‘Bit too much sun? Or was it the punch?’ Ros asked sympathetically. ‘I told Clive not to make it so strong.’
Effie laughed hollowly. ‘Actually it was neither,’ she said, and then could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she just said something rueful and pretended to be a little squiffy? As an explanation it was by far preferable to the truth.
And for a brief, hysterical moment, Effie wondered what Ros would say if she did just blurt out the truth. That her distress had been caused because two women had been talking about the joys of having children, when she herself couldn’t conceive.
It had been quite early in their marriage when Effie became aware of her problem. She’d always wanted a family, and Michael had agreed that, given the age difference, it would probably be a good idea for them to have a baby sooner rather than later. He didn’t, he’d said with a smile, want to be in his dotage whilst dandling a baby on his knee.
And Effie had eagerly agreed. She’d stopped taking contraception right away and began to watch the calendar carefully, at first fully confident that it wouldn’t take long. After all, they were b
oth fit and healthy people.
But nothing had happened.
After a year, Michael, rather thin-lipped, had taken the decision to have some tests done. Effie could still remember the look on his face the day he came home with the results, to tell her that he had checked out fine. It was a mixture of relief, guilt and worry. Relief, of course, because no man’s ego could easily cope with the idea of infertility. Guilt she also understood, because after feeling triumph at having had his manhood proved beyond doubt, it was now obvious that the fault must lie with her, and somewhere deep inside, he was glad that it did.
And worry, of course, over how she would cope with this knowledge.
In the circumstances, she’d always thought that she had coped rather well. She’d had tests of her own done, of course — far more extensive and intrusive tests than those that Michael had had to endure. And when the sympathetic doctors had told her that there was nothing to be done — no surgical procedures that would help, and that IVF would be pointless, she’d told everyone that she would be fine.
Her parents had been supportive but bitterly upset, of course. As their only child, they’d been relying on her to produce grandchildren. But her mother especially had been worried about her, and had kept a very close eye on her for years afterwards.
The doctors had recommended counselling, but she’d not felt comfortable with that. And Michael had treated her like a china doll for nearly a year before she’d finally persuaded him she was not made of glass.
No matter how brittle she had felt at the time. And sometimes still did.
But then, as people had to do after life had given them a knock, she’d managed to shrug it off and get on with things. What other choice was there? So she’d assured both herself and Michael that she was fine, and that, since there would be no children, she’d simply devote herself to her career instead.
She’d taken some night classes in architecture, the better to understand her husband’s business and what he did. She’d also gone on to take the top secretarial courses on offer, and thus became qualified to become not only her husband’s secretary but also his PA.
