‘Aren’t these lovely?’ said Joan, pointing at the border.
‘Alcea rosea,’ said Flappy.
Hedda laughed. ‘Call them what you like, Flappy, they’re still hollyhocks.’
Joan’s jaw dropped. Kenneth held his breath. The vicar raised his fluffy eyebrows in surprise. But Hedda carried on walking as if she’d said nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Those anemones are pretty too,’ she continued.
Flappy didn’t know what to say. She stared at Hedda, blinking in astonishment that someone had had the temerity to put her down. Just as she was on the point of pursing her lips, a sure sign of her displeasure, Charles smiled at her, a knowing, appreciative smile that held within it the memory of their moment in the pool house, and the situation was defused. Flappy forgot Hedda’s comment and smiled back. She forgot the vicar too, God’s emissary on earth, and felt with wicked delight a stirring of the beast that Charles had unleashed inside of her, which was very much still roaming free and raring to go again. Her busy mind raced to find ways of getting Charles on his own. It wasn’t going to be easy, but now, having taken offence at Hedda’s put-down, she was determined to do it. Temptation was there to be surrendered to, surely? Perhaps there was a lesson from God in that?
Hedda made such a fuss of Flappy’s dinner – her dining room was charming, the table a delight and what pretty hydrangeas, such an unusually dark shade of blue – that Flappy was not able to remain offended by her for long. She introduced each wine in her best Spanish, Italian and French, all of which she had learned by heart, having asked Persephone to write down the phrases for her. Hedda was suitably impressed. ‘I’m terrible at languages,’ she said. ‘I do envy you being able to speak so many.’
‘My German is terrible,’ said Flappy. ‘Don’t ask me to say anything in German.’
‘Flappy is a woman of many talents,’ said Kenneth.
‘She clearly is,’ agreed the vicar. ‘Your culinary skills are second to none. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a more delicious lasagne.’
‘Thank you, Graham,’ Flappy replied graciously. ‘The secret is in the tomatoes. I go to great lengths to buy tomatoes from the farmers’ market because tomatoes in supermarkets can taste of nothing. The reason why Italian food is so buono is because the fruit and vegetables are so full of taste. It’s the climate, you see. We have to fake it with greenhouses. Not the same. No?’
Charles, who was sitting next to Flappy, pressed his leg against hers. Flappy’s smile did not waver. If Flappy was good at one thing it was maintaining a poker face in the most challenging of circumstances. ‘Is there anything you can’t do, Flappy?’ he asked.
Flappy laughed a light, tinkling laugh, a careless laugh, as he pressed his leg harder against hers. ‘Oh, there’s plenty I can’t do, I’m sure,’ she said.
‘She just hasn’t found it yet,’ said Kenneth with a laugh. The vicar and Joan laughed too, for they hadn’t either.
Then Hedda gave a little shrug. ‘Golf,’ she said, and no one could dispute that.
* * *
After dinner and copious amounts of wine, the group made their way into the drawing room. ‘What a charming room,’ said Hedda with genuine appreciation. ‘You have such a good eye, Flappy.’
‘Coming from you, Hedda, that’s high praise indeed,’ said Flappy happily.
‘Oh, I can’t take credit for my house. I have a wonderful decorator from London who did it all for me. I’m hopeless at that sort of thing. Just can’t be bothered. I’d rather someone else chose the fabrics and furnishings for me.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s fair to say that I didn’t do it all by myself. I got a teeny bit of help from Gerald,’ said Flappy. ‘We work together, Gerald and I, my decorator.’
‘You work very well together,’ said Joan agreeably.
‘We’re redecorating a little cottage we have at the bottom of the garden. I used to use it as a painting studio, but I was just so busy I didn’t have time to paint. So, I’m going to transform it into a meditation room instead. I do like to meditate,’ she said, turning to the vicar. ‘In these busy times meditation is imperative for a calm and uncluttered mind, don’t you think, Graham?’
‘Meditation?’ said Hedda, eyes widening with interest.
Flappy’s heart stopped. The last thing she needed was Hedda joining her in her little sanctuary and chanting ‘Om’ beside her. ‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Charles adores that sort of thing. Tarot cards, gurus and goodness knows what else.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Meditation is just up your street. Perhaps you and Flappy could do it together?’
Flappy kept her cool. If she was good at one thing it was keeping her cool when coolness was required. Right now, it was required more than ever, because the beast inside of Flappy was rousing and in danger of giving itself away. The image of her and Charles in that lovely big bed beneath the eaves of the cottage floated into her mind and set her pulse racing. ‘Do you, Charles?’ said Flappy in a mildly disinterested tone.
‘I try to meditate every morning, before breakfast, but something always gets in the way of it. It’s very frustrating. I don’t think meditating at home works for me.’
‘Then you must come and use my sanctuary,’ said Flappy. ‘I will give you a key and you can use it whenever you like.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Flappy,’ said Charles.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, really. You can get to it without coming to the house. There’s a farm track that runs along the back of our property. We’re so so lucky to be surrounded by farmland. Not a neighbour for miles. You can park your car there and wander up the path.’
‘That sounds ideal,’ he added.
‘I’ve asked Persephone, my PA, to find me a guru. You know, someone to teach me how to meditate properly. You see, my mind is so busy, I find it impossible to quieten it.’
‘Yes, you need a guru. An Indian guru. Someone who knows what he’s doing,’ Hedda agreed.
‘That would be perfect,’ said Flappy.
‘You’ll be levitating in no time,’ said Kenneth with a chuckle. ‘The two of you, levitating through the roof!’
Flappy didn’t dare catch Charles’s eye. She turned to Joan, because Joan was a safe cove in what was becoming quite a choppy ocean. ‘Do you meditate, Joan?’
‘I don’t, but I really should, shouldn’t I?’
Then, just in case Joan thought she was going to be invited to Flappy’s sanctuary with Charles, Flappy replied, ‘No, meditation is not for everyone.’
* * *
Flappy was in such a state of excitement she was unable to sleep. All she could think about was she and Charles in that delightfully big bed and all the delicious things he might do to her. She’d given up her guilt, just tossed it away. After all, Hedda had suggested it and Kenneth hadn’t so much as turned a hair at the idea of her and Charles meditating together in the cottage. No one minded. An affair hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind, but hers and Charles’s.
The night passed slowly and fretfully. The beast inside of Flappy was restless. Having said she would definitely not do it again, that she would resist temptation, she now accepted that she was already a fallen woman so she might as well stay fallen. After all, there was no point wasting energy struggling against something which could never be overcome. As for getting caught, Charles seemed not to worry about that, so she wouldn’t either. Affairs had been going on for as long as humans had been on the earth. Most people never got found out. The few that did were just careless or reckless, or just plain stupid. Flappy was none of those things. She would be careful. If there was one thing Flappy was good at, it was being careful.
* * *
The following day dawned cloudy and grey, but Flappy awoke with enthusiasm as if the sun was a giant sunflower in a cornflower-blue sky. It was 5 a.m. She put on her yoga ensemble, which was a pair of pale grey leggings and a white T-shirt, and headed down to the pool house with a spring in her step. In her gym, in front of a vast mirror that took
up the entire back wall, Flappy did her stretches and balances to the gentle sound of a flute.
Flappy was good at yoga. She’d practised for years and was as bendy and supple as she’d been twenty years ago. However, no one had seen her naked in a very long time. Even Kenneth, in the last twenty years, hadn’t seen her without something covering her body. Flappy was aware that she’d once had a beautiful body. As a young woman she had never appreciated it as she should have. Only now, in late middle age, could she look back and see the loveliness of what she once had and lament its loss. Youth is wasted on the young, she thought as she moved smoothly into Warrior I pose. The thought of Charles seeing her without her clothes on was very worrying. In fact, she didn’t think she’d worried about anything quite so much as she now worried about that. Even as a newly-wed she had not walked around naked. Walking around naked was very undignified. If there was one thing that Flappy abhorred, it was being undignified.
Charles was going to see her naked. There was no avoiding it. If they were going to make love in the cottage, which she was pretty sure they would, he was going to take her clothes off. Flappy knew she was better with her clothes on. She was very good with her clothes on – in fact, it would be fair to say that she was the best-dressed woman in Badley Compton. She just wasn’t as good with her clothes off.
She moved seamlessly into Humble Warrior pose. How could she avoid Charles seeing her naked? Of course she could close the curtains. Lighting was very important. Dim lighting was the best. After all, too dark meant fumbling about trying to find things, which would be awkward; too bright and those things, once found, would be much too visible. Dim was definitely the most flattering.
Flappy slipped into Warrior II pose and took a deep breath. If Charles had been making love to Hedda then Flappy really had nothing to worry about. In comparison to the Ayrshire cow, Flappy’s white tigress was a damn sight more attractive.
After yoga Flappy showered, changed, spritzed herself with perfume and went downstairs to have breakfast. She poured a few raspberries and a scoop of natural yogurt into a bowl and sat down to read the Daily Mail ‘George wasn’t that experienced in sex scenes’. Co-star reveals how she got Clooney to ‘let go’. Flappy put a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth and read the story with interest. A little later Kenneth appeared. He found The Times on the dining table waiting for him with his cup of coffee. The Daily Mail was nowhere to be seen.
‘Good morning, darling,’ said Flappy, bringing her tea and lemon to the table. ‘Can I make you some breakfast?’
‘Lovely,’ said Kenneth, sitting down and picking up the newspaper. ‘A couple of pieces of toast with fried eggs would do the trick.’
‘Off to play golf?’ she asked, although the question was merely to make conversation. It was apparent from his attire that he was heading to the golf course.
‘Yes, with Charles and Algie.’
‘Oh, it’s Algie now, is it?’ said Flappy, delighted he was on ‘Algie’ terms with Sir Algernon.
‘After the game we had, it’s Algie all the way.’
‘Might Charles be coming to use the pool today?’ she asked breezily.
‘I don’t know. I’ll ask him, if you like.’
‘Only that I’d like to show him the cottage and give him a key. My sanctuary is not set up yet, but it won’t take long and he can start using it now.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Yes, I thought it was. Why don’t you tell him to come round this afternoon. I’ve got a very busy day, but I’m sure I can squeeze him in.’
Once again Kenneth gazed at his wife, his little eyes full of wonder. ‘Really, darling, I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Do what, darling?’ she said with a smile.
‘Everything. You just manage to do everything.’
Flappy put a hand on his arm. ‘You’re very sweet to notice.’
‘Oh, I do,’ he said.
After hoovering up his eggs and toast, he looked at his Rolex. ‘Better be off, then. See you for lunch.’
‘Have a lovely morning, darling, and don’t forget to tell Charles.’
* * *
At eleven o’clock Flappy arrived at the church with Persephone to do the flowers. The ladies of Badley Compton took it in turns and this week it was Flappy’s. She opened the boot of her Range Rover where the flowers, cut from her own garden by one of her gardeners, lay neatly on a waterproof rug. ‘I always feel a teeny bit bad,’ she told Persephone as the girl lifted the rug and flowers out of the boot. ‘My displays are always far superior to everyone else’s. But it can’t be helped.’ She followed Persephone up the path to the church. ‘I’m so so lucky to have so many flowers to choose from,’ she added, her mind’s eye sweeping over the many beautiful gardens at Darnley.
Persephone laid the flowers on the floor in the nave and went back to the car for the vases. Flappy put her hands on her hips and looked around the church. It was so ancient it was mentioned in the Domesday Book. She sat down in her seat, the one Hedda had stolen the previous Sunday, and remembered the first time she had laid eyes on Charles. Really, she still couldn’t imagine how Hedda had got him. Perhaps he’d married her for her money, she mused. He couldn’t have married her for her looks, and her brain, while being perfectly adequate, hadn’t shown signs of being anything out of the ordinary. And Charles was not an ordinary man. No, he most certainly wasn’t. He was a cut above. If there was one thing that put terror into Flappy’s heart, it was the ordinary. God forbid she ever sank to being that.
A few minutes later Persephone appeared with two vases. ‘Well done, Persephone,’ said Flappy, standing up. ‘Hand me the secateurs and I will work my magic.’ This she did to great effect. Not only did Flappy have an eagle eye, but she had a good eye when it came to aesthetics too. She knew – better than anyone in Badley Compton, it must be acknowledged – how to arrange flowers. The effect was stunning and even Persephone, who was much too intelligent not to notice Flappy’s flaws, had to admit that she had a gift. ‘I can see why the other ladies envy your arrangements,’ she said. ‘It’s not just the choice of flowers but the way you put them together.’
‘I once did a flower arranging course,’ Flappy confessed. ‘Many years ago, when I was just married. I thought Kenneth would appreciate a wife who knew how to do that sort of thing.’
‘It paid off,’ said Persephone.
‘It most certainly did,’ agreed Flappy, standing back to admire her work. ‘It’s a lovely church, isn’t it. Quaint and full of charm. I don’t suppose you’re religious, are you? Young people aren’t these days.’
‘Not really,’ Persephone replied. ‘Although I want to get married in a church.’
‘Yes, the big white wedding. The fairy tale. Girls still grow up wanting that, I suppose.’
‘Were your daughters married here?’
‘No, Charlotte was married on a beach in Mauritius and Mathilda in Australia. I had nothing to do with either.’ Flappy sighed a little sadly. ‘I had rather dreamed of Badley Compton weddings for my girls. That’s the thing about children, one imagines they’re going to be smaller versions of oneself, but they’re very much their own people and often remarkably different to their parents. Sometimes, one wonders where they come from. Neither Charlotte nor Mathilda have ever wanted what I want. In fact, I think they have probably gone the other way just to be awkward.’ She smiled at Persephone and Persephone saw, for the first time, a glimpse of Honest Flappy. The Flappy without airs. The Real Flappy. ‘I don’t think I was an easy mother,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I’ve always had impossibly high standards. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I sometimes wonder, although, I must confess, not very often, might they have settled in England had I done things differently?’
‘You’ll never know the answer to that, Mrs Scott-Booth, but children always want independent lives from their parents, don’t they, so it’s not unusual to settle in another country.’
‘Do you have a good relationship wi
th your mother, Persephone?’
‘Up and down,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Families are complicated.’
‘They are indeed,’ said Flappy, smiling back. ‘Thank you for your help, Persephone. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m so so lucky to have a PA.’
Chapter 8
That afternoon, Flappy waited in the garden for Charles. Kenneth had returned from golf and told her that Charles was coming to swim at four and would love to be shown the cottage. As wonderful as this news was, it also sent Flappy into a terrible state of panic, fuelled by guilt. It was wrong to use Kenneth as a messenger. It was disrespectful and cruel. Let us be honest, Flappy might have had the odd, tiny flaw – she was not ignorant of her shortcomings – but she was never ever disrespectful and cruel. She was aware that, if she was to survive in this new world of extramarital dalliances, she must not lose her moral compass. They would have to find a way of not involving Kenneth.
Charles arrived at five to four and was already lifting his chic leather holdall out of the boot of his Bentley when Flappy wafted round the corner in her trilby and dark glasses, a loose white shirt billowing about her body with the scent of tuberose. ‘Charles,’ she trilled happily, waving the Spectator. ‘I was just taking a few minutes out of my busy day to catch up on my favourite magazine.’
Charles kissed her cheek. ‘You smell delicious,’ he said, inhaling with relish.
Flappy laughed to hide her arousal. After all, Kenneth could appear at any moment, and the gardeners were all over the place, like gnomes toiling away behind every bush. ‘Did you have a good game of golf?’ she asked.
‘Very good. But now I’ll have a swim, and then…’ He looked at her intensely, taking in every detail of her beautiful face. ‘And then I’ll have you.’
Flappy’s mouth opened and then closed. She was lost for words. The presumption! The nerve! The sheer arrogance of the man. It defied belief and yet, and yet, she had never felt so excited in her life.
Flappy Entertains Page 8
