Parlour Games

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘That’s awful,’ Isabel is saying to Alex.

  ‘I quite often have to spend time away from home,’ he says.

  ‘Your poor family,’ says Isabel.

  Celia has been working quite hard at moving Tom’s glass away from his reach. Like an illusionist she has managed to push it fractionally every so often when his attention was elsewhere so that now he must really stretch to get hold of it. She is enormously pleased with the achievement and finds her sister’s comment – whatever its fount – annoying.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she says chirpily. ‘It can’t be very nice for Alex either. Anyway I’ve got used to him whizzing around the country in pursuit of financial felons.’

  ‘Yes – but tomorrow ...’

  ‘What – tomorrow?’ She moves the silver cooler and the bottle half an inch. Another two such moves and he will have to reach out like a prostrate monk to get both his glass and the bottle in hand.

  ‘Alex going away ...’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, still paying scant attention, much more involved with moving the wine, which she does successfully at last. ‘He quite often does.’

  ‘But tomorrow! It’s the weekend. What about the children?’

  Celia suddenly enters the conversation cognisantly. Tomorrow? ‘Tomorrow is Saturday, Alex.’

  He looks uncomfortable.

  ‘You can’t be going away tomorrow? You never have to go away at the weekend ...’

  ‘It’s the Brandreth case, darling ...’

  She just manages to stop herself saying Bugger the Brandreth case, which might be considered grounds for divorce.

  Isabel looks truly aghast. ‘But you really shouldn’t let business get in the way of the family’s weekend. It’s so important. Think of Rebecca and Henry ...’

  ‘Never mind them,’ snaps Susannah, ‘Think of Celia. Tomorrow’s her real birthday – isn’t it Cee? You’ll just have to put it off, Alex.’ She taps his arm with her long pink nails. ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he says. ‘It’s all under my control.’

  ‘Well,’ says Susie. ‘If it’s all under your control then you can change it, can’t you? If you can’t then that means it must be all out of your control.’

  Alex goes very pink.

  Celia lets Susie get on with it – she is much better at this sort of thing – no wonder Susie got on in the world.

  ‘Of course I can’t ...’

  Susie is fighting for Celia and will not let go. This is the only sort of thing, really, that she likes to get her teeth into. ‘If you’ve got a properly set-up organisation working for you then it should be able to function – for a short while at least – without its head. A true test of your capabilities is your ability to devolve.’

  Alex is beginning to go off the lovely Susannah. Celia sees this and finds it quite amusing.

  Dave says, ‘T.A. would say that you only can’t change it because you don’t want to.’

  ‘T.A.?’ Alex says. ‘The army?’

  ‘Transactional Analysis,’ says Isabel. ‘Dave and I do it. It helps your relationship with yourself – and others,’ she adds with pride.

  ‘Very Guardian of you,’ snarls Alex.

  ‘No, seriously,’ says Dave. ‘It does wonders. Izzie and I ...’

  Susie still has the bit between her teeth. ‘Never mind that. What about Celia? If you do control your concerns, Alex, then you should be able to leave them to their own devices – that’s the way we did things in the States ... didn’t we Tom?’

  Tom is gauging the distance of the bottle and the glass, more in puzzlement than desire. ‘Personally,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t leave Celia all alone – she’s far too desirable for that.’

  Rancour dies in the smiles and nods that follow this – a silly statement for a grown-up to make but sentimental enough to amuse. And quite in keeping with a birthday – especially a woman’s fortieth. Celia pushes the wine cooler back in Tom’s direction. What the hell. He deserves it. He touches it lightly with his finger as if it might disappear which, given Celia’s prestidigital activities, is not a surprising reaction.

  ‘Well, everybody,’ she says. ‘As it’s my birthday let me have the last word. I don’t mind if Alex must go away tomorrow. I understand. And so will the children. We shall all do something lovely together, like have a picnic on the river, and I’ll go and take poor old Hazel some grapes and take her children with me too.’

  On the whole the prospect of spending a day with only the uncomplicated psyches of children to deal with is pleasant after this lot. Anyway, Celia feels happy to be able to show them all how good her relationship with Hazel is. They may be the folk who knew-her-when, but Hazel is as relevant as they are. More so, perhaps, since the raison d’être of this dinner party seems to have fallen flat. They may all know her of old, but it doesn’t seem to bring with it that effusion of warmth and affection and security that Celia had envisaged. Nor do they seem to care – very much. She invokes Hazel again to make herself feel better. If Hazel were here she would, at least, have had someone whose eye she could catch with an understanding. True she has Susie, but there is the small question of shadowy guilt regarding the washing machine and – well – you only need look at Susie to see she exists in a different life zone.

  ‘My poor friend Hazel,’ she says, perhaps a little too loudly. ‘Yes – I shall take the children off her hands tomorrow and after we’ve had a lovely day I shall sit with her in the evening, to keep her company.’ This has a nice touch of Jane Austen about it. Bedford Park is a bit like Jane Austen land, she thinks, a kind of microcosm of life. All Human Life Is Here, she says to herself, and then, remembering that this is actually a quote from the News of the World, laughs out loud. Alex, in mid-sentence, gives her a quelling look and if he had ever thought he might rearrange his schedule so that he could spend Saturday at home in the bosom of his family, the thought dies. Celia, about to explain what was so funny, decided better not risk further interruption of Alex’s monologue. She will save it to tell Hazel tomorrow. Hazel will see the humour of it.

  And talking of Hazel, right in the middle of all this, John arrives.

  Celia goes to the door, disappointed to find that he is alone, that Hazel is not with him.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he says, rubbing his hands in bonhomie. He is wearing an extremely bright jade-green tracksuit and bounces around on his heels. ‘Ran here,’ he announces. John is very figure-conscious, very social, breezy on the surface with the trained good humour of an ex-public schoolboy. Anyway, in Bedford Park it is quite acceptable to turn up to an informal dinner party wearing a designer tracksuit. Indeed, round the corner, in another Norman Shaw, there is a host sitting down to table with his neighbours in exactly the same outfit though not – like John’s – slightly damp from running. He is an accountant, this other tracksuit-owner, and feels that in some way he is shrugging off his calling for one night at least. Very probably the two will meet one day at the same dinner party, wearing their twin outfits, and feel embarrassed. But, for the time being, they both feel buzzy and unique ...

  To Celia’s enquiries about her friend’s well-being, John at the front door is cheerily dismissive.

  ‘Old girl’s a bit shaken up,’ he says. ‘Left her in bed watching ‘Dynasty’. Thought you wouldn’t mind if I came along. Alex said I should. Happy birthday.’ He puts his arms around her, kisses her cheek, and manoeuvres himself in, all in one move. The sort of social skill his parents paid their fees for.

  ‘Of course – I’m glad you’ve come. Shall I ring Hazel up?’

  ‘Shouldn’t do that,’ he says. ‘Blake and Krystle are having a hell of an argument. Hazel loves it all really, you know, watches it all the time if we’re in ... Got it on video too – all at the back of the drawer.’ He rolls his eyes.

  Celia feels that she has cheated Hazel of her pretence that she doesn’t take television soap operas seriously. She will have to think of some private and secret way of making up for
this. ‘I’ll have the children tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘No need,’ says John. ‘We’ve been lent a nanny for the weekend – until the middle of the week, actually.’

  Celia feels, oddly, slighted. ‘Oh? Whose?’

  ‘Josephine’s. You know. Hazel’s tennis partner. The crash was outside their house. They’ve been terrific. The kids are there now and they’re coming back tomorrow with said nanny. Josephine’s a brick.’

  Celia is almost in tears. I want to be a brick, she thinks.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’

  ‘It’s your birthday, honey-love,’ he says. ‘You don’t want to be bothered. And Jo and Freddy ...’

  Jo and Freddy? thinks Celia. They have always been Josephine and Frederick up until now.

  ‘... are quite happy to link their kids and nanny up with ours. It’s half-term or something so it all fits in quite nicely.’ He raises his hands like a conjurer. ‘Perfect. Everything solved.’

  It is as if Celia has been pricked with a pin. Not only has Celia forgotten that it is the half-term holiday next week (which is bad enough since she has planned nothing to amuse her offspring and Bedford Park children expect to have amusements planned for them) but – and much worse than this – Josephine, rich, elegant, American Josephine, who has been making overtures in Hazel’s direction for nearly six months – ever since they moved into Bedford Park – has made a direct hit. Hazel, the non-political Hazel, was unbothered by their strong connection with the Conservative Party and professed to be unconcerned with them at all, except that Josephine belongs to a tennis club and Hazel likes tennis. Celia, coming from Raynes Park and weaned on the big-brother shadow of Wimbledon, does not ... The few tennis sessions that Hazel and Josephine have undertaken did little damage to Celia and Hazel’s united front but now, well, just when she should have been asserting her ascendancy as friend – the good deed has passed to another. Oh, she could weep, she could stamp her foot, she could wail, gnash her teeth, spit – in Raynes Park parlance – in John’s eye.

  She says, ‘How nice. Come on in then.’ And makes way for him. As he passes a whiff of something catches her. Before she can stop herself she says, ‘John. You’ve been drinking ... Oh God – you weren’t – um – well – when the crash happened ...’

  He looks less-than-brightly public school for a moment – understandably – before putting back the mask. ‘What a good legal wifey you are, fair Celia.’ He laughs. ‘As a matter of fact – no. But Freddy has a selection of Highland malts such as I have never seen – and a very generous chap he is too. He also told me ...’ Very definitely he has been drinking because, once the excitement of coming through the front door has gone, he relapses a little and he is not, altogether, distinct. ‘... that your husband – revered chairman of our Neighbourhood Watch. He makes a little bow. It is on the tip of her tongue to really hurt him by saying that she can see his bald patch quite clearly – a topic, as Hazel has told her, that is as taboo as incest. ‘... has said we need no others on the committee. Freddy is very put out about this – being in the City and everything.’

  She is about to say that in the light of the Brandreth case this is hardly a recommendation. Why should she continue to be tactful Celia? After all, her one really good friend is now (champagne talking to her emotively, but talk it would) under the sway of another. And, what is more, she now realises, this other has one under sway whom she badly needs to be sitting with her at table tonight making her feel, what she has so far not felt – that she is a beloved birthday girl? But she stops herself. And further, to make up for the mean, private thought about his thinning hair, she puts her arms around him and gives him a big hug, slightly harder than she might under normal circumstances since, really, the hug contains a good deal of her pain. He sways, backs off a little, catches his trainer heel in the leg of the hall stand, and down he goes – quite well really – either his trips to the gym have paid off or it is the natural crumple of one who has been imbibing Highland malt. Celia, at a loss and still holding on, goes down with him in a flurry of aquamarine and petticoat.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says a voice in the hallway. ‘Who’s that underneath you?’ The owner of the voice kneels down and pulls at Celia’s shoulders saying, as he lifts her upwards, in a passionate tone, ‘And why couldn’t it be me?’

  ‘Tom!’ she gasps.

  ‘Hallo, Tom,’ says John from the floor, still bright with bonhomie. ‘I was hoping you’d be here, old man. How are things?’

  They exchange a few pleasantries before Tom goes off to the lavatory.

  In the dining room no one seems to have noticed her absence. Straightening her hair and her face she takes John in, makes room for him at the table and departs for the kitchen.

  She puts the blade of her knife deep into the veal which spouts the perfect pink juice of a correctly cooked joint. Which restores her. She takes it out of the oven and sets it on the dish to rest a little before carrying it in for carving. Then, mopping her brow, she begins to muster the vegetables – which need little attention – and wonders, annoyed, what is happening to her life. While she is pondering this and checking that the Kenyan beans are exactly right, a hand creeps round her waist and up on to her breast. She is not going to get caught again. She takes the hand and pushes it away, saying easily, ‘Oh Tom. Not again, please.’

  Alex, jumping as if he has been bitten, says, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  We all like to think that we can think quickly under fire, Celia amazes herself by discovering this talent now.

  ‘Joke, darling,’ she says, turning.

  He looks mollified, even smiles – then he produces a laugh, a gay laugh, one that Celia would usually recognise as heralding some kind of defeat or guilt on his part, but she is so immersed in her own that she does not recognise it for anything other than – a gay laugh.

  ‘Darling,’ he says, ‘I wanted to make sure it was all right about my going away tomorrow. You know that if I could get out of it I would. Don’t you?’

  So that’s it. He’s feeling bad about all that. She looks at his anxious face. Like a naughty schoolboy’s. Well – if she was feeling annoyed and hurt over him, she is feeling doubly so about Hazel. Perhaps there is a silver lining to be had here? If Alex is away, taking the bloody Brandreth case with him, she can concentrate on evening things up with her friend. She will wrest the children from the grasp of the munificent Jo’s nanny and take them on the river. That’s what she will do. One in the eye for Josephine and a Brownie point from Hazel for her.

  ‘I don’t care. Not really,’ she says, and taking Alex’s head in her hands (only slightly greasy from the meat, it was low-fat after all) she gives him a long, lingering kiss.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ says a voice from the doorway. ‘Not another one. I can see I shall have to reassess my opinion of Pure Mother Earth if this goes on ...’

  Alex jumps.

  Celia, determined to avoid explanation, and also determined to show Tom how much she enjoys being a happily married woman, attempts to continue the kiss, but Alex will have none of it. Not in public. Besides, he is not at all sure he likes the way Celia said she didn’t care. So he moves away, twice affronted, rubbing at his cheek where the slightly greasy deposit still lingers. To Tom this looks as if he is wiping away the embrace.

  He glares at Alex. ‘You swine,’ Celia distinctly hears him say.

  ‘What?’ says Alex, still wiping.

  ‘More wine, I think,’ says Celia.

  ‘Of course,’ says Alex, and he picks up the two breathing bottles and carries them in, calling over his shoulder, ‘All right to move on to the red now, darling?’

  ‘Fine,’ she calls after him. ‘Tom!’ she says warningly, for he seems to be advancing. He pays no attention but continues onwards to the washing machine.

  ‘I’m taking this out,’ he says positively, pressing and pulling at the door. ‘You – apparently – don’t need it.’ He laughs. And then the laughter turns to sourness, a true sign o
f inebriation. ‘Apparently it’s only me who doesn’t turn you on. You’re at it all over the place with everybody else ...’

  He is scrabbling at the concave door ineffectually.

  ‘Why did you have to choose me to play the madonna with? Open this door at once. Such gifts are not for you.’

  Celia is damned if she will. More than ever now, faced with a bleak weekend, she looks forward to opening it. After all, Alex will be away. Hazel does not need her, and she will be forty. She stands sentinel before the concave opening.

  ‘You will not,’ she says, and realises that she is still holding the sharp knife. Tom backs off, smiling fearfully.

  ‘Jezebel ...’ he says, continuing the Biblical theme.

  ‘Make up your mind.’ She laughs. ‘I can’t be both.’

  ‘I like it when you laugh,’ he says. ‘Susannah doesn’t do it very often.’

  Celia thinks this is a nice variation on the wifely lack of understanding theme.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she says. ‘Get away with you!’

  He leans against the wall and folds his arms and looks at her. It is a very exciting look. He is always going to be a very attractive man. He says huskily, ‘The offer is still open, you know.’

  With the wall behind him he almost looks sober. He certainly looks dangerous.

  Celia says, ‘Have you still got the flat in Belgravia?’ The words are out before she has thought about it.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he says. ‘You haven’t forgotten then ...? No, as a matter of fact –’ his voice is low and full of the remembered pleasure of a satisfactory business deal – ‘I sold it for a nice margin. I’ve got one in Shepherd Market now. Empty most of the time. Like to try it?’

  She puts a Kenyan bean in her mouth and crunches it, just in case there is the remotest possibility of the word ‘Yes’ popping out. Suddenly he lunges at her and takes the disappearing other end of the bean in his own mouth. They stand there, very close, sucking maniacally, each determined not to let the other win.

  ‘What on earth are you two doing?’