Monday Lunch in Fairyland and Other Stories

by Angela Huth

  Imogen had long been of the opinion that if only one could explain to the person one was meeting the circumstances one had arrived from, and they could do the same, then moods and behaviour would be much easier to understand. Contact would be altogether more simple: fewer mistakes would be made, fewer confusions entered. But in the frenzy of social communication there is no time for such niceties. Besides, explanations have little appeal. Best to keep your silence, and to put on a face that betrays nothing of ordeals past. Thus, when Imogen met Giles in the Algonquin lobby that Friday afternoon, and he asked how she was, she replied quite convincingly that she was fine.

  In truth, this was far from the case. She was more exhausted than she could ever remember: waxy-limbed and light-headed. Five days of ruthless New York summer had flayed her. The temperate breezes of Hyde Park are no training for the enervating humidity of Manhattan, and as Imogen hurried from showroom to showroom, from the blasts of icy, indoor air to the cloying stuff that lapped randily against her outside, she was increasingly irritated by her own inability to beat the weather. The heat had made her unattractive, too: curling hair and shining face. But by now, Friday, she no longer cared. She wished only to arrive at Giles and Olivia’s country house, and to sleep.

  In the midday semi-darkness of the Algonquin’s Rose Room Giles ate his lunch: prawns big as handcuffs gripping the edge of a glass full of lettuce. Imogen sipped at chilled orange juice. She thought she probably smelt quite bad, after a terrible morning spending the last of her backers’ money – no time to change her clothes. But Giles made no comment. He did not even avert his nose. They spoke of England. They spoke of the American liking for English muffins. They watched the lobby door. Each time a new arrival swung through, the brown light was sparked by icicles of sun, horrible reminder of the gaudy light outside. Imogen dreaded the journey to the country: they were to travel by bus.

  Then Piero arrived. Giles had not warned that he was coming. He shook a cool hand with Imogen. Too weary to entertain any real form of vanity, Imogen cursed her appearance: even in the poor light, she thought, she could not have made a memorable first impression.

  Piero, by contrast, dazzled in the awareness of his own good looks. (In retrospect, for all its handsomeness, she could remember nothing of his face.) He wore an old silk shirt, forget-me-not blue, unquestionably Turnbull & Asser. Gucci shoes, Gucci belt. International shit stamped all over him. And yet his fluent English, with its Italian lilt, was instantly appealing. Any other time, Imogen felt, she would have been inclined towards him, knowing that such men are the merest weekend visitors; but often a weekend is all that is required.

  She sat beside him on the bus. He read extracts from a magazine article on how to be a good weekend guest. They weren’t very funny, but they both laughed. Giles, leaning over from his seat behind them, said, ‘What’s up, you two?’ and in reply they laughed again. Through the windows Imogen noticed that Up-State New Jersey, or wherever, was becoming quite rural: wooden houses with unfenced gardens, the pillared terraces of middle-class O’Hara land.

  Olivia and Giles had rented a white clapboard house more deeply hidden from its neighbours than most. There was a real field to one side. The garden was untidy as an English cottage garden: a muddle of lavender and roses, longish grass, bush honeysuckle that had outgrown its strength and trailed long wisps of curling yellow flowers.

  Olivia neglected the garden in favour of the house. The table was already beautifully set for dinner on the terrace: matching cloth and napkins strewn with poppies, scarlet candles protected from the breeze by globes of smoked glass. Baskets of pink geraniums hung from every pillar. A warm sweet smell of roasting apples came from the kitchen. But Imogen felt too weak for appreciation. She asked if she might sleep for an hour before dinner. Olivia showed her to a room from a Disney film – painted floorboards, ruffled curtains, and frilled cushions scattered over the white bed. Imogen paused only to look for a bluebird on the window sill, then fell asleep.

  Later, having had a bath, feeling and looking better, Imogen returned to the terrace. Two other English guests, David and Camilla, lay on cushioned chairs. Piero gave his seat to Imogen and sat beside her on the floor. Everybody drank Daiquiris. They talked quietly, aware of the prickling noise of crickets in the garden beyond them. In the pale darkness, fireflies skittered about, restless as fireworks.

  ‘Are there still fireflies in England?’ someone asked.

  They ate iced green soup and chicken in a lemon sauce. There was much wine and the candle flames bent about in their glass globes, twisting faces into fluid shadows. Imogen, opposite Piero, noticed the gravity of his eyes whenever he looked at her, which was often. She laughed to herself, thinking that such seriousness must come from nefarious intent rather than probity of character. A young student came from the kitchen bearing yet more wine. Fat knees sprouted beneath sawn-off jeans, and pebble glasses magnified her eyes. Huge breasts sprawled beneath her tee-shirt and her hair hung in greasy locks. She was unsmiling, protected by her own thoughts from the hilarity at the table. Olivia said she was called Di and was marvellous with the children, better than many au pairs from Europe. Imogen thought: thank God I’m not sixteen. Giles said,

  ‘Now for the grass. Believe it or not, it’s grown by the local policeman.’

  A joint was passed round. Olivia was the only one to refuse it. She smiled at them all, a tolerant hostess. David told a long story about some experience with the BBC. His wife interrupted to dispute every fact. There seemed to be constant laughter and the former neatness of the table slipped into disarray. Then everyone but Imogen and Piero got up: it was midnight. Music came from the house. There were cries of ‘Let’s dance!’ Piero leant across the table to light Imogen’s cigarette.

  ‘Later I will come,’ he said, and seemed put out by Imogen’s giggling response.

  ‘You’re like something out of a third-rate drawing-room comedy,’ she said. But she thought that any other time she would have been pleased. Not flattered – she was, after all, the only single woman, and in such conditions she had learned that men are hopelessly indiscriminate. No, not flattered, but amenable. As it was they gazed into each other’s eyes, full of differing intentions. Then, in what she supposed was a resolute manner, Imogen wished Piero good night and went to bed. She did not disturb the other two couples who were dancing with each other’s husbands and wives. As her frilly white room spun about her, and the floorboards turned to liquid, Imogen realised that apart from being exhausted she was both a little drunk and very stoned. She did not remember getting into bed.

  Piero joined her some time later. Two, he said it was. He’d had to wait so long, bored, until the others came upstairs. Imogen was too dazed to comment. Or to resist. They lay together with the peculiar closeness of strangers who have no desire to analyse their nakedness. Then they made love. Piero prised Imogen from her state of drowsiness. She was awake, alert, uncaring. They made love many times, till dawn blanched the frilly curtains, and for decorum Piero had to return to his own room.

  When Imogen came down at midday she found the others on the terrace, pristine again, the table re-set for lunch. Giles handed her a drink, iced vodka and orange. Olivia asked – was that a suppressed smile at the corner of her mouth? – if she had slept well. Piero kissed her on the cheek and sat on the ground beside her chair. She noticed looks pass between Camilla and David. Could escapades, she wondered, in a house of that size, go undetected? Not that she really cared. No one, surely, would be foolish enough to convey their suspicions to Piero’s wife.

  Imogen noticed, in the speckled shade of the terrace, that everyone looked pale. They talked with vivacity. Giles complained of a hangover. At lunch, beneath the jokes, Imogen sensed a tension between them all she could not define. She decided to take a risk, investigate.

  ‘Did you all go to bed very late?’ she asked.

  ‘Terribly,’ said Olivia with a smile, then a frown.

  ‘You shouldn’t have missed the danci
ng,’ said David, glancing at Imogen then back to Olivia. ‘Oh, it was wild.’

  ‘As far as I can remember, we were almost asleep on our feet,’ said Giles. Camilla looked at him. ‘Christ! Sleep, this afternoon. That’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘But I thought we’d go down to the river,’ said Olivia. ‘We can swim. It won’t be that icy in this heat.’ Giles nodded, his head too painful to argue.

  They drove to a deserted valley and spread rugs on the flat rocks that banked the river. The heat came down upon them in great fat gusts, making them feeble. There was some discussion about how you could tell the place was American – how, for all its similarities, it could never be confused with a Scottish valley, or a Somerset one. But the argument, half-hearted in the first place, soon petered out. Giles fell asleep. Piero indicated to Imogen that they should explore a little.

  She walked beside him in the blaring sun. He was barefoot, wore faded jeans. Tanned body. She was able to look at him properly for the first time, and remembered the energies of the night.

  ‘They’re all so uptight,’ he said, petulantly, but his accent gave some charm to the observation.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re just tired and bored and fancying each other.’

  Piero laughed.

  He found them a triangle of soft grass shaded by silver birches and pillowed with bushes of wild honeysuckle. They could no longer see the river, but could hear its shallow waters jumping from one level to another, filling rock pools, spilling over and gurgling on its way. There were butterflies, the sound of insects. The heat was almost tangible, oppressive. They lay on the grass and talked of Swann’s Way. Piero rolled a joint. Its effects worked quickly. Imogen was convinced they spoke with great erudition. Her thoughts danced along in time with the river. Piero agreed with everything she said. He kissed her. She pushed him away only for a moment.

  ‘Proust said one should always show great indulgence for platonic love,’ she said.

  ‘Of course one should.’

  Piero the stranger was all over her, smelling of hash and sweat and warm grass, telling her to shut up about Proust and to open her eyes.

  Later they all swam in the river and lay spread-eagled on the rocks to dry. Back at the house Di the student was giving tea to two small children on the terrace. She frowned at them through her thick glasses.

  ‘Hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves,’ she said, sullenly.

  That evening a slight breeze shifted the heat from place to place, scattering the fireflies, making small showers of them brush against the insect screen. Whisky-sour in her hand, candle flames trembling among the flowers, Imogen lay back in a bank of cushions and delighted in a feeling of total irresponsibility. The weekend had by now become quite misted, a mirror in which reflections were beautifully distorted. Through it she saw that Olivia remained with a straight back and neat smile, efficiently organising, symbol of weekday reality. The rest of them – though she could have been mistaken, judgement impaired by joints and alcohol – seemed to flicker dangerously towards each other, as if to test how near they could come to some sort of explosion before withdrawing.

  At dinner, Imogen found herself very gay. Centre of attention. Funny. She made them laugh so much. She could say almost anything and they would respond with laughter. They urged her to wilder anecdotes and, with the pressure of Piero’s leg against hers under the table, she became unusually histrionic.

  Then, music again.

  ‘Piero, dance with me,’ said Olivia. He politely did so, then led Imogen into the small dark room where the music played. Camilla and Giles followed. Olivia and David. There was no pretence of wanting to change partners. A pale moon lit fragments of a fluttering skirt, a decorous smile. Ruth Etting sang Bye-Bye Blackbird.

  ‘Such antics,’ Imogen whispered to Piero.

  ‘Perché non?’

  ‘Why not, indeed? Imogen felt his hands cradle her neck. He gently pushed back her head to expose her mouth. The others, equally involved, did not seem to notice. Imogen wished that she was in love with Piero, not merely full of silly elation and insatiable desire.

  In bed, very late again, Piero explained how very happy he was with his wife. Had he not been so happy, he would not be here, now, would he? Of course not, conceded Imogen. They had two small children, he went on, and wanted two more. That would be nice, agreed Imogen. But he didn’t feel guilty, somehow, because his wife would never know, would she? And what was a man supposed to do, alone?

  Quite. Imogen allowed herself to be pulled closer. She liked the thought of tomorrow: the last day of sleepy pleasure, the last night. She would try to keep Piero off the subject of his children – his wife she didn’t care about. Then, Monday – New York. London. Over. Sated?

  ‘You are funny,’ Piero was saying. ‘You make me laugh. Sei molto simpatica.’

  ‘Ma non!’ She felt she was only very tired, melting, but infinitely wanting.

  ‘Vieni qua, e qua.’

  Speaking Italian, somehow, increased their desire.

  It always surprised Imogen how two days in the same place, so close to each other, could be so very different. Sunday morning was outwardly no different from Saturday: same sun, same sitting about on the terrace with drinks and papers. And yet there was a sense of unease. Indefinable but strong. Imogen felt it as soon as she took a chair. This morning Piero did not kiss her, or look up from his paper. Camilla asked her husband some question and he didn’t bother to reply. Giles, behind his dark glasses, rolled his eyes towards Camilla.

  As usual Olivia was the only one to be bustling about. Much to everyone’s annoyance she had asked eight for dinner that night, and was arranging two tables. Imogen asked if she might help. No, said Olivia, sharply. She requested instead that Piero should open some white wine for lunch. He followed her into the kitchen.

  It began to occur to Imogen, through the liquid, light-headed state caused by lack of sleep, love-making, hash and drink, that she had done something to offend Olivia. Perhaps Olivia did not approve of whatever it was she may have suspected between Imogen and Piero. Imogen sighed, still unable to care very much. The weekend was nearly over: she might never see any of these people again. Besides, Olivia and David had seemed very happy dancing together the night before. Perhaps she was imagining the whole thing, and Olivia was merely irritable because she had so much to do, and was not feeling up to it after two very late nights.

  After lunch both married couples went to bed. Imogen and Piero lay in the shade in the garden.

  ‘Olivia’s giving me some funny looks,’ he said.

  ‘So you noticed, too? Jealousy.’

  ‘She’s a great friend of my wife.’

  ‘Ah. Surely she wouldn’t say anything?’

  ‘Women often believe it the kindest thing to do, to tell a friend who her husband is screwing.’

  ‘Screwing?’ said Imogen. She hadn’t thought of it like that before.

  ‘Not that I’m just screwing,’ Piero went on, in a kindly voice. ‘I love listening to you talk, as well. If my wife knew that it would make it worse, of course.’

  ‘Well, our time is almost up.’

  ‘I wish it wasn’t. I’d like to spend a week with you in New York.’

  His funny accent made such banalities almost endearing.

  ‘Nonsense. We’re too old to confuse a weekend adventure with anything more lasting. Everything has its allotted time. We should recognise that and not try to change it.’

  ‘You’re horribly practical. Kiss me.’

  She kissed him.

  ‘Are you incurably unfaithful?’

  ‘Incurably. It doesn’t stop me loving my wife. And you – how is the expression? – have swept me off my rocker.’

  Imogen laughed and fell asleep in his arms.

  Olivia had invited the neighbours for dinner. Pretty boring, she said, apologetically, but she would be grateful if an effort could be made. Imogen put on her prettiest dress – for Piero, not for them. Demure Liberty pri
nt cotton. She pinned a skein of honeysuckle in her hair. Alone with him for a moment on the stairs, she let Piero compliment her with the inimicable gallantry of the Italian race.

  As the English were to be outnumbered by Americans tonight, it was American habits they had politely to adhere to. Drinking began early: the guests arrived very late, eager for Martinis. They did not sit down to dinner till after ten. Olivia had put Imogen on a different table from Piero. His back was towards her and she could see he was flanked by two large women. Pity it had to be like this, the last night, she thought. She made an effort to concentrate on the lawyer on her left and the chairman of a cement firm on her right. She was of the belief that if there is one other person in a room with whom you exist in private harmony, that is good protection from the tedium of all the others. All the same, conversation was not inspired.

  The avocado mousse was finished. Imogen noticed Piero was no longer at his table. She looked about. She had not seen him leave. His neighbours were speaking to each other across the canyon of his empty chair: politeness no disguise to the kind of indignation which always strikes women who are left talking together at a party. Piero took a long time to return. When he did, it was with a huge bowl of spaghetti. He was followed by the student, in her ubiquitous sawn-off jeans, carrying jugs of sauce.

  Imogen’s glass was constantly full. The talking of cementing problems became a drone in her ears. She was suddenly aware of empty plates, everyone moving. Piero had disappeared again.

  Disinclined to join the general babble – they had moved to the comfortable chairs at the end of the terrace – Imogen began to clear the table. For all the heat of the night she felt a coldness about her skin. In retrospect, she thought that it was probably then, stacking plates, that she knew: though the knowledge had not yet hardened into absolute conviction. Then she had piled everything into the unruly kitchen – only the winteriness of her limbs stopped her from the ultimate gesture of washing up – and moved back to the terrace, looking for Piero.