by Gemma Fox
‘I didn’t know you could still do that or get those,’ said Carol, running her fingers over glittering fish scales of sequins on the lapels of Adie’s jacket.
He tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ he said.
Netty pulled a face. ‘You are so bloody gullible. He bought it in Barnado’s.’
Adie pouted. ‘Spoilsport; come on, let’s go down and eat; I’m starving. Where did Jan get to?’
‘I think she already went downstairs,’ said Netty, shimmying across the floor and pulling a carrier bag that clinked cheerily out from under her bed. Adie did the same.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Carol. ‘She seemed a bit off with everyone.’
Netty shrugged. ‘Oh come on, she’s always a bit off with everybody; it’s what Jan does best—although I think we’re all knackered. I don’t know about you but I can’t stand the pace these days. I’ll have a word with her when we get downstairs. Just don’t be long,’ she added over her shoulder as they headed back downstairs. ‘And I hope you’ve brought something quiet and understated to wear. We don’t want her showing us up, do we, Adie?’
At which point Diana burst in. ‘Bloody Christians,’ she said, red-faced, hair all awry and cardigan flapping as Adie leaped out of her way. ‘I couldn’t believe it. One sniff of a disco and they were like something possessed. It’s dreadful down there. Complete and utter bedlam.’ Angrily she toed off her shoes and began pulling her cardigan off over her head, grabbing a towel from the bed, as she headed off to the showers.
‘What do you mean? Have they complained?’ said Carol, as Diana started to unbutton her shirt.
‘Complained? Good God, no, there’s about a dozen of them in the hall, pawing their way through Dave’s record collection, looking for special requests, even as we speak. The Bay City Rollers were the last things I heard being discussed when I left. It’s going to be pandemonium tonight,’ she said grimly.
‘You’re very welcome to stay,’ said Leonora, clearing away the supper things into the dishwasher.
On the far side of the kitchen table Jasmine shook her head.
‘I’d better be getting back home.’ She started to gather her things together, her handbag and cigarettes, her cardigan.
Watching her, Leonora was torn between longing to be alone and wanting Jasmine to stay. How crazy was that?
‘Are you angry with me?’ Jasmine said quietly.
Leonora looked at her, eyes bright with tears. ‘No, oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel. It’s like I’ve woken up in someone else’s life.’
Jasmine paled. ‘I didn’t know about you.’
‘I believe you,’ said Leonora. ‘I just don’t believe him. How could he?’ The control she had been holding tight to was quickly ebbing away.
‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, though?’ said Jasmine. ‘If I go?’
Leonora nodded, sniffing to hold back the tidal wave of tears. ‘You’ll be here tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘To go and see Gareth? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’d quite understand. It’s not going to be easy.’
Jasmine turned to face her, pale-faced and instantly angry. ‘What, and let him get away with it? I want to see the look on his face, in his eyes, when he sees the pair of us.’
There was an iciness in her voice that Leonora almost envied, and for a few moments Leonora wondered if it would feel better if she wanted retribution or had a need for revenge rather than an explanation. ‘I just wanted to make sure,’ she said.
‘Yes, I want to be there. I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ said Jasmine, heading for the door. ‘Thanks for the food…’ She paused as if unsure what to say, ‘…and everything.’
Leonora nodded and the two women looked at each other. There were re ally no words to express what they felt, nor how big the thing was that they shared. Unsure quite how to end it, Leonora hugged Jasmine awkwardly and when all at once they were done, Jasmine pulled back and looked Leonora up and down as if fixing her in her mind, smiled a bleak little smile and then she turned, opened the front door and was gone.
Leonora stood for a long while in the hall, listening to the house cooling down after the heat of the day, listening to her thoughts, and then went back into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. The clock ticked, the tap dripped, the house seemed so very empty.
As if she could sense the tension in the air, Maisie began to mewl softly in her pram. Leonora was relieved. At least now there was something else for her to do and to occupy her mind other than Gareth and Jasmine and the baby they had made and how it was she had never guessed, never known that he was playing away, or how it was that she had never seen any of this coming.
Anger and grief and loss and fear threatened to overwhelm her. Leonora picked Maisie up and carried her through into the sitting room. Outside, beyond the bay window, the sunlight was turning to old gold, the warm light softening the day into evening. Leonora curled herself up in one of the big armchairs by the hearth and snuggled Maisie close. The baby cooed with pleasure and then hungrily brushed up against her, nuzzling for milk.
Leonora settled down to feed her. Whatever Gareth did there was nothing he could say or do that could ever rob her of her joy of this, the smell and soft touch of a baby against her breast and suddenly—in amongst everything else—she felt sad for him. Whatever Gareth said to her, whatever he promised, she would never trust him again. He had lost all the things that they shared and that he had once wanted. There was no way he could ever get them back. He had thrown them all away—her, Jasmine, Patrick and Maisie, and the baby Jasmine was carrying—and Leonora knew then with a peculiar sense of clarity and assurance that whatever else happened she and the children would be fine. It might take a while but they would be all right.
‘And now for all you groovy funk-filled rockers out there, that great Status Quo classic “Rocking all over the World”.’
Dave, sweating like a weight lifter, smiled nervously into the microphone, his teeth unnaturally white under the ultraviolet disco lights. He looked like a man with a loaded gun to his head. On one side of the podium two of the stage crew were busy sorting through his record collection, although as Carol peered through the gloom and the smoke from the dry-ice machine, she realised that the second member of the editorial committee appeared to be one of the lay preachers.
Diana handed her a tumbler. ‘There we are,’ she said with a smile. ‘Get that across your chest. You’ll feel all the better for it.’
Carol sniffed it suspiciously. ‘I thought Netty was going to get Scotch as a tribute to days and card games past.’
‘Rum and Coke,’ Diana said. ‘Apparently it was on special at the offie and Netty let economy get in the way of sentiment.’ Diana took a long pull on her own glass. ‘Mm, good choice, though,’ she purred. ‘The first one slipped down a treat.’
Carol laughed. ‘My God, who said you couldn’t take the vicarage out of the girl?’
Diana lifted her glass in salute.
Carol took a sip, it tasted sickly sweet, deeply alcoholic—a taste right out of her past—and Diana was right. Mixing subversively with Merlot from supper it would probably do her the power of good. She drank a little more and then a little more and then smiled.
Out in the middle of the dance floor, Duncan and Banquo were busy dancing up a storm, hands on their hips, feet apart, firmly rooted to the spot, they were doing the boy dance known and loved by ageing rockers everywhere. Carol stared—surely something so universal ought to have a name, but if it did it had passed her by. The backstage crew joined them. Hands on hips, they were bending forward from the waist, swinging down diagonally towards the floor and then back up again in time with a driving rock beat, red-faced and sweating hard, surrounded by the rest of the gang. Presumably, thought Carol, taking another pull on her rum and Coke, they could all afford osteopaths these days.
After a few more moments Adie joined in, followed by Netty. Carol glanced around, w
ondering where Gareth had got to—come to that, Jan and Fiona. Netty and Diana had flanked her at supper, seemingly hellbent on keeping her away from him, and Jan hadn’t said a word all through the meal. Fiona hadn’t put in an appearance since the end of rehearsals, but then there was nothing new in that. She was probably having a little lie-down somewhere, or possibly a migraine, no doubt having persuaded the ladies in the kitchen to bring her supper and a milky drink up on a tray.
‘And now boys and girls—’ on the stage Dave paused, looking left and right at his two censors—‘how do we feel about Wham!?’ he asked apprehensively, sotto voce.
There was a nasty little pause and then the lay preacher very deliberately handed him a single. Dave scanned the label and pulled the mike a little closer. ‘Next up it’s “Paranoid” by the immortal, all-time kings of metal, Black Sabbath,’ he said with a forced smile. There was a loud roar from a phalanx of lay preachers who had joined the line of people with hands on their hips and started to dance with remarkable abandon and agility.
Carol, cradling her drink, watched in amazement. ‘Is Hedley like that?’ she asked Diana conversationally.
‘Oh God, yes, there’s no stopping him,’ said Diana, poker-faced, as she topped up their glasses. ‘When he’s not out visiting the sick and ministering to the needy we’re up in the loft in leather gear re-enacting scenes from Meat Loaf videos.’
Carol laughed so hard she inhaled half a glass of Lamb’s Navy rum. It occurred to her that in some ways it was a pity Gareth was around at all. It almost spoiled things by adding a layer of intrigue and desire and maturity it would be nice to forget about for a while. How much better to take a leaf out of the Christians’ book and just get smashed with your friends and have a fun time without worrying how you looked?
As if reading her mind, Diana pointed out a man in a rather nasty toupee in the dance line, who was putting so much effort in to his particular version of the rocker’s revenge that it looked if he may very well spontaneously combust at any second.
‘You want to dance?’ Diana said. ‘After all we can’t look any dafter than this lot.’
Carol took one last glance round the hall. Gareth was still nowhere in sight. ‘Yeah, OK. Why not?’ And with that she stepped out onto the floor.
Meanwhile, up in her bedroom up in the east wing, Callista Haze was retouching her lipstick and tidying her hair. Not that discos were her scene re ally, but it would be churlish not to at least put in an appearance. George had seemed terribly keen to go when they’d been talking about it over supper, their conversation aided and abetted by a bottle of red wine provided by the students.
‘Of course you’ve got to come,’ he’d said when she had expressed her doubts. ‘It’ll be wonderful. A little Travolta, Saturday Night Fever—you can’t stay in your room.’ He got up and pushed his chair under the table. ‘I used to be very light on my feet when I was younger, back in the good old days. You must remember.’
Callista smiled as he executed a rather unsteady pirouette and struck a classic disco pose. Oh, yes, she remembered all right.
Callista glanced in the mirror. She was wearing a tailored cream shirt and black trousers, and in the lamplight, give or take a few lines, she didn’t look so very different from when she and George had first met. Her hair was almost the same colour, courtesy of the local salon, and she was still the same size, although it was increasingly difficult to keep that way. Callista added a dab of perfume behind each ear and smiled at her reflection.
It was flattering that George still carried a torch for her and, after all, what harm would a dance or two do? Tomorrow she would be going home with Laurence and the girls, and she and George would probably never see each other again. The idea made her start. It was a sobering thought. One last dance for old times’ sake; Callista sighed; there was no point in dwelling on the past or the things that could not be changed. Life had moved on, she had moved on.
Callista could hear the bass beat coming from downstairs. George had gallantly offered to call for her at eight.
‘I’ll give a little knock,’ is what he’d said as they had wandered upstairs after supper.
Callista glanced at the bedside clock, it was almost 8.15 and there was still no sign of him. She wondered fleetingly whether he had finally taken the hint and decided that what had been between them was over. Although as she stepped out onto the landing it struck her, more pragmatically, that after drinking the best part of a bottle of wine he’d probably forgotten he’d said he would call for her or, worst still, had passed out.
Callista closed her door and looked up and down the landing. It was deserted. Maybe George had already gone downstairs. She hesitated; surely he wouldn’t re ally have gone without her, would he?
She was about to head down to the disco on her own when some instinct, some sixth sense, made her turn on her heel and head down towards the boys’ dormitory and George’s bedroom at the far end of the corridor. The door to his room was very slightly ajar, which struck her as odd.
‘George?’ she called softly, knocking with one knuckle, not re ally expecting any reply. To her surprise there was a muffled sob from inside. Callista pushed the door open a little wider.
Sitting on the end of the bed, caught in a pallid circle of lamplight, head in his hands, was George Bearman. He was dressed in tight blue jeans, a white silk shirt with the cuffs turned back and, worst of all, he had his shirt undone to reveal a plump hairy chest and a gold medallion. He was crying.
‘Oh, George,’ Callista said anxiously.
It took a moment or two for him to realise she was there and then he looked up, all redfaced and red-eyed, his face a mask of total despair.
‘Callista, what on earth am I going to do?’ he spluttered. ‘It’s terrible—to be honest I’m not sure that I want to go on any more.’
She sat down beside him and patted his knee. ‘Come along now, George, this re ally won’t do, will it? You have to get a grip. I had no idea that you felt like this about me. I never guessed all those years ago and I certainly can’t be held responsible now. You shouldn’t have drunk all that wine at supper. Please stop crying.’ She pulled a tissue out of her bag. ‘Here, wipe your eyes. It was all such a long time ago now.’ She made an effort to sound warm while adding something a little more nononsense to try and make him pull himself together.
George looked up at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Sorry?’ he said, as if trying to work out what she had just said. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean? What was a long time ago?’
Callista paused and then began afresh. ‘Ah, my mistake. What exactly are we talking about?’
George handed her his mobile phone. ‘It’s Judy. She’s left me. She’s met someone else, apparently. At the church choir. What on earth am I going to do?’
Callista peered down at the tiny screen; it took a very particular sort of person to end what must be at least forty years of marriage with a text message. The last line read, ‘I’ve had enough, George. By the time you get back I will be gone.’
Callista stared at him. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
He sniffed miserably. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. How could she leave me after all these years when I bloody well stayed so long for her?’
Because she always knew that your heart wasn’t in it, Callista thought sadly, aware that thinking was one thing but that it most certainly wasn’t the right thing to say. ‘Is there anyone you could ring? How about your friends or family—brothers or sisters?’
‘I’ve got a sister in Hastings.’
‘There we are then,’ said Callista briskly. ‘And you must have some friends locally.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. One or two. People I play golf with.’
‘People you could talk to? People you could stay with?’
George nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Callista painted on a happy face. ‘Well, there, that’s a start. Now go and wash your face and I’ll see if I can find another bottle of wine downsta
irs.’ She paused mid-stride.
George pulled out a large paisley handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘I know what you’re about to say, Callista. That the show must go on. And of course, I know that you’re right. You always were such an inspiration, a real trouper…’
That wasn’t what Callista had planned to say at all. In fact quite the reverse, she was going to suggest George ring his sister and think about leaving early to see if he could catch Judy but smiled and bit her tongue.
While George set about washing his face. Callista scrolled back through the text. Judy, it seemed, felt that she was wasting the last few good years of her life rotting away in a loveless lonely marriage and was going to grab what little time she had left, fearlessly, with both hands before it was too late. She was apparently madly and passionately in love with someone called Graham, who sang tenor in the choir and had retired from the civil service. At least she had had the good grace to write four linked texts with proper punctuation.
When George came back from the bathroom he looked pink and shiny and rather tearful but, even so, he smiled and said conspiratorially, ‘You know I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it’s all for the best, after all. Maybe it’s fate, karma.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Let’s go downstairs. Dance all our troubles away. You know what they say, as one door closes another always opens.’
Callista hesitated. She wanted to say not always, and most certainly not this door but she hadn’t got the heart.
As they stepped out of George’s room they came across Gareth Howard deep in conversation with Fiona Templeton. Callista nodded in acknowledgement as they passed and to her horror as she did, Gareth grinned and then winked at her. Callista felt her colour rising, as it occurred to her how it must look; the two of them coming out of George’s room, him all red-faced and flustered.
As they got to the fire doors George dabbed at his face with his handkerchief and beamed at her. ‘Thank you for that, Callista. In some ways it’s a great relief, you know,’ he said. ‘You’re so good. I’m feeling better already.’
