by Sarah Long
She poured out two glasses and threw him a packet of Wotsits. ‘I’ll just go and get ready,’ she said, ‘don’t answer the phone or anything, will you?’
Rupert sipped his wine and started flicking through the book on Lacan. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he replied. ‘If anyone comes I’ll just hide in the garden shed.’
She left him to it and went up to the bathroom, stepping out of her pyjamas and into her underwear, then a brown wool suit, nothing flashy. As she applied her make-up in the mirror, she kept expecting him to appear behind her. If he came up now, she would have no choice, he would have forced her hand. It would be out of her control, unplanned, just one of those things she never meant to happen. She applied a peachy blusher; still no sign. Then an apricot lipstick. She wished he would.
He’s not coming, she thought as she applied her mascara, listening out for his step on the stairs. If he hasn’t come by the time I’ve brushed my hair, I’ll know he’s not coming.
Down the stairs she went, demure, correct, hair in a good-girl neat bun.
Hi,’ he said, looking up from his book, at ease as though he were in his own kitchen. ‘Is it me, or is this Lacan fellow seriously weird?’
‘He’s weird,’ Jane agreed, ‘very hung up on language, it’s like because “je veux” sounds like “cheveux”, he reckons that hair is an expression of desire.’
‘But only if you’re French.’
‘Exactly. Shall we go then?’
Rupert stood up. ‘That’s a nice coat,’ he said, nodding towards her fitted jacket.
She smiled. ‘Normally we call this a jacket,’ she said, ‘coats tend to be bigger.’
He shrugged. ‘As you know, clothes aren’t my bag. I just meant you looked lovely, that’s all.’
She blushed.
‘Shall we leave by separate entrances?’ he suggested.
‘I could escape through the back gardens.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
She wished he had been stupid, that he had carried her away so she didn’t have to think about the consequences.
He followed her out to the car.
‘I’m going to park near the school,’ she said, ‘then we can get a bus.’
‘Fine by me.’ He got into the passenger side and put an expansive arm round the back of her seat. ‘I’m putty in your hands,’ he teased, ‘just do with me what you will. And meanwhile I shall enjoy taking in your profile, which I don’t often have the opportunity to admire.’ He saw a straight temple, a gentle retrousse nose and lips that curved into a firmer line than you noticed from the front.
She glanced sideways at him as she pulled out. ‘Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.’
‘All right.’ He looked ahead instead. ‘So, a week together in Provence. Who’d have predicted that? What does Will think about it?’
‘He’s keen for us to go now there might be some money in it. I’ve set up a meeting with a French comedian who’s looking for a translator. He’s at La Garde Freinet, not far from you. I’m going to see him on the Tuesday. Leaving you free to bond with Will. You never know, you might become best buddies.’
Rupert pulled a face.
‘At least we’ll get to see each other every day,’ she said.
He stared stonily ahead. ‘And how do you think that will make me feel? Knowing you’re there, but not for me.’
‘It’s what we agreed, remember,’ she said gently. ‘The point is that we can do this, we can go on holiday all together, because we haven’t let things . . . develop. It is perfectly within the bounds of our friendship.’
‘Friendship!’ He laughed. ‘I feel like that Victorian painting, The Long Engagement, with the po-faced vicar standing next to the girl he’s supposed to marry in about fifty years once he’s saved up . . . I tell you what, why don’t you just stick me in a frame and hang me up in that museum we’re going to? It’s where I belong.’
Three hours later they were saying goodbye at Holborn tube.
‘That museum’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ said Jane. ‘Makes you want to turn back the years and become a Victorian collector. Though obviously with access to antibiotics.’
‘I suppose I could have been, if I’d been born earlier,’ said Rupert, ‘like my grandfather: he filled our house in the country with a whole load of paintings and stuff he bought on his travels.’
‘Yet here you are in the twenty-first century with your hedge fund. It still makes me think of cockerels cut out of privet. Or a row of beech edging a green field, or box plants edging a herb garden.’
‘I wish.’
‘Don’t you miss being able to go to your country house, though?’ she asked, ‘It must feel odd, having it rented out to strangers.’
‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a bind, a big house like that, it comes with a terrible sense of duty. And memories of being by myself in the school holidays — I’d look forward to coming home at the end of term, and then be enormously bored when I got there. And I don’t see the point of having forty-seven rooms when you can only be in one at a time. You end up sitting in one room and worrying about what needs doing in all the others. I prefer a simpler life.’
‘I’m not sure Lydia would agree,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t think “simple” features among her life goals.’
‘That’s true, but then she hates the country, except for the snob value of me having a country seat. It suits her the way it is, rented out. But you’re right, a simple life is not what she’s about, very far from it. Lydia likes her life to be as crammed and as complicated and filled with stuff as it can be. Which is her charm, of course, all that energy. Saving me from my simple tendencies to wear drab clothes and stay at home. But let’s not talk about my fiancee.’
‘No.’
‘Better get back to work.’
‘Me too.’
He couldn’t bring himself to leave. ‘Have you ever thought of stopping work?’ he asked.
‘Do I get the impression you’re looking for an excuse to avoid going back to the office?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not really. I like it and I need the money. I couldn’t spend my life hanging round tile shops or looking for the ultimate sofa. And if I didn’t work, my daughter would become the entire focus of my life, which isn’t fair on her.’
‘No.’ He kicked a stone against the gutter. ‘Listen, Jane, I haven’t told Lydia this, but I’m thinking of starting up a business. Exporting plants to France and offering a gardening service. You know how envious the French are of English gardens, and they really don’t have a clue about garden design, apart from formal rigid box-beds in front of classical chateaux. All their best gardens have been done by Englishmen. The typical self-made French affair is a wall of evergreen enclosing a dull expanse of grass they call a pare with a solitary clump of pampas grass stuck in the middle.’
‘I think that sounds wonderful. But you’ll have to be a little more tactful if you want to get their business.’
‘Oh, I will, but it’s a growing market over there, they’re gagging to be shown how to do it.’
‘And this new business, would you run it from France?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you wouldn’t be living in London?’
‘No.’
There would be no more Friday-afternoon trysts. She wouldn’t see him any more.
‘I see,’ she said.
While Rupert and Jane were talking over his plans for a new business, Lydia was putting in a rare appearance at the office. It wasn’t necessary to he there, she could just as easily research her articles at home, but it was important to show her face once in a while. She especially enjoyed leaving early, reminding those obliged to stay behind that she got to choose her own hours.
So Will was lucky to catch her there when he rang the magazine. He no longer had her mobile number, it was years since they had been on intimate phone terms.
‘Will, what a surprise!’ she bellowed at him, for the benefit of the girls sittin
g at desks around her. It was important here to speak loudly on the phone, to sound confident and as if you knew everyone.
He had forgotten about that grating voice, and was momentarily put off. The last time he’d seen her had been at the engagement party when the general noise level would have flattened the sound of a foghorn. But what the hell, it would be fun.
‘I’m just round the corner,’ he said, ‘and thought you might fancy joining me for a drink.’
She looked at her watch: it was 12.45.
‘Still as mean as ever I see,’ she said. ‘I won’t meet you for a drink but I might take you up on lunch. Although I don’t want to push you into wanton extravagance when you should be saving up for our Easter holiday.’
‘All right then, lunch,’ said Will, smiling down the phone. ‘I’m in the Soho wine bar.’
Will looked up as Lydia came in five minutes later, turning a few heads with her striking red hair. She certainly knew how to make an entrance, and her dress sense was terrific. Unlike Jane, who seemed to be getting less and less interested in clothes.
‘Ha-llo,’ he said, raising an ironic Gary Grant eyebrow. ‘Hallo to you, Will,’ she replied, sitting down opposite him as he poured her a glass of wine. ‘This is all a bit of a surprise. May I ask to what I owe the pleasure?’
He sniffed the gooseberry high notes of his wine before replying, ‘Do I need a reason? As Pascal so eloquently put it, “Man is born for pleasure: he feels it, no further proof is needed”. Or in French, “L’homme est ne pour le plaisir: il le . . .”.’
‘All right, all right, no need to show off. I see you’re still doing a good job of playing Mr Boasty. Cheers!’
They clinked glasses.
‘You obviously believe I still have something to boast about,’ he said. ‘Why else would you have invited me to your fiancé’s clichéd holiday home in the sun? What I’m really curious to know is whether it is my fine conversation you are after, or something more . . . primal.’
Lydia threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You’ve invited me today to see if you can prearrange a little bit of “how’s your father” for the Easter holidays. The answer’s no.’
He shrugged. ‘Pity. But it was worth a try.’
‘I’m engaged now, you know.’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of snatching the ageing bride from the altar, far from it. T was merely proposing some light relief from the rather stolid charms of your betrothed. Or are you going to tell me he’s dynamite in the sack?’
‘I’m not going to tell you any of my bedroom secrets, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Fine,’ he said, picking up the menu. ‘Shall we order?’
‘And I might remind you that Jane is my oldest friend.’
‘Didn’t stop you before.’
‘That was when I was going through a turbulent time.’
‘Beautifully turbulent, as I recall . . .’
The waiter came to take their order and Lydia made a point of choosing from the upper end of the menu. She folded her arms as if in defence of her position, as though further justification were necessary. ‘Rupert’s a lovely guy,’ she said, ‘and he is a proper gentleman, in the best sense of the word.’
‘Don’t give me that Burke’s Landed Gentry bollocks,’ said Will. ‘Ghastly jumped-up types, most of those phoney crests were only invented in the 1960s, you shouldn’t be taken in by the latin mottos and rampant demi-lions.’
‘His goes back to the seventeenth century, actually. But I’m not talking about that. I mean he’s a nice, considerate person.’
The words flopped damply onto the table. ‘Nice’ and ‘considerate’ were not big on sex appeal, bringing to mind bearded men who worked in the social services. She moved swiftly on. ‘And, yes, he does give me a . . . certain lifestyle. And financial security.’
That marvellous euphemism. She loved it the same way she loved all those other words: cash, liquid assets, bonds, global macro returns. ‘Incubator funds’ was one of her favourites: tiny, fragile bits of premature money, hot-housed to grow into full maturity. Thinking of Rupert’s vast sums of money never failed to perk her up and quell the doubts that occasionally reared their ugly heads, whispering was she sure about this marriage? She sometimes wondered if he wasn’t a bit staid for her, a bit slower off the mark than she was, a little bit boring, even. Though the word only had to creep into her mind before it was immediately discarded. It was too easy to dismiss someone as boring, and anyway, what did that say about her? Would Lydia Littlewood become engaged to someone who was a bit boring? Of course not.
‘So, to answer your question,’ she continued, ‘the reason I invited you and Jane to come on holiday with us was as friends, for intelligent company. Ft takes a suspicious mind like yours to look for an ulterior motive.’
‘Not so much suspicious as hopeful.’
He wondered what it would be like to make love to her again. There was a particular pleasure in rediscovering an ex, a comforting mix of nostalgia for the good times and the fresh excitement of a new conquest. It was like revisiting a city you hadn’t seen for a few years, familiar yet stamped by the passage of time. Lydia didn’t look as though she would disappoint; she hadn’t yet reached the age when the damage kicked in for women.
‘I must come clean,’ she said, ‘and admit I completely forgot about your daughter when I invited you. I hope she won’t be bored, there’s nothing for her to do there. Mind you, there’s nothing for adults to do either, apart from gaze at the hills and buy olives, it’s not exactly St Tropez. I would say bring the nanny to keep her entertained except you haven’t got one.’
‘Don’t worry about Liberty,’ said Will, ‘she’ll be happy enough, and Jane’s a very hands-on mother. A bit too much, I sometimes think. Always a temptation for women, to immerse themselves in their children and lose sight of themselves. I saw it happen with my ex-wife, and now I’m afraid Jane’s going rather the same way.’
He thought about Jane frowning behind her computer at the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of ironing and dictionaries, wearing her old cardigan as she toiled her way through the psychology textbook she was currently translating. Quite different from the woman who was sitting opposite him now, chic and brightly dressed, with the sharp sexiness that comes with a healthy ego.
‘Liberty’s rather like me in many ways,’ he went on, ‘she has a very strong personality.’
Lydia pulled a face. ‘That’s one thing that really gets on my nerves about parents,’ she said. ‘They always claim their kids have got strong personalities. I’m never really sure what it means, anyway, a strong personality.’
‘It means she knows her own mind and has an enquiring intelligence. As I said, she’s a chip off the old block!’ He smiled in acknowledgement of his own fabulousness.
‘You really think you’re something, don’t you?’ said Lydia. Seeing him sitting there so pleased with himself, she thought how unlike Rupert he was. Rupert hated to be the centre of attention, and was almost dysfunctionally modest. It had seemed exotic when she’d first met him in New York. Compared to the American men who wasted no time in giving you their full CV and list of selling points, he appeared to be an advertisement for bumbling English understatement. ‘Oh, I’m just a gorilla with a calculator,’ he had said when she asked him what he did. The moment she’d got home she had run a Dun & Bradstreet check on his credit-rating and found out that he was doing extremely well for a gorilla. Even without taking into account his family money.
Now they were back in the UK, his modesty seemed mundane, verging on defeatism. She missed that American confidence, that energising feeling that you could become whatever you wanted. Looking across at Will, she got a sense of that energy.
‘We’re two of a kind, Lydia,’ he said, ‘which is why we could never live together. We’re both hungry for experience. I’m not cut out for a quiet life of conjugal bliss any more than you are.’
L
ydia pretended to be shocked. ‘That’s no way to talk to a girl on the verge of getting married.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I know what that wedding’s about. You have a fine business head on those pretty shoulders. Which I seem to remember were always shown to advantage above a décolletage.’
She obligingly slipped off her jacket to reveal a burgundy plunge neckline that made the most of her sculpted shoulder-blades. This holiday might prove to be more fun than she had expected.
THIRTEEN
In the Easyjet departure lounge of Gatwick airport, Will was acting snooty. So what if the tickets cost a fraction of what you’d pay for a decent flight? There were some things in life that you didn’t stoop to, and that included no-frills airlines. He sipped his filthy coffee, piss-thin in a polystyrene cup, and glanced around him at the horrid evidence of democratisation gone mad. Who on earth had decided that Joe Public should he able to travel to Marseille for £15.99? Where did that leave the mystery and romance of travel? The world was a better place when only a tiny elite could think of boarding a plane, before mass tourism had opened up abroad to the great unwashed.
‘I don’t know why you didn’t book Air France,’ he complained to Jane. He liked the Air France hostesses, they were the only ones who understood service, all icy politeness and expensive perfume. They knew how to keep their distance, unlike the girls on British Airways with their infuriating perky familiarity and sing-song voices. Though BA would be far preferable to what he was enduring today. Easyjet: the very name was enough to make you heave, never mind the bilious orange logo.
‘I told you, if you want to pay the difference, that’s fine with me,’ said Jane.
He didn’t reply. Family holidays came out of her budget, and he wasn’t going to start forking out for that as well as everything else. He wasn’t made of money, not like bloody Rupert with his rampant demi-lions and multiple homes.
‘You could have got a later flight at least,’ he said at last, ‘you know I’m not a morning person.’
‘The six forty was cheaper,’ said Jane crisply, hating him for making her sound like a prim penny-pincher, ‘and it makes the most of our holiday’
