A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  Instinctively I shook it off. It smouldered brightly on the carpet. “Oh God—quick!”

  In one swift movement, a man’s arm reached across, picked up the handle, and flicked it deftly into the fire, between Eleanor and Alex’s legs. I remember their faces, turning as one, in horror.

  “What the hell…?” Alex looked aghast.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry!”

  “Anything precious in there?” Tom Middleton was jabbing at the burning bag with a poker. A bit of a crowd had gathered.

  “No, just a lipstick, but—oh God, Eleanor, your carpet!”

  All heads swivelled like a Wimbledon crowd to look at the nasty dark patch in the Persian rug.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s ancient.” She tripped lightly across and rubbed it with her toe. “It’s only singed. Adds character. And look, I can flip this one over it.” She deftly pulled a smaller fireside rug to cover the burn. “There. He’ll be none the wiser.” She glanced across at Piers who, happily, was still busy with the octogenarians. “It’ll be our secret,” she giggled. “Anyway, I’ve never really liked it.”

  Alex was by my side now. “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed.

  “I put a cigarette butt in my bag. It obviously hadn’t quite gone out.”

  “Obviously! Why didn’t you find an ashtray?”

  “Because there wasn’t one. And I would have thrown it in the fire,” I snarled suddenly, “but you and Eleanor were hogging it!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he snapped, “don’t be so childish. Come on, we’re going in to dinner.”

  Seething quietly we walked silently together into the dining room, following the flow. It was a beautiful room, the walls hung with dark red silk and ancestral portraits, and tonight, lit entirely by candles, which shimmered in a sea of polished mahogany and silver and white roses. There were appreciative murmurs all round as we were shown to our seats, and I had the feeling people felt rather honoured to be here. I remembered Eleanor saying something about a duty party.

  It looked for a moment as if I had Piers on my right and the old man on two sticks on my left, but suddenly I saw Eleanor dart across to the twinkly-eyed gypsy, nod and whisper conspiratorially in my direction. In a moment the old boy had been spirited away, and in his place was Heathcliff. Irritated, I pulled my chair out, ignoring his attempt to do it for me, watching as Eleanor nipped back and directed Alex to sit next to her. She winked at me and I gave her a tight smile back. Oh, you think it’s that easy, don’t you? I thought as she turned to whisper something to Alex. Put the local stud on Imogen’s right and she’ll be happy. Meanwhile you can flirt your little socks off with my husband.

  As I sat down I realised the pants were a big mistake. They were clearly made of cast iron and, as such, wouldn’t bend. I caught my breath. Damn. I’d only ever worn them to a drinks party before.

  “Pat Flaherty,” said my neighbour with a flashing smile, putting out his hand. His dark eyes glittered.

  “Imogen Cameron,” I murmured, briefly taking his fingers before turning smartly to Piers, but not before I’d caught the surprise in his dark eyes and then a snort of laughter as I resolutely turned my back on him.

  “So good of you to have us here,” I smiled ingratiatingly at my host, realising with horror, as I crossed my legs, that this ghastly dress was split to the thigh. It gave Pat whatever-his-name-was a bird’s-eye view. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him twisting his head to get a better look. I plucked my napkin from my side plate, spread it over my leg and leaned forward.

  “Well, terribly good of you to look after all the animals,” Piers brayed, spraying crumbs as he devoured his bread roll in the manner of a man who hasn’t seen food for days.

  “Not at all,” I murmured, aware that a pair of eyes were roving down my bare back now.

  “What?” I came to, suddenly. “What animals?”

  “Well, only the ones down at your place, obviously. The main herd are taken care of by Ron, my farm manager, but we’ve always kept a few down at the cottage.”

  It came to me in a flash that this was what Alex had cannily glossed over when he’d mentioned “keeping an eye on the animals.” What he’d agreed with Piers and Eleanor—as no doubt part of our rent—and why he’d gone a bit pale when he’d seen the bulls. We were looking after them.

  “You want us to feed the bulls?” I breathed.

  Piers threw back his head and roared with laughter. I heard my other neighbour stifle a laugh too. Didn’t he have anyone else to talk to?

  “They’re not bulls, they’re Longhorns,” he explained. “Terribly tame and very sweet-natured. We’ve always bred them here. Got a few exotic sheep too.”

  Visions of bellydancing sheep sprang, confusingly, to mind.

  “Oh. Right. And what do they eat, these Longhorns?”

  “Four bales of hay a day as a rule,” he said airily, “which you just pop in the roundels for them. It’s all in the barn. Butter?”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I took a knob. Well, that didn’t sound too taxing. “And the sheep?” I enquired nonchalantly, as if feeding sheep was something I did in my sleep.

  “The sheep are just on grass, which is where the cows will be soon. It’s just taking its time to come through. You don’t have to bother with them. The ewes are lambing, of course, but we’ve never had a problem with Jacobs. Won’t be asking you to stick your hand up any twats, if that’s what you’re worrying about—ha ha!”

  “Ha ha, no, quite.” My eyes bulged in horror as I lunged for my wine glass.

  “Obviously the silkies need corn in the morning and then Layers Pellets at night, but nothing more than that.”

  He was talking a foreign language now. What the hell was he on about?

  “I’m not much of a fan myself. Prefer a good old Black Rock pullet, but Mummy’s always liked them. Frightfully good sitters. Prolific layers too.”

  “Oh—the chickens!”

  “That’s it. Silkies. Exotic breed.” He looked at me doubtfully. “I say, are you sure you can manage? Only I can ask Ron to give a hand if not.”

  “No, no.” I straightened my back, and my resolve. If Alex had said we could do it then we bloody well could. “I’ll be fine. My, um, aunt farms, actually.”

  “Really?” He looked surprised. “Yes. Aunt…” I looked around wildly. A portrait of a woman who looked a bit like the queen hung opposite me. “Elizabeth.”

  “Right. Whereabouts?”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Yes, where does she farm?”

  I paused. Gave this some thought. “America.” Somewhere far away. Far, far away.

  “Ah. What does she farm?”

  Yes, what did she farm, Imogen, this mythical American aunt of yours? Fields of billowing corn sprang to mind, like the ones in The Waltons, or The Little House on the Prairie, but I couldn’t think what animals she might have. Then I remembered a chap called Bill, who I was pretty sure dabbled in farming.

  “Buffalo.”

  Piers looked astonished, as well he might. Golly, were they wild? I wasn’t sure.

  “Buffalo! Oh well, you’ll be fine with our little herd then,” he mused, as happily, our starters arrived, causing something of a diversion. Piers contemplated his plate solemnly. “Ah yes, of course,” he said abruptly. “Mozzarella.”

  I looked down at my own starter. “No, feta, I think.” I speared a bit of cheese.

  He turned to me astonished. “Greek buffalo?”

  I stared at him, at a loss. Greek buffalo? What the devil was this man talking about? Was he on drugs? Happily his attention was attracted at that moment by his other neighbour, a toothy woman in maroon silk, who wanted to know what sort of martingale he hunted in.

  “Sounds like a plucky little woman, your aunt,” said a low, lilting voice in my ear. I turned to find a
pair of dark eyes twinkling at me. “Cheese making’s the devil of a job.”

  I regarded him imperiously. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your aunt Lizzie. With the buffalo herd.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t farm buffalo for cheese,” I spluttered, “you farm them for—for meat.”

  His eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. Like moose?”

  I looked into his wide brown eyes. Was he mocking me? Did Americans farm moose? I wasn’t sure. His voice had a strong Irish lilt to it.

  “Yes,” I said decisively reaching for my glass. “Just like moose.”

  God, these pants were tight. I’d only had a glass of champagne and picked at my starter and they were killing me. Was I going to pass out? I slid down in my seat, trying to perch my bottom on the edge of the chair and straighten my body out a bit.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “You look rather uncomfortable.”

  “Not in the slightest,” I snapped.

  “And you seem to be coming adrift.” He gestured vaguely at my chest with his fork. I glanced down to see one of my black bra cups poking cheekily out of my cleavage.

  “Shit!” Clutching my chest I dived under the table and tried to poke it back in, but the body-glue seemed to have lost its stick. In the end, in desperation, I had to pull it out, and then of course the other cup had to come out too. No handbag to stuff them in, so I sat on them. Face flaming, and making absolutely sure I didn’t look at Pat, I turned back to Piers. Luckily he was offering to refill my glass.

  “Oh, please.”

  “After all, you’re not driving.”

  “No, quite!” I was, though, nearly passing out with the pain in my nether regions, and it occurred to me that I might really faint. I had to get up. Piers was telling me about a horse that suffered from something called bog spavins as I slowly levered myself upright.

  “…hocks look as clean as a whistle, but then, blow me, hack him out and he goes hopping lame! Everything all right?” Piers looked up, surprised.

  “Yes, thanks. Might just nip to the loo, though.”

  I had to get them off, that much was clear. Even if it meant everything bulged and spilled in a revolting manner, these pants had to go. I tottered painfully away.

  The downstairs loo was occupied. I waited and waited, but clearly some dowager duchess was taking ages to spend a penny and then reorganise her petticoats. I glanced up the huge staircase. Could I face tottering up there? No. Instead I limped through the green baize door and down the back passage to the other loo.

  “Won’t be a mo!” sang out a fruity male voice as I rattled the handle.

  Damn. Unable to bear it any longer, I went further on down the passage and out of the heavy back door by the boot room. The cool night air was welcome on my flushed cheeks and in a trice, I’d hitched up my dress and peeled the wretched things off. Ooh, the relief. I flicked up my dress and scratched my buttocks vigorously. Then I rolled the pants in a ball and glanced around furtively. No handbag, so—

  “I should pop them in the azaleas,” came a voice out of the night.

  I froze, horrified. “Who’s there?”

  “Won’t be the first time a pair of knickers has been found in the Latimers’ garden. Or the last, I’d hazard.”

  A wisp of smoke drifted up my nostrils, and at the same moment, I made out a dark figure in the shadows by the wood pile. My neighbour from dinner was leaning back against the logs, grinning delightedly, his teeth white in the darkness.

  “I like a girl who takes her bra off at the table then nips out to take her knickers off too,” he drawled. “Hadn’t realised it was that sort of party. Things are looking up.”

  “How dare you spy on me!” I gasped, horrified.

  “Hardly spying. I was here first. Having a mid-course ciggie since the Latimers don’t approve. I must say, I never expected to get mid-course entertainment too. What’s next, the dress? Or are you going to set fire to yourself again?”

  Suddenly I realised whose dinner-jacketed arm had shot across the room and flicked my bag in the fire, before melting into the crowd again.

  “Although I have to tell you, if it is the dress, I’m not sure I can retain my sangfroid at the table. Not sure I can sit next to you making small talk if you’re going to be wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of high heels.” A faraway look came into his eye. His face brightened. “Actually, I’m willing to give it a go.”

  “How dare you!”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter as I turned on my heel and stalked back inside. Clutching my pants, face flaming, I walked, head high, and with everything jiggling about a fair bit, down the passage and back into the dining room. As I neared the table I realised, with horror, my bra cups were still on my chair, for all the world to see. Oh, this was a horrible dinner party, I thought miserably as I added my pants to the sorry little pile and sat on them. A couple of women opposite exchanged raised eyebrows. Horrible.

  Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the evening. I monopolised Piers during pudding, and only when politeness dictated that he turn to address a few comments to his other neighbour did I steel myself to turn to mine and deliver a few icy words about Peeping Toms. His chair was empty.

  “He’s pissed orf,” the woman on his left informed me loudly, and a trifle drunkenly. She leaned across his empty chair conspiratorially and rested a heavily jewelled hand on his seat. “Knowing Pat, he’s got some gel in the next parish keeping his bed warm.” She chuckled, showing very yellow teeth. “Gone to give her a good seeing-to, no doubt!”

  “Ah.” I smiled thinly. “Yes, I might have known. You can always tell the type, can’t you?”

  She chuckled. “You certainly can.” She picked at her horsy teeth distractedly. “I hair you’re hair for the duration?”

  I blinked. “Yes, we’re hair—here, for about six months.” My head was aching with the effort of being part of The Archers cast one minute and a Noël Coward play the next. Luckily my toothy friend felt we’d exhausted all avenues of conversation, and with a brief nod, went back to her sorbet.

  I glanced down the table to where Alex and Eleanor, heads close together, almost touching, were deep in conversation. Suddenly I felt very empty. Very alone.

  A while later, during coffee in the drawing room, I slipped away. I didn’t say good night to anyone, didn’t break up the party, just stole upstairs and into the spare room, throwing the hateful dress on the floor and crawling into bed. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the chatter and laughter drifting up from below, tears fell silently, sideways down my cheeks, soaking my pillow.

  Sometime later, Alex crawled into bed beside me, smelling faintly of port, but I could smell her perfume too. He gathered me in his arms and kissed my cheek, then realised it was wet.

  “Why are you crying?” he whispered.

  “I…don’t know,” I whispered back. “I think I’m just tired.”

  “Don’t cry, Imo.” He kissed me full on the mouth, his body warm next to mine. He kissed me again, opening my mouth with his lips. “Don’t cry. It’ll all be fine. I’ll make it fine. You’ll see.”

  And then he made love to me: beautifully, gently and tenderly. And when, later, he rolled over with a deep sigh and went to sleep holding my hand, I realised my cheeks were wet again. This time, though, they were tears of relief.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning at breakfast, Eleanor apologised for the ghastliness of the evening.

  “We do have to do these things periodically,” she grimaced, putting a rack of toast in front of me. “Marmalade?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “And it was Sod’s law that you were here, but at least it gave you a flavour of country life. In at the deep end and all that.”

 
“Absolutely,” I murmured, sipping my coffee and watching Rufus take the top off his boiled egg. Shafts of dusty sunlight were streaming through the huge sash windows on to the duck-egg-blue walls, skimming his auburn curls. Piers had taken Alex for a walk around the fields so Eleanor and I were alone with the boys.

  “I rather enjoyed it, actually,” I lied.

  I hadn’t, on any level, but was still on air after last night. I felt ridiculously smug sitting here in her sunny kitchen, knowing that, after all her efforts, my husband had come up those stairs and made love to me. Of course it wasn’t a victory—that would make me a very sad individual—but in my present state of mind, it was a secret to add to the other one I was hugging. We wouldn’t be staying.

  “Pat’s amusing, isn’t he?” she said lightly, packing Theo’s book bag for school as he sat tapping his empty, upside-down eggshell and chanting a rhyme with Rufus. He was the youngest of her brood and, as such, had not yet been sent away.

  “Mm, very,” I agreed.

  “He’s from Ireland, as you probably gathered. Single too. Split up with his wife last year. He’s set a few hearts a-fluttering in the village, I can tell you!”

  She waited, and I knew she was hoping I’d want more; lean forward over my coffee mug, and ask what he did, where he lived—but instead I leaned back and nodded out of the window at her garden.

  “Fabulous daffodils, Eleanor. In fact the whole place is looking a picture. You must have a terrific gardener.”

  She looked momentarily disappointed, then rallied.

  “Dick? Yes, he’s very good. He’s Vera’s husband, you know. They were here with Piers’s parents. We inherited them. Ah, talk of the devil.”

  At that moment, Vera and her army of helpers, three very solid-looking women in housecoats, bustled past the window up to the back door with buckets. We heard them clattering about and laughing as they came down the passage, then Vera stuck her head round.

  “Morning, all!”

  “Morning, Vera!” Eleanor sang.

  “You want us to start down at Shepherd’s Cottage then?”

  “Please, and I think it’ll take you most of the day. It’s in a bit of a state, I’m afraid.”