A Crowded Marriage

by Catherine Alliott

  As we rounded the side of the house and approached the back lawn through the rose gardens, it occurred to me that it all was rather quiet: no hum of voices I’d expected, no shouts of laughter, no clinking of champagne glasses. Odd. As the terrace came into view, I saw Piers, sitting up ramrod straight on a bench with Dawn beside him. Hannah was slumped lumpenly in a wicker sofa in the manner of one who’s reached her journey’s end, and Mum was beside her: Eddie was assiduously turning sausages on the barbecue, talking to my father, whilst Eleanor, stunning in a salmon-pink T-shirt and denim shorts, buzzed around barefoot with a jug of Pimm’s.

  Alex glanced at me, horrified. “Your entire family’s here!”

  “Yes, I…forgot to tell you. I thought it was a big bash. Had no idea it was just us. And Eleanor invited them,” I added quickly. God, and here I was in a long dress more suitable for Ascot. I tried to hitch it up. Could hardly tuck it in my knickers, though.

  “Christ Alive,” Alex muttered. “Piers will freak.” It occurred to me that he already had. “Who’s the girl with no clothes on?”

  “That’s Dawn,” I muttered. “Dad’s girlfriend.” I’d forgotten Alex hadn’t had the pleasure.

  “Sweet Jesus, she looks like a hooker!” Dawn had obviously expected quite a gathering too, and had dressed up—or down, depending on how you looked at it—in a lot of heavy make-up, a pink crop top, and a skirt, if you counted the white thing around her waist.

  “Imogen, Alex, how lovely!” Eleanor did look genuinely delighted as she tripped lightly across, and although I tried not to notice how she kissed Alex, I decided it was just a nice, friendly kiss. Not lingering, but not too carefully social either.

  “And I don’t need to introduce you to anyone, because of course you know them all!” she laughed. “Isn’t this jolly?”

  “Very,” remarked Alex drily, stepping forward to shake hands with Dad, who came across, beaming with pleasure and looking like the cat who’d got the cream. He was wearing tight white trousers and a Hawaiian-print shirt of such dazzling hue I almost had to shade my eyes.

  “Happy Birthday, Dad,” I smiled, kissing him and handing him the card. “Sorry I forgot.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, when you get to my age you stop counting. I say, quite a pad your mates have got here, haven’t they?” His eyes roamed admiringly over the balustrade to the landscaped acres beyond, shimmering in the heat. “You’ve landed on your feet getting a toe in here, haven’t you? I gather Ellie here is an old girlfriend of yours, Alex.” He nudged me. “Better watch that, love. They’ll be rekindling old flames!”

  Eleanor laughed and filled up his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. He’s far too besotted by your daughter!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said boldly, in my new vein. “Alex can always slip in another one.”

  A surprised silence fell. I hadn’t quite meant it to come out like that.

  “Well, he’s a better man than I am, then,” quipped Dad, saving my blushes. “I was just saying what a fine place your friends have got here, Alex. No wonder you took the cottage.”

  Alex agreed and I moved away to greet Mum. I hadn’t quite got the hang of the jolly banter yet. Might have to work on it. As I bent to kiss my mother, I relaxed slightly. At least I could count on her not to let the side down. She was looking effortlessly elegant in a cream linen dress and a floppy straw hat, her eyes bright with amusement as she puffed away on her cigarette.

  “Isn’t this marvellous?” she chuckled quietly as I sat down beside her. “Look at that man. He’s about to pass out with shock!”

  Piers, it was true, was a picture: veins standing up in his forehead, eyes bulging, as Dawn, tapping his arm for emphasis with a long black fingernail, explained, in carrying tones, about her friend Malcolm who had a big house—almost as big as this—in Peckham.

  “He keeps llamas, right,” she was saying, “and ostriches. It’s new-wave farming, see?”

  Piers blinked. “Good Lord. In Peckham?”

  “Yeah, it’s a great little business. You should try ostriches, Piers, wiv all your fields an’ that.”

  “Well, it’s a thought,” agreed Piers vaguely.

  “You sell the meat, see, to the local farm shops, and you sell the feavers.” She tapped his arm. “So it’s all economically—whatsit?”

  “Viable?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But who on earth buys the feathers?”

  “Christ knows. But I’ve got an ostrich pompom G-string, ’aven’t I? So someone must! They probably use it to stuff pillows an’ that.”

  “And…where does it go?”

  “Pillows go on beds, Piers.”

  “No, the pompom.”

  “Oh, on the front. Blimey, not round the back. You’d look like the frigging Easter Bunny!” She roared and elbowed him in the ribs. He looked genuinely delighted and roared back.

  “Where did he meet her?” Alex bent to hiss in my ear.

  “Who?”

  “Your father! Where on earth did he meet someone like that?”

  I looked up into his furious blue eyes. “At the opera house, of course,” I said smoothly, getting up to find a drink. I wasn’t in the mood to be my father’s apologist. I moved on to speak to Hannah.

  “Isn’t this just the best fun?” she drawled as I sank down beside her on the wicker sofa. “Dawn hasn’t drawn breath since we arrived.”

  “I think it’s a case of beam me up, Scottie. How are you feeling?”

  “Ghastly. I haven’t been to the loo for days and my stomach feels like reinforced concrete.”

  She looked terrible, admittedly: pale and slightly damp at the edges as she held her breath, wincing.

  “Well, go and see the doctor tomorrow. They’ll give you a suppository or something.”

  “Charming, then I’ll have the trots for days. No, I’m banking on getting food poisoning here and then letting it do its worst. Eddie’s convinced the sausages are passed their sell-by date so he’s frazzling them to a crisp.”

  “I wondered why he’d taken charge of the barbecue. But is it really just us, Hannah?”

  “Piers’s mother is knocking around somewhere.” She glanced around vaguely. “She went inside, I think, claiming it was too hot, but you could see she was pained by the company.”

  “Oh God,” I giggled. “Lady Latimer and Dawn!”

  “Oh, yes, you missed that floor show. Dawn asked her if she was really a lady, to which the great woman replied, ‘So my gynaecologist tells me.’”

  “I snorted. “But no Purple Coat?”

  “No, she’s got a gig, apparently. Singing at that hotel in town, the one with the piano bar.”

  “The Regal? Blimey, good for her.”

  “Isn’t it? Oh, and there is someone else here actually, some local chap who lives on the estate, but other than that it’s just us. Honestly, you might have warned me, Imogen. I’ve come dressed for a sodding garden party.” She pulled at her long dress and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Well, you were there when she asked us—how was I to know?” I smiled up as Eddie blew me a kiss through the barbecue smoke. “I’m going to kiss my brother-in-law,” I said, getting up.

  “Do. It’ll be the biggest thrill he’s had all week.”

  Eddie paused in his manic sausage turning to greet me. “Salmonella type C and full-blown dysentery is what we’re getting here today,” he informed me sotto voce. “Don’t go near the pork chops, and give the burgers a very wide berth until I’ve truly incinerated them. Warn Rufus.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I assured him. “What’s up with Hannah? Dodgy prawn?”

  “Not in my house,” he bristled. “No, I think she’s just been overdoing it. She’s started this Weight Watchers thing, you know, and she’s exercising as well. Frankly I’m worried she’s not fit enou
gh to go to the gym yet. I reckon she’s pulled something.”

  “Hannah’s at the gym?” I boggled.

  “Only late at night, Imo, when most people are safely tucked up in bed. And no, she doesn’t wear a leotard.”

  “Ah,” I said humbly.

  “Isn’t he doing a marvellous job?” Eleanor, her hazel eyes bright, was suddenly at my shoulder.

  “He is,” I agreed. “Eddie’s a very good chef.”

  “Well, he’s a godsend today. Piers really can’t be bothered and I always end up doing it and getting hot and bothered. So much for men being macho with tongs. Imogen, you haven’t met Piers’s mother yet, have you?” She shot me a warning look and I turned to see, in the shadows, just inside the French windows, an older, female version of Piers, complete with large, beaky nose and watery blue eyes, giving me a very fishy stare. She was ostensibly talking to someone whose back was to me, but clearly wondering why this newcomer hadn’t come to say hello. Hadn’t presented herself. I hastened across the terrace with Eleanor.

  “Louisa, this is Imogen Cameron, Alex’s wife,” Eleanor said in a loud voice. “Remember I told you? She and Alex have taken a cottage.”

  “What?” Lady Latimer frowned and cupped her ear.

  “Remember I told you they’ve taken a cottage!” Eleanor shouted, as at that moment, I realised who her mother-in-law was talking to. I caught my breath.

  “And Pat you know, of course. You sat next to him at supper,” Eleanor reminded me.

  I took the dry, papery hand the old lady had extended. “I remember,” I said coldly. “How do you do, Lady Latimer?”

  Pat Flaherty looked about to greet me cordially, then registered my frosty features and dropped the smile.

  “He’s a vet,” Lady Latimer informed me in sepulchral tones. “Rather a good one.”

  “I know. I mean, that he’s a vet,” I added, thereby clarifying, for his benefit, which part of her sentence I agreed with. I turned to him.

  “Thank you so much for your letter, which arrived promptly on Friday. I shall, of course, be responding forthwith.”

  Pat looked taken aback and Eleanor bemused. Good. That would teach him to send exorbitant fees by return of post. He didn’t like being shamed in front of these people, did he? “Mr. Flaherty’s fees,” I explained for the benefit of the audience. “For services rendered.”

  “Oh. Right.” He squared up to me. “Well, that tends to be the form, doesn’t it? Something for something else?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I replied sweetly, and was about to continue sarcastically, that’s the quid pro quo, but I’d never said it before, so what I actually said was “That’s the pwid crow po.”

  For a moment I thought no one had noticed, then:

  “What?” Lady Latimer’s hand cupped her ear. “Crow what?”

  “Po,” Pat informed her solemnly.

  She frowned, none the wiser. Then turned to me. “Got marvellous hands,” she said loudly. “Looks after my fanny.”

  “That’s Fanny the Yorkshire Terrier,” breathed Eleanor quickly.

  “She got a nasty infection in her bladder last Christmas, but I think you caught it just in time, young man.” She tapped his arm with a liver-spotted hand. “You’ve got very good instincts!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Pat looked uncomfortable.

  Yes, he might well look awkward. This was clearly the sort of vet he was; the sort that charmed old ladies out of their savings and administered to their pampered pooches. Although, this was one old lady, I decided, looking at her crumpled silk dress caught together hastily at the neck with gigantic diamonds, who could probably spare a bob or two. And he certainly looked the part with his ready smile and easy manner: a twinkly-eyed charmer in a sapphire-blue shirt and jeans. I felt awkward in my flowery dress and high mules.

  “Eleanor, would you get Piers to turn that dreadful racket down?” asked her mother-in-law, holding a hand to her ear again. Gentle reggae was filtering through the drawing-room speakers. “I can’t bear that sort of music. It makes me feel I’m about to be robbed.”

  “Of course.” Eleanor’s mouth twitched as she made to go.

  “And who are those dreadful people on the terrace?” hissed her mother-in-law, catching her sleeve. “I had to pretend it was the heat driving me inside, but they really are beyond the pale.”

  “Oh, er—”

  “I’m afraid that’s my family,” I said smoothly, noticing her nose was very pink at the tip. She looked like a drinker, and I could smell her gin from here. “Actually, they’re perfectly pleasant when you get to know them. Ah, look, the sausages are ready, I must go and feed Rufus.”

  I sailed outside, my heart pounding, and went down the slope of the lawn to find Rufus. He was playing with the youngest Latimer on the swings.

  “Come on, boys. Lunch time,” I muttered.

  Rufus caught my tone and followed meekly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” We climbed the terrace steps, hand in hand, Theo following. “Here, have a seat on this bench next to Eddie. There doesn’t seem to be a seating plan. I’ll get you each a hot dog.”

  Eleanor came rushing up as I collected the food from Eddie. “I’m so sorry, Imogen. She’s a terrible old snob. I mean—” She broke off, awkwardly.

  I grinned, suddenly rather liking her. At least I wasn’t the only one whose brain didn’t engage before speaking.

  “It’s OK, I know what you mean. And actually, one or two of them do take a bit of laughing off.” Out of the corner of my eye I caught Dad doing his Kenneth Williams impersonation for Piers’s benefit, hand on hip, head thrown back, nostrils flared, mincing round the terrace. Happily, Piers thought it was even funnier than Dawn’s pompom.

  “By the way, how come Pat Flaherty’s here?” I asked casually as I split Rufus’s bun. “He seems to be a permanent fixture in your house.”

  “Oh, he’s got the lodge house at the moment, so he pops up quite a lot. He’s renting it while the builders do up his place, an old rectory in the next village. He’s good fun, isn’t he?”

  I ignored her eager question, pretending to be intent on getting the ketchup from a nearby table. By the time I’d got back with it, she’d gone.

  “We call it Crumpet Cottage,” remarked Piers, lining up behind me at the barbecue, his plate clamped to his chest, like a small boy at prep school.

  “Sorry?”

  “Pat’s place. He seems to entertain a never-ending stream of women down there. Lucky dog.” He chuckled. “A pork chop and a burger, please, dear boy.”

  Did he indeed, I thought, going to sit beside Rufus with my hot dog. So he really was the local stud as well as the charming vet, eh? Pretending to listen to Rufus and Theo’s prattle, I watched as Pat collected his burger from Eddie with a joke and an easy smile, then went to sit next to Hannah on the sofa. Well, that was one female he wouldn’t be able to get round, I thought as I bit into my bun. One bird he couldn’t work his magic on. I saw him lean in to talk to her as she sat—or lay, almost—prostrate beside him. If she wasn’t feeling so grim she’d give an obvious charmer like that very short shrift. She’d never had any truck with playboys, and had only really warmed to Alex because I’d married him. Had Alex been a playboy, I thought with a jolt? I looked across at him by the barbecue, and as I did, something terrible happened. I intercepted a glance between him and Eleanor. It was a secret, raised-eyebrow look across a crowded terrace and she gave a quick shrug and a half-smile back. I looked away, horrified. Then I went hot. Really hot and panicky. I lunged for my Pimm’s and knocked it back too vigorously, half of it missing my mouth. I reached for a napkin to mop myself. Get a grip, Imogen, for heaven’s sake. It probably wasn’t that sort of look at all, probably perfectly innocent. Probably—d’you want a sausage? No! Not a sausage. A—a burger? To which she’d replied, with a shrug, “Yes, I m
ight.” Yes, that was it.

  I watched feverishly under lowered lashes as Eleanor sat everyone down; not formally round a table, just scattered about the terrace, balancing plates on laps, then offered knives and forks wrapped in napkins. As I reached for my drink again, I noticed my hand was shaking. Perhaps Hannah was right. Perhaps I should have counselling. Yes, perhaps I should go and sit in a room with a complete stranger and say, I’ve got this irrational fear; this fixation that my husband’s having an affair with his ex-girlfriend. Or perhaps, I thought, tightening my grip on my glass, I should confront her—Eleanor. Go up to her when I was totally plastered—which wouldn’t take long—in the dying moments of this party, when she was saying good-bye to the last of her guests, push my way through and shout drunkenly, “Get your hands off my husband, you bitch!” Watch her face fall and my entire family go quiet as everyone turned to stare. Or perhaps I’d do neither, I thought miserably, as I stabbed viciously at some salad. Perhaps I’d just carry on as usual, wondering and worrying, fretting myself to a stupor. Yes, probably. I took a deep breath. Let it out shakily.

  Luncheon continued. Not feeling up to adult chat, I stuck with the boys and pushed food around my plate. Behind me, Pat’s mobile rang and he went inside to take it. I tried not to notice his rather perfect bottom in his jeans as he went through the French windows. Then I decided that if I could notice other men’s bottoms, even unspeakably arrogant ones, it was surely a good sign? I couldn’t be too suicidal.