Heaven's On Hold

by Heaven's on Hold (retail) (epub)

  ‘I scarcely know him,’ David reminded her, ‘and her not at all. He was just a client.’

  ‘But you said you and he got on rather well. Be bold, darl. And we might as well include relations because then that’s done.’

  He was awed by the energetic ruthlessness of her approach. At the thought of Marina, not to mention Coral, let loose on their village acquaintances, he could feel his head beginning to ache. ‘You think that’ll work?’

  ‘They’re all adults for goodness’ sake, it’s up to them. We’ll buy the drink, lay on the eats, open the doors and let them get on with it. Like we always do.’

  Did, he thought: like we always did. They hadn’t had a party of any sort since leaving London. The working week was so intensive and the weekends so precious that they hadn’t felt inclined to do anything more than invite the odd one or two to supper now and then, a state of affairs which suited him down to the ground. He had never been a party person, but now he could see that it had only ever been a matter of time before Annet got the urge to fill the place with people.

  The form which it was decided all this should take was Sunday lunchtime drinks the week before Annet returned to work. Because of the relatively short notice they invited people by phone. David adopted a slightly apologetic tone with Tim and Mags.

  ‘It’s a devil of a long way to come for a glass of wine, but I’m sure we could offer a plateful of something afterwards and we would very much like to see you if you can make it—’

  ‘Whence all this diffidence?’ cried Mags. ‘A party’s a party, we’d love to come.’

  ‘Good, splendid.’

  ‘There’s just one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you mind if we brought Sadie and Luke? I really wouldn’t be happy leaving them with the teenagers, even if it was legal.’

  ‘Of course you must bring them,’ said David, whose knowledge of his older nephew and niece, Josephine and James, would have resulted in pretty much the same conclusion. ‘No question, it would be nice to see them.’

  ‘Sadie would adore to help with Freya. She’s at exactly that Little Women stage.’

  ‘Even better.’

  David was pretty sure that his brother’s response to the invitation would be less enthusiastic. He could imagine the exchange all too clearly: ‘ Tool all the way up there for Sunday drinks, but we’ve only just been!’

  And Annet’s reaction to the prospect of the children’s attendance, was also perfectly predictable.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, I’d have thought they could have been farmed out with friends.’

  ‘It is Sunday.’

  ‘They’re going to have to toe the line.’

  ‘I’m sure they will. Whatever their faults, Tim and Mags have got their kids pretty much to heel, the younger ones anyway. And Mags said Sadie’s into babies.’

  ‘So is my mother.’ Annet slid him a look. ‘ In a straight fight between Sadie and Marina I know who my money’s on.’

  Annet called Harry Bailey at Stoneyhaye, but there was no one there, and since it was his voice on the answering machine she left a message. In spite of her earlier reaction she’d begun to like him. They’d become friends in a casual, undemanding sort of way. Far from being the smart-alec, cheap-feel poser she’d taken him for, his manner with her was affable and laid back. He seemed to enjoy her company, but wasn’t pushy about it. They’d had a drink on a couple of occasions after swimming but only if their schedules coincided: he didn’t lay claim, or hang about. Curiously, although to all outward intents and purposes he and David were chalk and cheese, Bailey reminded her of her husband. Without ever referring to it, he seemed instinctively to understand something about her that not everyone did.

  But the superficial differences amused her. When he remarked, over one of their low-cal beers, on the improvements currently underway at Stoneyhaye, she couldn’t resist teasing him.

  ‘Does it need improving then?’

  ‘Come on – it’s a dump. A grand old dump, but still a dump.’

  ‘If it’s that bad why did your boss buy it?’

  ‘Because your old man sold it to him – no!’ He put up his hands. ‘Low one. No, every casting-couch tart wants to do Shakespeare, every pop singer wants to be a lord of the manor. Class at any price. Then when he gets there he wants to turn it into South Fork. But you won’t catch me complaining, I’m a creature comforts man.’

  She laughed. ‘I must come and see all this.’

  ‘There’s a gym,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready.’

  When Bailey called back, Annet was upstairs bathing Freya and David, who had just walked in at the door, picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Um … now then … I wonder if I could speak to the lady of the house?’

  David’s antennae picked up some unwelcome signals. ‘My wife’s upstairs with the baby, this is David Keating, can I help?’

  ‘David, my apologies. She called me about a party?’

  ‘Probably. And forgive me – you are?’

  ‘Harry Bailey.’

  David’s hackles stirred. ‘We haven’t met, but yes, we’re having a few people in for drinks on Sunday week. Would you be able to come?’

  ‘Most definitely. All of us. The full shebang.’

  ‘So that’s you and who else?’

  ‘Hope I’m not speaking out of turn but your wife mentioned Chris – Chris Harper, I think you know him – and his old lady. They’re keen to meet a few of the locals, integrate a bit.’

  David murmured something about that being delightful, and poured himself a large Scotch.

  ‘What on earth possessed you,’ he asked Annet when she came down, ‘to invite that bunch from Stoneyhaye?’

  ‘I said I was going to. You mean they’re coming?’

  ‘So it appears. Bailey returned your call. They’re complete strangers, not our type.’

  ‘So we’re going to get to know them better. Extend our horizons. Unknit that threatening unkind brow, darl, it’s what parties are for!’

  Of course, everyone accepted. It was that time of year, summer gone and Christmas not yet a gleam on the horizon: people were pleased to be asked. In a belated attempt to keep his end up, and in what-the-hell mode, David rang Hilary Bryce.

  ‘Only a spur of the moment thing,’ he explained diffidently.

  ‘Yes …!’ she sounded bright and amused. ‘It makes a change beng invited somewhere where you’re never likely to see anyone again. Just think, I could insult everyone in the room. Don’t panic’ She gave an infectious, husky laugh. ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Annet, listening in.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he told her.

  ‘Good,’ said Annet. ‘Whoever they are. See how open-minded I am? The more the merrier.’

  The weather turned dark and sultry on the party weekend, the second in September. It was a toss-up whether they’d be able to use the garden or not. For the previous two nights Freya fretted and fussed in the unseasonal humidity. It seemed to David that Annet was less concerned these days: it was he who walked the floor, rocking and humming, and who lay, eyes wide open, waiting and hoping for peace to break out. It was apparent his vigilance got on her nerves.

  ‘Settle down darl,’ she grumbled. ‘There’s nothing left to do.’

  ‘I can’t settle if she doesn’t.’

  ‘Je-sus …’ she moaned. ‘ Count me out.’

  The result was that by the morning of the party he was tattered with lack of sleep. Freya, having been wakeful most of the night, slept placidly in her pram on the terrace while he and Annet set things up. Annet had a peculiar thing she did with glasses, a procedure handed down by Marina. After taking them out of the cupboard and washing them all she lay them on their side on a table cloth and dried them with a hairdrier. This ritual preceded each occasion that they entertained. He had stopped commenting that the glasses were clean anyway, that wasn’t the point. It was what the Holbrooks had done, the
only behavioural quirk, so far as he knew, which Annet had inherited from her mother.

  ‘How many is it in the end?’ he asked, aware of not having been much involved.

  ‘About – twenty?’ she said airily. ‘Twenty-five?’

  ‘OK.’ David was wary of that vagueness; nor did he dare to ask how that number had been reached when he himself had only made three phone calls. Even allowing for his natural dislike of parties, this gathering had from the first instilled an ungovernable dread. He did not want the ground floor of his house to be full of people, two thirds of whom he scarcely knew and the remainder of whom (in the main) he did not wish to know or didn’t want to see anyway. Most unsettling was the way his own diffidence seemed to feed Annet’s enthusiam. He could not dispel the idea that the influx of guests would drive them still further apart, and not just physically.

  He was anxious on another count, too.

  ‘I’ll make it my business to keep an eye on Freya,’ he suggested. ‘With a party going on we might not hear her if she cries.’

  She gave him a look that contrived to be both sympathetic and mocking. ‘Between the two of us darl, I’m sure we’ll see her right.’

  It didn’t take him long to get ready. Karen and Julie (Damian having been left with his grandfather) had been engaged as hired guns for the day, so feeling there wasn’t much he could do he went to sit outside near the pram. Already the sun was appreciably lower and the patio was bathed in an almost gaudy brightness. But the sky over the ridgeway was a threatening navy blue, and at one point to the west a pile of inky clouds swirled up from the horizon like the plume of some predatory dark knight, distant but closing fast.

  At ten to twelve Annet came out to join him, glamorous in black leather jeans she hadn’t been able to wear since long before the birth, and an ice-blue satin shirt. She glanced into the pram and then bent to kiss his cheek, engulfing him in a wave of Nina Ricci.

  He eyed her wistfully. ‘ You look wonderful.’

  ‘Thanks. These trousers are a statement. Still snug, but a statement.’

  He glanced down at his all-purpose, all-weather navy-blues. ‘Neither of which descriptions could be applied of mine.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said, ‘ it’s meant to be fun.’

  He caught her hand. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Three hours from now and they’ll all be gone.’

  ‘I know.’ Three hours? he thought. Dear God!

  ‘Right.’ That was as much reassurance as she was in the mood for, and her relief was palpable when at twelve sharp the bell rang. ‘There’s always one who has to be dead on time!’

  In fact there were four – Tim, Mags, and their two younger children.

  ‘I know, I know, don’t say it,’ said Tim irritably, ‘but look on the bright side, we’ve had the drive from hell or she’d have had us here even earlier.’

  ‘And anyway,’ added Mags with the frayed air of someone who’d been looking on the bright side for the past several hours, ‘we thought you might like these two keen young assistants before everyone else got here. They’re eager to help, aren’t you, chaps?’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Annet. ‘Are you really?’

  Sadie, ten, nodded, but Luke, a couple of years younger, made no reply and wandered dejectedly out into the garden. He wore camouflage trousers and outsize Nikes which emphasised his skinniness.

  ‘Just ignore,’ advised Mags. ‘He was car sick, but he’ll be fine in no time.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s great to see you,’ said Annet, swinging into action. ‘Let me alert the wine waiters.’

  David was about to say he’d see to that, but Sadie sidled up to him. She was a pretty little girl, dressed in horribly unflattering baggy trousers with knee-level pockets, and a skimpy T-shirt – a look he dimly associated with some female pop group though the T-shirt bore the legend ‘Boyzone’.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ she asked.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Ask Uncle David to introduce you,’ said Tim, adding: ‘Your daughter’s the only reason she came.’

  David led his niece out to the pram. Luke was mooching amongst the fruit trees at the end of the garden, determinedly not looking their way. David wondered if he’d been sick again, and if so where. Sadie was in raptures.

  ‘Oh …!’ she gasped. ‘Oh she’s really, really sweet …! She’s really, really beautiful …! Can I look after her while you do the party?’

  David could have wept with appreciation.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘ That can be your job.’

  Sadie put her hand into the pram and stroked Freya’s head. David noticed with a pang that each small nail had a perfect Beavis and Butthead transfer on it. Still stroking she looked up at him. ‘Can I take her for a walk?’

  ‘Well … I don’t see why not. Just round the garden.’

  ‘OK, cool, where’s the brake? Got it.’ With a swift, natural expertise she released the brake and pushed off the stones and on to the grass with a murmur of ‘Wicked.…’

  The doorbell rang, but Annet called ‘I’ll get it!’ and Mags appeared at David’s side.

  ‘Sadie’s off – that’s one guest happy, anyway.’

  David considered that a little payment in kind was due. ‘What a delightful daughter you have.’

  Mags sucked in her breath thoughtfully. ‘Delightful when she’s not being diabolical. Luke looks a bit more cheerful … I do hope that doesn’t mean he’s thrown up over your perennials. Best check.’

  Glass aloft, she picked her way over the grass towards her offspring and David retreated to the house. The new arrivals were Marina, Louise and Coral. For what he and Annet had made clear was an informal party Marina was winsomely elegant in the sort of fitted suit that used to be called a costume, and which needed only frilled organza gloves and a cocktail hat to complete the picture. Her hair was crisply coiffed, her nails immaculate, her still flawless though finely-lined complexion made up to a creamy perfection. Though he could see why she riled Annet, he himself was quite fond of his mother-in-law, and rather admired her attention to turnout

  ‘Hello my darling,’ Marina said, laying butterfly hands on his shoulders as he stooped to kiss her. ‘I don’t see nearly enough of you … Now where’s the little one?’

  She was off, pausing briefly to take delivery of her gin and dubonnet (provided specially) from Julie. Louise patted his cheek and followed. The bell rang again and as Annet answered it Coral came to stand before him in the ever so slightly challenging way she had. She was wearing a long dark red skirt and a red-and-blue waistcoat.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked simply, as though taking for granted a whole mass of shared information and understanding.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘In that case I’ll say it, you look shattered.’

  ‘I’m a bit tired. Freya hasn’t been sleeping well.’

  ‘Your wife, on the other hand, has rarely looked better.’

  ‘Yes …’ He looked appreciatively at Annet – now surrounded by a group of guests, and holding the door open for others coming up the path – ‘Yes, she’s right back on form.’

  ‘That’s encouraging. Because you know we’re going for IVF?’

  He winced. ‘I thought you wanted to adopt.’

  ‘We did, but we thought better of it. Why expose ourselves to possible calumny and humiliation when there’s a better way … my God, there’s a famous face, I’d better leave you to it.’ She grinned and laid her index finger on his chest for a moment. ‘We’ve chosen the father – loins of a lifetime, Paxman meets Irons – to die for.’

  As time drew on, David came to think it was just as well that this exchange had taken place early on in the proceedings, because nothing that followed was any less disconcerting. Within fifteen minutes of its taking place he had met, greeted or otherwise acknowledged his twenty-odd other guests and felt himself to be a stranger in his own home.

  The famous face to whom Coral had referred was that of Chris Harper. D
avid had mentally rehearsed some line about not being remembered, but in the event this proved unnecessary, because Harper – a sad-faced man not far off his own age, in Armani tailoring, but neither shaven nor shirted – came straight up to him, transferring a tumbler of orange juice from one hand to the other.

  ‘Put it there. Got to tell you Stonehaye was the best day’s work I ever did.’ He had the kind of untraceable, elided accent which could have been travelling either way on the social scale.

  ‘Really? I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘You too, I hope.’

  ‘Most definitely. So you’re happy there?’

  ‘Yup—’ Harper extended an arm, ringers clicking. ‘ Lindy—! Did you meet Lindy?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  David had seen pictures of Lindl Clerc in the paper, but none of them had quite done justice to the extremeness, the unsettling completeness of her beauty. It was all you noticed about her. He supposed, as he shook her long, boneless hand, that professional beauty was not just a gift but a job. She almost certainly needed no make-up to look beautiful, and yet her face was exquisitely painted: the eyelids soft butterfly wings of shaded and graduated colour, the cheekbones gleaming, the cheeks subtly shaded, the lips a glistening coral, exquisitely outlined. She was a work both of nature and of art. For the moment that her hand lay in his he was conscious of the whole limber, nearly six foot, of her, the sleek, careless curves beneath the ochre-coloured dress. Her hair, which might or might not have been blonde anyway, was bleached almost white and lay in whispy mermaid fronds against her neck. Her long toes in thonged gold sandals were slightly grubby as though she’d recently been barefoot. She didn’t appear to have a drink, but she was smoking – David wondered in passing whether Annet had noticed this.

  ‘Hello,’ said Lindl. ‘ Thanks for asking me along.’ She had a pretty, pouty French voice tinged prosaically with Essex.

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Harper. ‘His old lady did. Your wife knows my man Harry Bailey, right?’

  ‘Right,’ agreed David, realising that the phrase ‘my man’ had undergone a kind of quaint renaissance between Wodehouse and the present day. ‘I think they encountered each other at some agitprop meeting or other. And now at the pool.’