by Alison Giles
I swivelled in my chair, idly tapping the end of a pen between my teeth. How was Andrew’s case going, I wondered. Yesterday’s conference with Counsel, he’d confided, had not left him feeling over-optimistic. And it was one, he’d explained, which he felt strongly about winning – and winning well. He’d clearly been concerned about the outcome. ‘One shouldn’t let it get to one personally, but …’
I wished now I hadn’t let my own disappointment at the way the evening had been going distract me from taking a greater interest. Though, come to think of it, he had been the one who’d changed the subject – to a consideration of the relative merits of chocolate mousse versus some exotic strawberry concoction.
I forced my attention back to the papers on my desk and the computer screen at my elbow. But concentration soon wavered.
Maybe I should ring him over the weekend and ask how it went. I almost managed to convince myself it would be no more than a friendly gesture; might have succeeded if a sudden image of Flora with her eyebrows raised hadn’t loomed. ‘Do it if you want to,’ I could practically hear her saying, ‘but don’t kid yourself …’
So my motivation wouldn’t be pearl-white pure. Always the truth; the bloody truth.
‘OK, Flora,’ I mentally interrogated her, ‘so what should I have done last night? Dragged him into the flat? Tied the sodding man down?’
I saw her standing there with her back to the Aga, arms loosely folded. ‘Would it have helped?’
‘Oh, stop being so damned realistic, Flora.’
I scrumpled a sheet of paper and chucked it, hard, at the wall opposite. It was almost as satisfying as banging my own head against the brickwork – I supposed there was brickwork under there – and I felt a whole heap better for the gesture. Which, I decided when I surveyed the mound of files staring at me, was just as well.
I took a pile of them home with me at the end of the day, poured myself a stiff Scotch – and a second one – and gluttonised on the biscuits as I worked my way steadily through sales figures and budget projections.
I drove down to Epsom on the Sunday to arrive at Leah and Harold’s neo-Georgian semi on the dot of twelve. I’d gift-wrapped the sort of brooch I knew my mother would love and which I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing. It was, to my mind, ostentatious to the point of vulgarity, but had cost a fair amount in one of those little jewellers in the Burlington Arcade. The assistant, about my age, had been poker-faced as I picked it out. ‘For my mother,’ I explained; and the look that passed between us allowed her to smile collusively.
My mother and aunt, ensconced amongst the sitting-room chintz, were enjoying a leisurely glass of Pimms when I got there. I handed Mother the parcel. As anticipated, she was delighted with its contents, all my misdemeanours apparently either forgiven or forgotten.
‘You are so good to me,’ she gushed. ‘I was just saying to Leah how lucky we are to have daughters.’
‘How is Elspeth?’ I enquired. ‘It was great to see her –’ I knew Mother would have passed on the information – ‘when she was in London. You know she stayed at the flat?’
She’d called only last week; she’d seemed absolutely fine. Leah’s tone suggested that, whatever my mother had chosen to imply, my aunt had already been placed on the defensive.
‘She was certainly on good form a month or so ago,’ I confirmed.
My mother chipped in. ‘But I’m sure your aunt will be happier when she settles down with a proper job like yours.’
I searched for an excuse to opt out of Mother’s point-scoring. ‘Where’s Uncle Harold? Shall I go and say hello to him?’
Inevitably he was busy with his watering can at the bottom of the garden. ‘They’re discussing their daughters,’ I felt able to confide after I’d kissed his cheek and exchanged pleasantries.
He winked. ‘Say no more.’
Lunch was cold salmon, laid out in splendour with all the trimmings.
‘Umm, home-made,’ I commented appreciatively as I spooned mayonnaise on to my plate.
Uncomfortably, I found myself the centre of attention, Mother preening opposite me as I was pressed to spell out my – in her view – giddy ascent up the career ladder.
‘I’m not doing too badly,’ I demurred.
‘And modest with it. Just like her father.’
I stared at her, sitting there complacently, delicately dissecting a portion of salmon. What did she know about him? What, for that matter, did she understand – care, even – about me? Instead she dangled us like glittering accessories. I speared a piece of tomato.
She was chattering on about him now, impressing on the assembled company his many attributes as a husband – as though her sister and brother-in-law didn’t know about his weekend … excursions.
Leah leaned across and patted my mother’s hand. ‘So hard for you to lose him so young.’ I glanced at Harold. He had one of those see-all-say-nothing expressions on his face. It didn’t change when he caught my eye, but something – some sort of empathy – passed between us.
After a decent interval, Leah focused on me again. ‘And how about boyfriends?’ I stifled irritation. Presumably Leah saw such probing into my current personal life as no more than a natural extension of ‘And how are you getting on at school/how are you enjoying university?’
‘Oh, Charissa has plenty of admirers,’ Mother intervened.
I did my best to fend them off. ‘No-one special.’
Mother, no doubt torn between disapproval of my cousin actually living with Perry and the fact that her sister’s child did at least have a man in her life, assumed a would-be-knowing air. ‘Ah, but maybe there is someone. You’ve been very evasive these last few weeks …’
There was sufficient ring of truth to have me struggling not to shift in my seat.
“Fraid not. Sorry to disappoint you.’
It occurred to me that even if there’d been anything to own to about Andrew, I couldn’t have done so. How would I explain him? ‘Just someone I met through Flora,’ would I say nonchalantly?
I swallowed the last mouthful of salad and laid down my knife and fork. ‘That was delicious,’ I said firmly.
I escaped at about four, promising Mother I’d try to get down to see her soon – perhaps one evening. ‘Or maybe you could come up? Do some shopping; meet me for lunch?’
She brightened. ‘Yes, maybe I will.’
Leah pressed the remains of a gooseberry tart on me. ‘You working girls,’ she said. ‘You never look after yourselves.’ I accepted it gracefully – a case of appreciating the deed more than the thought, yet at the same time touched by it. Harold patted my shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’
What on earth, I wondered, winding down the car window to wave goodbye, had made Elspeth feel the need to shake this particular dust from her feet? But then maybe it was just too cosy, her parents too compatible; no real space for her? In my own case, there’d been more than enough room for me – in my mother’s life anyway. And with hindsight it felt decidedly less comfortable than it had at the time. The whole situation – even allowing for all that I was coming to understand about my father – had not, I increasingly sensed, been anything like as clear cut as it seemed. Though what I based that feeling on, I wasn’t at all sure.
I recalled Uncle Harold’s words: ‘Your mother’s well able to look after herself.’ I guessed she always had been. And was it possible I’d been an unwitting pawn in her doing so; had she been using me in some way I couldn’t quite identify? It was an uncharitable thought, but one I had difficulty shaking off as I steered my way through the London maze.
I’d taken the opportunity, as I helped carry coffee cups through to the kitchen, to ask my aunt for Elspeth’s telephone number.
We’d left my mother reclining in today’s-my-birthday state on the patio, peering from under half-closed lids at Harold’s ministrations to the compost heap. ‘You’ll need to turn it more,’ she’d advised in a voice whose pitch carried across the distance and beyond. Harold had raised a
hand, and carried on as before.
‘She left in a bit of a whirl,’ I explained as I stacked. ‘I forgot to get it from her.’
‘Be nice if you two saw more of each other.’ Leah sounded wistful.
‘We certainly get on well.’ I debated whether to say more and decided against it.
Now, flopped on the sofa and with the television offering nothing to take my fancy, I considered ringing her. The only communication since she went had been a scrawled note of thanks – no address – on a postcard of Blackpool Tower which, judging by its yellowing corners, she’d unearthed for the purpose from the back of some drawer or other.
Maybe she could sort me out, I thought. I was certainly beginning to feel I needed it. Pulling the phone on to my lap, I dialled her number. But there was no reply. I replaced the receiver and sat for a long while staring into space.
I’d never have imagined a phone call from Gavin, whom I’d known since university days and who saw himself as hopelessly – and it was accepted between us it was hopelessly – in love with me, could be fortuitous. But this time it was.
Feeling the need of a breather from Cotterly – from Andrew and my own stupidity – I had, late on Monday evening, dropped a note in the post to Flora excusing myself this coming weekend. Making excuses all round, I thought as I thumped the stamp on to the top right-hand corner of the envelope.
Gavin at least was safe, and I greeted the sound of his voice on Tuesday afternoon with more than usual enthusiasm. Working as he did on some mysterious edge of the media world, he’d managed once again to get hold of a pair of complimentary theatre tickets – and on this occasion they were gold-dust ones.
I accepted his invitation with alacrity. ‘Wonderful. I’ve been longing to see it. And I’ll throw some supper together for us afterwards,’ I offered in return.
I was in comfortably mellow mood the following evening as, still discussing the performance we had just been to, I transferred the lasagne I’d prepared earlier from fridge to oven and set about putting a salad together. Gavin uncorked the wine. When the phone rang, I reminded him where the glasses were and went through to answer it.
The by-now-so-familiar voice took me by surprise. ‘You can’t do this to me!’ The lightness of Andrew’s laugh had an undertone to it. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all evening.’ I glanced at the answerphone. It was flashing. But before I could apologise for not having yet checked my messages he went on, ‘Flora tells me you’ve cried off?’
I floundered. ‘Hardly cried off. It wasn’t a firm arrangement. I just found … various things I really need to catch up on this weekend.’ Why wasn’t I coming up with a really big lie, like some three-line-whip company reception?
‘Nothing you can’t cancel then?’
I tidied back a stray strand of hair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My own fault for thinking it was a good idea to spring it on you – I’ve booked for the open-air concert at Harringdon.’ Harringdon, I recalled, was a stately home in vast grounds some twenty miles south-west of Cotterly. ‘Ginny’, Andrew was saying, ‘thought it would be your sort of thing.’
‘And hers too.’ I shifted the phone to the other ear.
‘Well yes, normally But she’s committed to taking the boys up to Leamington, to Jonty’s parents.’
‘So just you, me and Flora?’
‘Actually I thought it would be nice … just the two of us …’
Through the doorway to the kitchen I could see Gavin inspecting his drink.
‘Can I ring you back tomorrow? This isn’t … I’m in the middle of cooking supper.’
‘This late?’
‘We’ve been to the theatre.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Sorry. Obviously not a good time to have phoned.’ Another hesitation. ‘Fine. Give me a call.’
‘Sorry,’ I apologised to Gavin as I returned to slicing cucumber.
I went. Of course I went.
I had laughed away Gavin’s pouting accusation that he had a rival. ‘Dozens of them,’ I countered lightly, reflecting that whatever he chose – consciously or unconsciously – to pretend about his feelings towards me, he’d run a mile if ever I gave any indication of returning them. Sad, really. He’d probably go through life the eternal bachelor; too scared ever to get involved; chasing a love, or loves, he knew – thank goodness – to be unattainable.
I found myself confiding this assessment to Andrew as, on the Saturday evening, we laid our picnic out around us. The concert was not due to start for another half an hour, but even so we had left it fairly late to secure a space to spread the rug. In the end, we’d climbed right up to just below the tree line from where we could look down over the heads of the crowd to the covered podium erected for the occasion.
Flora, bless her, unfazed by my vacillations over going down that weekend, had packed a generous basket and, having assured me earlier, while she was doing so, that sitting on hard ground for two hours or more was definitely for the young, waved us off benignly. ‘I take it you’re producing the champagne?’ she’d instructed Andrew. He’d assured her – with amused little-boy solemnity – that it was already in the boot.
Now he popped the cork. ‘So,’ he said, reaching for the glasses, ‘am I allowed to ask who you were gallivanting with on Wednesday? Or is it none of my business?’
It was tempting to portray Gavin as some dream man. I might well have done so with someone else. But it didn’t feel right to play the tease with Andrew. Apart from anything else, I wasn’t at all sure how far he was teasing me. So I told him.
‘I expect you’re right,’ he said when I’d summed Gavin up. He offered a home-made sausage roll – Flora’s goodies were more practical than delicate – and considered me quizzically.
‘What’s that look supposed to mean?’
‘Sometimes you’re very perceptive …’
I was confused. ‘Is that a straightforward compliment, or …?’
‘Just an observation.’
I puzzled over the comment as Handel’s Water Music, a little later, floated towards us. Andrew appeared totally lost in it, knees hunched, his chin resting on them. I had an urge to stroke the curve of his back where his shirt hugged it. Why, I wondered, did I find men’s shoulders so irresistible? I kept my hands to myself and turned my attention to the stage.
But it didn’t want to stay focused there. Sometimes I was very perceptive. But not always, was he implying? What was I missing; was he trying to tell me something? If so, what? Impatiently I dismissed the questions. I was reading altogether too much into a simple statement.
I’d have liked to shift my position – the ground, as Flora had anticipated, was far from soft – but felt obliged to wait for the piece to end. When it did so, Andrew turned and smiled, taking the opportunity to refill my glass.
Wandering back to the car park, with the smell of fireworks hanging in the air, I hugged my jacket tighter. Andrew, swinging the basket in one hand, slipped a warm arm about me.
We drove to the Dower House: ‘There’s the remains of the champagne to finish,’ he pointed out.
It was strange having the house to ourselves. I felt I should be creeping around so as not to disturb those already slumbering. And there was something eerie about the boys’ boots lined up just inside the back door.
‘Reminds me of the time I borrowed them,’ I said, pointing. An age ago and, yes, there’d only been the two of us here then too. The garden – I peered out through the kitchen window – was in total darkness now. My image, or rather the outline of it since my face was in shadow, stared back. For some reason the lack of defined features disconcerted me.
‘Come on, let’s take these through.’ I swivelled back. Andrew was standing there, glasses in one hand, the bottle, retrieved from the basket dumped on the side, in the other.
We settled side by side on the sofa, Andrew stretching towards the coffee table to pour. He turned to look at me as I sipped.
‘Thanks for comin
g down,’ he said.
‘Thanks for persuading me.’
It was perfectly obvious, as he removed the glass from my hand and set it down, that he was going to kiss me. But it was a very light one, scarcely brushing my lips.
‘I’ve been looking forward to doing that for a long time,’ he said. He considered me for several moments more, then leaned back. ‘Tell me,’ and now his tone was conversational again, ‘was it worth abandoning your chores for? The concert, I mean.’
I assured him it had been. We discussed the programme; compared the interpretations of this orchestra with those of others; agreed that the atmosphere more than compensated for the lack of concert hall acoustics.
Eventually I looked at my watch. ‘The time! I’d better get back.’
Andrew glanced at his own. ‘Too late. Flora will have bolted the door and gone to bed by now. Simpler if you stay here.’
Why I was so taken aback I don’t know. I should have seen it coming, been prepared.
‘Come on.’ He rose to his feet and pulled me up. Automatically I responded.
Then: ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not planning to seduce you. I’ll go and sleep in one of the boys’ beds if you like.’
If I liked. I didn’t know what I’d like. ‘But what will Flora say? I mean …’
‘I don’t imagine she’ll say – or think – anything.’
No, she wouldn’t. I saw her again, in the garden: ‘It’s your life. You have to sort it.’ In any case, I wasn’t a sixteen-year-old any more.
The carpet on the landing was jade green. On the walls – I tore my eyes away from the mesmerising colour – rural prints alternated with flower drawings …
Andrew’s bedroom itself was typically masculine – in so far as I knew what constituted that: I had only Mark’s room, other than my experience of student chaos, to compare it with. But the general impression was one of sturdy practicality. A Victorian tallboy and wardrobe, and an upholstered chair in one corner, were scattered about by evidence of sporting interests – a conglomeration of racquets, an elderly hockey stick, photographs on the wall of a rowing eight and what was presumably a school cricket team – and with seemingly hastily tidied shoes and items of clothing. A row of heavy books lined up on what had once been the mantelpiece hinted at the contents of his briefcase slung on the carpet beneath it. The bed, under the window, was a wide single, covered with a plaid rug that suggested long ownership.
