A Most Desirable Marriage

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘Like I believe that,’ Cassie was saying. ‘You two’d always say you were fine, even if the house was burning around your ears.’ Jo heard her chuckle. ‘Sort of old-school Brit . . . fine, fine, we’re all absolutely fine, darling. Bad manners to complain.’

  ‘Do we say that?’

  ‘But hey-ho,’ Cassie went on as if Jo hadn’t spoken. ‘I probably don’t want to know about any more prattishness from Dad.’

  ‘He wasn’t always a prat,’ Jo said.

  ‘No . . . no, he wasn’t.’

  *

  The tall blonde woman, stick thin and unfairly tanned for January – no doubt Christmasing in Mustique, Jo decided, the current on-trend watering hole – waved her hand at the wall between the sitting room and the kitchen. ‘We could knock that down, make it into one big space. That front room is quite poky.’

  Here we go, thought Jo, hovering by the door as Tina took her client round the ‘property’, as she insisted on calling it.

  Now Tina was nodding in agreement. ‘Most of the properties in the street have done that a while back,’ she said, as if Jo’s house with its ‘poky’ front room was stuck in the Dark Ages.

  On they went, talking absolute nonsense about room heights and ensuites and potential for loft conversion and Godolphin & Latymer girls’ school, not to mention house prices, house prices, house prices, until Jo was ready to smack the pair of them. Tina agreed enthusiastically with everything the blonde said, and they seemed to be actually vying with each other on what vast amounts they knew about selling houses.

  When the blonde had been dispatched, Tina came back in.

  ‘Hopeful?’ Jo asked.

  Tina shook her head. ‘Oh no, definitely not. At least I’d be very surprised. She wants Notting Hill, but her budget’s Shepherd’s Bush. She won’t buy here if she can help it.’

  Great, Jo thought. ‘So all that stuff about loft conversions was just so much hot air?’

  ‘Part of the process, Mrs Meadows. People like to talk through their options. But I can always tell within three minutes if a person is serious about a property.’

  ‘Really? Must make your job really hard, having to pretend for the other seventeen.’

  The estate agent’s mouth – tastefully defined in matt coral – pursed. ‘I’m not pretending exactly. More listening.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean . . .’ Jo ground to a halt, knowing she would only dig herself deeper.

  But give Tina her due, she was certainly getting people through the door. Jo was constantly jumpy during daylight hours, every small laziness, such as not folding a towel properly, not replacing the patchwork counterpane, not washing up a cup or tidying away a newspaper, were banished. She renewed the flowers, polished the furniture, swept the kitchen tiles, bleached the loo, abandoned her occasional afternoon nap in case Ms Brechin-spelled-B-R-E-C-H-I-N caught her – oh, horror! – in bed. It was stressful, and with each passing week she became more and more anxious for it to be over, for the die to be cast.

  *

  ‘So are you going?’ Donna asked, waving the invitation card at Jo. She’d dropped round one morning in early February.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’ll be sensational if Ruthie’s in charge. She never does anything by halves.’

  ‘Craig must be really hurting. All that dosh . . . and on something so frivolous.’

  Donna laughed. ‘She probably threatened to leave him if he didn’t. Only the prospect of a crippling divorce would get him to open his purse that wide.’

  The party was on Valentine’s Day, a fortieth wedding anniversary for a couple who’d lived in the house opposite Jo and Donna until last year, when they’d sold up and moved to Norfolk. It was to be a grand affair, thrown in a smart venue near Euston Station.

  ‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: what the hell are we going to wear?’

  ‘It says “Dress: Winter Wonderland”,’ Donna said, checking the heavy cream card which she’d thrown down on Jo’s kitchen table, running her finger over the expensively embossed script.

  Jo groaned. ‘Noo . . . not fancy dress. Didn’t notice that bit. I’m definitely not going then.’

  ‘Calm down. It doesn’t say fancy dress. It just means we have to dress like the White Witch from Narnia.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Now if I looked like Tilda Swinton . . .’

  ‘We wish. Probably silver would do, or white. Something sparkly. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘For you, maybe. I don’t do sparkly.’

  The doorbell rang loudly.

  ‘Oops, better clear off. That’ll be another skinny blonde with too much money and a four-by-four.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Jo gave her friend an apologetic grin. ‘If there was any other way . . .’

  Donna sighed. ‘I know, darling, I know. Not your fault at all. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to the new regime. What if she has brats and parties? It’s been so perfect, you and me and Maxy.’

  *

  Frances raised her eyebrows at Jo. They were back in the conference room at the publisher, perched at the end of the long glass table. Her editor had emailed her the day before. ‘We need to talk. Can you come in tomorrow morning around ten?’ it said. But nothing about what Frances had thought of Tess’s Angel. Maggie decided it wasn’t a good sign.

  ‘If she’d really liked it, surely she’d have said.’

  Jo sat very still now, her heart fluttering with anxiety. She kept telling herself it wouldn’t matter if Frances rejected the book, but she knew it would.

  ‘So where did this come from?’ She indicated Jo’s novel, printed out and bound with two brown rubber bands crossed in the centre.

  ‘Not sure. I was having trouble with the other story – I just couldn’t get a handle on the character. And stuff was happening at home . . . my father died. Then this one sort of appeared from nowhere and I just went with it. Couldn’t do anything else.’

  Frances nodded but seemed to be waiting for her to continue.

  ‘Look, I know it’s not what you commissioned. And I’ll quite understand if you don’t want to go ahead with it. But the other one we had the treatment for wasn’t working.’

  ‘Hmm . . . I wish you’d told me earlier.’ The editor shook her head backwards, stroking her auburn hair out of her face. ‘I made such a palaver about the other outline with the powers-that-be. Really pushed it. Looks so unprofessional to pitch up with a totally different title, a totally different book.’

  ‘I know. I’m really sorry. I got so absorbed in the writing that I didn’t think . . .’

  Frances let out a long sigh, her French manicure tapping lightly on the pile of paper.

  ‘Well,’ she said, finally smiling at Jo. ‘I like it. I like it a lot.’

  Jo held her breath.

  ‘It’s the best you’ve done, in my opinion. And that’s including Bumble and Me.’

  ‘Seriously? You think it’s better than Bumble?’

  Frances nodded. ‘It’s very powerful. The Tess character is heart rending. It deals so well with teenage alienation. Generally a very modern feel.’ She paused. ‘But. I’ll have to get support.’

  ‘So you’d like to publish it?’

  ‘Definitely. But I can’t promise anything, not until I’ve had a chance to pitch it to Sales and Marketing. Swapping to the new title isn’t a problem; we often change those after the event.’

  ‘What might be a problem?’

  Frances considered her question.

  ‘Hopefully nothing.’ She gave Jo a warm smile. ‘Sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll set this all in motion and let you know as soon as we have a decision.’ She began to gather up her phone, her pen, the manuscript. ‘But well done, Joanna. And don’t worry, I’ll fight for Tess.’

  Frances ushered Jo out, giving her a brief hug as they stood waiting for the lift to arrive.

  As soon as Jo was outside th
e building, she called Maggie.

  ‘Woo hoo!’ her agent shouted. ‘Brilliant news.’

  ‘Steady on. It’s not definite yet. The others – whoever they are – might not be as enthusiastic as Frances.’

  ‘Oh, of course they will be. It’s a great book. It works. Who wouldn’t want to publish it?’

  Jo laughed.

  ‘You must be thrilled.’

  ‘I am. And thoroughly relieved.’

  ‘OK, well let me know as soon as,’ Maggie said. ‘I have a feeling about this one,’ she added, making Jo smile to herself. Her agent was the cautious type; she’d rarely heard her so upbeat about her work.

  *

  ‘Jo? Can I come in?’ Donna’s head poked through the changing room curtains.

  Jo was struggling into a silver dress, shiny and skin tight, which looked like something Barbarella, from the seventies film, might have worn. Donna had insisted she try it. She pulled the curtains back to see what her friend had on.

  ‘You like?’ Donna twirled in front of her in an ivory, sequined bodycon dress.

  ‘Love it! You look about twelve.’

  ‘Twelve in a good way?’ her friend’s face clouded with doubt as she smoothed the material over her hips. ‘It’s short, but that doesn’t matter, does it? It didn’t say ball-gowns.’

  ‘Look, nobody cares in the end what anyone else wears. And it looks great. You should get it.’

  Jo caught sight of the ridiculous dress she had on and laughed. ‘So you’re OK. What about me?’

  Donna frowned as she looked Jo up and down. ‘Yeah, that’s not doing it. Try the black one.’

  ‘Black’s not exactly Winter Wonderland.’

  ‘No, but you could jazz it up with a silver stole or something.’

  In the end Jo bought nothing. The black dress had suited her, but it was a hundred and eighty pounds, which she didn’t want to spend.

  ‘I’ve got the navy one with the lacy sleeves. I’ll wear that.’

  *

  It was a clear, cold February night for the party. Donna and Jo took a taxi to the address in Tavistock Place.

  ‘Lawrence won’t be there, will he?’ Donna asked.

  ‘The invitation was for both of us, so clearly they don’t know we’ve split up. And I haven’t mentioned it to Lawrence, obviously. So, no. He won’t be there.’

  ‘That’s good. You can relax then.’

  Although ‘relaxed’ nowhere near described Jo’s state of mind. Butterflies churned in her stomach, she felt awkward and uncomfortable all dressed up – it was months since she’d worn anything other than jeans – and she was absolutely dreading having to socialize with the people who had known her and Lawrence as a couple for so many decades. Added to which, Jo – never good at parties – had always hidden behind Lawrence, let him make all the running.

  The taxi pulled up at the entrance to the courtyard, over which tall, silver branches met, twinkling with tiny white lights.

  ‘Here we go,’ Donna said. ‘Let’s party!’

  The elegant, late-Victorian rooms had been transformed by Ruthie’s extravagant taste into a fantasy of grottos and ice-mountains and caves, all sparkling silvery and white and lit with thousands of battery candles and loops of Christmas tree lights. Glowing icicles hung from the mesh-swagged ceiling, accompanied by large silver hearts on which were written Ruthie and Craig’s names in red glitter – the only colour in the decorations.

  Donna and Jo looked around, speechless, sipping the delicious – and obviously expensive – champagne they’d picked off a tray held by a waiter looking decidedly uncomfortable in a sequined white onesie.

  ‘Darlings!’ Ruthie was upon them, carefully air-kissing their cheeks, obviously keen not to damage her make-up or hair with smoochy hugs so early in the night.

  Jo shook her head in awe. ‘This is incredible, Ruthie. Totally magic. God, it must have taken years of planning.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re a genius,’ Donna added.

  Their friend, plump and blonde and bouncy, wearing a ridiculous silver Grecian-style dress and a diamond tiara – Jo failed to see the Winter Wonderland connection – roared with delighted laughter.

  ‘Isn’t it utter bliss? Craig’ll never recover, of course. But I can divorce him now we’ve had the party.’

  They both laughed as Ruthie rushed off to greet some more guests.

  ‘Shall we check it out?’ Donna pointed through to another room, where there were tables set out and a dance area.

  Jo nodded, already feeling the beneficial effects of the champagne on her nerves. ‘Oops, keep moving, just spotted Robert and Alison at two o’clock.’

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ Donna whispered as they speeded up. ‘Not sure I really bonded with any of those people we met at their barbecues. I mean, they weren’t horrible or anything, just . . . different world.’

  ‘So what are we doing here?’

  ‘Getting drunk, having a laugh. We don’t have to talk to anyone if we don’t want to.’

  ‘Just don’t leave me for one single second.’

  *

  It was two glasses of champagne and some caviar and sour cream blinis later that Donna spotted Lawrence. She clutched Jo’s arm as they chatted to a very amusing couple Donna had picked up, pointing towards the doorway.

  ‘Noo,’ Jo groaned.

  ‘Can’t see Arkadius yet,’ Donna said after a moment checking the throng of guests.

  ‘Probably doing the coats.’

  Her husband looked uncharacteristically awkward, despite his elegant dinner jacket – bought over twenty years ago, at some expense, but hardly worn – and Jo noticed his only concession to the party theme was a silver bow tie. It surprised her. Lawrence was not averse to fancy dress in the way she was. He had, on one occasion, dressed up as a 94 bus – to much raucous acclaim – for a Scarlet and Black party an old college friend had thrown. But clearly he wasn’t in the mood tonight.

  ‘Are you going to speak to him?’

  ‘Don’t have much choice.’

  He was making his way across the room. Jo watched him go up to Craig and shake his hand, give Ruthie a hug. Then he was on his own again, looking round, seemingly at a loss.

  She sighed. ‘Back in a mo,’ she told her friend.

  ‘Hi, Lawrence.’

  ‘Jo . . .’ She held her glass in front of her with both hands, so as to avoid an embrace of any kind.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she said.

  ‘I bumped into Craig getting off the Tube at Oxford Circus last week. He said they’d sent an invitation to the house.’

  Jo ignored the implied criticism. ‘Did you tell him we were separated?’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘Ruthie didn’t say anything just now.’

  ‘No, well . . .’

  ‘Arkadius not with you?’

  ‘No . . . he couldn’t make it.’

  There was silence between them in the crowded room, the Schumann played by the string quartet in the corner like a Greek chorus to their private drama.

  ‘Listen, Jo . . . about Christmas . . .’

  ‘Gotta drag Lawrence away I’m afraid, darling, there’s someone who’s dying to meet him.’ Ruthie shot Jo a wide-eyed glance behind his back as she took her husband’s arm and walked him firmly away. Rescuing me, Jo thought, embarrassed.

  The evening was lively and drunken. No formal sit-down for dinner, Jo was relieved to see, just a buffet of smoked salmon, baked ham on the bone, sirloin of beef, cold sea trout delicately layered with sliced cucumber, huge dishes of dauphinoise potatoes, French beans and salads.

  ‘God, I’m ravenous,’ Donna announced as she sat down next to Jo at one of the tables dotted about the room, her plate laden with enough food to last them both a fortnight.

  Jo laughed. ‘You’ll never get through even a quarter of that.’ Donna ate like a bird.

  ‘I know, but buffets confuse me. I take something, then further along I s
ee something else I want more, but I can’t really take the first thing off, so I just keep on piling it up.’ She inspected her plate. ‘But it does look delicious, doesn’t it.’

  ‘OK if I sit here?’ Lawrence put his plate down next to Donna and sank gratefully into the chair before either of them had time to speak.

  ‘Good party, eh?’ Donna said.

  He nodded. ‘Fantastic.’

  The conversation became general round the table as two other couples joined them, both of whom were old friends of the Carpenters and had been at the summer barbecue most years.

  Jo said almost nothing. The initial high from the champagne had dipped to a slightly out of control intoxication where she wasn’t sure she was walking straight or talking sense.

  Lawrence’s presence constrained her still further and maybe constrained him too, as he said surprisingly little, allowing Donna – in her element at any social event – to do all the work.

  When the band set up on the podium and the speeches were over, Jo breathed a sigh of relief. No one would need to talk now.

  The band struck up the first song, Stevie Wonder’s ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life’, and the anniversary couple took to the floor alone, Craig taking charge for once and shuffling his wife expertly round the floor to much laughter and applause.

  ‘Dance?’ Lawrence asked Donna when the band went on to Elton’s ‘Crocodile Rock’, his glance avoiding Jo and a possible rejection.

  ‘Love to,’ Donna leaped to her feet with alacrity and they were gone.

  Jo was envious of her friend. She and Lawrence had always been enthusiastic dance partners when they got the chance. Dreading one of the other men at the table asking her, she got up and trod a careful path to the Ladies, miles away down a flight of polished wooden stairs, where she took a long time doing not much to her hair and face. But when she got back they were still dancing. In fact everyone seemed to be dancing except her, alone at the table and feeling idiotic, until Craig came up behind her and pulled her to her feet.