Oh bugger, it was quarter to seven. Come on, Alys, what to wear? Maybe Florrie had left something in her cupboards which wouldn’t make me look like a cross between a teenage street prostitute and an urban mugger? I went into her room and opened her wardrobe doors. The smell which came out was certainly not associated with Florrie’s taste in perfume.
“Grainger?” My eyes fell on the curled shape, hidden in the deepest recesses of the jog pants. He didn’t move and I felt my whole body stop. “Grainger? Sweetie?” I reached in. Touched the tip of his crumpled tabby ear. It didn’t flicker. “Oh, cat.” I reached farther, almost reluctantly stroking one hand down his furry flank. This was the cat who’d escaped certain death under the wheels of the Park and Ride bus, emerging in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes as the bus rolled away down the road, with an expression of scorn on his whiskers. This cat had fallen off my bedroom window ledge two stories into the suspect hedging beneath and got away with nothing but a case of chronic embarrassment. Surely he’d go out with a bang, causing a four-car pile-up, not quietly expiring mixed up with Florrie’s outgrown clothing and dirty laundry.
“Grainger?” I pushed both arms around his curled body and drew him out towards me. He wasn’t totally stiff yet, nor cold and I held him close to my chest, bending my head to kiss his fur. “Oh God.” I’d got seven minutes before Piers arrived, I couldn’t bury Grainger in seven minutes. But neither could I face leaving him here until I got back from the party. He’d be stiff by then and almost impossible to bury unless I dug a hole that could have interred a Great Dane. Perhaps I could put him in a box?
I sat on the sofa, cradling the soft bundle against me. Florrie had pleaded and pleaded for a pet. When Alasdair had finally admitted that, yes, he’d fallen for another woman, and we had moved into this place, it had seemed the perfect opportunity. So she had, fairly uncomplainingly, exchanged her father for a scruffy half-grown tabby, and we’d settled here together, all three of us.
There was a slamming knock at the door. “Hey! Ready to party?” Piers erupted over the threshold, took one look at my sad little mass and sat down suddenly. “Shit. Is he—y’know—?”
I shrugged, suddenly awkward at being in my dressing gown. “He’s not moving,” I said, in a ridiculously childish voice.
“Oh, Alys.” Voice soft, Piers gently reached out. I thought he was going to touch the cat, but the extended fingertip touched my face instead. “Grainger—”
Deep against me there came a slight tremble, an indistinct thrumming sound, the merest hint of vibration. “He’s purring,” I almost shouted. “Piers, he’s not dead!”
“Steady, Alys.” Piers took Grainger from me. “I don’t think he’s good. Looks kinda like a stroke. You want we should call the vet?”
As usual, the vision of the pathetically small numbers on my bank account crept into view. “I don’t—I mean, I’m not sure.”
Piers looked up from the cat. His eyes were a very deep brown tonight, I noticed. Not that I should be noticing such things, but I couldn’t help it with the way he was looking at me. “Hey, Ally. I’ll get the bill.”
“You can’t.”
A mad smile. “Wanna bet?” The smile died as he leaned his head down and brushed the tabby fur with a cheek. “Do the words American Express mean anything to you?”
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t, I meant—I can’t take money from you.”
“Because? Hey, I thought we were friends. Or are you gonna pull that ‘you’re the son of my ex-husband’s new wife’ shit on me? Friends, Ally, friends help each other out, that’s what they’re for. Now, you make the call.”
As I flipped open the little black book which contained all the phone numbers Florence or I ever needed, I wondered when Piers got so macho. Maybe it was the Argentinian rancher in him coming out, I thought, as I spoke to the vet’s receptionist with one eye on the floppy tabby body he still held close to his chest. “We’re to take him in. Now.”
“Glad you saw sense. Let’s go.”
“I’m in my dressing gown.”
Piers looked me slowly up and down. “Oh yeah,” he said, but I didn’t believe for one second that he’d only just noticed. “Come on.” He walked through into my bedroom. I think he was trying to distract me, but having him raising his eyebrows at the throbbing red throw was more distracting than I could really cope with. “Okay, this”—he nodded towards a jade green halterback top that I hadn’t worn for years—“with this.” A pink suede short skirt, which actually was Florrie’s. “And”—with a grin—“those real cool boots.”
I felt like a lap dancer on her day off when we left for the clinic.
“Definitely a stroke.” The vet gave the recumbent Grainger another last look through his bifocals. “At his age it would probably be best if we…”
I clenched Grainger against my chest so hard that he gave a little gasp. “No.”
“Ms. Hunter.” Wearily the vet pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Recovery from a collapse of this kind would be such a long, slow process it might be kinder.”
“She said no.” Piers put both hands on the examination table and leaned forward. The vet leaned back. I felt sorry for him. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days and his white coat was three sizes too large. Probably the last thing he needed right now was an annoyed American looming at him. “Give the cat a shot, whatever, and we’ll take him home.”
I dropped my head again and some more tears damped Grainger’s fur. My nose was running and all I had to wipe it on, apart from Grainger himself, was my arm. I sniffed instead.
“Look. If you insist on my treating this cat, he’ll need to be admitted. Possibly only for a day or two until he starts to respond, if he does. But in view of the cost, I really would advise—”
Piers ignored the vet and turned to me. He crouched down in front of where I sat in one of those slightly-too-small plastic chairs that vet’s surgeries always have, holding Grainger between my chest and bare knees. “He’ll be okay here, Alys. They’ll look after him. You want that? Yeah?”
“B-but the cost…”
Piers ignored me. “Keep him here. Do everything you can for him.” He gave the poor vet another glare. “And I mean everything. I get any whisper that you gave up on this cat and I’ll have your badge.”
As we walked back to the car, Grainger-less, I gave a snorty, snot-filled kind of laugh. “I don’t think vets have badges, Piers.”
Another manic Piers-grin. “I know that. But, it’s all in the tone of voice. He knew I meant what I said, what I really said doesn’t matter. Would you rather I said I’d have his balls?” He flipped open the door of the Porsche and I tried to get in without flashing him my knickers.
“No, it’s just that it’s going to be expensive. Are you sure we shouldn’t have, well, you know. Made the final decision?”
“You want that? Grainger sent on his way? You just say the word, Ally, I’ll go back in there and—”
“No!”
“Right. So, shut up about the money, yeah?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll pay you back. Honestly, I will. I don’t know how, yet, but—”
Piers looked down at my bare legs and did the grin again. “I’ll think of something.”
This time I laughed properly and slapped him on the shoulder. “You are such a tart.”
“Yeah? I’m not the one in a micro-mini and stilettos, babe.”
“Maybe, but you chose this outfit.”
His smile died a little. “Glad I did, too. You look great, did I say that already? Come on, the big G’s in good hands here, let’s go find us a PARTY!” He dropped the clutch on the little yellow car and it jumped forward with a lurch I could feel from my heart down to my stomach.
Chapter Twenty
“My name’s Alys. Alys, with a Y,” I bellowed at the young man who’d enquired, screaming to be heard over the wailing which permeated the air.
“That’s Alicey then, isn’it? So, Alicey, what’re you
doing here? You’re not”—the hand which had been hovering on my leg retracted—“you’re not Si’s mum, are you?”
“No.” I edged towards the kitchen, which had been my destination when I’d been accosted by this pink-haired punk-approximate. “Look, excuse me, I want to get another drink.”
“Yeah, great idea! Let’s go get another drink. C’mon guys, fuck off out of it, Alicey wants another drink.” A crude method maybe, but the crowd blocking our way parted, and I reeled through the doorway only to crash my hip against a table which had been formed by standing a board between two beer crates.
At least it was quieter in here. Very, very smoky, but quieter. In fact—I coughed for a second until my lungs caught up—it was so smoky you could probably get high simply by standing in the same post-code. “So, what’ya drinking, Alicey? Look, have some of this. Tastes like piss but—wheeeeewww!”
Oh God, and for this I’d worn suede. “No, thank you. I’ll just have some wine.”
“Nah.” My pink-haired attendant grabbed a bottle of something suspiciously cloudy and upended it over a glass. “You want some of this. Loosen you up, know what I mean?” He peered into my eyes, which were still red from crying over Grainger.
A hand extended over my shoulder and passed me a glass of white wine. I recognised the scary pattern of the sleeve. “Thanks,” I said, with relief.
“Maaaaaaan!” My new friend slammed Piers on the back, missing a couple of times. “Where you been? This”—he gestured more or less in my direction—“is Alicey.” He lowered his voice to a subtle shout. “I’m gonna get her upstairs after another couple.”
“Oh, sorry, was that your foot? These heels are really quite sharp, aren’t they? Whoops, there goes my wine, clumsy me.”
“I’d better get you out of here before you kill him,” Piers muttered, tugging me by the wrist through the kitchen and out of the back door. I took deep breaths of the clean air, spoilt only by the smoke from the joint which Piers was carrying. “How’re you doing?”
“What, apart from being chatted up by men with all the romantic subtlety of Australopithecus? Fine, thanks.”
Piers shrugged, tugged at the cuffs of his jacket and took a mighty drag. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t think this place would be quite so uncool. You want we go on somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?”
I sat down on a low wall overlooking a lawn which sloped down to a summerhouse. “No, it’s fine. Just what I need really, to stop me sitting at home moping, a spot of culture shock. Another drink and I’ll be dancing on the table with my top off like the other girls.”
He grinned. “Now, that I’d pay to see.” He held the joint out. “You want?”
Motherhood, legality and upbringing came swarming to the surface. “No thanks.” I crossed my legs and folded my arms in an attitude of total denial, until I realised that this revealed my knickers and pushed my boobs beyond the help of my strapless bra.
“Hey.” Piers leaned down until his face was level with mine. “Live a little, yeah?”
Oh, what the hell, I thought.
We sat on the wall and smoked in a pleasant kind of silence. When we finished, Piers dodged into the house again and emerged carrying two glasses, an untouched bottle of wine and another joint.
“Piers, can I ask you something?”
“Absolutely anything, Alys.” He handed me a glass. “So long as it’s not the square root of anything. Crap at math, always was.”
“Where do you get these terrible clothes?” I pulled at his jacket lapel to draw attention to its awfulness. “I mean, how many sofas had to die to make this thing?”
“That bad, eh?”
“Worse. You look”—I indicated the floppy bell-ended sleeves—“like the bastard offspring of Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen and an Axminster carpet.”
“A mating that I would also pay to see.” Piers poured himself another glass of wine. It occurred to me at this point that he wasn’t going to be fit to drive home, but I’d reached the stage where this was simply a thought, not a practical eventuality. “I dunno. I kinda buy stuff that I like. I prefer to be an individual, you know? I don’t follow the crowd.”
“I don’t think they’d let you,” I muttered.
“Okay. My turn.”
“Turn for what?”
“To ask you something.” He lit the second joint but passed it directly to me. “Play fair, now.” He wasn’t looking at me, I noticed, keeping his eyes on the ground, hair hiding most of his expression. “Who’s Florrie’s real father?”
I felt the blood rise to my face. “What?” I took a huge pull on the joint, followed by an enormous gulp of wine. Buying time, covering my confusion.
“Does she know it’s not Alasdair?” Piers was looking at me now, properly, his features barely illuminated in the weak light that reached us via the kitchen. His eyes, huge, dark, lost in the shadow. Unreadable.
“That’s two questions.”
“Yeah.”
What did he want? My heart was hammering in my throat, my skin reacting with goose pimples on my arms and legs. “What makes you think…?”
“Alys, I know. Ma and Alasdair have been trying for a baby since they got hitched. Six, maybe eight months ago they went for tests. Guess they both kinda thought it was her. I mean, she’s what, forty-two?”
Oh God.
“Turns out he’s got, now what was it? Oh yeah, low-motility sperm. Little bastards just don’t wanna swim. And, you know what? The ones that do go round and round in circles. About as much chance of getting to an egg as I have of getting to the North Pole.”
I only realised I was shivering when Piers draped his jacket around me.
“Shit. I didn’t want to do this, Alys, believe me. I just thought you ought to be warned. I didn’t do it to hurt you, or Florrie, or even Chrissake fucking Alasdair. I—Alys?”
“Flick,” I said, distantly. The wine, the fragrant smoke, his eyes, they’d all reached me at last.
“Excuse me?”
“His name. Was Flick. Or, well, it wasn’t, but I couldn’t pronounce his real name. He was Polish. Flick was the nearest I could get.”
“No shit.” Piers took the joint off me. It was almost gone, but he sucked at it until the end glowed fierce in the darkness.
“I’ve never”—I drained my glass and shuddered as the bitterness cascaded down my throat—“never told anyone about this.”
“You’re drunk. And stoned. Maybe this isn’t the time.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. And I’m cold, I’m sad, I’m lonely, and my love-life has gone tits-up yet again, and I’m really tired and you’re here. I can’t think of any better time to tell someone.”
Piers let out a breath. “Okay then. But look, you’re fucking freezing. Give me a second.” He vanished indoors again.
I waited, my heartbeat still filling my ears. What was I doing? This was Piers. But he was here and he listened and he was so nice and pretty, and bloody hell I was drunk. I could do with some peanuts. I hope he’s gone for some food. Oh shit, fairly sure the garden wasn’t meant to tilt that way.
“Come on.”
“What? Where?” This time he’d got two bottles of wine.
“You’ll see.”
I clutched at the lapels of the jacket again, this time to hold it close around me as we set off down the garden. Piers loped through the long grass with me bobbling and weaving alongside.
“In here.” Piers pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to the summerhouse. “I think there should be—yeah, over here, there’s some cushions.” I sank down onto a pile of damp canvas and leaned back against the wall. Piers pressed a bottle into my hand and came to sit beside me. “I got crisps. Figured the munchies’d be striking about now. Guess I was right.”
We sat and ate crisps for a while, listening to the sounds of the river and the very distant noises of the party, which occasionally crept closer in the form of vomiting in the shrubbery and what sounded like some vigorous copulation off to our le
ft.
Piers eventually broke the crunch-filled silence. “I’ve been trying to say something to you since I found out. Didn’t know how.”
“That night in the wine bar? This was what you were trying to tell me? The family matter?” I started to drink wine out of the bottle; I was fairly certain that tomorrow wasn’t going to be pretty. I failed to see how a killer hangover was going to make things any worse.
“Uh huh.”
“I suspected. We tried for a baby when Florence was about three. Nothing happened and we both shrugged it off, decided that she was more than enough to be dealing with.” I lapsed into silence for a bit, apart from the plopping sound my tongue made in the neck of the bottle as I prevented the wine from drowning me.
“You okay?” Piers asked eventually.
“I loved him,” I said simply.
“Yeah, well I’m sure he loved you too. He often talks about—”
“Flick.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
“He was an art student. Lived in this incredible van on a patch of waste-ground outside the city. The coolest thing, all great slabs of artwork and chrome. I was only nineteen and he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.”
“Did he know? About Florence?”
“I was young and stupid, thought he’d be pleased. There was an argument. Flick—he wasn’t—he decided he wasn’t dad material. And then I met Alasdair and he wanted to marry me, and he had a car and his dad’s a laird and everything and…”
“He didn’t know you were pregnant?”
“No,” I said in a tiny voice. “I had to choose. Flick wanted me to get rid of it. Alasdair was absolutely ecstatic when I told him I was having a baby. He just assumed—”
“Oh shit. Alys. Jesus.”
“Piers?”
“Hey.” His arm came round me in the darkness and I was glad of his closeness. “I’m not judging you. I’ve not been there, so I don’t know how it goes, but shit, yeah, I can imagine. Christ. No wonder you don’t take money off him.”
“I said that I didn’t need his money, but Alasdair said that if Florrie needed anything or wanted anything she only had to ask, so she did. I couldn’t stop her,” I added sadly.
Slightly Foxed Page 12
