“Mummy! Coral’s here, and her mummy—”
Eliza was halfway up the stairs to have her bath; she sighed and turned round again. She had to greet her best friend in the whole world, as Emmie had christened Heather, probably correctly.
“Heather, hallo, it’s so lovely to see you. Hallo, Coral, hallo, Bobby. Goodness, he’s grown up. How was the journey?”
“Fine. Alan’s just parking down in the village.”
“He can park up here; don’t be silly.”
“No, no, he’s all right. Glad to be rid of him for a bit, to be honest. I had to map-read every inch of the way, and he kept shouting at me.”
“Look, come on in; let me get you a coffee or something. And, Emmie, you take Coral off and look after her, mind.”
“Can I give her a riding lesson?”
“No, Emmie, you cannot, not today, and if I see either of you sitting on that pony, even if he is tied up to the fence, the whole thing is cancelled. Oh, Alan, lovely to see you—”
“Mummy, Mummy, it’s Uncle Charles and a lady—Uncle Charles, hallo, come and see everything, come and see—”
“Take them round to Granny, darling; I’ll be out in a minute …”
She risked a quick peek at Charles’s lady from the hall window; she was quite pretty, in a fresh-faced, very young way, holding his hand and looking up at him adoringly. Perfect. Just what he needed. Pattie was her name, and somehow it suited her (very well).
“Eliza,” called Sarah, running into the house, “darling, could you go and see the roundabout man; he’s having trouble with his generator; it won’t start or something …”
Eliza glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven. The cars and horse trailers were streaming in now; ponies were being led round and round the field by an army of little girls—and a small number of boys; fathers were heaving water carriers and nose bags about; mothers were unpacking picnics. Charles was leading Gail’s donkey, bearing a seemingly endless queue of little girls up and down the far field, and an even more endless queue was forming for Mrs. Horrocks’s lemonade. Sarah’s business at the tombola was booming.
Everything seemed fine; if she was quick, she could dash up and have her bath and change before—
“Eliza!” A very flashy Jaguar had driven in; Jack Beckham was waving wildly at her. “What a day. Blimey, good thing there aren’t any of your readers here; fine fashion editor you make.”
“Thanks, Jack. Hallo, you must be Babs. I’ve heard a lot about you. And you three, lovely to meet you. Jack, if you want to park here, in front of the house, do; it’s getting very difficult over there. Come and meet my mother; she’s serving cold drinks, or there’s a beer tent over there, next to the orangery—”
“A beer tent!” said Jack Beckham. “Now you’re talking. Well, this is all very nice, Eliza; come on, girls, out.”
The three girls got out, the epitome of seventies girlhood, all long skirts and long curls and wide, over-made-up smudgy eyes.
“I love those skirts,” Eliza said. “Are they—”
But at that moment, Cal appeared, his curls even longer and more luxurious than the girls’, carrying two enormous bales of hay; all three of them stood stock-still, as if they had seen some kind of heavenly vision. Which, as they recounted later to their friends, they felt they had.
“ ’Scuse me, Mrs. Shaw,” said Gail, “but Mum says we should start the jumpin’ right away; people are getting restive, so if we can get the judges to come to the table—”
“Yes, of course,” said Eliza. “Jack, can you sort yourselves out? Sorry. Cal will show you everything …”
“I bet he will,” said Babs, with the dimpled giggle that had become famous from her days as a weathergirl. “Come on, girls, after Cal.”
Eliza rounded up the judges, grabbed the mike, called the entrants for the first jumping class to come to the collecting ring—the rather grand name for a sectioned-off bit of paddock—and thought longingly of the bathroom.
“Eliza. Hallo, my darling. Can I park here, or do I have to go to the field?”
“Oh … Jeremy, no, of course you can park here. Mr. Northcott, how lovely to see you; let me take you round to the terrace; you can sit down there and Jeremy can get you a beer or something. Mummy’s looking forward to seeing you, and we’re thrilled you’re staying tonight.”
Now …
“Eliza—hallo. You look wonderful.”
“Mark! I do not, I’m afraid; I keep trying to go up for a bath, but— Where’s Scarlett?”
“She’s run into the house, desperate for the loo, poor darling.”
“How is she? It’s so brave of you to come.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
She was hardly inside the house when Scarlett appeared out of the loo, looking magnificent in a white frilled dress and perilously high-heeled red sandals.
“Eliza, hallo.”
“Hallo, and you in there.” She patted Scarlett’s huge stomach. “It’s lovely of you to come.”
“It’s lovely to be here. Wouldn’t have missed it. Look—sorry to be a nuisance, but you haven’t got any Rennies or anything, have you? I keep getting awful indigestion.”
OK. At least she was on the right floor. Into the bathroom and—
“Mummy, Mummy, Daddy’s here. Come and say hallo to him.”
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She would have to go down or it would seem intolerably hostile.
“Hallo, Matt. Doesn’t it all look professional? Oh, Louise, how lovely of you to come. You look great. That’s one of Maddy’s cardigans, isn’t it? She’s coming later, I hope. Matt, take Louise and get her a drink—the beer tent is over there; turn right after the orangery, you know—I—”
“Yes,” he said, “I know. Funny place for a beer tent, I’d have thought.”
“Is it? It seemed quite good to me—” She stopped. Matt was looking at her oddly, and suddenly she knew why. She stood very still, staring at him; strange how things went on affecting you, turning your heart. Even after all that had happened, some things, some memories, good ones, survived. The orangery was one of them, Matt’s favourite place here always, special to both of them, the place they had—oh, God—actually consummated his purchase of Summercourt. She should have thought, should have kept it out of today’s arrangements.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry; it does seem a bad place; I just thought—”
“No, no,” he said, “it’s fine. Come on, Louise. Let’s go and find Emmie. I presume someone’s looking after her?” he added, the old edge to his voice.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “yes, she’s with Gail. In the paddock, which is now the ring, of course.”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll see you later.”
She turned to go in for the longed-for bath.
“Mrs. Shaw.” It was Mrs. Horrocks. “The local paper’s here; they want a picture of the three of you, you and Mr. Shaw and Emmie—any hope of that?”
“Not while I’m looking like this,” said Eliza. “Give me five minutes; I’ll just go and—”
But—“Mrs. Shaw, Geoff Walters, Marlborough News. I see you’re both here; where’s the little girl?”
“Here!” said Emmie breathlessly. “Mrs. Horrocks told me to come. Are you from the paper? You can’t take a picture and not have Mouse. Come on, everyone; this way, this way, and can Coral be in it too? She’s my friend; we were nearly born the same day …”
The megaphone was crackling into life:
“… fourteen hands and under, number one, Hollyhock, ridden by …”
Now, at last, the bath. She could not greet her lover looking and smelling like this—
“Mummy! Uncle Toby’s here.”
It had been a slow burn, her relationship with Toby. If they’d been in a film, she thought, they would have run into each other’s arms in slow motion in the atrium of the Law Courts and he would have told her he loved her; as it was she felt awkward, diffident with him, even as she thanked him, a
nd when he called a few days later to say he thought they should leave a meeting for at least a couple of weeks—“give you a chance to recover”—she was both touched and grateful. For she did feel very odd, and rather as if she had had a long and almost fatal illness. She was exhausted, demoralised by the character assassination that Matt’s team and indeed the whole process had inflicted upon her, and deeply distressed and humiliated by the publicity, which made going into work seem an almost impossible hurdle—until Jeremy called a brainstorming meeting to discuss the restructure of new client presentations and insisted she be there.
That set a seal on her status at the agency; she got home that night feeling she had at least begun to heal.
The house problem had sorted itself out surprisingly easily; she was more than happy to move out, and had found a place of her own only four streets away, just off Hurlingham Road, a smaller but very similar house, with a bedroom overlooking the park admirably suited to Emmie’s requirements. She fell in love with it at the very first viewing, and nearly lost it while Matt insisted on beating the price down and then down again. This resulted in their first postdivorce row, which turned out to be extraordinarily healing and saw them resolving matters quite cheerfully over a drink in the Hurlingham pub.
Toby had entered her life again tentatively; it seemed rather odd, having shared that astonishing night with him, to be recast as lunch companion, and a rather bashful one at that. Even dinner, the next step, ended in an almost dutiful snog in his car, and she had begun to think they would never get any further, when fate took over in its usual, rather determined way.
She was coming out of the Ritz quite late one night towards the end of September with Rob Brigstocke; Jeremy had thrown a big client cocktail party and then invited a chosen few to stay for dinner. Rob had his arm round her, and as she got into a taxi, she turned to give him a kiss. Next day Toby called her to say, in his most brusque tones, that he was sorry; he would have to cancel their dinner that evening, as he was probably having to work late.
“And quite possibly tomorrow as well. In fact, best not to schedule anything for a bit. I’ll … I’ll call you in a week or so.”
Hurt beyond anything, Eliza acquiesced; she had agreed to meet Jack Beckham for a drink that evening, to discuss some possible freelance articles, and was walking along the Strand, jerked into some painful reminiscences, and trying to tell herself that Toby was indeed very often very busy, and very, very often worked late, when she saw him leaving the Courts of Justice and walking in his swift, impatient way away from her—in the company of a very pretty girl. She stared after them, trying neither to care nor to cry, continued to walk after them, and then found herself almost walking straight into him when he stopped dead in his tracks and turned round suddenly as the girl walked on.
“Oh,” he said, “oh, hallo.”
“Hallo, Toby.”
And what she should have done, she knew, was walk away coolly, maintaining her dignity, instead of saying, as she seemed compelled to do, “I thought you were working late.”
“As I am,” he said, his voice very cold. “I’m taking Verity to a client meeting; she’s gone on ahead; I’ve forgotten something crucial.”
“Oh,” she said, less cool and dignified still, “is that what you call it, a client meeting?”
“Verity,” he said, “is my new assistant.”
“Yes, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.” (Oh, really cool, Eliza, really dignified.)
“For Christ’s sake,” he said (slightly less cool and dignified himself now), “you’re a fine one to talk. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who you were leaving the Ritz with last night? Some work colleague of your own, I suppose.”
“Toby,” she said, “that was Rob Brigstocke. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him.”
“Ah, yes, of course. The one you smoke dope with. That’s a very formal relationship you obviously have.”
And then she said, staring at him with a sort of incredulity, “You really mind, don’t you?”
“Well, I do, as a matter of fact.”
“And as a matter of fact I really mind that you’re walking along with your new assistant.”
“That’s absurd. Quite different.”
Eliza began to smile, very tentatively. “OK, it is quite different. This being the Strand and that being Piccadilly. And Verity being your assistant and Rob being my boss. And if we’re both speaking the truth, then we’re both being extremely stupid.”
“I’m certainly speaking the truth.”
“And so am I, and nothing but it, so help me God. I’m surprised at you, Toby Gilmour, relying on circumstantial evidence.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said after a long silence. “Oh … this is … awful.”
“Why? It seems rather good to me.”
“Well … actually not, because I really am going to a client meeting. And all I want to do is take you home with me.”
“Well,” she said, her heart and indeed her body lurching most pleasurably, “that’s all I want too, funnily enough, what a coincidence, but I’m going to see Jack Beckham. It’ll take about an hour.”
“My meeting likewise.”
“So we could meet after that?”
“Yes, we could. Your place or mine?”
“Yours would be … sort of more appropriate, I think. And I know where it is.”
“Here,” he said, fumbling in his pocket, “here’s a key. In case I’m late.”
“You’d better not be.”
In the event, he was home before her: two glasses by the bed, champagne on ice in the kitchen.
“I sort of think I can’t wait to drink that,” said Eliza.
“OK. We’ll have it afterwards. Oh, and I’ve got some very good news.”
“What’s that?”
“The bed doesn’t creak.”
It was midafternoon, the jumping was finished, Jack Beckham had presented the cup, and what many considered the highlight of the day was about to take place, the mounted fancy dress. Essentially held before the gymkhana proper, while the ponies were still not covered in mud, it attracted a huge entry; ponies and their riders large and small, dressed as fairies, rabbits, foxes, flowers, medieval knights (and ladies), filled the paddock. Emmie had chosen to be a fairy and to wear the tutu she wore for ballet, but at the last minute, in a sudden fit of generosity, she had asked Coral if she would like to enter in her place, and was leading her round the ring. Various jolly tunes were being played over the loudspeaker, and judging was about to commence when a very large and glossy horse box appeared and pulled up beside the others. “That’s too bad,” said Eliza. “It’s far too late; what do they think they’re playing at? I’ll have to go and …”
But at that point a rather smart-looking grey horse was led out of the box, and out of the passenger seat sprang a figure with very long blond hair, and wearing, apparently, no clothes; she jumped up on the horse with great aplomb, gathered up the reins, and rode at a brisk trot, no mean feat, given the horse had no saddle, towards the ring.
“What on earth …” said Eliza.
And: “Now I’ve seen everything,” said Jack Beckham.
And: “Oh, my God,” said Jeremy, “it’s Mariella.”
And indeed it was: in the guise of Lady Godiva, clad in flesh-colored Lycra and a blond wig, smiling radiantly and blowing kisses at the crowd, who were cheering and clapping and laughing.
She was not awarded the prize, of course, for that would not have been fair to the rabbits and medieval ladies and the rest, and it went instead to a very sweet ladybird on a Shetland pony; but there was no doubt that for the male spectators it was the highlight of the day, and Jeremy was afraid his father was going to pass out with excitement. He could have done without it himself, but when Mariella joined them, laughing, pulling off her wig and shaking out her own dark hair, and saying she hoped she had done her little bit for the day, and that it had been a good surprise, he did feel a certain slightly grudging pride, and went to fetc
h her some lemonade in a way that he would not, these days, normally have done.
“Oh, Mariella,” said Eliza, kissing her, “how Mam’selle Chanel would have liked to dress you for that.”
The gymkhana was now at full throttle. Countless hooves had thundered round the ring. There had been enough accidents to keep the St. John Ambulance team on their toes: three major nosebleeds, two sprained ankles, one suspected concussion, one dislocated shoulder (both sufferers shipped off to hospital), and one granny passing out from heatstroke. A number of little girls (and a few boys) were flushed with triumph, walking round with their ponies, their bridles heavily laden with rosettes. Rather more little girls (and a few boys) were tearstained or sulky or both. Emmeline Shaw, who had excelled herself, and won her heats in both the pole bending and the obstacle race, and actually come second in the walk, trot, and gallop, was now sitting on the terrace with her father, eating her fourth ice cream of the afternoon, and waiting for the sack race, the last gymkhana event of the day.
“How can it be a sack race when it’s ponies?” asked Coral. “Do they put their feet into sacks?”
“No, silly,” said Emmie, “you—”
“Emmie,” said Matt sharply, “don’t speak like that to Coral; Louise just asked me the same question. Now say you’re sorry and tell her sensibly.”
“Sorry,” said Emmie, who was forced to utter the word so often it tripped with thoughtless ease off her tongue, “and I’m telling you sensibly, what you do is ride round the ring, dismount, get into the sack, and jump back to the start, leading your pony.”
“Oh,” said Louise and Coral in unison.
“What are your duties, Matt?” asked Louise.
“Presenting the best turnout cup,” said Matt slightly wearily, “which is after the jumping, and then the best-in-show cup, and then, please God, we can all leave. Look at that wanker,” he said suddenly. “Just look at him. How can she like him, Louise? I just don’t get it.”
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