He gazed at me miserably.
I tried to guess. Some pop star, although of course it would have to be a lesser known one that wasn’t likely to number one in Moscow. An athlete? Oh god, he hadn’t sent a photo of Jace, had he? No, surely not.
“Oliver. Oliver Dean, you know I sent that nice one he’s got on the front of his cookery book-”
“Oliver bloody Dean? Are you bonkers?” I cried.
I was shocked. Oliver Dean being considered pin up material was news to me.
“What am I going to do?” Richard said, looking hopefully at me as if I could somehow wave a magic wand and get him out of this mess.
I considered his options.
“Is she definitely coming over, you couldn’t stop her?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I could also tell that really he didn’t want to stop her, despite all the complications.
“In that case, you’ll just have to come clean, won’t you.” I said in a fairly heartless tone. “Tell her the truth. Tell her that you are a good looking, young man with the most gorgeous flame coloured, Titian hair.”
I had the pleasure of seeing Richard begin to blush.
I laughed, and left him to it.
Chapter Twenty Two
Nancy wanted to go to The Ram that evening and see what sort of mess Port Charles was in. Richard offered to accompany her, and they set off with Baxter, armed to the teeth with umbrellas and waterproofs.
I stayed at home to brood.
I find brooding only really works when you are by yourself. Other people are a distraction, and they tend to think you’ve got indigestion, when really you are trying for a Byronic melancholy. I brooded once over the death of a much loved dog when I was younger, and my mother was convinced, to my great mortification that I was constipated.
I had quite a lot to brood on.
Oliver Dean, Penmorah, the floods, the party, life in general.
I opened a bottle of wine, and curled up on a sofa in the drawing room. My mother’s portrait gazed down at me.
“What would you do Mama? About Oliver… and everything,” I said, raising a glass to her.
The portrait, being just a bit of colour daubed on canvas, just continued to gaze. I did catch a glimpse of irritation in those cat like eyes though.
Dorothea would consider that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill, and would urge me to follow my instincts.
Well, my instincts told me to finish my glass of wine, and then call Oliver. I had been rude, after all, to put the phone down on him. To get up a bit of courage first, I called Martha. She wasn’t in, so I left a message asking her to bring down suitable CD’s for the party.
I drained another glass of wine and then dialled Oliver’s number. I listened to the connecting bleeps, and then put the phone down before it rang.
I could almost hear my mother tut with annoyance.
“It’s alright for you, stuck wherever you are… you’ve got papa dancing attendance on you, no money worries, and no horrible mud to clear up. I’m here all alone,” I said defiantly.
I knew I was in trouble then, when I started to talk aloud to a picture. Perhaps I should walk down to The Ram myself?
I poured another glass of wine, and concentrated my will on the phone. After all, he could phone me, couldn’t he? And if he didn’t perhaps I should go into a Russian chat room and have a flirt with a disillusioned comrade?
I picked the phone up and dialled Pritti’s number. She too, was out. I left a message saying that I would come to pick Nelson up tomorrow.
Then I brooded some more on Mr Harris.
Losing Penmorah was unthinkable. But how much was it going to cost to keep it going? I dreaded to think.
I forced myself to grapple with the idea. It was no good, I couldn’t even begin to imagine a life not here. Where would I go? I had visions of trying to find a cottage somewhere, although with the prices of cottages now, I knew it would be impossible. Oh God, perhaps Nancy and I would have to throw ourselves on the mercy of her daughter, my cousin, Bea, and go and live in Canada?
Log cabins and bears.
Or skyscrapers and take away coffee.
Harry would have us, I thought, then immediately discarded the idea. Nancy, yes, me by myself, possibly. But the two of us with dog, parrot and attendant mess and baggage, no.
Martha? No.
Oh bloody hell.
Truro council would have to re-home us, I told myself firmly. Then laughed aloud at the very idea of it. We would hardly be a priority would we?
It was time for another glass of wine. I went to put some music on, and soon the mathematical chilly sound of Mozart flooded the room. It was as exquisite as a blackbird singing in the rain. I have noticed that not very musical people like Mozart. Him and James Brown are amongst my favourites – draw your own conclusions.
Right, this time I was going to call Oliver.
I picked up the phone, and sipped my wine carefully. Some sort of elf had been stealing wine, for the bottle was nearly empty.
“Bloody, bloody elves,” I giggled.
I did then realise that drinking most of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach was not the best way to start a phone conversation with Oliver. I mean, I realised it, but did it stop me making the call? What do you think?
“Hello, this is Oliver Dean. Please leave a message after the bleep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Damn.
“Hello… the elves have stolen my wine!… ha ha, only joking. It’s me by the way. Fin. Finisterre Spencer. Well, Finisterre Leopoldina Grace Spencer, if you’d like the full monty. Anyway, I’m just calling to say that I do so hope you can come to the dolphin party, I really, really do and to tell you that I do like you Oliver, but you really mustn’t tell me who I can see or not, and the veg boy does have a name as you well know…”
I had to gulp for breath now as I was speaking so quickly. I was aware that there was a slight slur on some of the words, but I couldn’t stop.
“… and he’s rather gorgeous, isn’t he? And, of course I can see who I want, when I want, how I want. Oh yes, and I am sorry that I put the phone down on you, I could have slammed the phone down, but I didn’t, did I? Anyway, I think the elves-”
Bleep.
I think I’d finished up his tape for him, which was just as well. I refused to be embarrassed about the message I’d just left, let’s face it, I said aloud to myself, there’d be time for that in the morning.
I tipped the bottle upside down over my glass and drained it. There. That’s better.
The phone rang, which made me spill the dregs of my wine over my arm.
I snatched it up, and said, “Typical bloody men, now look what you’ve made me do!”
There was a bit of static on the line, and then a voice said my name.
“Fin? Finisterre?”
Oh buggery bollocks. I knew that voice. It was my cousin Bea, but I rallied.
“Hello Bea! How’s the logs and bears and skyscrapers?” I said gaily.
“Fin… are you OK?”
I have no idea why she sounded concerned, I was fine.
“We heard about the storms, how’s Penmorah holding up? Is my mother there?”
“No, but mine is. In every room, in every glass, cup, picture, book, curtain, cranny and nook Dorothea is here… I’d put her on, but she’s a bit on the silent side, don’t you know?”
I cursed myself for talking like this to Bea, she wouldn’t get that I was just mildly pissed and feeling sorry for myself.
“Fin, are you on drugs or something?” Bea’s voice floated at me from across the Atlantic.
“No! I leave that to Nancy,” I said hysterically, thinking of the grass that had been growing in the greenhouse.
“What?”
I pulled myself together.
“No, I’m sorry Bea, you caught me at a bad time. Everything’s fine, I’m just a bit tiddly, nothing to worry about.” I said, trying to stop mysel
f laughing at her scandalised voice.
“You’re drinking alone?”
Now at this point, I’d like to say that I do not condone alcohol abuse, but have you ever noticed that Americans and Canadians are taking it all a bit too seriously? I mean, they behave like we’re all depraved monsters because we like a tipple. Well, we probably are… but there’s no need to carry on about it for heaven’s sake.
I re-assured her that I wasn’t taking crack, or swigging bath tub gin.
“Oh. Well, if you’re sure…” she said doubtfully.
Duh!
“Anyway, I thought I’d call. Glad to hear you’re all OK. I’ll be over very soon. Take care of yourself Fin, and give my love to mummy.” She said goodbye and we hung up.
Bea always said that she’d be over very soon, but she never was. It was a figure of speech for her, like ‘have a nice day’ and ‘the cheque’s in the post.”
The one thing I could never get used to though was her calling Nancy mummy. I hiccupped.
Mummy… sounded odd.
I quickly got to my feet and went into the kitchen. I needed some food inside me, fast. I looked around the cupboards and in the fridge. What was available that didn’t need cooking?
It hit me that this was why people bought packaged food. Packaged food that I had created! How ironic!
People needed that sort of food because… they had drunk a bottle of wine to themselves in double quick time and had eaten anything since breakfast time.
Why haven’t I got a stuffed roasted pepper all done up in a neat cellophane packet when I needed it? Or some cauliflower cheese? Or a lasagne? Christ almighty, I made the sodding stuff and I hadn’t got any!
I rootled around in the fridge hopelessly. In the end I settled for gnawing on a hunk of cheese, and cutting some (stale) bread. What a joke.
I bet bloody Oliver bloody Dean would be wolfing down something yummy right now.
I decided to call his mobile. That would spoil any nice little romantic dinner for two that he might be on… maybe he and whatever her name was, oh yes, Boo will be just sitting down in some monochrome trendy new restaurant hidden away in the back streets of Hoxton, where Korean food fuses with Cajun organic… Ha, well, I’ll soon stop that!
I dipped the last bit of cheese into a jar of chutney and squished it between the last of the bread. Then I poured myself a brandy.
I carefully pushed in Oliver’s mobile number, immediately his voice mail came on. Where was he? How come he wasn’t answering at home or on his mobile? I drained my glass of brandy.
“Sorry to interrupt your puppy dog gumbo for two, but I just though you’d like to know that I’m eating stale bread and cheese, so don’t you worry about me, I’m fine!”
I slammed the phone down.
Then I picked it up again and pressed re-dial.
“Now that was a slam! Could you hear the difference?”
I swept back into the drawing room and put James Brown on. Loudly. The choppy, irresistible sound of his voice galvanised me into dancing, and I hummed along under my breath to ‘Get on up’. This was the sort of music we needed at the party. The music faded and I flopped down on my chair, panting. Damn, I was out of condition. I bet Oliver was now clubbing at some newly opened place in Soho with Boo. I wondered what he was like dancing. I mean, they do say that you can tell how someone is in bed by the way they dance. I thanked God that no-one saw me dance a moment ago, they would put me down as willing, but definitely unfit.
Maybe I should go to bed?
“Or maybe I should have another drink?” I said aloud.
I was too tired to move. I leant back on the sofa and closed my eyes for a moment.
What seemed like minutes later, but was in fact hours, I felt someone wrap a blanket over me, and slip my shoes off. I grunted my thanks and turned over.
Thirst woke me after that.
Falling asleep on the sofa, fully dressed is bad enough, but waking in the early hours with dry lips and a raging thirst is far, far worse. The tap had never seemed so far away. The pantomime that we all conduct with ourselves about trying to fall asleep again without drinking is farcical. We know we’re going to have to get up. But we delay it as long as we can, unless, of course, we’re one of those organised drunks who owlishly place a bottle of water on our bed stands before we hit the mattress and the room spins around. I wasn’t.
I was hot and grumpy and dehydrated. The longing for icy cold water trickling down my throat was too strong to ignore any more. I walked in darkness to the kitchen, knowing every bump and creak of the floor. I sleepily felt for a mug and filled it with water again and again. I glanced out of the window and saw that it was getting light.
A pearly pink dawn was on the horizon.
Thank God for a clear sky, not a rain cloud in sight.
I heard Baxter’s nails tap over the floor and he came to greet me, puzzled that I was up at this hour.
I yawned. “Come on Baxter, I’m going back to bed.” I took my mug of water with me, and climbed the stairs. I threw my clothes off and fell onto my bed, it had never felt so comfortable. Within minutes I was sound asleep again. Even the dawn chorus didn’t keep me awake.
I was making tea in the kitchen when the familiar sight of Nancy drifting down the corridor in her kimono, her silver hair in a braid bouncing on her back, came in.
“Morning Nancy, tea?”
She nodded, and then stretched her arms and yawned, “It was great to be back in Port Charles, you missed a good evening in the pub, Kev the Beard came in, with Judith! She asked me to send you her love… most unusual, I think you’ll agree.”
It was indeed. Judith never indulged in polite greetings at all. And she never went to The Ram with Kev.
“Damn, I wish I’d gone now,” I said, making some toast.
Nancy was telling me about the latest news down in the village, (mostly outrage at the idiotic caperings of the local council workers who were monitoring the fresh water supply, and the rumour that Breadpudding had discharged herself from the hospital because of the food) when the phone rang.
“Fin? Hello, it’s Oliver.”
Shit, shit, shit.
It was far too early in the morning to deal with this. I took a large mouthful of toast that I had spread liberally with butter and Nancy’s homemade ginger marmalade.
“Thank you for your messages last night, most illuminating,” Oliver said acidly, “Though I didn’t quite get the reference to, what was it you called it? Oh yes, puppy dog gumbo. I don’t think I even want to know what that was all about. All I can assume is that you were very pissed. Am I right?”
I tried to say something, but a large wodge of toast was in my mouth, and talking was impossible.
I heard Oliver laugh.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re eating something, right?”
I made a strangled noise.
“Hmm, I thought so!”
I was frantically trying to swallow. I knew I was flustered, because Nancy was looking at me very strangely.
“Listen Fin, I can’t talk for long, but I’ve got a great idea to raise some money for Port Charles, I’m going to try my hardest to get to the dolphin party, and we can talk about it then. OK?”
“OK,” I managed to spit out.
“Right. Oh, one more thing before I have to dash, and no putting, replacing, or even slamming the phone down, alright?”
“Alright,” I agreed, intrigued.
“I meant what I said, no fooling around with veg boy, and yes, I do know he’s got a name. I just prefer not to say it. Oh and by the way, this is the sound of a phone being slammed, yours was merely being put down firmly.”
Then the cheeky bastard did actually slam the phone down and I was left listening to the dialling tone purring in my ear.
Nancy continued to look strangely at me.
“What?” I said, “What are you looking at?”
She put her head on one side and considered me. “Well, you look a
little bit like the cat who swallowed the cream,” she said, picking up her mug of tea and drifting back down the corridor. She stopped at the end, and paused before setting her foot on the stairway.
“Oh, and Fin?” she called.
“Yes?” I said, trying to stop a very daft smile spreading across my face.
“And the look suits you darling!”
She moved like a queen carrying a chalice up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty Three
I devoted the day to the party. Which was tomorrow, I kept reminding myself frantically.
There was to be two types of food, caviar, crab and lobster for the Port Charles contingent, (who would appreciate the posh nosh) whilst the writers, artists and London lot would love the rustic grub, home cured ham, home baked bread and local fruits. All day long the boys delivered the goods.
The local council made an appearance by banging in the danger signs all along the top of the lawn, swaddling rolls and rolls of barbed wire across the top of the churned up grass that dropped off steeply to the cliffs. It looked like Colditz, as Nancy remarked to me.
“Very festive,” I agreed, looking out of the window with dismay. Could I decorate the barbed wire with something? Bunting, maybe? Or would it really make it look like something from the blitz?
Sam called to say that he would bring the trestle tables tomorrow afternoon. He would also bring up the pasties from Doris.
“Sam, thank you. You are a star,” I said gratefully.
“My pleasure Fin… Is Nancy there?”
I held the phone out to her, and she spoke into it, talking softly. It was my turn to look strangely at her now, as she was, I swear, practically purring.
When she’d finished talking, I raised an eyebrow at her and she laughed.
“No, darling, it’s not what you’re thinking at all… He’s a sweetie and a very, very nice man, but no, not the one for me I’m afraid.”
I wondered if there ever had been. The one.
The Cornish Affair Page 20
