We both smile at this because their old friends the Bennetts are models of propriety.
My mother’s smile fades more quickly than mine, though. She chews the salad slowly and mindfully, a habit from her modelling days. I’m guessing that she, like me, is trying to find a suitable topic of conversation.
‘Thanks for lending me the car,’ I say.
My mother’s eating her pomegranate seeds one by one. She looks up at me from her plate. ‘Doesn’t Mick drive?’
‘Mick and I have broken up.’
‘Oh, Fern,’ she says and puts her cutlery down carefully as if this new disappointment has taken away her appetite. ‘And what’s going on in the Cotswolds?’ she asks.
‘It’s a friend’s birthday. Gigi. We were together in sixth form for a while.’
‘I think I remember her. Is she French?’
I almost say yes, because that’s how dysfunctional our relationship has become; instead of having a conversation with her, I field her questions by filtering out anything she might disapprove of.
Instead, I reply, ‘No. And she wasn’t at school long. She left before her A levels to be a hairdresser. But she’s going out with the guy on the next stall to me and we’ve kind of got reacquainted.’ When she doesn’t react to the mention of the stall, I start to get really worried. ‘Why don’t you go to yoga with Dad?’ I ask.
She takes her napkin off her knee and folds it carefully, smoothing it with the flat of her hand. Her eyes meet mine, briefly. ‘He doesn’t want me there. He says we should have separate interests.’
Yikes. When I was young, she and I did everything together, we were a unit, inseparable, and my father was the outsider, the man who appeared at the table for supper, who I kissed goodnight and who was off to work before breakfast.
And then when I left home, my parents became the unit and I was the outsider, listening to stories about where they’d been and whom they’d met. Their marriage had always seemed solid to me; the one thing in life I didn’t have to wonder about.
And now my father thinks they should have separate interests. That’s never good.
My mother’s eyes meet mine. I smile reassuringly and hope I don’t look as worried as I feel.
As a result of the lunch with my mother, I get to Gigi’s later than I’d intended. The pastel timber houses, very New England, have been built around a gravel pit that’s been requisitioned as a lake.
I drive into the estate and the gatekeeper points out the faded aqua-green house as he raises the barrier, but I’d have recognised it anyway because of the number of cars parked around it.
I find myself a parking space near a gravel border with large decorative rocks and stones spaced artistically around long fronds of grasses and ferns. I study the house. A couple of children’s scooters lie abandoned by the front door.
Leaving my bag in the boot for now, in case I change my mind and want to make a quick exit, I get out of the car. I can hear children squealing with excitement somewhere behind the high fence and I walk up to the house. The door is ajar, but I ring the bell anyway.
‘It’s open!’ David calls and in I go.
He’s wearing a blue floral shirt and red surfer shorts, which takes me back to the first day I saw him. ‘Come on in, Fern.’ His voice is a bit hoarse. ‘You look different.’
A combination of excitement and nerves makes me babble. ‘It’s the hair, probably. And I’ve got different clothes on. Well, of course I have – I mean, I’m wearing a different look.’
‘Oh. Who are you supposed to be today, then?’ he asks as if it’s fancy dress.
I laugh. He looks different, too; for a start, he’s not wearing black, and secondly, he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. As I follow behind him a little too closely, breathing in his cologne, I remind myself once again that he’s been in a relationship with Gigi for almost a year; happy enough to be renting this place for a whole weekend of celebrations on account of her. In other words, he is Strictly Off Limits.
And an amazing house it is, too: open-plan, glass on two sides looking out on the lake, a kitchen island, huge dining table and to the left two separate seating areas, one facing the widescreen television and the other facing the water.
Gigi and her friends are in the kitchen part. Gigi’s wearing jeans. Her pink hair is held back by an Alice band. She’s holding a champagne bottle up to the light then upends a few drips into a crystal glass before noticing me happily. ‘Fern, open another bottle, will you?’ Which is lovely, because it’s as if I’ve been there the whole time.
I look around for a fridge and see two open doors. Inside them is a long black granite counter with bottles of Veuve Cliquot, gin and vodka, all lined up, a couple of sliced limes and several shelves of glasses, all reflected in the smoky mirror behind them. It’s so extravagantly over the top that I just stand there admiring it for a moment, and then I feel the bottles, trying to gauge which one is the coolest and least likely to explode when I open it. Okay. This one. Peel the foil off the bottle, undo the wire, put the cork up and twist the last bit, pouf! A small, fine spray, perfect, and I pour myself a glass first then take the bottle over to Gigi, feeling surprisingly pleased with myself for carrying out a tricky operation with relative aplomb.
The two friends with Gigi could be models. They seem to be built on the same lines: tall, beautiful, smiley, amiable. The woman in shorts has very short bleached hair and introduces herself as Jenna. The long-haired brunette in the maxi is Alexa.
‘Worst name to have in the world, right? “Alexa, close the curtains. Alexa, dim the lights.” So much for digital technology. Max thinks it’s hilarious, of course. We’ve changed its name to Computer now because I was getting seriously close to killing him.’
‘You should have changed it to Max,’ Gigi said.
‘Then it wouldn’t have worked at all, would it, Max?’
He’s come in dripping wet with his fair hair plastered to his head. ‘Talking about me again?’ he asks. ‘I’m looking for a beer and nuts, or crisps, or are there any little sausages left?’
He suddenly grabs Alexa and she gives a high-pitched squeal that makes the glasses ring.
‘Max, you’re soaking!’
‘Who gave the kids water pistols?’
‘David,’ the women chorus.
David. My abs involuntarily tense at the sound of his name.
‘Just wait till he has kids,’ Max says. ‘He won’t be encouraging them to squirt people then, I can tell you. And if we ever have them, he’s barred from ever seeing them.’
The children must be Jenna’s. I look at her in admiration. How does she manage to have children, keep slim and have no cellulite? How does she do that?
She catches me staring at her and she smiles. ‘What?’
I tell her what I’m wondering about and her smile turns into a laugh. She runs her hand over her short, bleached hair.
‘Effort,’ she says.
‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘I was hoping it would be something easier.’
‘You’ve got no kids?’
‘No. I’m single.’ I think of Mick saying: It’s not working for me.
Jenna cups her elbow in her hand and nods. ‘It’s hard to find good men,’ she says. ‘It’s hard to know where to look for them in real life, isn’t it? It’s a chance in a million you’ll find them on a dating site, that’s for sure.’
Alexa tops up our glasses, holding her dark hair away from her face. Changing the subject away from men, I say, ‘I love your dress. Zandra Rhodes?’
She looks surprised. ‘Sweet of you. I picked it up at a flea market in Paris.’
Aha! ‘Really? Which one?’
She pauses with the bottle over my glass and stares at me speculatively. ‘Marché Serpette?’
‘Artémise et Cunégonde?’
She laughs and carries on pouring. ‘I can’t believe you know it! Amazing stall, isn’t it? All those wonderful vintage dresses.’
Jenna groans. ‘How many
times did we go back there, Lex?’ she says. ‘Not that you’re indecisive or anything.’
‘It’s expensive, for a flea market, don’t you think?’ Alexa asks me. ‘Cleaned me out.’
Gigi’s making eyes at me, because this is my opening. ‘Fern sells vintage in Camden Lock, don’t you, Fern?’ she prompts. ‘She’s got this little tailor who’ll alter things to fit. Fern, tell them about Moss. How long’s he been married?’
‘A long time,’ I say with an emphasis on the long. ‘Almost seventy years.’
‘And he still calls his wife “my bride”.’
‘Aww! Sweet!’
‘He’s German,’ Gigi adds and they laugh.
I laugh too, although I don’t know why.
By early evening I’m light-headed. Happy, but definitely slightly drunk as well. I wish I’d paced myself better, but the frequent top-ups make it hard for me to work out how much I’ve had.
I’m still holding the glass, but the tips of my fingers feel numb and I can’t feel it in my hand, so I put it down and ask where the bathroom is.
‘Down the corridor, first door on the left.’
In the bathroom, I lock the door and study myself in the mirror. My eyes look big and I’m slightly blurred. My lip balm has rubbed off and I didn’t bring my handbag with me – I’m not even sure where it is. I must have put it down when I was opening the bottle of champagne. Surreal.
I’ve been in a state of low-level drunkenness since I got here. A long time has elapsed since lunch with my mother and my stomach’s rumbling.
Back in the lounge, everybody’s quiet, overcome with lethargy – even the children, who are watching the TV – and I’m playing with the stem of my glass, watching the way the light catches it, not sure about the wisdom of continuing to drink on an empty head.
I go outside for some fresh air and lean on the glass barrier at the end of the decking and look down at the water.
On the opposite bank, the pastel-coloured houses curl around the water’s edge. A swan drifts out from some reeds.
I sit on a sunlounger, trying to get used to the feeling of having nothing to do, which is slightly unnerving, as I’m usually always doing something.
A shadow falls over me and it’s David. He sits on the chair next to me and I look at him, expecting him to say something. I’m struck again by how good-looking he is, David Gandy, male model good-looking, which is something that I haven’t mentioned to Lucy.
I’m on the point of saying how lovely it is and how restful and how happy I am to be there, but he hasn’t yet said a word himself and for all I know, he’s come outside for a bit of peace. I rest my head back and stretch my legs into the evening sun to top up my vitamin D. The yellow silk handkerchief hem flutters and tickles between my legs.
I’m ridiculously pleased he’s come to sit next to me, because there are seats all the way round the decking and if he’d really wanted to be alone, he could have gone to sit in any of them.
It’s years since I’ve had a crush on anyone; that intense longing for someone who’s unattainable. I close my eyes and listen to the patting of the water against the bank and in the background the shrill voices of the children, high-pitched and excited. Living the dream, I think, even though it’s never been a dream of mine before to have a husband, children and a house by a lake.
I’ve never even got as far as imagining living with a man. That was part of the attraction of Mick. I’d imagined our relationship going on forever, being mostly apart but meeting up occasionally, always glad to see each other.
Logistically, there’s no room for an extra person in my parents’ flat, so I’d have to go to his to start with. And I suppose we’d go down the route of eventually buying a house together, in a commuter belt. But I’m frowning because the whole thing just seems like the worst combination of fantasy and hard work, and I’ve got enough to do as it is. I lower my eyelids and look at the dazzling water striped vertically by my dark eyelashes.
A loud snore wakes me. My own snore, I realise, because my throat’s tingling as if I’ve been choked. Yikes! How embarrassing! I wipe my mouth in case I’ve drooled and swivel my eyes a fraction to look at David, wondering if he heard – and yes, he’s still sitting there, grinning at me. I’ve never seen eyes as dark blue as his – if I’d ever seen eyes like that on a person before, I’d have remembered.
‘Sorry about the snore,’ I say, laughing at myself, because it’s destroyed any possibility of me passing myself off as perfect, which is a bit of a relief, to be honest, because it was an impossible ambition anyway. Snoring has got to be the least sexy noise a body can make, next to a fart.
‘Late night?’ he asks.
He’s got it all. His tanned arm is on the armrest, dark hairs silvering in the sunlight, and he’s got smooth tanned hands and naturally pink fingernails, like the inside of shells. His floral shirt fits him perfectly. Even slumped in a lounger, his belly is flat and his shirt doesn’t gape. Oh, he’s so lovely.
‘Well, you know how it is,’ I say enigmatically, hoping he’ll assume I’ve got an exciting social life. ‘It’s so relaxing, sitting here.’
‘I’ll give it five minutes before Gigi calls me,’ he says, turning around to look into the house.
I laugh. I like our easy friendship. For me, that’s got to be enough.
‘Dave!’ Gigi shouts from inside.
Dayve.
‘Told you,’ David says and gets to his feet.
I stay sitting because it might look weird if we both jump up at the same time. But as any infidelity is entirely a product of my own imagination, I get up after a moment, unsticking my dress from the back of my legs, and go back inside into the shady coolness of the house.
We’re having home-delivery pizzas for supper. Max has his pen out and he passes me a menu because he’s taking the orders. Gigi asks me to open the wine bottles – she seems to be under the impression that I’ve got a talent for it. I’m happy to be helpful and it’s true, I’ve had a lot of practice. We lay the table and fill our glasses then wait hungrily for the delivery driver to come.
A conversation starts up about holidays: Sri Lanka, Argentina, Belize.
I find myself looking at David; at the side of his face that’s turned towards me, at the line of his cheekbone. He has this particular way of listening, with his eyes slightly narrowed and his head slightly tilted. I move my gaze from one speaker to another, half smiling at the conversation, but he’s giving them his full attention.
He’s the host, of course.
I reach for some cashew nuts from a horn bowl. And then suddenly:
‘Where was your last holiday, Fern?’ Max asks me.
I look up at him. He’s wearing a black shirt and his hair seems to flare in the spotlights overhead. For a dizzy moment he reminds me of Mick.
‘Oh. The south of France,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Doesn’t narrow it down much.’
‘It’s a place called Cap d’Agde.’ My wine glass is almost empty and I can smell the fumes of the red wine on my own breath as I speak. I should keep quiet but I don’t want to be the disappointing guest, the one who doesn’t contribute. Anyway, it’s a funny story, isn’t it? It wasn’t at the time, but it is now, after a few drinks. Most embarrassments turned to comedy in time. ‘I went there with my boyfriend. My ex,’ I add, for clarity.
‘What was his name?’ Alexa asks eagerly, folding her elbows.
‘Mick.’
‘Why, do you think you know him?’ Max asks her.
‘Shh. We have to know his name. It’s part of the story, isn’t it? Carry on, Fern.’
Suddenly, because they’re all listening to me, it seems a bad mistake, embarking on this true confession from the embers of a broken heart. Plus, even now, I don’t know what kind of a light that holiday with Mick casts on me. I feel that I’ve been a bit of a woman of mystery in the proceedings so far and it’s a role I like playing. I haven’t voiced any controversial opinions or anything like that.
I’ve blended in as best as any stranger can and they really don’t know anything about me apart from the fact that I sell vintage. That seems a good place to start.
‘So, I sell vintage clothing,’ I tell them. But that doesn’t really cover it, of course. ‘It’s a bit of an obsession, I mean – you really never know what you can find and sometimes, you just come across something that’s so special, so incredibly crafted that it’s just like finding treasure and you get this feeling.’ I press my fingers on my breastbone. Alexa’s nodding, as if she understands, so I press on. ‘The right garment can change the way a person sees themselves. It’s not their monetary value necessarily,’ I add, slightly breathless from gabbling, ‘it’s the thrill of finding them and then – how they look, how they make a person look.’ I can hear myself desperately justifying it as if Mick’s in the room with me. God, I’m talking too much. ‘In the forties, if people didn’t care about their appearance it was a sign of low morale.’
David smiles. ‘Fighting a war, are you, Fern?’
I laugh, although that’s how I feel most of the time. I’ve gone off at a tangent. Someone kicks the table, and for a moment the cutlery rattles and flashes and I steady my glass.
‘So,’ Jenna says encouragingly, ‘you took your vintage clothes to the south of France.’
‘No.’
They all laugh, so I try to explain. ‘The thing is, basically, Mick never really got the vintage clothing appeal.’
‘I’m with him on that,’ Max says.
‘Shut up, Max. Don’t listen to him! Go on.’ Alexa’s smiling encouragingly, her glossy dark hair spilling over her shoulder.
‘And we had a bit of an argument about it, because he hated one of my outfits and I don’t like being told what I should wear – by anyone, on principle. And he said that my obsession with clothes was a way of hiding my true self and he wanted to prove that clothes aren’t that important. So he booked this holiday for us in Cap d’Agde. I didn’t know it was a naturist place. Mick thought that a few days without clothes, going cold turkey, would cure me of the habit and reveal the true me.’ It sounds absolutely ridiculous and I find myself giggling.
A Random Act of Kindness Page 17
