Bella Summer Takes a Chance Page 20

  I was willing to bet they did, but didn’t see how arguing the point further would have any effect on the Lady.

  Faith was seated at the far end of the long table, between Lord Farfegnugen and a youngish man that she seemed to know. I knew neither of my dinner companions, but the one to my left was gorgeous. He had wavy dark brown hair and deep blue eyes fringed with black lashes. When he smiled he got dimples.

  ‘Who are you here with?’ He asked.

  ‘My friend Faith, over there at the other end of the table.’

  ‘Ah yes, they never put couples together.’

  ‘We’re not a couple,’ I said. What was it about me? Surely one skipped shaving day doth not a lesbian make.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ He looked aghast, then smiled. ‘I was really rather pleased to be able to exhibit my open-mindedness. These parties are usually so dull.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you. I have been with women, of course.’ I had no idea why I said this. I was bragging to a complete stranger. ‘If that makes the party any more interesting.’

  ‘Well, yes, it certainly does. Now at least I have something to tell my friends when they ask. What else do you like to do? Besides women?’

  ‘Ah, let’s see. I was a consultant until recently, and now I’m trying to make my singing career.’

  ‘You sing? I like to carry the occasional tune myself. Not professionally, but I’ve been known to bring an audience to tears with my rendition of “Hotel California”.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s not an easy one to do.’

  ‘That’s exactly what my audience usually says. They may not be tears of joy. Oh, excuse me,’ he said, nodding over my shoulder. ‘I think I’m meant to talk to the woman on my left. First course and all. But I enjoyed meeting you. We’ll talk again.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said as I glanced at the unsmiling elderly man to my right. ‘I’m sorry, hello, I’m B.’

  ‘How do you do, B. My name is Francis Willoughby.’

  He still wasn’t smiling. I was a bit stuck for topics given that he seemed to want to challenge me to a staring contest. ‘Er, is your wife here?’

  ‘Why do you ask? Do you know my wife?’

  ‘Um, no. I was just guessing that you have one. Most of the guests seem to be paired up.’ Exhibit 1, why I didn’t generally like old people: Francis Willoughby.

  ‘Are you? Paired up?’

  ‘No, I’m here with my friend Faith. She works for Ken. Are you in the newspaper business too?’

  ‘I am not. Bloody carbuncles on the arse of civilisation.’

  ‘Then you’re a friend of Ken and Pippa’s?’

  ‘Yes. No. My wife is. I’m told I have to tolerate them.’

  What a grumpy old codger. ‘Oh. Which one is your wife?’

  ‘The one at the end sat beside the man who looks ready to expire from boredom.’

  I knew exactly which man he meant. ‘Well, splitting couples up at dinner gives everyone a chance to meet someone new.’ How was that for seeing the bright side?

  ‘That isn’t why they do it. It gives us a break from the nagging.’ Mr Willoughby clearly approved of the hostess’s seating arrangements.

  I smiled sweetly. ‘Given the men I’ve met here, I’m sure the women can use the break too.’

  He stared at me. Then laughed. ‘Probably so.’ He turned to his soup. Conversation over.

  I hated hearing married people talk about each other like that, probably because my parents were such a nuptial anomaly. They seemed to love each other like people in the movies did. Even after forty-five years they giggled with their heads together when they shared jokes and held hands while grocery shopping. Could it be that easy? For normal humans, not my parents.

  Courses changed and the handsome man was back. ‘Was it awful?’ He whispered from behind his napkin. ‘Mister Willoughby, I mean. He’s infamous. Did he try to seduce you?’

  ‘Good lord, no! There was hardly time with such a little bowl of soup. Why, does he usually try to seduce women?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s an old pervert, a known corrupter of innocents.’

  ‘That explains it, then. I’m no innocent.’

  ‘So you’ve said. I’m glad he wasn’t too unbearable. Women have been known to slap him.’

  ‘If he had, I certainly would have slapped him.’ I probably wouldn’t have, really.

  ‘I would expect nothing less.’

  ‘Must protect my virtue.’

  ‘I thought we established that your virtue can take care of itself?’

  ‘Yes, well, hmm.’ He was really very good-looking, and he knew his way around the catwalks if his clothes were anything to go by. On a less handsome man a green striped jacket and purple checked shirt would have screamed stamp collector living with his mother, but he managed to look quirky without being weird. Obviously there was something wrong with him. The perfect man didn’t just sit next to you at a dinner party. ‘Is your wife here?’ I asked, as waiters descended to clear away the remnants of our main course.

  ‘No, I expect she’s at home with our children.’

  I knew it. ‘Oh, you have kids?’

  ‘Yes, two girls. The eldest has just morphed into a terrible teen. I give my wife a lot of credit for not throttling her. I should say my ex-wife. We’re divorced. So I suppose I’m here to make up the numbers. Of course, that isn’t what Pippa said. They never do.’

  ‘No? What do they say?’

  ‘They say they have a lovely woman they’re dying for me to meet.’

  ‘Who’s this woman?’

  ‘Well, according to the seating plan, I’d say it’s you, B.’

  ‘Interesting. Though, as I’ve never met Pippa, I don’t see how she’d know I’m fascinatingly lovely.’

  He grinned, aware that I’d upgraded myself. ‘Lucky guess. Listen, since Pippa obviously went to all the trouble with the table placement, maybe we should think about meeting for a coffee or a drink sometime.’

  Guilt surged through me as I thought about Mattias. Although there was nothing explicitly stopping me from dating, we were growing closer again, regaining some of the ground that had washed away from the slow drip of monotony.

  Still, the fact was, we weren’t going out. There was nothing romantic between us, no matter how much I was beginning to hope there would be again.

  ‘Well–’

  Ken suddenly bounced to his feet, banging his wine glass with his knife. ‘Everyone, I hope you’re enjoying dinner. You’ll find afters in the living room. This may seem a bit unorthodox, but Pippa’s arranged a surprise. I won’t spoil it. But it involves free-running chocolate. And strawberries.’ Pippa smiled tightly at her scene-stealing husband. There was an anticipatory murmur from the guests as chairs scraped back. We stood to retire to the living room to eat molten chocolate amongst the stolen colonial treasures.

  It was hard to tell who was more disappointed, because his face was overshadowed by my chin. I was a virtual high-rise to his bungalow.

  Where did I stand (slouch) on the height issue when the man seemed to otherwise have so much going for him? This was new territory, for I’d never met such a gorgeous man whose inseam was shorter than mine.

  I suppose I liked the idea of the man being bigger, to make hugging more all-enveloping. There was a feeling of safety in a tall man. Realistically, though, bear attacks were rare in central London. And surely we spent more time looking at each other than we did vertically aligning our bits. So it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Besides, he wasn’t that much shorter than me, just a few inches. And I was wearing at least three-quarter-inch heels. ‘Er, I should catch up with Faith and see how she’s doing. She’s a bit nervous tonight. The boss’s dinner and all. Here’s my card, if you want to be in touch.’

  ‘I’d really like that, thanks B., but–’

  But. But I was too tall, a monster to this compact man. And there I was judging him.

  ‘But I don’t want to pressure you at all,’ he continued. ‘I’d lo
ve to see you again, so here are my details. Please get in touch if you’d like to go out. It would be fantastic if you do.’ He smiled a beautiful smile, kissed me on the cheek and I went to join Faith.

  We decided to make a decorous exit once the chocolate cooled, before barriers fell any further. The night wasn’t destined to end well for some. We spotted Faith’s colleague just as we reached the Tube station, looking shell-shocked as she tucked away her mobile. ‘G’night, Jane,’ said Faith with a sympathetic smile. ‘See you Monday.’

  ‘Probably not,’ wobbled the girl.

  It’s possible that she didn’t notice the portrait of Ken’s son in the living room (it was a mere metre high), or the Special Olympics medals proudly displayed. The fact that she missed them didn’t inspire confidence in her investigative abilities. Even so, common sense and even the tiniest dollop of humanity should have cautioned against telling a joke like that. You could have heard a pin drop. Or maybe it was the sound of her career shattering. She was probably right. Faith wouldn’t see her in the office on Monday. Another case of career sabotage by Messrs Moët & Chandon.

  When I checked my phone before we ducked into the Underground, the missed call number was unfamiliar. My heart skittered over the possibility that it was Mattias. I pressed voicemail.

  ‘Hi B? This is Gemma Dunlop. You sent me your demo last week. I loved it, thanks for sending it to me! I’d like to meet you if you’re free. You could either come to my office, or we could meet for a coffee? Let me know what suits and we’ll fix up a date. Thanks again. Bye!’

  My hand shook as I pressed replay. ‘Faith, listen to this.’

  She took the phone, her grin spreading to match mine as the message replayed.

  ‘That’s one of the managers,’ I said. ‘Not just a booker at a club. A proper manager. A real manager wants to meet me!’ I burst into tears, probably making Faith’s colleague wonder whether she hadn’t been the only one telling career-limiting jokes.

  Chapter 21

  I should have worn waterproof mascara. A lifetime of experience taught me this and yet there I was, snuffling into my hand. Surely a cold hard shard lodged in the hearts of those who didn’t get emotional at weddings. Or else they were able to exercise some self-control. Unlike me, whose make-up had gone all Maori.

  The coral-blushing bride looked beautiful in her baby blue silk suit. It was, she told me nostalgically, the first thing she’d had made when she and Tony moved to Hong Kong.

  It wasn’t quite Westminster Abbey (and we were no Kate and Pippa Middleton) but the activities room looked quite pretty full of summer flowers as we walked together down the aisle. Marjorie was determined to walk. The wheelchair, she said, ruined the lines of her suit. So, slowly we made our way to where The Colonel and The Grandson waited beside the registrar. Both cut dashing figures in their morning suits, and The Colonel toddled forward to meet us. I kissed Marjorie and took my place at the front, attractively blowing little snot bubbles as I went. Oh yes, I was a grand choice for bridesmaid.

  ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ announced the registrar, prompting one old dearie to shout to her companion, ‘What did he say?’ The rest of us beamed and clapped and the photographer snapped away. The Grandson took my elbow as we trooped behind the newly-weds towards the dining room. Chef pulled out all the stops to serve up the wedding breakfast. Phobic Jim helped out, though I noted that he wore his rubber gloves. It was a bit of a palaver to fit in the extra tables to accommodate everyone, but the staff were great about it. It was the most excitement the home had seen since the BBC started airing Strictly Come Dancing. Even the old biddies were in attendance, gawping at the spectacle with hypocritical smiles plastered to their wrinkled faces. The residents wore their finery, shuffling, wheeling and crutching their way toward the trays of champagne and orange juice. It was a bit like watching zombies in hot pursuit of one of the living.

  ‘I hope they don’t break a hip on their wedding night,’ said The Grandson, making me snort.

  ‘Well, I’ve talked with Marjorie so she knows what to expect.’

  ‘Granddad will be gentle.’ We took a moment to gag at this unsettling spectre.

  ‘What a thought.’ He laughed. ‘It’s bad enough imagining one’s parents. At least they don’t have to worry about an accidental pregnancy.’

  ‘Or presumably an STD.’

  ‘True. Neither strikes me as the promiscuous type. I meant to ask you. Oh, not about Marjorie’s sex life, don’t worry!’ He said, seeing my face. ‘I just wondered why she never had children? She’s such a lovely woman. She’d have been a wonderful mother, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, she would have been. She did have a son with her first husband, the one who died in the war. But he was killed by a bomb that fell on her mother-in-law’s house. It doesn’t sound like her second husband stuck around long enough, and she was in her forties by the time she married Tony. I gather it was unseemly in those days to be pregnant in your forties. She’s never talked like she’s had any regrets, though.’

  It just wasn’t like Marjorie to do that. She always saw the positives instead of looking back at what might have been. She told me this often, in different ways. It didn’t do any good to think about what might have been, because the fact was, it wasn’t. Jimmy and her son were killed and the love rat did bugger off to Australia with another woman. Of course those were terribly painful times and she didn’t want them to happen, but looking on the bright side as she did, if they hadn’t happened she wouldn’t have met Tony and enjoyed their life together in Hong Kong for thirty years. And if Tony hadn’t died she wouldn’t be eating Chef’s crumble, with extra custard, off her new husband’s plate. That was the lesson. If you weren’t going to believe in fate, then you should at least believe in the life you led.

  ‘What about The Colonel, is he close with your dad?’ I couldn’t help notice that The Colonel and his son had greeted each other with stiff handshakes. Hardly the effusive familial congratulations you’d expect. This made The Grandson’s obvious affectionate gene even more puzzling. Perhaps it skipped generations.

  ‘I think there’s mutual respect,’ he said carefully. ‘But I’ve never seen them embrace. My mother is more demonstrative.’

  ‘You take after her, then.’

  ‘Do I? Maybe so. But I was also away at school. At first I went home during the holidays but by the time I was a teenager I spent most term breaks with my best friend’s family. I suppose they influenced me more than my parents did.’

  I’d met lots of men who were sent away at a young age. I never had the courage to ask exactly what they got up to. There were enough jokes floating around to guess that some of them learned about sex after lights out. Where there was smoke-innuendo there was fire-buggery. ‘You’re not close, then, with your parents?’

  A shadow crossed his face. ‘I wouldn’t say we’re a particularly close family, but we have a cordial relationship. I don’t resent them for sending me away.’

  Interesting choice of words, but I wasn’t there to play counsellor. Naturally, though, it made me wonder how deep The Grandson’s wounds were. I was an emotional rubber-necker, eager for a glimpse of the car crash. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring a date today,’ I said instead. He looked quite handsome and completely at home in his suit. Once I got to know him better I realised that I was wrong about his buttoned-up reserve. There had to be a degree of free-spiritedness in someone who wore curly hair long so that it stood on end. It looked like it spent most of its time on the naughty step.

  ‘You’re surprised? But I’m not seeing anyone.’

  ‘Oh. I assumed you were.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know, actually. I guess I just imagine you with a girlfriend. You seem like the type who’d have one.’

  ‘That’s flattering, thanks. But I’m not seeing anyone now. I did have a serious girlfriend, but I’ve mainly been single for the past few years.’

  ‘What happened to the
serious girlfriend?’ Hopefully my smile lessened the chance that he’d tell me to mind my own business. I didn’t fancy the prospect of sitting in awkward silence watching the pensioners dance the Electric Slide.

  He ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘When it came to decision time we simply weren’t sure whether we wanted to take the next step. Well, I wasn’t sure. We practically lived together at mine, though not officially. Karen kept her flat. After three years she understandably wanted to know where the relationship was going, and I honestly couldn’t give her an answer. I loved her and we had a lot in common. She’s incredibly sweet and nice, intelligent, pretty. But every time I thought about proposing I panicked. There’s nothing not to love about her, yet I wasn’t in love with her. We shared all of our friends and now I wonder if it wasn’t our life together that I loved so much.’ He looked wistful.

  ‘Do you regret not marrying her?’

  ‘No, not really, as wonderful as she is. We were friends first, in the same circle, and eventually started seeing each other. With so much in common it was almost inevitable. But we had substantial differences that meant we’d never really be right for each other.’

  Should I ask? Shouldn’t I? Of course I should. He wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Differences?’

  ‘She was just so nice. It’s wonderful in a friend but to be honest, in a relationship it can be wearing. I don’t want to say she was insipid but I’m afraid that’s how I began to see her. She was perfectly happy to defer to me on everything, and it got tiring after awhile. Men may say they want a compliant girlfriend but they don’t, not really. They want an equal, a partner. Karen suffers from being too nice… also, she’d had relatively little experience before we went out. She’d only had one other, very serious, boyfriend. That caused some problems.’

  ‘The ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘No, her lack of experience,’ he murmured. ‘Or not her experience exactly. Our lack of compatibility.’

  ‘In the bedroom?’

  He took another swig of wine. We’d had a lot to drink. ‘Er, yes. Our tastes were different, you might say.’