A Rather Charming Invitation (4 page)

“I guess so,” she sighed.

“Please do, otherwise I’ll get a scolding from
my
mom,” I explained with a grin. She nodded.

As Jeremy closed the door behind us, I still had misgivings. “I really hope she doesn’t bolt,” I said with some trepidation.

“Well,” Jeremy replied cheerfully, “we can hardly be responsible if she does.”

“Oh, cut it out,” I said. “We can’t turn her loose in London. She’s like the kid sister I always wanted. Something about her brings out the maternal instinct in me. I didn’t even know I had one.”

“You’re just a kid yourself,” Jeremy teased. “Newly born.” He gazed at me. I gazed back. He looked so nice tonight, as always—that dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and the confident way he has of navigating the world, with a teasing humor that invites you to enjoy the small absurdities of life. Jeremy’s the kind of guy who, when his attention is focused on you, well . . . it makes you feel as if today is your lucky day.

“You’re only four years older than me,” I flirted back, “but, I
suppose
that entitles you to talk to me like Old Father Time.”

“Someone has to look after you,” he said. “Might as well be me.” In such moments, the warmth in his voice actually does makes me want to swoon. Dope that I am. I wondered if this feeling could possibly last if—when, I mean—we got married. A chill of fear ran through me. Of course it could. No reason to pay any attention to those fatalistic articles and statistics about the thrill going out of marriage after a couple of years . . . right?

 

 

London was in a good mood tonight. Like any important city, its daily vibe has an immediate effect. On bad days, when it’s hostile and defeating, every move you make seems to be an uphill battle. But on nights like this, the air positively pulsed with a collective jubilance that instantly put spring in my step. There were birds flitting in the venerable old green trees that ringed the small parks we passed, and the scent of the earth made my nostrils twitch with pleasure like a colt who wants to kick up its heels. Other people on the street must have felt it tonight, too, for they were laughing and hurrying in and out of taxicabs and Tube terminals, as if eager to collectively celebrate having survived another winter.

When we arrived at the elegant Indian restaurant that Aunt Sheila had selected “for a curry”, and the hostess took our coats, Jeremy said, “There’s Mum . . . looks like she’s got a friend with her . . . ?”

I glanced across the dining area, which was decorated all in red, with pretty textured red wallpaper and draperies, and a red-and-gold bar, and red leathery seats. One wall was mirrored, and the brass lighting fixtures twinkled in its reflection. In a far corner, a man was playing sitar music, his bare feet covered with a cloth so as not to offend the Raj. The waiters all wore black pants and gold-and-white embroidered shirts with full sleeves. It was a festive atmosphere, yet a calm, dignified place.

Aunt Sheila was seated at a nice corner table with a curved banquette that faced the door, so she’d be able to spot us when we came in. She looked very chic, as always, with her slim figure, and blonde hair cut in that timeless bob with bangs that emphasized her green eyes and slightly pouty lips. But there was a new pink flush to her face tonight, and her smile was less guarded. Right next to her, with his arm around the back of her seat, was a man whom she quickly introduced to us as Guy Ansley. In a flash I saw that he was her new beau.

He was old-fashioned enough to rise when I approached the table and took my seat opposite him, and he kissed my hand, which I could see struck Jeremy as a pretentious thing for an Englishman to do. Guy was dressed in an expensive, tailored grey suit with a bright yellow sweater, a silk ascot, a neon blue handkerchief, yellow socks and conspicuously new shiny shoes. He was beefy, genial and laughed easily . . . and loudly. As we exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the traffic and all that harmless stuff people say to start a conversation, I noticed that Guy kept one arm around Aunt Sheila the whole time, even as we began to eat the little appetizers that started appearing at our table.

“Well, shall we break ‘nan’ together?” he asked, nodding at the arrival of the Indian bread.

I grinned, and Aunt Sheila caught my eye and smiled wryly. If every man in the entire restaurant had been assembled at the bar so that I could guess which one was her date, it’s quite possible that this is the last fellow I would have picked. And she knew it, too, but it didn’t dampen her spirits one little bit. She seemed to be in on the joke, and was nonetheless aglow in a way that I’d never seen her before, making her look years younger. Not once had Aunt Sheila felt the need to identify Guy as “my friend” or anything else, but it was pretty clear that he was indeed someone very special.

“Shall we order the main course now?” Guy beamed. I stole a look at poor Jeremy, whose shocked expression was the same as if, say, he’d suddenly swallowed an olive with the pit still in it. I knew this must be difficult for him, and I wondered why Aunt Sheila hadn’t warned him in advance. But perhaps she knew her son even better than I.

“They do a nice chef’s special-for-four, featuring various platters that we can all share,” Guy said hopefully. “What say we go for it, eh?”

It was clear that he intended to pay, and now, as he generously contemplated the wine list, I saw that he had absolutely no airs about him. He liked to tell silly jokes, which he himself enjoyed immensely. He even, at one point, slapped Jeremy on the back; and when Aunt Sheila broached the subject of our upcoming wedding, he insisted on ordering a bottle of champagne “for good luck”, he said. There was something endearingly genuine when he raised his glass in a toast to Jeremy and me, saying, “I want to wish you both the greatest happiness together, long life and good health”, as if he meant every word.

We clinked glasses, and for a moment I thought all was well, until Guy fecklessly and broadly hinted, “Who knows? Someday soon there may be other wedding bells ringing for some other lucky bloke.”

And that, I think, was when Jeremy began to despise him.

He didn’t really show it. Jeremy was perfectly polite, but I knew he was struggling; and again, I felt that Aunt Sheila had been a bit unfair to him. Of course, it would be a vast understatement to say that she was a secretive woman when it came to her love affairs. Before marrying my Uncle Peter, she had been desperately in love with Jeremy’s dad, an Italian-American musician who’d arrived in London’s swinging ’60s, but died shortly after serving in Vietnam, when Jeremy was a baby. And the thing is, she never told Jeremy about his real father, not until quite recently, when the truth came out during an inheritance kerfuffle over Great-Aunt Penelope’s will. So I could see why Jeremy didn’t need another shockeroo like this.

“Guy is an horologist, Penny,” Aunt Sheila said. “I imagine you and he must have a lot in common, you know, with your history-research background.”

“Ah, yes, Sheila told me about your career!” Guy said, and we plunged into a conversation about his business of antique clocks, which fascinated me. While I was listening to Guy’s anecdotes, Aunt Sheila, sensing Jeremy’s confusion, began to speak in low, soothing tones to him; so I suspected she’d deliberately gotten the conversation to break off into two, giving her some time to talk with her son.

When dessert came, accompanied by an after- dinner liqueur of fennel and other delightful herbs, Aunt Sheila said, with a falsely casual tone, “Jeremy darling, your grandmother telephoned to say she’d like you to bring Penny to meet her, at a little party she’s throwing in your honor. Soon. Very soon.”

To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about Jeremy’s English grandmother on his mum’s side. Possibly because, even after all these years, Aunt Sheila has barely been on speaking terms with her own family. Jeremy always acts as if he wants nothing to do with them, but he’d told me that, as a kid, he periodically had to put in an appearance whenever his wealthy grandmother summoned him, usually on landmark occasions, such as his graduation from Oxford. And, his previous wedding. And his divorce, which she tried to talk him out of, for appearances’ sake. Now, it seemed, his grand-mum wanted to look over his new bride. (That would be me.) Here in London. In a fortnight. I gulped.

At this point we were standing in the front of the restaurant, waiting for our coats, and Aunt Sheila’s came first, so Guy was helping her into it, as they murmured companionably together. Jeremy and I exchanged covert, dismayed whispers.

“I do hate to bring you to my dragon of a grandmother,” Jeremy said apologetically, “but if we refuse, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

So here I said one of those things that women in love tend to spontaneously say, but really shouldn’t. “Oh, it’s okay,” I said philosophically, “after all, she
is
your grandmother.”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “I’ll tell Mum to let her know we’ll come.”

“You okay about Guy?” I asked him in a low voice.

“Do I have a choice?” he inquired. Guy and his mum turned to us now, smiling.

“It’s such a lovely night,” Aunt Sheila said to us as we stepped out onto the street. “Let’s all go for a walk together.”

I was, by now, highly amused at her attitude, for she was still up to something. We soon found out what. As we turned a corner, she and Guy came to an abrupt stop in front of a locked clock shop with these words lettered in a fan-shaped curve:
The Village Horologist. Clocks Bought, Sold and Repaired.
I thought it was touching that she wanted us to see Guy’s business, perhaps to convince Jeremy that Guy was a solid, reliable character.

Guy pulled out a jingling key-ring from his pocket, inserted the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. “Come in, come in!” he cried. “Look around, look around!”

The shop was home to an amazing family of clocks, each with its own personality. Grandfather clocks, carriage clocks, pocket watches, table clocks . . . some with their movements encased in glass so you could see their elaborate mechanisms at work. Each were ticking precisely like the busy timekeepers they were, and every now and then one would suddenly start chiming from its corner, startling us with its tinkling or tolling, for they were set to various time zones around the world.

“Penny, have a look at this one, and tell me what you think,” Guy said, taking my hand and drawing me toward a table where a remarkable fireplace mantel clock stood.

Its case was made of partly gilded silver, with a clockface of champlevé silver and black Roman numerals above a base of rose-wood and tortoiseshell, with a movement of brass and steel. The top of the case had thin, flat, overlapping circular discs, looking like silver DVDs, that stacked upon one another like a wedding cake. Seen from overhead, the largest, bottom disc represented the seasons, topped by a smaller disc for the months of the year, which in turn was topped by an even smaller one representing the days of the week, until finally, the littlest one of all, for the hours.

Atop this stack of discs was a small but stunning sculpted silver figure of Apollo in his chariot, holding the reins of his winged horse. They seemed captured in midflight at their daily task of hauling the rising sun across the sky and plunging it into the sea to bring the day to a close. When the clock struck the hour, as it was doing now, the figure of the sun god and his horse rotated, to point to the hour, day, month, and season, displayed on the outer rims of the stacked discs, which simultaneously, incrementally moved into place beneath the figures; and the clock’s chime gave out a mellow, golden sound. There was something very appealing and dear about the way the Apollo figure moved, as if it were trying to engage us, to tell us that our time, and so our lives, were as fleet as a winged horse.

“Beautiful,” I breathed. Guy waited expectantly for my professional assessment. “I’d say it’s early to mid-1700s, maybe French?” I asked. “Although there seems a German influence, too . . .”

“Augsburg,” Guy nodded. “But, made by a French clock maker and his astronomer wife.”

I was captivated by its traditional images and mysterious mechanisms, and Guy was delighted to answer all my questions. “And what does it say here?” I asked, peering at an engraving in Latin. “
Tempus est circulus grandis sine finibus,
” I read aloud.

“It says ‘Time is a great circle without end’,” Guy translated. “The Latin proverb also gives you the exact year the clock was made—” He broke off when Jeremy accidentally knocked into a table clock; but as it wobbled, Jeremy moved swiftly to catch it, just in time.

Aunt Sheila said playfully, “Well, come on, Guy,
tell
them!”

“Anyway,” Guy said with a bit of a flourish, “I am pleased to say that this is the very clock which Sheila and I have chosen as our wedding gift for you two.” I saw Jeremy’s jaw muscle twitch.

“Oh, no, that’s too much,” I protested. “I didn’t realize what you were up to!”

Aunt Sheila said firmly, “It is
our
gift to you both. So, you cannot refuse. We hope it keeps track of many good times, and many years of happiness for you both.”

Jeremy bore up manfully, overriding his misgivings about Guy, and thanking them with true appreciation. Guy beamed, and said he’d deliver it to us as soon as he cleaned and polished it up. We went back out onto the street, where Guy had a parked car waiting. “Give you a lift?” he inquired.

“No, thanks,” Jeremy said decisively. “It’s a nice night, and a walk will do us good.”

“Right, then. Have a great time in Moo-gans!” Guy called out, as he and Aunt Sheila drove off.

Jeremy stood watching their car disappear, a look of disbelief on his face. “Bloody hell,” he said. “Everyone’s gone barmy. Can you believe that jerk?”

“I think Guy is really sweet and genuine, under all his bluster,” I offered. “And he clearly adores your mom.”

Jeremy glanced at me, slightly accusingly. “Do you really like that Trojan Horse of his?” he said.