A Surrey State of Affairs (38 page)

I didn’t know what to say. I was happy to see Rupert so transparently happy; but to have the image of Alexandra—who I felt sure would have made a wonderful mother for my grandchildren, had she existed—so abruptly replaced by a man, albeit a green-fingered, book-loving man, still felt like an almighty wrench. But as I looked into Rupert’s hopeful eyes, I couldn’t bear to risk upsetting him, or making him choke on his rissole. “He sounds wonderful,” I said, and I hoped that one day I would really mean it.

It was half an hour after Rupert left before I realized that he had never collected his book.

  
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19

I can’t write for long. I must go back to the hospital. Ivan has been shot in the foot. Tanya has given birth.

  
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20

First, the good news. Tanya and Mark are the proud parents of a lovely little girl. Although a few weeks premature, she is in good health, weighing in at five pounds eight ounces. Mother and baby will be kept in for observation for a couple of days, but should be back home by the end of the week.

Second, the not-so-good news. The baby has been named Shariah. Mark claimed it had a “nice, eastern ring to it.” I wondered if he had been on Tanya’s gas and air, but I bit my tongue. I went to see them a few hours after the birth; Tanya was sleeping, but Mark pointed with a trembling hand to the incubator where little Shariah was curled up. Her tiny, perfectly formed fingers and toes provided a sharp contrast to Ivan’s obliterated digit, which was the other reason for my visit to the hospital.

At this point I feel I should explain that Jeffrey is a fine sportsman, but I suppose that in marksmanship, as in stewardship of the Rotary Club’s finances, his confident insouciance can occasionally lead him astray. It appears that, having spotted a particularly alluring bird, he fired off too soon, thus relieving Ivan the Terrible of the little toe of his left foot. Ivan received emergency treatment in Yorkshire before being transferred to a private room at our local hospital yesterday. It was with great trepidation that Jeffrey and I went to see him in his hospital suite, painted a tasteful shade of lavender. As soon as we opened the door, he stubbed a cigarette out in the pot of his peace lily before realizing it was us and explained that he thought for a moment we were one of those “do-good nurses.” In Russia, the nurses are beautiful, he added. Not here. We approached him with caution. I asked him how he was, and he simply said, “How do you think?” and scowled. Jeffrey, however, patted him on the shoulder, and Ivan grasped his hand and shook it manfully.

I do not understand the Russian temperament. Ivan is a man
of foul moods, of tempestuous rages, of black, glowering discontent. And yet, having had a significant and lifelong wound inflicted upon him by my husband, he shows less resentment than he did when Jeffrey once inadvertently polished off his glass of vodka. I have to say, I do not fully understand the temperament of my husband either. This is the first time I have seen him since Rupert’s life-changing announcement, and I had hoped to be able to read instantly how much he had suffered. Yet the only thing I could tell from looking at his face was that he had been out in the sun for too long without his hat.

  
THURSDAY, AUGUST 21

Ivan the Terrible is back, wounded, groggy, and petulant. He blunders through the house like a bear with its foot caught in a trap, scattering all in his path. Jeffrey has lost his favorite port glass, and Sophie, one of the crystal ponies she used to collect as a child. She has borne the loss remarkably well. If anything, her mood seems to have improved in the past couple of days. She has taken to locking herself in the bathroom for long periods of time, trying out a bewildering array of cosmetics and singing. Luckily, Boris is always on hand to clean the iridescent eye shadow off the sink.

When I finally got Jeffrey to myself for the first time, I thought he would be bursting to share his feelings about Rupert. “I’ve seen him,” I told him, almost triumphantly. “I’ve seen him, and, darling, it really isn’t so bad. I know this must be hard for you too but he really is the same old Rupert. We can get through this.”

Jeffrey muttered, “Of course, old girl,” and just for a moment, before he started vigorously stuffing his rubber boots with rolled-up pages of yesterday’s
FT
to dry them out, I caught a lost look in his eye.

  
FRIDAY, AUGUST 22

11 A.M.

I’ve invited Rupert and Alex for dinner. It was Sophie’s idea, and I followed it on the spur of the moment last night. Rupert sounded so happy when I called that I swallowed any doubts about how Jeffrey would react, and whether Ivan would make a suitable dining partner in a delicate family situation. The most important thing is to show Rupert that we support him. I’m sure that Jeffrey would agree, though, as ever, his feelings are difficult to read. When I told him about the plan over breakfast this morning he lowered his paper by about a quarter of an inch and said, “Fine.”

Perhaps it really will be fine. Perhaps, over the course of the next seven hours, Jeffrey will reconcile himself to our son’s situation and I’ll be able to persuade Darcy to stop saying “Who’s a pretty boy, then.”

11:30 P.M.

It wasn’t entirely fine. Of course it was good to see Rupert again, and Alex does indeed seem a very eligible young man, but I couldn’t stifle a small wish that this soft-spoken, handsome young geography teacher, with his neat dark hair and short-sleeved checked shirt, had been brought home by my daughter and not my son. He would be the perfect boyfriend for Sophie, I thought, calm and steady but with a throaty laugh, which suggested a lively sense of humor. I caught Rupert looking at me as these thoughts ran through my head, and I jumped up anxiously to pass the stuffed olives around.

It was an awkward meal. Boris prepared a wonderful rack of lamb with new potatoes—his culinary skills are far superior to Natalia’s—but there was nonetheless a background tension that made conversation difficult. It didn’t help that Ivan the Terrible
punctuated the first long pause at the dinner table by saying “There are not so many gay men in Russia, you know. In England, they are here and they are there and they are everywhere, but Russia, no. Men are men in Russia,” before devouring an enormous chunk of lamb by jamming it into his mouth and then rotating his fork.

Rupert asked, “What about this year’s Eurovision act?” but Ivan replied that that was a Latvian nancy boy masquerading as a Russian, who had no real manly Russian blood in his veins. I changed the subject quickly to last Sunday and Rupert’s role in our victory, going on to describe the competition in such detail that Ivan was soon silent and rapt, as was everyone else at the table.

Then Ivan took over the topic of competition and started to describe the wrestling contests held between the youths of his village that he said he used to win every summer. Apparently all that was needed was a mud pit, a few straw bales for the spectators, and some low-grade vodka to wash off the blood. I saw Rupert and Alex exchange glances and roll their eyes. At least Sophie remembered her manners and listened intently, staring at his face—perhaps counting the fine lines that crinkle out from his eyes when he guffaws—while he spoke.

Jeffrey said hardly two words throughout the whole meal, but managed to drink a bottle and a quarter of wine and two glasses of claret. I wish Darcy had shared his reticence. Just as Rupert and Alex were getting their coats to leave and we were all assembled awkwardly in the hall, wondering whether to say anything of significance, to hug or not, my parrot let out a piercing cry of “Jolly Roger.”

  
SATURDAY, AUGUST 23

A letter arrived today, addressed to Jeffrey, written in the spidery scrawl familiar from Natalia’s shopping lists. It was postmarked London. Why is she writing to him and not to me? Perhaps she thinks he is a softer touch. I do hope she’s not petitioning for her job back. Boris is so much more efficient, and is doing a wonderful job of keeping the bathroom spick-and-span despite the ever-increasing array of new makeup that Sophie is cluttering it with.

I must content myself with not knowing. Just as I was boiling the kettle—for a cup of tea, you understand, not to misuse the steam, which was quite profuse and would have had it open in a jiffy—Jeffrey appeared, collected his mail, patted me on the bottom, then left for a game of golf, leaving Ivan to sit in the conservatory and smoke with only Sophie for company.

  
SUNDAY, AUGUST 24