A Surrey State of Affairs (51 page)

  
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19

Last night Jeffrey said that he wanted to cook me a special dinner, so I put on a nice dress and some perfume, and took the batteries out of the smoke alarm in the kitchen. He grilled a couple of steaks, which caught fire only once, and made his own
pepper sauce, splattering it across the kitchen tiles in an elaborate arc. Thank heavens Boris is with us for a little while yet.

Then he lit a candle in the dining room and put Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” on in the background. I was touched. He must have seen how upset I was about the house. As we were halfway through the steaks, which were tolerable, though nowhere near as tender as Argentinean beef, he suddenly slumped down from the table. I shrieked, fearing an angina attack, but he told me to be quiet. It was then that I noticed that he was on one knee. He took a little box from his pocket, and gave it to me.

It was simple, creamy cardboard, tied with a burgundy velvet ribbon. I opened it up. Inside was a ring, a beautiful ring—not diamond, not platinum, just a lovely, striking pear-shaped piece of turquoise flanked by two smaller pieces of coral on a thick silver band.

“Constance, will you remarry me?” he said, and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling upward in that lovely, familiar way.

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked.

He got up off the floor, knees creaking, and explained that after everything we’d been through together, and everything that lay ahead, he wanted to renew our vows, to make an official fresh start. He was sure that my friend Reginald would do the business.

I was sure he would too, but could I be sure I was ready for this? Jeffrey and I had just spent some of the best weeks of our marriage together; and yet, back in the house, every time I passed Natalia’s old room, or found one of her old pink hair scrunchies lurking in the back of the bathroom cupboard, I felt a surge of surprisingly sharp anger and hurt.

This was not an easy thing to do, but I closed my hand over Jeffrey’s, gently pushing it down over the open ring box, and said, “Not yet.”

Last night, when I woke up in the early hours, I turned over and saw that Jeffrey too was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. I nestled my head into his shoulder, and eventually we both fell asleep together, until we were woken at seven
A.M.
by the sound of Boris vacuuming.

  
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20

One good idea at least has emerged from Jeffrey’s touching but awkward proposal yesterday. The prospect of having a church service after Rupert and Alex’s civil ceremony was so appealing that I called my son this morning to ask him what he thought. Rupert may not be a regular churchgoer, but he has always got on brilliantly with Reginald, and he told me that he had so many fond childhood memories of church that it would make the day feel more significant somehow if we could arrange something, provided that Alex agreed, and that—he sounded a little anxious here—Reginald thought it appropriate.

I immediately called Reginald, who was delighted with the idea. “Of course, we’ll have to fudge the wording a little, but I’m sure I can manage a blessing—I think Colossians 3:12 would do the trick. And what’s the good of being a CofE vicar if I’m not allowed to fudge?”

No sooner had I thanked him and put the phone down than Rupert called back to say that Alex was “chuffed” with the idea too. “He said we’d get lovely photos, Mum, and he’s right. The town hall may have more enlightened politics but it’s still an eyesore.”

And so we’re all set. Jeffrey has just booked the cars to take us from the town hall to church, and then back here to see in the New Year all together. The plan would be perfect, if only I could find at short notice a wedding cake with two men on it.

  
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22

A sad farewell at the airport to Boris, who had asked permission to take one of Darcy’s tail feathers to remember him. Then I spent the rest of the day making mince pies with Sophie, who told me all about university: the time they all played a joke on a girl called Stacy by sneaking into her room and turning every piece of furniture upside down and writing an upside-down message on her mirror in lipstick; the time everyone played a trick on her by sneaking into her room and taking Heidi, her cuddly giraffe, hostage; and also her course, which she said was fine.

By the time we’d gotten through all this, a veritable mountain of mince pies had formed, which is just as well—they’re Rupert’s favorites, and he will be here from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day. Harriet and Edward invited us to their house for Christmas Day, but I declined—I want to enjoy the last Christmas in our house, and not face any mortifying remarks as to why I have not yet had my hair recolored.

On Boxing Day, Alex and his parents will be joining us, which has already caused me to wake at two
A.M.
with the following questions on my lips: Should Jeffrey and I congratulate them unequivocally, or attempt to share a moment of somber solidarity on the subject of what might have been, of the grandchildren never to be born? Will a leg of ham suffice?

  
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23

I can’t type more than a few lines. I am exhausted in body and soul. I have been Christmas shopping on a budget. The morning—which involved meeting up with Bridget in London to buy presents—was not unalloyed hell. It was wonderful to see my dear friend, who hugged me so tightly I thought I would
burst. She helped me find all sorts of quirky, inexpensive presents, including a set of “carpet golf” for Jeffrey. And yet the crowds that surged and pressed all around us gave me flashbacks to the streets of Bogotá where pickpockets relieved Jeffrey of twenty U.S. dollars and his last remaining packet of extra-strong mints.

It was the afternoon, however, that really took its toll. Food shopping for Christmas used to involve writing a list for the housekeeper (whose name I will no longer deign to mention), then taking a leisurely stroll around the broad, white, quiet aisles of Waitrose to pick up any extras. Today I went to Lidl. It was Jeffrey’s idea. He said that they stocked many high-quality products at a bargain price, and that if he could only turn back the clock a year he’d have invested his savings in them rather than in U.S. property derivatives.

This may well be, but it has taken me a strong coffee and a nip of brandy to revive myself from the trip. It was a disorientating, discombobulating experience: the narrow aisles, the cluttered displays, the bargain bins stuffed with “slipper socks” (I was unaware such a hybrid existed), and chocolate Father Christmases whose foil wrappers were peeling off.

I swear that woman ran my foot over with her trolley on purpose as I reached for the last packet of ninety-nine-pence Parma ham.

  
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24

The last of the Christmas cards arrived today, and among them was a lurid pink envelope bearing Natalia’s erratic handwriting. I showed it to Jeffrey, and he threw it on the fire without saying a word. He held my hand as we watched it burn. It made a strange pop and hiss and emitted a bitter smell.

  
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25

Merry Christmas, my dear readers. I hope your day has been more tranquil than my own. All I had hoped for was a quiet family meal, and that Mother would not crack her dentures on the fifty-pence piece Jeffrey always hides in the Christmas pudding. It was not to be. No sooner were we all seated around the table—a CD of carols from King’s College Choir playing in the background, the plastic contents of cut-price Christmas crackers all around us, a steaming platter of Lidl sprouts in the center—than there was a knock on the door. Or rather three bold, vigorous knocks, the knocks of a self-assured and potentially violent visitor. We all exchanged glances, apart from Mother, whose hearing is not what it was, and who continued to look at the lime-green plastic comb that had come out of her cracker as if it might leap up and stab her. Jeffrey, Sophie, Rupert, and I rose from our chairs and went to the door. Jeffrey opened it. And there on the doorstep, with a poinsettia plant, a bottle of vodka, and a young woman in his arms, stood Ivan the Terrible.

“Merry Christmas!” he boomed. “It’s the season for forgiveness, no? I’ve brought you vodka with the gold flakes in. Please meet Irania, my fifth wife. I save the best to last!”