A Surrey State of Affairs (9 page)

Valentine’s Day today. Jeffrey appears to have taken a principled stand against the trite commercialism of the occasion—the last gift he gave me was a pair of silk stockings in 1985. They’re still in the back of my drawer, in between a sewing kit and a lavender cushion. I’m not the mawkish sort—it’s not as if I yearn for teddies clutching hearts or dozens of roses—and yet some small, tastefully wrapped token of affection would make a welcome change.

With this in mind, I decided to ease my feet back into the vicelike grip of my ski boots and scale the mountain to meet Jeffrey, Andrew, and Amanda for lunch. I managed the one blue piste leading to the rendezvous without mishap and found the two men sitting at a table near the fire, stretching their legs out in contentment, white goggle marks glaring against their scarlet faces. As soon as I had sat down Amanda came over with some drinks. She had drawn a little heart into the foam on top of both Andrew’s and Jeffrey’s beers. Before I could say anything about this she was air-kissing me on both cheeks and telling me loudly how brave I was to get back up here after the helicopter rescue.

After lunch, just as I was deciding whether a schnapps would help or hinder my descent, there was a noise of chairs scraping back out of the way and four men in dinner jackets appeared, carrying musical instruments. They positioned themselves pointing
toward Amanda and began playing Handel’s “Entrance of the Queen of Sheba.” Andrew had hired a string quartet to serenade her at seven thousand feet. I thought this was more than a little outré, and glanced at Jeffrey to see if he would roll his eyes along with me, but he was distracted by the bleeping of his BlackBerry. I wondered who could have been texting him while he was on holiday but he muttered, “Work,” and stuffed it back into his pocket.

After that I came back to the hotel for a long bath. Tonight there is a Valentine’s gala dinner at the hotel, and because I will be enjoying Jeffrey’s undivided attention, I want to look my best.

11:05 P.M.

What a to-do! I don’t know whether to feel ashamed of my daughter or admire her. She certainly provided a little Valentine’s Day drama.

I had dressed carefully for the occasion, putting on a mauve silk blouse, a black knee-length skirt, a wraparound merino wool cardigan, and black patent leather shoes. I went to Sophie’s room to check that she too was wearing something smart. She opened the door and appeared before me in a pink T-shirt with the words “i look better naked” printed in gold, a pair of black leggings, and gold stilettos. I pulled the door shut and counted to ten. I knocked again and went in. After a small chat on the value of modesty and a threat to stop paying for her snowboarding lessons she gave in, and reluctantly changed into a minidress with spaghetti straps worn under a zip-up hooded pullover. It was not ideal, but it would have to do.

Her curious outfit didn’t seem to trouble James, however. We were arranged at long tables decked out with tiny paper hearts, candles, and flowers, with couples sitting together and everyone
else jumbled up. Sophie was looking well, the fresh air and candlelight making her pale complexion glow. Luckily she was sitting next to James, who was attentive to the point that I started to wonder whether he would agree to a church wedding and what sort of diamond a junior lawyer’s salary would buy. I tried to ask Jeffrey—subtly, of course—but he was no use. He seemed distracted throughout dinner, and failed to give me any opinion whatsoever on whether a marquee would fit in the garden. Perhaps the altitude had gone to his head.

After dinner, we went through to the bar, and I observed James yawning, stretching, and placing his arm around the back of Sophie’s chair. It was reassuring that however much some things change in the world—public school fees, the color of tights—certain manly stratagems remain the same.

My reflections were cut short by the entrance of a tanned young man with a hooded top a little like Sophie’s and half an inch of elasticated underpant sticking out from his jeans. He walked up to Sophie, took a disgusted glance at James, pulled her up from her bar stool, and kissed her. Before I could elbow Jeffrey into action to protect our daughter from this brazen and spiky-haired interloper, Sophie kissed him back. I suddenly realized that I recognized him from our first day here—it was Jake, the snowboarding teacher. James jumped up from his chair, spilling his gin and tonic, and shoved him in the chest. There ensued the sort of ungainly tussle that could not be more removed from the traditional idea of a romantic duel. Fists were swung; fists mostly missed their targets. Hair was pulled. At one point, so was Jake’s underpant elastic. Sophie watched with her hands over her cheeks. It wasn’t clear whom she was rooting for, but I hoped it was James. Eventually, the bar staff managed to separate them. Jake took one look at Sophie and stormed out, scattering chairs
in his wake. James said he felt a little shaky and went to lie down. Sophie ordered another drink. She must have inherited her sangfroid from Jeffrey.

I shall have words with her. A well-brought-up girl should know better than to encourage two young men at the same time. And yet, I can’t deny that it is gratifying to see my daughter admired, despite her disastrous dress sense. And at least, unlike those terrifying news reports one sees about feral girls running wild in the streets, she was only causing the fight, rather than participating in it.

  
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16

Back home, at last. It is a welcome refuge of peace, sanity, and temperate weather after such an eventful week in the Alps. The house is fairly clean, Darcy appears sleek and well, even Natalia seems pleased to have us back.

The farewells in St. Moritz were not straightforward. I managed to stay calm while Amanda air-kissed me once again on both cheeks and simpered that I simply must stay in touch if I knew how to use e-mail, but only just. Before parting from Sophie, I tried to convince her of the relative merits of solvent lawyers versus itinerant antipodean snow-sport in-struct-ors. She conceded that James was “fit,” which I hope means fit for the purpose of a serious relationship with the prospect of marriage.

8:32 P.M.

I just went to have a bath, but my bottle of sea minerals bath oil is empty. It was three-quarters full before I left. My fluffy white dressing gown is missing. So is my Estée Lauder moisturizer. Natalia!

  
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 17

Natalia was unrepentant when I questioned her about the missing bathroom items. She merely fixed me with her cold, inscrutable eyes and said, “Not knowing.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I needed to keep all that for visiting Mother, who was in a testy mood because the new lady in the bedroom next to hers had snaffled the last slice of sponge cake at tea. I muttered something about the importance of sharing and loving one’s neighbor, but from the look in Mother’s eye, I fear that she was in more of an “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” sort of mood. She asked me to bring her a cake tin and a padlock next time I visit.

  
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18

Last night I phoned Rupert, and a wonderful thought occurred to me. After I had told him all about St. Moritz and he had agreed that stopping to wait for the blizzard to pass was the best course of action, and that James was a better catch than Jake, conversation petered out. We seem to have reached a tacit agreement not to mention his birthday party. Finally, I resorted to filling the awkward pause by chatting about the day’s headlines, including news of a roller-skating squirrel, which I had read on the BBC’s Web site. It was then, while pondering the limitless variety of the Internet, that the idea occurred.

Why not put Rupert’s profile on an Internet dating service? Only last week, I read an article about a choir mistress who found love at the age of fifty-nine with a retired greyhound breeder. If there is hope for them, there is hope for Rupert. And surely the advantages of such a discreet and convenient dating service would outweigh any minor invasions of his privacy. I kept this to myself while I was on the phone, of course, but in my head I was already composing an advertisement along the following lines:

“Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth
seeks respectable lady for companionship and potential marriage. Must have good sense of humor and love musicals. Virgin preferred. No feminists, socialists, sailors, or divorcées. No piercings below the ears, no tattoos or unnatural hair dye, please. Must be kind to animals, including parrots.”

The choice of dating Web site is, of course, key. I typed “online Internet dating” into Google (Rupert once explained to me that Google is a little like direct inquiries, and I am rather proud of my prowess). The results that popped up almost immediately were staggering. There were dating Web sites for women seeking “sugar daddies,” for men seeking policewomen, for those desiring “large and lovely connections,” for wine lovers, for vegetarians, and for those seeking people to engage in acts of such specific physical athleticism that I snapped the lid of my LapTop down in horror before opening it again, slowly, transfixed in spite of myself.

This will take some thought. Things were so much simpler in my day, when Jeffrey and I simply locked eyes at a Durham Conservatives cheese and wine evening.

  
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19

Over dinner this evening—a shepherd’s pie, which Natalia burned on top to a blackened crust—I decided to test out Jeffrey’s opinion of my plan to advertise Rupert on the Internet, and to see if he would help me choose an appropriate Web site. I thought it would be sensible to get a second opinion after the debacle of Rupert’s birthday party, and my unsuccessful attempt to set up Sophie with David. However, Jeffrey’s opinion was not easy to obtain. It took him an inordinate amount of time to grasp what I was suggesting and why. As soon as understanding dawned, I put down my fork and stared expectantly at him, but he simply shook his head slowly, said, “Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” and took out his copy of today’s
Financial
Times,
which he then erected like a giant peach windbreak between us.

Men. It is all very well for him to dismiss my concerns, but he is not faced with the same daily reminders of what we are missing out on. I am a fifty-three-year-old woman. Everywhere around me, my friends and contemporaries are booking ivy-clad idyllic rural churches, erecting marquees or welcoming their grandchildren into the world. Edward and Harriet already have both a three-year-old grandson and a bouncing baby granddaughter. The only thing my children have taken responsibility for is a cactus and a goldfish that died when one of Sophie’s school friends poured a raspberry martini into its tank.