Cuckoo (38 page)

Mrs Eady hadn't noticed, yet. She was deep in emergency first-aid with floor-cloth and bucket. ‘I said I'd look after three,' she grumbled, ‘not a houseful. And why say steak, when he means peanuts? It's like a monkey-house in here!'

Charles turned his back on her dustpanful of nuts. He was busy enough himself, for Christ's sake, trying to act as host, barman, bouncer and furniture restorer, not to mention nursemaid to his wife. Frances had subsided for the moment, thank God, sprawled in a chair with her legs wide apart, grinning grotesquely at her empty glass. He shuddered as he glanced at her. She was wearing her unwashed hair and some strange athletic garment in purple towelling. He had asked Viv to keep an eye on her, but Viv was deep in the benefits of breast-feeding with their breastless next-door neighbour. He tried to catch her eye.

‘Well, I did get an abscess with my third, but that was only because he
bit
. What's the matter, Charles?'

‘Er … nothing.'

How could he yell to Viv across a mob of lurching John Travoltas, would she please muzzle his wife with Valium, or lock her in the lavatory before someone refilled her glass? He couldn't even reach her. It was impossible to cross that palpitating dance floor, which had once been called a drawing-room. Forty-three revellers loose and whooping in his house, friends of the friends of the friends Frances had telephoned that morning. ‘Yes, of course bring your sister along – ask anyone you like – the more the merrier!'

His face ached with the polite pain of introducing people, yet he was the one who needed an introduction. Everyone else smiling, swilling, junketing – but he a stranger and a gate-crasher at his own party, stiff, cold, sober and alone. There was no one he could count on. Laura had arrived early, on purpose, and found him still minus his shirt and quarrelling with Frances over the merits of disposable paper plates versus the Royal Doulton. Viv had arrived late and smashed a Ch'ien Lung vase. Even his own acquaintances had turned into fools and drunkards. Their local estate agent was on his knees to Amanda Crawford, sporting a burnt-cork moustache and a funny hat, and the asinine Clive was labouring to prove that he knew the difference between the Manhattan Hustle and the hand-jive.

He joined the group by the piano and forced his face into the ruins of a smile. Perhaps he could initiate a little serious conversation about the new production of
Idomeneo
, with Janet Baker as a ravishing Idamante, and Colin Davis in the pit.

‘And then he said he'd have to take the ovaries as well. He told Dave he'd never seen fibroids like it. Veritable grapefruits. I haemorrhaged for weeks.'

Christ! What hope was there for Mozart, when every bloody female was up to her neck in gynaecologists? It must be Frances' influence. Wherever she was, the conversation turned to wombs. He'd already escaped from a double prolapse and a hysterectomy.

Laura wasn't much better. Her line was storks and gooseberry bushes. He could see her now, out of the corner of his eye, flagging him down with a bottle of gin. She was resplendent in a Zandra Rhodes creation, set off with all Clive's diamonds. His own eternity ring was still on her middle finger, looking puny and insubstantial in comparison with her husband's mocking sparklers. He could hardly bear to look at her, now that he'd lost her, and if he did, Magda was still entangled with her, both of them mocking and denouncing him, ex-mistress and ex-daughter in a double exposure. Black letters were punching into his head, branding the cold white paper of his mind. The telegram! It would be on its way, by now, scalding over Europe, crash-landing at Westborough. His hands were damp with sweat. Perhaps he shouldn't have phoned Piroska at all. How would he ever know if …?

No, he mustn't think about it. Those perjured, pre-paid words must be erased from his mind for ever, the whole business of the telegram consigned to a section of his life marked ‘File Closed'. He was sweating more profusely now, shameful droplets beading on his forehead, as fat and rank as Laura's diamonds. She'd edged so close, he could smell the faint, intimate odour of her hair.

‘Darling, do tell me what we're celebrating. I was wondering, actually, whether to bring a little gift along. Blue bootees, for example?'

Charles turned his back and stormed into the kitchen. He'd chill more wine, replenish the ice – anything – to keep away from her. He sneaked a look behind him, to make sure she wasn't following. But Laura had already turned her charms on the most important guest.

‘I adore these simple little spur-of-the-moment soirées, don't you, Mr Oppenheimer?'

Oppenheimer murmured something indecipherable through a mouthful of potato crisps. He was gallantly pretending that Golden Wonder's Onion Flavour were the perfect partner for a
Latriciéres-Chambertin
1973.

‘This is a very noble wine. I can highly recommend it. May I get you some?'

‘No thanks, I always stick to gin. Besides, it's all gone.'

Laura had watched the last bottle disappear into Brenda Eady's holdall, aided by the butcher's sleight-of-hand. The
Chambertin
was the pride of Charles' cellar – he had been cosseting it for Christmas, two whole crates of it.

‘Well,' said Oppenheimer, caught between Laura's gin bottle and the last broken fragments of the crisps. ‘Shall we go and say hello to our hostess? I've hardly seen her.'

‘I think she's keeping what they call a low profile,' sniped Laura, gesturing to Frances, who had slipped from her chair and was sprawled ignobly on a pile of cushions.

‘Hi!' giggled Frances, watching Oppenheimer's calf-skin shoes glide purposefully towards her. She reached out a playful hand and grabbed his ankle. ‘Great party, isn't it?'

‘How are you, Mrs Parry Jones? I haven't had a chance to say hello to you.'

‘Call me Fran.' She kidnapped the other ankle. Five foot ten above her, Oppenheimer tried to keep his balance.

‘It was most gracious of you to offer us hospitality. You have a very beautiful home, if I may say so.'

Frances burped. ‘Think so? I've just run away from it. Only came back today. That's why we're celebrating. Return of the prodigal.'

She released the ankles and pulled him down towards her on the cushions. ‘You don't believe me, do you? I ran away to have a baby. It was your fault, really. Except I'm not having it. We're celebrating that, as well. The death of a foetus. Did you ever have a baby – Your wife, I mean?'

‘Er, no. We …'

‘It's safer, isn't it? Babies are such messy things. Disgusting. They ruin everything. Heinrich … may I call you Heinrich?' She squeezed closer to him, fingered his Victorian cravat-pin. ‘Would you be an angel and fill me up? Charles is such a spoil-sport, he says I've had enough. But it's my party, isn't it?'

‘Yes, of course. What are you drinking?'

‘Anything.'

Frances was suddenly alone again. She could hear the party roaring all around her, out of key. She stuck out her tongue at a smug bronze figurine posturing on a low table. ‘Hap-py ann-i-vers-ary,' she whimpered to it. ‘Hap-py, hap-py, hap-py, hap-py, hap-py …'

She wasn't sure how happy she was. The room was thick and coated, and there seemed to be two of everything, and her glass wouldn't stay where she put it, and her head had turned into a stereo and was playing dreadful roaring music, and underneath the roar there were little niggly voices imploring her to pull herself together.

‘You're behaving outrageously,' they whined.

‘Yes, outrageously!' she agreed. And giggled.

‘Making a fool of Charles.' Charles? He was the tall one, with the terrifying grey smile. They must have got it wrong – you couldn't make a fool of Charles.

The voices were still nagging. ‘Messing up your clothes, swaying on your feet …'

She grinned. Not on her feet – she couldn't be – she was swaying on the floor. Just one more tiny drink, and then she'd stop. She'd only downed a glass or two, to drown the pain of her period. It was the heaviest one she'd ever had, with cramps.

Heinrich had returned with two glasses. She struggled up to grab one.

‘Oops – sorry!' Why on earth did the floor have to shift like that, when it was her turn to move?

‘It's quite all right.' How could it be all right, when that greedy red stain was gobbling up his pale oyster suit?

‘But I've soaked your trousers.'

‘Please don't mention it.' No, mustn't mention anything – Charles had told her that. Not trousers, nor babies, nor Neds, or beds, or wombs, or periods, or Charles, or …

She stroked a sweaty finger down his arm. ‘What do you think of Charles?'

‘I beg your pardon?' Heinrich was mopping his knees with a white silk handkerchief. She wished to God he'd stay still, instead of bobbing around like that. It hurt her head.

‘Charles. Charlie boy. My other half. Do you like him?'

‘Your husband is a very brilliant man.'

‘But do you like him, Heinrich?'

‘Well, yes, of course, I …'

‘You don't like him, do you? I don't blame you, actually. I don't like him much myself.'

‘Mrs Parry Jones, I simply …'

‘Call me Fran. I'm drunk, aren't I? I'm a rotter. Don't like my own husband. I use him. I use people all the time. Charles says so. Charles says I use
you
. Do you think I use you, Heinrich?'

‘No, of course not, Mrs Par …'

‘Oh, listen! They're playing our tune. Someone's put on the Anniversary Waltz. Shall we dance?'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Parry – Fran … I'm afraid I don't dance.'

‘Oh, you don't dance. The richest man in the world and he doesn't dance. What a shame!'

Oppenheimer had taken two steps backwards. That was stupid. You were meant to move towards people when you danced with them. Frances crawled after him on her hands and knees. ‘I don't believe you, Heinrich. You just don't want to dance. But I want to dance with you. Charles says we've got to dance. I've got to entertain you. That's why I'm here. You're his most important client and … Oh, please don't go away.'

She pulled herself up, using his leg as a lever, and then laid her head against his shoulder. Except his shoulder wasn't there. Only a sort of awkward gap between them, which made it impossible to waltz, let alone stand up. And suddenly, the rhythm had changed and she had swapped partners. They must be doing a Paul Jones, because Heinrich had disappeared and the tall, terrifying one had grabbed her, with the smile. The smile was cutting her to pieces and the sharp, splintered voice had crashed into the music and was spinning at the wrong speed on the dizzy turntable inside her head. ‘Go away, Charles, I'm teaching Heinrich to dance.'

And now there was Viv, vast and rustling in puke-green taffeta, wanting to waltz with her as well. They were tugging her in two – the stiff, steely one, yanking at her right side, and the soft, flabby one lungeing at her left. It felt strange, as if one leg were shorter than the other.

‘No, Viv, I don't want to dance with you, I want to dance with Heinrich. Let me go, Viv, I don't want to go upstairs …'

When Charles came down again, Laura was draped across the banisters. ‘Frances unwell, darling? A touch of morning sickness, I suppose. Or is it that bug you said
I
had?'

He stared past her sequins at the wreckage of his house. The Sex Pistols had kidnapped his outraged stereo; retching ashtrays were sicking up their contents on the pale wild-silk upholstery; a fourteen-stone bruiser was standing on the sideboard, looping multi-coloured streamers from the antique chandelier.

‘Off the sofa, everyone – we need more room. Shove that table back. Wow, mind the wine!'

Charles groaned and turned away. He could see Oppenheimer, like some silent portrait of a cursed and hunted ancestor, cowering in the shelter of a tallboy, pale and wary, glancing at his watch.

How, in God's name, could he turf out forty-three barbarians, some of whom he didn't even know; how ensure his most respected client a decent night's sleep, before a crucial flight to Bogota? It wasn't even midnight. The party might rollick on for hours, yet. Drinking on empty stomachs had made everybody reckless; last trains or morning church or baby-sitters, all conveniently forgotten. There were not even any clocks. Frances had removed them from the whole of the downstairs area. It was another of her crazy, new-wave whims, some Rousseau-esque rubbish she had picked up at Acton, along with her cave-man hairstyle and tomboy clothes. Clocks killed spontaneity and natural body rhythms – or so guru Frances claimed. Those she couldn't hide, she had castrated, by insisting he remove their pendulums. Even his long-case clock was neutered now. God Almighty! A month or two ago, he would never have allowed her to dictate to him like this, mess around with expensive fragile mechanisms, in the name of some mumbo-jumbo mysticism. It was proof that he was weakening. Yet now she wasn't pregnant, he felt he had to humour her, indulge her, even in absurdities. He couldn't bear to lose her, not a second time.

Besides, it unnerved him, somehow, to know that she had never liked his clocks. Why hadn't she told him so before? In all the sixteen years they'd been chiming and pealing in what he saw as gloriously conformist harmony, she had been gritting her teeth, clenching her fists, longing for silence, or discord, or some millennial myth of sun-dial randomness. And he hadn't even known.

So, tonight, he had conspired with her in silencing his clocks, as if a single evening could compensate for all those jangling, booming years. Frightening, really, to see how easily their hands and pendulums surrendered, as if he himself had been muzzled or unstrung.

It hadn't paid. He'd given way to irrationality, and now his rule and territory were overrun, his drawing-room under siege. It was time to take a stand. His clocks must be his allies in the return to order. If he replaced or re-hung them all, their so-called guests might take a hint and go. It was nineteen minutes to midnight. Fifteen clocks, striking twelve times each, could hardly be ignored. Once he'd boomed and chimed them off the premises, he'd be left only with the Oppenheimers, and they were more amenable. He'd bundle Mrs off to bed with a mug of charm and Ovaltine, and woo Heinrich with his strongest five-star cognac, and a man-to-man apology (wife unwell, women's troubles, hormones playing up). Then, with any luck, bed and oblivion until the morning plane.