Elegance and Innocence (31 page)

‘Nice to see you to, Waste of Space,’ she counters, grinning. ‘I hope he hasn’t been boring you senseless. He can pound that piano until you just want to bludgeon him to death, can’t you?’

He nods happily.

She looks at me and frowns. ‘Geez, Louise, what’s happened to you? You look an absolute fright! You’re covered in feathers and there’s mascara all down your face! What’ve you been doing to her, you brute!’ She turns to Eddie, hands on hips.

‘Nothing, I swear!’ he protests. ‘It’s the music! My music
has been known to bring tears to the eyes of many a lovely lady! And to cause the occasional moult,’ he adds.

I’d completely forgotten about the exploding pillow tantrum. I catch sight of myself in one of the huge gilt mirrors hanging between the pairs of French doors. I look like I’ve been tarred and feathered by a group of minimalists. ‘Shit!’

‘Well put!’ Eddie laughs.

I’m blushing.

‘Well, there’s only a few minutes before supper,’ Flora says, glancing at her watch. ‘So I’d clean up if I were you. I put a spare skirt on your bed.’

‘Thanks,’ I murmur, racing towards the door. I can’t get out of there fast enough.

My mind is reeling as I bound up the stairs. Eddie, the man from the opera house steps, is Flora’s brother! And he’s here! Why does this have to be the weekend I have no decent clothes?

I dive into the bathroom, splash my face with water, rinse away the trails of mascara and pull the feathers out of my hair. Three minutes to eight. Shit, shit, shit! I tear off my jeans, pull on the skirt Flora left for me and look in the mirror. Barefaced, without a hint of make-up, and dressed in a tee-shirt, elasticized floral skirt and loafers, I look like an escapee from a special needs home. I sob in despair. One more minute to go. Damn it! I pull the tee-shirt out to cover the ruched waistband, grab the red lipstick out of my handbag and paint on a lovely red clown mouth, which I
dab down desperately with a tissue. The grandfather clock in the front hallway chimes ominously. Eight o’clock. Fuck! I grab my cardigan, throw it around my shoulders and tear out of my bedroom.

I skid down the main staircase, coming to a halt at the bottom, unsure of which way to go. There’s laughter somewhere to my left. As I speed down the hallway, the noise becomes louder and louder. The doorway to an open lounge is only ten feet away. The clock is just striking eight. I might just make it! Rounding the doorway, I prepare to smile winningly at the assembled guests when suddenly I’m hit by a wall of jumping dogs. Before I know it, I’m down on the Aubusson, covered in canines.

‘No running in the house!’ Mrs Simpson-Stock roars. ‘How many times do I have to say it! Down, boys, down! Heel! Sit! STOP! Here,’ she offers me a hand and pulls me up. ‘You’re late. Everyone, this is Poppy’s friend, Eleanor.’

‘Louise, Mummy.’

‘Yes, well, whatever. She’s American,’ she concludes by way of explanation and they all nod their heads knowingly.

Poppy comes to my rescue. ‘Why don’t I get you a Pimms and introduce you to everyone later?’ she suggests, taking me under her arm and guiding me to the drinks table.

‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ I rasp, shamefaced. As we cross the room in total silence, I scan its borders as
discreetly as I can for any sign of Eddie. Is it possible that I’ve escaped humiliating myself in front of him for a second time? My heart lifts at the thought. I search the room once more just to be sure. He’s definitely missing. I’m so relieved, I even manage a smile when Poppy hands me a glass filled to the brim with fruit salad and cucumber floating in a sugary amber liquid.

‘Cheers everyone!’ she toasts, raising her glass.

‘Cheers!’ they shout back, manoeuvring their faces so that they’re able to drink the liquid without disturbing the complicated mass of foliage. It’s like taking a sip out of a vase full of flowers. With my track record, I decide it’s best for everyone if I give it a miss.

I stand there holding my glass, trying to blend in with the other guests when a youngish man with very blond hair and no discernible eyelashes swaggers over. He has on a purple and white pinstriped shirt and a pair of canary yellow corduroy trousers that, like the sun, can’t be looked at directly without severe damage to the eyes.

‘Yah hello. My name’s Piers, Lavender’s better half,’ he introduces himself, gesturing to a drained, angry looking young woman in the corner, who’s clutching her drink so violently, she might easily shatter the glass. ‘So,’ he smirks at me. ‘You’re American. Tell us why your presidents are all such dumb pricks?’ He tries punctuating this sparkling opening gambit by taking a swift swig of his drink, but miscalculates and lands a bit of cucumber in his eye instead.

I hesitate. ‘Well, politics isn’t really an interest of mine …’

‘Well, what I want to know …’ he continues, undeterred, ‘is how they can be allowed to continue in office when it’s clear that they’re all total liars? I mean they’re all a walking mass of contradictions …’

‘I really don’t follow the Presidential follies,’ I interrupt, wishing he wouldn’t stand so close. ‘It’s not a topic upon which I have an opinion.’

‘Well, regardless of that,’ he waggles a thick, pink finger in my face, ‘the thing that gets me, is how the most powerful man in the world, I mean, we’re talking about a man who’s got more nuclear capability, right? than all the other world powers combined, can be allowed to say whatever he wants, even lie directly to the Supreme Court of America, on, like, national television! It’s like everything in America is one great big bloody Oprah Winfrey Show! And that’s another thing I hate!’ he rants, his voice filling the room. ‘This whole country is getting to be just like America! We’ve completely lost our national identity. We’re just like some faded, secondhand rip off of Your Country!’ He points at me accusingly. ‘Like we’re just some unofficial, bastard fifty-third state! I mean, how do you explain that?’ He turns to the rest of the room for affirmation. ‘Special relationship with Britain! “Special relationship” my arse! As far as I can see, the whole “special relationship” is built around us doing what you tell us to do! And what’s more …’

‘Oh, shut up, Piers!’ Lavender hisses across the room. ‘You’re boring the poor girl senseless. And everyone else.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘No, I’m not, darling. Elsie and I are having a very nice, very civil conversation about her president. And, for your information, politics is not boring, yah? It’s just boring for you because you have a brain the size of a pea and don’t understand, like, long words all strung together in a row.’

For a moment I thought Lavender was going to chuck her glass at his head. ‘Piers! How can you be so rude!’ she screams. ‘If you ask me, the President of the United States isn’t the only one who’s a prick!’

‘Language, Lavender!’ Mrs Simpson-Stock glares at her. ‘A lady never swears!’

‘But Mummy!’

‘
Never
!’ her mother growls and Lavender sits down abruptly, like one of her mother’s dogs.

A mortified silence ensues. The rest of the guests, too daunted to speak, sit holding their drinks like third-class trophies, staring with pretend fascination as the dogs savage what appears to be a small woodland animal in the centre of the floor. Piers pokes his tongue out at Lavender. She responds by sticking two fingers up at him when her mother isn’t looking.

Mrs Simpson-Stock twists her wristwatch around, frowning at it intensely, the way people do when they
haven’t got their glasses. ‘Flora, honestly! Where is that brother of yours? We can’t sit around here all day making polite conversation!’

‘Certainly not,’ Flora giggles nervously and Mrs Simpson-Stock shoots her a look Medusa would be proud of.

‘I’ll go get him!’ I offer, desperate to get away from Piers’ searing political insights. ‘I think he might be in the piano room.’

‘Yes, well, whatever.’ She waves me on. ‘But no running in the halls! Understood?’

I nod obediently, hand my glass to Poppy and make my escape.

I wander through the long corridors until I reach the music room, only this time it’s empty. I walk out of the French doors onto the lawn and there, sleeping in a lounger, is Eddie.

He’s the only person I’ve ever seen who sleeps with a smile on his face.

His eyes flick open and he smiles even wider. ‘I’m late, aren’t I?’

I nod. Even this piece of information seems to please him enormously. He stretches his arms out languorously above his head. ‘Shall I kidnap you? We can escape down to the local pub instead and finally have our drink. I’ll even buy you a packet of crisps,’ he offers.

I’m sorely tempted. ‘I don’t dare. I’m already in trouble. I’ve been caught running in the house.’

‘No!!!’ he gasps in mock horror. ‘Not actually
in
the house! Were you pulled over?’

‘Worse. The dogs got me.’

He winces violently. ‘Oooo!
Nasty!
Smelly little vermin.’

‘Too right,’ I confirm. ‘They just went for me.’

He leans in and lowers his voice. ‘Rumour has it that she gets a new one every time
He
has an affair. They’re really just walking, wagging, weeing versions of her own pent up fury and betrayal.’

‘Nooooooooooo waaaaayyy! I didn’t even know there was a
He!
’

‘Only a rumour, mind you.’ He taps the side of his nose.

‘About the dogs, you mean?’

‘No, about the husband,’ he winks. ‘See! See what a fount of knowledge I am! How dashing and debonair! And full of malicious gossip! How can you turn me down? How can you miss this enchanting opportunity to be alone with me over a Scotch egg and a game of darts?’

‘But I’m dressed like a ’tard.’ I point out, completely baffled and thrilled by his persistence. ‘And besides, I … I just can’t … they’re all waiting in there with glasses of … I don’t know … fruit salad and sugar water. We can’t just
leave
.’ I sound pathetic even to me.

He surveys me sadly. ‘Now, is this the spirit that won the West? Walked on the moon? Bombed the shit out of Vietnam?’

‘No,’ I admit.

‘I didn’t think so,’ he comments gravely. ‘What
is
the world coming to! Come on,’ he sighs. ‘Well, then. Here’s to the Voice of Reason. If only she’d mind her own bloody business!’ He stands up and offers me his arm with exaggerated formality. ‘Shall we?’

I take it and we walk back, through the empty hallways to the lounge. Just before we enter, he gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘Just between you and me,’ he whispers, ‘I think we missed a wonderful chance to really fuck these people off.’

‘Just between you and me,’ I whisper back, ‘I think you’re absolutely right.’

And with that we sweep into the lounge and on to one of the most painful meals of my life.

It’s not just that there’s more cutlery surrounding my plate than I know what to do with, or that the ‘Summer Gazpacho’ soup turns out to be cold tinned Campbell’s cream of tomato with additional chunks of raw onion, or even that a cloud of floating dog hair descends upon every course. No, the most painful aspect is the halting, stilted attempts at conversation, made more tortuous by the rigid social observance of turning first to your right and then to your left to ply your neighbours with half-hearted queries about summer holiday plans and observations on the state of the weather.

The dining room, which possesses all the dark grandeur of an Italian morgue, is surprisingly cold, despite the time
of year. I perch, shivering, next to Poppy’s deaf grandfather on one side and an increasingly drunk Lavender on the other.

In a show of resolute social decorum, she swings round to face me. ‘Going on holiday?’ she snaps, her gaze glued to the white wine bottle as it makes its way around the table. (Despite the number of guests, only two bottles of wine appear, one red, one white, and the mounting tension as they’re passed from hand to hand is almost unbearable.)

‘I don’t think so. What about you?’

‘Never go anywhere,’ she spits bitterly. ‘Piers thinks we ought to save money. He’s under the impression that we’re going to have children, although I can’t imagine how.’

Not really sure what to say, I watch as her hands clutch and un-clutch the linen napkin in her lap.

‘At least the weather’s been nice,’ I hear myself bleat.

‘Fucking fantastic.’ She grasps the bottle eagerly with both hands when it finally arrives, draining the remains into her glass. ‘Thank God!’ she gasps, her whole body collapsing in relief.

The Summer Gazpacho is followed by a fish course that looks like a medical sample on a Petri dish. Minuscule shreds of smoked salmon are dotted on piles of shredded iceberg lettuce, then completely overwhelmed by generous dollops of mayonnaise and chopped gherkin. In the corner of each plate is a little triangle of dried brown bread with
curly corners where the crusts have been cut off. After that, shavings of lamb are accompanied by tinned peas and roasted potatoes, which manage the culinary distinction of being both simultaneously burnt and undercooked. We’re rationed to three per plate; they stand, sentinel-like around the grey, cooling slivers of meat. There’s an even more violent scramble for the gravy than the wine, with the result that half the table have plates swimming in the stuff while the rest of us are left to negotiate the horror unaided. We poke, push and pull at the lamb until it snaps into rubbery little parcels, that can be chewed for fifteen minutes or more without dissolving.

Poppy’s grandfather turns to me and smiles. ‘Going on holiday this year?’ he shouts.

Having survived a stint at a local community theatre, where the over-sixties used to yell at the actors if they couldn’t hear, I fancy myself as a bit of an old hand when it comes to dealing with the hard of hearing. I smile. ‘No!’ I bellow back. ‘I’m not going this year!’

He recoils and straightens his tie defensively. ‘You don’t have to shout!’ he booms. ‘I’m not deaf, you know!’

The whole dining room freezes, focusing its collective horror upon me.

‘Oh! I’m so sorry!’ I flounder. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you …’

‘What?’ He fiddles with his hearing aid. ‘Stop mumbling, girl! Filthy American accent! You people always slur your
words! What is it Churchill said, “A people divided by a common language!” Ha, ha, ha! Too right!’