Made in Heaven (22 page)

‘My mother told me the other day that Charlotte's first husband used to work at my bank,' Adrian was saying. ‘Years and years ago, but it's still a bit of a coincidence.'

‘He was a criminal. Did your mother tell you that?'

‘She certainly didn't! You're not serious, are you? A criminal?' Adrian leaned forward, obviously fascinated.

‘Oh, yes.' Zannah cut into her salmon and took a mouthful. When she'd swallowed it, she said, ‘He was an embezzler or fraudster of some kind. I don't know all the details, but Charlotte served six months in prison. She was innocent, of course, but Nigel Katchen managed to implicate her and it took her ages to clear her name. She'd signed some papers, you see. She maintained he tricked her into it, but ignorance wasn't a defence.'

‘What happened to him? To Nigel Katchen?'

‘He killed himself before he could be brought to trial. That was seen as an admission of guilt. The jury didn't believe that Charlotte knew nothing of the scam. The fact that she used to be an accountant was proof, according to the prosecution, that she must have known what her own husband was up to.'

‘Bloody hell, Zannah. You might have mentioned it.'

Zannah laughed. ‘Why? It's not a big deal. I told you: Charlotte was innocent. It's been proved. There was an appeal and she was cleared of any wrongdoing. Nothing to make a fuss about. And it all happened ages ago anyway, in 1959.'

‘What if she wasn't innocent, though? Are you a hundred per cent sure? And, anyway, aren't you even the least bit ashamed? I dunno. Something.'

‘I
am
a hundred per cent sure. She was innocent. Charlotte isn't a criminal. God, Adrian, you've met her. Does she look like a criminal mastermind?'

Adrian leaned over, took Zannah's hand and squeezed it. ‘Whatever. She's not a child murderer or anything, obviously. But you might have told me before.'

‘I've told you now. I wasn't trying to keep it from you. We just take it for granted in the family.'

‘I'll have to tell my mother,' said Adrian. He smiled. ‘She'll have a fit, but she's got to know, right? And Doc, of course.'

‘Okay, you tell them. I don't mind.'

‘D'you want a pudding?' Adrian asked, relieved to change the subject.

‘No, thanks,' said Zannah. ‘Let's go home.'

As they left La Chaumière, she examined her mood. For almost the first time since they met, Zannah felt irritated by some of the things Adrian had said tonight. How many kisses and caresses would it take to banish that feeling? He'd be on his way to his own flat soon. They almost never spent the night together during the week because he had to get up very early for work. Did other brides feel like this? Bridal magazines spoke of stress and fallings-out over arrangements. Was that a kind of code for wanting to give your beloved a bloody good kick? Zannah squeezed Adrian's hand as they walked home, hoping to restore her own good humour. She was rewarded with a squeeze back and a tentative smile. Okay, she thought. That's a start.

‘I don't know how you can be so calm, darling.' Maureen took a sip of her gin and tonic and sighed. ‘London's becoming impossible. You cannot believe how long I spent on the phone yesterday, just making sure Adrian and Zannah were all right. Can you believe it? It's only two weeks since the last attack. What'll become of us, if we can't even go about normally on public transport? Honestly, Graham, you didn't see it all. It was like something out of one of those terrible movies where everyone's running around, but then you stopped and thought and it's London. I really feel so worried about Adrian living there now.'

‘The police have been outstanding. You're not going to give comfort to those bastard terrorists, are you? Having Adrian run away to live somewhere else?'

‘Well, put like that … I suppose not. But still. It's very worrying.'

‘That's true. Not the same world as it used to be.'

‘I shouldn't think we can do much about it so we've just got to go on, I suppose. So I'm going to change the subject. I've been worrying about something else as well. Not as bad as terrorists obviously, but still, it's been on my mind. And you don't have to sigh like that. You can listen.'

Maureen leaned back against the blood-red velvet cushions of the enormously expensive sofa that was the
main feature of the living room. ‘I know you're going to say I'm mad, but I'm concerned about this Charlotte Parrish thing. What I think is: there's no smoke without fire. And what kind of a family has a jailbird in it? What if our friends find out? It's disgraceful.'

‘Anyone would think,' said Graham, ‘that she was Myra Hindley!'

‘Don't be ridiculous. You know I'm not saying anything of the sort. Of course not. It's just strange, don't you think, that no one's mentioned it before? As though they knew it was a sort of disgrace.'

‘It's not a disgrace. Adrian said Zannah didn't think it was important. They've forgotten all about it, so why don't you?'

‘What if it should come out? What if some of our guests discover … '

‘Oh, for God's sake, Maureen, shut up about it, will you? I'm bored with the whole subject. Find something else to fret about, why don't you?'

He went back to reading his newspaper, in that special way he had which made sure you knew how angry he was. He was maddening sometimes, but she wasn't ready to give up quite yet. She said, ‘You can hide behind your paper as much as you like but you have to admit, no one else we know has ever been within a mile of a jail and now suddenly, we're going to have a wedding in a house belonging to an ex-con. And frequented by others, too. She met both those friends of hers while she was inside, apparently. I know that Edie was a nurse and the other one … What's her name? Val … Well, her husband was a complete bastard it seems, even though he was middle-class … '

‘There are middle-class wife-beaters, Maureen.'

‘But what are people going to say?'

‘I don't believe this! Listen to yourself! I've told you, no one else'll know unless you tell them. Now, just let me finish the paper.'

Maureen sniffed and turned her attention to the latest issue of
Bridal Bouquet
. She began to read a fascinating article about appropriate gifts for bridesmaids. Suddenly she was aware of Graham's newspaper being flung aside as he got up from his armchair. ‘What's the matter, darling?'

‘It's … it's Joss Gratrix. She's on the shortlist for a poetry prize. Her book is, I mean.'

‘Oh, God, I knew that! I forgot to tell you … she found out when I was at Zannah's the other day. The Madrigal Prize. There! I've even remembered what it's called.'

‘You forgot to tell me? You've known for all this time and not told me? That beggars belief.' He sat down again and glared at Maureen.

‘Why are you making such a fuss about it? Did you even know she wrote poetry? Mind you, it figures. I do think there's something a bit, well, eccentric about her.'

Graham stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Maureen sighed. What on earth was the matter with him? He was behaving most oddly. She picked up her magazine again and went back to reading about the competing claims of charm bracelets versus pendants as gifts from the bridegroom. Graham would get over it. He always did. He'd probably come in in a few minutes and apologize. Quite right too. Maureen felt she deserved an apology. She'd done nothing wrong and he'd flown off the handle.

*

Gray went to his study and turned on his computer. Bloody Maureen. How could she not have told him? Her stupid head was too filled up with guff about Charlotte having a criminal record to remember something she must have known he'd be interested in. She knew he wrote poetry. This was a demonstration, as if he needed one, of how much store she set by it. He knew Lydia's – Joss's – postal address now. Maureen had put it into
the big address book that she kept in her desk and he'd copied it into his Palm Pilot. There were nights when he put a map of the area up on the screen and tried to imagine what her street looked like. Now, he stared at the bright rectangle in front of him and imagined how happy this news would have made Lydia: how happy it made him vicariously. He'd known her book was to be called
The Shipwreck Café
. He knew the poem of the same title by heart.
A sepia ocean washes into tea cups/moves in the curtains,/howls itself silent on the painted walls
.

Closing his eyes, he recalled how she'd looked that day, sitting against the background of those horrible, fascinating pictures. A white blouse embroidered with white silk flowers. Loose blue trousers. Flat black shoes. No jewellery, her hair falling over her collar in dark waves. He remembered how much he'd wanted to touch it. Her hand, lying on the tablecloth. He remembered her mouth, most of all. How she smiled. How she tasted, later on, when they'd kissed.

He shook his head to clear it, and found
The Shipwreck Café
on Amazon. There it was. An arty cover: a collage showing rose-patterned teacups and bits of wrecked ship. Maybe the publishers had got permission to use one of the actual photographs. Publication date 7 September. He pre-ordered the book, then moved to a florist's site, where he concentrated on the images of bouquets. Thank God for the Internet. There was a bewildering array of choice. What should he send? In the end, he opted for two dozen hand-tied roses. Red? A symbol of love but a cliché. White? Too bridal. In the end, he settled for a kind of dark bronze: darker than peach, browner than red. In the picture, they looked amazing, on fire. He hoped the real flowers would be even half as lovely. He stared at the box marked ‘Message'. He could send a few words and sign Maureen and Graham. That would be quite natural. Just politeness, really, between
in-laws. No, he had a better idea. He left the message space blank. Lydia would know he was the only person who wouldn't say a word. Who wouldn't even give his name. Then he ordered a potted plant: a blue hydrangea, and wrote:
To Joss, with many congratulations on your shortlisting from Maureen and Graham Ashton
. He felt quite pleased with himself at this small trick: hydrangea as decoy.

Before he turned off the laptop, he put the words ‘Fairford Hall' into Google. What had prompted him to do that? He had no idea. He clicked the link to
This year's programme
and scrolled down. He sat up straight and read again the words that had leaped out of the page at him:
18-23rd September. Poetry: Starting Out. Tutors: Lydia Quentin and Russell Blythe. Guest poet: Sheila Crawford
.

His heart, he noticed, was beating very fast, and he took a deep breath. He could go on the course. He could take a holiday. There was time to square it with the hospital. He could just turn up at Fairford. Lydia couldn't do anything about it. Once she'd realized he was there, as a paying student, it would be too late. She'd never leave and let down the other students, the other tutor, the Fairford Foundation. They'd have five whole days together. Four nights. He'd phone tomorrow and book a place. Should he say something in advance? Was it tricking her to do something like this? Perhaps it was, but she must, she
must
be happy to see him, if he was there. Best to say nothing in advance, though … she might pull out if she knew he'd signed up.

When he appeared in the living room again, he was smiling.

‘Well, I'm very glad you seem to be in a better mood. I don't know what got into you before,' said Maureen, who was surrounded by glossy magazines.

‘I've just sent Joss' – oh, how easily and casually he said her name! – ‘a potted hydrangea from us both.'

‘Why on earth did you do that?'

‘To congratulate her on her shortlisting. It's quite an achievement.'

Maureen said nothing for a moment. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘A bit over the top, don't you think? She hasn't won anything yet.'

Gray couldn't think of a word to say that wasn't downright offensive so he picked up his newspaper again and hid behind it.

‘God, you're sulky these days. I can't imagine what's got into you,' said Maureen. He ignored her and went on ignoring her till at last she left the room, sighing ostentatiously. The prospect of a visit to Fairford Hall glittered in the future, in the way that birthdays had when he was a boy.

Gray had grown up on his own in an adult world. He hardly ever thought about his early childhood in the way that was fashionable now, but when he did, he recalled his parents as kind and somewhat distant. He'd gone to boarding school at an early age, and various nannies were more vivid in his mind than what he remembered of his mother or father. That was another thing he and Lydia had in common: the early death of their parents. He'd been sent to live with his grandfather, taken out of one school and sent to another and he sometimes wondered what would have become of him if he hadn't been a child who liked school.

He'd been clever and reasonably good at sport. He'd made friends. He'd learned to hide his deepest feelings and hadn't even noticed that he'd been doing so till he met Maureen. It was thanks to her that he ‘unwound', as she put it. She used to accuse him, in the early days, of being ‘stiff' and ‘too quiet by half'. It had been a bit of a shock to find, at medical school, that girls considered him attractive, and marrying Maureen had allowed him to form a better opinion of himself. After thirty years with her, he reckoned he could describe
himself truthfully as confident, but the lonely and rather quiet child was still there somewhere. It was the part of him, he sometimes thought, that produced the poetry; an aspect of his character that neither his wife nor his colleagues knew about.

He would see Lydia at Fairford. He felt heroic and also reckless, having decided on this course of action. It made him feel as though he were properly alive. If Maureen wasn't around, he thought, I'd stand up and whoop and punch the air.