Nikki Gemmell’s Threesome: The Bride Stripped Bare, With the Body, I Take You (88 page)

A pause. Thinking of Cliff’s fury, Emma’s scorn.

‘Yes.’

Firmer.

‘Yes.’

Rain spits at the loch, Connie raises her face to a wild sky. She must get back, yes, resume her life, inform Mel of so much. She must hurry. The train, not the car this time. Trouble’s brewing, there’s news of riots, in the grim parts; a man shot dead by police in Tottenham; thank goodness she’s not part of it. But she must rush back. Expectation blazing under her skin. Firm with it now. To begin a fresh way, at last.

As she waits, poised, in the wings of her life. To burst forth.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semitransparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end

Catching sight of Mel from a distance at King’s Cross Station and getting a tremor in her bowels deep inside her, like the beginning signal of an orgasm, because she’s aching with want at the sight of him. Connie walks straight up to him and drinks him long on his lips.

‘I’m taking you with me,’ she says.

He drops his head, forehead to forehead, quiet.

‘If it’s what you want, ma’am. I’ve got nothing, you know that. Know what it means. I’ll have to work, wherever we are. For you. For us. But it’ll be a very different life.’

‘I’m ready. I’ll work, too. I want to. I don’t know quite what yet, but I will. I need it. And hey, mister, you’ve got more than most men. You’ve got tenderness. That’s all I need now. For the rest of my life.’

Connie looks at Mel, holds his hand to her belly, enfolds it with both of hers, three palms firm.

‘There’s a baby in here.’

Mel laughs, shakes his head. Looks at her: ‘No’; she nods yes. Singing with it, singing inside; he bends and kisses the womb, with reverence.

‘Where shall we go, little one?’ he whispers. ‘Where on earth?’

Connie shrugs, Mel laughs. Somewhere wild, fresh, that’s all she knows. A new start. Far, far away from all this. From the people who are like frail little boats tossing unanchored in their restless seas, all of them. To give this little one a fresh start. Spring cleaning her own life, Mel’s life, leaving everything behind, she doesn’t need much, just a backpack and a few books. Walk-in wardrobes for every season? Excuse me? There’ll be no need of six-inch heels and Tibetan lamb gilets any more, in a new existence, wherever it may be. Connie has begun with boldness: informed Cliff that no, she won’t be making it to America and the yacht, that he must enjoy this time with his family by himself. She needs the break. They both do. Free! Free! No longer having to withstand the onslaught of his mother and his sisters who can never quite relinquish the notion that she’s in it for the money, even now, post accident; Connie can always sense it. Free of the lot of it.

But how terrifying it seems: to contemplate an evacuation from one’s entire life, its routines and exhaustions and cemented paths. How terrifying and simple and exhilarating all at once.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart

Emma has told her father about Mel, predictably, as soon as Connie left. He is coming down to London at once; through a rioting country, yes, pronto, because this needs sorting out. He had assumed his Neesie was talking about a man of means, but he is just a simple gardener. He has to meet the chap, talk with both of them. How could this man take care of his princess? His daughter’s life so reduced and a baby coming, no, no, this will not do at all; he needs to fix it, fast.

Connie makes the booking. The Ledbury. A short walk. Two Michelin stars, rosy parquet, tall windows, thick curtains, smooth quiet. Neither man is keen, Mel less so.

Both greet each other warily and dive into stiff drinks. Small talk about life and work as the tasting menu is brought out, neither man knowing what such a thing is and Connie serving to them both, explaining, then sitting back with the withdrawn, sated stillness of the pregnant. But … an unfurling, from both of them. The wonder of that. Despite everything, she is witnessing the two most important men in her life bonding over their shared discombobulation, and laughing inwardly at it – what’s a boudin, what’s a velouté, teal, can’t these things be in English for once? I say, give me a nice little Sunday roast any day. Pie and chips, thanks. Pickled eggs! Oooh, ploughman’s lunch! Steak and ale! Mash! What does this all mean, Connie, come on, help us out. Ceviche. Kohlrabi. Kaffir lime. Explain, Neesie, drag us into this brave new world. Neesie, why do you call her that? Her nickname from when she was a baby, God knows why, Conneeee, Neesie, something like that. Waiter! And more drinks are ordered for them both.

‘So. My daughter.’ The elder man is suddenly cutting to the chase over his boudin of teal and grey partridge.

‘Your daughter. Yes, sir. A fine lass.’

‘And she’s pregnant with your child.’

‘Indeed. I have that honour, I do, yes.’

Connie can sense it: her father softening, despite himself, to the natural grace of this man, so smart in his suit, and decent, unshowy, with it; his simple goodness leaking from him and her father’s radar, honed over a lifetime of diplomacy, picking it up.

‘Honour!’ Her father looks at Mel, considering where to take this. Another sip. He’s drinking a lot. Breaths held. Finally, a chuckle. ‘So, how was it? She’s a fine lass. Good, my boy? Eh?’

‘Oh, yes. The best.’

‘And with a woman who loves it, too – what a joy, what a treat. I can see it in Connie’s flush, she’s all shined up, isn’t she, with happiness. The sheer joy of it.’ He caresses her cheek. ‘The happiest I’ve seen her in … what?’ He’s stuck, the drink’s got to him at last and it takes a lot to get him to this point. ‘Well done, lad, well done,’ clapping Mel on the back. ‘It’s all a parent ever wants for their child … happiness. Now. To … to business.’ Another sip. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Well, you’ve got a good twenty, thirty years left in you then. Excellent, good, excellent. You’ve got skills, young man. You’ll be fine, won’t you, you’ll get a job anywhere.’

‘That I will. I’ve got the hard work in me if nothing else.’

‘Good, good. And where will you two lovebirds be nesting?’

They look at each other, don’t know.

Banging, suddenly, outside, then banging at the windows. The waiters yelling at the diners to get away from the glass, what, what’s going on? Screams and shouts, they have to move to the restaurant’s inner wall but it’s too late – men and women in white are suddenly trying to barricade the front door with chairs. Mel stands, goes to help, what’s going on? Connie’s beating heart as she cups her belly, twisting tight.

Suddenly a loud smash, a tsunami of glass as the door is broken through and in scatter, what, fifteen, twenty men in hoodies and stockings, mostly black, wielding baseball bats, wine bottles, machetes, knives. ‘Get down, get down!’ they yell, throwing things about: plates, glasses, tables, trolleys, wanting to destroy the lot. Instinctively all the diners huddle to the floor. Mel rushes back to them both, the clientele now all under tables, racing hearts, scrambling to hide wallets, passports, watches and the rioters methodically working the room as if they’ve done this many times before, demanding jewellery, mobile phones, cash.

A young kid comes up to the three of them, about fourteen at the most, a smattering of down on his upper lip and he jerks up Connie’s hand and rips off her vintage Rolex, grabs at her Wallis Simpson ring. ‘Off, off!’ he yells and Connie tries, can’t. Mel attempts to intervene, a machete menaces, he flinches back. The rioter grabs Connie’s hand and wrenches it, she screams with the vast pain, other kids behind him hold her men back with machetes, knives, and then the kitchen staff are flooding up with brooms, rolling pins, frying baskets but it’s too late, there are not enough of them, they’re overwhelmed. ‘Where are the police?’ ‘Police!’ People yell but they are gone, gone, to everywhere else where London’s burning, but here? What? Who would have thought? In this beautiful, gracious room of two-hundred-a-head meals, the real world intruding, no, surely not. Impossible. But yes.

And then they’ve fled, just like that, the whole streamlined gaggle of them; off to Westbourne Grove, Portobello, who knows. Everyone emerges, shaking, taking out mobile phones and ringing loved ones and checking news and texting, trying to get cabs to get far far away from this place but no cabs will come. Their waiter with the lovely, wide Antipodean smile offers the three of them champagne and whisky to calm nerves, despite being robbed himself. ‘I’ll take the lot thanks,’ says Connie’s dad, grabbing two glasses and downing both.

‘Onya, mate. You deserve it.’

Then the rumours circulate, the rioters are returning and all the diners are ushered downstairs now, to the toilets, quick. ‘Lock yourselves in,’ flurry the staff and obediently everyone splits along gender lines so Connie is separated. ‘My father, my boyfriend,’ she gasps. ‘You’ll be right, mate,’ says the waiter with the wide smile as he ushers her further in.

Then a few minutes later the staff are back, ushering everyone out, to the wine cellar, a safer bet. Connie finds her men, presses close; ‘She’ll be right,’ says a kitchen hand in his slow, calm, Australian drawl, ‘I’m a boxing kangaroo, I’ll look after you.’

And then they are safe, the police arrive, finally, and the good people of Notting Hill spill out, trembling, texting and calling afresh, crying, shaking their heads in disbelief, laughing with relief. Here? In dear old Ledbury Road, with Anya Hindmarch, Emma Hope and Brora within spitting distance? No, too close for comfort, far too close; the protective wall of affluence that has always protected them has been most savagely, impertinently breached. I say, the shock of it! Connie can’t stop shaking, clutching her belly and rubbing it, begging her tiny, precious hoverer to be still, quiet, safe. Oh, what a traumatic jolt for such a little one, her blood is still racing, she wants out.

Mel puts his arm around her, sensing it. ‘You OK?’

She nods, biting her lip. Mel puts his arm around her father, too. ‘Now where were we before we were most rudely interrupted …’ He shakes his head, looking around at all the milling people, the sirens, the police kitted out in their riot gear. ‘Something about nesting, wasn’t it?’

‘As far away as possible, please.’ Connie’s voice wavers as she looks across at her kitchen hand, his easy smile, his sunny difference. He catches her eye and raises a hand in relief.

‘Australia, perhaps. Yes.’

It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly

Clifford finally knows. Connie doesn’t want to go near him, wants to stay exiled in Scotland, in Cornwall, but she must, he demands it; she is his wife. They are in the morning parlour with its emerald silk Earlham wallpaper by de Gournay which Connie swooned over when it was presented to her and now it leaves her dead, cold, as does this entire house. Her husband is like a hysterical child in it now, in this moment of realization, a mummy wrapped up in its bandages, come to life and flailing with it.