That Man Simon (6 page)

She nodded, and slipped quickly out of the car.

He blew her a kiss through the window. 'Don’t take too long, darling. Good night.’

Jenny thought of nothing else for several days, but the more she thought, the more uncertain she became. Now it was she who scarcely tasted the food she ate, and who was still wide awake long after midnight.

One morning, Fenella telephoned. ‘We’re having a little buffet party this evening. Would you like to come?’ she asked.

Jenny hesitated before accepting. Fenella’s mother was the self-appointed leader of Farthing Green ‘society’

- if such a term could be applied to the small clique of women who took turns in holding coffee mornings, bridge teas and cocktail parties; and who vied with each other in acquiring the latest status symbols. Jenny had been to a score of Mrs. Waring’s parties, and had never much enjoyed herself at them. But at least the food was always good, and it would be a chance to wear a blue dress she had made in January but never yet worn.

She said, ‘Yes, I would like to come. Thank you, Fenella.

What time?’

‘Seven-ish. Don’t bother to dress up. It will be very informal. See you this evening, then.’

As Fenella rang off, Jenny smiled to herself. ‘Very informal’ meant that Mrs. Waring and her daughter would be dressed up to the nines, but did not expect their guests to compete with them.

After lunch she washed her hair and dried it out of doors in the April sun. This was the time of year she loved best of all, when everything was beginning to come to life again, and soon it would be warm enough to have tea in the garden, and to sleep with the windows flung wide, and to jump out of bed in the morning with pleasure instead of reluctance.

The clock on the church tower had just struck seven when she set out for the Warings’ Tudor-style house at the other end of the village. She was posting some letters for her grandfather in the box at the corner of the green when a motor horn tooted. She glanced over her shoulder and saw James climbing out of his car outside the surgery.

He came across the grass, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his shirt open at the neck. As he approached, Jenny felt a small knot of tension tightening inside her.

‘All dressed up, I see. Where are you off to?’ he asked, eyeing her new dress. It was still very warm, and she was carrying the white wool coat which she would need for coming home.

‘The Warings are having a party. I thought you and your mother might be there,’ she said, trying to sound at ease, but knowing that her colour had risen.

‘They did invite us, but Mother hasn’t been too fit this week, and as you see I’m only just knocking off. I might have come along if it hadn’t been a rather wearing day. But by the time I’ve cleaned up the party will be half over. So I think I’ll have a bath and a meal and an early night.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be missing much. I’m sorry your mother isn’t well. I’ve been busy decorating or I would have popped in to see her. Perhaps I’ll look in tomorrow,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes, do - she’s always glad to see you.’ James studied his dusty shoes, and Jenny tried vainly to think of something to say. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you from the party. Have a good time,’ he said, at length.

When she reached Red Gables, there were already several cars parked in the road outside, and on the gravelled sweep in front of the house. The pseudo-Elizabethan door was opened by Elsie Bagley, the daily help. It was Elsie who was responsible for the entire village knowing that, in spite of outward appearances, the Warings did not get on. Mrs.

Waring would have had a fit if she had realized that every time she and her husband had a row, Elsie lost no time in imparting the details of the dispute to anyone who cared to listen.

‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Jenny. Coats in Mrs. W.’s bedroom.

You know the way, don’t you?’ She jerked a thumb at the staircase. Then, lowering her voice, ‘Miss Fenella’s not down yet. She’s doing herself up special tonight. Got the new boy-friend coming, you see,’ she explained, with a smirk.

Jenny left her white coat in the ornate oyster and gold bedroom at the front of the house, and then crossed the close-carpeted landing to tap on the door of Fenella’s room.

Bidden to enter, she found the other girl sitting at her dressing-table, wearing only a bra and tights. She was putting on eye make-up.

‘I shan’t be long,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Has everyone arrived?’

‘No, only the first half-dozen, I think. How many people are coming?’ Jenny sat down on the end of the bed, admiring Fenella’s flawless golden back.

Like most brunettes, she had an olive skin and, with the aid of a sun-lamp, cultivated a year-round tan so that she looked always as if she had recently returned from a skiing holiday or a cruise.

‘About thirty, but mostly Mummy’s cronies.’ Having finished her eyes, Fenella sprayed herself with scent. ‘That’s a nice little dress. One of your home-mades?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I think it’s quite successful, considering it cost me only three pounds,’ said Jenny equably. ‘What are you wearing?’

Fenella moved to her wardrobe and took out a tunic-and-trouser suit of silver crochet. ‘This.’

When she put it on, Jenny said sincerely, ‘It’s lovely.’

She wished she had the confidence to wear the dashing extremes of fashion.

As they went downstairs, the doorbell chimed. Fenella opened it, and greeted the group of guests arriving at the same time. Jenny, glancing through the hall window, was shaken to see Simon Gilchrist strolling up the drive. How had he come to be invited? she wondered in consternation.

Then she remembered Elsie’s reference to ‘the new boy-friend’, and something her grandmother had said about it not being long before he was drawn into the Warings’

social net.

Jenny did not see Fenella greet him because, before he reached the door, she retreated to the lounge and joined in a conversation with two of her grandfather’s parishioners.

But she did see Fenella bring him into the room and present him to her parents, and it was clear from her sparkling manner that she was out to make a conquest.

The Warings’ lounge always reminded Jenny of a display in the window of the county town’s most expensive furniture store. It was opulently appointed with brocaded sofas and wing chairs, a wall-to-wall pale grey Wilton overlaid with Persian rugs, and expensive silk- shaded table lamps. But it had a curiously lifeless air, perhaps because all the furnishings had been selected in accordance with Mrs.

Waring’s conception of gracious living, rather than to give comfort and visual pleasure.

The reproduction Canalettos on the walls were there to demonstrate good taste, not because their owners delighted in scenes of old Venice. If Mr. Waring had smoked a pipe, he would never have been permitted to keep a collection of them in a pewter pint pot on the table by his favourite chair, as the Rector did. No knitting was ever tucked under the Warings’ cushions, no books or newspapers left lying about. The current issues of the glossy magazines were arranged on a side table beside a cut glass vase containing a stylized arrangement of flowers. But otherwise the lounge was as impersonal as part of a suite in an expensive hotel.

With thirty people congregated in it - most of them smoking cigarettes and becoming increasingly animated as Elsie circulated with trays of drinks - the room soon became hot and stuffy. Jenny found her head beginning to ache, and it was difficult to concentrate on small talk when part of her mind was on James. Also, she was trying to keep out of the sight of Simon Gilchrist.

Luckily this was not too difficult because, as he was half a head taller than any of the other men present, it was easy to keep a wary eye on him, and to move discreetly away if he seemed to be heading in her direction.

The buffet supper was laid out in the dining-room across the hall. Jenny went in with the owner of the local garage and his wife. Then, as people crowded round the table, she became separated from them, and seized the opportunity to slip through the heavy velvet curtains and unlatch the glass door which led to a small conservatory.

It was probably very impolite, she thought guiltily. But no one was likely to miss her, and she felt she had to get away from the babble of voices for ten minutes.

The spring moon, shining through the glass roof, pro-vided ample light in which to eat the savouries she had chosen. Relaxing in a wicker chair, she bit into a crisp vol-au-vent filled with some delicious creamy shrimp mixture.

But she had not been in her retreat for more than a few minutes when the curtains parted, giving a momentary glimpse of the crowded dining-room, and someone else stepped into the conservatory.

‘Good evening. May I join you, or did you come out here because you’re feeling anti-social?’ asked Simon Gilchrist, when he had closed the glass door behind him.

‘I was too hot,’ said Jenny stiffly.

‘Yes, it is very close in there.’ He sat down in the chair next to hers and crossed his long legs. He had brought a drink with him, but no food.

Resenting his intrusion, and wondering why he had followed her - he must have seen her slipping between the curtains, and deliberately come after her - Jenny said, ‘Have you known Fenella long?’

She knew that he had not, and she was not in the least interested in how they had met, but it was the first remark that came into her head.

‘I met her a few days ago in the Post Office. She seemed to know who I was, and very kindly invited me here to meet some of the other residents,’ he explained.

‘Then shouldn’t you be circulating?’ Jenny suggested coolly.

‘I believe I’ve already met everyone.’ Then, a note of laughter in his voice, ‘Still up in arms, Jenny Firebrand?

What a pity. I was about to compliment you on that charming dress you’re wearing.’

His casual use of her first name - the diminutive form, moreover! - made Jenny furious. ‘You overwhelm me, Mr.

Gilchrist,’ she said, with chilly emphasis.

He laughed aloud at that. ‘Oh, come now, am I really such an ogre? Consider how much worse the situation could be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the site had been bought by a firm of speculative builders, they would probably have razed the whole area and erected half a dozen of the worst type of boxy bungalow. Then you would have had cause for complaint.’

‘It would never have been allowed,’ she retorted with conviction.

‘On the contrary, I happen to know that such a project was actually mooted. It didn’t come to anything because of certain technical snags, but I can assure you it could have happened. So don’t you think it would be sensible to reconcile yourself to the much lesser evil of my advent?’

‘Does my adverse opinion upset you?’ she asked him sweetly.

‘Not unduly. In my profession, uninformed prejudice is an occupational hazard, although one doesn’t normally encounter extreme conservatism amongst the young. It’s usually older people who set their faces against anything unfamiliar.’

Jenny said crisply, ‘It’s not a question of being conservative. I simply don’t think this village is a suitable place for an ultra-modern house. Old and new don’t mix.’

‘That’s a remarkably illogical argument. The whole village is an architectural hotchpotch. The church is sixteenth-century, the houses round the green are mainly Georgian, and the Rectory is typically Victorian. You seem to approve of the existing medley. Why exclude a twentieth-century element?’

Before she could answer, the door opened again and Fenella appeared.

‘Oh, here you are, Simon. I couldn’t think where you’d got to.’ She did not add, ‘What on earth are you doing out here with Jenny?’ but it was what she was thinking, Jenny felt sure.

Simon rose to his feet, but Fenella said, ‘Don’t get up. I’ll join you. I suppose I shouldn’t say so, but after living in London, I find Mummy’s parties rather trying. Everyone is so madly parochial here. They think Farthing Green is the centre of the universe. What have you two been talking about? Not selective weed killers, I trust?’

‘A local scandal,’ he told her.

‘How fascinating. Which one?’

‘The Gilchrists’ House one. Miss Shannon is convinced that I am perpetrating a blot on the landscape.’

‘Really? I think it sounds fabulous. I do hope I’m at home when you give your house-warming party. But my agent rang up this morning about a new TV series which is starting in the autumn. So I may be tied up in London.’

Fenella leaned back in her chair, crystal ear-drops glinting against her throat, the silver suit accentuating the graceful slenderness of her figure. By moonlight she looked so glamorous that Jenny thought suddenly that they might have underestimated her. Perhaps she was destined for stardom.

‘When do you expect your house to be ready for occupation, Simon?’ asked Fenella.

‘Before the end of the summer. If it were a conventional structure, it would probably not be habitable until late October,’ he replied. ‘But the design, and the fact that I’m using direct labour, should speed matters up considerably.’

This led to a discussion of holidays. Fenella and her parents always went abroad. So, it seemed, did Simon Gilchrist. For a time, therefore, Jenny was excluded from the conversation - which, perhaps, was why Fenella had steered the talk to this topic.