The Last Weekend (11 page)

‘What took you so long?’ Em said. ‘Your tuna’s getting cold.’

She was angry with me, I could tell. I’d hoped the discussion would have moved on while I dawdled in the Gents, but obviously not.

‘So this bet,’ she said.

‘Ollie suggested it,’ I said.

‘It was you who gave me the idea,’ Ollie said.

‘I was embarrassed,’ I said. ‘People were looking. I had no choice.’

‘We shook hands on it.’

‘Then the dancing started,’ Daisy said. ‘I remember that bit.’

‘And we all got completely pissed and forgot about the bet.’

‘Until this year,’ Ollie said.

Until this year, when he discovered he had cancer and needed to prove to himself, by beating me, that he had some life in him still — something like that.

I kept my head down as I ate. The main thing was that Ollie was dying. I hadn’t the heart to deny him his bet.

‘But what exactly
was
the bet?’ Em said.

‘To compete at different sports and see who wins.’

‘Which sports?’

‘We left that open. The idea was best of three.’

‘A sort of triathlon,’ Ollie added.

Em looked at me sternly.

‘That’s typical of you, Ian,’ she said. Her face relaxed as she turned to Ollie and Daisy. ‘Ian used to have this squash partner called Chas. They played twice a week for three or four years. And Ian recorded every single result in a notebook.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘There’d have been no point. He always beat me.’

‘You used to pretend that
I
always beat you,’ Ollie said, ‘but it was pretty even.’

‘You were better than me at everything. Just look at our degrees.’

‘You spent all your time reading novels instead of law. But you still got a 2:1.’

‘Ollie’s right,’ Daisy said. ‘You sailed through without even trying.’

‘Ian tries at some things,’ Em said, third-personing me crossly. ‘He obviously wants to win this bet.’

‘We’re here to see old friends,’ I said. ‘The bet’s no big deal.’

‘A bit of fun, that’s all,’ Ollie said, seeing how tetchy Em had become.

‘The two of you are as bad as each other,’ Daisy said.

‘It’s just strange Ian never told me about it,’ Em said.

‘I’m sure there’s lots he hasn’t told you?’ Ollie said.

‘Really?’

‘I expect he hoped Ollie would have more sense than to hold him to it,’ Daisy said, saving us all from further embarrassment.

‘Of course you were there, too, weren’t you?’ Em said. ‘At the party.’

‘I was and I wasn’t,’ Daisy said.

More was than wasn’t. I could remember the dress she wore — light blue with big cream spots and a strap that kept slipping from her shoulder. You couldn’t miss her, among the dowdy Surrey snobs.

‘I spent half the night throwing up behind the marquee. Ollie’s mother was horrified. It’s why Ollie and I never married. He was going to announce our engagement that night but when he saw I was drunk he bottled it.’

‘The timing was wrong. My mother had only just met you.’

‘Long enough to disapprove of me.’

‘I did ask you to marry me afterwards. In Cyprus.’

‘Rhodes actually.’

‘I went down on my knees.’

‘It was too late. You missed your chance.’

‘You’re together, that’s what counts,’ Em said, mistaking their sparring match for a serious fight and practising her conflict-resolution skills.

‘And if you
had
married,’ I added, ‘you’d probably be divorced by now.’

‘So it’s not worth people marrying?’ Daisy said, setting me up.

‘It’s not essential.’

On cue, they reached for each other’s hands across the table.

‘That’s our little surprise,’ Daisy said.

‘We wanted to tell you in person.’

‘We’re getting married next month.’

I gulped my wine.
Married?
Daisy had always been against marriage. I could remember her saying how she and Ollie didn’t need rings to legitimise their love because they had made their vows to each other already, in private. Besides, marriage had unhappy associations for her — long nights kept awake as her parents feuded below.

I’d always respected Daisy for not marrying. Why marry now?

‘That’s wonderful news,’ Em said, her eyes watering. She’s sentimental like that.

‘Yes, congratulations,’ I said, with as much warmth as I could muster.

‘None of our friends can believe it,’ Daisy said. ‘They thought we were married already.’

I had a vision of Ollie and Daisy’s friends being summoned
two by two to hear the announcement. How far down the list did we come?

‘We’ve been together for nearly twenty-five years. So it’s a wedding and a silver wedding rolled into one.’

‘Just a registry office do,’ Daisy said.

‘With a party afterwards.’

‘To which you’ll be invited, of course.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Em said, chinking her glass with theirs.

‘Who’ll be best man?’ I said, as they chinked mine.

‘Search me,’ Daisy said. ‘Have you chosen someone, Ollie?’

‘I doubt I’ll bother,’ Ollie said. Though I tried not to react, I couldn’t help but flinch. ‘Unless you’re volunteering, Ian.’

‘You know I can’t make speeches,’ I said, making light of the snub.

Before they’d time to protest that I would be excellent, the perfect man for the job in fact, the waitress came to clear the plates.

‘We’re thinking mid-November,’ Ollie said, when she’d gone again. ‘We don’t want to leave it too long.’

I realised then what the wedding was about. He had proposed because he was dying. Daisy didn’t know as much, but he would have explained that there were legal and financial implications in the unlikely event of a spouse’s decease. And though in principle she was against marriage, he had talked her round.

None of us had room for crème caramel or apple crumble. When Daisy and Em disappeared to the Ladies, Ollie ordered a dessert wine instead. I examined the label curiously. It dated only from last year.

‘It’s the nearest I could get,’ he explained. ‘This year being the other momentous year in my life.’

‘Because of the wedding.’

‘If you like.’

I didn’t like but nor was there time to discuss it and anyway the subject had been ruled off-limits.

‘Not more drink,’ Daisy said, returning, but she didn’t refuse when Ollie filled her glass.

‘It’ll help you sleep,’ he said.

‘I need all the help I can get. I swear I heard chains clanking last night.’

‘That’s just Archie’s body jewellery,’ Ollie said, quickly adding, before discussion could switch to Archie, ‘or Mrs Banks trying to scare us off. My guess is that she and her brood have secretly been living there. That’s why she was so hostile when we arrived.’

‘I wish someone had been living there,’ Daisy said. ‘Did Ollie tell you that we found a newspaper lining the wardrobe that dates back to 1976? I don’t think the place has been occupied since.’

‘If the owner rents it out on the Internet, it must have been,’ I said.

‘When Ollie looked the other day he couldn’t find the website, could you, love?’

‘I expect it’s being updated,’ he said.

‘They should update the house while they’re at it,’ Daisy said. ‘It’s still 1976 in there. Or 1876. Even 1776. It’s freaky.’

The maître d’ and the waitress stood to attention by the till. It was past midnight by now, and the restaurant completely empty but for us.

‘Time we returned to our ghost,’ Ollie said. ‘I’ll get the bill.’

Despite my efforts, he refused to let me contribute. Which was typically generous, and a massive relief, but which also, as always, put me in his debt.

It seemed only fair for Em to sit in the front while I squashed up with Daisy. With the hood up to keep us warm, Daisy fell
asleep almost at once. And with her head resting chastely on my shoulder, I too slept through most of the journey. The one time I did wake — after Ollie had braked to avoid a muntjac deer — he and Em were arguing about professionalism: how close to clients should one get? Did you serve them better by keeping a distance? Was detachment a virtue or a sign of burnout? I often forget Ollie and Em have something in common: they work with people — mostly young men — who’ve fallen foul of the law.

‘I’ve learned to switch off,’ Ollie was saying. ‘I’ll be given a case, some terrible crime, a rape or murder, and spend weeks getting to know the victim or the accused. In court I give my heart and soul to them. But once the trial’s over, I’m gone, job done, I never think about them again. It’s the only way to survive without going mad. The same for you, Em. You can’t afford to get emotionally involved.’

Typical Ollie, I thought: Mr Stiff Upper Lip. It was only later, as we reached the farmhouse, that I realised what had prompted his monologue: Em must have told him of her encounter with the Lithuanian girl, Magda. I wondered if she had also mentioned the mad plan to take in Magda’s baby and the situation as regards us having a child of our own. Em was by nature discreet and knew that to talk freely would be to betray us — and humiliate me. But I’d seen Ollie work his magic on women before. And he had obviously cast a spell on Em, who just a few hours earlier had claimed to be furious with him but was now disclosing matters close to her heart. She always pretended to find Ollie ‘difficult'. But it’s well known that women find difficult men attractive. And Em
was
attracted to Ollie, earnestly though she denied it. Not that there had ever been any funny business between them, so far as I could tell. But Ollie had the power to make any woman false, even one as loyal as Em.

He and I were old friends. But if he was dying, he wouldn’t hesitate to worm confidences from a friend’s wife. He would probably not scruple to seduce her, either — had he not told me, just a few hours ago, that he had lost all sense of morality? ‘I’m evil,’ he’d joked. But what if he was serious? Could a man with nothing to lose be trusted? I don’t consider myself a jealous person. But there was something about Ollie that made me feel ugly. And though it was restful to sit there with Daisy’s head on my shoulder and the darkness flying by, I knew I had to watch him closely.

‘Nightcap?’ he said, back at the house.

‘Not for me,’ Em said, before heading upstairs.

‘Nor me,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ll clear the table then get to bed. Trust Archie to leave a mess.’

‘Ian?’

‘A quick one while I let Rufus out would be grand,’ I said.

I swung the French windows open and off he went, nosing over the grass towards the orchard. The sky was a navy ceiling, springing silver leaks. Ollie fetched two basket-weave chairs and we sat on the terrace in the cooling air.

‘So,’ Ollie said, clinking whisky glasses. ‘One—nil to you.’

‘What?’

‘Our bet. You’re ahead.’

‘If you say so.’

‘But tomorrow’s Round Two.’

‘What’s that consist of?’

‘Not sure yet. But I’m losing, so I get to choose.’

An owl hooted, like a fog warning. I felt exposed sitting there, at the edge of the unfrontiered night. Never the bravest of dogs, Rufus seemed nervous too, slinking back from the darkness to lick my hand.

We drank some more. It had been a long day and I felt
woozy. To be honest, I can’t recall which of us spoke next. But I could swear it was Ollie who took the initiative.

‘Of course a bet is pointless unless it’s for money.’

‘I wouldn’t say pointless.’

‘We always agreed it would be for money.’

‘Did we?’

‘We just didn’t stipulate the amount.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Fifty quid?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘A hundred?’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘What do you suggest, then?’

‘Let’s say five.’

‘Five sounds fine.’

We clinked glasses.

‘Grand,’ I said.

He paused, taken aback. I couldn’t see why.

‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘I know you like to gamble, but can you afford it?’

‘I’m not that poor, Ollie.’

‘No, of course, I wasn’t meaning to suggest …’