Your Roots Are Showing (12 page)

James’s dad considered this remark for a moment, his head on one side. “Not a hotel in the usual sense,” he said eventually. “A venue for corporate entertainment. Conferences, conventions, retreats, powwows, pat-on-the-back ceremonies — that sort of thing. Top-quality accommodation — four-poster beds, ball-and- claw bathtubs, eccentric plumbing, smokey chimneys, French chef, butler service, and so on.”

“I see,” said Lizzie.

“We strive to reproduce the sensation of being a guest at Blandings Castle,” he explained airily. “P. G. Wodehouse’s Blandings, obviously. That’s one side of the operation. The other side is much more mundane. We flog gym and spa memberships to the locals so they can use the indoor pool and treadmills, etcetera.”

“This pool?” Lizzie asked, gesturing through an archway of the conservatory to a long room in which you could see a flash of blue water.

“Good God, no. We do our best to keep the punters out of our private quarters. There’s another pool in the East Wing. Olympic-sized. Stiff with chlorine because the old buggers who seem to constitute most of our membership are fairly uniformly afflicted with urinary incontinence.”

She gave a shocked snort of laughter.

“And — you’re in charge of all that?” she asked when she’d recovered herself.

“Good grief, of course not. When would I play golf? I have an excellent manager who works himself to the bone because he gets a cut of the profits. I just keep an eye on the books and come up with the occasional idea,” he said modestly. “Well, must be trickling on now, my dear. I’m — ah — working the room, as they say in Los Angeles.”

She watched him walk away, a tall and elegant figure in a rakishly cut sports jacket and what Lizzie believed was known as a cravat. He’d been so charming, yet Lizzie had a distinct sense that in his own way he was as formidable as his icy wife.

Then James returned bearing strawberries and champagne. He held up one luscious red berry between finger and thumb. “The humble English strawberry,” he said musingly. “A miracle in its own right. Can you face another one after yesterday?” She could, of course, and opened her mouth like a little bird so that he could place the berry between her lips. The tips of his fingers brushed warm against the soft flesh of her mouth, and she shivered.

Yes, it was a wonderful party.

The only regrettable thing about the evening was the swimming.

Uber-hostess Lady Evelyn had supplied spare swimsuits in a range of sizes. And by the time the invitation went out to take to the water, Lizzie and Tessa had forgotten why they’d ever had reservations about swimming in the first place.

The pool was in a flower-filled extension of the conservatory, with fat, naked cherubs peering down from massive oil paintings on all the walls. The cherubs were saved from vulgarity only by being very, very old.

In the late-summer’s evening, with soft sunshine streaming through the glass roof and walls, and diamonds of light bulging and undulating in the blue depths, Lizzie and Tessa couldn’t imagine anything more delicious than diving into the silky water.

So they did, both of them. Entirely forgetting about Lizzie’s farmer’s tan (neck, chest and forearms only), not giving a moment’s thought to the sock-high tan on Tessa’s right leg and her strangely brown feet.

At the time, they both wondered why a couple of people were sniggering at them. And Lizzie did intercept a puzzled glance between James and his old school mate, who was still squiring Tessa. But, with several martinis under her belt and the bubble of bliss still floating in her chest, Lizzie wasn’t going to sweat the small stuff.

After the swim she couldn’t find her black pants anywhere. For a while she had to skulk around in a towel — a very low point indeed. Then Lady Evelyn called for the attention of her guests and asked in a carrying voice, “I have a pair of black pants here, black flare trousers from — let’s see — BHS, yes, from British Home Stores, so if you happen to have lost them, would you please come and claim them now.”

Apparently they’d been found draped over a potted palm. Tessa opined that one of the horsey girls in pastel had done the deed to make Lizzie look like “a right charley” and scare off James.

James didn’t seem to be scared off.

But later, as he drove them to Moreton in Marsh (it turned out he was almost sober) to catch the train back to London, he said one or two things that both of them would remember the next day in toe-curling mortification.

“Interesting body art you girls were wearing tonight.”

“Hmm?” Tessa replied sleepily.

“The streaky coffee-colored markings. Is that some kind of new trend?”

“Sorry?” It was Lizzie’s turn to bear the burden of the conversation.

Both girls gazed at him with woozy incomprehension. Then the penny dropped.

“Yes, it’s a
brand
new trend, very cutting edge,” Tessa said quickly.

“All the rage in . . . New York,” Lizzie added.

They drove along in silence for a while.

After a mile or so, James sniffed a couple of times. “Odd smell in here,” he said. “Can you smell it? Perfumey at first, but then it sort of gets you at the back of the throat. Come to think of it, I’ve been noticing it all night.” Suddenly he clouted himself on the side of the head. “Oh God, it’s not your perfume, is it, Lizzie? Now I’ve put my foot in it. Is it one of those pheromone scents that are supposed to be irresistible to the opposite sex? I have to say I don’t think it really works. It’s a bit . . . off-putting, as a matter of fact. Not that I’m put off,” he added hastily. “But then I have a strong stomach. Known for it.”

Of course, he was talking about the peculiar smell of the sunless tanning lotion, apparently still lingering under the Chanel No. 5. Embarrassing, yes, but at least they now knew why James’s mother nipped in her nostrils every time she came near them.

It was a miracle, really, that James called Lizzie up at all after that. But he seemed prepared to overlook the funny smell, the streaky farmer’s tan, the trousers from BHS, and the acquaintanceship with a middle-aged man who wore Hawaiian shirts and orange Speedos.

The fact of the matter was, James Buckley was smitten.

Needless to say, Lizzie returned his interest with knobs on. Because he was a lovely man; not just good-looking, but kind and self-deprecating and funny. Lizzie couldn’t believe her luck, and neither could any of her girlfriends.

Much though everybody loved Lizzie, none of her girlfriends could see that she had the sort of style that would attract a man like James Buckley. She was pretty in an understated way, and sometimes when she was very happy or very excited, she could even be beautiful. But she had the sort of face that wasn’t very hardy. It was always teetering on the edge of some catastrophe — a pimple breakout, puffy eyes, a shiny forehead, or the blank, lifeless look that came over it when she was miserable. You didn’t look at her and say, “That girl has good bones.”

She had a nice enough figure, but, like her face, her body seemed poised on the brink of ruin. You knew, just looking at her, that a size six was not her natural weight, that only by the strictest of vigilance was she keeping her abundant bosom, slightly rounded stomach, and well-covered thighs reined in. You sensed that her curvaceous body was just waiting to explode into outright plumpness, given half a chance.

Women saw this at a glance. But men were not quite as perceptive. In general, men didn’t seem at all surprised that Lizzie had landed a big fish like Buckley. In fact, Lizzie had always had her fair share of male attention, a phenomenon Tessa had perhaps too simplistically put down to the size of her bosom.

Lizzie being Lizzie, most of her friends squelched down their jealousy and managed to be happy for her when it became clear that James Buckley’s interest was going to outlast their first night in bed together.

After that first night, Lizzie knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that James was the one for her. She knew because she hadn’t once thought about the cellulite at the back of her thighs. James made her feel so good, so special, so irresistible, that her excruciating self-consciousness about the cellulite simply fell away, along with her clothes.

At this point in her reveries, Lizzie abandoned the computer, ran downstairs, threw herself down on the sofa, and began to howl like a dog. A mute dog, at any rate. She was well practiced, by now, in silent howling, because she was darned if she was going to inflict her misery on her children. She’d let them down enough already.

Fits of grief came over Lizzie whenever she let her guard down, whenever she wasn’t tending children or washing dishes or pulling up weeds or writing to her sister. Nighttime was the worst. She also broke down if she had to talk to anyone sympathetic on the phone, so after a few days of fielding calls from her mother and concerned friends like Maria in Laingtree, she simply decided to unplug the thing.

Most nights, when Lizzie finally dragged herself to bed, she’d lie awake for hours, letting herself steep in the emptiness on the other side of the mattress.

Tonight, knowing that she was going to see James in the morning, Lizzie felt less likely to sleep than ever. When at last she crawled into bed, her brain began to work feverishly. She kept trying to turn the bally thing off so that she could sleep, but on and on it went, relentlessly sifting through memories like a detective desperate for clues.

After a while, Lizzie jumped out of bed and unearthed a tape Tessa had given her: “Ten Easy Steps to Self-Hypnosis.” Sinking back into bed with earphones on, she closed her eyes and concentrated hard.

“You are lying on a beach,” a melodious voice informed her. God, have I got sunscreen on? Lizzie wondered. “You hear the sound of the sea.” Waves crashed in the background of the soundtrack. “You feel very peaceful and secure. You are ready to practice visualization. Close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Now, picture one of the happiest days of your life.”

Lizzie pictured herself standing in Mill House with a little white stick in her hands. The little white stick bore a faint but unmistakable pink line. Lizzie saw the kitchen door swing open. James burst into the room, eyes as bright as a summer sky. He was holding flowers. “Are you sure? Are you sure?” he cried. She nodded and he pulled her hard against his woolly sweater and held her very close, squishing the bouquet of mixed spring blossoms. They both stared in wonder at the thin pink line, and James laid his hand on the slight swell of her stomach — of course, Lizzie’s stomach almost always swelled slightly, but this was different. The warmth of his hand seemed to go right through her.

Lizzie ripped the earphones off her head and threw the portable cassette player aside. She should have known better than to try another of Tessa’s fads.

She lay down again and put a pillow on her chest. She didn’t want to hear her own heartbeat. It reminded her of the day at the doctor’s office when they’d heard the second heartbeat — that awful moment when she’d thought, “Oh my God, I’m carrying a defective fetus with two hearts.” And then her tears of relief when the doctor told them it was twins. James, bless him, had been like a little kid at Christmas. “Two babies? We’re having two at once? Lizzie, that’s pure genius, my girl. Pure genius!”

Shifting to get comfortable on her slightly deflated mattress, Lizzie tried to count sheep. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three . . . Hang on, that was the way you counted the minutes between labor pains.

Okay, so counting sheep wasn’t going to work. Lizzie tried to empty her mind and picture a river rolling down to the sea. Instead, she pictured herself in a puddle of broken waters on a black dustbin bag spread across the car seat. James was hunched over the steering wheel, driving with maddening care to Cheltenham hospital.

She’d never get to sleep, at this rate.

Visualization. Visualize something boring, like — chess. Lizzie tried to picture a chessboard. She had just moved the first white pawn forward when her mind threw up a snapshot of James, sitting in a chair beside her hospital bed, clutching her hand so hard she thought he might break some of the smaller bones, telling her she’d been superb, fantastic, unbelievable, his face as elated and ecstatic as if England had won the Rugby World Cup.

Bloody hell, she might as well get up and have some hot chocolate and whatever was left of the ice cream.

Chapter Six

L
izzie wasn’t aware that she’d ever fallen asleep, but suddenly urgent voices were calling to her from far away, hands were jostling at her shoulder, and she was trying to fight her way back to consciousness.

“Mummy, Mummy, somebody knockin’ onna door!” Even in her sleep, she recognized Alex’s insistent yell.

Then came a “ ding- dong” and a distant thudding.

Lizzie sat bolt upright in bed.

The thudding came again.

“Oh my God, what time is it?” She snatched up the alarm clock on the bedside table. Ten past nine. Unbelievable. She hadn’t slept that late in years.

“Ding-dong.”

James. James was at the door, impatient to see the children. And she’d had such plans, such elaborate plans to impress him.

She’d made a special trip to the Royal Victoria Mall, risking the terrifying indoor car park, to buy an extremely expensive black-and-white tracksuit and a pair of high-performance running shoes. She hadn’t been able to find ones that lit up — those were only for kids, apparently — but these ones were pretty flashy.

She’d also splurged on some makeup that the woman behind the counter had sworn would give her a natural, radiant glow while fooling people into thinking she was wearing no makeup at all. And she’d planned to take a shower and blow- dry her hair to show off her new cut — only, of course, she’d forgotten to
have
the new cut — and splash herself with perfume. And she’d planned to have the house spotless, the children all dressed and combed and fed, and the smell of percolating coffee wafting through the air. Then she’d planned to wave him in with the phone pressed to her ear, so that he could overhear her chatting nonchalantly about her training program for the London Marathon.