The Fordhams’ house in the New Forest was only twenty-two minutes away by car. We could all have piled into Mother’s Range Rover, but as that would have put Laetitia and Rose a little too close together for comfort, I ended up taking her in Portia.
This meant, of course, that I wouldn’t be able to drink at the Brunch, but as I seemed to be suffering something of a sherry hangover this morning, I wasn’t particularly bothered.
Rose, annoyingly, seemed unaffected by the previous night’s libations. Once arrived at the Fordhams’, she got out of Portia and whistled. “Did I say your parents’ place was posh? I take it all back. Your mum and dad are just one step up from a council flat. This? This is posh. I mean, look at it! It’s got wings.”
“Well, yes, but they haven’t used the west wing in years. Decades, even. It’s all closed up—dust sheets on furniture, that sort of thing. Fordy and I used to frighten the life out of each other by creeping in there at midnight looking for ghosts.”
“Ever see any?”
“No, but according to family tradition, some nights you’re supposed to be able to hear a baby crying. Apparently it’s a young Fordham of generations ago who died in infancy. And Fordy swears blind he’s stayed here sometimes, and either he or Linette have got up in the night because they heard little Georgie cry, only to find him fast asleep.”
Rose shivered. “Okay, if I had a baby, I would not want to stay here with it. We’re not going to be staying here after dark, are we?”
“Hardly. It’s brunch, not supper.”
“You say that, but the invitation was for twelve. To my mind, that’s lunch. No br about it.”
“No, lunch would be an entirely different affair. The menu would be completely different, for a start.”
“Whatevs. Come on, I’m starving.”
I rolled my eyes and offered Rose my arm. She accepted with a strange expression which I think was supposed to be a simper (after all, she hadn’t eaten yet, so it couldn’t really be indigestion) and we crunched across the gravel to the stone steps of Copse House (or Corpse House, as Fordy and I had liked to dub it in our more ghoulish days).
Having Rose with me, I soon realised, was a godsend. Instead of asking awkward questions about my career choices, all the old acquaintances and not-quite-relatives occupied themselves with getting introduced to her and wondering what on earth our relationship was, and if there was a possible polite way to ask if I’d moved on from Greek love (if there was, nobody managed to find it). It left me free to actually enjoy my quails’ eggs mini muffins and prosciutto crostini for once, with attention to spare for avoiding the infamous squid fritters. (They appeared without fail every year despite the fact everyone loathed them; I was convinced they were Mrs. Fordham’s idea of a joke.)
I caught sight of Fordy and Linette over on the far side of the room with some university friends I’d met once or twice before. I waved and Fordy detached himself, beaming, to come and welcome us. Mother and the others had arrived only moments after we’d gone in, and still lingered at the entrance. Fordy greeted her with an affectionate kiss, Peter with a hearty handshake, and Laetitia with polite forbearance.
I was enveloped in one of Fordy’s trademark bear hugs. “Finally! It’s about time you got here. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“We’re only six minutes late. Sorry.”
“Yes, but six minutes late for you is the equivalent of about a decade and a half for everyone else. Trouble on the roads?”
“No,” I said with an involuntary glance at Rose. “We just left a little late.”
She rolled her eyes, unabashed. “Yeah, right, blame it all on me. Just ’cos I couldn’t decide what to wear.”
“Well, you look absolutely delightful in that dress, I must say,” Fordy said with one of his most charming smiles, and in fact it wasn’t empty flattery. I’d finally persuaded Rose into an understated wrap dress that showed off her curves, and even Peter had cast her an admiring glance that had lingered until Mother raised a single eyebrow that sent him scurrying, shamefaced, back to her side.
“Fordy,” I put in, mindful that I was neglecting my manners. “This is Rose Wyman, a colleague and friend of mine. Rose, this is Malcolm Fordham, my old school friend.”
Rose went faintly pink as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Delighted,” Fordy said. “Now, why don’t you come and meet the sprog?”
One arm thrown casually over my shoulders, Fordy ushered us through the mostly aging throng to be introduced to my godson elect, who was presently sucking lustily on his mother’s finger. The university friends nodded a greeting and dispersed, presumably in search of food. Most of them being built on similar lines to Fordy, they tended to descend on buffet tables like a plague of locusts.
“Linny, darling, look who’s here. It’s Emsy and Rose, his er… Sorry, what did you say you were again?”
Halfway through mouthing Emsy? at me with a wide-eyed look that promised a great deal of teasing later on, Rose turned back to Fordy and smiled. “Colleague, friend and saver from starvation.”
Linette gave her a wan smile. “I don’t know what they teach them at Loriners’, but it certainly isn’t cooking. I can’t even get Mal to make beans on toast.”
She looked tired. Of course, I’d barely seen her since she and Fordy married, when she’d been radiant in yards of silk and lace.
Rose shrugged. “Yeah, well, at least you don’t need to worry about this one wasting away.” She angled her head at Fordy, who blinked and then laughed with the rest of us. “How old’s your little one, then?”
“Five months.” Linette jiggled Georgie proudly. “So are you two…?”
“Gawd, no.” Rose’s reply was a shade more emphatic than was flattering. “Can you imagine Robert with a girlfriend? It’d be like watching David Attenborough try to snog a squirrel. And I’m off men, anyway. Think I’ll become a lesbian. Or a nun. Maybe a lesbian nun,” she finished thoughtfully.
Linette looked like she didn’t quite know what to make of Rose but was far too well-bred to say so. She glanced at Fordy, who still had his arm around me in avuncular fashion. “I think Georgie needs changing. Do excuse me.”
She left. Fordy drooped, rather, and dropped his arm from my shoulders. “I’ll, ah, go and see if she needs a hand.”
I stared after him, feeling a little like I’d just been watching a foreign film without subtitles.
“She thinks you’re shagging her husband,” Rose murmured.
I spluttered on my orange juice. “Rose! I can assure you I’m doing nothing of the kind.”
“Bet you used to, though. I mean, come on, the way you two are with each other.”
“I… What way? And anyway, even if we did use to, well, you know, we were younger then. A lot younger.”
“Are we talking jailbait here?”
“No!” I looked around guiltily. “Well, maybe. But only by a few months. Fordy was sixteen, and we were in the same school year. It was just that my birthday wasn’t until the summer. But what do you mean, the way we are with each other?”
She raised a knowing eyebrow. “All touchy-feely.”
“Fordy’s always been a tactile person,” I protested.
“Yeah? Didn’t see him giving anyone else a quick grope on the doorstep.”
“There was no groping!” One of Fordy’s uncles turned to give me a very disapproving stare. I cringed, mortified.
Rose was giggling. “Keep your voice down, you numpty.”
“But there wasn’t,” I hissed. “It was just a hug.”
“Yeah, and how many other people got one? I was watching him when he came over to say hello. Me: kiss on the cheek. Your mum: kiss on the cheek. Various interchangeable men: firm, manly handshake. Laetitia: firm, manly handshake. Robert Emeny, old school pal, dorm mate and one-time bum chum: a nice little cuddle with optional wandering hands.”
“There were no—” I lowered my voice. “There were no wandering hands. Fordy loves Linette.”
“Maybe, but I bet he wouldn’t say no to a bit of the old extramaritals from you.”
“No,” I said uncertainly. “You’re wrong. Fordy wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, you know him best,” she muttered in a tone that implied I most certainly didn’t.
My face growing hot, I thought about how Fordy had been when he was chatting to his university friends. There had seemed to be rather more in the way of personal space involved than was customary between the two of us.
Could Rose possibly be right? This would put Fordy’s visit to me last month in a wholly new and not altogether comfortable light.
“Would you?” she asked.
“What?”
“You know. If he offered.”
“You obviously don’t know me very well,” I retorted stiffly, “if you think I’d consent to being someone’s dirty little secret.”
Rose opened her mouth—then her expression altered subtly, as if she’d been about to say something and then changed her mind. “How well does Linette know you? Not very, I’d have thought.”
I blinked. “Not really, no. They met at Oxford. Fordy didn’t introduce us until they were already engaged.”
“Yeah, well, look at her.” Rose nodded to where Linette had returned to the room far too quickly, I would have thought, to have reasonably performed any sleight-of-nappy. She was over by the window now, handing Georgie to his grandmother.
Linette did, in fact, look a little strained, and I said so.
“That’s ’cos she doesn’t know what’s what. So she’s just imagining it, which is always way worse. Like in horror films, when they don’t show you the worst bits. If you and him is all over and done with, he ought to tell her about it. Or you ought. Oh, I know you won’t, cause of the old school tie, honour among gentlemen, blah-di-blah-di-blah, but he ought to.”
I took a sip of orange juice and wished fervently for vodka. “I don’t know. I mean, I see what you mean—but I’m not sure he’ll go for it.” I wasn’t even sure how one might attempt to persuade him. I had an uneasy feeling I wouldn’t be terribly convincing in the role.
God, what a mess. I felt my shoulders slump.
“Yeah, me neither, now I’ve met him. But I’ll tell you what, if he doesn’t, he’s going to regret it.” She hugged me, which was so unexpected I nearly dropped my glass. “Look, just ’cause Fordy likes to have his cake and eat a bit of buttered stud muffin on the side doesn’t mean Sean’s like that.”
“That wasn’t—Rose,” I said carefully. “Do you think I ought to tell Sean the whole story about, well, about Oliver?”
She stepped away from me, looking shifty. “I never said that. Don’t even know if I know the whole story, do I? But I do know that woman’s not happy.” She nodded in Linette’s direction. “And if Sean’s like her, he’s not happy either. Probably imagining all kinds of stuff.”
I winced. “You really think so?”
Rose cocked her head to one side. “Well, maybe not. He is a bloke, after all. But yeah. I mean, I’m not all honesty-is-always-the-best-policy, ’cause sometimes, what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you, does it? Let’s face it, I was a whole lot happier before I found out about Shitface and Skinny Cow. But if someone knows there is something, and they don’t know what it is, then they’re probably better off knowing the truth.” She frowned. “Or, you know, a really convincing lie. And face it, sweetie, you’ve got the world’s worst poker face, so you’d probably better stick to the truth.”
Was she right? After all, Mother and Peter had never suspected I’d been unhappy in my teens… Had they?
The mini muffins from earlier sat like a leaden lump in my stomach, the ghosts of unborn quails fluttering feebly in my intestines.
“You all right? You look like your stomach’s just realised one of those canapés was off. It’ll be one of those fishy ones, I bet you. God knows what they put in those. Tasted like rubber bands. Probably was rubber bands.”
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I just had a rather uncomfortable epiphany.”
Rose frowned. “Isn’t that not till January?”
“Not that kind of epiphany. This sort involves rather less in the way of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and rather more in the way of unpleasant truths.”
“Oh. So are you going to tell Sean about your sordid past?”
“I’ll…think about it. Damn it. I’d better go and speak to Fordy, hadn’t I?”
Fordy hadn’t been any keener on the idea of spilling all to Linette than I’d thought he would be, but he hadn’t rejected it out of hand, so perhaps some good would come of the exceedingly awkward three-way conversation he, Rose and I had ended up having.
At least, I hoped if he told Linette about us, it would be a good thing.
“You’re quiet,” Rose commented as I drove her back to Peter’s house. “Brooding about Sean?”
“About Fordy, actually.” I sighed. “But now you’ve mentioned Sean, I expect I’ll start brooding about him too.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, come on, Fordy’s the past, in’t he? You’ve got to start thinking about your future.”
“Do you really think Sean and I have a future together?”
“Course you do. If,” she said, and looked at me significantly. “If you get the past sorted out so Sean doesn’t think it’s the present.” She blinked. “Huh. That was actually pretty good, wasn’t it? ’Specially considering how much shampoo I’ve drunk.”
“Prosecco,” I corrected. “Mrs. Fordham thinks champagne is common.”
“How can it be common when it costs a bloody fortune?”
I shrugged, my hands still on the wheel. “Apparently it’s been cheapened by conspicuous consumption.”
“Posh people are weird. Are we there yet? I’m getting desperate for a pee.” She giggled. “Don’t want to turn your car into a Portia-loo.”
Alarmed, I put my foot down.