‘You are best off out of it, darling. She behaved like an animal yesterday. The language!’
Beatrice has declared herself appalled at the scene in the bar last night. She has branded the barmaid bad news. But Kit and Hannah never stay mad at each other for long and they had a lovely making up session this morning.
‘We’ve not split up. Anyway, she said you and Charlotte were being rude about her in the loo,’ says Kit. He knows this will rile his mother. You could accuse her of mass murder, but do not ever say she is rude.
‘We were joking,’ simpers Charlotte, fluttering around the kitchen in the background.
Beatrice lays her perfectly manicured hand on Kit’s arm. ‘There was no malice intended. She took it the wrong way.’
Kit simply couldn’t believe Hannah’s hysterical accusations of what transpired in the toilets. He’s sure there must have 140been some drink-fuelled misunderstanding. There’s no way Charlotte would have threatened to glass anyone – it’s not in her vocabulary. Of course when he suggested as much that night, Hannah went ballistic.
He sticks to what he considers are the facts. ‘Char posted that unflattering video of her dancing. That wasn’t intended as a joke.’
‘She obviously doesn’t have a sense of humour,’ sniffs Charlotte.
‘Hannah has a great sense of humour, but she isn’t on social media. Your joke was wasted.’
‘Who’s not on Insta?’ says Charlotte, genuinely bewildered.
‘Anyone not desperately invested in what people they’ve never met think of them,’ he snipes.
‘Anyway, darling, I think enough is enough, don’t you?’ interjects his mother.
‘Yes I do! It’s half-eleven in the morning and you’re already drunk!’
‘Kit, darling, it is almost Christmas,’ protests Beatrice, in an attempt to reclaim the moral high ground, ‘and I’m only a tiny bit squiffy, which under the circumstances of my husband’s death is not a crime in any—’
‘More than a tiny bit, I’d say.’
It riles him how she has chosen to cope with the bereavement. When he’s with her she takes up so much emotional space it’s as if there’s no room for his own grief.
Beatrice scowls at him. Her heavy scent of musky Velvet Rose & Oud turns his stomach.
Charlotte pipes up with, ‘It was embarrassing, Kit. She looked like a lap dancer. At her age! I can’t understand what you see in her. She’s just a gold digger.’ 141
He ignores the irritating whine in her voice, and says, ‘Charlotte, will you please go away. I’m trying to talk to my mother.’ The girl is practically a stalker. Every single party he goes to in London, bloody Charlotte turns up.
Charlotte pouts prettily, grabs her fake fur coat and flounces out into the garden, aggrieved.
Kit sighs heavily and sits across from his mother. God, she looks awful. In this tastefully arranged kitchen with ornaments of pale blue wooden fishing boats perched on the windowsill and prints of pretty sailing vessels on calm blue seas adorning the walls, his mother is a total wreck. Her hair a bird’s nest, puffy eyes, splotchy skin. She may have been crying.
Before his father died, Beatrice wouldn’t have been seen dead looking like this. She had always prided herself on being smartly turned out, even around the house.
But since the funeral her drinking has got totally out of hand and her standards have slipped. When his father was alive it would be a few glasses of wine with lunch, cocktail hour, perhaps another bottle of wine with dinner. Drinking was just one of the many ways his parents avoided the deep chasms in their marriage; one of the few hobbies they shared. Both were jolly drunks, the life and soul of every party.
Now Beatrice can turn on a sixpence. She can be an ugly drunk. If only his father were here to help him—
As soon as he’s had this thought, Kit feels his face redden because tears threaten, as they often do when he thinks of his father.
‘What is it?’ he challenges his mother, who’s looking at him belligerently, dark circles under her eyes giving her a haunted air. 142
‘Be kind to Charlotte. The poor thing is a bit wobbly at the moment. You must see she still has a huge crush on you, darling.’
Kit shakes his head.
His mother finishes her drink and says, ‘She would be far more suitable as a partner.’
‘She’s much too young—’
‘You’re much too young!’ she counters. ‘Anyway, Charlotte’s right – what have you got in common with a barmaid?’
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve got a damned sight more in common with Hannah than that bloody show pony!’ He indicates outside where Charlotte is pacing and vaping. ‘Don’t think I’ve not noticed how you’re trying to play matchmaker with me and Charlotte. Why have you invited her here again? For Christmas!’
‘Her father’s just announced he’s remarrying. Her mother’s distraught so she’s gone to stay with Amanda in Barbados for Christmas and you know Charlotte doesn’t get on with Amanda. Poor Charlotte just needed cheering up, darling. I thought we all need a little cheering up.’
‘But I’m with Hannah. You’ve not given her a chance.’
‘It’s just a fling, darling—’
‘She’s my girlfriend.’
‘Girl!’ scoffs his mother.
‘She’s good for me.’
‘Really.’
‘This is getting us nowhere. It’s got nothing to do with you who I see.’ He knows he sounds petulant.
‘But it has got something to do with me when I’m the one bankrolling this dalliance,’ snaps Beatrice. ‘It is time you knuckled down to make something of your life rather than running 143away to an island every five minutes.’
‘It is not a dalliance!’ He’s raising his voice. His bloody mother always has this effect on him. As soon as his dad’s affairs are sorted, he won’t have to crawl to her for handouts. She’s lording it over him while she still can.
‘It’s hardly love’s young dream though is it?’ she laughs. ‘The woman’s over thirty for God’s sake.’
‘Past her best breeding years?’ he mocks.
Beatrice sighs, stands and strides to the fridge, grabbing the chilled vodka bottle, proceeding to make herself another elaborate Bloody Mary, as if a dash of tabasco can disguise the underlying problem.
‘You don’t think you should rein it in a bit?’
She ignores him.
He slams his hand on the kitchen table. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mother!’
She flinches and Kit feels ashamed.
It’s pointless trying to have a conversation when his mother is so closed off to any real discussion, and he’s getting angrier by the second.
‘I’m off,’ he announces.
He leaves his mother marinating in vodka, retreating by the front door, so he doesn’t have to see Charlotte’s sulky face and hungry eyes.