Joss looked out of one of the upstairs windows at Fairford Hall and felt, for the first time in many weeks, a wave of pure happiness, untainted by any concern about the world out there, at the end of the long drive, where things were complicated and distressing. This was what she loved best about coming here: you were given five days away from your own life. Five days when you could be a person unattached to anyone else. Five days during which you didn’t have to consider anything except your duties as a tutor. I might even, Joss thought, get down to some writing myself. It had been difficult, what with the wedding arrangements, getting Bob off to Egypt, sorting things out with the library so she could have this time off work, to say nothing of her own elation about the Madrigal shortlisting, to do any writing. Perhaps here she would be able to concentrate. She’d arrived early, wanting to be alone in the place before anyone else turned up. The first two times she’d been here, she and Gray had been hours ahead of anyone else and she remembered them sitting at the enormous oak table, smiling at one another.
The countryside round the house was like an advertisement for autumn. Leaves were turning and the mass of green was interwoven with scarlet, gold, bronze and brown. The sky curved pale blue above the trees. Just out of sight, the sea was waiting, in its sheltered bay, edged by high cliffs. Fairford Hall looked exactly like an oversized dolls’ house, which was one reason why Joss loved it. It was pretty and welcoming, with dark panelling in the drawing room, and an Aga and a full set of copper-bottomed pots and pans in the kitchen. There were fifteen bedrooms. Groups of course members and the two tutors took it in turns to cook the evening meal. You helped yourself for breakfast and lunch from a fridge that was kept filled with goodies by the course directors, Agnes and Bill, who did all the administrative work and looked after the house.
When she’d been there before, Joss had shared a bedroom, but as a tutor you got a room on your own at the front of the house. It was like being upgraded to first class. She now had her own wardrobe with a pattern of tulips carved into the door, a view over the garden and down to the trees, and a table to work on. Her fellow tutor wouldn’t be here for ages and neither would the course members whom she thought of as students, even though some would probably be as old as she was or older. You never had any idea before you arrived of who would be coming on the course and that was part of the fun. She had plenty of time. She plugged in her laptop and turned on her modem to send an email.
Normally Joss wouldn’t have thought about email while she was at Fairford, but she needed to send a message to Nora at the library about the copy for a leaflet that urgently needed to go to the printers tomorrow and which she’d forgotten to pass on to her. She clicked on Inbox. Not too many, she was glad to see, but she sighed when she saw Maureen’s name at the top of the list. She wrote to Nora at the library first, because that was urgent, and then she read the messages from Isis and Bob. Isis had sent her a cartoon rabbit and a message that said, I’ve found a picture of a rabbit. Hope your having a nice time in the country. Isis loved rabbits, as well as owls and butterflies. Joss was always on the lookout for suitable postcards. She smiled and pressed the Reply button.
Hello, darling! This rabbit is sweet. I’ll keep an eye out for rabbits while I’m here and if I see any postcards you’d like I’ll send them. Here are lots of kisses till I see you.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Bob sent a message with his contact details in Egypt. Very curt and businesslike. He didn’t believe in actual ‘writing’ on email, but used it as a kind of shorthand way of conveying information, rather like texting but at slightly greater length and with all the letters included. She replied, in best war-movie mode:
Copy that. Over and out. Have a lovely time. Shan’t be emailing in the next few days but will write in detail when I get home. See you soon. Love J.x
She wondered whether he would notice the kiss she’d added. Okay, she thought. That’s that. There was a time when Bob had written long letters to her if he was abroad. When the girls were little, he used to add sketches of things like camels to amuse them. His signing-off, which had always mildly irritated Joss, because she’d thought it a throwback to his schooldays, still said Tons of love. Perhaps he was short and cool in tone simply because the medium was electronic and not a handwritten letter. And perhaps not. She clicked on the next email, mentally bracing herself for one of Maureen’s effusions.
She read the message through and when she’d finished, she found that she was grasping the edge of the table so hard that the tips of her fingers were white. It can’t be, she thought. It’s a mistake. He couldn’t … She read the message again, more carefully.
Not much luck with wedding dresses, I’m afraid. Never mind, I’ve not quite given up yet! I’ll get back to Zannah soon, for a chat. All on my ownie-oh for a few days, as Graham’s gone off to Dorset on some poetry course or other. You’d know more about this kind of thing than me. I shall be putting my catering thinking-cap on while he’s away!! Bye! Maureen.
Joss looked at her watch. Two-thirty. Course members generally started to arrive at about four o’clock. She went over to the bed and lay down on it, staring up at the ceiling. There were no other poetry courses but this one in Dorset. He’d done it deliberately: booked himself in because he’d known she was a tutor. Perhaps he found out about it from a Friends of Fairford publicity mailing. What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to feel? She felt rage washing through her. He’d deceived her again, not told her something she should have known. But if he had told me, she thought, I’d have said I was ill. I’d have cancelled. He knows I would never walk out on a course that’s already begun.
She sat up. He was on his way here now. He might be there when she went downstairs. How should she behave? Pretend she’d never met him? Or tell people he was her daughter’s future stepfather-in-law? What had come over him? Why had he done such a thing? Because he wants to see me, she thought. And because he knows that I’m longing to see him and won’t allow myself even to think about the possibility. Now they were going to be together. Together. She imagined what the next five days might be like and the force of her vision made her feel breathless, as though she’d been picked up and swept along in a kind of emotional hurricane.
But no. They’d decided. They’d agreed. They had no future together. What Gray had done by enrolling on this course was unforgivable and she’d never, ever forgive him. She’d promised Bob that their relationship was in the past. Over. And it was. She’d been so strong-minded about keeping her word, even though there were times when the temptation to send Gray an email (just a written message, where was the harm in that?) was so overpowering that she had to close down her laptop. Promises … She’d already broken the promises she’d made when she married. Perhaps people oughtn’t to be allowed to promise things recklessly in case they couldn’t keep them? There should be a mechanism for cancelling promises you made to someone you weren’t married to that you found you couldn’t keep. But Gray hadn’t taken any such vow, and here he was, making it so hard for her to behave as she knew she was supposed to. She’d punish him for it. An idea was beginning to form in her mind. He didn’t know she’d been forewarned. Maureen wouldn’t have said anything … Why should she? Okay, she’d behave as though she were made of ice where he was concerned. She’d treat him exactly like everyone else and not show by one single movement or word that she’d ever met him before or ever wanted to again. Be it not seen in either of our brows/That we one jot of former love retain. She took a deep breath and got off the bed.
In the en-suite bathroom (another perk for tutors), she stared at her face in the mirror. Was there time to do her make-up again? Someone was knocking at her door. Probably Agnes wanting to tell her something.
She went to open it, then stepped back.
‘Lydia … ’
She stood in the doorway for a long time, saying nothing.
‘Are you going to let me in? I want to explain … Please?’
He looked anxious. Unsmiling. She had no control over her voice. Something like a squeak came out of her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she managed at last. ‘Come in, Gray.’
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. ‘I’m sorry, Lydia. I couldn’t help it. I wanted … I just wanted … ’
‘I don’t forgive you, Gray,’ she said at last. She was standing too near him, unable to put a distance between them, unable to move at all. ‘You must have known how I’d feel. Didn’t you know?’
‘I suppose so. I suppose I did, but I wanted to see you. I hate not being able to write to you. This … this seemed … I don’t know. We should be together.’
He put a hand out and touched her gently on the shoulder. She thought: no one’ll know. No one will find out I’ve broken my promise to Bob. It’s such a small parcel of time. No one’ll be hurt. It’s just us, just for now. Five days. Four nights. On Saturday we’ll go back to what we were before, but now … This is our place, away from everyone, away from our real lives. They’re far away. We can forget everything. Oh, God, I love him so much. I love him.
He was waiting for her to decide, Joss could see that. She could end everything in a second. If she wanted him to, he’d go. He’ll leave at once, she told herself, if I say he should. She opened her mouth to tell him to go and found she couldn’t speak. She moved a step closer to him, put her arms up and round his neck and buried her face in his jacket.
‘Stay.’ She didn’t know whether he could hear her or not and didn’t care, but wanted only to breathe in the smell of him, feel the length of his body against hers. ‘My darling,’ she murmured. ‘Stay with me.’
*
Zannah sat in Phyllis Hayward’s living room and looked about her. It was the cleanest room she’d ever seen in her whole life. The skirting-boards were pristine and the carpet looked as though it had never had a speck of dust settle on it since the day it was put down. Miss Hayward’s decor wasn’t to Zannah’s taste – cabbage roses on the overstuffed sofa and armchairs, china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece – but she herself was a gently spoken, smiley person with gold-rimmed specs and permed white hair. She was dressed in an immaculately tailored blue suit, and although she might have put on this outfit because she was expecting visitors, Zannah had a strong suspicion that this was what she wore every day.
‘It’s very kind of you to see me,’ she said.
‘A pleasure, my dear,’ said Miss Hayward. ‘I’m happy to help a friend of Verity. I knew her grandmother, years ago. I made her wedding dress, and one for Verity’s mother too. Please help yourself to shortbread. It’s the Prince of Wales’s brand, you know, with lemon in it. Quite delicious, I think.’
A picture of Prince Charles in a flowered pinny, rolling out shortbread in the Highgrove kitchen, came into Zannah’s head and she smiled/Thank you, it’s lovely.’
‘Now what’s Verity told you about me?’
‘That you were the best dressmaker in the country. She said you used to work for Norman Hartnell.’
‘Dear Verity is exaggerating, but how kind of her. Hartnell’s name isn’t on everyone’s lips, these days, but his standards were very high. Very high indeed. We made outfits for the Queen, you know. And the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret. I was there for twenty years. Then I started my own bridal dressmaking service, but of course I retired officially a few years ago.’
Miss Hayward put her cup on a highly polished occasional table that stood beside her armchair. She said, ‘Have you an idea of the sort of thing you want? I have albums you can look at with photographs of dresses I’ve made. I don’t take on many commissions, because I find I get tired much more quickly these days. I’m nearly eighty, you know.’
‘Goodness,’ said Zannah. ‘You seem much younger.’ Zannah meant what she said. Miss Hayward was clearly someone who’d found her look a long time ago and stuck to it. But nearly eighty … Could she still manage what she used to? What about her eyesight? As though she were reading Zannah’s mind, Miss Hayward said: ‘My eyesight’s as good as it ever was, and my hands are still steady. Have you set a date for the wedding?’
‘May the twenty-seventh, next year.’
That’s good. Lots of time. You’d be amazed how many people think you can run up something in a day or two. Now, what have you been dreaming of when you think of your wedding dress?’
Zannah took the photocopy she’d made of her sketch out of her handbag. She’d had it folded in the pages of her wedding notebook for a couple of days, and now she opened it up and held it out to Miss Hayward, who took it and inspected it for a long time without a word. ‘Most beautiful!’ she said eventually, and Zannah let out the breath she’d been holding. She used to do that as a child, waiting for a teacher’s verdict on her work.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Will you … Could you?’
‘Make it? Oh, yes. It won’t present too many problems, I don’t think. You’ve chosen such a simple shape. crêpe de Chine lining, I think, in the same colour as the lace. I’ve got a box full of bits we can search through for things like lace for the edges of the sleeves, the neckline and so forth. This is lovely. Very 1920s. The whole effect of a dress like this depends on the fabric. You’re going to need the perfect lace and the exact shade of … you’ve not said, but I think cream, écru or ivory, something like that, to go with your colouring. Not white, in any case.’
‘No,’ said Zannah. ‘I had been thinking of it in cream … thick, clotted cream. A touch of buttery yellow in it.’ She was babbling about the colour because she didn’t know how to broach the subject of money. What if Miss Hayward charged more than she could afford? She had to mention it before she committed herself. And she’d have to find out where one was supposed to buy ‘perfect lace’ to say nothing of crêpe-de-Chine for the underdress. She was about to speak, when Miss Hayward stood up. ‘Come with me, dear. We’ll go and have a look in my cupboard.’
Zannah followed her upstairs.
‘This is my sewing room,’ said Miss Hayward, leading the way into a bedroom at the back of the house. The window looked out on to a small and extremely tidy walled garden. A fearsomely modern sewing-machine stood on a table under the window and a fitted cupboard took up most of the longest wall. Miss Hayward opened it wide and said, ‘There’s sure to be something here that’ll do.’
Astonished, Zannah gazed into the cupboard. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but it wasn’t shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked rolls of material. They were lined up in order: palest colours on the left, darkest on the right.
‘I try to have a bit of everything,’ said Miss Hayward, ‘but of course the paler shades are more popular with brides and bridesmaids. Are you having bridesmaids?’
‘Two. My daughter and her friend. They’re both eight.’
‘How lovely!’ Miss Hayward turned back to the cupboard. ‘There’s a bit of everything here, silk, satin, velvet, chiffon and even … ’ she paused and walked along the massed ranks of fabric, like a general inspecting his troops. ‘Lace,’ she said with an air of triumph, pulling out a roll carefully. ‘Most of this,’ she added ‘is what was left over when I retired. I won’t use even a fraction of it in my lifetime, but I can’t bear to part with it. And sometimes it comes in handy. Like now. What do you think of it? It’s vintage, of course. I found it when a reputable wholesaler closed down … oh, years and years ago. You won’t find anything like it nowadays. I won’t work with nylon lace. This is more expensive, of course, but well worth the extra money.’
Miss Hayward spread it out over the table. Zannah picked up a corner and it felt soft to the touch, not scratchy at all. The pattern was an intricate mesh of small flowers and … Could it be? Yes! Tiny butterflies that appeared to have been caught up in the design. You wouldn’t see them if you didn’t look carefully. Zannah regarded butterflies as her emblem and finding them here, in this lace, was an omen.
Zannah noticed that her heart was beating fast, and that she was feeling most peculiar: moved and suddenly almost tearful. Em would say: Cool it … It’s only a dress, but her sister didn’t understand. No one did. The dress, now that she could see the fabric in front of her, would be the embodiment of everything she hoped for from her marriage to Adrian. A strange feeling came over her, which she’d never articulated before: that the sheer contrast between this dress and the one she’d worn to marry Cal was a symbol of how differently the two marriages would turn out. She and Adrian would be happy. What she wore would underline that more than anything. The colour was precisely what she’d been dreaming of: a pale, creamy shade that reminded her of old parchment. She held the lace close to her cheek and glanced into the mirror that hung on the inside of one of the cupboard doors. She wondered whether perhaps it was the pleasure she was feeling that was making her skin glow, but no: it was definitely the colour. She’d known it would suit her as soon as she saw it. She said, ‘It’s exactly right. The perfect lace. I can’t tell you how I feel … It’s beautiful. The colour is glorious. I love it.’
‘I’m very pleased. It’s always a relief to have the main decision taken care of. And we’re in luck with the trimmings I think, too.’ Miss Hayward was searching in a chest of drawers that stood against one wall. ‘This is something I bought to make one of those enormously long veils that turn into a train … Do you know what I mean? Never used it in the end. We can cut off the lace borders and put them round the neckline and sleeves. And here we are: I knew I had some scalloped lace somewhere. And in just the right colour. Perfect.’
I have to have it, Zannah thought. That lace. That colour. I don’t care what it costs.
*
‘Okay, let me get this right.’ Adrian leaned forward and Zannah could see by the set of his mouth and by the way his forehead was furrowing that he was making an effort to keep his temper. ‘You’ve just been to see an eighty-year-old woman in a small terraced house in Highgate. You’ve asked her to make your wedding dress. You’ve agreed to pay a thousand pounds.’
‘That’s a bargain,’ said Zannah quickly. She wasn’t telling him the whole truth. She’d agreed to pay fifteen hundred, but that included the bridesmaids’ dresses. Surely, she reasoned, I’ll be able to rustle up five hundred pounds from somewhere? Of course I will. She was so determined to have the dress made up that she would have agreed to almost anything. She added, ‘There’s a tremendous amount of work involved. Also lots of stuff that can only be done by hand. There are going to be tiny pearls scattered here and there. And she’ll do the bridesmaids’ dresses too, she said.’ She could see that Adrian wasn’t mollified by this information. She added: ‘It’s vintage lace, you know.’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘It’s not irrelevant. It’s amazingly beautiful. And it doesn’t come cheap. We’re talking about my wedding dress. It’s going to be our wedding, Adrian. You should be pleased. I was sure you would be.’
‘Well, I’m not. My mother came all the way up to London to help you choose and you just set your face against her. You’d decided long ago, hadn’t you? I think she deserves an apology, frankly.’
‘She does not!’ Zannah tried, but didn’t manage, to keep the indignation out of her voice. ‘I never asked her to come up to London. I didn’t ask for her help. She … offered it.’ That had nearly come out as: she pushed it down my throat, but she managed to control herself just in time.
‘You should’ve listened to her. Anyway, what does it matter? Honestly, I can’t see what you’re making such a song and dance about it for. It’s only a dress … and you’ll look great whatever.’
‘Mummy, you and Adrian mustn’t fight!’ Isis had come into the room from the kitchen. ‘If you’re getting married, you’re not allowed to quarrel.’
‘Shut up, Isis.’ Adrian spoke curtly. ‘Go and find something to do. We’re talking.’
‘We’re not really fighting, Icepop,’ Zannah said, pulling her daughter to her and kissing the side of her face. ‘But we are having a discussion. We’ll be finished in a minute but can you go and find something to do in your room for a bit?’
‘Okay,’ said Isis. She made her way to the staircase and Zannah could see from the way she walked that she was sad and confused. I’ll talk to her at bedtime, she resolved and then turned to Adrian again.
‘You shouldn’t have shouted at Isis,’ she said.
‘I didn’t shout. I told her to shut up. She’ll have to get used to us having the odd fight.’
‘Will she? Why? Are you planning to quarrel with me on a regular basis once we’re married?’
‘Oh, God, don’t deliberately misunderstand me, Zannah. You know I don’t mean that. Not at all. I just think it would make things easier if you let my mum handle all that. Save you trouble and money, probably. I just think you’re barmy running off to some second-rate dressmaker when you have the pick of the London shops.’
‘You’re the one!’ Zannah was shouting now. ‘You’re the one who’s misunderstanding! I’ve got a picture of the dress I want and your mother’s poncy shop didn’t come anywhere near it, so I’ve found someone who’ll make me something that’s exactly what I want. For less money than anything at that ridiculous Dreamdress place.’
‘It’s not about the money,’ Adrian said, also shouting now. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about the money.’
Zannah was still furious and had no intention of stopping. ‘And she’s not second-rate, she’s the best there is. She worked for Norman Hartnell, not that I’d expect you to know who he is, but your mother will. What part of that is barmy? Makes perfect sense to me, and in any case, it’s none of your damned business. The wedding dress is my department. You stick to what you’ve been given to attend to – the rings, the honeymoon, and the stag night. Okay?’
Adrian said nothing. Zannah went on, ‘I think you should apologize to Isis.’
‘No way,’ said Adrian. ‘I’ll try not to yell at her in future, but she’s got to learn she’s not the only person in the world. That’s her problem. You’ve spoiled her.’
‘Oh, go home, Adrian! I can’t deal with this tonight. I’ve got a ton of work to do and I’m not spending the entire evening squabbling.’
‘We were going to have a bite together.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘I’ve driven all the way up here from work, without changing or anything. What am I supposed to do about food?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adrian, you’re perfectly capable of finding yourself something to eat, aren’t you? Phone a friend. Get a takeaway. Something. I don’t feel like going out. Sorry.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ Adrian stood up, ‘there’s no point in staying, I suppose. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
He turned back at the front door to see if Zannah would weaken, she knew, but she made sure she seemed entirely absorbed in the headlines of the newspaper lying on the table. He left without another word. Zannah put her head in her hands and tried to calm down. Perhaps, she thought, I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him – but he could be so annoying. She’d only just stopped herself throwing something at him. He’d phone her later, she thought. He was probably regretting their quarrel already.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’ Isis had crept downstairs, and put her arms round her mother without Zannah noticing.
‘Icey! You’re supposed to be in your room.’
‘I didn’t go. I stayed on the stairs to listen.’
‘Naughty girl! That’s eavesdropping.’
‘But,’ Isis said, ‘I wanted to see if you made friends. You didn’t, did you? Are you still getting married?’
Zannah laughed. ‘Of course we are! People often get cross with one another, you know. It doesn’t mean anything, really.’
Isis went to sit on the sofa, curling herself round one of the cushions. She didn’t look entirely reassured, so Zannah said, ‘Next time I go to see Miss Hayward, you must come with me. She’s got lots of lovely ornaments and a cupboard full of gorgeous materials. When we’ve decided what sort of bridesmaid’s dress you want, and Gemma, of course, you can help choose the fabric. That’ll be fun, right?’
Isis nodded, glumly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want it to be very pale pink.’
‘We’ll have to be careful with that, darling. It’s got to go with my cream. Don’t worry, though, we’ll find something fantastic. Okay now? Ready for bed?’
‘I’ll go and get ready.’
‘I’ll be up in a minute.’
Isis turned as she reached the stairs. ‘He doesn’t like me very much, does he?’
‘Adrian?’ Zannah was shocked. Where had Isis got that idea? She made a note to tell Adrian in the strongest terms that he really mustn’t shout at Isis ever again. ‘Of course he likes you, darling. He’s told me lots of times, really. Don’t worry about him shouting at you. He honestly doesn’t mean to be horrid. Would I ever think of marrying someone who didn’t love you?’
Isis shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘S’pose not.’
‘Go on, then. Get ready for bed and stop worrying.’
When Isis had gone, Zannah picked up the newspaper and folded it up to put away. She tried to recall the occasions when Adrian had mentioned liking Isis – actually said the words, rather than let the assumption stand on its own. She remembered him saying how talented Isis was, when he had been admiring her artwork, attached to the fridge. He’d said how pretty she was at their engagement party. He’d pronounced her clever when Zannah had shown him her school report, but had he ever said he liked her? In so many words? She couldn’t bring a single instance to mind. But that doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. I know he likes her. He wouldn’t want to marry me if he didn’t … No one marries a mother unless they’re sure they like her child. I’ll ask him. I’ll make sure, she thought, pushing this new worry to the back of her mind. She stood up and tried to think herself into bedtime-story mode.
She came downstairs just as Emily was letting herself in.
‘Hi, Zan,’ she said. ‘Isis in bed?’
‘Yes,’ Zannah said. Emily threw herself on to the sofa and sighed. ‘God,’ she said, ‘I’m finished. Just been to the opening of the most hilarious exhibition. Couldn’t make it up. Camembert boxes turned into sculptures. Cheese City. I kid you not.’
‘Could be good,’ said Zannah. ‘Depends how it was done.’
‘Trust me, this guy wasn’t a what’s his name? Pizza-thingie?’
‘Paolozzi. Em, can I ask you something?’
Emily sat up at once, frowning. ‘What’s up?’
‘Maybe nothing. I’ve just had rather a … well, a bit of strange conversation with Isis. She reckons Adrian doesn’t really like her. That can’t be, can it? Can it? I’d have noticed if … ’
‘What did Isis say exactly?’
‘Well, he shouted at her so she asked me if he liked her and I said of course … you know. But she didn’t seem all that reassured. He did say he was sorry for shouting at her. I tried to explain that sometimes you do just shout at people and it doesn’t mean you don’t like them. What am I going to do?’
‘Have you asked him what he thinks of Isis?’
‘Not directly. I’ve always assumed … How could anyone not like her?’
‘You’re her mother. Of course you think that. So do I. We all do, in our family but … well, she’s someone else’s child, isn’t she? Not his. That’s the point. She’s a reminder of Cal.’
Zannah ran her hands through her hair and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t need this. Really. I will ask him but I just cannot believe that this incredibly primitive stuff about whose child she is operates in the twenty-first century. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Men,’ said Emily, ‘are primitive. Hadn’t you noticed? Fred Flintstone, the whole bloody lot of them. Behind that investment banker’s exterior, under the most spiffy and impeccable of Turnbull and Asser shirts there beats the heart of a wild creature. Me Tarzan you Zannah! Trust me.’
‘I’m going to speak to him. And I’ll watch him very carefully from now on, you can be sure of that.’
‘What about Isis? What’s she feel about him? Have you ever asked her?’
Zannah shook her head. ‘I’ve always thought she likes him. She’s very smiley and pleasant around him … I’ll ask her, too.’
‘D’you remember the coffin carving in Manchester Museum of Isis the goddess? Pa showed us when we were not much older than she is.’
Zannah remembered it exactly: the carving still touched with pink and green even after centuries; the goddess holding out her wings, protecting Osiris. Perhaps it was seeing this at an early age that had put the name Isis into her mind when she was pregnant. That had made her love it so much. I’m the one, she thought. The one who has to do the protecting.
*
‘Weddings,’ said Val, ‘are one thing. I love weddings. Marriage is quite another. Don’t like that much. Mind you, I suppose I had a bad experience.’
Charlotte, Val and Edie were sitting round the kitchen table. They’d just washed up after a pleasant evening of bridge with Nadia and were having a glass of red wine together before bed.
‘I’d have agreed with you if I hadn’t met Gus,’ Charlotte said. ‘We didn’t bother with a wedding and concentrated on our marriage. Probably the sensible option, when you come to think of it. No one came to our wedding except Joss. There’s part of me that does still think the whole thing’s a waste of money. But Zannah deserves to have what she wants this time. She was so … so wounded when Cal … when she divorced. She seems to want all this, the dress, the service, the reception, to make up for the pain she felt then. She said she wanted to do everything properly this time.’
‘She’s young,’ said Edie. ‘It’s only when you’ve lived through a marriage that you know whether the ceremony was a wonderful prefiguring of your happiness or a really bad joke.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘They’ve been to see Geoffrey at the church. He thought they were a lovely couple and he’s spoken to them at length about music and the order of service and so forth.’
Charlotte looked searchingly at Edie. Whenever she spoke of the vicar, a proprietorial and affectionate note crept into her voice. They used to call it ‘soppy’ when she was a girl … Was Edie getting soppy over the Rev. Geoff? He was a widower, and although he was a few years younger than Edie, a relationship wasn’t out of the question. The trouble was, an unattached vicar who wasn’t completely revolting attracted the attention of a great many women and this parish was particularly stuffed with widows and unmarried ladies of a certain age who, by Edie’s own account, were falling over themselves in their eagerness to snaffle him. That the church was always so clean and well provided with flowers was witness to those ladies trying to outdo one another in their devotion. Well, Charlotte thought, this wedding’ll bring Rev. Geoff and Edie closer together, but of course she isn’t going to get involved with him. Edie had a dim view of relationships between men and women. The way she put it was: My experience of the two sexes has shown me how incompatible we are. She said, ‘I’ve been in touch with the marquee people. It’s all going to be quite straightforward. I have to give them final numbers soon, but Zannah told me the other day that they were in the process of finalizing the guest list.’
Val picked up Joss’s book, which was lying on the dresser. ‘You must be so proud, Charlotte! Isn’t it wonderful? A poetry book … I love the picture on the cover. But why doesn’t Joss use her own name? It’s as if she’s hiding, isn’t it?’
‘She told me she likes being someone else. Being able to say things she maybe couldn’t say as Joss Gratrix. I can understand that.’
Val leafed through the pages. ‘You don’t mean …’
‘No, don’t worry.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Nothing she’d be ashamed of saying as herself, just … Well, she described it to me as a kind of dressing up. You pretend to be another person. There are love poems in there, but nothing too shocking.’
Charlotte wasn’t telling the truth. She had been a little startled on reading some of the things Joss had written. Ever since her niece had brought Bob back to this house to meet her, all those years ago, Charlotte had been of the opinion that he was good and kind and pleasant and entirely unexciting. When Joss had told her she wanted to marry him, Charlotte concluded that she was looking for security. Ever since the death of her parents, and even with all the care that Charlotte and later Gus had devoted to her, Joss had been tentative. She’d gone through life giving too much attention to what might go wrong with it. She didn’t dare to do things most young people wouldn’t even have thought of as risky. Bob was safe. Bob had a good job for life, and if they’d never be rich, they’d never be poor either. He must have seemed a good prospect to Joss and she did love him, there was no doubt of that in Charlotte’s mind. It was the quality of the love she sometimes wondered about, and reading some of the lines in this book, she simply couldn’t imagine them applied to Joss’s husband of so many years. These were words that went with a new passion. She could feel, when she read them, the force of an ungovernable longing, a lust that surely couldn’t still exist after thirty years. Perhaps she was recollecting emotion in tranquillity and remembering how things were between her and Bob in the first few years of their marriage, but somehow that wasn’t the impression Charlotte took from the verse. Of course, Joss and Bob must once have felt passionately about one another, even if she hadn’t been able to see it. Joss had never displayed her emotions to the world, but she felt things deeply, and it was impossible to imagine her staying in a relationship that wasn’t physically satisfying. Still, these poems didn’t feel as though they were about Bob. Perhaps Joss was having an affair, but with whom? And when? As far as Charlotte knew, her life was spent either working in the library, or at home, or in London visiting her daughters and Isis … Maybe she was simply projecting her fantasies into her work. That was more likely, Charlotte decided. In prison, she remembered, many women spent hours writing verse. Her cellmate, Wilma, had been a pallid, skinny, greasy-haired, middle-aged woman who looked like a wrung-out mop. She was in for theft and used to cover pages and pages with poems about stars and fields, seashores, puppies and kittens. Why don’t you write about your feelings? Charlotte asked her once and Wilma looked at her pityingly. What’s the point of that? Shitty, that’s what my feelings are. Poetry’s not about shittiness, is it? You want to get away from yourself, doncha?
Charlotte wondered whether Joss, too, was getting away from herself. Perhaps that was the way she kept her marriage going: by escaping into a fantasy world in her poems, where she could be Lydia Quentin who burned with desires Joss Gratrix couldn’t admit into her own life. Well, if that was the case, nothing was wrong. She must have considered what Bob’s reaction would be if he read some of them, Charlotte thought, and then something struck her. Bob would no sooner sit down and read a book of poems, even if they were by his wife, than spend his holidays in Disneyland. This made it safe for Joss to write exactly what she wanted, however erotically charged her work turned out to be. And if it was all a fantasy, no one would be hurt. She said to Edie and Val, ‘This is the book I told you about. Did I tell you that the Madrigal Prize is worth two thousand pounds?’
Edie and Val were impressed and astonished. Clearly, they’d underestimated the book’s worth.
‘Well,’ said Val, ‘that’s something to wish for, isn’t it? It would be so lovely if she wins. Let’s drink to that.’
Maureen would never have said so to anyone and felt a little guilty admitting it to herself, but when Graham was away, things in almost every part of her life became instantly easier and altogether more enjoyable. For a few moments, as she lay propped up against heaped pillows in the double bed with her lists, magazines, notebooks and other wedding paraphernalia taking up the space her husband would normally occupy, she considered what her life would be like if she were single. In many ways, she thought, it would be much improved. Did that mean she didn’t love Graham? Nonsense, she told herself. Of course I do. But I don’t miss him when he’s not here. Also, I’ve had a lovely day, doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, without stopping to think about a single other soul.
Unfortunately, she needed the money Graham provided to maintain the house and garden and her own wardrobe in a decent state, and she’d miss the sex. Still, she was sure – because there had been enough rather thrilling and unconfessed little kisses at various parties over the years and sometimes even a bit more, though never outright infidelity – that there were plenty of men out there who’d be willing, more than willing, to share her bed. She was, after all, only fifty-two. Just last week at the tennis club, the young and quite dishy coach had been positively flirtatious. She would only have needed to encourage him a teensy bit and he’d have been raring to go. She sighed, and scrabbled in the folds of the duvet for her pencil. The guest list needed doing, but she couldn’t resist reading again the details of four houses she’d picked up that afternoon from the best estate agents in town.
She’d been to meet a firm of caterers who’d turned out to be useless, but on her way home she’d passed a house that had a for sale sign outside. It wasn’t very big, but it was pretty and on a tree-lined street where all the other properties had owners who cared. She’d looked at the hanging baskets, the shaved lawns and closely trimmed hedges, and thought, how lovely if Adrian could live here, close to me, in such a sweet little house. Away from London and all those ghastly security alerts. She’d vaguely thought about it before but now the idea seemed to her both so exciting and so somehow right that she’d parked the car and got out to have a closer look. She’d walked up to the front door and rung the bell, but there was no one at home.
While the cats are away … Maureen said to herself, and walked all round the property, staring in through the windows. Parquet floor in the living room and dining room. Small garden at the back with lots of possibilities. Modern kitchen … She’d felt quite breathless as she made her way back to her car. The house would be perfect for Adrian and Zannah. As she drove to the estate agent’s to pick up the written details, enchanting fantasies unfolded in her head: Adrian and his children playing in that garden, the whole family coming over to tea on Sunday, Adrian transferred to the local branch of his bank, Zannah teaching at the local primary school … The house was just round the corner from theirs. Maureen felt quite elated.
At the estate agent’s she took the details of several other houses as well. You wouldn’t want to rush into anything recklessly and it was better to consider all options before committing yourself. I’ll email Adrian, she thought. I’ll invite the two of them down for the weekend, maybe at the beginning of October. She didn’t want to give the game away. Subtlety was important. This whole thing had to be done so that Adrian and Zannah didn’t think she was interfering. The best thing would be if they could see the place and think they’d discovered it. She could arrange to drive past it. Maybe they’d fall in love with the house just as she had. The wedding wasn’t until next year, true enough, but Adrian could apply for a transfer right away. He could move in down here before the wedding. Zannah and Isis could join him after the honeymoon.
Now, as she re-read the details, it seemed an even better idea. Zannah must have faced the fact that she’d need to move out of that grotty flat. It was big enough and in quite a reasonable location, but there was something terribly graduate-student about it and the decorative state they kept it in made her shudder. There was no way Adrian would put up with living there after the wedding and his place wasn’t big enough for all three of them. This seemed the ideal solution. She had sent an email to Adrian inviting him and Zannah down for the weekend, and couldn’t wait for his reply.
She got out of bed and went downstairs. In the kitchen, she assembled a little picnic on a tray: biscuits and Stilton, a nice ripe pear and a glass of red wine. She intended to eat in bed. No Graham there to wrinkle his nose and moan about crumbs. Utter bliss!