A Catered Affair (34 page)

The Imperial was one of those grand Victorian seafront hotels that had once catered to the English gentry but hadn’t seen a heyday in decades. It hadn’t gone to seed exactly—the sweeping cast-iron staircase and crystal chandeliers were pretty impressive—but the blistering paintwork and ten-quid-a-head, cut-and-come-again carvery said it all. These days it made its money from conferences, hen parties and aircrew layovers from nearby Gatwick Airport.

Hugh was as good as his word and did manage to get us separate rooms. After unpacking and freshening up, we met in the hotel’s piano bar, where apparently Noel Coward had once sung a duet with Gertrude Lawrence. We found a table by the window, next to a giant aspidistra, and ordered a couple of beers. Despite it being full of perfectly respectable third world development delegates, there was a louche, gin and moth-eaten-fur campiness about the place that I rather liked. A chap with unnaturally brown hair and a comb-over was playing “Maybe This Time.” A woman I took to be a higher-end, fifty-quid-an-hour hooker was sipping white wine and eyeing up possible punters from her barstool. Farther along the bar, a much older woman—in her seventies, maybe—with wobbly red lipstick and a tiny pillbox hat with a veil, was sitting alone, clearly waiting to be picked up and furnished with a champagne cocktail. I decided she had been a fifties starlet and was now living with her cat in reduced circumstances in some crusty bedsit off the seafront.

“There’s something ever-so-slightly debauched about this place, don’t you think?” I said, turning to Hugh.

“Really? In what way?”

“You know . . . the seedy-looking pianist playing his torch song. The tarts touting for business.”

“Where?”

“There, for a start.” I nodded in the direction of the woman at the bar. I pointed out the big hair, the sky blue eye shadow that looked like it had been applied with a trowel, the interlocking gold
C
s in her ears.

“Huh. I hadn’t noticed,” Hugh said.

I took another mouthful of beer and found myself thinking how Kenny wouldn’t have needed any prompting. He would have picked up on the atmosphere straightaway and by now we would be sitting here giggling and playing spot the pimp.

“Anyway, I’ve printed a copy of my speech,” Hugh said. “I thought if you felt up to it, we could go over it later. I’d really appreciate your input.”

“Sure.”

We had dinner at a place on the beach that I’d found in one of the food guides.

The beef was organic and locally reared. The wine was French and wondrously smooth. Hugh asked about Mum and Nana and if Scarlett and Grace were pregnant yet. I said that Grace and Ed had done the deed—albeit with Grace’s self-insemination kit—and we should find out any day.

“So how are things at Dacre’s?”

I found myself telling him about Henry Dixon.

“It’s cruel to laugh at the poor man,” I said, “but you have to see the funny side.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Hugh said. “I mean, he’s lost his job because he has a medical condition over which he has no control. Can you imagine how that feels?”

He hadn’t meant to put me in my place. It was just Hugh being earnest.

“So, come on,” I said. “Tell me all about Angola.”

“It was absolutely fascinating, but at the same time, it was just so dispiriting. You’ve got domestic violence, rape, sexual abuse of children, child labor . . . And slavery is still a huge issue . . . It’s so hard to believe in the twenty-first century.”

Hugh described Angola’s economic and social problems in great detail and with his customary intensity. I had to admit that I was grateful when the waiter arrived with the dessert menu.

We shared what turned out to be a rather large pot of crème brûlée and I did my best to turn the conversation to less miserablist subjects. I told him about a couple of crazy pieces I’d read in the Sunday tabloids—how Aladdin’s lamp had been discovered and the Hubble telescope had photographed Heaven. “Oh, and this goat got killed in a drive-by shooting in LA.”

“Huh.”

We finished the last of the crème brûlée. “Completely changing the subject,” I said, “
X Factor’
s starting again next week. Over the last few years, I’ve become such an addict. A takeaway curry, Simon Cowell and a bunch of hopeless hopefuls is my idea of the perfect Saturday night.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Although I did just treat myself to a boxed set of the last season of
24.
I might start watching that and recording
X-Factor
.”

“I think I saw one or two episodes of
24
. You really like that stuff?”

“God yeah. One of the things I love about it is you never see Jack Bauer eating, going to the loo or having trouble with his phone battery.”

We went back to his room to go over Hugh’s speech. He took two miniatures of Cognac from the fridge and poured it into tumblers. There was a small sofa in the window, facing the sea. The hard copy of Hugh’s speech was lying on the coffee table. Instead of reading it, we sat snuggled up, sipping our drinks and watching the waves crash onto the beach. At some point he put his drink down next to the papers and began planting kisses on my face. I felt him unbuttoning my blouse. “I thought we were going over your speech,” I said.

“I know, but I’m more interested in this.” He was kissing the tops of my breasts now. “Oh, and by the way,” he said, “I’ve sorted out something really special for tomorrow night. In the end I didn’t try for Ricky Gervais. Something much better came up and I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it. I think we’re really in for a treat. The Theatre Royal is doing Bertolt Brecht’s
Fear and Misery of the Third Reich
.”

“It is? Wow.”

Hugh must have picked up from my expression that I was less than enthused. “You don’t seem pleased,” he said.

“No. I am. It’s just a bit heavy—that’s all. On the other hand, it will do me good to stretch my mind for a change. I can always get a DVD of Ricky Gervais.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

His lips were on mine now, but I wasn’t kissing him back. “Hugh, do you mind if we don’t? I’m really sorry, but I think this is still a bit too soon for me.”

“No problem. There’s no rush. I should probably get some sleep anyway. I’ve got to be up early. I’m giving my speech at nine.”

 

 

Back in my room, I kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed. I’d just lied to Hugh. I hadn’t rejected him because it was “too soon.” I had rejected him because tonight everything had felt wrong. Hugh hadn’t changed. He was still the same earnest, intense soul he’d always been—the kind of chap who failed to notice or remark upon a bar full of tarts, cranks and eccentrics, who discussed slavery and child abuse over dinner and genuinely thought that a girl would rather see Brecht’s
Fear and Misery of the Third Reich
than Ricky Gervais.

It was me who’d changed. I’d finally done it. I had found the courage to ignore Dad’s voice and listen to my own. It had started that last night with Kenny. Correction. It had actually started the day Rosie came over to help me move back into my flat. Before saying our good-byes, we’d discussed Kenny. She accused me of looking down on him and said I was a snob. For a few brief moments I’d allowed myself to believe she could be right. Tonight, though, with Hugh, my voice had been coming in loud and clear, and I wasn’t about to ignore it. I had started to let go, not of my father’s memory—that would never happen—but of his influence. He had stopped controlling me. All I could think was how pathetic I’d been, taking so long to reach this point, but like Mum said, a child’s relationship with a dead parent is often complicated.

I found myself thinking about Kenny. God knows he’d hurt me, and I certainly wasn’t about to take the blame for what he’d done or let him off the hook, but I hadn’t treated him well. He and Rosie were right. I had behaved—to my shame—like a terrible snob. The horrible truth was that I had looked down on Kenny because he wasn’t a high-flying medic or lawyer. What was more, despite everything, I was still missing him. I missed lying in bed late at night, yakking to him on the phone. I missed us cooking together. I found myself remembering the time he’d laughed and called me a wuss because I couldn’t face gutting a fish.

“I have issues with trout anus, OK?”

This had only made him laugh harder. Then he’d chased me around his kitchen, dangling fish entrails from his knife. I missed our mutual mocking of pretentious, art-house movies. In short, I just missed him being around.

I lay awake fretting about how I was going to tell Hugh that I didn’t think we were right for each other.

I must have dozed off at some stage, because the next thing I knew it was light. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was just before eight. I’d just pulled on my dressing gown and was thinking that it would be unkind to finish with Hugh before he gave his speech, when there was a knock at the door. “Tally, it’s me, Hugh.”

I got up and opened the door. “Morning,” he singsonged, giving me a quick peck. Behind him there was a waiter carrying a tray of coffee and croissants.

“I ordered us some breakfast,” he said, holding open the door for the waiter. He came in and set the tray down on the coffee table. Hugh produced a couple of pound coins from his pocket. The waiter thanked him and left.

“Oh, Hugh, this is lovely. Thank you so much.” He was making it so hard for me to end things.

Hugh started pouring coffee. I helped myself to a warm croissant. “Tally, there’s something on my mind. I think we need to talk about us.”

Oh God, he was going to tell me he was in love with me and I was going to have to reject him right before he gave his speech, which he was already nervous about.

“You see, the thing is, I’m not sure that things are working out between us.”

I swallowed some croissant. “Really? But hang on, last night you were trying to seduce me.”

“I know. And that’s because I still find you incredibly, amazingly attractive, but the thing is, I think you’ve changed.”

“I’ve changed?”

“Yes. You see—and please don’t take this the wrong way—when we dated the first time, you were so much more idealistic. You had great thoughts about politics and social change. You were interested in ideas and philosophy. I don’t get that from you anymore.”

“So you’re saying I’m boring?”

“Not boring exactly . . . just . . .”

“Not what you’re looking for.”

“The thing is,” he said, “we used to have such stimulating, inspiring discussions. And now . . .”

“We don’t. Was it me bringing up
X-Factor
that did it?”

“That and the goat getting killed in the drive-by shooting.”

Huh. The words
chickens
,
home
and
roost
came to mind.

“I hate upsetting you,” he went on, “but I always feel it’s better to be honest.”

“Absolutely. I really appreciate that.”

“I hope you’ll be able to get over me.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“I know, but you’re a beautiful woman and I know there’s somebody out there for you.”

“I hope so.”

“That’s the spirit.” He handed me a cup of coffee and kissed me again.

“Well, good luck with your speech,” I said. “And I’m thinking it might be for the best if we gave
Fear and Misery of the Third Reich
a miss. It’s a real shame, but under the circumstances . . .”

“I agree. No sense prolonging things. Perhaps we should say our good-byes here. You OK getting the train back to London?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“I really ought to be getting to the conference center. I’m on in twenty minutes.”

“Bye, Hugh.”

“Bye, Tally.” He kissed me on the forehead and was gone.

 

 

I sat on the sofa, looking out to sea and sipping my coffee. The wind had picked up overnight, and giant waves were crashing onto the beach. I tried to feel sad about how things had ended with Hugh, but I couldn’t. What I felt was relief.

I handed in my key at the hotel reception, then stepped into the revolving door and out onto the pavement. The gale coming in off the sea was so fierce it nearly took my breath away. It and I did battle along the seafront before I took a left up the hill towards the station. With the wind behind me now, it was an easy stroll. Twenty minutes later I was sitting on the London train, nursing a caffe latte. I’d taken a couple of sips when my cell rang.

It was Grace. “Hey . . . we have news.”

“What?”

“I’ve just peed on a stick. You can start knitting.”

“Omigod, you’re not!”

“I am. After the first try. Can you believe it?”

“I told you fecundity ran in her family,” Scarlett piped up in the background.

“Oh, this is such wonderful news.” I asked if they’d told Mum and Nana.

“Not yet,” Grace said. “You, Napoleon and Ed are the first to know.”