A Question of Love (14 page)

‘That
is
fascinating,’ I’d said.

And then some girl had come up to him and dragged him on to the dance floor and I didn’t get to speak to him again. But every time we met after that, usually in the library, he’d sidle up to me and say, very quietly, ‘
Did
you know…?’ followed by some intriguing, but one hundred per cent useless, fact. Until the day when he came up to me and said, ‘
Did
you know…’

‘Yes?’ I’d replied politely.

‘That I’ve fallen in love with you?’

‘So what’s happened to Luke then?’ Dad enquired now.

‘Separated. One little girl. Has an art gallery. Where’s Fliss?’ I glanced to the back of the church. As I did so, a bald, bespectacled fifty-something man sitting about five rows behind, gave me a little wave. As I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was, I pretended I hadn’t noticed: in any case, Felicity had just arrived. I half expected to hear ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ as she progressed in stately fashion up the aisle. Felicity loves being the centre of attention. She should have been the TV presenter, not me.

Hugh was holding Olivia, who did look angelic in her hand-embroidered, antique lace-trimmed silk christening gown complete with detachable frilly bib in case she puked. Felicity also looked surprisingly good in her new suit, and she was definitely wearing her nuclear pants as she didn’t actually look too vast. But beneath her huge hat, her fixed smile and her professionally-applied make-up, I could see that she was furious.

‘Everything under control?’ Dad whispered as she sat down in front of us.

‘No!’ she snapped, still smiling like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘The bloody vicar’s cancelled—he’s got ‘flu. So they’ve dug up some piss-poor locum—the man’s a complete idiot.’ Suddenly said vicar appeared. He looked about twelve—but was probably thirty. He was very long-sighted, his eyes swimming behind thick, old-fashioned magnifying lenses like fish in a bowl.

‘Welcome to St Mark’s,’ he said benignly. He held out his hands. ‘Welcome to you
all.
And what a
remarkable
turnout!’ he added as his eyes focused and he took in the unusual size of the congregation—there were well over a hundred of us. ‘We are here to celebrate the Holy baptism of this lovely child—Olivia Clementina Sybilla Alexandra Margarita…’

‘Piña Colada,’ I heard Mike mutter sardonically. Hope jabbed him in the ribs.

‘…Florence Mabel Carter,’ the vicar concluded unctuously, ‘and to welcome her into God’s house. So let us now joyfully sing our
first
hymn, “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.’

So far so good. In fact he conducted the service well, though he seemed taken aback by the number of godparents. There were five godmothers—including, at Felicity’s insistence, Hope and me, even though she knows I’m not a believer—and five godfathers. Frankly, I thought this was ludicrous—we’d only ever had one of each.

‘Do you reject Satan?’ the vicar asked us as we stood by the font. I always find that bit thrillingly primitive.

‘We do,’ we answered seriously.

‘And all his works?’

‘We do.’

‘And all his empty promises?’

Most of them, I thought. But then—and here I understood Felicity’s reservations—the vicar gave this toe-curling sermon, all about what baptism means. It took the form of an idiotlevel Q and A session—as though we were in Sunday School.

‘Now…Jesus was the son
of
…?’ He looked at us expectantly, then cupped his hand behind his right ear. ‘Come on—can anyone tell me? Who was Jesus’s Dad then?’ There followed a silence so excruciating we could hear each other swallow. ‘C’mon now—I know
you
all know, but I just want you to tell me. So. Let’s all
shout
it out, shall we? Jesus was the Son
of
…?’

‘God?’ Dad piped up, sportingly.

‘Yes!
Well
done! Absolutely right! And who is the Holy
S…
who helps God, particularly in the sacrament of baptism? The Holy
S
…anyone?’ We were too catatonic with embarrassment to reply. ‘Holy
Spppppp
…’ he went on, helpfully.

‘Spaceman.’ I heard Mike mutter.

‘No—
not
the Holy Spaceman,’ the vicar said indulgently, shaking his head.

‘Spirit!’ said Hope loudly to cover her shame at Mike’s rudeness.

The vicar beamed at her. ‘Yes! That’s
right
! It
was
the Holy Spirit.’ From in front I heard Felicity’s tortured sigh.

‘And who can tell me the name of the John who Jesus baptized in the River Jordan?’ he enquired benignly. ‘Here’s a clue—it
wasn’t
John Lennon, though some people might say that it was. It was actually John the…?’ He’d cupped his hand behind his ear again. ‘C’mon folks. Begins with a B…? Buh…Baa…
Baaaa
…?’ By now you could have used our toes to take corks out of chardonnay. Indeed the embarrassment was so palpable it had even got to Olivia as, for the first time, she started to cry. My theory is that Felicity had pinched her—if so, it did the trick. She started wailing like an ambulance, the dreadful sermon came to an abrupt end, and there was a collective sigh of relief. Then there were two more readings, another hymn, the choir’s a cappella rendition of a Micronesian lullaby, a final blessing, and that was that.

‘Thank
God,’
Felicity muttered, still smiling like a contestant in a game show. ‘And to think I gave the church a donation of two hundred pounds! If I’d known we were getting this pantomime artist, I’d have made it fifty. Anyway,’ she handed Olivia to Hugh, ‘at least I won’t have to bother again until she gets confirmed. Right—let’s head home for the champers and cake.’

It was obvious to anyone who’d never been there before which was the right house. Pink and white helium balloons inscribed with Olivia’s name flew gaily from the gate and there was a large posy of white flowers on the door. We all poured inside and, with the aid of a small pink and white striped marquee, somehow we all squeezed in. And I was just making my way over to a second cousin of ours who I hadn’t seen for years, when the man who’d waved at me in the church came up to me, a look of eager anticipation on his face.

‘Laura?’ he said. He was blocking my way, which I found rather rude.

‘Yes?’ I replied, looking at him blankly. ‘I don’t think we’ve…’

He thrust a bony hand at me. ‘Norman Scrivens.’ Good
God
…I was astounded—for this, I now saw, was my ‘date’! ‘Felicity told me to look out for you,’ he explained happily.

‘Really?’ I said weakly. I felt his eyes flicker over me, appraising me. His scrutiny made me feel sick.

‘So here I am then!’ he said with jokey desperation. ‘Very nice to meet you.’ His hand felt dry, like snakeskin. ‘I met Felicity through the school.’

‘Really?’

‘She taught my daughter a few years ago.’

‘I see.’

‘Very nice christening service,’ he observed. ‘If a tad grand,’ he added gratuitously; then he rolled his eyes—bloody cheek! Did he really think that slagging off my sister would endear him to me?

‘I thought it was beautifully done actually,’ I said coldly. ‘Felicity went to a great deal of trouble.’

‘Oh yes, yes of course, but that vicar was an unprepossessing fellow wasn’t he?’ he smirked. Not half as unpre-possessing as you, I wanted to say. He was as bald as a tortoise and, on closer inspection, looked nearer sixty. He had a thin, hard face, with beady blue eyes behind a pair of steel rimmed glasses and when he smiled—which he was now doing, idiotically—his neck pleated into a stack of creases and folds.

‘Felicity told me all about you,’ he observed. He was practically smacking his lips.

‘Did she?’ The thought filled me with utter dismay.

‘And of course I recognized you from the TV,’ he added enthusiastically. So he’d done his homework. ‘I must say you
are
a clever girl aren’t you?’ I felt my jaw go slack. ‘The things you know.’ I anaesthetised myself against the horror with another large swig of champagne. ‘Quadrimum…’ he chuckled. ‘Mind you, I seem to remember that word featuring in some Latin ode or other at school. Thoroughly boring,’ he added.

‘Not at all. It’s by Horace and it’s a hymn to the pleasures of life and youth. Horace coined the phrase, “
carpe diem
”. His poems are lovely. They make you rethink your life.’

‘
Carpe diem
, eh? Anyway, I happen to know quite a bit about wine myself,’ he went on. Then he launched into this brain-numbingly dull monologue about his ‘large cellar’ in his ‘house’—‘in Chelsea,’ he slipped in casually, as though I could care!—and how he liked ‘driving holidays in France’ but also greatly enjoyed ‘hill walking’ and ‘collecting antiques’. After ten minutes of this I was wondering why he hadn’t just stuck a Personal Ad to his forehead and saved himself the trouble.

‘Well it was great meeting you,’ I said, as politely as I could. ‘But I must circulate.’

‘Of course—we’ll catch up later.’

I didn’t reply.

I went through to the marquee and chatted to my aunt and uncle, but within a couple of minutes I was aware of Scrivens, on the periphery of my vision. Why couldn’t he take the hint? Then I went into the dining room and chatted to people there and, within two or three minutes, there
he
was too. In order to discourage him, I entered into an in-depth conversation with a former colleague of Hugh’s, who was grilling me about quizzes.

‘Are there things you can do to improve your chances?’ he asked.

I told him that there are—that you can learn the elements in the periodic table, for example, or the world’s capital cities, or the roll call of American presidents, or England’s kings and queens, or the key works of famous composers, or famous historical dates, or the planets in the solar system, or a comprehensive selection of collective nouns—my all time favourite of which has to be a ‘smack’ of jellyfish, closely followed by a ‘murder’ of crows.

‘And of course you should read the papers, and listen to the radio and watch TV and generally be very aware. But the main thing you need to be good at quizzes is a grass-hopper mind. My short attention span has got me a long way,’ I joked tipsily. ‘Being good at quizzes is not really about intelligence, so much as memory and retrieval, which means you can’t spend too long on any one thing. Anything more than three seconds and you might be so deeply ensconced in the sexual peccadilloes of Henry VIII or whatever it is that hours will have passed, wasting the opportunity to learn hundreds more superficial, but interesting, facts.’ I had another large swig of champagne. ‘Who cares about psychological motivation or insight in the field of general knowledge?’ I concluded jokily.

Meanwhile Hugh was chatting animatedly to a university friend of Felicity’s—a solicitor called Chantal Vane. Fliss seems to adore her, but I’ve never warmed to her—she’s a cold fish.

‘More champagne, madam?’

To my surprise, my glass was empty again. ‘Why not?’ By now I knew, for a fact, that I was pissed. My happiness had made me drink far more than normal. I was with my family: I felt secure; my confidence was high. I’d had a long period of anxiety and misery, but now things were looking good. But still I felt Scrivens’s eyes boring into me, trying to make contact. And—oh no—I could feel him coming towards me again. Why didn’t the man read my body language? I might as well have been standing there, shouting ‘Fuck
Off
!’ So I shot upstairs to the sitting room where by now the party was beginning to thin out. I had a brief chat with the next-door neighbours, who I’d met before, and I had another glass of champagne, then suddenly there Scrivens was again.

‘Laura—here,’ he handed me his card. ‘We must have lunch sometime. Do you have a card—or shall I ring you at work?’

I tried to think of a way of extricating myself without giving offence. ‘Well…’ I could say I needed the bathroom, but that would seem crass…

‘I know a super place in St James. So do you have a card?’ he repeated.

Or I could pretend I’d just spotted someone I hadn’t seen for twenty years, but the room was emptying now. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any on me, no.’

‘Any particular day good for you?’ he persisted.

Or I could just faint…‘Friday’s usually good…’ he continued. But then—yuck—he might try to revive me. ‘Or, of course, if it’s difficult to take a lunch break from your quizzing, we could have dinner—in fact, yes, dinner would be better for me.’

I could just throw up. I felt in danger of doing so right now as I suddenly realized how much I’d drunk, plus his stale breath was making me ill.

‘Erm…’ I stuttered, swaying slightly. Or I could just say, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go now. Goodbye.’

‘Right…’ he said, getting out his diary. ‘Let’s fix it up
right
now. As you say, “
carpe diem
” and all that. So…when’s it going to be?’

‘Never,’ I wanted to say. ‘It’s going to be never.’ And I was just praying for someone to come and rescue me from his persistent and unwelcome attentions, when—Hallelujah!—my mobile phone rang.

‘Oh, I’m
so
sorry,’ I said, as I rummaged in my bag. I looked at the number. It was Luke. ‘
Hi
!’ I said, with deliberate delight. ‘How
lovely
to hear from you.
Sorry
!’ I mouthed happily at Norman. He looked crestfallen, and then irritated when he saw that I was taking the call. He hovered for a moment, then turned on his heel and headed downstairs. I ran upstairs into Felicity’s bedroom, shut the door, then flopped backwards on to the bed.

‘How
are
you?’ I heard Luke ask as I stared at the ceiling.

I closed my eyes, and the room began to spin. ‘A bit pissed—but otherwise fine.’

‘I hope you don’t mind my calling you at the christening.’

I gazed at the cornice. Its egg and dart detail was blurring. ‘Far from it—I was delighted, to tell you the truth.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was just being chatted up by this
dreadful
man.’